Chapter Text
Even if he were beaten to death, Han Wangho would never have thought he’d fall in love with someone unrequitedly—especially not with someone as eccentric as Lee Sanghyeok.
Sanghyeok carried himself leisurely in all things, even in matters as crucial as exams or tournaments, as if he never felt the slightest pressure, as if he already had everything in the palm of his hand. That pressure, instead, seemed to gradually transfer to those around him—people like Professor Kim Jeonggyun or his close friends. Wangho had witnessed more than once his senior, Bae Junsik, standing beside Sanghyeok, ranting at full force, while the latter simply sat there, unbothered, reading a book.
That was the second strange thing about him—if he didn’t want to care about something, no one could make him. Lee Sanghyeok could sit in the middle of a crowd whispering about him without so much as furrowing his brows. If someone tried to insult him directly, they would likely end up seething in frustration, infuriated by his indifference. Perhaps he knew just how talented he was—his abilities were far beyond the reach of petty criticisms disguised as constructive feedback. He must have long since built an immunity to all the meaningless words surrounding him.
Everyone thought he was strange, but in the end, all they could do was click their tongues and nod in reluctant admiration—after all, he was a god.
Han Wangho didn’t know if he had been bewitched or under some kind of spell, but ever since he was defeated by Sanghyeok in the school’s annual cryptography competition, his attention had been fixated solely on him. He remembered clearly—in the last three minutes and seven seconds of the match—Sanghyeok’s maneuvers exceeded not only Wangho’s expectations but also those of every spectator watching. Not only did he dismantle all three layers of traps Wangho had meticulously set up, but he also turned the tables and ensnared Wangho in a counter-trap, leaving him no room to react.
Han Wangho had been granted direct admission to the school after ranking first in a nationwide cryptography competition. That match must have dealt the greatest blow to his pride—enough to warrant reconstruction. He only ranked one place below Lee Sanghyeok, yet the gap between their scores was vast—so much so that people could only marvel and say, "As expected of a god."
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Son Siwoo said Wangho was just being too bitter—after all, he had never let anyone surpass him before.
Han Wangho wasn’t the competitive type, but losing was something he simply couldn’t accept. Maybe he was just unwilling to concede defeat, and in the process, he had unintentionally made Lee Sanghyeok his target to surpass. Little by little, his thoughts and attention became so fixated on Sanghyeok that he ended up falling for a version of him that existed only in his mind.
As much as he wanted to tell his best friend to shut up, Han Wangho had to silently admit that everything really did stem from his own unwillingness to accept defeat. And by the time he finally looked back, that distant silhouette had already carved itself deep into his heart for a long, long time.
And so, he buried himself in cryptography training, determined that one day, he would catch up to Lee Sanghyeok.
For the entire following semester, Son Siwoo found himself overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of knowledge and diligence radiating from his best friend. He was even convinced that he needed to distance himself soon—if he stuck around too long, he might just lose his mind along with Wangho.
But before he could make his escape, he was already being dragged along, forced to be the unwilling audience for every one of Han Wangho’s decoding sessions. People on the internet often say that best friends are the family we choose for ourselves. Son Siwoo was starting to regret his choice.
He had a sharp tongue that spared no one, but even he had to admit defeat before Han Wangho’s rapid-fire monologues whenever Wangho entered decoding mode—his fingers clacking away at the keyboard as strings of numbers streamed across the screen.
The internet also claimed that the best way to study was to explain the material to someone else. And so, Wangho talked nonstop, his hands moving so fast across the keyboard that Siwoo couldn’t even see what he was pressing. The keycaps looked like they were about to pop off any second. Siwoo wanted to protest, to overthrow this madness—but when he saw "Professor Han" in full lecture mode, veins practically popping, he swallowed his complaints in silence.
"I study literature! Why the hell are you explaining this to me?!"
Of course, Han Wangho knew exactly what Siwoo’s major was. He also knew that, despite choosing the humanities track for university, Siwoo’s math scores had been absolute garbage. Teaching him cryptography was about as useful as playing a symphony for a cow.
But who else was Wangho supposed to talk to? Who else could he discuss these things with?
