The problem with being a jack-of-some-trades is that eventually, someone's going to call you in to do a job you didn't really want to say yes to. In my case, it was substitute teaching.
Technically, I'm a technical writer. Manuals, guides, internal documentation. If it's soulless and jargon-heavy, I probably wrote it. I work from home, surrounded by silence, cold coffee, and the soft hum of my laptop fan. Glamorous, I know. But I don't hate it. It pays the bills and lets me exist in peace without needing to talk to humans unless absolutely necessary.
But every so often, But now and then, when schools are desperate, and someone in admin remembers I have an English degree and an old teaching license, I get a text that starts with, "Hey, Aureal, can you…" and ends with the chaos of whiteboards, gum under desks, and being called "Miss Dizon" by kids barely a decade younger than me.
Of course I cave. Because I'm a soft touch. And because deep down, I still remember what it felt like to teach something and have someone get it.
The classroom still smelled faintly of disinfectant, the whiteboard gleamed, and the stack of lesson plans the regular teacher had left me felt heavier than it should have. I'd told myself it would be simple: follow the plans, keep the students from burning the place down, and collect my paycheck.
I hadn't counted on Seungyong Kang.
It wasn't that I didn't know he worked here, in fact he drove us both here this morning, I'd just assumed we'd keep to our own corners, maybe nod in the hall. But fate, as always, had a way of sticking its foot out just as you were trying to walk straight.
Case in point: my very first period. I'd been halfway through explaining the difference between first-person limited and omniscient narration to a half-drowsy second-period class. The early fall sun poured in through the west-facing windows, glaring just enough to make a few students shield their eyes with their hands.
The knock was sharp, quick, confident.
I turned, marker still in hand, and there he was. Seungyong Kang leaned against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket, the other holding my stainless steel water bottle. Even from here, I could see the condensation clinging to its sides, the faint wedge of lemon floating at the top.
He strolled in like he owned the place, his dark hair slicked back, his reading glasses sitting along his nose to frame his sharp eyes, and his charcoal-gray coat still buttoned from the morning chill.
Teenagers are a lot like crows. Give them something shiny—an odd phrase, a raised eyebrow, the hint of a rumor—and they'll pick at it until it glitters.
"You left this in my car," he said. His voice carried just enough for the whole class to hear.
I crossed the room, schooling my face into something neutral. "Thanks," I smiled politely, reaching for it.
I ignored them. Years of experience with kids had taught me the art of pretending not to hear students when they were muttering about something you didn't want to dignify with attention.
Seungyong, of course, didn't help. He gave the class a little wave, as though he were some visiting celebrity instead of the history teacher from down the hall. "Carry on," he said, smiling at me like we were sharing a joke.
The whispers started before the door even shut.
I set the bottle on my desk with deliberate care. "Alright," I said, voice even. "Back to the question. Who can explain the difference between omniscient and first-person limited?"
Maddy, a student in the front row, raised her hand. "So, um… what's Mr. Kang's car like?"
A ripple of giggles.
"Not relevant to narrative voice," I replied crisply.
The rest of the period dragged on. Every time I turned to write on the board, the whispers flared again, soft as moth wings but just as persistent.
By lunch, the hallway was buzzing with it. I passed two freshmen by the lockers and caught, "… yeah, she left her drink in his car," before they fell silent as I approached.
The faculty lounge wasn't much better. The math sub raised an eyebrow as I walked in. "Riding with Kang now?" she asked, half-teasing, half-prying.
"It's called carpooling," I replied flatly, pulling my lunch from the fridge. "If you live with someone and you're going to the same place, you ride together. Saves on gas, fuel, and time."
Yeah I probably shouldn't have revealed that tidbit, as it only fanned the flames harder.
The room fell into an instant hush, like someone had dropped a glass in the middle of a library. I stared at them, suddenly aware of every set of wide eyes locked on me.
By the time the final bell rang, I was running on caffeine fumes and one granola bar from the vending machine. I gathered my things—my emergency flats, my sad little lunch box, my overstuffed tote of lesson plans—and shuffled toward the exit gate like a ghost of education past. And it was exhausting. Not in the same way that deadlines were, or edits that made no sense, or clients who thought "just change a few words" meant rewriting a 30-page manual. This was people exhausting. Talking, listening, managing, redirecting, smiling for six hours straight. The performance of being normal, approachable, in charge.
