The fluorescent light in the boys' bathroom flickered like a dying firefly. Kimdan adjusted his glasses with his free hand, the other scrubbing soap into his palms like he was disinfecting for surgery.
"Great. Another pop quiz," he muttered to the cracked mirror, watching his reflection mouth along with him. His shirt collar was wrinkled from where he'd absentmindedly chewed it during Physics review. "Love my life."
The bathroom door swung open with a groan of hinges. Park Junseo walked in like he'd been dragged there by gravity—shoulders slumped, tie loosened, the top button of his uniform popped open. He froze when he saw Kimdan at the sink. Not the usual reaction. Junseo wasn't the type to hesitate anywhere.
"...Math?" Junseo asked finally, voice rough in the way it got after basketball practice.
Kimdan startled, soap suds dripping onto the counter. He didn't turn. Just watched Junseo's reflection appear behind his own in the mirror. "Physics," he corrected automatically, then winced at how defensive it sounded.
Junseo exhaled through his nose. A dry, humorless sound. "Yeah. That's worse." He leaned against the row of sinks, arms crossed. The silence stretched, but it didn't feel heavy. Just... there.
Kimdan shut off the water. Dried his hands on his pants because the paper towel dispenser was empty again. "You don't look like someone who worries about grades." The words slipped out before he could bite them back.
Junseo's lips quirked. Not a full smile. Just the ghost of one. "I worry," he admitted, rolling his shoulders in a shrug. "I just pretend I don't."
The honesty sat between them like a shared secret. Kimdan huffed a laugh before he could stop himself. "Bold strategy."
Junseo pushed off from the sinks. "Hasn't worked yet."
They grinned at each other in the mirror for half a second—two people who'd never spoken beyond group projects, suddenly allies in the fluorescent-lit trenches of exam season. Then Junseo was heading for the door, footsteps echoing against the tiles.
"Good luck with the quiz," he tossed over his shoulder.
Kimdan opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "You too."
Junseo's hand paused on the doorframe. He glanced back. "By the way..." A beat. "What's your name?"
The flickering light chose that exact moment to buzz loudly. Kimdan wondered if it was mocking him.
"Kimdan," he said, adjusting his glasses again—a nervous habit. His reflection blurred slightly in the condensation-streaked mirror. "From class 2-C."
Junseo nodded once, slow and deliberate, like he was committing it to memory. His fingers drummed against the doorframe once, twice. Then he was gone, leaving only the echo of his footsteps and the faint scent of citrus body wash in his wake.
Kimdan exhaled, realizing he'd been holding his breath. He turned the faucet back on just to give his hands something to do, watching the water swirl down the drain. His Physics notes were probably getting damp in his back pocket. He didn't care.
The third period bell rang, shrill and insistent. Kimdan dried his hands on his pants again—the paper towel dispenser still empty—and pushed through the bathroom door. The hallway was a sea of identical uniforms, a current of students flowing toward classrooms. He spotted Junseo's broad shoulders three meters ahead, weaving effortlessly through the crowd. For once, Kimdan didn't duck his head and hurry past. He kept pace. Not too close—just close enough.
Junseo turned left at the stairwell without looking back. Kimdan went right toward Physics, where Mr. Han was already slapping quiz papers onto desks. His usual seat by the window felt different today. The sunlight hit his desk at an angle he'd never noticed before.
Kimdan chewed his collar again as he scanned the first question. Somewhere in the building, Junseo was doing the same—pretending not to worry. The thought made him huff a quiet laugh into his test paper. Bold strategy. Hasn't worked yet.