Han Wangho was well-known at their university for both his looks and his talent. He could befriend anyone and join any club he wanted. And yet, people only ever saw him hanging around with a small, close-knit group—most of whom were his dorm mates.
No one could really blame Wangho for being quieter than his brilliance suggested. He only truly opened up to those who made him feel safe. Socializing wasn’t his strong suit, and he knew it.
According to Son Siwoo, Wangho was a "master overthinker." His mind could spin a single thought into a hundred different scenarios, and his daily energy supply for doing so seemed infinite. To keep himself from drowning in his own thoughts (and possibly dragging others down with him), he chose to keep his social circle small—treating it like a protective barrier. Or maybe, like a shell to retreat into.
Son Siwoo had been friends with Wangho for five years. The two of them had been bickering since the days they ran around naked in the rain as kids. But sometimes, Siwoo felt like a volcano on the verge of eruption, bubbling with frustration, all because his best friend over-thought things way too much.
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That afternoon, after finishing his exam, Han Wangho was about to go look for Son Siwoo when he received a message.
Siwoo had taken his exam in a different building and had been thrilled when he first saw the seating arrangements. Back in their first year, even though they were in different majors, they had ended up in the same testing hall. As a result, Siwoo had barely finished mourning his academic misfortunes in the exam room before being dragged off by Wangho—only to become a disciple of knowledge against his will.
"Not today. Jaehyuk finally made a move. If you drag me home now, I swear I’ll stay a virgin until graduation!"
Han Wangho stared at the message for a moment, then clicked his tongue. He had planned to treat his best friend to hotpot as thanks for all those times Siwoo had pretended to understand his explanations. But since Siwoo had chosen a night of passion over good food, who was Wangho to stand in his way?
He packed up his things and left the exam room.
His test had been on the third floor of the experimental sciences building. Two floors above him was the senior-year testing hall. As he stepped outside, his gaze drifted to the golden ginkgo leaves fluttering from the trees. He wondered if the wind would pick up that evening. If it did, then by morning, the courtyard in front of the building would be covered in a thick, golden carpet of fallen leaves—so soft and weightless that walking across it would feel like stepping on clouds.
Beneath the golden canopy of ginkgo trees, would there be a Lee Sanghyeok quietly reading a book?
Han Wangho had even tried looking up some of the books Sanghyeok read before, only to conclude that they were dull—worse, they were even harder to understand than his own thoughts. Most cryptography students preferred typing away at their computers rather than reading books. Take Jeong Jihoon, Wangho’s roommate, for example—the guy would rather drop a few million won on a high-end gaming setup than spend less than a hundred thousand on a library card that would last him a whole year. The only book that ever had the misfortune of being in Jihoon’s possession was his textbook.
But there were exceptions—like Kim Hyukkyu, Lee Sanghyeok’s classmate. He also enjoyed reading, but not physical books. He preferred e-books. Of course, in this day and age, who still carried around a paperback when they could just read on their phone? At some point, Wangho even wondered if the real issue was just a generational gap. The golden ginkgo leaves scattered along the path made him feel like he was floating, while his wandering thoughts carried his feet all the way up to the fifth floor of the experimental sciences building.
A list of exam takers was posted outside each room. It didn’t take much effort for Wangho to find the name that had been occupying his thoughts for so long.
Lee Sanghyeok .
After winning the regional championship last year, the school administration considered exempting Lee Sanghyeok from all future exams. But in the end, he turned down the offer. Apparently, his reason was that he wanted to experience the life of an ordinary university student. More than that, he felt that such privileges would be unfair to other students.
People were already calling him a god—yet he still wanted to live an ordinary life?
Lee Sanghyeok wasn’t outside reading under the ginkgo trees. That meant he had probably gone back to the dorms, headed to the library, or—since the weather was nice—maybe his juniors had dragged him out for a hotpot. Son Siwoo would’ve said, "He ditched his friends for a date." If not, maybe Wangho would’ve run into him at a hotpot restaurant today.
