Episode 4
3 March 2025, Monday. Early evening. SNU's chemistry faculty, Building 500, rooftop.
Quietly, Den stood up.
At first, Mi-yeon didn't notice his movement. The rooftop was loud, the music already swelling, the stage lights turning everything unreal and too bright. People shifted, laughed, pointed to the stage. The three contestants were herded closer to the center of the stage.
Her legs felt boneless.
Den moved toward the back of the rooftop, toward the buffet tables stacked with cookies, paper plates, half-empty bottles. He stopped directly opposite the stage—far enough not to draw attention from the crowd, close enough that from the stage he would be impossible to miss.
He positioned himself deliberately.
From the crowd, he blended into the background.
From the stage, he was unmistakable.
Mi-yeon's eyes darted desperately across the rooftop, searching for anything solid, anything familiar—until they found him.
Their gazes locked. The music started.
Her pulse thudded in her ears.
Den raised one hand slightly, not waving, not calling attention. He looked at her steadily and mouthed the words, slow and clear:
"EYES ON ME. REPEAT."
Her mind stuttered.
W-what…?
What is he doing?
Repeat…?
She didn't understand. Not really, not right away.
She only knew she couldn't look away.
Den began to move.
Not real dancing, not performative. Simple, light motions—small steps, relaxed shoulders, a gentle sway. Almost silly, careless. The kind of movements that don't demand confidence, only permission.
He exaggerated them just enough to make them readable.
This, his body said. Just this.
Mi-yeon stood frozen.
The other two contestants began to dance. One danced sharply—precise, confident. The crowd cheered immediately.
Mi-yeon heard none of it. She watched Den.
Her body started to copy him before her fear could stop it.
One step. A small sway.
Her hands lifted awkwardly—then settled.
I look ridiculous, she thought faintly.
But Den grinned and continued. The moves were straight out of TikTok—cute, light, the kind of dancing gestures girls used in short videos.
On him, they looked absolutely ridiculous. She couldn't help it, and smiled openly. Something loosened inside her. Her shoulders dropped.
If he can swing his hips… so can I.
She mirrored him again. And again. Repeating simple, adorable, safe moves.
At the back of the room, Choi Mi-rae had noticed Den. She pulled out her phone and typed quickly.
Wait. What is your Russian transfer student doing back there?
Yu-ra glanced at her screen, then followed Mi-rae's gaze.
She saw Den, Mi-yeon, and the invisible line between them and smiled.
She typed back.
Looks like he's trying to save her.
Mi-rae's eyebrows lifted.
But that's not fair. He's helping another team.
Yu-ra didn't look away from the scene.
She typed calmly.
Is it fair that they pushed her onto the stage just to laugh at her?
We'll win anyway because of Se-a.
I'll pretend I didn't see anything.
The laughter Mi-yeon expected never came. Or maybe it did—but it didn't reach her. All she saw was a strange foreign guy dancing by a table of cookies, smiling at her like this was the most natural thing in the world.
Her movements softened. She wasn't good. She knew that. But she was no longer frozen. No longer trapped.
For just that moment she felt… light. She even smiled, not so much for the audience.
For him.
The crowd shifted—less mockery, more real cheering.
When the music ended, the applause was uneven but warm. She didn't win. She knew that too.
Soo-yeong's team, with their near-professional Se-a, took the clear technical victory. Loud cheers. Phones raised.
But when Mi-yeon looked back at her team, their cheering was unmistakable.
"Jeong Mi-yeon! Jeong Mi-yeon! Jeong Mi-yeon!"
It wasn't thunderous.
But it was real.
Mi-yeon bowed deeply, almost too deeply, heart racing again—but this time it wasn't only fear.
She stepped off the stage, dizzy, hands trembling.
Mi-yeon found Den again with her eyes as she stepped down.
He gave her a small nod. Nothing dramatic.
Just silent: "You did good."
Mi-yeon's chest tightened painfully. She couldn't thank him. She couldn't even classify for herself what just happened.
She only knew this:
For the first time in her life, she was on a stage and she wasn't laughed at. It hit her like ocean air in a desert.
Den slipped back to his team almost invisibly, like a shadow returning to its place.
Soo-yeong was already there, distributing drinks, her voice sweet and bright, effortlessly pulling everyone back into one large, buzzing circle.
"Everyone, grab a cup! At least a little!" she laughed. "It's our first victory!"
Then she noticed Den.
Her eyebrows lifted, lips curving sweetly.
"Oh, Den-ssi! You're Russian, right?" she said brightly. "So that means we finally have someone who can teach us how to really drink."
She tilted her head. "You're up—first toast!"
A few heads turned immediately. Expectant. Curious. Waiting for something louder, wilder than usual.
A cup was pushed into Den's hand.
He smiled faintly, irony flickering in his eyes, and thought:
Here we go. This is exactly what I was afraid of.
