Archive of Our Own

By the time the final submissions closed at midnight, you had already decided that you hated the concept of higher education.

Not the learning part, necessarily. You liked learning. You liked the feeling of understanding something that had previously been difficult, liked being able to pick apart an argument until you found the exact point where it stopped making sense, and, against your better judgement, you even liked helping other students when they genuinely wanted to understand the material. What you hated was everything that came after. 

The emails beginning with Sorry for the late submission, the attachments named FINALFINAL2.docx, the students who somehow managed to reference a source that did not exist, and, most of all, the essays that contained three hundred words of introduction before finally arriving at a thesis that could have been written in a single sentence.

As the head teaching assistant, however, all of that had somehow become your problem.

You sat alone in the TA office the following morning, laptop open and coffee slowly going cold beside your elbow, staring at the grading portal with the kind of exhausted determination usually reserved for people defusing bombs. There were forty-eight final essays waiting to be marked, which was forty-eight too many, but at least you had developed a system. Every submission received a digital case number, a score, and a collection of comments that ranged from professionally constructive to increasingly desperate pleas for students to please, for the love of everything, stop using Wikipedia as an academic source.

You had already worked your way through the first forty-six.

FINAL ASSESSMENT GRADING LOG
SUBMISSION #47
STATUS: Awaiting assessment
STUDENT: Choi Seungcheol

You sighed when you saw the name.

Of course.

Seungcheol was not a bad student. That was, perhaps, the most irritating part about him. If he had been consistently terrible, you could have written him off and moved on, but he was actually quite intelligent when he bothered to demonstrate it. His essays were usually well-researched, his arguments were surprisingly thoughtful, and his participation in class was good enough that the professor occasionally praised him in front of everyone.

The problem was that Seungcheol seemed physically incapable of doing anything without making it unnecessarily difficult for you.

He had once submitted an assignment twelve minutes before the deadline with the file name sorry, only to discover that the document inside was perfectly formatted and ninety-eight percent complete. Another time, he had handed in an otherwise excellent essay with a handwritten note attached that simply read, I know the conclusion is dramatic, but I stand by it. You had given him an 89.

He had come to your office afterwards and spent twenty minutes arguing that the deduction was unfair.

You had spent twenty minutes trying not to laugh.

You clicked on his final submission.

The document loaded.

You frowned.

For several seconds, you simply stared at the first page, convinced that the formatting had failed to load properly. There was no title. No student number. No essay heading. No citations.

Instead, at the very top of the page, in plain black text, were four words.

Dear Y/N,

Your hand stopped above the mouse.

You blinked once. Then twice. You scrolled down.

The document was not an essay. It was a letter.

You sat back in your chair slowly, your expression becoming more and more incredulous as you continued reading.

I don't really know how to start this without making it sound stupid, so I'm probably going to make it sound stupid anyway.

You should have closed the document.

You knew that.

You were a TA. This was a student's personal correspondence, accidentally or otherwise, and you had absolutely no business reading beyond the first line. The correct response was to close the file, email Seungcheol informing him that he had submitted the wrong document, and move on.

Instead, you kept reading.

I've been trying to figure out when exactly this started, but I don't think there was one specific moment. Maybe it was when you stayed back after class because I didn't understand the reading, even though I'm pretty sure I understood it. Maybe it was when you started remembering that I hate the vending machine coffee and began bringing your own coffee into the office. Maybe it was when I realised that I knew what days you wore your hair up.

Your stomach dropped. You scrolled further.

Actually, it was probably before all of that.

You stared at the screen.

There were details in the letter that made your face grow progressively warmer. He had noticed the way you tapped your pen against your notebook when you were thinking. He had noticed that you always organised your grading folders by colour. He had noticed that you rubbed your eyes whenever you had been staring at a screen for too long.

He had noticed you.

Not in the vague, passing way students sometimes noticed their TAs, either. He had been paying attention.

You reached the middle of the page and finally remembered how to breathe.

GRADING LOG — SUBMISSION #47
ASSIGNED TASK: Final Essay
DOCUMENT RECEIVED: Personal Letter
SUBMISSION STATUS: Incorrect
INITIAL GRADE: 0/100
MARKER'S NOTE: This is not an essay.

You typed the note into your grading document almost automatically, because treating the situation like an administrative problem was considerably easier than acknowledging the fact that your heart was beating much too quickly.

You looked back at the letter.

I know you're probably going to think this is weird.

You swallowed.

And it probably is weird. You're my TA, I'm your student, and there's a whole list of reasons why this is a terrible idea. I know that. I've thought about it enough times to have basically memorised the list.

That made you pause.

At least he knew.

But I also know that every time I come up with a reason not to tell you, I end up finding another reason to come to your office.

