Kibum knows that you can’t go through life understanding everything—that’s not a part of life, so even with all the inherent badass he possesses, he knows he can’t possibly understand everything. He knows he can’t possibly understand everything, but he would expect that he could at least understand his friends’ mindsets concerning midterms. He would expect, but he supposes that understanding this kind of thing just isn’t for him.

          He supposes that understanding why Jinwoon and Jaejin are currently huddled behind the same book, eyes rapidly zooming across pages as Jinwoon turns when Jaejin nods, understanding why Nicole has her hair tied back in the kind of ponytail that chases the male species away (except for Jinwoon who assured her that exam-hair was attractive while Kibum had to unstop Dongwoon’s esophagus in the hopes that Kikwang wouldn’t be widowed), understanding why Mir has fingers in his ears, lips silently mouthing words out of his notebook—

          He supposes that understanding all of that just isn’t for someone like him. It just isn’t for Kibum, because Kibum doesn’t understand what hullabaloo over midterms is.

          Although he suspects that this is because he started studying over winter vacation in an attempt to ward Jonghyun away—because the Neanderthal really needed to study more than Kibum, and Kibum did  this out of the good of his post-homo-erectus heart.

          Speaking of the good of his post-homo-erectus heart—

          “So how’s that thing with Kikwang-hyung going?” Kibum asks, tapping the summit of Dongwoon’s textbook-mountain—because his post-homo-erectus heart is so kind, he’s careful to tap it lightly so Dongwoon isn’t caught under an avalanche of algebra and biology.

          Dongwoon emerges from behind the mountain, looking thoroughly like he’s already dug himself out of five avalanches previously, and stares at Kibum. “I have a midterm,” he says, incredulously.

          Kibum frowns, confused, “So do I.”

          “I—you—no,” Dongwoon says, indignant now. He submerges himself back down except Kibum isn’t worried because it’s not like Dongwoon is a particularly unpredictable person and after years of being his friend, he’s even more boring and predictable, which means that all Kibum has to really do is sit back and wait about a minute before—

          “Wait—what thing?” Dongwoon pops back up. “What thing with Kikwang-hyung?”

          Kibum thinks he needs to get smarter friends or else he’ll start to lose his own brain cells—like a parasitic virus. After all, Joon was probably pretty smart until Jonghyun was born. “You know—the thing,” Kibum says.

          Dongwoon stares at him. “How do you know about that?”

          Kibum shrugs and shifts over a little bit to the right so he can get a better view of Jinwoon almost-starting-to-cry because he has about seven minutes left to memorize thirty more definitions. “Jonghyun-hyung almost died,” he answers simply. “We couldn’t make-out because he kept laughing thinking about it.”

          “It’s not that I don’t want to,” Dongwoon says glumly.

          The swimmer looks at him. “Obviously—if you didn’t want to have with Kikwang-hyung, you’re probably blind or retarded.” Kibum casually kicks one of the table’s legs so that Jinwoon’s precariously paper-clipped definitions fall to the ground like a house of cards. Jinwoon dives for his index cards and Mir is almost knocked out of his chair in the process.

Jaejin laughs.

“Wait—wait,” Dongwoon moves his arm over as Nicole s around for another pencil to squeeze in one last note. “What d’you mean by that?”

Kibum snorts. “What do you mean what do I mean? I mean that even I want to do him. He’s like Joon-hyung, you know? He’s that kind of guy that everyone wants to do even if they don’t actually have any interest in him.” He bites his lip thoughtfully, pushing his glasses (specially just for midterm week—to make him look smart and hot and Jonghyun gets whenever Kibum wears them) higher up on his nose. “I guess that makes Kikwang-hyung losing it to Joon-hyung ironic, y’know?”

Dongwoon’s eyes widen—

Whoa—

“Guys—seriously!” Nicole screams, standing up. She stands up, and Mir and Jaejin and Jinwoon stand up along with her. Kibum considers standing up too, but he’s not really in any line of danger as Dongwoon stumbles off of his chair at those words and his textbook-Mount-Everest goes careening it its inevitable avalanche, bringing down Nicole’s, Mir’s, Jinwoon’s, and Jaejin’s respective Mount Everests with it.

          “What did you say to him now?” Jaejin asks, eyeing Kibum as Nicole starts slapping Dongwoon’s back out of pure frustration and Jinwoon begins to rebuild everyone’s mountains.

