Chapter Text
The sun was brutal that afternoon, slanting low across the open training field and baking the turf beneath cleats worn from too many drills. The late summer heat clung to everything—helmets, jerseys, sweat-soaked backs—and not even the steady breeze rolling down from the north hill could cut through it. Seoul University’s football team was finally wrapping up their session, players breaking off into pairs or threes to laugh, shove each other around, and joke about dinner plans.
Wen Junhui stood in the middle of it all, his chest heaving lightly from the final sprints, a layer of sweat sticking his shirt to his skin like glue. He ran a hand through his hair and winced when he realized it was dripping. Great. Sticky and sunburned—his favorite combination.
He grabbed his duffel bag from the sidelines and tossed his towel over his shoulder, already halfway to the locker rooms when he heard it:
“Jun!”
Coach Park’s voice cut across the field, sharp and unmistakable. Jun froze mid-step. The grin he’d been wearing to match his teammates dropped a little, just a flicker, before he pasted it back on and turned.
“Yeah, Coach?” he called out, adjusting the strap of his bag casually.
Coach Park stood with a clipboard in hand, his sunglasses reflecting the pale gold sky. His mouth was set in a grim line—the kind that usually spelled trouble. Jun jogged back over, pretending not to notice the way some of the guys glanced his way before looking quickly back at their own conversations.
“Got a minute?” the coach asked, though it was clearly not a question.
Jun nodded, wiping his brow. “Sure. What’s up?”
Coach Park didn't waste time. He handed Jun a piece of paper. A printout, official-looking. At the top, Jun immediately recognized his name and student ID. Below it: his current grades.
Physics: 36%
His stomach dropped.
“You’re failing physics again,” the coach said flatly. “Same class. Second time.”
Jun let out a small, breathless laugh and scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, I know. It’s just—professor's brutal, and I missed a couple labs when we were away for the Jeju game—”
“Jun.” The coach’s voice was like a blade: cold, clean, final. “You said you’d bring it up last semester. You said you had it handled.”
Jun’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t respond. The paper in his hand felt heavy.
“The university’s already put you on academic probation. One more failed elective, especially a repeat, and they’ll pull your full ride.”
Jun’s smile, the one he kept on hand for tension and cameras and nerves, flickered at the edges.
“Coach, I swear I’m working on it—”
“Are you?” Coach Park raised an eyebrow. “Because from what I hear, you skipped half the study halls and never followed up with your advisor.”
Jun looked away, the turf suddenly very interesting.
“You’ve got raw talent, Jun. No one’s denying that. But talent’s not enough when your GPA is scraping bottom. If you don’t pass this retake by midterms, the scholarship is gone. And if the scholarship’s gone—”
“I’m off the team,” Jun finished for him, voice low.
The coach gave a single, grim nod. “I can’t make exceptions. You know that. University rules. No passes, no play.”
A gust of wind stirred the grass, carrying with it the shouts of the other players, now out of earshot. Jun looked up at the sky—clear, unbothered, too blue for how heavy his chest suddenly felt.
He let out a forced chuckle and tried to shake the tension off with his usual charm.
“So... what, I’ve got until midterms to become a physics genius?” he asked, slanting the coach a grin.
But Coach Park didn’t smile back.
“You’ve got until midterms to prove you care more about staying on the field than pretending everything’s fine.”
Jun swallowed hard.
As Coach turned and walked back toward the equipment shed, clipboard tucked under his arm, Jun remained standing there alone—sun in his eyes, wind tugging lightly at his shirt, and the paper still crumpled in his hand.
Physics. Again.
He hated that class. He hated the way it made him feel—slow, out of place, like the one guy in the room who wasn’t built to belong. He’d coasted through high school, fumbled through his first year here, and now... now it was catching up to him.
He took a slow breath, tried to ease the thudding in his chest, and looked down at the grade again.
36%.
No grin this time. No jokes. Just the quiet realization that he might be standing on the edge of something slipping through his fingers.
~
The Physics Department of Seoul University had a quiet kind of chaos to it—low ceilings, fluorescent lights that hummed softly overhead, and the smell of burnt coffee permanently infused into the carpets. Despite the stifling warmth from the late afternoon sun, the common room windows remained sealed shut, the air stale and still.
