Chapter Text
Kim Dokja had three things going on for him in high school.
One, he hadn’t been expelled yet.
Two, his sense of humor, though often ill-timed, was the only reason his classmates didn’t entirely write him off as a lost cause.
Three, Yoo Sangah talked to him.
Yoo Sangah, student council president, top of the class, the girl who seemed to have been born holding a clipboard and the admiration of the entire school. She wasn’t just smart; she was graceful . The kind of person who gave you an apologetic smile even as she reported your name to the faculty for violating dress code. And somehow, for reasons Kim Dokja had yet to comprehend, she had been his best friend since kindergarten.
She sat next to him every morning, even though his desk was perpetually littered with crumpled test papers and the occasional disciplinary notice. She brought him an extra milk carton at lunch when he forgot to bring his wallet for the fourth time that week.
And she smiled at him like he hadn’t just climbed over the school wall during second period and returned with dirt on his shoes and a ripped uniform sleeve.
“Again?” she asked, sliding into her seat beside him, her voice as calm as always.
Kim Dokja shrugged. “Had to rescue a cat.”
“You’re allergic to cats.”
“Noble sacrifices.”
She sighed, pulling a tissue from her bag and reaching over to dab at the scratch on his cheek. “You’re going to get detention again.”
“Wouldn’t be my record if I didn’t.”
Her hand lingered for half a second longer than necessary before she dropped it back to her lap. Kim Dokja didn’t say anything about that. He didn’t say anything about the way her brow furrowed in quiet worry, or the way she always remembered which side he preferred his milk carton on, or how she read every short novel he ever shoved at her without rolling her eyes.
He didn’t say anything, because saying it out loud might ruin whatever fragile, unspoken thing stretched between them like a thin thread—too vague to name.
Yoo Sangah had a list. She always had a list. Her life was a series of checkboxes, neatly organized agendas, and calendar reminders with color-coded labels.
Kim Dokja was not a list item.
He was the margin scribble. The ink smudge across her perfect notes. The unexpected footnote she never planned for but couldn’t seem to erase.
He never studied, but somehow passed. He skipped class, but knew things he shouldn’t. He cracked jokes that weren’t funny but made her laugh anyway. He never acted like he cared what people thought of him—but she’d seen the way he ducked his head when the teachers scolded him, as if bracing for something heavier than words.
Most of all, he listened. Really listened.
When she complained about student council meetings dragging into her evenings, he didn’t offer her solutions, instead he just handed her a rice cracker from his lunch box and let her ramble. When she talked about the pressure of being perfect, he didn’t try to deny it, instead he just muttered, “Yeah, that sucks,” and stayed quiet.
And that silence said more than most people’s advice ever did.
So yes, Yoo Sangah had a list, and Kim Dokja wasn’t on it.
But he was everywhere else.
The annual school festival was, in theory, a celebration of student creativity, teamwork, and school spirit. In practice, it was a migraine wrapped in glitter and stress. And all of it landed on Yoo Sangah’s clipboard.
“This form is incomplete,” she said flatly, handing it back to the second-year representative who flinched under her gaze. “You forgot to submit your booth layout and budget. Again.”
“Ah, sorry, President Yoo! I’ll… I’ll redo it right away.” The poor girl scrambled off, clutching the paper like it was a death sentence. Yoo Sangah watched her go, her sigh muffled by the soft clack of her pen as she checked off another name.
Behind her, someone balanced a chair on one leg until it toppled loudly onto the classroom floor.
“I see we’re terrorizing the innocent today,” Kim Dokja said, sliding into the seat beside her, a smile playing on his lips.
“They’re not innocent. They didn’t even include the fire safety form.”
He made a mock-shocked face. “The horror.”
“You joke, but if someone sets something on fire again this year—”
“That wasn’t my fault. That was Lee Hyunsung’s ‘haunted chemistry lab’ idea. I just handed him the lighter.”
She raised an eyebrow, tilting her face. “And that makes you less guilty… how?”
He leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand. “Well, if it helps, I’m volunteering this year.”
That made her pause. Kim Dokja? Volunteering?
“You?” she asked, skeptically.
“Sure. I figured it’d be good character development.”
“What does that even mean…”
“You’ll figure it out soon.”
Like he said, she soon finally understood what he meant by volunteering.
It turned out that Kim Dokja volunteering meant he showed up late, forgot half the materials he was supposed to bring, and spent most of the first meeting drawing stick figures on the planning board.
But it also meant he stayed longer than anyone else after everyone else had gone home. That he carried boxes without complaint, fixed the sagging paper lanterns with duct tape and stubborn patience, and distracted her from her stress with quiet jokes only she seemed to catch.
On the third day of prep, it rained. Not hard, just enough to turn the field into a mess of damp cardboard and wilting banners. The festival committee relocated indoors, spreading props and supplies across the gym like an obstacle course.
“Where do you want this?” Kim Dokja asked, lifting a crate filled with decorations from the art club.
Yoo Sangah pointed toward the far wall. “By the stage. Be careful, there’s wet paint on the backdrops.”
“You think I’m going to trip, don’t you?”
“I know you’re going to trip.”
He turned to walk away, and she thought that was the end of it—until he called over his shoulder: “I’ll be careful. Since you’re watching. ” And he winked…?
She blinked. Confused.
She wasn’t sure when it had started, this thing where he said things that sounded like jokes but felt like something else. Or maybe it had always been that way, and she was only now realizing how often his words settled under her skin like an echo she couldn't shake.
Regardless of what it was, that damn wink did something to her.
That night, they stayed behind to finish folding pamphlets.
Just the two of them. Everyone else had gone home. The windows fogged with rain, the gym smelled like paper and glue, and the only sound was the soft shuffle of folding pages.