“Nothing,” Kibum says, eyes widening. “We were just talking about Kikwang-hyung.” He glances at Dongwoon. “Right?” He glances at Dongwoon, expecting the other boy to nod back because Dongwoon probably just had a tiny spaz attack at Kibum repeating that fact out loud since of course it would be something the soccer player doesn’t want to think about regularly but there honestly was no reason to kill the textbook mountains like that.

He glances at Dongwoon and Dongwoon is looking back—he’s looking back but not the way that Kibum thought he would, not the way Dongwoon is supposed to be looking back. Dongwoon is staring back—is wide-eyed and open-mouthed and standing there motionless while the rest of the ’91-line hustles and bustles around him trying to clean up the books so the rest of the cafeteria doesn’t start staring.

Kibum stares back now, confused. “What?” Really confused.

“Kikwang-hyung,” Dongwoon says slowly, in a hushed voice, “lost it to Joon-hyung?”

.

.

Really, really—.

Suddenly, the others freeze at whatever they’re doing, whether that happens to be rebuilding textbook mountains or continuing sifting through oceans of notes. They all stare at Kibum, Mir and Jaejin with open mouths, Jinwoon with wide eyes, Nicole blinking in surprise, and Dongwoon looking like Kibum has just slapped him across the face.

At this rate, Kibum thinks that he really might slap Dongwoon across the face because that kind of information isn’t really the kind you’re supposed to blurt out even in front of your closest friends because that kind of information is neither Kibum nor Dongwoon’s kind of information—it’s Jonghyun’s information that he gave to Kibum specifically because he trusted Kibum and now the entire ’91-line knows and Kibum thinks he might have to kill some of them to keep them silent.

“Joonie-hyung—” Mir starts, gaping.

Kibum grabs the front of the track athlete’s collar before he himself really realizes what he’s doing. Their faces are close enough to kiss and Mir’s head is wrenching back as far away as his neck will let him. “I swear you’ll die,” Kibum whispers through his teeth. “I swear you will die if Joon-hyung finds out that you know. You—will—die, Mir-ah.”

He lets go of Mir (who falls back into his seat) and looks out at the others—all of which, with the exception of Dongwoon, have all retaken their own seats and have reburied their faces either behind textbook mountains or note oceans. There’s still the scent of fear hovering in the air, but Kibum no longer feels like any of this fear is attributed to the exams they’re about to face in less than half an hour.

          Junhyung hands the teacher the rest of the exams as everyone else goes to the front of the classroom to get their backpacks and cell phones. He’s the first one in the row, so he shuffles the Scantrons and booklets into smaller piles, and places them on the edge of the teacher’s desk. Their AP Government teacher nods at him briskly, busy with unlocking her drawer so everyone can get their cell phones and head out. He slips his hand through the huddle of students and manages to get his own phone and Yoseob’s in one go.

          Joon has his arms wrapped around Doojoon’s waist adamantly in the back corner, whining on something about principal’s offices and different school entrances. Yoseob is just bending down to get his backpack, strapping it into place and turning around as Junhyung approaches him. “Here,” he says, giving the younger boy his cell phone. “It wasn’t too bad, I thought,” Junhyung goes on, thinking over his answers, “There was that one essay question, though—”

          “Why’d you tell Hyunseung-hyung that you want to hang out with me and not him?” Yoseob asks, looking up at Junhyung, clearly upset—clearly having harbored this thought for a while now. He takes his phone, expression expectant, expression waiting for an explanation—an answer.

          An answer that Junhyung doesn’t have to give because he really, really doesn’t even ing remember saying something like that. He doesn’t remember ever saying something like that but he does remember, most certainly ing remembers saying the exact opposite not even a week ago. His eyebrows furrow and he feels his mouth pull into a frown. “I didn’t,” he says, confused. “Who—how—who told you that I did?”

          Yoseob blinks back, now looking just as puzzled as Junhyung feels. “Hyunseung-hyung,” he says, frowning back. “Wait—you mean you didn’t say that to him?”

          Junhyung stares. “Why would I ever say that to him?”

          “I don’t know,” Yoseob says and suddenly—unexpectedly—his voice rises. He sighs. “I don’t know—that’s just what he told me.”

