Episode 3

Jang Woonyeong's POV

The week between our first session and the second felt like an eternity wrapped in anticipation.

I replayed every moment in my head—Taemin's calm nods, his practical suggestions, the way his brown curtain mullet caught the light when he tilted his head thoughtfully.

It wasn't just that he'd shown up; it was how he engaged, like he actually cared about the discussion, not just passing time.

For the first time in forever, I wasn't dreading the empty room. Instead, I arrived early to Room 204, armed with fresh flyers (just in case), a stack of annotated copies of The Great Gatsby, and even some snacks—simple things like chocolate bars and iced teas from the campus vending machine. If this was going to be a real study group, even with just two of us, I wanted it to feel welcoming.

I arranged everything on the table: notebooks open to key passages, highlighters in a neat row, and my laptop ready for any digital resources.

My long trim haircut was freshly trimmed that morning, the black with brown highlights styled just so, because why not? Confidence was key, even if inside, my stomach twisted with nerves.

What if he didn't come? What if the spark from last time was a fluke? I pushed the thoughts away, humming a tune under my breath as I scribbled potential essay outlines on the whiteboard.

The clock hit 4 PM, and the door opened right on time. There was Taemin, looking effortlessly cool in a simple hoodie and jeans, his brown hair falling in that effortless curtain mullet style.

He carried a backpack slung over one shoulder, and for a split second, our eyes met—his steady gaze meeting my eager one.

My heart did a little flip, which I quickly attributed to excitement over the session.

"Hey, you're right on time," I said, flashing my brightest smile as he slid into the seat across from me. "I brought snacks. Figured we could use some fuel for round two."

He raised an eyebrow, that cocky hint of a smirk playing on his lips as he dropped his bag. "Snacks? Didn't peg you for the hosting type, Woonyeong. But sure, I'll take one."

He reached for an iced tea, popping the top with a casual flick. It was such a small thing, but it made the room feel less like a classroom and more like... a hangout. Progress.

We dove in, picking up where we left off. I started with the green light symbolism again, but this time, I incorporated his suggestion from last week, outlining the plot beats first.

"So, after Gatsby's parties and the tension with Daisy, the green light represents not just unattainable dreams, but also the illusion of hope,"

I explained, underlining a quote in my book. "What do you think—does it tie into Taemin's idea of practical motivations? Like, Gatsby's not just romantic; he's calculated."Taemin leaned forward, his calm demeanor unbroken as he flipped through his own worn copy of the novel.

He'd clearly done some reading on his own—notes scribbled in the margins, which surprised me.

"Yeah, calculated for sure. But it's that common sense gap: he chases the dream without seeing the real barriers, like social class.

Daisy's not just a person; she's a status symbol." His voice was even, but there was a spark in his eyes, like he enjoyed challenging the layers.

I nodded vigorously, jotting down his point. "Exactly! That's a fresh angle. Most people just romanticize it.

" We went back and forth like that for what felt like minutes but was probably half an hour—debating character flaws, sketching mind maps on scrap paper, even laughing when I mispronounced a character's name in my enthusiasm.

His cockiness showed in little jabs, like when he teased, "You're overthinking Tom's jealousy; it's not Shakespeare, it's just ego." But it was light, open-minded, pulling me into the conversation rather than shutting it down.At one point, our hands brushed while reaching for the same highlighter.

It was accidental—purely—but the warmth lingered on my skin longer than it should have. I pulled back quickly, focusing on the page, but I caught him glancing at me, his expression unreadable.

Was that curiosity? Or just the room's stuffy air? I shook it off, steering us toward essay structure. "Okay, for the assignment due next week, we could structure it like this: intro on the American Dream, body on symbols, conclusion on modern relevance.

""Solid plan," he agreed, his tone approving. "But add a section on how it mirrors real life. Makes it less stuffy.

"By the time we wrapped up the Gatsby deep-dive, the snacks were half-gone, and the whiteboard was a colorful mess of arrows and bullet points. I felt alive, buzzing with ideas.

This wasn't just studying; it was connecting. "Hey, Taemin," I ventured as we packed up, my voice softer than usual.

"Thanks for coming again. It means a lot. I was... kinda worried no one would stick around.

"He paused, zipping his backpack, and looked at me directly—those calm eyes holding mine for a beat too long. "No big deal.

It's actually kinda fun. Beats studying alone." There was that smirk again, but softer this time. "Plus, your breakdowns aren't half bad."My cheeks warmed, and I laughed it off.

