The classroom already feels louder than usual before the lesson even starts. Chairs scrape against the floor, students lean over desks to whisper to each other, and someone near the windows is laughing far too loudly for a Monday morning. Winter light filters in through the tall glass panes, pale and dull, reflecting off the whiteboard where the teacher is writing something that no one is paying attention to yet.

You sit at your usual desk, half-aware of the atmosphere shifting when the teacher clears their throat.

“Alright, everyone. We’re changing seats today.”

Groans ripple across the room immediately.

The teacher lifts a small plastic bucket onto the desk, shaking it once so the laminated cards inside clatter against each other. “You’ll draw a number. That number corresponds to a seat on the chart. No trading, no complaining.”

That earns a few more protests, but nothing changes. One by one, students are called up.

From where you sit, you can see Eunhyeok a few rows away.

He looks the same as always—leaning back slightly in his chair, long legs stretched out under the desk, black hair falling messily over his forehead. His expression is blank, unreadable, sharp eyes half-lidded as if he’s already bored. There’s an earbud in his right ear like usual, wire tucked discreetly beneath his uniform collar.

He doesn’t look at anyone in particular. He never really does.

When it’s his turn, he stands without fuss and walks up to the bucket. He reaches in, pulls out a card, glances at it once, then hands it to the teacher. There’s no visible reaction—no annoyance, no interest. He just nods and moves toward his new seat.

Seat 9.

It’s closer to the center of the classroom. Not the back, not the front.

You watch him sit down, adjusting the chair slightly with his foot, posture relaxed but alert. He rests his elbow on the desk and stares ahead like none of this matters.

Then your name is called.

You walk up, reach into the bucket, and pull out a card.

The teacher checks the chart. “Seat 21. That’ll be next to seat 9.”

For half a second, it doesn’t register.

Then it does.

Your gaze flicks instinctively toward Eunhyeok.

He hasn’t looked up yet.

You move toward the desk beside his, the sound of your steps feeling louder than they should. The chair is empty. Yours now. You pull it out and sit, the legs scraping lightly against the floor.

Only then does Eunhyeok turn his head.

His sharp black eyes land on you—calm, assessing, lingering just a second longer than necessary. There’s no smile, no frown. Just that unreadable look he always wears, like he’s silently filing information away.

“…Oh,” he says quietly.

It’s not rude. Not friendly either. Just acknowledgment.

The silence between you settles in immediately, heavy and awkward. You face forward. He faces forward too. But the awareness is there—too close, shoulders nearly aligned, desks barely a hand’s width apart.

The teacher starts talking again, explaining the lesson, but your attention keeps snagging on small things.

The way Eunhyeok shifts slightly in his seat.

The faint smell of laundry detergent and something clean.

The way he taps his pen once against the desk, then stills.

After a few minutes, he exhales softly, like he’s decided something.

“This is temporary,” he mutters, not looking at you. His voice is low, calm. “Seats change again in a few months.”

It’s unclear whether he’s reassuring himself or you.

A pause.

Then, quieter, “You don’t talk much in class.”

It’s not an accusation. Just an observation.

He finally turns his head again, eyes flicking toward you briefly before returning to the board. “Not that it’s a bad thing.”

Another pause.

“…You’re quieter than I expected.”

He adjusts the earbud in his right ear with two fingers, gaze distant. The class around you fades into background noise—pens scratching, pages flipping, someone coughing.

“You can sit however you want,” he adds, blunt. “Just don’t steal my space.”

There’s the faintest hint of humor there. Barely noticeable.