          Junhyung casts his eyes downward, biting his lip. He glances back to Yoseob with narrowed eyes, eyebrows knitting together. “You think,” he begins slowly, running all of this through his mind, putting pieces together because that’s all he ever gets to do with Hyunseung—he never gets the full story, never gets the whole picture of what’s in Hyunseung’s mind—Junhyung is always putting together bits and pieces, and left to figure it out all on his own. “Do you think,” he says quietly, leaning in so Joon and Doojoon won’t catch anything, “that maybe he doesn’t want to hang out with me?”

          It’s Yoseob’s turn to stare. “Hyung,” he says and there is faint disbelief in his voice, “how is it not obvious to you that Hyunseung-hyung is ly—”

          Junhyung races out the door.

          Sees a flash of passing round eyes and glossy, liquid hair—

          He races out the doorway before Yoseob can finish his sentence, disregarding that even though the bell for the end of exams has rung, their teacher hasn’t dismissed them yet—he doesn’t care, doesn’t care and races out sprinting down the hall and skidding into a stuttering halt at the corner to slow himself down because if he doesn’t slow himself down, doesn’t stop, then he’ll end up ramming right into—

          “Hyunseung-ah,” Junhyung calls. He jogs forward a little bit as the other boy turns around. Hyunseung stops in the middle of the hallway just as the other classrooms are being dismissed and students start filing out of their first exams. Junhyung knows from Hyunseung’s schedule that Hyunseung doesn’t have a first exam today and has probably just arrived at school.

           When Junhyung gets up close he sees that Hyunseung is blinking in surprise behind thick, black-rimmed spectacles—most students whip out glasses and forego contacts when exam week rolls around. Most students do this but for some reason Junhyung doesn’t really notice it until he sees Hyunseung—doesn’t really notice until he sees Hyunseung wearing those glasses, doesn’t really notice until he sees how Hyunseung’s hair is tousled from lack of time, unhidden by a beanie because of uniform rules, how Hyunseung’s round eyes are still a little bit sleep and puffy, how Hyunseung’s shirttails are untucked and his tie isn’t fully tied around his collar yet because he probably woke up late after studying all night like Junhyung knows he likes to do because for Hyunseung cramming is more affective since his memory works like that.

          Junhyung remembers how Hyunseung used to tell him that he can remember straight out facts—not things like math problems, mind, just facts—that he can remember them easier when he’s just recently skimmed his eyes over them, even if he doesn’t think about the why’s and how’s in depth. He remembers how Hyunseung always used to steal Junhyung’s notes just as they’re walking out of the cafeteria and down the hall to take their exams—always used to spend just one more minute writing down a few more notes, or rewriting that one last sentence to compare and contrast with the notebook on Junhyung’s back as a makeshift desk.

          “Hey,” Hyunseung smiles. “First exam go okay?”

          Junhyung puts his hands in his pockets so Hyunseung won’t see the fists, won’t see how his knuckles are turning white and his nails are making his palms turn red. “It went okay,” he says, and then realizes that Hyunseung might not know that he has AP Government the same period as Joon and Doojoon and—

          “I hate Gov,” Hyunseung wrinkles his nose. “I can’t believe you think it’s easy.”

          Junhyung blinks. “What?”

Hyunseung knows?

He—

Remembers?

“You think it’s easy,” Hyunseung repeats with raised eyebrows. “Right?” He shifts the textbook and notebooks in his arms slightly. “You told me before that politics and government crap is really easy for you to understand even though you think history is hard.”

“Oh—um—I mean—yeah,” Junhyung says and thinks it’s an accomplishment that he’s even coherent because it’s true—it’s true that he did tell Hyunseung this before. He’s told this to Hyunseung before, but he’s pretty sure that he said this two years ago—so long that Junhyung himself doesn’t even quite remember when he said it but it was probably back at the beginning of their first year when Junhyung was having trouble with World History.

They probably weren’t even together yet.

          “So, what’s up?” Hyunseung tilts his head, the tip of his tongue sticking out between his lips.

          Junhyung swallows dryly, nervously, inhaling deeply. “After,” he starts out slowly, “after midterms, we’re going to hang out, right?”

