Chapter Text
Oh boy, here comes the killjoy
Chill the fuck out, you're so young
“Did you know we’re getting a temporary English teacher this semester?” Wu Jihwa asked, glancing at Lee Dongsik as they sat on the front steps of the school.
Dongsik shrugged lazily and took another bite of his popsicle. “Really? Is it a he or a she?”
“I’m not sure,” Jihwa said, lowering her voice slightly. “But I heard it’s a young, handsome man.”
“Hmm? Seriously?” Dongsik blinked, raising an eyebrow in mild interest, the popsicle still in his mouth. He let out a soft, intrigued hum.
Jihwa nudged his shoulder. “Don’t bully the new teacher.”
“I don’t bully teachers.”
“You made Mr. Park leave class last semester.”
“He left because he couldn’t answer my question.”
“You asked whether Shakespeare would have written better plays if he’d had a girlfriend.”
“It was relevant.”
“To algebra?”
Dongsik grinned and stood, tossing the empty wrapper toward the bin. It caught the rim and fell to the ground.
Jihwa stared at him.
He sighed, walked over and picked it up.
“I’m just curious,” he said. “That’s all.”
“You’re never just curious.”
The classroom was unusually loud that morning.
Students leaned across aisles, trading rumors about the temporary teacher. Someone claimed he had studied abroad. Someone else said he had been transferred from a private school in Seoul after arguing with the principal. By the time the door opened, he had apparently become a former model, a failed diplomat and the estranged son of a rich family.
The man who entered looked unimpressed by all three possibilities.
He was tall, dressed in a dark shirt with the sleeves buttoned neatly at his wrists despite the heat. His black hair was combed away from his forehead, and he carried a clipboard beneath one arm and an English textbook in the other.
He placed both items on the desk, then turned to the board and wrote his name.
한주원
Han Juwon
The room quieted without being asked.
“My name is Han Juwon,” he said. His voice was clear, clipped and slightly flatter than Dongsik expected. “I’ll be teaching English here until the end of the semester.”
He looked across the room once, taking in the students with the expression of someone inspecting a place he had not chosen to visit.
“I have read the previous teacher’s lesson plan. We will continue from Unit Three. Open your textbooks.”
A disappointed murmur moved through the class.
Dongsik leaned toward Jihwa.
“He didn’t even say he hopes we get along.”
“You’re supposed to whisper more quietly,” she muttered.
Mr. Han’s gaze moved from the attendance sheet to Dongsik.
“Lee Dongsik.”
Dongsik sat up. “Yes?”
“You are in the third row.”
Dongsik glanced around as if checking. “That’s right.”
“And I am at the front of the room.”
“Yes.”
“So unless you believe distance prevents sound from travelling, I suggest you stop talking.”
A few students laughed.
Dongsik stared at him for a second, then smiled.
Interesting.
Mr. Han looked away first.
“Today we’re discussing personal essays,” he said, turning to the board. “Not grammar exercises disguised as personal essays. Actual writing.”
He wrote three words beneath his name.
Observation. Selection. Honesty.
“A personal essay is not a record of everything that has happened to you. It is a decision about which details matter.”
He tapped the first word with the chalk.
“Most weak writing is vague. People write that their mother is kind, their father is strict, their childhood was happy. Those words tell the reader almost nothing.”
Someone in the back raised a hand. “Then what are we supposed to write?”
“Something specific.”
Mr. Han looked around the room.
“If your mother is kind, write what she does when she thinks no one is watching. If your father is strict, write down the rule you remember breaking. Do not tell the reader what to think before you have given them a reason to think it.”
Dongsik had expected the new teacher to be boring.
Unfortunately, he was listening.
Mr. Han opened the textbook and began explaining the structure of a narrative essay. His handwriting was small and painfully straight. He did not repeat instructions unless someone asked a precise question, and when a student answered incorrectly, he paused long enough to make them reconsider before correcting them.
He was not warm.
He was not particularly patient either.
But he paid attention.
When the bell rang, students began closing their books at once.
Mr. Han did not raise his voice.
“No.”
Several students froze.
“We are not finished.”
Groans moved through the room.
He waited until the noise stopped.
“You will write one page about your family. Handwritten. Due Monday.”
Dongsik raised his hand.
Mr. Han looked at him with immediate suspicion. “What?”
“What if my family isn’t interesting?”
“Then the problem is probably your observation.”
A few students laughed again.
Dongsik leaned forward, resting his chin against his palm.
“My family is very predictable,” he said. “Strict Christians. Church every Sunday. Prayer before meals. No tattoos, no parties, no staying out late.”
