4

Hyerin's pen hovered over the page, her grip tightening slightly.

For a moment, I thought she would ignore me completely. That she would let her pride win and keep stubbornly pushing through the problem on her own, even knowing she was wrong.

But then—

A quiet exhale.

Subtle, barely noticeable. But I caught it.

Slowly, she shifted her notebook just slightly—not enough to be obvious, but enough for me to see more clearly.

Ah.

So she wasn't rejecting me after all.

I smiled to myself.

Lowering my voice, I tapped the edge of her paper with my pen. "This part—where you substituted the values—you missed a step here."

She adjusted her posture, eyes narrowing slightly as she scanned her own work.

"I thought that was right," she muttered, almost as if she were talking to herself rather than me.

"It would be," I mused, "if this were a basic problem. But Miss Kyung hates simple answers."

I tilted my notebook slightly toward her, revealing my own solution. My handwriting was precise, clean, and calculated—no unnecessary marks, no hesitation.

She glanced between my notes and her own, her pen tapping against the page.

On the board, Miss Kyung's problem remained unsolved, an intricate mess of algebraic expressions and probability rules—one of those innocent-looking problems that seemed simple at first glance but unraveled into chaos the longer you worked on it.

The first part tested limits—checking how a function behaves as it grows infinitely large. At a glance, it seemed like an easy substitution, but the trick was that the equation led to an indeterminate form, meaning it couldn't be solved directly. You had to take the derivative of both the top and bottom before you could even begin solving.

Hyerin had skipped that step entirely.

I glanced back at her notebook, watching as she hesitated before writing. She knew something was wrong but wasn't sure what.

"If you're going to use the shortcut method," I whispered, "you have to check if it actually applies first." I tapped my pen against the top of her page. "You can't just assume it works."

She frowned, scanning her own work again. Her fingers pressed slightly harder against her pen, her mind clearly working through my words.

She corrected the mistake, the new numbers forming cleanly beneath her old ones. She was quick. Even if she didn't understand immediately, she caught on fast.

"Good," I murmured. "Now your second mistake."

She paused, eyes narrowing at the second part of the equation—a definite integral. This section involved breaking an equation into smaller, solvable pieces before applying a set formula. But instead of separating the terms first, she had jumped straight into calculations.

"You forgot to split it," I pointed out, nudging my own notes toward her. "Rewrite it as separate terms before integrating each one."

A moment of silence. Then, finally, understanding flickered in her eyes.

Ah.

I leaned back, satisfied.

"You catch on fast," I murmured.

She didn't respond, but I saw the way her lips pressed together—not in frustration, but in thought.

She didn't like being wrong.

And I was beginning to think she didn't like owing people, either.

The soft tap of chalk against the board snapped my attention back.

Miss Kyung turned toward the class, a slow, expectant smile on her face. "Alright. Let's see who has an answer."

A few students exchanged uncertain glances. Others hunched over their work, hoping she wouldn't call on them.

I, of course, had already finished.

And beside me—so had Hyerin.

Miss Kyung's gaze swept the room before settling on me.

"Saehwa."

I met her stare without hesitation. "Yes?"

"Come solve it for us."

Predictable.

I rose from my seat, taking my notebook with me as I walked toward the front of the class.

The murmurs in the room quieted, expectation heavy in the air.

I picked up the chalk, my movements smooth and precise as I broke down each step effortlessly—first rewriting the function, proving that the shortcut actually applied, breaking the numbers down into smaller sections, and finally, solving the integral piece by piece.

By the time I finished, the solution stood clean, undeniable, correct.

I turned back to the class, setting the chalk down.

Miss Kyung hummed, nodding in approval. "As expected."

I returned to my seat, my expression neutral.

But as I sat down, I caught something from the corner of my eye—Hyerin looking at my work, her fingers lightly gripping the edge of her notebook.

She wasn't impressed.

She was studying it.

Good.

I leaned toward her slightly, voice just above a whisper.

"You would've gotten there eventually," I mused. "It's a shame you don't like shortcuts."

She flicked her gaze toward me, unimpressed. "It's not a shortcut if I actually learn something."

A pause.

Then I laughed softly.

So that's how she thinks.

I tapped my fingers against my desk, amusement settling in my chest.

"Alright then, Hyerin," I murmured, smiling slightly. "Let's see how long that lasts."

Hyerin didn't respond, at least not verbally. But the way she straightened slightly, the way her grip on her pen shifted—that was enough of an answer.

She wasn't backing down.

Interesting.

