CRND Ch 1

The sky was so vividly blue that it sparked fantasies of diving out the office window. For a Monday with no holidays left until Children’s Day two months away, it was extravagantly luxurious weather. The spring sunlight only brightened a sliver near the window, failing to reach the office workers trudging along like Monday zombies. A few sentimental souls, as if yearning for the outside world, snapped photos of the sky through dusty windows before reluctantly returning to their desks.

Early that morning, a small whiteboard hung on the door of the fifth-floor Meeting Room 2 bore the words <Development Team/Marketing Team>. Inside, the long table was already half-filled with people.

“Hello.”

“Oh, you’re here. Hello.”

Each time a new member opened the door and entered, perfunctory greetings were exchanged. The new arrival would nod repeatedly, pull out a chair, and sit down.

Perhaps by chance, most of the development team members sat in the shadowed part of the room, while the marketing team gathered in the brighter area. It wasn’t just their seating— even the vibrancy of their clothing sharply distinguished the two teams. If a developer wore something as understated as the most plainly dressed marketer, they’d likely be suspected of sneaking off for a job interview during lunch.

As the room neared capacity, a developer arrived, clutching a laptop against his waist.

The man, with pale skin that seemed more accustomed to monitor glow than sunlight, crunched the ice in his Americano as he moved toward a seat deep in the room. Among the developers, who occupied the relatively darker side, he was the epitome of the abyss. As he slumped into his chair, even his gaze, scanning the room, seemed tinged with shadow.

“Where’s Team Leader Cha?”

“He’s gone to see the division head briefly.”

“He’ll be back soon.”

The marketing team members answered in unison, each offering a snippet. Among them, a senior manager playfully nudged a developer colleague. The slight smirk aimed at the development team leader meant, “How’s your boss’s mood today?” The quiet X drawn with a finger in response signaled, “It’s not looking good.”

Soon, the sound of dress shoes echoed into the room.

“Sorry I’m late.”

A robust physique and an impeccably tailored suit instantly shifted the room’s gravity. As everyone offered nods or brief greetings, the development team leader merely opened his laptop with an air of indifference.

The marketing team leader, placing a tablet beside his laptop, took the seat next to the development team leader. As he sat, the hem of his perfectly fitted suit pants rode up, revealing a sleek ankle. The development team leader, catching a glimpse, frowned in irritation.

“Good morning, Team Leader Song Yiho.”

“Does it look good?”

As if timed perfectly, the sun slipped behind a cloud, casting a shadow over the room. In the suddenly tense atmosphere, where everyone was reading the room, only the marketing team leader responded with an unshaken voice.

“Well, it’s just a polite greeting. What office worker is happy on a Monday? I like the honesty—it’s refreshing.”

“What’s with that PR video?”

Any attempt to sidestep was cut off by a sharp tone.

“It’s cool, right? The response has been phenomenal.”

“Of course it was phenomenal—you spun a fantasy. Who’s supposed to make that happen?”

A bright, beaming smile was the only answer, carrying the subtext: “What, you expect me, who can’t write a line of code, to do it? You, with your master’s and PhD from an engineering school, should handle it.”

“I know you’ll do a great job. Sorry it came across like a done deal.”

“I’m not fishing for apologies. Hyping something up as a finished product without proper planning—”

“It’s not like we made it up. We just previewed features destined to shine brilliantly.”

“Hah…”

“I’ve seen the press releases other companies are churning out. If we don’t go that far, we’ll all be out of jobs. That level of hype was necessary to convince the execs here.”

The other party leaned closer, rolling his chair forward, as the developer, suppressing anger, squeezed his eyes shut.

“And I had faith in our brilliant Team Leader Song Yiho.”

“…”

Of course, he knew some exaggeration was industry standard. He knew—but still, being handed a task with a casual “You said it’s doable, so figure it out!” was beyond unreasonable.

“Come on, Song. I’m counting on you.”

The marketing team leader leaned in closer. The developer flinched back, like a nocturnal creature exposed to light, then shot him a glare.