“Do you follow those rules?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then there is already conflict.”
The answer came so quickly that Dongsik’s smile faltered.
He shrugged. “I’m the only one who doesn’t care about religion. Mostly I sit there while everyone else talks about things I don’t believe in.”
Mr. Han’s fingers stopped against the edge of the desk.
Dongsik continued, still casual.
“So what am I supposed to write? That I feel like a visitor at my own dinner table?”
The classroom had gone quiet.
Mr. Han studied him.
It was not a sympathetic look. If anything, it felt uncomfortably clinical, as though he were separating Dongsik’s words from the tone used to disguise them.
“That sentence is more useful than everything you said before it,” he replied.
Dongsik blinked.
“Why?”
“Because it describes something.”
Mr. Han picked up the chalk again.
“Do not write that your family is strict. Write about one dinner. Do not write that you feel excluded. Write about where everyone sits, what they say and what you do while they pray.”
“So I should make them look bad?”
“I did not say that.”
“It sounds like it.”
“It sounds like you’ve already decided honesty is an accusation.”
Dongsik sat back.
Something in Mr. Han’s expression changed, though not enough to become softness.
“You can love people and still write about the distance between you,” he said. “Those things are not mutually exclusive.”
Dongsik tilted his head.
“What would you write about?”
Mr. Han’s mouth tightened.
The question had clearly crossed a line, which made Dongsik immediately more interested.
“If it were your family,” Dongsik added, “what detail would matter?”
Mr. Han looked at the board rather than at him.
“The things no one said.”
His answer was quiet enough that several students probably missed it.
Dongsik did not.
Mr. Han set the chalk down.
“Monday,” he said. “One page. Anyone who submits half a page will rewrite it.”
The room came back to life as students packed their bags.
Dongsik remained seated for a moment, watching Mr. Han align the stack of worksheets on his desk. He tapped the pages twice against the surface, even though they already looked perfectly straight.
So the new teacher had secrets.
Or at least habits that looked like secrets when Dongsik was bored enough.
He slung his bag over one shoulder.
“See you Monday, Mr. Han.”
Mr. Han did not look up.
“Bring the assignment.”
“That wasn’t a very warm goodbye.”
“You are still here.”
Dongsik laughed and left.
The clouds had been threatening all day, hanging low and thick over the city. By the time Juwon stepped outside the school gate, the rain had begun. Soft at first, then steadier. He opened his umbrella with a quiet sigh and started the walk home, his briefcase swinging gently at his side.
The streets around the school were quieter than Seoul. Fewer cars, fewer people and nowhere convenient to disappear into a crowd. He had been in Manyang for less than a week and already disliked how easily everyone noticed everyone else.
He turned the corner near a small intersection and slowed his pace. Up ahead, someone had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
It was Dongsik.
His uniform was already damp, hair sticking slightly to his forehead. But he wasn’t using his umbrella.
Instead, he was holding it over an older woman, short, carrying two heavy grocery bags in each hand, clearly struggling to step over the rising curb near the crosswalk.
Juwon stood still for a moment, unnoticed.
Dongsik crouched slightly, took one of her bags with his free hand, and said something. Juwon couldn’t hear it, but it made the woman smile. She nodded gratefully as they slowly made it across the street.
Juwon slowed.
In class, Dongsik had appeared determined to attract attention. Now there was no audience except an old woman who would probably forget his name by dinner.
The rain dripped from Dongsik’s shoulders, soaking his backpack. But he didn’t seem to care. He waited until the woman reached the far sidewalk before handing her the bag and giving a small wave. Then, without thinking much of it, he turned back, eyes scanning the street as if ready to walk the rest of the way umbrella-less.
Only then did he notice Juwon.
His eyebrows lifted. “Mr. Han.”
Juwon held out his umbrella slightly, gesturing. “You’ll get sick walking like that.”
Dongsik blinked. “Didn’t see you there.”
“I was going to pretend I didn’t see you,” Juwon said dryly, “but apparently that’s not an option.”
Dongsik let out a sheepish chuckle and scratched the back of his neck. “Couldn’t leave her in the rain. She looked like my grandma.”
Juwon didn’t respond right away. He just looked at him, this boy who’d been all sarcasm and slouch just an hour ago, now quietly soaked and grinning like it was no big deal.
“You’re full of surprises,” Juwon said, more to himself than anything.
Dongsik raised a brow, a teasing smile already forming. “Is that a compliment?”
“Just take the umbrella,” Juwon replied, handing it over. “And go home before you get pneumonia.”
“What about you?”
