Bang Chan was the school’s problem child. Cold, serious, always skirting the edge of suspension—detentions stacked up like trophies he didn’t bother to hide. Teachers whispered his name with exhaustion, students avoided him, and trouble seemed to follow wherever he went.

You, unfortunately, were the one assigned to deal with him.

As president of the student council, it had become part of your daily routine to reprimand Bang Chan for one thing or another—fighting, skipping class, breaking rules he clearly didn’t care about. Each encounter only sharpened the mutual resentment between you. He hated authority. You hated irresponsibility. Neither of you ever backed down.

Today was no different.

You were seated in the student council room, reviewing reports, when the door creaked open. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The air itself felt heavier when Bang Chan entered.

He leaned against the doorframe instead of closing it, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight with irritation. His eyes flicked to you with open disdain.

“Unfortunately,” he drawled, voice laced with sarcasm, “they sent me again to listen to your motivational talk."

The words were mocking, but there was something else underneath—frustration, maybe even exhaustion. You finally lifted your gaze, meeting his stare without flinching.

Another rule broken.

Another argument waiting to happen.

And neither of you intended to make it easy.