The wind slaps at my face as I swipe my residence card against the scanner.

The lock clicks open, a release that sounds louder than it should at this hour. The girls huddle close behind me, scarves pulled high, breath hanging in the air like smoke. Snowflakes cling stubbornly to their coats, a dusting of white along shoulders and hair that refuses to melt until we step into the warmth of the building.

The study lounge smells faintly of vending machine coffee. No grand stacks of books—but at two in the morning, it's enough.

Tamara claims the outlet, Yegi drops her tote with a sigh, Tina digs out highlighters shaped like cartoon peaches. Haeri lingers by the door a moment longer, brushing snow from her sleeves, before sliding into the chair across from me.

She sets a pair of mittens on the table. My mittens.

"You left these with me," she says, her voice low but matter-of-fact. The wool is softer now, the faintest trace of lavender drifts upward. I decide, right then, I'm never washing them again.

The group settles. Pens scratch, laptop keys clatter, the occasional sigh escapes like steam. At one point Tina whispers into her phone, her boyfriend's face glowing on the screen before she snaps it shut with a guilty smile.

Tamara and Yegi lean together, whispering about post-exam plans. "We're going downtown after the last exam. To celebrate. Are you two coming?" Tamara's eyes flick between Haeri and me.

Haeri doesn't hesitate—surprising for her. "I'll come. I need it." Her tone is steady, but there's a weariness in the curve of her shoulders, the sort of exhaustion that doesn't vanish with a night's sleep.

"I'm coming too," I say, more quickly than intended. Tamara smirks, but doesn't push it.

The hours drag, the room heavy with the rhythm of late-night study. My own notes are familiar now, every line etched into me from too many revisions. I don't need to be here. But I stay anyway, anchored by the sight of Haeri hunched over her laptop, strands of hair slipping free from her bun to brush her cheeks.

My fingers find a post-it.

You're going to ace this.

I slide it onto the corner of her textbook. She glances up, a quick flick of her eyes, then returns to her notes. But the faintest twitch at her lips betrays her.

A second note follows, written almost without thought:

Don't frown so much. Your forehead will wrinkle before you turn twenty-one.

This one earns me a longer look. She arches a brow at me, scribbles.

Better wrinkles than failing finance.

I stifle a laugh. She pretends not to notice. As the night deepens, my restraint thins. Another post-it:

If I stay awake just to watch you study, does it count as studying?

She blinks at it, cheeks warming. Her pen taps against the table once, then she pushes the note back toward me, silent but unmistakably flustered.

Only if staring at me teaches you derivatives.

The comeback makes me bite my lip, heat crawling up my neck. I lean closer, write faster. Sleep deprivation makes me bold. Or reckless. Probably both. My handwriting loosens into something less careful.

You smell like lavender. I think it's unfair you can sit there and make me think of things that aren't calculus.

She presses her lips together, suppressing a laugh—or maybe just trying not to react at all. Her eyes dart around the table, checking if anyone's watching, but her hand doesn't hesitate this time.

Unfair that you blame me for your bad concentration.

She slides out post-its under her notebook like contraband. I catch the movement, the faintest quiver of her smile, and know I've already lost the round—but I want the next one.

The clock inches toward four. Yegi yawns into her sleeve, Tamara rubs her eyes. When Haeri slips away to the washroom, I write one last neat note, leave it by her laptop, and slip out into the hush of the dorm, leaving only the soft ghost of lavender clinging to my hands.

Good luck tomorrow. You'll be brilliant. Don't forget to breathe.

--++*++--

The Comp Sci library is too white, too bright for how little sleep I've had. Taeho slurps his half-melted bubble tea, drawing the kind of side-eyes only Comp Sci kids give—silent, judgmental.

"Five more months," Taeho mutters between slurps. "Then I'm free. May can't come fast enough. I'm done with that apartment."

"Already?" I ask. My bag shifts against my shoulder; I packed half my closet into boxes last night and already regret it.

"Already. Jung Sumin leaves her laundry in the washer for days. She's a real walking cautionary tale."

I raise a brow. "That bad?"

"She's not evil, just... impossible. Plates stacked like Jenga, half-finished soju bottles in the bathroom. KSA crowd hates her guts, but you'll see soon enough. Winter break's only three weeks—you'll survive." He pats my back with mock sympathy. "Think of it as a character-building sublet."

I laugh under my breath. "That's not how you sold it when you offered the room."

He smirks. "You needed a place, didn't you?"

He's right. The dorm kicks us out the moment exams end, like heating over break is a luxury they can't afford. I had nowhere to go. Taeho threw me a lifeline, and I'm not stupid enough to complain too much.

We're passing the wide staircase when someone stops us. A tall guy—broad shoulders, dark hair neat, papers in one arm, ID lanyard swinging. Korean, obviously. His voice is lower than expected when he asks in English, polite but hesitant.

"Excuse me—do you know where the photocopier is in this building?"

Taeho perks up immediately, grinning like he's been waiting for this. "Oh hey, Hyunki-ssi!"

The guy blinks, then smiles slightly, bowing his head in recognition. His features sharpen in the sterile light—good-looking in a way that feels unbothered, unpolished.

"You two know each other?" I ask.

"I met him a couple days ago," Taeho says. "Didn't get to talk long. Hyunki, this is Yujin. Business kid, but don't hold it against him."

"Thanks," I mutter.

Hyunki chuckles softly. "Nice to meet you." He speaks in Korean now.

"The copier's down the hall," Taeho says, jerking his thumb. "We'll show you. We're heading that way anyway."

We walk together, the three of us. The silence doesn't last long. Taeho, naturally, can't let it.

