Chapter -4

The morning sunlight spilled lazily into the classroom, glinting off the polished desks and illuminating the chalkboard where the teacher scribbled notes.

Students sat half-listening, some scribbling quickly in notebooks, others doodling, some yawning behind open books.

But Prince wasn’t paying attention at all.

He sat by the window, his tall frame slouched casually in his chair, his long legs stretched out under the desk.

His chin rested against his hand as his gaze drifted outside.

His classmates laughed quietly in groups, whispering about weekend plans and gossip.

His so-called friends sat a few rows back, muttering about girls, cars, and parties.

Normally, Prince would pretend to join their pointless chatter, smirking and throwing in a sharp comment or two.

But today, their voices faded into the background.

Because outside the window, through the blur of morning activity, he saw him.

Jihu.

Walking across the courtyard, his tall, lean figure stood out even in the sea of students.

His uniform hung neatly on him, though it was faded and clearly not new.

His bag, worn thin at the edges, rested against one shoulder.

His expression was calm, stoic—like nothing in the world could touch him.

But Prince remembered yesterday.

The bruises.

The blood.

That quiet, unshakable voice.

“If you want, then just beat me up and fuck off from here.”

Something flickered in Prince’s eyes.

Something he couldn’t name.

Worry, maybe. Or curiosity. Or both.

He hated it.

But he couldn’t stop staring.

The bell rang, snapping the class back to life.

Students rushed to pack their bags, chatter filling the air again.

Prince remained seated, tapping his fingers against the desk, his gaze locked on the hallway beyond the door.

He saw Jihu passing by, heading toward the exit.

On instinct, before his brain could argue, Prince stood and followed.

Jihu walked quickly, his long strides carrying him through the school gates.

His ribs still ached faintly under the bandage, but he ignored it.

He wanted to get home, to avoid trouble, to just survive another day.

But then he heard footsteps behind him. Heavy. Confident.

Too familiar.

He turned—and froze.

Prince.

The tall figure approached with the same arrogant stride he always had, his dark eyes focused directly on Jihu.

Jihu’s jaw tightened instantly, his body stiffening. His eyes narrowed, sharp with hostility.

“What? You didn’t get to beat me up yesterday, so you came to finish the job now? Then go ahead.”

Prince stopped just a step away, his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Yeah. And I’ll pay more than yesterday.”

Jihu’s fists clenched, his heart twisting with anger and disgust.

He had expected mockery, maybe a shove.

But this calm, playful cruelty—it dug deeper than a fist.

Then, suddenly, Prince reached forward and grabbed his wrist.

Jihu jerked, eyes wide.

“What the hell are you doing?” 💢

Prince leaned closer, smirk still in place.

“So, you want me to beat you up here? In front of the principal? What will we say—hm? That we were just playing around?”

His voice was teasing, almost dangerous, but his grip was firm—not hurting, just holding.

Jihu scowled, shoving against his hand, but Prince didn’t let go.

Instead, he tightened his hold slightly and started walking.

“Come on.”

“What—?!” Jihu resisted, pulling back, but Prince’s strength was greater.

His grip was steady, unyielding.

And for the first time in his life, Jihu felt something strange.

The warmth of someone’s hand around his.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tender. It was possessive, firm—like Prince was marking him, dragging him into his world.

But still, the warmth seeped through, alien and almost frightening.

Jihu’s chest tightened, and he swallowed hard, glaring at the back of Prince’s head.

“…Bastard.”

They walked through streets together—though “together” was the wrong word.

Prince led, Jihu followed unwillingly, their hands still locked.

Students passing by whispered, some staring in surprise, others laughing nervously.

By the time Prince finally stopped, they stood in front of a convenience store.

Jihu blinked, confused, his anger flaring again.

“What the hell are we doing here?”

Prince released his wrist at last and picked up a basket, shoving it into Jihu’s chest.

Prince's smirk returned.

“Help me.”

“…Help you?” Jihu’s brows furrowed, his voice dripping with disbelief.

“Do I look like your servant?” 💢

Prince ignored him, walking straight toward the aisles and tossing items into the basket Jihu held.

Instant noodles, snacks, drinks, bread.

One after another, the basket grew heavier.

Jihu followed stiffly, his glare sharp enough to cut glass.

Every fiber of his being screamed that this was wrong, confusing, humiliating.

Why was this bastard—this bully—dragging him here like some kind of pet?

Finally, at the counter, Prince pulled out a sleek wallet and paid effortlessly, not even blinking at the total.

He turned, pulled one item from the bag, and handed the rest to Jihu.

“Now it’s all yours.”

Jihu froze. Then his eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching.

“I don’t need your sympathy. Nor this. So stop it.”

Prince’s smirk didn’t falter.

He leaned in slightly, his voice low, taunting.

“Then what? You want me to throw them in the dustbin?”

Jihu’s glare deepened.

“Just take it with you.” 💢💢💢

Prince chuckled.

“Why should I? I have everything in my house already. I’m giving you this because you came with me. You helped me shop. Consider it payment.”

Jihu scoffed, his voice sharp.

“I didn’t come with you on my own—you forced me, you bastard.”

Prince tilted his head, his smirk softening into something almost unreadable.

For a moment, his dark eyes lingered on Jihu’s face—his sharp features, his angry scowl, the faint bruise still visible under his eye.

Then, without warning, Prince shoved the bags against Jihu’s chest.

“Too bad. They’re yours now.”

Before Jihu could argue, Prince turned and walked away, his tall frame disappearing into the busy street, leaving behind only the faint echo of his footsteps.

Jihu stood frozen, the weight of the bags heavy in his hands, his heart pounding in confusion and fury.

He looked down at the food—so much more than he’d had in his empty kitchen this morning.

His fists trembled around the plastic handles.

“What the hell is wrong with that bastard…?” he muttered under his breath.

And though his words were bitter, something inside him shifted—something he didn’t want to admit.

Because for the first time in years, someone had forced something into his hands.

Not fists.

Not pain.

But food

Warmth.

And he didn’t know what to do with it.

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