I hadn't even realized the school day was over until a janitor politely asked if I planned to sleep in the classroom.
That's how I found myself blinking at the daylight as I finally stepped through the front gates, wondering how early I could get into pajamas without technically giving up on life. I was too busy daydreaming about my air conditioner to notice the man leaning casually near the front gates, until he called out: "Hey, Miss Dizon. How many students survived?"
I turned and blinked. Seungyong Kang. History teacher. Tall. Impossibly collected. Dressed like he taught at some elite boarding school instead of the local public high. His sleeves were rolled, and he held a mostly-empty iced coffee like he'd been waiting hours just to annoy me.
"Didn't know you were subbing today," he said, falling into step with me as we left the gate behind. "You'll be a legend by Monday," he smirked. "They don't get many pretty subs who know their grammar."
"Flattery? From you? That's new."
"Just saying, you made an impression, Ms. Dizon. Some of them thought you were a celebrity."
I rolled my eyes, and that's when it happened.
From the corner of my vision, I noticed movement; a flicker of a camera lens, too slow to be casual. A small cluster of students was loitering by the sidewalk, half-hidden behind a gate pillar. One of them was very obviously filming.
Seungyong didn't slow down. "You seeing this?"
"Oh god," I hissed. "They're recording us."
"They're just kids."
"They're gossip-fueled fiends, Seungyong. They'll turn this into a scandal by dinner."
"Let them," he scoffed. "What's the worst they'll say? That you and I are secretly married? You're making such a problem over nothing. As usual."
"You soulless prick-! I'm going to get tagged in an 'English teacher x history teacher' edit on TikTok, and it's going to have sparkles!" I stopped walking. "You realize they're going to spread this around the school, right? There'll be theories. Charts. They'll dig up our social media."
"I don't have any social media to dig up." Seungyong smirked that stupid arrogant Seungyong smirk that I would have been tempted to wipe off of his face if we weren't in a school zone with multiple students around.
"Well lucky you, then."
We boarded the bus together in silence, sitting next to each other in silence. I had sneered and teased Seungyong for sitting beside me, only for him to give me a condescending smile, saying he was simply 'worried' for me, as I shouldn't be traveling alone when I have someone reliable to watch over me.
Ew. Barf. Cringe, coming from him.
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If I had known that walking out of the school gates with Seungyong Kang would spark a miniature scandal, I would've climbed out the window instead. Because apparently, teenage gossip doesn't need confirmation. It just needs vibes; and last night's vibe was "bickering domestic power couple with matching keychains."
And because the universe is petty, some of the students who saw us leaving school also lived in our same quiet little subdivision. So naturally, when they watched us stroll into the village and into the same house, they connected dots that didn't exist and drew a wedding invitation.
I even had to wake up earlier than usual just to get to school earlier than him so that we wouldn't be seen arriving together.
And then came Seungyong.
He didn't even enter like a normal person. He sauntered in, holding two takeaway cups like he'd just finished filming a coffee commercial. Of course his sleeves were rolled. Of course his tie was loose and his glasses were slightly fogged up in that effortlessly disheveled way that made teenage girls suspicious and coworkers interested.
"Morning, sweetheart," he said, far too loud, placing one of the cups on my desk.
I blinked at him. "No."
"No what?"
"Whatever this is. No."
"I brought you coffee," he said innocently, sipping his own. "From that café you like. I even told them to write 'wifey' on the cup, but I think they thought I was joking."
"I don't even drink coffee!"
"Oh, come on." He leaned against the desk beside me, all smug elegance. "I'm just trying to support a coworker during a difficult time. One filled with rumors. Whispers. Unfounded allegations."
I narrowed my eyes, shoving Seungyong in the faculty room. "You started this."
"I merely walked beside you."
"You made it look like we were going home together!"
"We did go home together. Same house, remember?"
"I hate you."
He smirked. "You say that like it wasn't romantic."