In the far corner of the room, beneath a bulletin board layered with outdated job postings and passive-aggressive flyers about lab safety, Xu Minghao sat in perfect silence. A pair of matte-black earbuds were tucked neatly in his ears, and a soft instrumental playlist filtered through them—not because he particularly cared for music while studying, but because it drowned out everything else.
The rest of the room, meanwhile, was full of noise. A group of loud second-years were gathered near the whiteboard, arguing over a miscalculated experiment. Someone dropped a pen, someone else dropped an f-bomb, and the electric kettle on the side table hissed impatiently as it tried to boil water that would inevitably become another cup of bad coffee.
Minghao ignored it all.
He sat cross-legged in his chair, spine straight, a mechanical pencil moving in tight, practiced motions as he finished the last section of a lab report he’d been perfecting for over three hours. His notes were meticulous. Diagrams shaded with the same careful attention he gave to his artwork. His black hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing ink smudges along his wrist where he’d leaned against the paper too long.
Around him, the table was scattered with evidence of his precision: a digital tablet with open graphing software, four different highlighters arranged in exact parallel lines, a physics textbook propped up by his thermos, and a tangle of scribbled drafts folded neatly beside him.
He didn’t speak. He never did, unless he had to.
The only person he acknowledged these days was Wonwoo, and even that was by choice.
So when a shadow fell across his table and someone cleared their throat, Minghao didn’t bother looking up. He finished the last digit of a velocity equation, tapped his pencil once against the margin, and only then reached up to pause his music.
“Xu Minghao.”
He recognized the voice.
Dr. Kim. Head of Theoretical Physics. A brilliant man, and therefore one Minghao tolerated.
“I need a favor,” Dr. Kim said, his tone clipped but cordial. “One of our students is retaking PHYS221 and needs a tutor. Preferably someone who actually understands the material.”
Still without looking up, Minghao replied flatly, “I’m not interested in babysitting.”
His voice was soft but sharp, a blade wrapped in silk.
Dr. Kim didn’t flinch. He simply adjusted the strap of his leather briefcase and continued.
“It’ll count toward your independent study hours. You’re still two short for the semester.”
That made Minghao pause. His pencil stilled. He blinked once, then finally looked up.
His expression was unreadable—neutral, maybe slightly annoyed, but there was a flicker of calculation in his eyes. Independent study hours were valuable. They meant more time in the lab, more access to research-grade equipment, more time away from people.
Minghao leaned back in his chair. “Fine,” he said after a long silence. “Who is it?”
Dr. Kim hesitated. Just for a second. And that was all it took for Minghao to know something was off.
“Wen Junhui.”
Minghao’s head tilted the slightest bit. “The football guy?”
“He’s retaking the course. Failing again. He needs this elective to stay on his scholarship.”
A frown tugged at Minghao’s mouth, more confused than angry.
“Why would you assign me to him?”
Dr. Kim shrugged. “Because you’re the best student in the department. And because he’ll need someone who doesn’t coddle him.”
Minghao looked away. Junhui. He’d heard the name—everyone had. You couldn’t exist on campus without knowing the football team’s star forward. Popular, loud, perpetually surrounded by people. The kind of guy who always had earbuds around his neck and a crowd around his locker. He'd passed Jun once or twice on the quad, probably during campus events or between classes, the guy flashing smiles like they cost nothing.
Minghao hated people like that.
Effortless charm. Lazy academics. Everything handed to them because of a good face and good legs.
He turned back to his lab report, already regretting his agreement.
“When?” he asked, tone clipped.
“Tomorrow. I’ll forward you both the schedule and the room reservation.”
Dr. Kim patted the table once and turned to leave. “Good luck,” he added over his shoulder. “He’s not as hopeless as he looks.”
Minghao didn’t answer. He slid his earbuds back in, scowled at the half-finished lab report, and muttered under his breath,
“He better not be an idiot.”
~
The sound of laughter echoed off the tiled walls of the locker room, sharp and echoing, as steam from the post-practice showers curled through the vents. Jun stood just outside the locker room doors, still half-dressed in his workout clothes, a towel slung over one shoulder. His teammates were inside—shouting, joking, tossing soap across stalls like children at summer camp—but Jun had gone quiet.