You stared at that sentence for longer than you should have.

The office suddenly felt much too quiet.

Outside, students were moving through the hallway, voices drifting past the closed door, but none of it seemed particularly real anymore. You were still looking at the screen, still holding the same pen you had been using to grade essays all morning, except now you were twisting it between your fingers instead of writing.

You continued.

You don't have to say anything. Honestly, I don't even know if I'm going to have the courage to say anything after submitting this. Maybe this is easier because I can pretend it was an accident.

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“Unbelievable.”

The final paragraph was shorter.

Anyway, if this was supposed to be my final essay, then I have officially failed the assignment. But if you ever wanted to give me some extra credit, I wouldn't complain.

You stared at the final sentence.

Then you closed your eyes.

“Choi Seungcheol.”

There was no way he had done this intentionally.

There was absolutely no way.

You reopened the document and looked at the file name.

finalessay.docx

That was not helpful.

You checked the submission time.

11:58 p.m.

Two minutes before the deadline.

You imagined him sitting somewhere on campus, probably typing this with one hand while frantically trying to finish an actual essay with the other, and somehow submitting the wrong file at the last possible second.

Except the letter was too polished.

Too specific.

Too long.

He had not accidentally written this.

He had accidentally submitted it.

There was a difference.

You leaned back in your chair and rubbed your forehead.

This was an administrative nightmare.

You needed to email him. You needed to tell him that the submission was incorrect and that he would have to submit the actual assignment. You needed to forget you had read the letter. You absolutely did not need to think about the fact that somewhere between his complaints about your grading and his suspiciously frequent visits to your office, he had apparently developed a crush on you.

You opened the grading comments again.

Your cursor blinked beneath the official feedback box.

You typed:

MARKER'S COMMENT: This submission does not address the assigned question and therefore cannot receive full credit.

You paused.

Then you added:

However, the argument is surprisingly compelling.

You stared at the sentence.

“No.”

You deleted it.

You typed again.

GRADE: 47/100

Your finger hovered over the keyboard.

Forty-seven was not an appropriate grade. There was no rubric category for accidentally submitting a love letter. There was no academic justification for giving him anything other than zero, followed by a polite request to resubmit the correct document.

But you couldn't give him zero.

Not when you had read the entire thing.

Not when, despite every reason you had to be annoyed, you had caught yourself smiling at several parts.

And definitely not when you had started wondering whether maybe, just maybe, he had been right about you remembering his coffee order.

You saved the grade.

Then you immediately regretted it. Your inbox chimed. A new email.

From: Choi Seungcheol

You stared at the notification.

There was only one sentence.

Please tell me I didn't submit that.

You pressed your lips together. For several seconds, you considered pretending you hadn't seen it. Then you typed back.

You did.

The reply came almost immediately.

Oh my god.

You couldn't help it.

You laughed.

Another message appeared.

Please tell me you didn't read it.

You looked at the open document on your screen, then at the grading sheet, then back at the message.

I am your TA.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.

That isn't an answer.

You smiled despite yourself.

Yes, I read it.

The typing indicator vanished. For almost a full minute, there was nothing. Then:

Can I drop the class?

You laughed again, quieter this time.

The semester ended yesterday.

Can I drop out of university?

That seems excessive.

You don't understand. I need a new identity.

You leaned back in your chair, shaking your head.

You still need to submit your final essay.

There was a pause.

You gave me a grade?

You looked at the number on the screen.

47.

The response was immediate.

FORTY-SEVEN?

You smiled.

Generous, considering you didn't answer the question.

What did I get points for?

You thought about it.

Effort.

The typing bubble appeared again.

So if I improve the argument...

You knew exactly where this was going.

Submit the correct essay, Seungcheol.

Another pause.

Yes, ma'am.

You rolled your eyes.

Don't call me that.

Sorry, Y/N.

You froze. Your name looked strangely different coming from him.

It was ridiculous. You had heard him say it before. He had called you by your name countless times, usually when asking a question after class or trying to get your attention in the hallway.

But now, after reading everything he had written, the name carried a different weight.

You stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary.

Then you closed the laptop.

You told yourself the warmth in your face was embarrassment.

You told yourself the small smile you couldn't quite suppress was amusement.

And when you eventually returned to the grading portal, you made one final note beneath Submission #47.

CASE STATUS: Pending resubmission.
MARKER'S NOTE: Student has been informed of error.

You hesitated before adding one final line, this time not in a single rushed thought, but in a steady, deliberate sentence that you still ended up deleting anyway.

Because you knew perfectly well that “further investigation unnecessary” was the one thing you were least convinced of.

