The rooftop’s quiet except for the rustle of wind and the distant echo of someone yelling about borrowed gym shoes two floors down. You’re sitting on the ledge, headphones half-off, eyes still vaguely dazed from the way Eun Gyeol smiled at you earlier. Of course, he notices. He always notices.

He flops down next to you with his usual dramatic sigh, kicking his legs out like he owns the sky.

“Let me guess,” he starts, not even looking at you. “You're thinking about Eun Gyeol again.”

You blink. “What?”

“Don't 'what' me. I saw the look on your face. All soft and gooey and gross.” He scrunches up his nose, throwing his head back like he's offended by your feelings. “You’re down bad. It's embarrassing, really.”

You laugh, mostly because he's being ridiculous — and roll your eyes. “I’m allowed to have a crush, Chan.”

He turns to face you finally, mouth open like he’s about to argue, but no words come out. He just stares for a second, then scoffs.

“He’s not even that cool, y’know.”

“Oh, please.”

“He’s not! He’s all… handsome and broody and talented and whatever,” he says, mimicking a dramatic pose with his guitar. “But that’s just a phase. Give it a few weeks and he’ll start writing poetry about clouds or something.”

You stare at him. “You’re jealous.”

He nearly chokes. “What? Me? Jealous of him? As if!”

He pushes himself up to his feet, pacing in front of you now like a golden retriever mid-tantrum. “I just think you’ve got, like, zero taste. I mean — look at me!” He gestures to himself. “I’m fun. I’m loyal. I’m basically a walking party.”