The boys trailed back to class together. The moment they hit the hallway, their laughter rang out so loudly it could be heard a floor away. As soon as they entered the room, the girls turned in unison, rolling their eyes. Some pinched their noses, others flapped their hands dramatically.
— Ugh, that stinks!— Their clothes are soaking, how can they just sit down like that?
But the boys barely cared, scattering back to their seats, still cracking jokes and elbowing one another.
Uy Phong dropped into his chair beside An Phong. His arm, slick with sweat, brushed against his desk mate's by accident. An Phong flinched instinctively, as if burned.
Uy Phong paused for a beat, eyes flicking sideways. His voice was low, even.
— Sorry.
Only then did An Phong realize how reflexive his reaction had been. Heat rushed to his face. He waved his hands quickly.
— No, no, it's fine. I didn't mean anything, just… a habit.
Silence stretched between them, making his earlier recoil feel even ruder. Just as he opened his mouth to explain further, Uy Phong spoke again, casual as ever:
— Do you play any sports?
— Huh? Oh… not really. Why?
— Not really, huh?
The unfinished thought left hanging in the air made the silence heavier. An uneasy feeling stirred inside An Phong, as if the tall, athletic boy beside him were studying him with unspoken questions: Why wouldn't he like sports?
It wasn't that An Phong hated them. Nor that he had an old injury. It was simply that—
— So you've never tried? Not even once?
An Phong froze, racking his memory. Nothing came. But then, a flicker—something small surfaced.
— I… once tried Taekwondo.
— Oh? Sounds cool. Were you good? Uy Phong leaned in a little, curiosity lighting his eyes.
— No. I only lasted two weeks… before I got kicked out.
— What? Uy Phong blinked, caught off guard. A dozen scenarios flashed through his head. A fight? Some big trouble? But with this wiry, delicate frame?
— Because… my grandfather wanted me to quit.
The air stilled. Uy Phong's mouth closed around the words he'd meant to say. Because his grandfather wanted him to? It struck him as strange—his own grandfather had been the one to push him toward basketball, to back him up no matter what. The thought pulled his brows together. He rubbed his temple, as though trying to ease away the sudden weight pressing in.
— I see. Guess your grandfather didn't like it much, huh? His voice was carefully neutral.
— Not just Taekwondo. He doesn't like anything. If it involves moving, he hates it. He just wants me to sit still and study. An Phong's tone fell quiet, flat—simply stating a fact he'd lived with for too long.
Uy Phong tilted his head, then gave a small, crooked smile.
— Doesn't sound very fair. Guys need to move, to sweat. Why would he want to turn you into… I don't know, a girl sewing at home? Seriously, even the girls in class who play table tennis look stronger than you.
His gaze drifted down, almost unconsciously, tracing An Phong's slender frame.
An Phong froze. A flicker of irritation passed through his eyes. Compared to girls? A "sewing-at-home" type? This idiot… He studied hard, sure, but that didn't mean he sat around with embroidery hoops.
Before Uy Phong could add anything else—
— Excuse me. I have homework to do. Let's talk later.
The words came out cool, clipped, like a door slammed shut. He shot one final blank look at Uy Phong before lowering his head to his notebook.
Uy Phong stilled, half a sentence caught in his throat. Awkwardness tightened around him. He wiped a bead of sweat from his jaw with the back of his hand, inhaled slowly, and swallowed down the rest. Silence.
An Phong pressed his pencil to the page, pretending to be absorbed in the rows of numbers. But the strokes wavered, shaky. Inside, a faint ache rose.
What did I just say? Why did I brush him off like that?
It wasn't as if Uy Phong had meant any harm. He'd actually been trying to talk, maybe even to connect. And yet An Phong had cut him down cold, just because of one careless jab, one flicker of pride. He pressed his lips tight. How childish.
His eyes flicked sideways, catching the tall boy propping his chin on his hand, gaze fixed forward on the board, silent. The sight tugged something low in An Phong's chest.
Is he mad at me?
For the briefest second, worry flashed across his cool eyes. But he shoved it away, burying himself in the page again. Hiding.
Beside him, Uy Phong stayed still, chin resting on his palm. He breathed in, then out, another drop of sweat sliding down his temple.
Strange.
He wasn't angry, not really. But the rejection stung. He had only wanted to keep the conversation alive, to chip away at that icy wall between them—and got shut down immediately. The question circled in his mind: Did I say something wrong? Or does he just not want me close?
A faint crease pulled at his brow, then a quiet chuckle slipped from his throat.
An Phong was exactly the kind of person who seemed cold and distant, yet made people want to reach closer. Like a block of smooth ice: the harder you tried to touch, the easier you slipped.
Leaning back, Uy Phong let his eyes wander briefly to the boy beside him. Head bowed, brows faintly furrowed, writing with a forced focus that only looked more awkward.
"…What a puzzle," he murmured, lips quirking faintly. But instead of giving up, his curiosity only sharpened.
An Phong's pencil stilled. He'd caught the whisper. For a heartbeat, he wanted to turn and ask what it meant.
But before he could—
— Excuse me, is Hoang Uy Phong in this class? I need to see him.
A bright, clear voice rang from the doorway. A girl stood there, younger, pretty, clutching a notebook to her chest.
The whole class erupted in gasps and chatter.
As for Uy Phong—he only raised a brow, mildly surprised, before standing up with steady composure.
What on earth is this about?