"Well," he began, lifting the cup slightly, "there's just one thing…"
He raised it a bit higher, calm, steady.
"I don't drink. It's… a long story."
A brief pause.
"But I'm really glad we're all here together. So don't let that stop anyone from celebrating." He nodded toward the stage.
"I'd like to make a toast to our dancer Se-a. You were amazing. A clean, fair win."
He lifted the cup again, just enough.
Min-jae froze for a second, and half-jokingly asked:
"Wait… what? What kind of Russians do not drink…? Hey Hyung, don't take it the wrong way, but do you have a passport to prove your nationality?"
A couple of people giggled—not meanly, more from sheer surprise.
Den just smiled and half-rolled his eyes.
"Oh well!" Min-jae recovered quickly, raising his own cup high. "So much for the stereotypes. What matters is—you're with us!"
He grinned, summing it all up.
"To Se-a's victory! And to all of us surviving the semester!"
The crowd roared back:
"YEAH!"
Most people drank. Den calmly set his cup down and sat.
He did it so naturally, with such quiet certainty, that no one dares press him.
Mi-yeon exhaled softly.
She hadn't even realized she was holding her breath watching Yu-ra's team.
She took a tiny sip herself, barely enough to wet her lips, fingers still wrapped carefully around the cup.
Movement rippled across the rooftop as the next step of the dancing contest was announced—this time, a captain's challenge.
People buzzed with speculation.
Oh Yu-ra approached Den.
She poured herself soju, tilted her head slightly, studying him with open curiosity.
"Each captain has to choose someone from their team to dance with," she said. "What do you think—can you handle that without alcohol?"
Her tone was provocative, gaze direct.
At the far end of the table, a few girls whispered excitedly.
"Our captain wants to dance with the foreigner?"
Den rose.
"Not the smartest choice," he said lightly, bowing just a little—respectful, but not submissive.
"But refusing a beautiful senior would be unwise."
A faint smile.
"Let's hope you will shine bright enough to distract them from my clumsiness."
He offered his hand.
Yu-ra raised an eyebrow—not at vulgarity, but at nerve. He landed exactly on the line she enjoys: calm audacity, no begging.
"Hm…" She smiled slowly. "We shall see, Den. If you drop me though, I'll tell everyone that you have ruined my reputation."
She placed her hand in his—confident, warm—and stepped forward, testing his pace. He didn't stumble.
The music swelled. The crowd parted, anticipating the spectacle.
Reactions rippled instantly. Some freshmen girls watched with open admiration.
Soo-yeong's expression tightened, irritation flashing. She hated when attention escaped her orbit.
And Mi-yeon…
She stood near her team's table, holding her hands to her chest.
Her eyes followed them without conscious decision.
There was no jealousy in her gaze. Just quiet acceptance.
Of course…
Someone like her… and someone like him…
They looked right together.
Yu-ra stopped in front of Den, hair falling lightly over her shoulders. The toe of her shoe traced a line on the floor.
"Don't worry," she murmured, leaning closer than necessary. "Just don't freeze. Dance however you can."
The beat dropped.
She moved first—smooth, confident, controlled.
Den caught the rhythm. His movements were firmer, more restrained, but steady. He didn't fight the tempo.
She looked at him, surprised.
"Oh," she said quietly. "You're not as wooden as I thought."
They synced.
The crowd reacted—cheers, whistles.
Yu-ra spun into a controlled lean, testing him.
He supported her without hesitation. Den could take the spotlight with some flashy moves. But he just let her shine, guiding her just enough to make her look brilliant.
When the music ended, applause crashed over them.
This round went to Yu-ra's team.
She laughed softly as he escorted her back, hand released cleanly, respectfully.
"I'll admit it," she said. "You've surprised me twice already."
Meanwhile, Mi-yeon stood frozen.
Something tightened inside her chest—not jealousy, but comparison. The gap felt enormous.
What were you imagining? she scolded herself.
He helped you because you were pitiful. That's all.
Someone like Yu-ra belongs beside him.
And you… you're just you.
The noise swelled again.
Then Den felt it.
A quiet, lost gaze.
Mi-yeon stood a little apart now, shoulders slumped, eyes lowered—but every few seconds, she looked up at him, as if she wanted to say something and didn't know how.
The music, the laughter, the crowd—all of it continued.
The crowd was still digesting the dance.
Music softened into something slower, less demanding. Laughter broke out in pockets. Someone said loudly, half in awe, "That newbie though!" Phones were lowered. Attention began to scatter, returning to its usual student hum.
Den came back to the table quietly.
He moved as if the dance were just an episode—something that happened and ended. He sat down, shoulders relaxing, posture neutral, almost deliberately ordinary.
Mi-yeon watched him return, mouth parting without her noticing.