          Hyunseung’s eyes stretch large and wide behind his glasses for a split second before he suddenly looks down—looks away. Junhyung’s chest tightens—he’s right. Junhyung is right. Junhyung is right and it’s never hurt more. It’s never hurt more and he’s never wanted to be wrong this badly in his life. But he’s right, he’s right, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

          “You know,” Hyunseung says then, eyes still focused somewhere on Junhyung’s shoulder. “It’s okay if you want to hang out with Yoseob. He’s hurt and you didn’t get to see him all break.”

          Junhyung doesn’t say that he didn’t get to see Hyunseung all break either.

          “I’m not going to be mad or anything,” and then Hyunseung looks up—he looks up and Junhyung’s nails dig into his palms so much deeper that if he wasn’t so taken away by Hyunseung’s expression, then he’d be afraid that he might break the skin. But then Hyunseung has to make it worse—has to make it a thousand, ten-thousand, times worse by smiling—by smiling even though the sadness in his eyes, the hurt, already confuses Junhyung and stabs him enough, Hyunseung has to add to that and smile like that—smile like he doesn’t mean it at all, like he’s not even trying. “We’re still friends, Junhyung-ah.”

          Junhyung finds himself smiling—finds his own lips curving the same way Hyunseung’s are—insincerely and emotionlessly and not meaning the smile at all, something bitter and longing and unsatisfied. Because he knows—he knows—he knows they’re still friends, of course they’re still friends. Junhyung knows that they’re still friends, will still be friends, will always be friends—

          It’s just—

          Junhyung doesn’t want to be friends.

          But if that’s all Hyunseung wants to be—

          Then what else can Junhyung do about it?

          But if—

          Friends—then—

          “Friends hang out,” Junhyung says quietly, and suddenly his erratic heartbeat eases off just a little—gains something steady, gains some sort of footing in his chest, gains a new pace, gains the ability to breathe again. “Right?”

          Hyunseung’s mouth falls open—his tongue darts out, sweeping over his lips as his eyes blink, clearly surprised. “I mean—I mean—”

          With every thud Junhyung’s heart gives now, it becomes stronger and stronger—surer and surer as his mind realizes, as his thoughts whirl forward, as he understands what he has to do. “You’re my friend,” Junhyung says and his heart is back on its own two feet now—his heart is up and standing and now he can even tug half of his mouth into a small smile, “and Yoseob’s my friend. But I have a lot more classes with him than I have with you.”

          “Yeah, but if you—”

          “We’re hanging out whether you want to or not, you know” Junhyung teases and this realization—this epiphany—he loves it. It’s precarious, it’s still dangerous, still terribly and horrifically risky, but right now it’s all Junhyung has and his heart, his mind, his everything is clinging to it with all that it’s got left.

          And then—

          “That’s a crime,” Hyunseung grins back, “you know.”

          He’s grinning.

          He’s smiling.

          Hyunseung is grinning—smiling—smiling and grinning and smiling and grinning and smiling and grinning and Junhyung wonders if maybe this is it. If maybe this is what he had to realize all along to fix this—if maybe this is the way to fix it, if maybe he can finally fix this, if maybe this will work—maybe—

          Junhyung laughs. “I’ll text you later, then,” he says as he spots Kikwang approaching from Hyunseung’s end of the hallway, “about this whole criminal thing.”

          “Later,” Hyunseung smiles back, turning to look in the same direction Junhyung is. Kikwang is waving his arms, motioning for Hyunseung to walk over, and Junhyung watches the other boy jog down the hall.

          If friends is all Hyunseung wants to be, then there’s nothing Junhyung can do about that.

          But they were friends before too, after all, weren’t they?

          He can work with this—at least it’s something—anything—he just needs something, and he can work with it. If starting over from the beginning is what it takes, Junhyung will do it.

          Only this time, he’ll do it better—he’ll do it right.

          Joon’s eyes breeze over his Literature notes—his eyes breeze over the same page, the same words, the same bullet that they’ve been breezing over for the past hour and a half. He breezes over his own handwriting for the umpteenth time before he glances over to the door that he’s sitting beside. He glances at the door—the locked door, the tightly closed door, the soundproof door, the principal’s door.

          He’s been sitting here ever since the exams ended for the day—has brought the material he needs to study for the exams he has tomorrow and camped out in front of this door as soon as the last bell rang, as soon as he was sure that the people the principal needs to see have gone into the office, as soon as he was sure that no teachers would walk by and ask why Joon hasn’t already gone home because since when does the principal ever need to see Lee Changsun unless it’s to give him another track trophy?