"I say that like I'm going to murder you."
"Not if I kill you first. Should we stage a fake breakup? For dramatic effect?"
"I will actually shove you down the school's stairs."
He laughed, that deep, easy kind of laugh that always made him seem more trustworthy than he had any right to be. "Relax. This'll die down in a week."
"Good! It better, because I'm only subbing till Miss Choi gets back."
"A shame. Well, see you later, dear~!"
"Leave my sight."
I stood by the third-floor window of the faculty wing, watching Seungyong Kang walk away in slow motion like the ghost of my ruined peace. His coffee cup sat untouched on the edge of my desk, its cardboard sleeve announcing some downtown café.
I don't drink coffee.
Never have. Never will. It tastes like roasted regret and gives me heart palpitations. But I also don't like waste, which meant I spent the next ten minutes debating whether I should toss the drink discreetly or just set it somewhere and let natural selection take its course.
In the end, I left it in the corner of the faculty room next to the community printer with a Post-it note: FREE.
I made it through two classes without incident. No more drive-by winks. No students pretending to cough the word wifey. Just mildly chaotic teenagers and one student who turned in a haiku about Minecraft that was oddly moving.
It was peaceful.
But I could feel it brewing, the buzz of the morning still lingering like static in the halls. Somewhere, someone was definitely creating an entire TikTok saga in real-time.
I took a bathroom break and made the fatal mistake of checking my phone.
Group Chat: [The Dundead]
💀 Sejun | Seungyong | Haneul | Daeho | Me
Aureal:
For the record, I don't drink coffee. In case that somehow ever becomes relevant again.
Sejun:
uhhh okay?
random
not that I'm complaining but—?? what prompted the beverage PSA
Aureal:
Seungyong brought me coffee today
He did it very visibly at school
Specifically the school I'm subbing at
Where he also teaches
And now half the student body thinks we're either married or eloping in secret
Sejun:
H E L P😭😭
I was about to reply when a new message popped up—one that made me freeze.
Seungyong:
You're being dramatic again.
AGAIN?? Oh this son of a corpse.
Aureal:
Seungyong, what the hell. Aren't you in class??
Seungyong:
Yes.
I'm letting them watch a documentary.
I think I've earned a moment of peace.
Aureal:
So your idea of peace is gaslighting me in the groupchat?
Seungyong:
I'm not gaslighting, I'm being thoughtful.
Aureal:
You wrote "wifey" on the cup.
Seungyong:
No, the barista did that.
I feel like this is more about your fear of commitment.
Aureal:
That was out of pocket and uncalled for
I have literal students stalking my Facebook now because of you.
Choke.
Seungyong:
Marriage is hard. 3/10, would not recommend.
Kilian:
HA
this is the best group chat update we've ever had
10/10 would watch the drama unfold again
Somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, I noticed the one name in the chat that hadn't said a word.
Haneul.
He hadn't reacted. No like. No typing bubble. Just read receipts.
Now that I think about it, I don't really know when exactly he died. Maybe he didn't know how to type? But wait, he works at HR, he should know how.
But still. No message. No emoji. Not even a pity "liked" reaction to any of our chaos.
He really was a man of very few words.
Just the quiet, ever-present ghost of someone who was always there, but never in it.
It didn't bother me, per se. I would lie to myself.
Haneul was like that. Still. Silent. Thoughtful in a way that made you overthink things you weren't supposed to think about.
But it did make me wonder if he had anything to say. If he ever would.
I exhaled and put my phone away as the lunch bell rang and the hallway filled again with slamming doors and voices and a thousand over-perfumed teenagers racing to be first in line for rice bowls.
"Mrs. Kang!" someone yelled from down the hall.
I didn't turn around. I just walked faster.
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By the time the last bell rang, I was already half-packed, hand on zipper, boots angled toward the door like they'd grown their own sense of urgency. I didn't even say goodbye to the kids as they filed out in chatty, backpack-thumping pairs. Just a curt nod. Maybe a raise of my brows. Something teacher-like. Something professional.