Her thoughts tumbled over one another, unfiltered and frantic.
Aren't Russians supposed to be rough? How can someone who talks like a barbarian dance like that?
So confident… and so gentle at the same time?
Her chest tightened.
Mi-yeon. Stop thinking about him.
Stop it. Stop. Stop right now.
Lots of people can dance.
This means nothing to you.
It meant more than she wants to admit.
Yu-ra watched Den's back for a second longer than necessary, biting her lip—not flirtatiously, but with recognition.
Soo-yeong pretended to be bored, gaze drifting away, but the tension in her eyes betrayed her. Attention had slipped past her again, and she hated that more than anything.
Nearby, a few freshmen whispered, already trading theories about "the Russian."
Den heard none of it. He was sitting seemingly relaxed.
That was when Mi-yeon found the courage to move.
She approached slowly, each step tentative. Fingers interlaced tightly, she exhaled, lifted her gaze—and spoke so softly her voice almost dissolved into the music.
"You danced… very well, Den-ssi," Mi-yeon said quietly.
There was a pause, small but noticeable.
"…I'm glad your team won."
Den looked at her for a moment, then spoke casually, as if it were nothing.
"Call me Den, please. 'Ssi' in Russian sounds exactly like 'to pee.'"
She looked at him, slightly confused:
"Are you making a joke?"
"Dead serious. When someone says 'Den-Ssi', I have a hard time keeping a straight face because to me it sounds like a blunt order: 'Den, go pee.'"
Mi-yeon bowed at once, reflexively, almost too quickly. She looked like she was on the verge of tears from pure embarrassment.
"I'm SO sorry! I will say Den-nim instead. I didn't know!"
He watched her carefully—trying to understand whether she truly didn't grasp what he meant, or whether she was choosing not to.
"No," he said calmly. "Just Den. Don't make it complicated."
Mi-yeon froze.
W-what…?
She looked at him with a frightened, apologetic smile, her voice dropping instinctively.
"No—um… Den-nim. I really can't. That would be very rude."
He smiled, half-joking.
"What's rude is treating me like I'm old," he said lightly. "I'm not that old. Just Den."
It clearly didn't help.
She was desperately trying to find him a place in her world of hierarchy.
Oppa then? No, I can't, it's too informal. He will think I am flirting.
"May I call you hakwoo-nim… maybe?"
Den exhaled, knit his brows and fell silent for a second. You could see him recalculating. Finally, he spoke again, more carefully this time.
"Listen," he said. "At least when we're alone… could you please try calling me by my name? I really prefer being myself instead of some faceless hakwoo."
He hesitated, then added, softer, "Just try. All I ask."
Mi-yeon pressed her lips together, nervous. Then she smiled—small, unsure—and lowered her voice to almost nothing.
"Alright… I'll try…"
She swallowed, then whispered, barely audible:
"Den."
She was still standing there, gathering courage word by word to say something else, when Soo-yeong appeared behind her.
Perfect timing. Perfect smile.
She didn't even acknowledge Mi-yeon's existence.
"Oh, Den-ssi!" Soo-yeong said brightly, projecting her voice just enough for people nearby to hear. "You danced so well. I'm impressed."
She tilted her head, playful. "You should teach the other guys how to lead a girl properly. They clearly need it."
She laughed lightly, pleased with herself.
The air shifted.
Two worlds stood beside him now—Soo-yeong's polished, artificial sweetness and Mi-yeon's quiet, trembling sincerity.
Den didn't hesitate.
"Well," he said calmly, standing, "maybe another time."
He gave a faint, almost apologetic smile. "I think I'll take a walk in the park. It's getting a bit too hot here."
A beat.
"Too many ladies per square meter."
A dry irony, delivered without bite.
"Excuse me."
He inclined his head slightly—polite, distant—and left the rooftop, stepping out into the cooler air of the park beyond.
Conversation resumed behind him, louder now, fragmented.
Soo-yeong snorted and walked away, as soon as the door closed, clearly uninterested in lingering alone with Mi-yeon any longer than necessary.
But Mi-yeon remained standing where she was. She watched the space he left behind.
Her heart beat unevenly—not because he left, but because of how he left. Calmly. On his own terms. And she realized:
I was not the reason he left. She was.
The party noise faded as if someone switched off the background.
Outside, evening had already deepened. Time had slipped away in games, laughter, and half-serious competitions.
The stairwell was completely empty. Den descended to the first floor and stepped out into the campus air.
The park was a modest green space between buildings—neat paths, lampposts, trees just beginning to show fresh leaves at their tips. A couple of students sat on benches, absorbed in their own worlds. The ground still held a faint dampness from recently melted snow.
Den breathed in more deeply.
After the suffocating rooftop, the contrast was almost physical.
He walked, thoughts going dull and heavy once the crowd finally released him.
But after a minute—near a small pond—he heard footsteps.