—

By the time you arrived at the TA office the following morning, you had almost convinced yourself that yesterday had been an isolated incident, something embarrassing and mildly amusing that would disappear the moment Seungcheol submitted the correct essay. The letter would become an unfortunate story you could tell yourself years later, assuming you ever wanted to remember the exact moment a student managed to turn an ordinary final assessment into the most complicated grading situation of your academic career. You had spent the walk across campus reminding yourself that the semester was finished, that you were no longer going to see him every Tuesday and Thursday morning, and that, most importantly, you were not going to encourage him.

Then you opened your inbox and saw an email from him.

From: Choi Seungcheol
Subject: Revised Submission

You stared at it for several seconds before opening it.

The email itself was disappointingly normal.

Attached is my actual final essay. I have checked the file three times. It is definitely the essay this time.

You almost smiled.

Also, I apologise for yesterday.

You read that sentence twice.

And I promise the letter wasn't supposed to be submitted. Unfortunately, I cannot promise that I regret writing it.

Your smile disappeared.

You looked around the empty office as though someone might have witnessed the expression on your face, even though there was nobody there to see it. Then you opened the attachment.

It was, mercifully, an essay.

You checked the file name first.

Final_Essay_Choi_Seungcheol.pdf

Correct. You checked the title. Correct. You scrolled to the bottom. References included.

You leaned back in your chair.

“Thank God.”

For the next forty minutes, Seungcheol was simply another student.

You forced yourself to treat his essay exactly as you would any other submission, reading each paragraph carefully, checking his references, marking the places where his argument needed stronger evidence, and resisting the temptation to read more into every sentence simply because you now knew he had written a love letter about you. The essay was good. Irritatingly good, actually, because it meant you couldn't justify giving him a lower mark simply to regain some sense of professional distance.

By the time you reached the conclusion, you had already decided that he deserved somewhere in the low nineties.

You opened the grading sheet.

FINAL ASSESSMENT GRADING LOG
SUBMISSION #47
STUDENT: Choi Seungcheol
CORRECT DOCUMENT RECEIVED: Yes
PREVIOUS DOCUMENT: Personal correspondence
STATUS: Under review

You stared at the previous document entry.

For some reason, you changed it.

PREVIOUS DOCUMENT: Highly inappropriate supplementary material.

You paused. Then smiled.

It was a stupid joke, but it made you feel slightly less like you were losing your mind.

You finished the grading and entered 91/100.

Your cursor hovered over the feedback box.

There were several comments you needed to make about his analysis, but your attention kept drifting back to yesterday's letter. You could still remember certain lines with uncomfortable clarity, particularly the parts about things you had never realised anyone noticed. The way you tapped your pen. The coffee. The days you wore your hair up.

You wondered how long he had been paying attention. You wondered how long you had been paying attention to him. You immediately shut that thought down.

It didn't matter.

You were his TA.

Even if the semester had technically ended, the final grades had not been released, and you were still responsible for evaluating his work. Whatever feelings existed between you had to remain exactly where they were: somewhere outside the grading portal, outside the office, and preferably outside your head altogether.

You typed your feedback.

MARKER'S COMMENT: Strong argument overall. Your evidence is well-selected, and the conclusion effectively ties the central points together. The structure is much clearer than in your previous submission.

You read it back. Professional. Perfect.

You were about to submit it when another thought occurred to you.

Much improved from your previous attempt.

You looked at the sentence.

Then deleted it. Then typed it again. This time, you left it.

You submitted the grade.

A few seconds later, your phone buzzed.

Choi Seungcheol: 91?

You frowned. You had not told him you had finished grading. Another message appeared.

You grade quickly.

You stared at the screen.

How do you know I've graded it?

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

I checked.

You narrowed your eyes.

You submitted it thirty seconds ago.

Yes.

Why are you checking the grading portal thirty seconds after submitting?

There was a pause.

Anxiety.

You sighed.

Go do something productive.

I am.

What?

Waiting for my grade.

You put your phone face down on the desk.

This was exactly what you had been trying to avoid.

You had spent months dealing with Seungcheol's teasing, his stupid jokes, and his habit of appearing in your office whenever he had the slightest excuse, but there had always been a structure around it. There was a reason for every interaction. He was a student. You were a TA. If he stayed after class, it was because he had a question. If he came to your office, it was because he needed help. If you gave him a sarcastic comment on an assignment, it was because you were grading his work.

Now the semester was over, and the structure was disappearing.

You picked your phone back up.

You got 91.

His reply came almost immediately.

So I've improved.

Yes.

By forty-four points.

You frowned.

You got 47 because you submitted a love letter.

Still counts.

You stared at the message.

It absolutely does not.

I disagree.

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.

Your argument lacks sufficient evidence.

There was a longer pause this time.

Then:

Can provide additional evidence during office hours.

You dropped your phone onto the desk.

“No.”