On the surface, it looked like the marketing team leader was smoothing things over, but the loser in this exchange was inevitably the developer. What could he do? If they’d already claimed it was possible, he’d have to make it happen.

“…What’s the deadline again?”

With a sigh, the development team leader opened his laptop. The marketing team leader leaned in further, face hovering near the screen.

“Hmm, if you could share progress, even mid-stage…”

“So, interim deadlines would be around here…”

“Could we maybe speed that up a bit?”

“Have you no conscience?”

“I wasn’t joking, but I’ll pretend it was for the vibe. Fine, we’ll go with your dates.”

As the two team leaders, initially frosty, began to creakily align, a wave of relief rippled among the others, who’d been silently watching.

“Then we’re agreed. Thanks to you, Song, I’m saved.”

To the ever-icy development team leader, the marketing team leader flashed a flawless smile as he packed up his tablet, signaling the meeting’s end. Everyone started gathering their things.

“Looking forward to it, Song. Have a great—”

The marketing team leader stood, but a palm slammed against the wall in front of him, blocking his path.

“Send your team out. You stay, Cha.”

“Wow, on a busy morning? I’m a very in-demand man, you know.”

“…”

“Alright, alright.”

The door closed, leaving only the two team leaders. Through the frosted glass, the development team leader’s silhouette tilted its head toward the marketing team leader. The rest of the group scurried away toward the emergency exit, dodging sparks.

“Phew… I thought it was over, but that got intense at the end. Is your team leader really upset?”

As they descended the stairs in a huddle, one person cautiously asked a developer.

“Well… hard to say. Even we find it surprising sometimes. Yiho’s not usually the confrontational type, but put him in front of Minkyu, and he’s all fire and fight…”

Truth be told, the typically docile development team rarely had reason to bare its teeth. The reason Team Leader Song Yiho was so fired up was partly because the marketing team had lobbed a pretty big grenade their way.

So, Marketing’s second-in-command, Deputy Kang, softened his tone skillfully.

“Ugh, we’re really sorry to the dev team. But with everyone else out there tossing around outrageous claims, we had to fight fire with fire… though, yeah, we might’ve gone a bit far.”

“Exactly! Other companies are going wild. But we trusted Song’s team to pull through.”

The developers’ eyes wavered at the marketers’ dazzling carrots.

“It’s… fine. Hype is important, right? You guys worked hard too.”

“Please take good care of your team leader. If you devs build it, we’ll slap on all the glitter and blast it across news and socials as the best in the world.”

“That’s… a bit much.”

“Wanna grab coffee? My treat—call it a cheer-up.”

“Sweet, thanks!”

“Devs, start thinking about your orders.”

“Uh… thanks…”

The group headed to the café in a far warmer mood than in the meeting room.

Meanwhile, back in the room, the two team leaders still faced off. After a prolonged stare-down, Song Yiho’s gaze slid down Cha Minkyu’s frame.

“Team Leader Cha Minkyu.”

“Yes, Team Leader Song Yiho.”

Cha Minkyu’s lips curved into a slight smile. That smile, which had clinched countless presentations, met Song’s sour expression.

“Let me see your pants rolled up.”

“That’s textbook harassment. Mind if I start recording?”

“…”

Cha, pretending to rummage through his pockets, finally relented under Song’s unrelenting stare, slumping his shoulders in defeat.

He lifted his pant leg. A gray sock hugged his ankle, secured tightly at the calf with a garter. Song Yiho inhaled sharply.

“Stop stealing my socks!”

“Gah!”

A fist flew at Cha’s broad, bent-over back. He ducked, dodging Song’s second swing while curling his large frame.

“Ow, Song, that hurts! You’re at the office all day, but I’ve got fieldwork. Gotta look sharp.”

“Buy your own! Stop raiding my wardrobe!”

“Wardrobe? Nah.”

“Then what?”

“They were languishing in the dryer for two days… Ow, that really hurt! You used technique! My shoulder’s done for. Song’s out here helping me claim workers’ comp…”

Let’s be clear: no developer could ever outtalk a marketer, not even outside typical office dynamics.

