Hill POV

We were sitting in the student council room, the air thick with silence and unfinished tension.

Arthit was lounging on the couch, aggressively tapping at some game on his phone with that usual bored expression on his face. Tonfah sat across the table, flipping through the student list for next week’s committee reviews.

And then there was Johan.

Seated stiffly in the farthest corner of the room, his back unnaturally straight, his head bent over a piece of paper, pen gripped like a weapon. Whatever he was writing, he looked like he was ready to commit murder with it.

I sighed and rubbed my temples.

This man was impossible.

Stubborn. Guarded. Brooding to the point of implosion.

He hadn’t said a single word since we got here. Just kept scribbling and occasionally glaring at the wall like it owed him money.

I opened my mouth. “Jo—”

The door slid open before I could finish.

Easter walked in with a clipboard and a hopeful smile, followed closely by Phoon and Dao. All three of them looked... tense.

“Phi Hill,” Easter said, offering me a nervous nod. “Here’s the revenue report from the university festival.”

“Thanks,” I said, accepting the notepad.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Johan glance up for just a second—his eyes flicking to Easter, then lingering a bit too long before he scoffed under his breath and looked away again.

Uh-huh.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

Stubborn.

So stubborn.

He was clearly scanning the room for any sign of North. And just as clearly pretending he wasn’t. I swear, this man would rather die than admit he cared.

Well, if no one else was going to say it, I’d be the knight in shining armor today.

I smiled at Easter. “Thanks again, Nong.”

Then, all casual-like, I added, “By the way… where’s Nong North? Haven’t seen him around in a few days.”

Johan didn’t react.

At least, not outwardly.

But I saw it—the slight shift in posture, the way he straightened just a bit, as if his body betrayed him before his brain could protest. His hand froze above the page, pen paused.

Caught you.

Easter stiffened. His fingers started fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“Ah, um… that…” he stammered, glancing at Dao and Phoon like he was silently begging for backup.

Phoon stepped forward with a sheepish look. “He’s been… sick.”

“Bed rest,” Dao added gently. “Since… you know. That day.”

I frowned. “Huh?”

Easter swallowed. “He hasn’t been eating much. Hasn’t really come out. We’ve all been taking turns checking on him.”

My gaze flicked to Johan.

He was doing a remarkably bad job pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping.

His eyes were fixed on his paper again, but his jaw had gone tense, and his grip on the pen had tightened like he was preparing to snap it in two.

“P’Johan,” Easter said suddenly, softly.

Johan didn’t look up.

“North really likes you. He’s not lying.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Phoon stepped forward, voice firmer. “The dare—it was me. I gave it to him, Phi.”

Dao added quickly, “It was a game at first. But he fell for you, seriously. He cries every night now. He won’t say it, but we see it. He’s not faking anything.”

The room fell silent.

I studied Johan’s face, but it was unreadable. He gave nothing away—stone still, jaw set, eyes locked on his notes like they were the only thing tethering him to control.

But I knew better.

Inside, he was unraveling.

He hated this. Hated feeling. Hated losing control of it.

But he cared. God, he cared so much it scared the hell out of him.

I sighed and leaned back in my chair.

“Is Nong okay right now?” I asked, voice gentler.

Phoon shook his head. “No, Phi.”

Johan exhaled sharply. It wasn’t just a sigh—it was resignation. Frustration. Guilt. A hundred emotions compressed into one heavy breath.

I turned to him, firm this time. “Johan. Enough is enough.”

He looked up, eyes finally meeting mine.

“Go talk to him,” I said. “Stop running. Stop pretending you don’t give a damn when everyone in this room can see you do.”

The air stretched for a second.

Then another.

Finally, Johan set his pen down. He stood slowly, brushing past the table, his broad shoulders tight with tension.

“Fine,” he muttered under his breath.

And then he left the room without another word.

I exchanged a glance with the others.

Tonfah let out a relieved sigh. Arthit was still pretending he didn’t care—but even he paused his game for a second.

Easter looked like he might cry from sheer hope.

Phoon beamed.

Dao exhaled like he’d just run a marathon.

I leaned back in my chair again.

✿✿✿⁠ 

North POV

[Easter: P’Johan might be coming to your dorm any minute.]

I stared at the message for exactly two seconds before I sprang into action like I’d been electrocuted.

“Shit—shit—”

I scrambled off the bed, nearly knocking over my half-eaten bag of sad snack chips in the process. Crumbs rained down like confetti. My hands moved on autopilot, sweeping the evidence of my pity party into the trash with all the grace of a malfunctioning robot.

Why the hell was Easter texting me this casually like it wasn’t a code red emergency?

P’Johan. Here. In any minute.

I hadn’t showered.

I hadn’t shaved.

I looked like I had been crying over a soap opera for 72 hours straight because… well, I had.

My brain short-circuited.

Okay. Okay. Think, North. THINK.

I threw myself toward the drawer, digging through the mess like I was in a spy movie and the fate of the world depended on me finding the one thing—

“Where the fuck is the thermometer?!”

My voice came out in a panicked squeak. I flung aside pens, chargers, three dead batteries, a mystery sock—

Got it.

My fingers closed around the tiny device like it was a golden snitch.

I turned, scanning the room for the next crucial item.

Where the hell is the iron?

Iron. Iron. IRON.

I spotted it near the laundry basket and grabbed it like it was a weapon of divine intervention.

Okay. Crisis plan: If I looked like I was dying, maybe—just maybe—he’d stay long enough to listen. Maybe he’d sit down. Maybe he’d see me with soft eyes again.

Maybe he'd forgive me.

I didn’t have time to cry about the 'maybes'. I had a plan.

I plugged in the iron, heated the blanket for five glorious seconds, and then quickly shoved the thermometer under it like a science experiment.

I pulled it out, squinting.

“37.8…”

Close enough. Feverish but not suspiciously terminal. Perfect.

I threw myself back onto the bed, pulling the blanket over my body like I was playing dead. Then I heated the top layer of the quilt slightly with the iron just so it looked like I’d been stewing under it all day.

My cheeks were already flushed from panic, which helped. Bonus.

I curled in dramatically, arm flopped over my forehead like a tragic little Victorian orphan, and whispered to the empty room:

“Let him believe this. Please.”

And then I waited.

For the knock.

For the storm.

For Johan.

And for whatever he would bring with him.

Whether it was forgiveness—or the final goodbye.