Episode 31
16 May 2025. Wednesday. Morning. SNU, women's dormitory.
Mi-yeon woke up fully dressed in her bed.
Her throat was dry.
Her head felt like it had been square-shaped and filled with concrete.
She let out a miserable groan.
"Han-bin… please… turn it off… I'm begging you, turn off that cursed alarm…"
Han-bin put her makeup session on pause and stepped out of the washroom. She calmly tapped snooze on Mi-yeon's phone.
She spoke in a strict tone—clearly exaggerated, enjoying herself.
"Fine. But if you don't get up, it'll ring again in five minutes. And the second time, I'm not saving you. Remember that."
With great effort and a long, theatrical groan, Mi-yeon forced herself to sit up.
She muttered weakly, "How can you be so cruel… Can't you see how much I'm suffering? My head feels like a cube, and my mouth is a desert. How did my life end up like this…"
Han-bin handed her a glass of water and an aspirin.
"Don't be so dramatic. It could've been worse."
Mi-yeon swallowed the pill and took several big gulps of water.
"How could it possibly be any worse?"
Han-bin shrugged, suppressing a laugh.
"Well, for example—you could've woken up in the class rep's room. After being carried there over someone's shoulder like a sack."
She tilted her head, smiling sweetly.
"At least he carried you home. And note this—he carried you in his arms. Like you were something precious. I'm honestly a little offended."
Mi-yeon's eyes widened in horror.
"…What? WHAT?!"
Fragments of last night began surfacing in her mind—blurry lights, laughter… warmth.
"Oh no… Oh no no no no…"
Han-bin bit her lip to keep from laughing and nodded.
"Oh yes."
Mi-yeon covered her face with both hands.
"This is humiliating! How am I supposed to look him in the eyes now? He probably doesn't even want to know me anymore! This is awful!"
"Why did I drink so much?!"
She looked at Han-bin desperately.
"Tell me—did he laugh at me? Did he?!"
Han-bin sat down on the bed across from her.
"Well… he smiled a couple of times. Mostly when you hiccupped."
Mi-yeon collapsed backward and pulled a pillow over her head.
"I hiccupped in his arms?!"
Her voice cracked in despair.
"Why is the universe so cruel to me?! The first time a guy ever carries me—and I'm hiccupping?! And I don't even reme-e-e-mber it!"
Han-bin straightened up and put on her strictest voice.
"Jeong Mi-yeon. Get up. Right now. You still have to work at the festival today."
From under the pillow came a muffled reply:
"…Just kill me."
16 May 2025. Wednesday. Late morning. SNU, Central Lawn.
By late morning, the campus was already buzzing with life alive.
Students stretched canvas tents over metal frames, tied ropes, taped banners, and decorated booths with balloons, handwritten signs. Strings of cheap lights that would only matter once night fell.
There were food stalls, drink stalls, game booths, and official tents—faculty representatives, sponsors, organizers pretending this was all very orderly.
It wasn't.
But that chaos was exactly what made it feel like a festival.
At the chemistry department's food tent, Den worked in silence.
He stood behind a folding table, sleeves rolled up, rhythm steady.
Meat. Onion rings. A thin slice of tomato. Meat again.
Over and over.
Skewer after skewer.
The motion was mechanical, almost meditative, but his thoughts drifted—right back to the moment he had agreed to this madness in the first place.
She had cornered him days ago.
Baek So-mi.
Perfect posture. Perfect timing.
That unsettling, rare smile she only used when she wanted something.
She had explained the festival, the council's expectations, and the image of the department.
Then she had said lightly, "It would be really nice if you cooked something Russian. Something authentic."
Den had refused immediately.
"I can't cook. I don't like it. And I don't want to."
She hadn't flinched.
Instead, she had smiled wider—already abnormal.
"Den-ssi, please. What will the council think of me if I can't even convince my own classmates to help organize the festival?"
A pause.
"Don't make me beg. There must be something you can cook."
Den had sighed, irritation leaking through.
Such a leech… but she did save my butt.
I owe her one.
What can I cook well?
Eggs and shashlik.
Eggs were obviously out.
"…Shashlik," he had finally said, resignation heavy in his voice.
"I grill good shashlik."
So-mi had clapped her hands once, sharp and delighted.
