Eighteen's Bed

Chapter 14.1

Amid the bustling crowd, I gave a small nod. There was no longer any reason to feel guilty about getting closer to Shin Jaehyun. I wasn't an outcast anymore. On the surface, the war between me and Go Yohan was as good as over, so there was no need to be cautious.

Why did I end up making peace with Go Yohan in the first place? All for this safety.

Somehow, even from that distance, Shin Jaehyun caught my nod. With his usual breezy smile, he stood up. I pulled the key from my pocket, ready to hand it over as he approached. The yellow key, pinched between my index and thumb, was embarrassingly lukewarm—like the seat someone had just gotten up from. Disgusted by that unpleasant warmth, I shook the key in the air. It wriggled like a bug, only to be snatched mid-air by Shin Jaehyun's hand.

"Finally getting it back. You have no idea how much trouble you caused by suddenly taking it."

Didn’t he lend it to me to use? I blinked, confused, my eyes flicking between the key and Shin Jaehyun, who was already slipping it into his pants pocket.

"...I forgot. Sorry for the delay."

"It’s fine. It was just an accident."

"Thanks for letting me use it. I appreciate it."

My curt gratitude didn’t faze Shin Jaehyun. He just shrugged with that same easygoing face. Hard to tell if he was brushing it off or genuinely accepting it. His expression said he didn’t mind, but for some reason, I kept second-guessing him. It’s all because of Go Yohan. That bastard made me suspicious of everything.

"You two made up, huh?"

Then he did something—spread both palms before me, empty and open. Even that simple gesture reeked of his ‘foreign’ air. Something about him always felt... different.

"But, y’know," he added, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face, "it wasn’t exactly what I expected."

"What wasn’t?"

"There’s... a feeling I can’t quite put into words..."

With a soft phew, he blew out a puff of air, lips pursed. Then, just as quickly, he pulled back his hands as if sealing his mouth shut.

"Forget it. I’m probably just being biased."

Biased. That word set off alarms in my head. I have a habit—when something smells fishy, I pounce. It’s a defense mechanism, sharpened from experience. Sometimes you know you can’t let something slip, that there’s meaning buried underneath. It’s the kind of gut feeling I get before trouble.

So, I switched tactics—dropped the edge from my voice, softened my expression, played dumb. I’d seen idiots work people like this before. Feigning innocence lowers defenses.

"Biased? What do you mean? C’mon, tell me."

I threw in a sly little grin and shifted forward, butt lifting off the seat like an eager fool dying to hear gossip. That’s how idiots do it, right? The people on the receiving end usually can’t help but blabber. Hell, they want to. I waited, eyes expectant.

"Well—"

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