TAEHYUNG'S POV

I was definitely sweating. Just a bit. Not that it was visible or anything—I made sure to wear black because black didn't betray you like grey did. Grey was a snitch. Black was loyalty.

My fingers were cold. My right leg wouldn't stop bouncing under the wooden desk like I was composing a symphony on anxiety. And every time the library door creaked, my soul left my body and hovered somewhere near the ceiling. 

I was beginning to regret telling her to show up sharp at 2. Sharp. Like I had any business being sharp about anything.

A mountainous mess of math volumes were splayed in front of me like I was cramming for an Ivy League interview, which, let's be real, was kind of insulting to my previous academic brilliance. I did know how to integrate using by-parts and the ILATE rule—I'd just spent an hour last night letting some Youtube dude with a monotone voice reaffirm it.

But teaching her?

Now that was what had me sweating through my shirt.

Because it wasn't just about the math. No, no. That would've been a picnic. This was about sitting in front of the girl who had every reason to throw me into a volcano and instead had agreed—barely, grudgingly, and probably under cosmic duress—to let me tutor her.
And I, in all my infinite wisdom and low-key desperation, had decided to "prepare."

Which translated to six YouTube playlists, three Reddit threads, and exactly one existential crisis at 3 a.m.

I even made color-coded notes.
Color. Coded. Notes.

God, who even was I anymore?

2:03 PM.

She was late. Not by much. But late enough for my already-wrecked nervous system to imagine she'd changed her mind, remembered I was the human equivalent of a traffic accident, and walked right back out.

I pulled out my phone and stared at our chat, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
You coming?
Too clingy.
Don't bail now.
Too accusatory.
I promise I actually know math.
Flat-out lie.

I was about to settle on something neutral like "Library, back table," when the library door slammed open so hard I flinched like I'd been caught stealing.

My head snapped up.

There she was.
And she looked...
Murderous.

 Her lips were pressed into a flat line, and her bag hung off one shoulder like she'd been too angry to carry it properly.

My fingers froze mid-text.

Oh no.

She was pissed.

No, she was capital-P PISSED.

She stopped right in front of me. Dead still. Arms crossed. Brow arched. Breath heavy and agitated like she'd just walked through literal hell to get here.

Which, considering she had to see my face at the finish line, might be accurate.

"Hi?" I said. It came out more like a question. Because I was scared.

She didn't reply. Just stared. No, glared. I could hear her breath. Hell, I could feel her breath. Probably because she was about two seconds away from exhaling fire.

I quickly tried to play innocent, eyes darting between her face and the very unassuming calculus textbook I had opened in front of me. A prop, really. The book was upside down.

Great.

I gulped.

"...Did I do something?" I tried again, voice cracking somewhere in the middle.

No answer.

I was starting to sweat.

She slammed into the chair opposite me like she was staging a coup, arms crossed, a huff loud enough to rattle the pencils in my bag. 

Without warning, she shoved her phone at my face, nearly smacking my nose.
"Explain this," she bit out, finger stabbing at the screen like it had personally wronged her.

I leaned in, squinting, because one: the font size was microscopic, and two: she'd shoved it so close my brain needed time to adjust.
My name—my chat—was open on her phone.

I felt a twitch tug at the corner of my mouth. Not sure why? 

I cleared my throat. "Uh... that's a phone. And, considering my chat is open, I'm going to take a wild guess here—it's yours."

"Exactly." Her eyes narrowed into deadly slits. "The heck, Kim Taehyung? What was wrong with you last night? Who sends seventy-five plus messages in a single night—"

"Seventy-five?" My voice cracked on the number like it had just been handed a death sentence.

"Yes. Seventy-five plus. About tutoring. About spots and books and other nonsense no one cares about at 2 a.m." She didn't even pause to breathe. "Do you have any idea how insane you sound? Or how suspicious it looks when my dad thinks I'm getting hourly texts from the guy who's supposedly tutoring me?"

My eyes went wide. Right. In my pure, unfiltered excitement over finally getting her number, I might have... crossed some sort of socially acceptable texting limit. No wonder she looked ready to stab me with a protractor.