"I knew you wouldn't abandon a girl in a difficult situation! Thank you for agreeing. What do you need?"
Den had raised an eyebrow.
"What? No. I didn't agree. I just said I can cook it."
But she had already gone back to her default state.
Cold. Efficient. Unstoppable.
"That's the same thing," she had said flatly.
"So. What do you need?"
He sighed.
"Beef. Pork. About 250 grams per serving. Onions. Tomatoes. Dry red wine for the marinade. I'll bring the spices myself."
A beat.
"Skewers—I'll send you a photo of which kind. Firewood. And a grill."
She had stiffened.
"Firewood? A grill? Are you insane?"
Den's tone hadn't changed at all.
"Yes. Firewood and a grill. Russian shashlik doesn't accept charcoal or gas BBQs."
A pause.
"If you want me to cook, get permission for the open fire. Otherwise—no deal."
So-mi had glared at him.
"You always are such a problem."
Then, through clenched teeth:
"Fine. But it better be very good."
She had turned to leave.
"So-mi."
She had stopped automatically, flicking her hair back.
"Yes?"
Den had hesitated—just a second.
Then said it anyway.
"You should smile more. It suits you."
Her face had stayed perfectly composed.
But her reply had come softer than she probably intended.
"Absolutely not. If you smile too much, you get wrinkles."
And only when she had walked away—heels clicking sharply against the floor—had she allowed herself a faint, private smirk.
"Den."
A sharp elbow dug into his side.
He blinked, pulled back to the present.
Chang-woo grinned at him like a man who had discovered something important and meaningless at the same time.
"Look, look! Our girlies are coming."
He whistled quietly.
"We sure have the prettiest girls in the whole university."
Den followed his gaze.
Up the path toward the chemistry tents walked So-mi, Soo-yeong, Se-a…
And Mi-yeon.
Den's mouth curved into a small, unconscious smile.
"Chang-woo," he said calmly, sliding another skewer together, "you're hopeless."
Chang-woo laughed, completely unoffended.
The girls greeted the guys.
Mi-yeon bowed slightly, barely audible when she said hello to everyone.
She was still painfully embarrassed about last night—about everything.
Especially about Den carrying her.
Even though no one mentioned it. No one teased her. No one even seemed to care.
Not even Soo-yeong, who usually treated humiliating Mi-yeon as a personal hobby.
Maybe it was because today was the festival—a kind of unspoken ceasefire, where using someone's vulnerability would feel almost sacrilegious.
But most likely Soo-yeong was simply too busy being flawless—for the crowd, for the handsome seniors, and obviously for Den.
Either way, Mi-yeon was grateful.
The girls opened their bags and started laying out plastic tableware and disposable tablecloths.
A few upperclassmen jogged over, carrying crates of drinks and food. More followed, hauling lightweight plastic tables and chairs and setting them up in rows.
Se-a watched them openly.
Her eyes lingered on flexing arms, defined shoulders, sweat-darkened T-shirts.
She sighed and leaned her hips against Chang-woo's table, dreamy.
"Wow… look at them. So fit. Tall. Like K-pop idols."
Chang-woo froze mid-motion.
Then straightened.
Chest out. Shoulders back.
Casual—in his own mind.
"I mean," he said, "I'm pretty muscular too, Se-a."
She turned to him with a playful smile and laughed lightly.
"Of course you are, Chang-woo. That's why you're my favorite in our year."
His eyes lit up.
To him, that sentence landed like a confession.
You could almost see the moment when he started rehearsing a proposal—words forming, heart racing.
But Se-a isn't cruel.
She noticed the incoming disaster and stepped neatly around it.
"Oh, sweet Chang-woo," she sighed theatrically. "If I ever decide to allow myself to love, I would definitely fall for a strong, dependable oppa like you."
A dramatic pause.
"But I should stay strong and concentrate on my studies."
Chang-woo's face fell in slow motion.
Still, he answered sincerely—overly so.
"Then… I'll be your friend, Se-a."
"And your protector!"
"If any guy ever hurts you, just tell me and I'll—I'll make him apologize immediately! You can count on that!"
He bowed slightly, solemn as a knight.
Se-a giggled, clearly pleased.
"Alright, my loyal Chang-woo. I'll remember that."
