The late afternoon heat inside the school building was suffocating, heavy with the scent of floor wax and the low drone of a struggling air conditioner. I had timed my entrance down to the second. School had let out an hour ago, but instead of changing back into my uniform for our private tutoring session, I strolled down the quiet corridor in my red-and-white varsity basketball jersey and mesh shorts.

It was an entirely deliberate move. The shorts cut off right above the knee, exposing lean, corded muscle—legs built from years of tactical athletic conditioning, not the soft frame of an actual teenager. The sleeveless jersey left my shoulders and arms completely bare, and I had deliberately skipped the shower after drills. The sharp scent of sweat mingled with the expensive, woody notes of my morning cologne, while my black hair hung damp across my forehead.

I wanted to provoke him. I wanted to see if his pristine armor would hold when forced into close quarters with an overwhelming display of youth.

When I slid into the tutorial room, the air was cool, smelling faintly of chalk dust. Mr. Lee was organizing a stack of worksheets at the front desk. He looked up at the sound of the door, and his movements hitched.

Behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, his dark eyes widened by a fraction—a tell I caught instantly. His throat bobbed. Before he could stop himself, his tongue darted out, lightly wetting his lower lip in a nervous, unconscious reflex.

Instead of heading to the student desks, I walked straight toward his podium, my sneakers squeaking against the linoleum.

Hyun-woo’s posture went rigid. As I closed the distance, he took a step back, then another, until his lower back pressed against the edge of his heavy desk. Cornered.

I stopped less than half a foot away, crowding his personal space. I bent down, bringing my face level with his.

"Seonsaengnim," I murmured, my voice dropping into a low, raspy register. "Do you have anything to drink? I’m completely parched."

"Wh-what...?" he stammered, his eyes wide as his chest rose and fell in short, shallow breaths.

I leaned closer, stopping a fraction of an inch from his lips. I could see the golden flecks in his dark eyes. At the last possible second, I pivoted, my hand shooting past his shoulder to grab the metal flask resting on his desk. I straightened up, breaking the tension just enough to let him breathe.

"Wait—don't—" he protested weakly.

I unscrewed the cap and tilted the flask back, taking a long drink.

I swallowed slowly, giving him a full view of my throat, letting a stray droplet escape the corner of my mouth. It tracked down my jawline, disappearing beneath the low V of my jersey. 

I emptied the bottle, then wiped the back of my hand across my mouth with a soft sigh.

"Hmm. " Iced barley tea," I mused, keeping my eyes locked on his. "Thank you," I said, flashing a brilliant smile that didn't reach my eyes. "I thought I was going to pass out."

A single bead of tea ran down the side of the metal flask. Without breaking eye contact, I caught it with my tongue, licking upward in a slow, deliberate motion.

Mr Lee opened his mouth, but no sound came out. A furious flush crept up his neck, staining his cheeks and turning the tips of his ears a betraying crimson as he followed the motion of my tongue.

Bingo.

Then, a flash of defensive anger crossed his features. He grabbed the empty thermos from my hand.

"To your seat, Kang Ji-ho!" he barked, his voice trembling as he tried to claw back his authority. "And don’t take an adult’s drink without asking! It’s unhygienic!"

He wiped his sleeve furiously over the rim where my mouth had been, screwing the cap back on with shaking fingers, then clutched the flask to his chest like a shield, desperately trying to look stern, but the dark red flush ruined the effect entirely.

"Sit. Now," he ordered shakily.

I raised my hands in mock surrender and backed off, pulling out a chair at the very front row—directly in his line of sight.

He swallowed hard, adjusted his glasses, and turned to the board. Picking up a piece of chalk, he began scribbling equations with frantic speed, white dust fluttering into the air.

Advanced Trigonometry: Angles of Elevation.

"We are behind on the curriculum," he began, his voice tightly coiled as he kept his back to me. "Open your supplementary workbooks. Read the first problem on page ninety-four."

I leaned back, interlocking my fingers behind my head.

"Seonsaengnim, seriously? You want me to read all that?" I squinted at the page.

"Aish, the numbers are too small. And all those lines are making my eyes hurt. Just read it for me."