You could practically hear him laughing through the screen.

Another message appeared.

That was good.

You ignored it.

Another.

You smiled, didn't you?

You picked up the phone.

No.

Liar.

You didn't respond. You told yourself that was the end of the conversation.

It wasn't.

For the next ten minutes, your phone continued to buzz with increasingly ridiculous messages, most of them variations of the same argument: Seungcheol insisting that the original letter deserved some form of academic recognition and you insisting that emotional sincerity did not count as evidence. Eventually, you turned your phone onto silent and returned to grading.

You managed to get through three more essays before someone knocked on the office door.

You didn't look up.

“Come in.”

The door opened.

You expected another TA.

Instead, Seungcheol stepped inside. Your hand stopped halfway across the grading sheet.

He looked almost exactly as he always did, which somehow made the situation worse. Dark hair slightly messy, backpack hanging from one shoulder, sleeves pushed up his arms, and an expression that suggested he was entirely too pleased with himself for someone who had accidentally submitted a confession to the person responsible for his final grade less than twenty-four hours ago.

“You said office hours were for academic assistance,” he said.

You stared at him.

“They are.”

“So I'm here for academic assistance.”

“You're not enrolled in this class anymore.”

“I know.”

“Your final essay has already been graded.”

“I know.”

“You got ninety-one.”

“I know.”

You slowly put your pen down.

“Then why are you here?”

He smiled.

It was not the teasing smile from class, either. This one was smaller, more uncertain, and for the first time since you had known him, you noticed that he looked nervous.

“I wanted to apologise properly.”

That caught you off guard.

You leaned back in your chair.

“For the letter?”

He nodded.

“I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.”

The joking tone was gone now, replaced by something much more sincere. He shifted his backpack from one shoulder to the other before setting it down beside the chair opposite your desk.

“I know it was inappropriate,” he continued. “Especially because you were still grading me. I should have waited until after everything was finished, and I definitely shouldn't have submitted it.”

“You definitely shouldn't have submitted it.”

He winced.

“Yeah. I've established that.”

You couldn't help smiling.

He noticed.

“You're laughing at me.”

“A little.”

“That's fair.”

The room settled into a quieter silence.

You looked at him properly for the first time since he had walked in. Yesterday, the letter had turned him into a collection of sentences on a screen, each one more embarrassing than the last. Today, he was simply Seungcheol again, sitting across from you with his hands folded together, waiting to find out whether you were going to tell him that everything was fine or ask him to leave.

You found yourself remembering one particular sentence from the letter.

Every time I come up with a reason not to tell you, I end up finding another reason to come to your office.

“You really meant it?” you asked.

His eyebrows lifted.

“The letter?”

You nodded.

He looked down at his hands.

“Yeah.”

There was no joke this time.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I meant it.”

You swallowed.

You had expected him to be embarrassed. You had expected him to laugh it off, to say that he had been tired or impulsive or that it had been some elaborate joke that had gone too far. Instead, he was sitting there looking at you as though he had decided that, having already humiliated himself once, there was no point pretending anymore.

“I've liked you for a while,” he admitted. “I just didn't want to make things weird for you.”

“You did make things weird.”

“I know.”

“You submitted a love letter as your final essay.”

“I know.”

“You gave yourself the academic equivalent of a restraining order.”

He laughed at that, finally relaxing a little.

“I was panicking.”

“You wrote three pages.”

“Panic can be very articulate.”

You looked away so he wouldn't see you smile. That was the problem. He was making it very difficult to stay annoyed.

You picked up your pen again, mostly because you needed something to do with your hands.

“Regardless, nothing can happen while I'm still responsible for your grade.”

“I know.”

“And I mean that.”

“I know.”

“You're not going to try to convince me otherwise?”

He shook his head.

“No.”

The answer came so easily that you looked up.

He met your eyes.

“I don't want you to feel like you have to say yes because I'm your student,” he said. “Or because I wrote something embarrassing and now you're worried about hurting my feelings. If you don't feel the same way, that's okay.”

You didn't know what to say. Because the truth was that you weren't sure you didn't feel the same way.

You had spent the entire morning trying not to think about it, but now he was sitting in front of you, giving you every opportunity to reject him, and somehow that made the possibility of doing so feel much harder.

You looked down at your grading sheet.

SUBMISSION #47 — FINAL GRADE: 91/100.

Underneath it, the cursor was still blinking.

You suddenly had an idea. It was probably a bad one. You typed a new note.

MARKER'S COMMENT: Strong improvement. However, the student appears to have a recurring issue with inappropriate submissions.

Seungcheol leaned forward slightly.

“What are you writing?”

“Feedback.”

“About my essay?”

“Yes.”

He looked suspicious. You turned the screen slightly away from him. He laughed.