But not every battle is won with words. As Cha, half-genuine, half-dramatic, whined and dodged Song’s clenched fist, he backed toward the door, grabbing the handle. Song’s advance hesitated. Once the door opened, the room’s soundproofing would end. Cha, gripping the knob like a shield, extended his other arm.

“I’ll wear them well and wash them. Song, nail the project.”

A finger heart formed, followed by a cheeky wink. Then, the big man slipped through the door.

“Hah…”

Song sighed, grabbing his laptop and coffee. He raked a hand through his messy hair.

The image of a black garter slicing across Cha’s muscled calf flashed in his mind. His sock, clinging to Cha’s leg.

His lips, bitten hard, reddened. His ears burned just as hot.

“If you’re gonna steal, at least leave one of yours…”

From Cha Minkyu’s transfer to Song Yiho’s high school, through college, and landing at the same company on neighboring teams—that was fifteen years.

Their stubbornly entwined bond persisted into their thirty-third year. To some, it was an unbreakable friendship. To others, a long, unrequited love.

Fifteen years ago.

High school sophomore Song Yiho finished his midterms and left school early.

Grading and reviewing mistakes were done over two menu items at a toast shop’s corner seat. His grades weren’t bad through the final day—good news.

Yiho stuffed his exam papers into his bag and stepped out. After crossing a few signals, he reached a neighborhood where old buildings mixed chaotically with new shops. Adults divided it at the department store built years ago: old downtown on one side, new on the other. Born and raised here, Yiho’s home was in the old side, but school and cram classes were in the new, so he crossed this border daily.

Tangled power lines draped the sky along the road. Yiho climbed to the second floor of a building. At the stair’s end stood a sign: <No More Shrinking Back. Punch Boxing Gym>. The back featured a muscular foreign fighter, championship belt on, fists raised.

To survive exam season until senior year, he’d been advised to stick with a sport. He picked a gym where his parents knew the owner. After a week of cramming, his body felt stiff. Determined to move for two hours, he paused at the gym’s entrance.

A chorus of young voices—chattering, almost—filled the air. Yiho peeked through the glass door. The gym was packed with elementary kids. He checked his flip phone. It was definitely adult class time.

“Yiho? Oh, you didn’t see the notice.”

The gym owner approached Yiho, who lingered awkwardly at the door.

“Notice?”

A belated glance caught an A4 sheet on the door. Adult classes were canceled for two days due to a kids’ tournament prep. Studying for midterms, he’d missed it. The owner’s last-minute notice didn’t help.

“I’ll come back next week.”

“No, no, you’re here. Work out in the back. Maybe watch the kids’ sparring for a bit—it’ll help them prep for a bigger opponent. That guy over there didn’t know it was a special session either, but he’s helping.”

The owner pointed to a boy Yiho’s age by the punching bag.

Noticing the gesture, the boy glanced over. Yiho hadn’t seen him around. Neater hair and skin than his school peers, he wore personal workout gear, not the gym’s loaned shorts and tee. He soon resumed hitting the bag. Yiho grabbed the gym’s logoed workout clothes and headed to the locker room.

A skinny arm, barely thicker than a pencil case, swung a punch.

“Hiyah!”

“…”

“Eeyah!”

“…”

No way this counted as exercise.

The punch to his stomach felt like nothing. He tapped the kid’s headgear with his glove. They’d asked him to spar, but with a weekend match coming, he couldn’t risk hitting hard.

Thirty minutes in, not a drop of sweat. Same for the other guy he’d glimpsed earlier.

Actually, that guy wasn’t even training—just joking with the kids. Too lazy to deal with them one-on-one, he let them gang up, then chased them like a half-hearted tag game, more daycare teacher than athlete.

“Keehaha!”

“Eek!”

The kids, loving it, shrieked and joined in. Even the kid Yiho was sparring glanced over and slipped away.

“Hoo.”

The other guy, mid-play, sighed and looked up. Yiho caught his cold eyes flick toward the owner, then vanish as he wrestled the kids again.

