Jiwoo stared at the professor like she had misheard.
"Partner project," he repeated calmly, adjusting his glasses. "You'll work together for the entire semester. Attendance, concept development, final presentation. Everything."
Everything.
Jiwoo slowly turned her head.
Hyunwoo was already looking at her.
Relaxed. Annoyingly relaxed. One arm slung over the back of his chair, lips curved in that lazy half-smile like this was all some joke written just for his entertainment.
She hated that smile.
"You've got to be kidding me," she muttered.
Hyunwoo leaned closer. "Wow, that's rude. I'm right here."
"You splashed me with muddy water, insulted my work, and called me Picasso," she hissed back. "Forgive me for not being thrilled."
He shrugged. "I said I owed you one."
"This is not what I meant."
The professor clapped his hands, pulling their attention back to the front. "You'll submit your concept proposal in two weeks. Choose your inspiration wisely."
Class ended in a rush of chairs and chatter. Jiwoo shoved her notebook into her bag, already planning how to survive a whole semester with him without committing a crime.
She stood up fast—too fast—and bumped straight into Hyunwoo's shoulder.
"Oof," he said. "Careful. Violence won't help our teamwork."
She glared at him. "We're not a team. We're just… temporarily suffering."
He laughed. Actually laughed. Low and warm, like he found her genuinely amusing.
That somehow made it worse.
Forced proximity (aka torture)
They met that evening at the university library.
Jiwoo arrived early, claiming a table near the window. Outside, Seoul glowed as the sun dipped below the buildings. Traffic hummed. Neon signs flickered on one by one.
She laid out her sketches neatly, headphones resting around her neck.
When Hyunwoo showed up ten minutes late, coffee in hand, she didn't even look up.
"You're late," she said.
"You're early," he replied, sitting across from her. "Balance."
She slid a sheet of paper toward him. "These are my initial concepts. Minimalist streetwear inspired by urban loneliness."
He blinked. "Urban… loneliness?"
She finally looked at him. "You know. The feeling of being surrounded by people but still alone."
For once, he didn't joke.
"Huh," he said quietly. "That's… actually cool."
Jiwoo paused. Compliments from him felt illegal.
"Don't get used to it," she said quickly. "I'm doing most of the work."
"Wow. Harsh." He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "But okay. I'll help."
She raised a brow. "How? You don't even look like you know what a color palette is."
He pulled out a folded notebook from his hoodie pocket and slid it across the table.
Jiwoo hesitated, then opened it.
Lyrics.
Messy handwriting. Lines crossed out. Others circled. Words about nights, pressure, expectations, streets that never sleep.
Her breath caught.
"You write?" she asked.
Hyunwoo shrugged, suddenly interested in his coffee. "Sometimes."
"These are good," she said softly. "Really good."
He glanced up at her, surprised. Their eyes met—and something shifted. Just for a second.
Then Jiwoo closed the notebook and pushed it back. "We can use this. Your words. My designs."
A slow smile spread across his face. "See? Teamwork already."
"Don't ruin it," she warned.
Thin walls
Later that night, Jiwoo returned to her tiny studio apartment. She kicked off her shoes, collapsed onto her bed, and stared at the ceiling.
Hyunwoo's words echoed in her head.
His handwriting.
The way his voice softened when he talked about writing.
She shook her head. "Nope. Absolutely not."
As if summoned by her thoughts, her phone buzzed.
Unknown Contact:You left your sketch pencil at the library.
She sat up.
Jiwoo:How did you get my number?
Hyunwoo:Class group chat. Relax Come get it tomorrow?
She stared at the screen, then typed:
Jiwoo:Thanks. And… don't lose the notebook.
Three dots appeared. Then:
Hyunwoo:You noticed, huh.
She smiled despite herself.
The city looked different at night when you weren't rushing.
Jiwoo noticed that as she walked toward the convenience store the next evening, her sketch pencil tucked safely inside her bag. Neon signs buzzed overhead, the smell of street food drifting through the air. Couples passed her, laughing softly. Somewhere nearby, music spilled out of an open café door.
She told herself she was calm.
She was not calm.