Hyun-woo’s chalk froze against the slate. He slowly turned around, his face a mask of rigid disciplinary frustration. "Kang Ji-ho. This is a tutorial, not a playground. If you are not going to take your preparation seriously, you are wasting both of our time.

"I am taking it seriously. Joesonghamnida. I mumbled, leaning forward. I cleared my throat and read the problem out loud as requested.

For the next twenty minutes, he tried to teach, and I was deliberately difficult. 

He drew intersecting lines, explaining angles.

"An acute angle is less than ninety degrees," he explained, tapping the board. "It is sharp. Closed. Give me an example..."

"Like the angle of your shoulders when you're nervous?" I offered smoothly, resting my chin on my palm.

The chalk snapped in his grip.

"Ji-ho," he warned, his brows furrowing. "Focus, please."

"I am," I replied innocently. "I'm just trying to find the right angle to look at you from. Is this one acute enough?"

He turned to see me framing him with my thumbs and forefingers.

"Oh, wait. Those are right angles. Still works, though," I added with a smirk.

He stood frozen, his mouth parting slightly as a breathless sigh escaped him. He looked completely thrown off balance. Then, forcing his composure back into place, he set his jaw in a grim line.

"That is enough!" he said. "If you cannot behave like a mature student and have so much excess energy after practice, you will be penalized."

I blinked, genuinely amused. "A penalty? Seonsaengnim, what is it? More private tutoring after hours?"

"You will clear out the central waste segregation area behind the old building before you leave tonight," Hyun-woo said, attempting to assert control. "Every single bin needs to be sorted for recycling. Do you understand?"

Sorting industrial recycling bins behind a dark, isolated building in the humid evening air was a miserable chore.

“If you continue with this behavior, you will hold that duty for the next few weeks,” he added, though his voice wavered slightly.

For a second, my analytical mind processed the move as a standard authoritative defense mechanism. But looking at the slight tremor in his fingers and the sheer effort it took for him to maintain that stern facade, something shifted in my chest. A strange warmth bloomed behind my ribs. He was trying so hard to be the disciplinarian, but it wasn't in his nature. 

I found it strangely captivating.

I lowered my eyes, raising my workbook to hide the quiet smile touching my lips. "Ne, Seonsaengnim," I said, forcing a grumpy tone. "I'll clean the trash area."

I stayed quiet for the rest of the period.

When the session ended, I tried to wriggle out of the punishment—clasping my hands, offering pouty, empty promises to behave—but he held his ground. I could see the struggle in his eyes; he wanted to let me off, but the strict hierarchy of the school system and his own flustered pride forced him to stand firm. He had to be the teacher.

The waste sorting area behind the gymnasium was a total disaster.

It was a row of massive, color-coded bins where the school’s garbage was dumped. The late afternoon sun had baked the smell of sour food waste, spoiled milk, and wet cardboard into a thick, suffocating stench. Cicadas screamed in the surrounding pine trees, a deafening hum that matched the pulse in my head.

I pulled on rubber gloves, grabbed a pair of tongs, and got to work. For two hours, I sorted through the mess, hauling heavy bags into the designated bins. Sweat stung my eyes, mixing with the grime on my face, and my jersey was completely ruined.

It was disgusting. It was humiliating.

And I couldn't stop smiling.

I paused, leaning against the handle of my broom, wiping my forehead. The golden hour light filtered through the pines, casting long shadows across the concrete. I thought about Mr. Lee’s flustered face, the way his ears had turned red, and the sheer vulnerability he tried so hard to hide behind his rules.

My chest tightened with a strange, aching heat.

What is wrong with me? I thought, staring down at a crushed paper cup.

This was supposed to be a tactical operation. I was supposed to be gathering intel to expose a flaw, not pushing his boundaries just to watch that beautiful, betraying flush run up his skin.

Standing in the middle of the school dump, I realized my objective was crumbling.

I wasn't just investigating him anymore. He was becoming a dangerous distraction, a puzzle I wanted to unravel for my own dark satisfaction.

I dropped the tongs into the bucket with a clatter and pulled off the rubber gloves, my hands shaking slightly. A quiet, helpless laugh escaped my lips into the empty yard.

What the hell am I doing?