Well, yeah. Coming to train only to lose time and energy wouldn’t feel great.

“Probably new. Might not come back after today…”

The boring session ended soon enough. Kids’ classes were shorter.

“Minkyu, Yiho, grab a drink on your way out!”

The owner shouted, herding the kids to a bus. The desk held trays of café drinks he’d ordered for them. Problem was, they’d been picked over, leaving just a strawberry latte and an iced Americano.

Faced with slim pickings, a decent person might hesitate, considering the other guy. Yiho stood quietly until a slow tap on his shoulder.

“Wanna spar to decide?”

The voice, low like an adult’s, was new up close. Turning, Yiho saw the guy from earlier. Taller, with a sharp jawline and a bold smile. His thumb jerked toward the ring.

“You didn’t get a real workout either, right?”

His accent seemed slightly off. Still, the offer was tempting to Yiho, whose body felt more sluggish than before.

“…Sure.”

Deciding who got what drink was just an excuse now. Yiho tossed his bag by the desk, unbuttoning his uniform shirt. The other guy strode to the ring.

“Headgear’s a hassle, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Gloves’ Velcro tightened around his wrists. The guy held out both fists, a shiny pair of gloves pausing at Yiho’s chest.

“What’s this?”

“Greeting. You guys don’t do it?”

“Oh…”

He knew, but guys doing this felt cheesy. Grudgingly, Yiho bumped his fists against the offered pair. A dry thud sounded.

They faced off in the ring’s center. No starting signal—the guy moved first, swinging.

The hit to Yiho’s arm felt lighter than expected.

Crack!

But the next blow, landing on his guarded gloves, showed the first was just a feint.

The guy was fast, precise. Yiho blocked, twisted, and threw a hook. The guy parried, countering with his other fist. Close-range thuds exchanged, then distance opened again.

Crack! Crack!!

“Hah…!”

“…Hoo, ugh!”

Study stress burst with each impact. Even his aching limbs felt good.

What he’d thought would be light sparring went on, with the owner coaching—“Yiho, hit and move! Like that! Minkyu, step in deeper!”—until their hair was soaked. It stopped only when the owner yelled, “Enough, you’ll miss school tomorrow!”

Panting, the guy grinned, offering his fists again.

“Gotta greet at the end too.”

“…”

Thud.

“Tie game.”

He said that, but Yiho disagreed. Anyone could see the other guy won. Still, Yiho nodded, appreciating the gesture.

The goal was to move, not win, so he was satisfied. The guy, toweling his hair, grinned with adrenaline-fueled pride.

“You’re Song Yiho, right?”

He grabbed the iced Americano from the two drinks as Yiho picked up his bag.

“Have the tasty one.”

Before Yiho could reply, he was out the glass door. Yiho watched him bound down the old building’s stairs. The owner handed over the strawberry latte.

“Man, Minkyu’s good-looking and cool.”

“Yeah… sure.”

Undeniable. The angular name “Minkyu” fit him. Yiho took the latte and walked through the new downtown toward the old.

Buildings grew shorter along the way. Past a brownstone plastered with flyer scraps, a two-story building appeared, its blue tin roof glinting. A giant sign, lit even at night to attract bugs, read <Mokdong Rice Cake Shop>. Yiho entered the storied shop that had dominated the local rice cake scene for twenty years.

“I’m back.”

“From cram school?”

His parents, packing rice cakes, waved with gloved hands. Yiho shifted his bag to one shoulder.

“Nah, exams ended, so I worked out. Any gift orders? Need help?”

“No way, Yiho. Why’d you do this stuff? Go wash up, rest. Studying’s how you help.”

“Yeah… your mom’s right. Head upstairs.”

His dad seemed ready to make space, like when they’d worked together before high school, but quickly agreed with his mom.

“Oh, Yiho, the other day, Kiseok’s mom was here, saying some transfer kid knocked out the incumbent. Said the new guy swept first in the liberal arts class assessments.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. She’s always begging for a Korea University recommendation for her son over you, but she was secretly thrilled.”