That thought made Wangho pause—because running into him like that didn’t seem ideal. Hair and clothes reeking of broth, steam turning his face red, the spice making his lips swell like mosquito bites—definitely not the best look to meet someone he had a crush on.
Never mind, then.
He peeked into the exam room. It was empty. The janitors were probably still cleaning the lower floors. On the whiteboard, someone had written out the exam questions after time was up. Wangho stepped in quietly.
He stood before the board, staring at the half-finished solution. It wasn’t until he reached the end that recognition flickered in his mind. He knew whose handwriting this was.
Cryptography students rarely had to write by hand—most of their work was done on computers. As a result, very few of them had neat handwriting. But Lee Sanghyeok had a habit of taking notes in the books he read, so his handwriting was easy to recognize.
Wangho had seen it before.
Once, when Sanghyeok was invited to be a guest lecturer for first-year students, he had written a thank-you card for the professor. And once—Wangho had even swiped one of his used scratch papers. Though, calling it "scratch paper" wasn’t exactly accurate. The writing on it was perfectly aligned, the letters smooth yet crisp, every line as neat and meticulous as if it were part of a formal report.
Or a love letter.
Han Wangho smirked, recalling the time he had secretly pretended to "accidentally" tuck that piece of paper into his file folder. His heart had pounded so fast it felt like it would leap out of his chest and put on a full drum performance in front of everyone. Perhaps, aside from their first encounter at that competition, that was the closest he had ever been to Lee Sanghyeok.
Out of habit, Wangho picked up a marker and started solving the remaining codes and data left untouched on the board.
This approach to the problem—it had to be Lee Sanghyeok. Though Sanghyeok wasn’t the type to stick to a single method, Wangho was certain the person who had put pen to board was none other than the one occupying his thoughts.
Bit by bit, his own firm handwriting continued where the other’s elegant script had left off.
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Initially, he had only wanted to test it out. But whether it was because his cryptography skills had improved or because he was fueled by the so-called "buff" of love, every step of the process flowed effortlessly. He was the one completing the equation Sanghyeok had left unfinished, the one answering the problem that had been left open-ended.
A strange sense of fulfillment and happiness welled up inside him.
Two different sets of handwriting—one laying out the foundation of the problem, the other bringing it to a conclusion. It almost felt as if he were truly working side by side with him, as if the distance between them had shrunk to just a breath away, rather than remaining a fleeting dream caging his lonely heart.
Han Wangho thought to himself, So, I’ve gotten just a little bit closer to him again .
Of course, standing before Lee Sanghyeok, this small bit of progress was insignificant. And naturally, in a world that changed a hundred million times every second, he had no reason to care that, among those millions of changes, there was one person still chasing after his shadow—hoping to gaze at his back for just a little longer.
Everyone says unrequited love is a one-person affair. But Han Wangho knew—those small joys in this one-sided love, as tiny as breadcrumbs, as quiet as the first sip of milk from a carton, were enough to keep him happy for weeks. This unreciprocated affection sent his thoughts sprawling in countless tangled branches, yet at the same time, it directed his focus toward a single, unwavering point: Lee Sanghyeok.
Standing in front of the whiteboard, Wangho reread the handwritten solution, carefully analyzing it, then grinned foolishly to himself. Good thing no one else was around—otherwise, someone might have called for an ambulance, thinking he'd completely lost his mind.
Something wasn’t right.
Once he calmed down, Han Wangho started to sense it. This was a fourth-year exam. If they weren’t pursuing further studies, students who passed this would already qualify as Level II engineers. So how had a second-year like him managed to solve it so easily?
There had to be a trap.
Wangho combed through all the key data again—and suddenly, he spotted his fatal mistake.
The smile on his face froze.
The exam questions had undergone three rounds of verification, each scrutinized by three professors and professional engineers. The chances of an error in the test itself were practically zero. He had been too caught up in his excitement to notice this glaring anomaly. Wangho smacked his forehead in frustration.
Building the house is easy. But realizing you’ve messed up the foundation after it’s already been built? That’s a nightmare. Not that Han Wangho minded tearing it all down and starting over. In his early days of deep-diving into cryptography, he had solved the same problem twenty times just to refine his technique. There were even moments when his decryption progress bar hit 90%, only for him to wipe everything clean and start from scratch.
