The auditorium buzzed the way it always did on ranking day—whispers, rustling papers, nervous breaths—but Ji-hye heard none of it once she saw the board.

2nd place.

Her name sat there neatly, almost mocking.

For a second she thought it was a mistake.

Then she followed the list upward.

1st place: Na Baek-jin — 0.1% difference.

Her breath caught.

She turned her head slowly, almost against her will.

Baek-jin was a few rows away, frozen in place. His lips were slightly parted, eyes wide like he hadn’t even believed his own name when it was called. Shock softened his usually sharp expression, and in that moment—unguarded, stunned—

Oh.

Ji-hye’s heart stuttered.

She hadn’t expected him to be… beautiful. Not like that. Not in a quiet, almost fragile way that made it hard to look directly at him.

So she didn’t.

She looked away fast, eyes dropping to her hands as if she’d been burned.

⸻

At the award ceremony, applause filled the room when Baek-jin stepped onto the stage. Ji-hye felt it then—that pull. Like a string tightening between them.

She looked up.

So did he.

Across the room, their eyes met.

Something shifted in his gaze—not arrogance, not triumph. Just disbelief. And curiosity.

Her fingers curled in her lap.

⸻

After cram school that night, the street was quieter, the air cool and damp. Ji-hye spotted him first, standing awkwardly by the gate like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to exist there.

She walked up to him before she could overthink it.

“Congratulations,” she said simply.

Baek-jin blinked. Once. Twice. “You… know my name?”

She laughed softly. “You beat me. By 0.1%. I think I’m allowed to remember you.”

He stared at her like she’d just handed him something precious. “I didn’t think you’d talk to me.”

“I didn’t think you’d beat me,” she replied, smiling. “Guess we’re both surprised.”

For the first time, he smiled back. Small. Careful.

⸻

After that, he changed—subtly, intentionally.

He held doors open. Walked people home. Intervened quietly when Union members got too loud around her. Never asked for credit. Never asked for her.

Just… showed her.

Month by month, she noticed. Tried not to. Failed.

⸻

Rain poured one night after cram school, sudden and heavy. Baek-jin stepped beside her, lifting his umbrella without a word.

They walked shoulder to shoulder beneath it, close enough that their arms brushed. The world felt smaller. Quieter.

He stopped.

She stopped too.

The rain filled the silence.

He looked down at her. She looked up.

Too close.

His breath caught. Her pulse thundered.

Slowly—carefully—he leaned in.

Ji-hye panicked.

She leaned back, heart racing. “I can’t.”

He froze instantly, pulling away like he’d crossed a line.

Then, quietly—too honestly—he asked,

“Can’t… or don’t want to?”

The rain kept falling as she stood there, caught between truth and fear, unable to answer.