Fate in Seoul

Forced Partners

The lecture hall buzzed with chatter as Professor Han placed a thick stack of papers on his desk. “For your mid-term project,” he announced, “you’ll be working in pairs. Choose wisely this will count for 30% of your grade.”

My stomach twisted. Pairs. I hated pairs.

I glanced around the room, searching for anyone anyone but him. But Jihoon was already leaning back in his seat, long legs stretched out, arms crossed, his eyes locked on me with an unreadable expression.

Professor Han began reading names. My heartbeat thundered in my ears until

“Jihoon and… Anaya.”

I froze.

The whole class seemed to inhale at once, whispers rising instantly. Scholarship girl… with him? The rich, untouchable Jihoon?

I felt his gaze burn into me. When I dared to glance, he was smirking not with mockery this time, but something sharper. As if the universe had just played into his hands.

Later that evening, we sat across from each other in the campus library, books scattered between us. I kept my eyes on the notes, refusing to look up.

“We’ll split the work,” I said firmly. “You do your part, I’ll do mine. We don’t even have to talk.”

“Hmm.” He leaned closer, voice low. “But what if I like talking to you?”

My head shot up, glare sharp. “You don’t. You enjoy making me miserable.”

His lips curved into a slow smile. “Maybe. But you make it fun.”

I clenched my pen so tightly it almost snapped. “Just… focus. Please.”

Hours passed. For once, Jihoon was quiet, flipping through research material. Every so often, I caught him watching me not with his usual arrogance, but curiosity. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

At one point, I rubbed my eyes, fatigue crashing in.

“You should rest,” he said suddenly.

I blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“You’re working too hard. You’ll burn out.” His tone was calm, almost… gentle.

I stared, confused. This was the same boy who mocked me in the café?

When I didn’t reply, he leaned back with a shrug. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m not a monster.”

But the tiniest flicker in his eyes told me he wanted me to see this side a side he didn’t show often.

We left the library together, the Seoul night alive with neon lights. I expected him to vanish with his friends, but he walked beside me, hands in his pockets.

Neither of us spoke. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t cruel either.

At the corner where our paths split, he glanced at me. For a moment, I thought he might say something real something honest.

Instead, he smirked faintly and said, “Try not to spill coffee next time, partner.”

And then he walked away.

But long after, his words from earlier echoed in my head: You’ll burn out.

It was the first time Jihoon’s voice didn’t sound like an insult.