"So what's with the papers? You printing your autobiography already?"

Hyunki shakes his head, amused. "Professor asked me to copy some old exam sets. I still don't know my way around here."

"Oh? You're new?" I ask.

"Yeah. Just arrived this month. I'll start officially in January."

Taeho shoots me a look, eyebrows up, like he's waiting for me to ask the obvious. I do.

"Start what?"

"Master's," Hyunki says easily. "In Information Technology. I'm also signed on as a teaching assistant."

A pause. Then Taeho, loud as always: "Sunbaenim." He clasps his hands together dramatically, bowing as we walk. "Please guide this humble undergrad through algorithms."

Hyunki laughs—properly this time, the sound warmer than his reserved first impression. "I don't even start until next term. You might be the one guiding me instead."

"He's being humble," Taeho says to me. "He's twenty and already has a Bachelor degree. Yujin, can you believe it?"

I blink. "Twenty?"

Hyunki nods, almost sheepish. "Monash University. They have a program in Seoul. It's accelerated, so I finished early."

Taeho elbows me, stage-whispers, "A prodigy."

"I'm not," Hyunki protests, smiling anyway.

The copier finally hums to life as he sets his stack on the tray. The machine spits out page after page, warm paper scent rising. Taeho leans against the wall, still grinning.

"So do we call you Hyunki, or Harris, or... TA Kang?"

"Harris please, people here all call me that."

Something about him—his easy laughter, the way he doesn't flinch at Taeho's teasing—makes him instantly likable. I want this guy in our circle. Someone sharp, grounded, but not stiff.

When his papers are done, he gathers them neatly, thanks us again, and we walk out together. The winter air leaking through the vestibule glass is sharp enough to sting, but the conversation lingers, turning casual as if we've known each other longer than twenty minutes.

By the time we part ways, Taeho's already plotting out study sessions with his new "sunbaenim." And me—I'm already imagining Harris at one of our late-night tables, a new anchor in the group.

--++*++--

Downtown glows like it's dressed up just for us—shop windows glittering, neon signs humming, streets still wet from an earlier snowfall. The restaurant Tamara and Chloe booked isn't the fanciest, but its sliding wooden doors and lanterns make it feel like a tucked-away secret, a promise of comfort after weeks of fluorescent study rooms and empty coffee cups.

Inside, the air carries the sharp tang of soy sauce and the sweetness of grilled eel. A low buzz of chatter rises from other tables—students, couples, office workers still in suits. Our table sits near the window, half fogged with condensation, and I can see the blur of headlights rushing by outside like the city itself is running late for something.

Tamara shrugs off her wool coat, her cheeks still pink from the cold, and immediately waves over the server with the confidence of someone who's already worked a dozen shifts in a place like this. Chloe folds her scarf before sitting, her eyes sweeping the room. Haeri pulls her gloves off finger by finger, folding them neatly. Yegi brushes stray hair from her face with the restless energy of someone already planning the next step of her life. Taeho arrives last, shaking his head at the price on the menu like he's just been told a bad joke.

I keep my coat on a moment longer than everyone else, not sure if the warmth in here belongs to the heater or to the idea that the semester is finally over.

We order too much—ramen steaming, sushi like small works of art, beef sizzling in the air around us. Tamara groans dramatically about her exam, leaning her head against the back of the booth, while Chloe smirks and says she only survived because of her "perfectly engineered" Starbucks coffee routine. Yegi laughs, though she looks tired in a way that makes me wonder if relief ever really reaches her.

Haeri talks about her co-op placement, her voice steady but brightened by the thought of escaping textbooks for real paychecks. Taeho jokes about working at Walmart, insisting he'll become "employee of the month in week one" if they let him run the electronics section. The table bursts into laughter, chopsticks pausing mid-air, and for a second it feels like nothing exists outside the circle of our shared noise.

I listen more than I speak. It's easier that way—letting their words wash over me, watching the way steam curls around their faces, how their laughter pushes the weight of exams further into memory. But then Tamara mentions taking up another restaurant job, and Haeri nods about keeping her retail shifts, and Taeho keeps spinning stories about his Walmart empire—and suddenly I feel the gap opening under me.

I've never needed money. My parents make sure I don't think about bills or rent. Being the youngest, the only son, has always meant safety from responsibility. But as they talk—voices full of plans, hands moving like they're already shaping their futures—I feel like a tourist sitting at a table of citizens.

What would it mean to actually earn my own money, instead of spending the kind that just appears in my account? Would I feel different?

I picture myself handing in a job application, my name scrawled in neat block letters. I picture a manager raising their eyebrows at me, the rich boy trying to play employee. The thought makes my stomach twist tighter than the sashimi I just swallowed.

The others don't notice, and I don't want them to. So I sip my tea, the bitterness grounding me.

The night carries on with stories, complaints turned into jokes, and promises of what's next. Chloe swears she'll drag us all ice skating downtown over Christmas. Taeho insists karaoke is non-negotiable. Yegi says she only has one more winter term before graduation, and for a moment her voice catches, like she's surprised at how close the finish line is. Tamara leans in with a grin and says, "Then we'd better make this Christmas count."

When the plates are cleared and the bill split unevenly between laughter and protests, we step back into the night. The cold air rushes up to meet us, sharper now, but the glow of the restaurant clings to my skin.

We scatter toward our rides with promises tossed over shoulders—"See you at Christmas," "Don't forget the skating," "Text me when you get home." Hands in my pockets, I walk slower than the rest, city lights reflecting off the wet pavement like they're daring me to decide who I want to be.