There were limits to how many hours I could spend pretending I belonged in a classroom. I didn't dislike it, not really. But after days of technical documentation—turning gibberish code into clean, consumable instructions—walking into a room full of hormonal teenagers felt like switching from grayscale to blinding neon.
It was exhausting, frankly, playing guest star in someone else's syllabus. English lit subs were always seen as either saviors or sacrificial lambs, and today I'd somehow played both. I made it through without anyone crying, which was a win. One kid even asked if I was a writer. I didn't tell them I wrote installation guides for servers, or instructions for printers that wouldn't stop blinking. I let them imagine something cooler.
I threw my tote over my shoulder and hugged my folders to my chest like a shield. The hall was thinning out. My heartbeat quickened, not because I was in a rush, but because I knew who I didn't want to see.
Seungyong.
It wasn't that I couldn't face him. I just didn't want to, especially not with the nosy, wide-eyed stares of students who already mistook mutual irritation for flirting. I didn't need more teenagers drawing fanart of us bickering.
I took a sharp turn through the admin wing and slipped out a side exit. The smell of chalk dust gave way to the sweetness of air-fried street food and the giddy, shrill laughter of girls clustered by the front gate.
The cool afternoon air hit me as soon as I stepped out, sharp and clean, a relief from the recycled heat and chalk-dust haze of the classrooms. I exhaled, thinking I'd escaped the bulk of the students, maybe even Seungyong. Ha. Ha. Ha.
"Miss Dizon!"
Of course. He found me. I half-expected him to materialize like some caffeinated shadow, and sure enough, there he was, striding down the paved path between the school buildings with that lazy, self-assured gait. One hand in his pocket, the other tugging at the strap of a messenger bag as if he hadn't just single-handedly destroyed my hopes of walking alone.
"Out here all by yourself?" he asked, voice dripping with mock concern. "I'm surprised you survived the hordes of seventh graders without supervision."
"Don't walk so close," I hissed under my breath.
"Why? It's called being a gentleman."
"It's called giving them content."
"Maybe I like giving them something to talk about."
I turned to glare at him — and that's exactly when I heard the collective gasp from the gates ahead. A chorus of oh my gods and no way!
I should have been furious. Instead I felt the familiar tight heat behind my ribs: equal parts mortification and a gnawing, childish thrill at the sheer absurdity of being the center of any narrative. I was trying to figure out how to escape gracefully when the world rearranged itself.
He appeared as if he'd been there forever—Haneul, stepping out from the shade of a sycamore that lined the campus gate. He was the sort of stillness that made the rest of the world feel like it had bumped a table and spilled its glasses: calm, finished, irreducibly himself. He wore a long coat that caught the sun at just the right angles, and the book under his arm looked like a prop until I realized it wasn't. He moved toward us with a particular deliberateness I'd learned to recognize: not eager, not late, exactly on time.
He watched me approach with a softness in his gaze that I'd only ever seen when he thought the world was at its best. Then, in a move that felt theatrically impossible in front of the curious and the recording and the gossip-hungry, he stepped forward, took my hand, and kissed it.
Not a brief, ceremonial peck—no, his mouth lingered in a deliberate, old-fashioned manner, as if sealing a private promise in public.
I didn't have time to process, to rehearse a reaction. Haneul's expression as he pulled his hand back was tender and slightly amused. He tilted his head, and the small, rare smile that showed only for private things bloomed.
I froze. My brain blue-screened. Seungyong's smirk faltered for the first time in recorded history. Somewhere, a freshman audibly dropped her phone.
"Sorry I'm late," Haneul said softly, thumb brushing the back of my hand before letting go. "Traffic was bad. You ready to go, jagiya*?"
I blinked.
He just called me jagiya*.
There was a ripple through the crowd — giggles, gasps, and the unmistakable whisper of "She's married?!"
And in that chaos, Haneul turned to Seungyong with a pleasant, utterly disarming smile. "Good to see you again, hyung**," he said, like they were college buddies grabbing a drink. "How's work treating you?"
Seungyong, to his credit, recovered fast — slipping back into that lazy grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Same old. Can't complain. You?"
When we were finally out of earshot, I exhaled sharply.
"What the hell was that?" I hissed.
"Damage control," Haneul said simply, not looking at me.