His mom straightened, groaning from bending over.

“Anyway, we don’t have much to say to a kid doing fine, but don’t get distracted—just study. Got it?”

“…I can help if you’re swamped. I’ve got time.”

“Nope, we said no. We can’t do much, but we won’t steal our top-ranking son’s time for packing.”

“…”

“Go on.”

In the end, he had no choice but to trudge upstairs, practically pushed. Climbing the staircase next to the kitchen lined with various rice cake machines led to the family home where the three of them lived. Yiho went straight to the kitchen and poured the strawberry latte he’d been holding into the sink. Then he opened the fridge.

Half the fridge’s drink compartment was filled with plastic bottles of sikhye. Having grown up as the son of a rice cake shop for eighteen years, Song Yiho was thoroughly sick of sweet things—be it rice cakes or drinks. He grabbed a lonely bottle of barley tea tucked at the end and chugged it down.

After the intense workout, his body was tired, and he’d planned to sleep early, but it seemed he’d have to study a bit more before bed.

In his freshman year, Song Yiho had ranked around the top ten schoolwide, but after the sophomore year split into humanities and science tracks, he claimed the top spot in the science track. He was the pride of the science class, dominating math and physics—subjects where a 70 was considered a solid score for the top tier. Yiho was a quintessential science guy.

His parents’ expectations for him began after a parent-teacher conference call following the March mock exam. Their realization shifted from “Our son’s doing pretty well” to “Our son’s number one in the school!” Since then, studying had become a bit more burdensome. But such privileged complaints weren’t something he could share with anyone, so today, too, he simply opened his workbook.

The high school Yiho attended had a separate “Korea University class” apart from regular lessons. Despite the grand name, it was essentially a study room for the top fifteen or so students. Naturally, Yiho had access.

“Man, isn’t it freaking weird? Who transfers in sophomore year? They say his parents are still in the provinces, and he came up alone to live here. Isn’t that just stealing spots from kids who’ve been at this school all along?”

Today, Kiseok was particularly loud. And what he was saying was utterly ridiculous. Yiho recalled what his mom had mentioned the day before.

It seemed the transfer student was one of those so-called “Seoul study migrants.” This area was known as an academic hub, and students from the provinces often transferred here to prep for college entrance exams.

Truth be told, most of those migrant students, even if they were top-tier back home, struggled to beat the local kids who’d been grinding through cram schools since elementary school. But this new transfer had snatched a top spot right away, making waves.

Rumors swirled: he lived in an expensive officetel in the heart of the new downtown, had university professors tutoring him at home, and so on.

Yiho shoved his earphones in deeper, but the whining voice pierced through. And it was getting closer.

“Hey, Song Yiho. Don’t you think so?”

A hand slammed on the desk, covering the problem Yiho was solving. He yanked out his earphones and looked up at Kiseok.

“What.”

“They say he might take the principal’s recommendation over you!”

“No way…”

Sure, with his grades, Yiho was aiming for Korea University, the country’s top school. But early admissions weren’t limited to principal recommendations, and if it came to it, there was always regular admission.

“Then just study harder so he doesn’t beat you.”

“Didn’t you hear? That guy had professors tutoring him in the provinces. It’s unfair from the start!”

“…Guess his family’s loaded.”

Kiseok, who’d thrown around the word “unfair” twenty times, was also from a wealthy family, getting pricey tutoring from elite university students. As the only son of Mokdong Rice Cake Shop, Yiho could probably ask his parents for tutoring in a weak subject, but adding that to his current cram school fees would strain the family budget. The real issue was that his parents would likely overextend themselves to make it happen if he asked.

“Anyway, Song Yiho, don’t just sit there and—”

Scrrrt.

The classroom’s back door slid open. Yiho glanced that way and let out a soft “huh.”

Most teenage boys’ uniforms got shiny at the butt or knees after a year. But the pants of the student approaching looked brand new to anyone’s eyes.