He stared down at his phone, thumb hovering over the glowing screen.
Subject: Tutoring Assignment Confirmed
Dear Mr. Wen Junhui,
You have been matched with Xu Minghao for one-on-one physics tutoring. Your sessions will begin tomorrow, 3:00 PM, Physics Study Room B2.
He reread the name again.
Xu Minghao.
The name stirred something—familiar, but distant. Jun squinted, trying to place it. He definitely didn’t know the guy, but… he’d seen him. Around campus maybe. Once or twice in the science wing. Or maybe in the library. A memory surfaced: a quiet figure hunched over a notebook in the corner, dark hoodie, sharp features, earbuds in. Didn’t look up when people passed. Didn’t seem to care.
Jun frowned. That guy? Seriously?
He leaned against the wall, scrolling down the email to see if there’d been a mistake, but it was clear: Minghao would be his tutor. The best physics student in the department, apparently. And from what Jun remembered—rumors, whispers in the hall, offhand comments during science electives—he was also kind of... scary.
Not in a he’ll-kill-me-in-an-alley kind of way. More in a he'll slice me apart with a single disapproving look and then walk away without blinking kind of way.
Jun let out a slow groan and slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, towel draped over his head.
“Coach really hates me,” he muttered to himself.
He’d been hoping for some second-year TA who needed extra credit, someone chill, someone who maybe watched football and wouldn’t mind if Jun was late once or twice. Someone who laughed. Minghao didn’t even look like he knew how to smile.
And now they were going to be stuck in a room together. Physics. Equations. Silence.
Jun rubbed his face with both hands and sighed.
“This is gonna be a disaster.”
Meanwhile, two buildings over and four floors up, Xu Minghao sat at the small desk in his minimalist dorm room, flipping through a digital file that Dr. Kim had emailed him earlier.
The walls of his room were bare except for one corkboard pinned with neatly aligned post-it notes and a single, framed pencil sketch of a bridge—a study in symmetry he’d done for an art elective last fall. The room was clean, quiet, lit only by the soft glow of his desk lamp.
On the screen, Jun’s academic report stared back at him.
Wen Junhui
– PHYS221: 36%
– Attendance: 52%
– Midterm: 41%
– Lab Participation: 2/5 submitted
Minghao's expression didn’t change much as he scrolled—he was good at that, keeping his emotions tucked tightly beneath the surface—but his finger paused slightly longer than necessary on the attendance number.
“Of course,” he muttered, setting his tablet down with a soft click .
He leaned back in his chair and let out a slow breath through his nose. His black hair was slightly mussed from where he’d run his hand through it too many times, and the sleeves of his hoodie were pushed up again, revealing the ink stain still clinging faintly to his wrist.
“Late assignments. Missing labs. Probably doesn’t even bring a calculator.”
He stood up, crossing the room in three steps, and poured himself a glass of water. He didn’t usually drink caffeine after five, not if he wanted to sleep. Not that he was expecting sleep tonight. The idea of tutoring someone so academically careless already had him mentally bracing for frustration.
Wen Junhui... the football guy, right?
Minghao had seen him around—always surrounded by noise, always laughing, always looking like he’d just walked off the set of some teen drama. He wore backwards caps indoors and acted like deadlines were optional. Jun had the energy of someone who’d never had to study a day in his life, and if Minghao was being honest, he had a specific distaste for people like that.
“I’ll probably spend more time reteaching him how to multiply than anything else,” he muttered.
But what annoyed him more was this: if Jun failed again, the university would drop him. His scholarship, his place on the team, gone.
And then it would be Minghao’s fault.
“Perfect,” he sighed, rolling his eyes as he picked his tablet back up.
He set an alarm for 2:45 PM—just in case—and closed the file.
As he turned off the lamp and crossed the room to his bed, he tried not to think too much about what the next few weeks were going to look like.
“Just do the hours,” he told himself. “Help the idiot. Get your credit. Walk away.”
But even as he settled into bed and closed his eyes, the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. The name kept repeating in his mind.
Wen Junhui.
And he just knew —knew it in the deep, frustrated, logical part of his brain—this was going to be a disaster.
~
Jun pushed open the door to the study room a little too quickly, making the metal handle clatter against the frame. He stepped in, blinking against the harsh glare of the lights and feeling the sterile air immediately wrap around him like a cold draft.