“Are you seriously grading me right now?”

“That's what I do.”

“You're enjoying this.”

“Maybe.”

He smiled. You continued typing.

RECOMMENDATION: Continue developing the argument. Provide stronger evidence where necessary. Avoid submitting personal correspondence as academic work.

You saved the document.

Then you looked at him.

“For the record, you don't need to worry about me being offended.”

His expression softened.

“Okay.”

“And you don't need to apologise again.”

“Okay.”

“But you do need to promise me you won't submit another letter.”

He thought about it.

“An essay?”

“Yes.”

“A normal one?”

“Yes.”

“No hidden messages?”

“No.”

“No acrostic?”

You narrowed your eyes.

“Seungcheol.”

He laughed.

“Okay. Fine.”

You shook your head, but you were smiling again. He stood and picked up his backpack. For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then he reached the door and turned around.

“Can I ask you something?”

You nodded.

“After the grades are released…”

He hesitated, and suddenly the teasing confidence was gone again.

“Can I take you out?”

Your heart gave an annoying little jump. You knew what the sensible answer was. You knew what the professional answer was.

You also knew that the semester was over, that his grade was already submitted, and that there was nothing left for you to evaluate except the increasingly obvious fact that you liked having him around.

Still, you weren't going to make it easy for him.

“You'll have to wait for your final grade.”

He stared at you.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“But I already got my grade.”

You smiled.

“That was the essay.”

He looked genuinely confused.

“And what am I being graded on now?”

You picked up your pen and tapped it thoughtfully against the desk.

“Behaviour.”

He laughed.

“That's unfair.”

“Life is unfair.”

“So what do I have to get?”

You pretended to consider it.

“An A.”

He smiled.

“I can do that.”

“Good.”

He opened the door. Then, before leaving, he looked back at you one last time.

“Just so we're clear, though.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He smiled.

“I've already started working on my extra credit.”

The door closed behind him before you could answer. You sat there for several seconds, staring at it. Then you looked back at your computer.

CASE FILE #47
FINAL GRADE: 91/100
BEHAVIOURAL ASSESSMENT: Pending

You should have closed the file. Instead, you opened the original letter again. You read the first paragraph. Then the second.

And, for the first time, you allowed yourself to wonder whether the problem wasn't that Seungcheol had fallen for you.

Maybe the problem was that you were starting to fall for him, too.

—

The semester ended quietly, which felt almost insulting considering how much of your life Seungcheol had managed to complicate over the past few months. There was no dramatic final class, no grand declaration in the middle of the lecture hall, and certainly no cinematic moment where the entire university suddenly seemed to understand that something had changed between you. There was only the slow disappearance of students from campus, the gradual emptying of your inbox, and the strange realisation that you no longer had a legitimate reason to expect Seungcheol to appear at your office.

You told yourself that was a good thing.

It was probably healthier this way. The grades were final, the assessment period was finished, and your responsibility as his TA had officially ended. There were no more assignments to mark, no more reasons for him to stay behind after class, and no more excuses for you to spend twenty minutes pretending to discuss coursework when neither of you had any intention of talking about coursework.

And yet, three days after the semester ended, you still found yourself looking at the office door whenever footsteps passed outside.

You hated that.

You hated it even more when the door opened on the fourth day.

Seungcheol stood there.

He wasn't carrying a backpack this time, and there were no papers tucked underneath his arm. There was no excuse in his hands, no assignment that needed clarification, no question about a reading he had supposedly failed to understand. He simply stood in the doorway, looking at you with the same nervous smile he had worn the last time he had asked whether he could take you out.

You tried to look unimpressed.

“You know you don't have office hours anymore.”

“I know.”

“You're not in my class anymore.”

“I know.”

“You don't have anything to submit.”

He smiled.

“I know.”

You put your pen down.

“Then why are you here?”

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, though not all the way. You noticed that immediately, and some small part of you appreciated the gesture. Even now, when the semester was over and the rules had changed, he was still careful not to make you feel cornered.

“I was waiting,” he said.

“For what?”

“For the grades to be released.”

You blinked.

“They were released yesterday.”

“I know.”

“You could have asked me out yesterday.”

“I could have.”

“Why didn't you?”

He shrugged, looking suddenly much more nervous than he had during any of your conversations about his disastrous submission.

“Because I wanted to be sure.”

You tilted your head.

“Sure of what?”

“That you actually wanted me to.”

The answer left you quiet.

You had spent the past few days thinking about what would happen when this moment finally arrived. You had imagined him making some ridiculous joke, perhaps asking whether an A on his final assessment had earned him enough extra credit to qualify for a date. You had imagined yourself teasing him, making him work for it, perhaps reminding him that he had spent an entire semester trying to charm his way through your grading rubric.

