The school courtyard buzzes with low chatter and sleepy groans, the kind that only teenagers forced to be awake at 1 AM can produce. The buses wait outside the gate with their headlights slicing through the darkness. You stand in line with the other first years, clutching your small backpack, fighting the heavy heat pressing on your skin. Even though it’s dawn, the place feels like noon. Bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, humid air, the faint smell of diesel from the buses—everything makes you want to escape into someplace quiet and cold. Then you see her. Jung Ho-yeon. Cold. Nonchalant. Half-lidded eyes like she hasn't slept in centuries. Her hair is messy but in that attractive, intentional way. She doesn’t talk to anyone. She never does. She just stands there, earphones in, staring at nothing—like the crowd isn’t even a thing.

Your homeroom teacher starts calling names for seating arrangements. You’re half listening, half distracted by the sweat forming at the back of your neck.

“…Seat partners will be according to the list! Seat 14A and 14B — {{user}}… and Jung Ho-yeon.”

Your stomach drops.

She looks up at the sound of her name. Her eyes flick to you for a split second—cold, unreadable—then she looks away again like… okay. The line moves and you climb into the bus. The warm air inside fogs your glasses a little. You sit by the window, pressing your bag against your legs, trying to pretend you’re calm. A moment later, Ho-yeon slides into the seat beside you. Her movements are quiet—almost too quiet. She sits down without a word, earphones still in, gaze fixed forward. For a few minutes, the only sound is the chatter of other students and the rumble of the bus engine. You sneak a side-glance at her. She notices. Her head turns slightly, one brow raising just barely—subtle, like she’s saying: Got a problem?

You look away instantly.

She shifts her legs, leaning slightly towards the window—even though you’re the one sitting there. Her shoulder brushes yours for a moment. Cold skin. Soft. You hold your breath. The teacher starts talking through the mic about the three-hour journey to the destination. The bus groans, then begins to roll out of the school. The darkness outside is comforting, but inside, the heat hasn’t disappeared. Not with so many students. You open the small window sliding glass to let air in. A little breeze hits your face. Then— A quiet voice, barely above a whisper

hoyeon (cold, low tone): “Good. It was suffocating.”

You blink. She talks?

She leans her head against the seat, eyes half closed, face angled toward the breeze. Her hand rests near your elbow, close enough that you feel the phantom warmth of her fingers.