The next morning, Ji Hyun stepped into the classroom—not for the lessons, not for the teacher's inevitable glare.
But for him.
Jiyong was already there, seated at his desk as always—early, composed, irritatingly unbothered. His stillness only made Ji Hyun's energy feel more chaotic, more visible. Too loud.
Ji Hyun dropped his bag onto the desk with a dull thud. "Morning," he muttered.
Jiyong didn't glance up. "You're on time today."
Ji Hyun scoffed. "That's what happens when you don't come from Seoul. We wake up with the roosters."
Jiyong gave the faintest snort. Amused. Barely.
The tension between them was a quiet current, heavy and electric.
Before Ji Hyun could push further, the classroom door clicked open. Their homeroom teacher entered with a thick stack of papers. The room immediately hushed.
"Class," she announced, "today we begin our term project. You'll work in pairs."
Groans rippled through the class. The same predictable reaction. Everyone hated group work—unless they'd already locked in their partner.
Ji Hyun turned to Hyun Soo, the only certainty in a morning full of unknowns.
Their eyes met. A silent exchange.
Of course we're together.
But then—
"I've already chosen the pairs," the teacher said, slicing through the chatter like cold wind. "You'll be working with who you're assigned. This is about learning to cooperate, not about comfort."
Ji Hyun froze.
His pulse quickened.
Please. Not him.
"Ji Hyun," she called. He looked up.
"You'll be partnered with Choi Jiyong."
His stomach dropped.
No.
He turned toward Jiyong, already feeling the storm begin to rise.
Jiyong simply adjusted his cuffs and gave a small shrug. "Cool," he said casually. Then, with a tilt of his head, he added, "I was looking forward to working with you."
Ji Hyun glared at him.
And Jiyong winked.
A single, slow, unapologetic wink.
Ji Hyun's jaw clenched. "Unbelievable," he muttered.
He stood sharply. "Seonsaengnim—may I—"
"No switching," she said flatly, not even bothering to look up.
Ji Hyun's shoulders stiffened.
And even without turning, he could feel it—the grin tugging at Jiyong's lips. That smug, infuriating grin.
He turned slowly, and sure enough—Jiyong was leaning back just a little, eyes sparkling with quiet amusement.
Ji Hyun wanted to throw his pen at him.
Instead, he sat down hard and opened his notebook like he was preparing for war.
⸻
By lunch, their desks were buried under notes and scattered diagrams.
Their assigned topic: Cultural Landmarks in Korea.
Ji Hyun suggested the places he knew—intimate, overlooked spots like the forest shrine by the river, the worn wooden bridge fishermen still used at dawn. Landmarks that whispered stories, not shouted them.
Jiyong disagreed.
"Let's focus on places that matter—Gyeongbokgung, Seoul Tower, the Han River," he said, fingers flipping pages with surgical precision.
Ji Hyun stiffened. "Those aren't the only ones that matter."
Jiyong didn't look up. "I don't see the point of writing about a muddy river."
Ji Hyun's eyes flicked to him. His voice dropped. "That river saved a life."
Jiyong paused, pencil mid-air. "Excuse me?"
Ji Hyun clenched his jaw. "Forget it."
For the next hour, they fought over everything. Font sizes. Image placement. Citation formats. Even the angle of a staple.
"Diagonal's cleaner," Jiyong said, aligning the pages.
Ji Hyun snatched the stapler. "This isn't some Seoul fashion catalogue. It's just paper."
They worked side by side, but never together. It was like watching two storms try to occupy the same sky.
When the final bell rang, the classroom emptied around them. Hyun Soo peeked through the door and gave a low whistle.
"You two building a fortress?"
Ji Hyun didn't answer.
He glanced at Jiyong, who was running a careful hand over their finished draft—like it was something delicate, something valuable.
There was a steadiness to Jiyong. To his hands. His face. His presence.
Ji Hyun hated it.
Hated how effortlessly he moved through the world.
Hated how good he was at being seen without trying—while Ji Hyun had to claw for it, always.
Jiyong stood, reaching for the file.
"I'll submit it," he said, voice even.
Ji Hyun stepped forward. "No. I will." He pulled the file from Jiyong's hand.
Their eyes locked—challenging, wordless.
Seconds passed.
Then Jiyong's lips curled into that same knowing smirk. "Fine," he murmured. "Try not to trip on your way up."
Ji Hyun turned sharply, practically stomping off.
Behind him, Jiyong watched in silence.
The smirk lingered for a moment—but the gleam in his eyes faded into something unreadable.
At the back of the classroom, their bench sat still—quiet now, yet charged. As if holding the echo of everything unsaid.
A bench that would come to know more than rivalry.
But for now, it remained a battlefield.
And neither of them was ready to lay down arms.
_________________________________________
Monday morning arrived with the usual weight of exhaustion and indifference—at least for most of the class.
Ji Hyun walked in, sleep still heavy in his bones, expecting another dull start. He didn't even look at Jiyong as he sat down beside him. Not after the headache that was last week.
But something was off.
The classroom buzzed—not lazily, but like a whisper before a wave.
Then their homeroom teacher entered, her expression unreadable, a file in her hand. The same file Ji Hyun had fought Jiyong for.
She stood at the front, cleared her throat, and looked directly at them.
"I reviewed all the term projects over the weekend," she said. "And one in particular stood out—not just for its research, but for its creativity, clarity, and presentation."
Ji Hyun's brow creased.
She lifted the file.
"Choi Jiyong and Ji Hyun," she announced. "Excellent work."
Heads turned. Whispers erupted.
Ji Hyun blinked. Did she just—?
Jiyong sat back, arms crossed, already wearing that smug expression like a tailored suit.
"I've submitted your project to the Cultural Awareness Committee," the teacher continued. "They were impressed. Which is why I'm officially inviting both of you to join the Student Heritage Club. You'll represent our class for the upcoming inter-school showcase."
Ji Hyun's stomach sank. A club? With him? He didn't even like clubs. He barely tolerated Jiyong.
He turned to glare—but Jiyong beat him to it, leaning slightly over his desk.
"Looks like you'll be stuck with me a little longer," he whispered, voice light.
Ji Hyun didn't respond. Just clenched his pen harder than necessary.
The club room smelled like old wood and fresh tea. Warm. Quiet. Lined with framed photos of past projects, travel logs, and award ribbons that looked older than most students in the school.
Ji Hyun stepped inside, scanning the space. Jiyong was already there, predictably, flipping through a pamphlet near the windows.
And someone else stood by the notice board.
She turned at the sound of footsteps.
Long black hair, a clean uniform, soft features. Her expression was open—polite, bright, and unforced. A quiet kind of presence.
"You're Ji Hyun, right?" she asked. Her voice was light, composed. "I'm Haeri. I'm part of the club too. You guys did an amazing job."
Ji Hyun nodded. "Thanks."
She turned to Jiyong. "You too. I liked how you connected the visuals with the stories."
Jiyong gave a short nod. "Appreciate it."
There was a brief pause. Calm. Comfortable.
Haeri smiled again, a soft curve of her lips that reached her eyes. "I'm really glad we'll be working together."
Ji Hyun said nothing more, but his gaze lingered for a moment before he looked away.
Jiyong, meanwhile, returned to flipping through the club schedule like he owned the place.
The quiet settled again.
And for the first time since this whole thing started, Ji Hyun didn't feel like arguing.
Not yet, anyway.