Spotting Yiho, the guy’s eyebrows flicked up and down. His steps headed this way. The name tag on his crisp blazer read “Cha Minkyu.”

So it’s Cha.

The face, drenched in sweat the day before, was now fresh and flashed a familiar grin.

“Hey.”

So you’re the infamous rolling stone. If a new face joined the Korea University class at this time, it was almost certainly him.

“I transferred earlier this year, and my midterm scores got me into this class for the first time. I don’t know anything yet—mind if I sit here, Yiho?”

Minkyu didn’t wait for an answer, setting his bag on the desk next to Yiho—the spot where Kiseok had been perched, talking.

Two pairs of eyes locked on Yiho: Kiseok’s, hardened with resentment, and Minkyu’s, calmly raised with a slight smile.

…Doesn’t matter who, but the quieter one would be nice.

“Sure.”

Yiho chose Minkyu.

Minkyu pulled out a chair, giving Kiseok a look that said to move. Already over 180 cm in high school, Minkyu towered over Kiseok. Kiseok shuffled back three steps, then stomped out of the classroom as if to make a point. Grumbles like “What’s his deal?” and “Why’s he acting out?” rippled among the studious kids who’d been focused even during the break.

“You hitting the gym today?”

Minkyu leaned an elbow on the desk, staring at Yiho.

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“After evening study… ten.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

“Why bother?”

Yiho’s blunt reply made Minkyu’s eyes widen. Then he gave a clearly bitter smile.

“Oh… you don’t like me either?”

“No, that’s not it. I heard you live in the new downtown—that’s the opposite direction. There are plenty of new gyms there.”

And honestly, after seeing the owner’s irresponsible management, who’d want to go back? That’s what Yiho meant. He let out a small sigh.

“I’m not great with words.”

“Nah, it’s fine. The vibe was off when I walked in, so I misread it.”

At Minkyu’s words, a few kids glanced over, some guiltily, others ignoring it, all feeling the ripple of his comment. Only Minkyu himself smiled nonchalantly, the earlier hint of hurt completely gone.

Yiho’s slight blink came from thinking, What’s with this guy…

“Then why don’t you switch to a gym in the new downtown?”

“The gym’s on my way home.”

“I’ll walk you halfway every day.”

What does that have to do with anything? Yiho gave the biggest reason he couldn’t switch gyms.

“The owner knows my parents, so I can’t.”

“Then I’ll just keep going there.”

Minkyu’s decision was made briskly. Yiho nodded, thinking he was a bit of an odd guy.

💼

Science track classes at the cram school ended twenty minutes later than humanities. Yiho hurriedly packed his bag. The elevator would be packed and slow, so he took the emergency exit, racing down five flights of stairs.

At ten, the front of the cram school was as bustling as a marketplace. Yiho scanned around and spotted Minkyu sitting on a guardrail. As usual, Minkyu had seen him first but didn’t call out, waiting for Yiho to find him. Yiho didn’t know why he did that, but seeing Minkyu’s grin when he was spotted made it hard to care.

Catching Yiho’s eye, Minkyu pulled out his earphones and waved casually. But getting to each other was a bit of an ordeal. Yiho got tangled in the flood of students, exchanging greetings with one, then grabbed by another for a whispered comment about Minkyu.

By the time he reached Minkyu, a giggling group approached them.

“Hey, Song Yiho, Cha Minkyu. We’ve got a question.”

They were kids from another school Yiho had seen around the cram school.

“What happens when snow melts?”

At the sudden question, Yiho blinked wide-eyed, while Minkyu answered with a faint smile.

“Water.”

“Spring.”

The group burst out laughing, chattering, “See? He’s total science, and he’s total humanities.” Yiho and Minkyu exchanged looks that screamed, Are you serious?

“Snow’s just frozen water vapor falling.”

“Idiot, it’s not ice—it’s snow! The question’s asking for emotion from the start.”

Minkyu’s glove thumped Yiho’s body protector with a pop. Yiho furrowed his brow like he was facing a brutally complex problem.

“How do you even get there? Why?”

