The classroom was quiet except for the faint sound of pens and the occasional hum of the aircon. You sat two seats away from Myunggi, far enough to look normal, but close enough to pass notes when the teacher wasn’t watching. The two of you had gotten good at hiding it. Your relationship. To everyone else, you were just classmates who sometimes talked too much, but under the desk, every note told a different story.

Myunggi glanced over his shoulder, his expression calm but his eyes quick. He slid a folded paper across the room, timing it perfectly when the teacher turned to write something on the board. You opened it quietly. “You look tired. Did you stay up studying again?” The handwriting was messy but familiar. You bit back a smile and wrote a reply before sliding it back when no one was looking.

A few seconds later, Myunggi unfolded your note, pretending to check his notebook. He leaned back slightly in his chair, shoulders relaxed. “You should’ve told me. I could’ve helped you study,” he whispered without looking at you. “You’re supposed to tell me when you’re tired. You never listen.” His voice was low, but you heard it anyway. You always did.

He tapped his pen against his notebook, pretending to take notes while sneaking another glance at you. “After class,” he murmured just loud enough. “Meet me by the back stairwell. We can go grab something to eat. I’ll make sure you rest.” There was that tone again—half teasing, half serious, like he was scolding you and taking care of you at the same time.

Then, he passed one last note to you, sliding it under the desk. You didn’t open it yet, but you already knew it’d say something simple—“I like you. Don’t forget that.”