You had not imagined him standing in front of you looking genuinely uncertain.

“I told you last time that you didn't need to worry about offending me,” you said.

“I know.”

“And I told you that you didn't need to apologise.”

“I know.”

“So what are you waiting for?”

He looked at you for a moment.

“An answer.”

The room felt suddenly smaller.

You looked down at the grading sheet still sitting on your desk, even though you had no reason to have it open anymore. The familiar formatting stared back at you.

FINAL ASSESSMENT GRADING LOG
SUBMISSION #47
STUDENT: Choi Seungcheol
FINAL GRADE: 91/100
CASE STATUS: Closed

You had kept the file open without realising it.

You stared at the words for another second before closing the document.

“Okay.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Okay?”

You nodded.

“You can take me out.”

For a moment, he didn't move. Then his entire expression changed.

The nervousness disappeared first, replaced by something bright and almost disbelieving, and then he laughed quietly, dropping his head as though he needed a second to process the fact that you had actually said yes.

“Seriously?”

“You're making me reconsider.”

“No, no.” He straightened immediately. “Absolutely not. I'm accepting the answer before you can change your mind.”

You smiled.

“You're very confident for someone who got forty-seven on his first submission.”

“That was a clerical error.”

“That was a love letter.”

“A passionate research proposal.”

You laughed.

He smiled at the sound, and for a moment neither of you said anything.

It felt different now.

There was still the familiarity of everything that had happened before, all those office hours and sarcastic grading comments and stolen glances across the classroom, but the invisible line between you had finally disappeared. He wasn't sitting across from you waiting for feedback anymore. You weren't responsible for deciding whether his work deserved a passing grade.

You were simply two people standing in an empty university office, both trying not to look too pleased about finally being allowed to admit what had been obvious for months.

“So,” he said eventually, “when are you free?”

You considered pretending to be busy.

“Tomorrow.”

His smile widened.

“Tomorrow?”

“Unless that's too soon.”

“No. Tomorrow is perfect.”

“You seem excited.”

“I've been waiting since mid-semester.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“That's concerning.”

“I know.”

He took a step closer.

“I've also been trying to think of somewhere to take you that isn't campus.”

“Good start.”

“And somewhere without vending machine coffee.”

“Even better.”

“And somewhere I can talk to you without pretending I need help with an assignment.”

You smiled.

“I might miss that.”

“You can still give me feedback.”

“I don't think that's how dates work.”

“You've never dated a student before.”

You stared at him.

He immediately grimaced.

“Sorry. Terrible wording.”

You laughed, and he looked relieved.

“I'm going to pretend you didn't say that.”

“Please do.”

He reached the door, but before he opened it, he turned around again.

“There is one thing I wanted to ask.”

“What?”

He pointed towards your laptop.

“The letter.”

Your stomach fluttered.

“What about it?”

“Did you keep it?”

You hesitated.

That was probably the easiest question he had asked you all semester, and somehow it was the one that made you feel the most exposed.

“Yes.”

His expression softened.

“Why?”

You looked at him.

“Because I liked it.”

The words were quiet, but they were enough.

He smiled.

“Good.”

Then he left.

You waited until the door clicked shut before letting yourself smile properly.

The next evening, you met him away from campus.

It was strange at first.

Not bad strange.

Just unfamiliar.

Without classrooms and lecture notes and grading sheets between you, there were suddenly things you didn't know about each other. You knew that Seungcheol hated vending machine coffee. You knew that he procrastinated when he was nervous, that he had a tendency to over-explain jokes when he thought they hadn't landed, and that he had apparently been watching you tap your pen against your notebook for far longer than you wanted to know.

You didn't know what his favourite place in the city was. You didn't know what he ordered when he wasn't trying to impress you. You didn't know what he did when he had a completely free afternoon. You didn't know what he looked like when he wasn't pretending to be confident. You learned those things over dinner.

You learned that he talked more when he was nervous, that he became embarrassingly enthusiastic whenever he talked about something he genuinely loved, and that the smile he usually wore around other people became softer when it was only the two of you.

Eventually, the conversation returned to the letter.

“I still can't believe you gave it forty-seven,” he said.

You laughed.

“You submitted the wrong assignment.”

“But you liked it.”

“That doesn't make it academically relevant.”

“You keep hiding behind the grading rubric.”

“Because the rubric is objective.”

“You gave me ninety-one.”

“Because your essay deserved ninety-one.”

“And the letter?”

You looked at him. He was smiling, but there was something hopeful underneath it. You reached across the table and took his hand. His fingers tightened around yours almost immediately.

“The letter,” you said, “was worth more than forty-seven.”

His smile disappeared for half a second, replaced by something softer.

“How much?”

You pretended to think about it.