Typical Taehyung move—hand me my own shovel so I can dig the grave faster.

She smacked the table lightly with her fist—just enough to make me flinch and the librarian's glare deepen from across the room.
"Taehyung," she hissed, "just because I—regrettably—gave you my number doesn't give you the pathetic right to spam my inbox at midnight with useless texts like 'which book do you prefer' and—" she glanced down at her phone, then back at me with pure disgust— "'should we hang out later and bunk class.' Seriously, dude?"

I sighed, staring down at the upside-down textbook in front of me. "You could've just turned off notifications."

Her head tilted, eyes sharpening to full threat mode. "What did you just say?"

My survival instincts kicked in. Without missing a beat, I slid two paper cups across the table until they stopped right under her nose.

My eyes found hers, deliberately softening as I lifted my brows. "Caramel macchiato," I said, the corner of my mouth twitching upward. "Consider it... an apology."

She blinked, thrown off balance. And for a second, I swore I saw the glare crack.

She stared at the coffee like I just handed her a live grenade.

Her fingers hover for a second — long enough for me to consider shoving it back and pretending this never happened — but then she snatched it with that reluctant, too-proud flick of the wrist.

"Fine," she muttered, still glaring at me like she's deciding whether to pour it over my head instead.

 Progress.

I leaned back, forcing a casual shrug I wasn't sure my insides believe. "That's the spirit. Sugar's already in there. Don't say I don't know my students."

Her eyebrow lifts in slow, dangerous disbelief. "I'm not your student."
Right. Forgot the part where she still hates me.

"Sure, sure," I say, flipping my notebook open and pretending my palms aren't clammy. "You're just... an unfortunate soul who got stuck with me as your guide to mathematical salvation."

She took a sip, eyes never leaving mine, and I swear my heartbeat's doing calculus in my chest.
I cleared my throat, picked up my pen, and started scribbling integrals like my life depended on it — which, if we're honest, it kind of did.

She set the cup down with surgical precision, flipping open her notebook to a page that looked like a crime scene—half-erased formulas, messy arrows, numbers squished into corners.
"Alright," she said, voice clipped. "If you're actually going to be useful, explain this."

I leaned forward, scanning the problem. Easy.
"This is just a quadratic in disguise," I said, scribbling out the steps on a scrap paper. "You factor it, and—"

"Don't just do it," she cut in. "Explain it so I actually understand, you genius."

I arched a brow. "You know, most people would be nicer to the person voluntarily saving their GPA."

"Most people wouldn't need saving." She smirked, just enough to make it sting.

And there it was—that razor-edge banter she wielded like a blade. I found myself grinning anyway. "Fine. We'll go slow. This term here—" I circled it, tapping my pen— "comes from multiplying the factors. See? It's not that scary."

Her gaze flicked to me, unimpressed. "I'm still not seeing it."

God help me, I almost enjoyed the challenge. I slid my chair closer, close enough that I could smell her shampoo—something clean, sharp, not sweet like her coffee.
"Look," I said, lowering my voice like we were conspiring, "if you split this middle term here, it'll click. Trust me."

Her eyes narrowed, darting to the paper, then back to me. "If this doesn't make sense in the next sixty seconds, I'm charging you for my wasted time."

I couldn't help laughing. "Deal."

We worked through the first problem in brittle silence — except it's not really silence. Every time she caught herself understanding, she looked almost annoyed—like learning from me was some personal defeat.

Half an hour in, she finally asked, "And what if... I get it wrong?"
It's quieter than before. Less teeth in it.

I set my pen down, meeting her eyes without flinching this time. "Then I'll explain it again. And again. Until you don't."

Her gaze lingered on me a beat too long — like she's looking for the catch — before she dropped it to the page.

 "Still annoying," she muttered.

But she didn't sound convinced.

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WORD COUNT: 1519 Words
PUBLISHED ON: Oct 10, 2024

LATEST EDITED VERSION as on 10th Sep, 2025

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