The next few days unfolded exactly as expected.
Seonghwa had accepted our leadership without protest, but beneath the surface of quiet submission, the air grew heavy with unspoken tension and simmering rivalries. The students observed Hyerin closely, waiting for a misstep, watching carefully for signs of weakness or insecurity. But to her credit, she didn't falter. If anything, she seemed to embrace it, adapting quickly to the spotlight I had thrown her into.
I enjoyed watching her navigate it all. The way she carried herself with newfound confidence, the subtle sharpness in her responses, the calculated caution in her movements. It was fascinating. Every day, she surprised me a little more.
And then, just before class ended on Friday, Teacher Lee made an announcement that shifted everything once again.
"There will be a major Moot Court competition next month," he said, his tone serious, authoritative. "This will not only determine the official rankings for the next semester, but it will also greatly impact your chances for university recommendations."
The classroom went silent.
Teacher Lee continued, his gaze landing pointedly on me, then shifting to Hyerin. "Each team will have two members. You may choose your own partner. Use this weekend wisely, because Monday you will officially declare your teams."
As soon as class ended, Nari and Jiwon approached immediately. Nari opened her mouth, clearly ready to secure her place beside me.
But I had already made my choice.
"Hyerin," I called out, interrupting Nari before she could speak. "You're with me."
Hyerin froze in mid-action, clearly stunned. "What?"
Nari stared at me in surprise, barely masking her irritation. "You're partnering with Hyerin again?"
I turned calmly toward her, voice smooth, unbothered. "You have a problem with that, Nari?"
She swallowed, quickly shaking her head. "No, of course not."
"Good," I said, giving her a slow, deliberate smile. "I thought so."
Nari exchanged a brief glance with Jiwon before they both stepped back, clearly understanding the conversation was over.
Hyerin, however, still looked uncertain as she approached. "Are you sure? You could choose someone with more experience."
I stepped closer, looking her directly in the eyes. "And yet, I'm choosing you."
She exhaled slowly, still hesitant. "Why?"
I leaned in slightly, voice gentle yet commanding. "Because when we win—and we will—it'll feel that much better. Besides, I like the way we look standing next to each other."
She sighed quietly, a reluctant smile briefly flickering across her face. "You really don't take anything seriously, do you?"
"Oh," I murmured, my voice lowering, "I take the things that matter very seriously."
She hesitated, caught off guard once again by my blunt honesty, before finally giving me a small nod. "Fine. Let's win."
I smiled. "Good answer."
And in that moment, as students whispered and watched, as rivals recalculated their strategies, I knew one thing for certain:
Hyerin was mine.
Now, it was just a matter of time before she understood that, too.
The hallway was buzzing with noise—students rushing to lunch, chatter bouncing off the pristine walls, footsteps echoing in hurried rhythms. But next to her, I walked unrushed. Steady. Intentional.
And just as we turned the corner toward the cafeteria, I reached out without a word, intertwining my fingers with hers. My right hand slipping naturally into her left.
She jolted slightly, her head turning toward me with a startled look in her eyes, like I'd just pulled her off balance—emotionally, not physically.
But I didn't offer any explanation.
I only smiled.
Soft. Charming. Sincere.
Something rare from me. Something I didn't hand out freely.
Her gaze lingered on mine longer than it should have.
"I—what are you doing?" she asked finally, her voice quieter than before.
"Nothing." I shrugged. "Just walking."
"You don't usually hold hands with people."
I hummed. "You're not 'people.' You're my Vice President."
She scoffed under her breath, but she didn't pull away.
Instead, she glanced down at our hands, then up again—eyes flickering with some emotion she couldn't quite hide fast enough.
"Saehwa," she murmured, her voice steadier now, "you're going to confuse people."
I leaned in slightly, my voice just for her.
"Let them be confused."
She blinked, visibly thrown off by the sheer honesty of it.
Good.
I squeezed her hand gently, leading us past the front of the cafeteria line where others instinctively stepped aside. Whether it was because they respected me, feared me, or simply understood better than to block my path—I didn't care.
What mattered was how she followed. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Fingers still tangled with mine.
And even if she didn't realize it yet—this was the beginning of something inevitable.