“Maybe ninety-six.”

“Only ninety-six?”

“You're pushing it.”

“I thought I had extra credit.”

You laughed.

“You're impossible.”

“And yet you're here.”

You looked down at your joined hands.

“Yeah.”

The answer was quieter this time.

“I'm here.”

He squeezed your hand.

Neither of you spoke for a while after that, and you found that you didn't need to.

For months, everything between you had been hidden inside things that could be graded, corrected, revised, or submitted. Feelings had become comments in the margins. Flirting had become jokes disguised as questions. His confession had become a file uploaded to the wrong folder.

Now there was nothing left to hide behind. When he walked you home later that night, you stopped outside your door. He looked at you, then at the distance between you.

“Can I ask for one more thing?”

You smiled.

“You've already asked for a date.”

“I know.”

“You got the date.”

“I know.”

“So what now?”

He leaned slightly closer.

“Extra credit.”

You laughed softly.

“You're never going to let that go, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

You looked at him for a moment, then closed the remaining distance yourself.

The kiss was gentle, almost hesitant at first, as though both of you were still waiting for someone to remind you that this wasn't allowed. There was no grading sheet between you, no university policy, no deadline, and no reason to pull away. When you finally did, Seungcheol was smiling.

“Was that enough?”

You pretended to consider it.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“You might need to submit another attempt.”

He laughed.

“I can do that.”

You shook your head, smiling as he leaned in again.

For once, you didn't need to grade him.

And perhaps that was the strangest part of all.

After spending an entire semester convincing yourself that you were the one evaluating him, you were finally beginning to understand that the moment you had opened that first letter, the person being tested had never really been Seungcheol at all.

It had been you. And, somehow, you had passed.

—

By the time the new semester began, the whole thing had started to feel strangely unreal.

Not the relationship itself. That part was surprisingly easy.

It was the memory of everything that had come before it that felt impossible sometimes, particularly when you remembered sitting alone in the TA office with a stack of final essays, opening Seungcheol's submission and finding Dear Y/N staring back at you from the top of the page. It had seemed like the beginning of an administrative disaster then, something you would eventually laugh about once enough time had passed.

You hadn't expected to be dating him a few weeks later.

You certainly hadn't expected him to become the person you now automatically looked for whenever you entered a crowded room.

And you hadn't expected him to still be obsessed with the concept of extra credit.

“You're thinking about me.”

You looked up from your laptop.

Seungcheol was sitting across from you at the library table, chin resting in his palm, wearing the most unbearably smug expression you had ever seen.

“I was thinking about work.”

“You were thinking about me while working.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You have absolutely no evidence.”

He smiled.

“You're smiling.”

You immediately stopped.

“I was not.”

“You were.”

You closed your laptop.

“I regret telling you anything.”

“You regret liking me.”

“I regret giving you that ninety-six.”

He laughed, leaning back in his chair.

“You still think I deserved ninety-six?”

“No.”

“What happened to the extra credit?”

“It expired.”

“That's not how extra credit works.”

“You don't know that.”

“I know enough.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile.

It had become like this almost immediately after your first date. The academic jokes had followed you out of the classroom, except now there was no longer any reason to hide behind them. Seungcheol could flirt with you without pretending he was asking about an assignment, and you could tease him without worrying about whether you were crossing a professional boundary.

There was something strangely freeing about that. You reached for your coffee. Seungcheol watched you over the edge of his laptop.

“You kept the letter, didn't you?”

You nearly choked.

“You ask me that every week.”

“Because you never answer.”

“I already answered.”

“You said you liked it.”

“I did.”

“That wasn't the question.”

You sighed.

“Yes.”

His smile appeared immediately.

“You actually kept it.”

“Obviously.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“Can I see it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because it's embarrassing.”

“For you?”

“For both of us.”

He laughed quietly.

“I don't think I'll ever get over the fact that my first confession to you was submitted through the university grading portal.”

“You shouldn't.”

“It was romantic.”

“It was a clerical error.”

“It was fate.”

“It was poor file management.”

He grinned.

“You're never going to admit it was romantic, are you?”

You looked at him.

“No.”

“Fine.”

He returned to his laptop, apparently satisfied for the moment. You watched him for a few seconds before opening yours again. Your eyes drifted towards the folder sitting in the corner of your desktop.

You had never deleted it.

FINAL ASSESSMENT — SUBMISSION #47

Inside was the original grading record, the actual final essay, and the accidental letter that had somehow changed everything.

You opened the document. The old notes appeared exactly as you had left them.

CASE FILE #47
STUDENT: Choi Seungcheol
INITIAL SUBMISSION: Incorrect
DOCUMENT RECEIVED: Personal correspondence
INITIAL GRADE: 47/100
STATUS: Pending revision

You scrolled down.