She spotted Hyunwoo before he saw her. He stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, counting change with quiet focus. No leather jacket. No motorcycle. Just a guy in a hoodie under fluorescent lights.
Normal.
Dangerously normal.
Minji sat on a stool near the freezer, swinging her legs while doing homework. When she saw Jiwoo, her face lit up.
"Unnie!" Minji hopped down and ran over. "You're the girl from the rain!"
Jiwoo blinked. "Uh… yeah?"
"You looked like a drowned cat," Minji added helpfully.
"MINJI," Hyunwoo snapped, mortified. "Why would you say that?"
Jiwoo laughed before she could stop herself.
Hyunwoo froze.
Because her laugh wasn't sarcastic or sharp. It was soft. Real.
And for some reason, that hit him harder than any insult.
She handed him the pencil. "You saved my life. Or at least my GPA."
He took it, fingers brushing hers for just a second. Electricity sparked—quick, confusing.
"Anytime," he said, clearing his throat. "You, uh… want a drink? On the house."
Jiwoo hesitated. "Is that allowed?"
He smirked. "Only if you don't tell my mom."
Minji gasped dramatically. "Oppa is breaking rules!"
"Do your homework," he replied.
Jiwoo took a seat near the counter, sipping banana milk while Hyunwoo restocked shelves. The silence between them wasn't awkward. It was… comfortable.
That scared her.
"So," she said finally, "why fashion design?"
He paused. "Huh?"
"You're taking the elective. You don't seem like the type."
He leaned against the counter. "Maybe I don't like being a type."
Fair.
She nodded. "Same."
Later, as Minji played on Hyunwoo's phone, Jiwoo noticed the tiredness in his eyes. Not sleepy—heavy.
"You work a lot," she said.
"Someone has to." He shrugged. "My dad's been sick. Mom handles mornings. I take nights."
Jiwoo's chest tightened. "That's… a lot."
"Life's a lot," he replied lightly. Too lightly.
She understood that tone. The don't-look-too-close voice.
"Still," she said, "you're good at more than just surviving."
He looked at her, surprised. "You sound like my counselor."
She smiled. "Occupational hazard. I overthink."
Hyunwoo studied her face, the way the neon outside reflected in her eyes. "You hide it well."
"Hide what?"
"That you care too much."
Her smile faltered.
Touché.
Their first real work session happened two nights later in a small café near campus. Jiwoo spread her sketches across the table. Hyunwoo tapped his pen thoughtfully.
"Your designs feel lonely," he said.
"That's the point."
"But not empty," he added. "There's hope in them."
Jiwoo looked up. "You get it."
He smiled. Not the cocky one. The real one.
Then his phone buzzed.
Once. Twice. Again.
He ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Jiwoo glanced at the screen accidentally—and saw the contact name.
Dad
Hyunwoo's jaw tightened. He stood abruptly. "I need to take this."
He stepped outside into the cold.
Jiwoo watched through the window as his shoulders slumped, the city swallowing him whole. She couldn't hear the words, but she didn't need to. The tension was loud enough.
When he came back, his smile was gone.
"You okay?" she asked gently.
"Yeah." He sat down. "Let's keep working."
But his hands shook slightly as he reached for the pen.
A few days later, Jiwoo overheard whispers in the hallway.
"That's Hyunwoo, right? The biker guy?"
"He's trouble. My cousin said he got into a fight last year."
Jiwoo's stomach twisted.
That evening, she confronted him.
"People talk about you," she said.
"They always do."
"Why don't you correct them?"
"Because it's easier to let them believe what they want."
"That's stupid," she snapped. "You're not what they think."
His eyes hardened. "You don't know that."
The air between them cracked.
"Why do you push people away?" she demanded.
"Why do you care?" he shot back.
Silence.
Too loud. Too honest.
Jiwoo grabbed her bag. "Forget it."
She walked away, heart pounding, hating how much his words hurt.
That night
Hyunwoo rode his motorcycle across the bridge, the city lights blurring through his visor. Jiwoo's voice echoed in his head.
Why do you care?
Because she saw him.
And that terrified him.