"High praise from the common sense king." As he headed for the door, I called out, "Same time next week? Maybe we tackle poetry next—something lighter?"He turned, nodding.

"Yeah. See you." The door clicked shut, and I sank into my chair, replaying the brush of hands, the shared laughs.

Something was shifting, slow and subtle, like the first hints of spring after a long winter.

Choi Taemin's POV

Walking to Room 204 felt different this time. Last week's session had lingered in my mind more than I'd admit—Woonyeong's energy, the way he lit up over a well-phrased analysis.

I wasn't one for overthinking, but curiosity had me rereading chunks of The Great Gatsby on my own.

Not because I needed to impress him or anything; just... open-minded exploration. At 19, I kept life simple: classes, occasional hangs with vague acquaintances, no drama. But Woonyeong?

He was a puzzle—extroverted yet isolated, confident yet vulnerable. Intriguing.I pushed the door open at exactly 4, spotting him mid-setup.

The table looked like a feast: books, notes, even snacks. His long trim haircut was impeccable, black with those brown highlights catching the light, and his smile hit me like a casual wave. Friendly, genuine. "Hey," I said, sliding in. The iced tea was a nice touch—cold and refreshing amid the campus heat.

He jumped right into it, but smarter this time, building on our last talk. I liked that; he listened. As we dissected the green light, I threw in my take on social barriers, watching his face light up. "Exactly!"

he said, scribbling furiously. It was easy to banter with him—his enthusiasm pulled responses out of me I didn't plan. When I teased about Tom's ego, he laughed, a real one that crinkled his eyes. Cute, in a non-committal way.The hand brush? Accidental, sure.

But I felt it too—the brief warmth, the way he flushed and dove back into the book. I glanced at him then, wondering if he noticed how the room felt smaller, cozier. Nah, probably just the snacks.

We mapped out the essay, my suggestion for a real-life tie-in landing well. He was good at this—talented, yeah, but also adaptable. It balanced my calm with his spark.

Packing up, he got real for a second: "Thanks for coming again. It means a lot." Vulnerability peeked through his confidence, and something in me softened. I wasn't used to that—people relying on me subtly. "No big deal," I replied, meaning it. "It's actually kinda fun.

" Fun. Understatement. His laugh at my "common sense king" jab eased the moment, and as I left, his invite for poetry next week hung in the air. Lighter topics? Sounded good.Outside, the campus paths were alive with students, but my mind wandered back to the room.

Woonyeong's energy wasn't overwhelming anymore; it was... pulling me in. Slow, sure, but undeniably there. I smirked to myself, adjusting my curtain mullet against the breeze. This study group? Yeah, I was in for the long haul.

Jang Woonyeong's POV

That night, back in my dorm, I couldn't sleep right away. The room was quiet, just the hum of the fan and distant chatter from the hallway.

I flipped through our shared notes on my phone—photos I'd snapped of the whiteboard, Taemin's margin scribbles I'd glimpsed. His handwriting was neat, surprisingly so, with little doodles next to key quotes.

A stick-figure Gatsby chasing a light? It made me chuckle.I thought about the session: how he'd challenged me without dismissing, how his cocky smirks hid a genuine interest. No one had ever stuck around like this, seeing past the "weird" label. My few close acquaintances texted sporadically, but Taemin? He showed up,

engaged, made it better. The hand brush replayed in my mind, innocent but electric. Was I reading too much into it? Probably. This was just friendship budding, slow and soft.Still, as I drifted off, I pictured next week—poetry, maybe sharing favorite lines over more snacks.

The hope from that first day? It was blooming now, tentative but real.

Taemin had joined my world, and quietly, I was stepping into his.

Choi Taemin's POV

My evening was low-key: grabbing takeout from the campus food truck, scrolling through my phone in my cramped dorm. But Woonyeong's words echoed—"It means a lot."

He didn't say it dramatically, just honest, and it stuck. I wasn't the type to collect friends; my circle was small, practical. Calm suited me. Yet here I was, pulling out The Great Gatsby again,

skimming for poetry ties—wait, no, next was poetry proper.His enthusiasm was contagious, I admitted to myself. The way he gestured, hair falling just so, eyes bright with ideas.

And that flush after our hands touched? Mirror of my own subtle shift. Cocky as I could be, I wasn't blind to the undercurrent—the slow pull of connection. Open-minded, remember? This could be something. Not rushing it, though. Just... seeing where it led.I set the book aside, smirking at the ceiling.

Study group sweethearts? Nah, too early for labels. But next week couldn't come soon enough.

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