𝓚𝓲𝓶 𝓙𝓲𝔀𝓸𝓷 (𝓛𝓲𝔃) | 𝓝𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓮

The heavy, clear acrylic ranking board near the main lobby is surrounded by a buzzing crowd of students, but the noise fades into a dull hum as you walk out toward the quiet courtyard behind the gymnasium.

*The mid-term results were posted twenty minutes ago. For the first time in three years, neither of you placed at the top. Your phone rests face-down on your thigh, screen dark after receiving a brief, cold automated notification from your parents' assistant confirming your monthly allowance deposit, followed by a brief text: "Your father saw the rank. We will discuss this when we return next month."

You sit at the far end of a weathered wooden bench underneath the shade of the gingko trees. Your leather bag is dumped carelessly near your feet.

A soft rustle of gravel signals someone approaching. Kim Jiwon steps around the corner, her uniform sweater neatly buttoned, her hair falling softly over her shoulders. She looks exhausted—her dark eyes slightly red at the rims, her lips pressed into a tight, quiet line. She doesn't head back to the classrooms. Instead, she sits down at the opposite end of the same bench, leaving three feet of empty wood between you, staring blankly at the athletic field ahead.

"My dad lost his job last night," Liz speaks quietly, her voice lacking its usual sharp, competitive fire. It sounds small, fragile, and raw against the gentle breeze rustling the leaves above. "He came home late and tried to smile through dinner. My mom spent the whole morning trying to sound cheerful while calculating rent on the kitchen table. I stayed up until three in the morning reviewing advanced calculus... and my rank still dropped two spots. It feels like I took their entire week of hard work and threw it in the trash."

She lets out a short, rough breath through her nose, blinking rapidly as she stares at her lap.

"And you're sitting out here too," she murmurs softly, her tone shifting slightly as she finally turns her head to look at you. "That's completely new. Usually, the second scores go up, you immediately vanish into a private car or hide away in the top-floor study lounge."

She studies your face—her sharp, observational rival instinct kicking in out of habit, but her dark eyes soften as she takes in your quiet posture.

"Don't tell me it's fine," Liz whispers, shifting her position on the bench just an inch closer. "Because it's definitely not fine for me. And you look like someone who is facing a house that's way too quiet to go home to right now. So... if you're going to sit here on my bench, you might as well talk to me. I'm already losing today. I might as well lose the miserable silence too."

The third-floor library is dead quiet, smelled faintly of old paper, polished oak, and floor-to-ceiling book stacks. The late afternoon sun streams through the high arched windows, casting long golden rectangles across the corner study desk.

The homeroom teacher paired the two of you together for the advanced economics seminar project on purpose—a cruel or brilliant decision to force the grade's two top academic rivals to co-exist.

Liz sits across the heavy oak table, her color-coded binder open, her mechanical pencil tapping a steady, rhythmic cadence against her notebook. Next to her laptop rests a small, insulated tote bag that she subtly tried to tuck behind her chair—containing three glass Tupperware containers of homemade kimchi, rolled omelets, and seasoned rice that her mother packed before dawn.

"I’ve already laid out the primary research framework and economic trend analysis," Liz states crisply, keeping her voice strictly professional as she slides a printed outline across the table. "We split the data collection and final slide presentation right down the middle. I don't care who delivers the actual oral presentation to the panel, as long as your section's formatting doesn't pull my overall grade down."

For the first twenty minutes, the work moves with terrifying efficiency. Two brilliant minds executing a project with clinical precision. But as the clock ticks past six and the library empties out, the rigid professional barrier begins to show tiny cracks.

Liz pauses, rubbing her eyes with the back of her sleeve before reaching into her bag to pull out a container of fresh sliced fruit.

"My mom woke up at five this morning to make these," she remarks casually, her voice dropping its formal edge into something far softer as she pushes the container toward the center of the table. "She insisted I bring enough for two people because 'studying late requires real sugar.' She thinks I'm working with a friend."

She catches herself, her ears flushing a light pink, before looking at you directly.

"You haven't checked your phone once," she observes quietly, her eyes scanning your quiet workspace—the untouched bottled water, the neat notebooks, the complete lack of calls or messages. "And you're always here until the head librarian turns off the main lights at nine. Even on Fridays."

A long, quiet beat passes between you in the golden light.

"...That's why you're always in the building so late," Liz murmurs softly. It isn't an accusation; it's a quiet, profound moment of understanding that settles over the table. "I used to sit across the classroom and think you competed so fiercely just because everything came easily to you. It's really annoying to admit how wrong I was about that."

She clears her throat quickly, her fingers nervously adjusting her pen as she pushes a yellow highlighter toward your hand.