          Joon flips his notebook over and decides that, at the very least, he should stop rereading the same sentence over and over and actually get some real studying done. If he fails his Literature exam, everything is pretty much moot anyway and him waiting out here for hours won’t help anything if he doesn’t ace it.

          Plus, Jihoon-hyung might beat him up if he gets anything less than a B+.

          Joon personally thinks it’s unfair that out of all the teachers that consider themselves Joon’s hyung, it has to be the one that’s ten times bigger than everyone else in Korea. And the one that gets to date Hyori-noona. Which is just a lot of unfairness in any case.

          He takes his phone out of his pocket, checking the time and wincing when he sees that if it gets any later, he’ll actually have to call his parents’ cell phones and tell them that he’s going to be out longer than usual—and calling his parents to discuss curfew is something that he never has to do. That’s something Jonghyun does. Not that Jonghyun uses the curfew to study anyway—Joon just has to hope that Km Kibum has the sense of self-preservation not to fail his exams and therefore force Jonghyun to study.

          And, if not the sense of self-preservation, then at least the sense of humanity to prevent a fellow human being from reaching his own demise before he even graduates high school.

          Except—

          Oh—

          Oh, right.

          Yeah—Kibum doesn’t even consider Jonghyun a human. He considers Jonghyun pre-homo-erectus.

          Which—you know—isn’t as inaccurate as it first sounds.

          Joon’s phone vibrates suddenly—a short tremble in his hands and an accompanying sound. He glances down, fingers sliding up and down on the screen—Doojoon is telling him to stop, to go home and study for ’s sakes and just leave it alone. He realizes then that he’s missed a few texts before that—texts from Jonghyun asking him if he’s still at school, texts from Mir telling him that he should at least buy something to eat while he’s waiting, texts from Junhyung telling him that Seungho can take care of himself and that none of this is Joon’s fault anyway.

          He smiles a little to himself, closing all of those messages and tucking his phone back away into his pocket. It’s funny sometimes, he thinks, the fact that they call him retard more than by his own name and then bombard him with texts like these—telling him to go home, telling him to study, telling him that it’s not his fault, telling him to eat.

          Joon knows he’ll reply to all of them when he gets home—but right now—right now, he—

          There are sounds, footsteps and voices, starting to approach the door—Joon vaguely can make out, as they get nearer, can make out farewells and knows how the people on the other side are probably bowing, giving for later appointments and so forth. He closes his notebook and leans down to tuck it into his backpack, and in its place, takes out a different notebook—a thin composition unlike his own thick spiral.

          He sits up a little bit straighter on the bench, waiting for the door to open and wondering who’ll come out first.

          Joon doesn’t have to wait—he doesn’t really have to guess—

          The door snaps open briskly, and the first one out is Choi Insu himself, still in his uniform, probably fresh from failing his exams earlier this morning (because it’s not like anyone in the school, students and teachers alike, doubt that he did), hands in his pockets, hair in his eyes (far past the permitted, uniform length) and satisfied smirk on his lips as his parents file closely behind.

          “Sajangnim,” Joon says cheerfully, standing up and bowing at the same time that Choi Jinhyuk, Insu’s father and the president of one of the lower companies below Joon’s parents’, takes Joon’s hand and shakes it heartily. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

          Jinhyuk smiles broadly, and slaps Joon a few times on the back, pulling him into a partial hug. “Changsun-ah, you’re looking good. Exams going all right? School going all right? Your father said that the scouts are on your house like vultures—must be hard graduating soon, huh?”

          Joon smiles back, his brightest smile, curving and narrowing his eyes in a way that he thinks would make Kikwang proud. “Yeah, Byunghee-hyung’s really helping—you know, sorting the offers and stuff. Jihoon-hyung is, too.” He bows at Jinhyuk’s wife, Insu’s mother, Hwang Minsoon, giving her a similar, flashing smile.

          “Good to hear, good to hear,” Jinhyuk says and then turns slightly, gripping Insu by the shoulder and pulling him forward. “Have you boys met at school, yet? I mean,” he grins, clapping Joon on the back again, “I get that the most a third year like you has to do with first years is stuffing them into trash cans, but—”

          “We haven’t met, actually,” Joon says and Insu is giving him a defiant glare, challenging, and still smirking a little. He raises his eyebrows at the younger boy, and Insu raises his own right back. “I just know that he’s in Seungho-hyung’s class, right?”