Yiho swung his glove, venting frustration from the topic that had carried over from cram school. Minkyu’s headgear shook. Sparring between hormonal, stressed-out high schoolers was always a near-brawl. On top of that, it was when words, bottled up during study hours, spilled out. Even gasping for breath, their mouths didn’t stop.

“Fine, switch it up. What happens when a snowman melts?”

Yiho’s rice cake shop was in a residential area, so kids’ snowmen sometimes popped up in the alleys. Picturing one melting, Yiho tried hard to find the right answer. Snow for a snowman, rolled on the ground, inevitably picked up dirt.

“Muddy water.”

“Song Yiho, you lunatic, just give up on getting a top language score.”

Unable to retort, Yiho ramped up his attack. Language was his biggest weakness. Sometimes he’d ask Minkyu about problems even the answer key couldn’t clarify, and Minkyu would look baffled that he didn’t get it. Still, he’d patiently use every method and example until Yiho understood.

They went on, jabbering about snow, winter, and ice, all while swinging limbs. Sparring with the same opponent at the same time every day made them familiar with each other’s styles. Yiho was fast but textbook. Minkyu deflected attacks methodically, then struck with unpredictable force.

Of course, that was early in the match. By the end, it was a chaotic flailing mess fueled by sheer grit.

“Snow falls and melts in three or four days—so December’s spring now, huh?”

“Ugh, Song Yiho, who doesn’t know the buds sprouting in snow. Your sensitivity’s dead—no refined conversation with you.”

They swung until the bell dinged, then collapsed on the ring, sprawling out. Huff, huff… Coughs broke through their gasps. The owner clicked his tongue from beyond the ring.

“Summer break’s not even here, and you’re planning winter break trips? What’s with all the snow talk?”

“…”

“…”

Exhausted, they belatedly felt sheepish for obsessing over silly topics. Pretending to stretch, Yiho suddenly remembered something.

“Oh, Cha Minkyu.”

“What?”

“Kiseok said to tell you he didn’t mean what he said earlier this term.”

Minkyu, still lying down, turned his head toward Yiho.

“Who’s Kiseok?”

“The guy in the second row, front seat in the study room. Seo Kiseok.”

“Oh?”

In less than two months since transferring, Minkyu had won over the crowd. Jealousy over the “rolling stone” soon turned to admiration for his looks, grades, tough personality, and wealth. Now, no one in the humanities track didn’t know his name, and even in Yiho’s science track, “Class 9 Cha Minkyu” came up often.

Enough that Kiseok, who’d spread gossip about him, was squirming. He’d even asked Yiho, via his mom—a rice cake shop customer—to pass on a message.

“The one whispering to you earlier?”

“Yeah…”

“Got it. Didn’t know he was bugging you. I’ll keep things chill.”

“It wasn’t really a bother. He’s just kind of down, so I felt bad.”

Minkyu rolled sideways, closing the gap.

“What’s this, Song Yiho? The cold-blooded guy who said a snowman melts into muddy water—why so worried about him? What, does Seo Kiseok melt into blooming spring or something?”

“…What are you on about? If a person’s melting, it’s a heatwave.”

“Hah. Right, Song Yiho’s a blizzard. Sensitivity’s not just frozen—it’s arctic. Frigid friend.”

“…Sounds like you’re mocking me, but I can’t get mad ‘cause I don’t get it…”

Their sparring record was nearly even, but verbal spats were always Minkyu’s landslide victory. Yet, even after bickering, Minkyu was the one to slide closer first.

That summer, just months after meeting, they walked a few steps apart, trading dumb chatter between school and cram school.

In fall, they’d jostle each other on the way to the gym, eager to try new techniques they’d seen online.

By winter, Minkyu’s arm rested on Yiho’s shoulder. The probing curiosity on Minkyu’s face and Yiho’s initial wariness were gone. In their place, both wore similar grins, teeth flashing.

After spending their senior year together, they went on—as if fated—to computer engineering and media studies, respectively.

Side by side, where a glance met the other’s eyes.

Fifteen years later, they’re still in those same seats.