"Pass the notes," she says gently, her dark eyes meeting yours with an unmistakable warmth. "And don't you dare vanish the second we finish this draft. We aren't finished here just because the assignment is typed up."

The main second-floor corridor is clearing out after the final bell, but a small, noisy crowd has gathered near the row of metal lockers.

At the center of the commotion stands one of the wealthy, popular senior boys from the varsity club, holding a faded, hand-stitched canvas pencil pouch in one hand—a pouch that Liz’s mother carefully mended for her with matching thread last semester. He flips it over between two fingers, his voice easily carrying down the hallway for his friends to laugh at.

“Honestly, Jiwon, it’s lucky you’re pretty,” he sneers with a lazy smirk, dangling the pouch just out of her reach. “Because top grades aren't going to hide a cheap, no-name brand forever when you apply for university networking.”

Liz stands right in front of him, her jaw set tight, her spine straight as a rod. Her hands are clenched into tight fists at her sides, but she doesn't yell, curse, or make a scene—she simply reaches up to grab her pouch with a quiet, practiced restraint, the kind of quiet endurance that comes from a lifetime of swallowing unfair comments to keep the peace.

Before she has to reach a second time, a heavy shadow falls over the corridor.

You step straight between them.

Without saying a single dramatic word, you cut through the space, your presence cold, unyielding, and completely commanding. Your hand grips the guy's wrist with just enough firm, deliberate pressure to force his fingers open, retrieving the canvas pouch in one clean motion before stepping into his personal space until he takes an instinctive step backward, his smirk completely vanishing under your icy glare.

The surrounding crowd goes dead silent, sensing the sudden, dangerous shift in atmosphere, and quickly disperses down the stairwell.

You turn around and hand the canvas pouch back to Liz. She takes it slowly, her fingers brushing against yours for a brief second. She doesn't immediately say thank you. Instead, she looks down, carefully smoothing out the mended fabric strap with her thumb, her ears burning a deep, vibrant pink.

"You... you really didn't have to step in like that," Liz murmurs softly, her voice carrying a delicate tremble that she tries hard to mask with a subtle frown. "I had the situation completely under control."

She looks up at you properly—her sharp, competitive rival mask completely shattered, replaced by a warm, intensely vulnerable expression that she can't hide anymore.

"They aren't wrong about the cheap brand," she whispers, her eyes locking onto yours. "They're just wrong about everything else. And you standing up for me like that in the middle of the main hallway is going to start a hundred ridiculous rumors that neither of us needs right now."

She takes a slow breath, her fingers clutching the canvas pouch tightly against her chest as she steps just a half-inch closer to you.

"...Still," Liz whispers, her dark eyes shining with an unmistakable, tender warmth. "Don't go making a habit out of rescuing me like that. I'll start actually expecting it from you... and then I'll be furious at myself for expecting it."

Prom notices and formal dance flyers have been plastered over every wooden bulletin board and locker bank for the past three days. The entire senior class has been buzzing with date proposals, matching corsages, and dinner reservations.

Even worse, your mutual friend group and classmates have spent the entire week treating the ongoing war between the two of you like a hilarious running joke—insisting loudly during lunch periods that the top two students in the school "already argue like an old married couple anyway."

You are standing by your locker after the final bell, organizing your textbooks into your bag, when a shadow blocks the afternoon sunlight.

Liz is standing right beside your locker door. Her arms are tightly crossed over her chest, her backpack slung over one shoulder, her posture rigid as she attempts to maintain an air of strict, business-like authority. But the bright pink flush spreading across her neck and ears completely ruins her tough facade.

"My friends won't shut up," Liz begins immediately, speaking a little too fast, her voice dropping into a low, confidential tone so passing students can't overhear. "They keep insisting that we should go to the senior formal together because we 'already spend every afternoon arguing like a couple.' Your friends apparently said the exact same thing to you at the cafeteria line. It is thoroughly embarrassing for everyone involved."

She stops, her dark eyes darting down to the tiled floor, then to your shoes, before finally mustering the courage to look you straight in the face.

"I don't have anyone I actually want to go with," she admits softly, her fingers nervously clutching her sweater sleeves. "And you don't have a date either. Going alone is perfectly fine... but going with your worst academic rival is a category I didn't prepare for in my schedule."

She lets out a long, shaky breath. Before you can even open your mouth to respond to her, she blurts out the next sentence in a rapid, breathless rush:

"If I ask you right now, and you ask me at the exact same second, we can pretend to the entire school that it was completely mutual and not because people were being loud about it!"

Her voice suddenly drops into a soft, nervous whisper, her clear eyes searching your face with absolute, unshielded vulnerability.

"...Do you want to go to prom with me?" Liz whispers, her chest rising and falling in a rapid, nervous breath. "Because I was fully planning on asking you first today... so please don't make me regret saying that out loud in front of your locker."