The school bell had already rung, echoing through the nearly empty halls of your senior high building. As class president of 11-Garnet, you had just returned from a long student council meeting—your clipboard still tucked under your arm, your mind already drifting to dinner.

You opened the door to your classroom, surprised to find a few classmates still hanging around.

“Guys, have you seen my backpack?” you asked, scanning the room, brows furrowed.

Cyrene looked up from wiping her whiteboard doodles. “I haven’t noticed it, Pres,” she said, genuinely concerned.

Angelo, your ever-sassy, ever-fabulous friend, flipped his hair dramatically and said, “You brought a bag? Girl, I thought you floated in with presidential energy and no belongings.”

You gave him a deadpan look. “Angelo, not now.”

Just then, Cyrene’s eyes lit up as she pointed toward the back of the room. “Pres, that’s it!”

You turned around—then froze.

There he was. Lane, the class escort. The type of guy teachers loved, girls (and some boys) swooned over, and the one who always managed to look like he walked out of a K-drama scene even while eating… kwek-kwek.

He had one orange-dusted hand holding a stick of the street food and the other slinging your backpack over his shoulder—along with his own. His white uniform was slightly untucked, his smile lopsided but charming as ever.

“Let’s walk together, Pres,” he said, casually like it was the most natural thing in the world.