Classroom – A Few Days Later

You sat near the window, pretending to read, but your gaze drifted to the side.

There he was.

Black hoodie. Rings on his fingers. A scowl on his face as he tapped his pen against his thigh.

You stared.

At the way his brows furrowed in focus.

At the way his jaw clenched when he was annoyed.

At the little silver chain around his neck, barely visible beneath the collar.

And suddenly—

His head turned.

Your eyes met.

Your entire soul panicked.

You dropped your pen.

He arched a brow, a teasing glint in his eyes.

You bent down quickly to pick it up, mentally screaming at yourself.

God. So smooth.

When you sat back up, he was still looking.

And then—he smiled.

Not wide. Not big.

But that same soft curve of his lips. That same rare warmth.

Just for you.

---

Later – Outside the Library

You were walking, hugging your books to your chest, mind spiraling with thoughts of him. The sketches. That smile.

You turned a corner — and there he was, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

“You keep staring at me in class, little nerd,” he said, voice low.

You froze. “I-I wasn’t—”

“You were,” he said with a smirk. “It’s cute. You get all clumsy when I look back.”

You flushed instantly, hugging your books tighter.

“I just… I didn’t mean to stare,” you mumbled.

He pushed off the wall, walking closer.

You could barely breathe when he stood in front of you.

“You can stare,” he said, voice softer now. “But I get to stare back. Fair deal?”

You blinked up at him, lips parted slightly. “W-Why would you want to stare at me?”

His gaze flickered across your face, lingering on your lips, then your eyes.

He leaned in, whispering just above your skin:

“Because you’re the only one who looks at me like I’m not a monster.”

And just like that, he walked away.

Leaving you stunned, heart racing, already flipping to the next blank page in your sketchbook — where his eyes, his smile, and now... his words would live forever.

Late Afternoon – Corridor Near the Auditorium

You were walking down the familiar hallway, sketchbook in hand, your heart light with thoughts of Jungkook again. His smile earlier, how his fingers brushed yours when you passed him your pen in class, the way his friends teased him and he only smiled shyly, eyes stealing glances at you.

It was almost too perfect.

But then… everything shattered.

As you approached your little hidden sanctuary, your footsteps slowed. Something felt off.

The door was wide open. And loud voices echoed from inside.

You turned the corner—

Your heart froze.

Two staff members were inside your room.

Ripping down your pinned canvases.

Throwing away your paint-stained aprons.

Tossing your sketchpads into black garbage bags like trash.

"N-No!" you rushed forward, breath caught in your throat. "Please—what are you doing?!"

One of them looked at you, sighing like he had no patience. “You can’t use college property like this. This isn’t a personal studio. This room is off-limits.”

"But—this is my art, please don’t touch them!" you cried, running toward the bag as he tossed another sketchpad inside.

Your fingers trembled as you grabbed your favorite canvas — a portrait of Jungkook’s smile — now torn slightly at the edge.

“Please… these are mine, I worked on these for months,” you said, voice cracking as tears rolled down your cheeks.

The second staff member didn’t even look at you. “This space wasn’t meant for students. Someone informed us, so we’re clearing it today.”

You blinked.

Someone… told them?

Your head turned, eyes wide, lips parted in silent shock.

Someone knew.

Only one person knew.

Jeon Jungkook.

The boy you trusted. The boy you thought saw you differently. The boy whose smile you captured again and again on your pages.

You stepped back slowly, heart pounding in your ears, your throat tight with betrayal.

He told them?

He was the only one.

Why would he…?

Canteen – Lunchtime

The cafeteria buzzed with the usual chaos — laughter, trays clinking, conversations layering over one another.

Jeon Jungkook sat in the center, his black hoodie pulled over his head, sipping from a takeaway coffee cup while his friends joked around. His fingers tapped against the table lazily, but his eyes kept drifting toward the entrance — like he was waiting for something.

Or someone.

You.

And then — you arrived.

Storming in.

Face flushed, eyes wet, sketchbook clutched in your trembling hands.

You didn’t care that the canteen was full. You didn’t care who was watching.

“JEON JUNGKOOK!”

Your voice cut through the noise like a blade.

Every head turned.

The entire place fell into silence.

Jungkook’s eyes widened as he looked up — straight at you.

And before he could process it—

SLAP.

The sound cracked through the air.

His head turned from the force of it, the coffee cup slipping from his fingers, hitting the floor with a soft thud.

Gasps echoed.

His friends froze, mouths hanging open.

Students whispered. Stared.

But Jungkook didn’t move.

He didn’t react.

He slowly turned his face back to you, cheek red, lip ring trembling slightly as he whispered, “...What the hell?”

You shoved his chest, your voice cracking in rage.