Yoo Sangah’s fingers ached. Three of her fingers were wrapped in bandages with comical design on each of them. His idea. Said it was to prevent her from getting paper cuts or something.
Kim Dokja, on the other hand, had already lost focus and started drawing on the backs of the pamphlets. Tiny dragons curled around the festival logo, a cat wearing a student council badge, a stick figure holding a sign that read ‘HELP, I’M BEING WORKED TO DEATH’ .
“You’re not helping,” she said without heat.
“I’m boosting morale.”
“You’re not the one who has to explain these to the principal.”
“Maybe he’ll appreciate the artistic vision.”
She didn’t answer. The silence settled between them again, comfortable now.
“I’m glad you asked me to help,” he said quietly after a moment.
“I didn’t. You volunteered.”
“Yeah, but… you didn’t tell me to go away.”
She looked at him then.
He wasn’t smiling. His eyes were on the table, hands still idly tracing lines on the pamphlet. Something in his voice tugged at her. The soft, uncertain tone as if he was offering something without naming it.
“I wouldn’t,” she said.
He looked up. And for a second, they were just two seventeen-year-olds, caught in a moment they didn’t know how to step out of.
Then she cleared her throat and returned to folding.
He did too.
But their hands brushed when they reached for the same paper.
Neither of them pulled away for the longest time, until she did.
The school festival was chaos in its purest form.
There were booths selling questionable takoyaki, a haunted hallway orchestrated by the drama club, and the first-years had organized a scavenger hunt that no one could actually complete. Music blared from rented speakers, and colorful streamers fluttered like war flags in the breeze.
Yoo Sangah was everywhere .
She moved through the crowd with practiced ease, clipboard in hand, smile polite but firm. Students stopped her to ask about power outages, missing extension cords, and booth location disputes. Teachers followed with questions. Even the vice principal, who had done absolutely nothing to help with preparation, nodded approvingly as she passed by.
Kim Dokja watched her from the food stall where he was stuck grilling skewers with three third-years who kept trying to set the grill on fire for fun.
“She doesn’t even look tired,” one of them said, watching Yoo Sangah breeze past.
“She’s not human,” another muttered in awe.
Kim Dokja didn’t add anything to the conversation.
But he saw it—the way her steps were a little slower than usual. The way she clutched her clipboard like it was the only thing holding her together. The way her eyes kept scanning the crowd like she was waiting for something to go wrong.
And something did.
It happened around midday, just before the talent show was about to begin.
The third-year boys had gotten too ambitious with their “Survival Game” booth, a maze made of cardboard, lights and loudspeaker sound effects that blasted like a warzone. Someone thought it would be a good idea to bring a fog machine. Someone else thought it would be better to overload it.
The machine overheated.
Smoke poured out of the booth in thick, curling clouds. Screams erupted—not from danger, just panic—and the crowd surged back.
In a split second, Yoo Sangah was already there.
She shouted for people to stay calm, waved her arms to guide them away from the smoke, and ran toward the booth while everyone else ran the other way.
Kim Dokja saw her.
He dropped the skewer he was holding. That thing be damned.
By the time he reached the booth, the smoke had thinned, and one of the teachers had pulled the plug on the machine. No fire, no real danger.
But Yoo Sangah was on the ground, one leg twisted beneath her, her clipboard flung across the floor.
“Yoo Sangah—!”
She was trying to sit up, lips pressed together tightly, eyes shimmering with unshed pain. “I’m fine. It’s nothing—”
“Don’t say anything,” he snapped, kneeling beside her.
She blinked at him, startled, but he was already checking her leg. “You fell. You didn’t even wait for someone to check the damn booth first.”
“It wasn’t—”
“You could’ve gotten burned. What were you thinking?” He cut her off.
“I was thinking people might get hurt if no one stepped in,” she said, voice taut.
They stared at each other. Around them, students were beginning to whisper. A few teachers called for first aid. But Kim Dokja didn’t look away.
He helped her up gently, one arm around her waist, supporting her weight as she leaned against him.
Her hands trembled slightly.
“You’re always like this,” he muttered.
“Like what?”
“Nothing.”
She opened her mouth, but no words came. Her expression changed slightly.
And he hated it—that look on her face.
The nurse confirmed it was a sprain, mild but painful.
She was told to rest, elevate her leg and avoid standing for too long.
Naturally, Yoo Sangah tried to get up fifteen minutes later.
Kim Dokja blocked the door with a chair. “Nope.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m the most serious person you know.”
“Dokja—”
“You’re not moving. Everyone else can handle it for a few hours.”
She scowled. “They’ll mess everything up.”
“Let them. You’re not a machine, Sangah.”
She blinked again. This time, her voice was soft. “Why are you so angry?”
“I’m not angry,” he said, too quickly. Way too quickly.
Then, quieter: “I just… hate seeing you hurt.”
Silence settled between them again. But it wasn’t the usual kind. It was heavy. Fragile, even.
She looked at him, and he saw something flicker in her eyes—surprise, maybe. Or something closer to recognition. And he realized, with sudden clarity, that he’d let something slip.
Something he couldn’t take back.
That night, he sat beside her on the nurse’s cot as the school emptied out.
Outside, the festival lights still glowed faintly in the dark. Students laughed in the distance. Music from the talent show floated through the halls like a memory.
Inside, it was quiet.
“You didn’t have to stay,” she said eventually.
“I know.”
“Why?”
He glanced over. “Do you want me to leave?”
She didn’t answer right away.
Then, a reply came, “No, stay.”
That was all, but her shoulder leaned into his just a little.
And he didn’t move away. They stayed that way, in silence, for god knew how long. None of them spoke, as if the silence was comforting rather than awkward.