Miss Kyung clapped her hands together, drawing the class's attention back to the front. "Now that we've seen how it's done, let's move on." She turned to the board, erasing the previous problem with brisk, confident strokes. "This next one is a little more challenging."

A little.

I hid a small smirk as she began writing again. Her version of challenging was what most students would call downright impossible.

Around the room, I could feel the shift in atmosphere. The tension grew, faint but undeniable.

This was what I thrived in.

I twirled my pen between my fingers, already breaking down the problem in my mind before the last number was even written.

Hyerin, however, hesitated.

She stared at the board, her eyes scanning the equation, but she hadn't picked up her pen yet.

Ah.

I leaned in slightly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Too difficult?"

Her gaze flickered to me, but unlike earlier, there was no irritation this time—just focus.

"I'm thinking," she muttered.

I rested my chin against my palm, watching her. "Don't think too long. Miss Kyung doesn't believe in giving people time to figure things out at their own pace."

As if on cue, Miss Kyung turned, crossing her arms as she surveyed the room. "Since Saehwa did the last one, let's have someone else try this time."

I already knew where this was going.

She scanned the classroom deliberately, letting the silence build before her gaze landed exactly where I expected it to.

"Yeon Hyerin."

There it was.

I felt, rather than saw, the way Hyerin tensed for half a second before she composed herself.

"Come up and solve it for us."

A test.

Not just of ability, but of composure.

I exhaled, amused. This would be fun to watch.

For a moment, I thought she might refuse. It would have been the smart move—Miss Kyung didn't tolerate hesitation, but presenting the wrong answer was worse than saying nothing at all.

But then, Hyerin did something unexpected.

She picked up her notebook, rose from her seat, and walked to the front of the classroom.

No hesitation. No visible uncertainty.

I sat up slightly, intrigued.

The class was silent, watching her as she stood before the board, her pen poised in the air.

Would she solve it properly?

Would she fail completely?

Or would she do something that surprised me again?

I tapped my fingers lightly against my desk, eyes locked on her.

Let's see what you do, Yeon Hyerin.

Hyerin stood in front of the board, pen hovering just above the numbers Miss Kyung had written.

She didn't rush.

She didn't freeze.

She simply stared, as if dissecting the problem in her mind before committing a single mark to the board.

Interesting.

Most students, when called to solve a problem in front of the class, did one of two things—panic and fumble their way through it, or try to move fast to prove they knew what they were doing.

But Hyerin? She took her time, even under pressure.

Still, that wouldn't mean much if she didn't get it right.

The equation on the board was a layered mess of exponents, logarithmic rules, and an optimization problem thrown in for good measure.

A direct approach wouldn't work—Miss Kyung had written it specifically to trap students into making mistakes.

I leaned forward slightly, resting my chin against my hand.

The class watched in silence. Judging. Waiting. Expecting her to fail.

Then, finally, she moved.

She pressed the tip of the pen to the board and began breaking down the problem, one step at a time.

And I saw it.

She wasn't guessing.

She wasn't copying.

She was working through it, piece by piece, checking her logic as she went.

It wasn't perfect. She hesitated once—her pen hovering for a second longer than it should have on a fraction that needed simplifying. But instead of skipping over it, she backtracked, corrected herself, and kept going.

A murmur swept through the class.

They were expecting a disaster.

Instead, they were getting something much more frustrating—someone who wasn't perfect but wasn't failing either.

Someone who might actually belong here.

I smirked.

Hyerin finished writing her answer, stepping back slightly to check her own work.

Then, calmly, she turned to Miss Kyung.

A test of confidence.

The classroom held its breath.

Miss Kyung studied the board for a few seconds, then tapped her nails against the desk once. A small, thoughtful sound.

"Hmm," she murmured. "Not bad."

The words were simple, but in Miss Kyung's class, they meant everything.

Some of the students looked at Hyerin differently now.

Not as an outsider.

Not as someone destined to fail.

But as competition.

I watched as Hyerin walked back to her seat, setting down her notebook with quiet composure.

Her fingers were still curled slightly around her pen—the only sign that she had felt the pressure at all.

She wasn't as unaffected as she wanted people to think.

Still, she had pulled through.

I tapped my fingers against my desk, smiling.

Leaning toward her, I whispered, just low enough for only her to hear—

"Not bad at all, Yeon Hyerin."

She glanced at me, her expression unreadable.

Then, to my surprise, she smiled.

Not big, not obvious. Just the smallest, knowing curve of her lips.

And something about that expression—calm, steady, challenging in its own way—sent a spark of amusement through me.

Ah.

So she wasn't just interesting.

She might actually be fun.