"Damage— you just committed social arson!"
He shrugged, that faint, maddeningly calm smile never leaving his lips. "Better a scandal with an ending than one that drags on."
"And since when do you show up at schools and kiss people's hands?!"
He finally looked at me then — steady, gentle, and completely unbothered.
"Since it was the fastest way to shut him up."
I stared at him, words gone, heartbeat not cooperating.
He squeezed my hand once before letting go, eyes glinting like he knew exactly what he'd done.
"Come on," he said softly. "Let's go home, jagiya*."
Behind us, I could already hear the whispers rising like wildfire:
"Wait—she's married?"
"To who?"
"Not Mr. Kang, apparently—"
"Wait, so Mr. Kang's into married women?"
By the time we reached the parking lot, I was ready to evaporate.
I was mortified, of course; my face must have been the color of cheap lipstick. I tried to yank my hand back, half embarrassed, half furious at Haneul for doing something he rarely did—play in the spotlight. But he didn't let go. Instead, his grip tightened just enough to anchor me, and he tipped his chin toward Seungyong with an intimacy that read publicly as friendly and privately as a deliberate nudge.
Seungyong watched all of this with an expression that read like a carefully curated photograph—exasperation as the foreground, amusement the midground, a tight little worry the background. He pivoted on his heel, gave us a mock bow, and said, "Carry on, then. Don't cause a revolution."
As he walked away, the crowd parted like the sea; a ripple of renewed gossip followed him like a shadow. My phone buzzed in my pocket the instant the first video hit the school's story feed. It was a three-second clip—Haneul taking my hand, the kiss to the back of my hand, Seungyong's faint scowl, and the caption: Professor Kang likes married women? It was already being diced into rumors and reposted with speculative emojis.
I felt absurdly exposed and oddly giddy all at once. Haneul squeezed my hand—not in a possessive manner, but with an ownership that was gentle though absolute. "Shall we get the bus back?" he asked, voice quiet and entirely non-performative.
As we left the gate behind us and the campus lawns opened up into a quieter flow of people less interested in drama than in class changes, I could feel the story morphing inside my pocket like something alive. The thing about rumors is they don't need proof to be useful; they need a spark, a dip into the ridiculous, and a witness to perpetuate them. Haneul had given them a spark. Seungyong had given them a premise. I had given them the performance.
"Why did you do that?" I demanded, when the last of the students were a distant hum and the air smelled like cut grass and late summer.
Haneul's hand slid from my fingers but did not leave me entirely; his palm hovered by my hip as if to keep me tethered. "You looked like you needed rescuing," he said simply. He sounded bored by the explanation, which was exactly his affect when he was being most sincere. "You said you didn't want any more rumors about you and Seungyong."
"So your solution was to—what—start an even worse one?!"
He looked at me then, calm and maddeningly composed. "At least this one makes you sound unavailable."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing came out except:
"You kissed my hand."
"Yes."
"In front of students."
"Yes."
"They're going to think—"
"That you have good taste?"
I groaned. "You're impossible."
He smiled, the smallest, most infuriating ghost of a smile. "You're welcome."
I wanted to ask whether he'd known what he'd start. I wanted to ask whether he'd meant to call me husband-terms and flirt with public scandal. But his face was unreadable in the sun; his jaw relaxed in the way it did when he was thinking about the curve of a line in a sketch. Haneul, who never took up more space than necessary, who kept his words like glass in a shirt pocket, had given the world something too precious to keep. A small gesture, a whisper of ownership, and the campus would not be the same for a day, or a week, or however long teenagers kept a good thing alive.
I wanted to argue—about avoiding fuss, about the ridiculousness of the whole charade—but the breeze was generous and his words settled like warm dust. I found myself strangely glad for the fuss.
And Haneul? He'd sent nothing. He never did. But the image of his hand at my lips and the way he'd said the word—that private, public-bending little word—sat in my chest like a found coin. It felt absurd and intimate and maybe, ridiculous as it was, exactly where I belonged in the small, crackling world between rumor and reality.
It truly was infuriating, how many signals a man could mix till you were left questioning if you were colorblind.