“Why did you do this to me?!”

He blinked, completely lost.

“What…?”

You were crying — tears streaming down your face, lip trembling, breathing fast.

But you didn’t wait for his answer.

You grabbed his wrist roughly — he let you, willingly — and pulled him through the silent, stunned crowd.

No one dared stop you.

He didn’t say a word.

Not when you yanked him down the hallway.

Not when your hand trembled in his.

Not even when he saw your shoulders shaking.

You threw the door open.

The abandoned room — your sanctuary — was destroyed.

Canvases ripped.

Brushes broken.

Colors scattered on the floor like dead memories.

“This,” you choked out, voice cracking with devastation.

“This was mine…”

He looked around, stunned.

“No one knew about this room,” you continued, stepping inside, rage and heartbreak spilling from your lips. “No one. Except you.”

He stared at the ruined artwork, the chaos, the shards of your heart littering the floor.

His voice was hoarse. “I didn’t…”

You turned to him, eyes burning. “Why would you tell anyone, Jungkook?! Why would you do this to me?!”

His face contorted in confusion and something else — something deeper.

“I didn’t tell anyone. I swear—YN, I swear on my life,” he said firmly, stepping toward you. “I would never betray you.”

You didn’t believe it. Not yet. Not when your fingers trembled with pain.

“But they knew,” you whispered. “They knew. And now everything’s gone.”

Jungkook looked at you, his eyes reflecting something raw — guilt, heartbreak, helplessness.

He reached out, cupping your face gently with both hands, ignoring the fact that your cheeks were still damp with tears.

“I don’t care you slapped me. I don’t care you screamed at me. But you have to know this, YN,” he said, voice low and trembling, “I would never hurt you. Not even by mistake.”

You stared at him, lips trembling, your hands still curled into fists against his chest.

“I don’t know how they found out,” he whispered. “But let me fix this. Please. Let me fix everything.”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to.

But your heart was still shattered, and the air between you was full of pain.

“I just… I don’t know who to trust anymore,” you whispered.

His thumb brushed away a tear from your cheek.

“Then start with me,” he said softly. “Even if you hate me right now. Even if you’re not sure.”

And for a moment…

The silence between you was no longer cruel — just fragile.

Just like both of you.

Jungkook’s breath was still uneven as he stood in the middle of the wrecked room, your tears still fresh on your cheeks.

And then—

His eyes landed on something.

A half-covered canvas, partially tucked under a broken easel. Torn at the edges, but enough visible to make him freeze.

He stepped forward slowly, as if the moment was sacred.

His fingers reached out gently, brushing away the fallen fabric.

And there it was.

Him.

His face.

His smile.

Perfectly sketched, every detail captured with delicate precision — from the soft curve of his lip, to the glint of his piercings, to the gentle crinkle near his eyes when he really smiled.

Not just one.

But many.

Stacked nearby — pages filled with him.

His side profile when he laughed.

His furrowed brows.

The way his hand always played with his lip ring.

Even his sleepy eyes when he leaned on his palm in class.

He stared.

Stunned.

And then… he looked at you.

Your back was to him, shoulders tense, still fighting tears, not knowing he’d just discovered your secret.

“...YN,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t turn.

He walked closer, holding one of the sketches softly between his fingers.

“You drew me…” he said gently. “All this time.”

You stayed still, cheeks burning, exposed in the most vulnerable way possible. “I—It doesn’t matter now.”

“It does,” he whispered.

You turned slowly, finally facing him. And what you saw wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t ego. It wasn’t pity.

It was pure softness.

His eyes were glassy.

Like your art touched something inside him that even he didn’t know existed.

“I never thought anyone could see me like this,” he said quietly, lifting the canvas. “Not like a freak. Not like a fighter. But like… someone worth looking at.”

You swallowed hard, voice trembling. “Because you’re not what they say, Jungkook. You never were.”

He stepped closer — no distance between you now.

“I swear to you, I didn’t tell anyone about this room. But I promise you now…”

He placed the sketch down and held your hands, firm but gentle.

“I will find out who did. I’ll prove myself to you. Even if it takes everything I have.”

You looked up at him, broken but still flickering with hope.

“And I’ll give you your space back,” he added. “Not this one—something better. A place where no one can ever touch your art. Or you.”

Your lip trembled.

He brushed a tear from your cheek.

“And if it means anything at all…”

He leaned closer, forehead almost touching yours.

“I’ve never felt more seen than I do right now. Because of you.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the ache ease just slightly at his words.

And as he wrapped his arms around you gently, pulling you to his chest, one silent promise echoed between your heartbeats:

He meant it.

He would prove his innocence.

And protect not just your art… but you.

To be continued...