Light. Uneven. Careful. Almost soundless.
He slowed slightly and turned his head just enough to see.
Mi-yeon was behind him.
Not close. Not bold. She kept her distance—terrified of looking like she was following him.
Her gaze was pinned to the ground. Her shoulders sloped downward.
She didn't come out for a walk.
He chose to stop and waited.
When the distance shrank to the point where pretending coincidence became impossible, she stopped and spoke, voice small and sincere.
"Sorry… I didn't want to bother you… it's just…"
She fidgeted, fingers clenched inside the pockets of her cardigan.
"It was… too noisy in there."
A pause. A breath.
"And… it was… easier… to go where you went."
She still didn't look at him. That would be too brave. But the honesty was so naked it almost hurt her. Wind stirred the ends of her hair.
Den looked at her properly now. Took his time.
She was small. Soft. A person whose whole body seemed trained to apologize.
A thought flashed through him—uninvited, wary:
She's sweet. She probably falls in love easily.
Don't give hope without meaning to.
What she said isn't sexual. Isn't even romantic.
And yet it landed in him as intimate anyway. Her honesty penetrated his armor deep enough to be noticed. He broke the pause by answering, trying to stop the motion of closeness before it became something he can't control.
"Well," he said, keeping his tone as gentle as he could, "I'm actually looking for a bathroom."
A beat, just enough to let it sink in.
"I like your company. But my current route isn't exactly… suitable for a walk with a girl."
Mi-yeon froze.
One second. Two.
She lifted her head—and the expression on her face was pure, absolute shock, as if her brain had been struck and needed time to reboot.
Life did not prepare her to handle that kind of directness at all.
To her, it was like a verbal flick on the forehead—light, but instantly grounding, instantly humiliating.
Her thoughts scattered like sunlight across a chandelier.
Oh my god—how embarrassing!
What were you thinking, Mi-yeon! Are you that stupid?!
Who follows a guy when he needs a bathroom?!
What does he think of you now?
Why do things like that always happen to me?
Say something! Anything!
"I—I… uh…" She stammered so hard it sounded like she might physically fall through the pavement.
"I… I didn't know… I mean… I didn't… I didn't want to… go… there—sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry."
Heat flooded her cheeks as if someone held a flame too close.
She bowed—too low, too many times—her apologies frantic and sincere.
Then she took a tiny step back and hid her face in the long sleeves of her cardigan, as if fabric can erase words.
The air around her vibrated with shame and that quiet kind of terror. She swallowed, fighting to breathe properly again.
"Sorry… I said… something stupid…" Her voice trembled. "I… I just…"
She tried to steady herself.
"I felt… sad… when you left."
A beat—then she winced at her own confession.
"But I didn't consider why you left. I'm so stupid."
She fluttered her hands sharply, as if she could wipe the moment clean.
"Oh… why am I like this…" she whispered under her breath—not for him, but for herself, raw despair.
Then she inhaled, small and shaky, and lifted her eyes.
Weak. Lost. But direct.
"And… you…" she started, struggled, then finished: "You're… calm. And… near you… I feel… calmer too."
For her, that was almost a heroic act.
She stood with her arms wrapped around herself, waiting.
Just a vulnerable country girl who's used to her words being worthless—and had, for the first time, spoken something that could actually matter.
The pond rippled softly in the wind. The park was quiet. The upstairs noise felt far away.
Den gave her a soft smile.
"I understand," he said gently. "It's okay. Easy mistake. Don't worry."
Then he pointed his thumb over his shoulder and repeated carefully, "But I still need to find a bathroom. Alright?"
He started to walk away.
Halfway through his first step, he felt it—how cold it would be to leave her there, burning with embarrassment, alone in the darkening park.
So he turned slightly, just enough to soften the cut.
"By the way, Mi-yeon," he said, voice casual, as if it was a small thing, but warm. "That hairstyle—your ponytail. It suits you."
A faint smile, almost reluctant.
"Simple… but really cute."
Then he walked away.
Not because he needed a bathroom—because he needed space, and wasn't brave enough to share it yet.
Behind him, Mi-yeon remained by the pond, holding her sleeves to her face.
And inside her chest, two feelings collided—shame sharp enough to sting, and warmth so unfamiliar it scared her even more.
She lifted her head just a little.
In her mind, his voice repeated—clear, calm, unhurried:
By the way, Mi-yeon… That ponytail really suits you.
No boy had ever praised her directly like that.
Not for grades or kindness, but for something personal. Something feminine.
She remained standing there, timidly touching the elastic of her ponytail with her fingers, as if checking whether it really existed—whether the words were meant for her, or for someone else entirely.
Her lips trembled into the smallest, barely-there smile.
It scared her.
And for the first time in her life, a fragile, almost weightless thought slipped into her mind:
…maybe I can be liked too.