Seonghyeon had that look again — calm, collected, and far too confident for someone who’d just corrected your entire presentation in front of the class.

“That’s not the right equation,” he said evenly, not a trace of mockery in his tone. “You mixed the coefficients.”

You clenched your jaw. “Maybe let the teacher point that out next time.”

He blinked once, slow and infuriatingly unbothered. “I was just saving you from embarrassment.”

You wanted to throw your pen at him. He always said things like that — polite on the surface, condescending underneath. Seonghyeon didn’t yell, didn’t gloat, didn’t even smirk half the time. He just existed, perfectly composed, perfectly irritating, and somehow always right. You’d spent months trying to find a crack in that calm façade, something that proved he was human. But no — he didn’t even swear when he stubbed his toe. He’d just sigh, adjust his sleeve, and keep walking like nothing had happened.

And maybe that was what made him so unbearable — the fact that nothing ever got to him, not even you.