          Insu’s mother sighs, just as Jinhyuk shakes his head disappointedly. “Changsun-ah, I know he’s your coach, and I’m very, very sorry that you didn’t know about this—I know it probably comes as a huge shock—”

          “He’s my tutor for AP Lit,” Joon says, smiling brightly again. “He came over a lot during winter break.”

          Jinhyuk and his wife stare as Insu suddenly looks downward. “He,” Jinhyuk says slowly, “Excuse me?”

          “Seungho-hyung’s really smart,” Joon goes on, and wonders if maybe there’s some way to discreetly bash Insu’s head into the bench that holds Joon’s backpack and books. “And apparently, he was even better than Byunghee was at track when they went to school together.”

          “Changsun-ah—” Minsoon begins in placating voice, as if about to break the news to a three-year-old about how his or her toy broke.

          “How much,” Joon says, smile still firmly planted on his face, “I’ve always wondered how much Insu’s allowance is. It’s probably a lot, right? To be able to afford all that weed.”

          To be honest—

          Joon never really expected anything different.

          He never really thought that Minsoon or Jinhyuk would cringe, would be surprised, would be shocked, would even show any real reaction. He did expect, however, that they both already know. He definitely expected, definitely thought, that both Minsoon and Jinhyuk both know that Insu is doing less than wholesome activities during his nights out.

          He pretty much expected for Jinhyuk to shrug like the man is doing right now.

          He pretty much expected Jinhyuk to clap his shoulder (for the third time in less than ten minutes) and say in what is supposed to be a fatherly air, although Joon doesn’t know how fatherly a man who has no problem with his child smoking can be, “Boys’ll be boys,” he says warmly. “Especially first years, you know? Insu’s just getting a feel of things—still trying to make friends—as soon as he gets to your age, he’ll stop, start thinking about college. I’m sure you remember what you were like just two years ago, right?”

          “I didn’t smoke,” Joon says and taints his own voice with confusion, with blank puzzlement—because that’s how they always expect him to be, the people his father works with always like to believe that there’s no way the son of someone so successful could be anything except dumb and spoiled and defenseless.

          “Of course you didn’t,” Jinhyuk nods and claps Joon’s back—again. “Anyway, Changsun-ah, we’ll have to be going. Insu has to study and I have to get that deal for your father ready—”

          Joon grabs hold of Jinhyuk’s hand, pasting a smile back on his face once again. “You know,” he says amiably, “Appa really cares about how I do in school.”

          “Well, of course he does, he’s—”

          “So,” Joon cuts him off because he thinks that if he gets clapped on the back one more time, Insu really will end up in a trash can headfirst, “if I were to start failing AP Lit again because my tutor was fired, then Appa would probably be so busy looking for a new tutor who’s just as good as Seungho-hyung, and then he wouldn’t have any time to sign that deal that you need.”

          All three mouths fall open—in a relay, starting with Insu and then Jinhyuk and then Minsoon.

          Their mouths fall open and after Joon counts to eleven, the reactions start pouring in with Insu shaking his head frantically at his parents and Minsoon grabbing onto her husband’s arm and Jinhyuk still frozen in place. Jinhyuk hasn’t moved an inch—his expression is stone carved into his face, while his son and wife are more than clearly nudging him and imploring him to say something—to do something—and Insu’s expression makes it look like he actually believes that Joon is just kidding.

          Joon gets to the count of forty-two before Minsoon starts to look embarrassed and she pushes Jinhyuk away to get him walking, Insu trailing after them wordlessly and glowering at Joon as they leave.

          They reach the end of the hall just as Joo-seonsangnim, the first year English teacher, comes up, obviously heading for the principal’s office that Joon is standing in front of. Joon bows as he puts on his backpack and Joo-seonsangnim nods his head briskly, about to open the door. “Um,” Joon says, holding out the thin composition book in his hand, “I think Seung—um—Yang-seonsangnim is still in there. Could you give this to him for me?”

          The teacher raises his eyebrows. “You don’t want to give it to him yourself?” he asks, gesturing with his head towards the door. “I can let you in.”

          “Nah, it’s fine,” Joon says with a small smile. “I have to go home and study. I have a midterm to ace tomorrow.”