He glanced at his watch—five minutes late. The kind of lateness he’d usually joke off with a grin and a shrug, but this time, there was a tight knot in his chest reminding him this wasn’t a normal day.
Taking a deep breath, Jun forced a smile, grabbed his backpack, and walked in.
Minghao was already there.
He sat straight-backed in one of the rigid chairs, arms folded neatly on the table. A thick, dog-eared physics textbook lay open in front of him, and beside it a perfectly sharpened pencil rested on a blank notebook, poised as if waiting for a signal.
Minghao’s black hoodie was pulled tight against his lean frame, and his dark eyes, sharp and cool, flicked up from the page the moment Jun entered. His gaze was unreadable but unmistakably disapproving.
“You’re late,” Minghao said, voice flat.
Jun’s smile faltered for a moment but he pushed it back on like a mask.
“Hi to you too,” he said, trying to sound casual as he dropped his bag onto the floor. He pulled a small paper bag from his jacket pocket and set it on the table. “I brought snacks.”
Minghao’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a picnic.”
Jun shrugged, eyes bright but a little nervous. “Okay, cool, I’ll just eat the chips myself then.”
He tore open the bag and grabbed a handful of potato chips, crunching loudly. The sound echoed off the sterile walls.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
Minghao flipped a page in the textbook and spoke again, clipped.
“What have you reviewed so far?”
Jun stuffed a chip in his mouth, cheeks puffed out. “Uh… some of the notes from last semester? I skimmed through the chapters on mechanics.”
“Skimmed?” Minghao repeated, clearly unimpressed. “That won’t be enough.”
Jun scratched the back of his neck, shifting awkwardly in the stiff chair. His usual confidence was slipping, replaced by a creeping self-awareness that this tutoring thing was going to be harder than he thought.
“Look,” Jun started, trying to sound sincere, “I know I messed up before. I want to pass this time, I really do. I’m just… not great at this stuff.”
Minghao’s expression didn’t soften. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, voice low but precise.
“If you want to pass, you need to actually study . And that means no distractions. No excuses.”
Jun’s grin faded completely. The sharpness of Minghao’s tone hit him harder than he expected.
“Okay. No distractions,” Jun agreed quietly, folding his hands on the table. “Got it.”
For the first time, Minghao’s gaze lingered longer. Not quite a smile—more like a small acknowledgment.
“Good. Then start by opening to page 128. We’ll begin with the equations of motion.”
Jun opened the textbook, his fingers fumbling slightly on the stiff pages. The initial nervous energy settled into something more focused. He glanced up at Minghao, who already had his pencil poised, ready to explain.
Despite the cold atmosphere, Jun felt a flicker of hope.
Maybe this wouldn’t be a total disaster after all.
Jun shifted in his seat, leaning forward and squinting at the page Minghao had instructed him to open. The crisp lines of the equations seemed to swim slightly beneath his gaze—symbols and variables that, despite having been introduced last semester, still felt alien and stubbornly resistant.
“Wait,” Jun said, pointing a finger at the page like it might anchor the meaning, “I swear I’ve seen this before.”
Minghao’s eyes, dark and sharp, flicked up from his notebook without missing a beat.
“You should have,” he replied coolly, voice clipped. “Last semester.”
Jun muttered something under his breath—barely audible but sharp enough to catch Minghao’s attention.
“If you’re not taking this seriously, I can leave,” Minghao said, tone hardening slightly.
Jun blinked, caught. His hands clenched into loose fists on the table.
“No—I'm serious,” he insisted, voice quieter but earnest. “I just… suck at this stuff. I don’t get it the way you do.”
For a moment, the room fell into a thick silence, the only sound the faint rustle of paper as Minghao tapped his pencil against his notebook, contemplating.
Jun’s honesty, unexpected and raw, seemed to soften the rigid lines of Minghao’s expression just a fraction.
“Fine,” Minghao said, setting his pencil down. His voice lost some of its edge, replaced by something almost reluctant. “Tell me exactly where you get stuck.”
Jun hesitated, then gestured weakly toward a cluster of equations.
“These. The ones about acceleration and velocity—how they change over time. I understand them separately, but putting them together? It’s like they speak different languages.”
