Mr. Han's shoes squeaked as he paced the aisles. Kimdan turned his wrist to check the time before remembering he didn't own a watch. The clock above the chalkboard ticked too loudly. The sunlight had moved across his desk by the time he reached the final question—a beam now warming the back of his hand like accidental encouragement.
The next afternoon, Kimdan found himself scrubbing his palms raw again. The fluorescent light buzzed, the mirror still cracked at the corner where someone had punched it last semester. He counted the seconds between each flicker—three, always three—and adjusted his glasses in the reflection. His hair was sticking up where he'd run nervous fingers through it before class. He flattened it absently.
The door creaked open on the fourth flicker. Junseo walked in with the same half-slouch, but his tie was knotted properly today, collar buttoned. He went to the sink two spaces left of Kimdan's, turned the faucet with his wrist instead of his fingers—just like he had yesterday. Kimdan's hands stilled under the water. Junseo rolled his shoulders, the motion stretching his uniform shirt taut across his back.
Kimdan's reflection stared at Junseo's reflection staring at the soap dispenser. Neither spoke. The water ran. The light flickered—one, two, three. Junseo shook excess droplets from his hands without wiping them first, another tiny habit Kimdan catalogued without meaning to. The paper towel dispenser clacked empty under Junseo's attempt.
Kimdan pulled a folded square from his pocket—stolen from the nurse's office that morning—and held it out without looking. Junseo took it, their fingers brushing for half a breath. "Thanks," Junseo said, voice low in the humming quiet. Kimdan nodded at the mirror.
Junseo paused at the doorframe. "Han usually starts with review questions on Thursdays," he said to the chipped paint. Kimdan blinked. Turned off the water. "Right," he mumbled, as Junseo's footsteps faded down the hall. He exhaled into the empty bathroom, realizing only then that he'd been counting—three, always three—waiting for someone who hadn't even known his name two days ago.
The walk home was a blur of concrete and half-formed thoughts. Kimdan kicked a pebble down the sidewalk, watching it skid across the crosswalk lines. His apartment smelled like his mother's herbal tea and the damp wool of drying uniforms. He flopped onto his bed without turning on the light, physics notes spilling from his pockets. The ceiling had water stains that looked like faces if you stared long enough. Tonight, they morphed into broad shoulders and the sharp line of Junseo's jaw when he tilted his head to shake water from his hands—three droplets landing on Kimdan's wrist, cool against his pulse point. His toes curled into the sheets.
Morning arrived with sunbeam stripes across his pillow and the taste of sleep in his mouth. The school gates swarmed with girls whispering behind cupped hands, their giggles cresting whenever Junseo's name floated through the chatter like a secret password. Kimdan slowed his steps, catching fragments—"...saw him at the convenience store..." "...won the inter-school match..."—as he passed. His shoelaces suddenly required meticulous retying. By the time he straightened, the crowd had surged toward homeroom, leaving behind only the ghost of Junseo's name and the imprint of Kimdan's fingernails in his palms.
Second period dragged. Kimdan's pen tapped against his notebook in uneven rhythms, eyes flicking to the clock every ninety seconds. When the bell finally rang, he took the long route past the gymnasium—detouring through corridors where the floors still smelled like polish and the occasional basketball thud echoed from the courts. The bathroom door was propped open with a wet floor sign when he arrived. Junseo stood at the sinks, sleeves rolled to his elbows, water beading along his forearms as he shook them out—three droplets, always three—and turned, catching Kimdan's reflection mid-step. "Late today," he said, like they'd been keeping track. Kimdan's stomach did something complicated. "Bio quiz," he lied. The paper towel dispenser was full for once. Neither of them used it.
Junseo leaned back against the counter, bracing his palms on the edge. The fluorescent light caught the sweat at his temples, the damp collar of his jersey peeking above his uniform. "You ever watch games?" The suddenness of the question made Kimdan fumble the soap dispenser. "Basketball?" Junseo clarified, grinning at the mess Kimdan was making of his own hands. "No," Kimdan said too quickly, then amended, "I mean. It's boring." The words tasted bitter—a reflex from years of classmates groaning whenever he voiced opinions. Junseo just tilted his head, considering. "Yeah," he agreed easily, "if you don't know what's happening." He mimed a shot, wrist flicking imaginary ball-arcs into the humming air between them. "See, when they—" His elbow knocked his phone off the counter.
The screen stayed lit where it landed—bright against the gray tiles—showing a draft text with Kimdan's name in the recipient field. The message cut off mid-sentence: *I keep coming here because—*. Kimdan's pulse stuttered. Junseo snatched the phone up fast, but not fast enough. The silence stretched thicker than the humidity clinging to the mirrors. "Coach wants stats," Junseo muttered, thumb swiping the screen clean. His ears had gone pink at the tips. Kimdan stared at his own soapy hands, wondered when his breathing had turned shallow. The paper towel dispenser whirred as Junseo yanked three sheets in quick succession—one, two, three—while Kimdan counted the tiles beneath their shoes and thought, wildly, about unfinished sentences and the way Junseo's shoulders moved when he pretended not to be tired.
Outside, sneakers squeaked against gym floor polish. Someone shouted a play call. Junseo crumpled the towels into a tight ball, tossed them toward the bin—missed—and didn't go to pick them up. Kimdan watched his reflection exhale hard through his nose before turning on his heel. The door swung shut behind him with a click that sounded suspiciously like a held breath being released. Kimdan peeled his palms from where they'd stuck to the counter. Four perfect half-moon indents in the soap film.