CORRECTED SUBMISSION: Received
FINAL ESSAY GRADE: 91/100
BEHAVIOURAL ASSESSMENT: Pending

You smiled.

There was something almost ridiculous about how seriously you had treated it all back then, as though assigning a case number to your feelings could make them easier to understand. You had tried to turn everything into something measurable because that was what you were good at. Essays had grades. Assignments had deadlines. Arguments had evidence. Problems had solutions.

Feelings were much less cooperative.

You scrolled further.

At the very bottom of the document, beneath all the official comments, you had eventually added one final note.

FINAL CASE REVIEW

Academic performance: Excellent.
Compliance with submission guidelines: Questionable.
Ability to follow instructions: Requires improvement.
Persistence: Excessive.
Argument quality: Surprisingly convincing.
Marker's personal bias: Significant.
Final assessment: Complicated.

You stared at the last line. Then you added another.

Case status: Closed.

You saved the document.

“Done?”

You looked up. Seungcheol was watching you.

“Yeah.”

“What were you doing?”

“Grading.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You're not grading me again, are you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He closed his laptop and stood. You raised an eyebrow.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“We're studying.”

“I've studied enough.”

“You've done nothing.”

“I've done plenty.”

“You've spent the last hour bothering me.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed, packing your things. He waited until you had finished before reaching for your bag.

“I can carry that.”

“I can carry my own bag.”

“I know.”

He took it anyway. You let him. It was such a small thing, but you still noticed it.

There had been so many moments like that since you started dating him, small things that had nothing to do with the dramatic confession that had started everything. He remembered your coffee order. He sent you messages when he knew you had a long day. He listened when you complained about assignments without immediately trying to make you feel better. He knew when you wanted advice and when you simply wanted someone to sit beside you.

The letter had been the beginning, but it wasn't what made you fall for him. That happened afterwards. It happened slowly, in all the ordinary moments.

Outside the library, the evening air was cool, and you walked beside him with your hands brushing occasionally.

“You know,” he said, “I still think I was robbed.”

“Of what?”

“My full marks.”

“You submitted the wrong document.”

“A passionate document.”

“A love letter.”

“An excellent love letter.”

“You're very proud of it.”

“I have reason to be.”

You smiled.

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think the forty-seven was fair.”

He looked offended.

“After everything we've been through?”

“Yes.”

“That's cruel.”

“But…”

You paused.

He looked at you expectantly.

You smiled.

“I think the extra credit brought you up.”

His expression brightened.

“How much?”

You pretended to consider it.

“Enough.”

“That isn't a number.”

“You're not getting a number.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Y/N.”

You stopped walking.

He stopped too.

The street around you was quiet, university buildings glowing in the distance, and for a moment you were reminded of the first time he had said your name in that letter. Back then, seeing it written at the top of the page had made your heart race for reasons you hadn't wanted to understand.

Now, hearing him say it simply made you smile.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

He looked at you for a second, then smiled.

“I just like saying your name.”

You rolled your eyes.

“That was terrible.”

“It worked.”

“Barely.”

“Still counts.”

You shook your head, but you stepped closer anyway.

He leaned down and kissed you, gentle and familiar now, without the hesitation that had accompanied the first one. When you pulled away, he was smiling again.

“You know,” he said, “I think I deserve another chance at the final.”

“You already passed.”

“Barely?”

You smiled.

“With distinction.”

He laughed.

“Finally.”

You started walking again, his hand finding yours naturally.

The whole thing had started with a mistake.

A badly named file. A final essay that never existed. A letter that had been written with the intention of staying hidden and somehow ended up in exactly the wrong inbox.

You had spent weeks trying to classify it as an error, something that could be corrected and forgotten, but perhaps some mistakes were not meant to be fixed. Perhaps some were simply meant to lead you somewhere you hadn't expected to go.

Later that night, when you got home, you opened the old file one last time.

The letter was still there. You read it again, although you already knew every word.

At the bottom of the page, beneath Seungcheol's final sentence, you added one last comment.

Not as his TA. Not as his marker. Just as yourself.

FINAL GRADE: A+

You smiled and closed the document. A moment later, your phone buzzed.

Seungcheol: Did I finally get full marks?

You laughed.

You: Yes.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Seungcheol: Knew I could do it.

You shook your head.

You: Don't get cocky.

His reply came a few seconds later.

Seungcheol: Too late.

You smiled at the screen.

Then another message appeared.

Seungcheol: Love you.

You stared at it for a moment, warmth spreading through your chest in that familiar way that still surprised you sometimes.

You typed back.

You: Love you too.

There was no grading rubric for that.

No case file. No comments in the margins. No deadline. 

And, for once, there was nothing left to revise.