My Adorable Little Rascal

The corridor outside the auditorium feels unusually quiet.

Skylar follows Julian in silence, her steps steady but cautious. The way he called her out after the opening ceremony—with no explanation, no eye contact, nothing—raises more questions than answers.

They turn a corner and stop near a window, where the sunlight spills in, outlining the sharp lines of Julian's face. His silver student council badge catches the light like a warning sign.

"So?" she asks, folding her arms: "Why'd you call me out?"

Julian leans against the wall, arms crossed. He doesn't look at her directly.

"Nothing urgent," he says coolly: "Just wanted to say… you read surprisingly well."

Skylar blinks.

Then smirks.

But the smile isn't warm—it's the kind of smile that makes people instinctively step back.

"Wow," she says sweetly: "You speak. I was beginning to think you were allergic to words."

Julian's expression doesn't shift, but his eyes narrow slightly.

"Not used to being praised?"

"I'm just not used to compliments wrapped in thorns," she replies.

A tense silence settles between them, thick like fog.

Then Julian changes tack:

"Let's debate. Just you and me. One topic. No audience."

Skylar raises an eyebrow, genuinely amused: "A debate?"

"You seem confident with a mic. Let's see how sharp your tongue is off-script."

She laughs softly: "Let me guess... You'll be the judge?"

"No. Dang will judge. Fair game."

Her expression changes, just slightly. Not fear—but calculation.

"Sorry," she says with a hint of mockery. "I'm a model student. I spend my time studying, not entertaining testosterone-fueled power games."

Julian's jaw tightens: "You have something against me?"

"Wouldn't dare," she replies smoothly.

But her tone hits like a slap.

The silence between them becomes sharp. Cold.

Footsteps echo down the hall.

Two students appear from around the corner.

"Uh... Hey," one says awkwardly: "Mr. Loin wants to see you two. Like, now."

Julian nods once. Skylar turns to them, her smile returning like a mask.

"Thanks. We'll head there right away."

The boys blush furiously and whisper as they leave.

"Her smile is kinda... scary?"

"No kidding. It's like she knows what you're thinking."

They walk side by side through the second-floor corridor. Outside the wide glass windows, a gentle breeze rustles the trees. Leaves are beginning to fall—too early for autumn. The hallway is clean, pale gray tiles gleaming under the light.

But the air between them feels colder than the weather allows.

They reach the faculty office. Mr. Loin, sitting behind his desk, gestures toward the chairs without looking up from his papers.

"Julian, Skylar. From today onward, you'll serve as class president and vice president, respectively. Any objections?"

"None," they say in unison.

Skylar's voice is polite. Julian's is flat.

Mr. Loin slides a stack of papers across the desk—classroom layouts, schedules, orientation documents, and the entry test.

"Split them as you see fit. I expect cooperation."

Julian picks up the stack, quickly sorting through it.

"We'll divide them."

Skylar calmly takes the larger portion: "I'm not afraid of paper cuts."

Julian glances at her hand. It's pale, small. But somehow… not fragile.

"Of course," he murmurs: "You've been through worse."

Skylar pauses. Her eyes narrow.

"What did you just say?"

Julian blinks once. Then looks away.

"Nothing important. Let's go."

They step out of the office.

For a moment, neither speaks.

But the silence between them isn't empty—it's filled with questions. With something unspoken.

Skylar tightens her grip on the test papers.

We just met? She thinks: So why... does it feel like he's seen me before?

And that look in his eyes… was that guilt?