Minghao nodded slowly, already reaching for a clean page to write on.
“Okay. We’ll break it down. Step by step.”
He began to rewrite the equations, this time annotating each term with simple words, drawing arrows and diagrams.
Jun watched intently, leaning closer. The frown on his face eased, replaced by a spark of concentration.
“So this part,” Minghao said, pointing to a particular variable, “represents instantaneous velocity. It changes depending on time, which is why we use calculus here.”
Jun bit his lip, fingers tapping nervously on the table.
“Calculus,” he muttered, “Yeah… I kinda hated that last semester.”
Minghao allowed himself a brief, dry smirk.
“Join the club.”
They shared a quiet moment, a crack forming in the ice between them.
“Look,” Jun said finally, “I’m not gonna lie. This is tough. And I probably won’t get it overnight. But I want to try.”
Minghao nodded once, decisively.
“Good. Because I’m not going to hold your hand through this. You’ll have to do the work.”
Jun laughed, a short, relieved sound that bounced lightly off the walls.
“Deal.”
The air in the room felt less heavy now, the tension giving way to something that could only be described as tentative cooperation.
~
Jun slung his backpack over one shoulder, pushing open the study room door. The crisp sound of hinges echoed lightly as they stepped into the long hallway.
A few steps in, voices from just around the corner caught their attention.
“Is that Jun from the football team?” a student whispered.
Jun’s ears twitched. He glanced sideways toward the two figures leaning against the lockers, smirking quietly to themselves. The taller one, wearing a varsity jacket, nudged his companion.
“Yeah. And isn’t that the art-physics guy? Xu Minghao? The one who never talks?”
Minghao’s jaw clenched sharply.
Jun caught the slight tension in his posture—the way Minghao’s shoulders stiffened, the brief narrowing of his eyes. It was subtle, but for Jun, it was enough.
He turned toward Minghao, forcing a lightness into his voice.
“Guess we’re famous now,” Jun said with a half-smile.
Minghao’s glare remained fixed on the lockers for a long moment before he finally muttered, voice low and bitter:
“Don’t get used to it.”
Jun watched as Minghao folded his arms, the flicker of discomfort still playing across his face. He hated the attention — hated the stares, the whispered judgments. Minghao was the kind of person who valued invisibility, who preferred to slip through the world unnoticed.
But being associated with Jun — football star, popular, loud — made that impossible.
Jun shifted uncomfortably, a knot tightening in his stomach. For once, he wished he could shrink into the shadows, just like Minghao did.
The two walked in the same direction, side by side but not quite together.
Jun’s backpack bounced slightly as he tried to catch Minghao’s attention, but Minghao’s gaze was fixed straight ahead, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders rigid.
There was a thick silence between them, the kind that felt heavy in the cool evening air.
Jun finally broke it with a tentative jab.
“You always this intense?” His tone was teasing, but cautious.
Minghao glanced sideways, a flicker of dry humor in his dark eyes.
“You always this careless?”
The words hung in the air, sharp but oddly fitting.
Jun blinked, then let out a laugh — a genuine, easy sound that seemed to surprise even him.
“Cool,” he said, shaking his head. “So we’re a match made in hell.”
Minghao’s lips twitched — almost a smile, but not quite.
“Probably.”
They walked a few more steps, their pace unconsciously falling out of sync. Jun’s eyes followed Minghao’s sharp profile, noting the way the fading light caught the edges of his dark hair.
Despite the frostiness in Minghao’s voice and stance, Jun caught a glimpse of something else — a spark, maybe, or a challenge.
When Minghao finally veered off toward his dorm, Jun’s gaze lingered.
“He’s kind of a jerk,” Jun muttered softly, “but also kind of…”
He left the thought hanging, unfinished, as he watched Minghao disappear into the crowd of students.
Meanwhile, Minghao walked with his hands in his pockets, trying not to think about the way Jun had smiled at him just now — warm, open, like an invitation.
He wasn’t used to that.
He wasn’t used to anyone.
And yet, somehow, it unsettled him more than he expected.
For all his cold aloofness, for all his guarded distance, a tiny, reluctant part of Minghao was curious — and maybe even a little intrigued.
The long walk back to his dorm felt quieter than before, but inside, the gears were already turning.