Even Son Siwoo—who had watched his best friend transform from a foul-mouthed King Kong into a heavyweight champion of pure stubbornness—could only shake his head in amazement.
"Damn, love really does make you dumb."
But…
Han Wangho bit his lip in hesitation. If he solved the problem from scratch, he’d have to erase Lee Sanghyeok’s original solution. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Should he just leave the mistake there?
But damn it, with his natural talent for overthinking—and all those times he and Son Siwoo had gone to fortune tellers asking about love—he had tied himself into yet another ridiculous knot: Was making a mistake the very first time he solved a problem with Lee Sanghyeok a bad omen?
"A smooth start leads to a smooth ending," they say. But what if stumbling on the first step meant he was doomed to fall flat on his face every time after?
His hand hovered mid-air, gripping the whiteboard eraser.
People weren’t wrong—even the simplest things become impossible when love is involved. The only piece of Lee Sanghyeok’s handwriting Wangho owned was that (stolen) scrap of scratch paper from before. Now, for the second time ever, he had the chance to see it again—how could he bear to erase it?
An idea struck him.
He’d take a picture, fix the mistake later. But even after snapping several shots of Lee Sanghyeok’s handwriting on the board, Wangho still stood there, frozen.
He didn’t want to erase it.
Even though, in a little while, the janitors would come and wipe the board clean, he still couldn’t bring himself to do it with his own hands. Han Wangho felt as if he were blindfolded (even though he was the one blindfolding himself, not anyone else).
In one last desperate attempt, he decided to see if he could somehow code an alternate program to analyze the data in reverse. Even though this was the least viable solution, no rational person would ever choose to do it this way. But if Lee Sanghyeok had chosen the most optimal approach, then logically, there was only one correct sequence of steps. Which meant—the program had already gone wrong from the very beginning.
Wangho ruffled his hair in frustration, his fingers gripping the marker so tightly they turned pale. How could Lee Sanghyeok have forgotten to analyze the reverse data?
Should he trust his own judgment…
Or should he trust the very first lines of code that Lee Sanghyeok had written?
Just as he was about to lower his marker, another hand caught his—lifting it gently, enclosing his within its larger grasp. The whiteboard was wiped clean, the previous decoding process erased entirely. The marker began moving again. The strokes were a little unsteady—not because the hand guiding it lacked confidence, but because it wasn't directly holding the marker. It was only holding his hand. And yet, the owner of that hand showed no signs of hesitation. Each line of code flowed smoothly, written with absolute certainty.
Han Wangho stopped breathing.
The hand was larger than his, with long, elegant fingers—pale as jade, nails tinged with soft pink, like the seashells he once picked up on Sokcho Beach. Beneath the skin, firm tendons shifted with each stroke of the marker. Their hands were touching.
His fingers flushed red from the warmth of that steady grip. The person behind him was close—so close—their breath lightly grazing the shell of his ear, teasing the sensitive skin until it turned pink. Even through the layers of fabric, Wangho could feel the faint heat radiating from the other’s body. And with the Grandmaster-tier instincts of a chronic overthinker, he already knew. He already knew who was standing behind him, guiding his hand, completing the solution on the board.
Han Wangho couldn’t believe it.
But the thunderous pounding of his heart—so loud it echoed in his ears—told him otherwise. A restless tremor ran down his spine, straight to the spot where their bodies were closest, delivering him an answer that was both unbelievable and undeniable.
"So, you finally caught that tiny little trap."
The silence around them was deafening—so much so that Han Wangho could hear his own careful breathing. That voice—soft yet utterly entrancing—felt like a spell. One that whispered: Turn around . One that promised: If you do, you’ll never escape Lee Sanghyeok again .
"Looks like I'll have to train harder from now on," the voice continued, laced with a quiet smile. "Or else this year, Wangho might just take my first place."
Han Wangho’s ears felt like they were on fire.
And his heart—his foolish, reckless heart—felt like it had just stopped altogether. Stopped—only to prepare itself for the most reckless sprint of its life.