“I have a hood,” Juwon said simply, pulling it up. “You clearly don’t.”
Dongsik accepted the umbrella but still looked at him, a strange flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
“Thanks,” he said, then added, “Don’t fall in love with me just because I’m nice to old ladies.”
Juwon stared at him for a beat, deadpan.
“You are very confident for someone who nearly failed last semester’s English exam.”
Dongsik’s mouth fell open.
Juwon walked away before he could answer.
He had made it halfway down the next street when he realized he was getting wet far more quickly than anticipated.
Behind him, Dongsik’s laughter carried through the rain.
Dongsik, Jihwa, and Jeongje were sprawled across the floor of Dongsik’s room, surrounded by open bags of chips, soda cans, and half-finished notebooks. The rain finally stopped, and the late afternoon sun streamed through the window, casting a lazy glow over the messy room.
Yuyeon, Dongsik’s twin sister, popped her head into the room. “You three planning to live in here now?” she teased, stepping inside with a bowl of snacks.
“We might,” Dongsik grinned, grabbing a handful of crackers. “Thanks, sister.”
Yuyeon placed the bowl on the floor and sat cross-legged beside them. “So, how’s school? I heard you got a new English teacher?”
“He’s handsome,” Jihwa said without hesitation, reaching for a rice cracker.
Dongsik snorted, nearly choking on his drink. “Yeah, not gonna lie. He’s good-looking. But kind of boring, honestly. Total Seoul vibes. All buttoned-up and serious.”
“Boring?” Jeongje raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so. He was calm, but he explained things clearly. I think he’s... thoughtful.”
Yuyeon tilted her head, curious. “What’s his name again?”
“Han Juwon,” Dongsik replied, then made a mock-serious face. “Mr. Han.”
Yuyeon smirked. “And where does Mr. Han live?”
“I heard he’s staying somewhere near the school,” Jihwa said. “There’s that teacher housing just down the road, right?”
Dongsik leaned back on his elbows. “Yeah, maybe. He doesn’t talk much about himself. He just showed up, gave us an essay assignment, and dipped.”
Jeongje added, “But he did say something interesting. When you asked about writing honestly, he told us you can love people and still write about the distance between you.”
There was a brief pause.
Yuyeon smiled. “Sounds like he’s not just a pretty face.”
Dongsik laughed again. “Please, don’t start crushing on my teacher.”
“Relax,” Yuyeon said, standing and brushing off her jeans. “I just think he might surprise you.”
As she left the room, Jeongje turned to Dongsik. “You think he has a secret?”
Dongsik raised a brow. “A secret?”
“Yeah,” Jeongje said. “Sometimes quiet people do.”
Dongsik rolled onto his stomach and reached for his pen.
“Actually…” Dongsik said suddenly, tapping the pen against his notebook. “Something kinda funny happened today.”
Jihwa looked up. “What kind of funny?”
“It was raining after school today, right? ” Dongsik said, trying to sound casual. “I saw him walking home with an umbrella. Looked like a drama scene, all dark coat and perfect posture.”
“Ohhh,” Jihwa leaned in, amused. “You were stalking him?”
“Please,” Dongsik scoffed. “I was just on the same road. Coincidence.”
Jeongje narrowed his eyes. “And?”
“This old lady was trying to cross the street with a bunch of grocery bags. So I gave her my umbrella, helped her across.” He paused for effect. “Then guess who showed up?”
Jihwa blinked. “No way. Mr. Han?”
Dongsik smirked. “Yep. Stood there like he’d seen a ghost. Then offered me his umbrella.”
“Wait, he gave you his umbrella? So that's why you brought home an unfamiliar one today, and you were all wet!” Yuyeon called out from the hallway.
Dongsik called back, “Yeah. Said I’d get sick or whatever.”
Jeongje tilted his head. “That’s… kind of sweet.”
“I know, right?” Dongsik replied. “It was weird. For a second, he looked... softer. Like, not just the Seoul robot teacher.”
“You sure you weren’t the one looking soft?” Jihwa teased, elbowing him.
Dongsik threw a cracker at her. “Shut up.”
But even as the room filled with laughter again, Dongsik’s mind wandered, just for a second, back to that image of Juwon in the rain, quiet eyes and calm voice cutting through the storm.
He thought of the way the teacher had looked at him when he mentioned feeling like a visitor at the dinner table, not with pity, but as if the answer mattered and Dongsik was wasting it by pretending it did not.
Jihwa watched him.
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m thinking about my essay.”
“You’ve never thought about homework this long in your life.”
“People can change.”
“Not that quickly.”
“Shut up.”