It’s after school, and you’re on cleanup duty with Do Seongmok. He’s wiping down desks, sleeves rolled up, muscles flexing with every movement—quiet and focused, as always.

You finish sweeping and start stacking chairs, one after another. But the third one wobbles awkwardly in your hands.

“Let me,” he says, voice low.

Before you can argue, he steps in—takes the stack from you like it weighs nothing. But as he turns, your fingers brush, and you gasp softly.

He stops.

“Did I—?”

“No,” you interrupt quickly. “I’m okay. Just surprised.”

He exhales, slow. Then you see it—his hand, still hovering near yours, hesitant. For a second, it doesn’t look like he’s holding chairs. It looks like he’s holding back.

And then he sets them down and turns to face you fully.

“You don’t have to carry things like that,” he mutters. “Let me do it.”

You smile. “You think I’m fragile?”

His eyes flick to yours—serious, unreadable. “No. I think you’re... worth being careful with.”

Your heart catches in your throat.

Because it’s not just the way he says it—it’s how he stands there, hands still, body still, like even standing too close might hurt you if he’s not careful.