Nearby, Den quietly added firewood to the grill as the coals began to glow.
He shook his head faintly.
Not disapproving. Just amused.
Girls…
His gaze drifted to Mi-yeon.
She was sitting on a plastic chair, hands folded, then unfolding, then folding again—unsure where to put them.
Waiting for someone, anyone, to give her a task.
Den took out his phone and typed.
How are you today? Is your head still hurting?
Mi-yeon read it—and instantly turned bright red.
She replied:
I'm okay… I'm just so embarrassed about yesterday. I'm really sorry.
Den smiled to himself and answered:
You don't need to apologize. I was happy to carry you.
Just… don't drink that much when I'm not around, okay?
She read it.
Smiled.
Then glanced around nervously, as if everyone might be spying on her screen.
She typed back:
Okay.
She hesitated, bit her lip—
Then sent one more message:
A small emoji hugging a heart
Immediately after, she jumped to her feet and started moving plastic utensils from one tent to another for no clear reason, refusing to look up.
Den watched her for a second longer than necessary.
The grill crackled softly.
And the festival—slowly, inevitably—moved forward.
16 May 2025. Wednesday. Late Afternoon. SNU, Central Lawn.
The festival atmosphere slowly filled the park in front of the university.
People kept arriving in steady waves. As soon as one plastic table freed up, another group immediately took it.
The smell of grilled meat hung thick in the air—deep, smoky, irresistible. Against the usual clean, grassy scent of the campus, it was almost unfair.
Students from other faculties drifted toward the chemistry tents without even realizing they had changed direction, pulled in like bees to nectar.
Korean students—who were used to the polite, thin slices of pan-fried meat—found themselves defenseless against the raw, smoky magnetism of shashlik. They lined up with shining eyes, drawn to the sight of meat actually meeting an open flame.
Chang-woo's food turned out to be a perfect match: simple, hearty, comforting. It spread quickly by word of mouth—great with soju, perfect as a side.
Plates came back empty.
The girls hurried between tables, barely keeping up with orders.
Even So-mi, as well as Han-bin and Min-jae—who had come "just to support"—ended up tying on aprons.
They carried trays, wiped tables, hauled trash bags, and shouted orders back toward the grill.
It was loud. Warm. Alive.
At one of the tables served by Soo-yeong, three upperclassmen from the physics department sat down.
They were already a little drunk.
Not falling-over drunk—worse. The kind that made them think they were clever.
They spread out confidently, elbows wide, legs stretched, voices just loud enough to be heard.
Soo-yeong approached with a practiced smile.
"What could I get you?"
One of them leaned back, squinted at her apron, then at her face.
"Wow, chemistry really spoils us, huh?"
Another chuckled.
"Yeah. I thought we were ordering food, not eye candy."
Soo-yeong kept her smile in place. Professional. Polite.
"Food and drinks?" she repeated.
"Relax, relax," the first one said, holding up his hands.
"We're just appreciating good service."
His eyes dragged slowly from her face downward—too slow to be accidental.
"You guys really put your best staff out front."
The third one grinned and nudged his friend.
"Hey, bring us three portions of meat. And don't be stingy."
He lowered his voice slightly, still audible.
"We need energy. Looking at you is exhausting."
They laughed.
Soo-yeong wrote the order down without reacting, but her jaw tightened—just a fraction.
She turned to leave.
"Wait, wait," one of them called.
"You smile like that for all customers?"
A pause.
"Or only for seniors?"
Another added, half-laughing, half-slurring, "If we come back later, do we get… dessert?"
It wasn't loud enough to draw security. Not crude enough to cause a scene.
But it was layered. Persistent. Sticky.
The kind of talk that forced a woman to keep calculating: ignore, deflect, or escalate.
Soo-yeong exhaled through her nose, then turned back with a cool smile.
"Please wait. I'll bring your order shortly."
She walked away with straight posture, heels clicking evenly.
At the grill, Den had been watching.
Not staring. Not reacting.
Just… noting.
The way their eyes lingered too long, their jokes kept testing boundaries.
Noticing that Soo-yeong's confidence—usually unshakable—had shifted into something sharper, more controlled.
He flipped another skewer.
The meat hissed as fat dripped onto the coals.
The festival kept moving.
But something, quietly, had started to tip.