We moved through the cafeteria like we owned it—because, in many ways, I did.
The crowd parted with practiced instinct, their eyes flicking toward our joined hands, then away just as quickly, pretending not to care. But they noticed. Of course they noticed. Seonghwa was built on observation. On silence with weight.
Hyerin was quiet, but not because she was uncomfortable. No, it was something else. Her thoughts were loud behind those eyes, like she was trying to name what was happening without giving it power by speaking it.
I didn't mind her silence. It was part of her charm—that tension between wariness and curiosity.
When we reached our usual table, I slid into the seat like it belonged to me—which it did—and only released her hand when she finally sat down across from me.
She glanced down at her fingers as if they still held my warmth, then up at me with a faint frown.
"Do you ever think about how this looks to other people?" she asked.
I tilted my head, resting my cheek on my palm. "What do you mean?"
She leaned back in her chair, arms crossing lightly. "You keep blurring the line. First the Vice President thing, then partnering with me, now this."
"You're upset?"
"I didn't say that."
I smiled. "Then what are you saying, Hyerin?"
She hesitated. Her eyes dropped for just a second—a tell. She wasn't used to being this visible, this watched, this close to something that didn't play by the rules.
"It's just…" she began, then stopped.
"Just?" I prompted, voice calm.
"You're confusing."
I gave a soft laugh. "I'm always honest with you."
She looked up at me again, eyes sharp now. "That's the confusing part."
For a moment, we just stared at each other.
And I could feel it—the way tension hummed between us, not quite attraction, not quite confrontation. Something else. Something messier. Something real.
I didn't break eye contact.
"You said something once," I murmured. "You said in a world full of main characters, you feel like a background one."
She stilled.
I leaned in slightly, my voice quieter, but unwavering.
"You're not a background anything to me."
She looked at me like she didn't know what to do with that sentence.
Which meant it hit exactly where I wanted it to.
I sat back with a sigh, lifting my tray as the food was delivered.
"You should eat. We have strategy meetings after lunch," I said, like nothing had happened. Like I hadn't just unsettled her all over again.
But even as she picked up her spoon and stared down at her food, her fingers trembled just slightly.
And I knew:
She was starting to fall into my world.
Whether she liked it or not.
She didn't say another word for a while, just focused on her food—though she barely touched it. Her grip on the spoon was tight, too tight, and her eyes lingered on her tray longer than they should have.
It wasn't that she was flustered. Not in the way most people would be. No, Hyerin was too composed for that. But I could see it—the stillness in her shoulders that wasn't natural, the slight tension in her jaw, the way she deliberately avoided looking at me.
I didn't push.
I didn't need to.
Her silence was louder than anything she could've said.
I let the minutes pass, sipping slowly at my drink, eyes fixed on her without apology. Most people couldn't handle being watched. She didn't look away. That was what made her interesting.
Finally, she spoke—quietly, without lifting her head.
"Why me?"
I blinked, surprised by the simplicity of the question.
But she continued before I could answer.
"You could've chosen anyone to stand beside you. Nari. Jiwon. Someone who already knows how this place works. Someone from your world."
My gaze sharpened. "You think you're not part of it?"
"I think I wasn't meant to be," she said, her tone flat. "I got here through hard work, not money. Not bloodline. Not legacy."
I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the table between us. "That's exactly why I chose you."
She looked up slowly, her expression unreadable.
"You walked into Seonghwa, into my world, and didn't flinch. You stood your ground when people looked down on you. You took the blow when Gaeun tried to humiliate you and came back stronger."
She said nothing.
"And you still don't understand it," I added, softer now. "You don't see what I see when I look at you."
Her throat bobbed. She sat still, breath faintly caught in her chest.
"I see someone who doesn't need permission to be extraordinary," I murmured. "And that terrifies them."
"Doesn't it scare you too?" she asked quietly.
I smiled. "No. It excites me."
She blinked, lips parting slightly. And for once—just once—she didn't have a reply.
We ate the rest of our lunch in silence. Not awkward, not distant. Just full. Heavy.
Like something unspoken had shifted between us.
By the time we stood to leave, she didn't hesitate when I reached for her hand again.
And this time, she was the one who held tighter.