Eunseo dragged a red marker across the practice problem sheet, scoring it out with harsh strokes. If you’re going to turn in something like this, why turn in anything at all? Looking down at the sheet — a blatant declaration that its owner intended to do the bare minimum to “just graduate” — a small sigh escaped his lips. This was already the second time. Not a single answer on Han Jaeheon’s problem set was correct.
The “General Chemistry II” course Eunseo TA’d was required for a STEM bachelor’s degree. It was aimed at freshmen, but plenty of seniors who’d failed to earn their credits on time took it too. With weekly problem sets and lab reports to grade, it was an annoying class to TA for.
…Still, this was too much. At least the other students copied something — someone else’s work, the solutions manual — and got a few answers right. Han Jaeheon didn’t even bother with that. Tap, tap. Drumming his fingertips on the paper, Eunseo wrote in red marker:
[This will be counted as not submitted.]
Written in neat handwriting, the sentence was firm. Three unsubmitted problem sets meant failure. Surely a warning like this would get him to show a little effort next time. Eunseo glanced once more at the scrawled student ID, department, and name — committing them to memory — then moved on to the next student’s assignment.
“The alarm’s going off.”
“Ah, yes.”
Jin Seunghu, the PhD senior from the same lab, jabbed Eunseo’s side with his elbow. It caught him in the ribs, and it hurt quite a bit. Eunseo stood up, forcing himself to act nonchalant, but amusement was already tugging at the corners of Seunghu’s eyes — he knew exactly how much it hurt.
Eunseo pulled the sample from the gas chromatography machine, printed the results, and loaded another sample. The experiment was tedious and time-consuming, repetition upon repetition, always. He finished up mechanically and sat back down. There was still a mountain of grading to do.
Between experiment steps, Eunseo had been grading assignments and reports, and a crease kept forming between his brows. Han Jaeheon’s lab report looked familiar — like he’d seen it somewhere before. Reading it over from the top, Eunseo opened last year’s lab report folder on his laptop. It held every student report the TAs had scanned and saved over the years.
He knew full well that old lab reports circulated among students anyway, so he tended to let most of it slide… but copying it over wholesale, typos and all? That was a bit much. And shouldn’t you at least change the numbers in your results? Clicking his mouse irritably, Eunseo found the identical report.
“What are you so worked up about?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Sure it isn’t. You’ve got three lines carved between your eyebrows.”
“…A student turned in a report copied word for word.”
“What, like reports don’t get copied all the time?”
Eunseo fetched the printed report, tapped it into a neat stack on the desk, and stapled it together with Han Jaeheon’s.
“Even if you copy it… you should at least fix the results, correct the typos and endings.”
“He didn’t even do that? Impressive.”
“Sigh…”
“Why are you getting annoyed?”
“Should I tell the professor?”
“You know our professor doesn’t care about stuff like that.”
“Still. The reports, the problem sets — it’s too much.”
“Go ahead and mention it.”
Eunseo brushed off the hand ruffling his hair like he was cute and pushed his slipping glasses back up his nose. It was getting late, and his eyes were going blurry.
With the reappearance of the red marker, he drew a big X across the top and added another line:
‘If you do not resubmit by next week, this will be counted as not submitted.’ In a lab course, a single unsubmitted report meant instant failure.
“You’re too strict, you know.”
“…Me?”
Back when Jin Seunghu was a master’s student TAing general chemistry, he’d failed a record number of students — Eunseo had no choice but to speak up. More than 50% wrong on a problem set counted as not submitted, and any lab report that even hinted at a circulated copy got an X across the whole thing. The reason he remembered it so clearly was that Eunseo himself had been a freshman taking that very class at the time.
“Take it easy. You’ll go bald.”
Seunghu, leaving those thunderbolt words for Eunseo — who considered his thick hair his one and only asset — stood up to head home.
“Ah, you’re leaving?”
“You should too.”
“My experiment’s not done yet….”
“How long will it take?”
Gas chromatography took at least forty minutes per cycle. He’d only just swapped the sample, so there had to be more than thirty minutes left.
“How many test papers left?”
“Twenty test papers… fifteen reports.”
“You’re grading all of them?”
“Huh? Uh… yes.”
“And the lab TA?”
“Ah, that’s…”
The stocky lab TA had come to Eunseo the moment the semester started and dumped everything on him.
“‘The lab lecture is basically an appendage of the main lecture anyway — and on top of the four hours I already spend every lab session, you want me to grade reports too?’ With his fists clenched like he might throw a punch, Eunseo had no choice but to say he’d do it.
“Fuck, is the lab TA Im Jinhwan?”
“…Yes.”
“Looks like shit, acts like shit.”
“Watch your language, senior….”
“You always let people walk all over you, you know that? Say it with me. Like shit.“
Beyond his clear glasses, his brown eyes darted around. His lips parted halfway, then closed, then pressed shut. There was no way he could say something like that. And even if he tried, he could never spit out “fuck” and “like shit” with Seunghu’s relish.
“You go on ahead.”
Gripping his marker again, Eunseo sat with his back to Seunghu. Sometimes when he got domineering like that — even though it wasn’t directed at Eunseo — the sense of him as an alpha grew stronger, and it scared him a little. He knew Seunghu didn’t see him as an omega. Still.
“I’ll wait thirty minutes.”
“…You’re leaving, though?”
“They’re giving me a ride — say the car’s still here.”
“I still have the bus.”
He didn’t even answer anymore. Trying not to flinch at Seunghu’s pheromones — released carelessly, assuming Eunseo was a beta — Eunseo just kept his hands busy. Either way, the faster he got out of this situation, the better.
***
Someone was standing in front of the assignment drop box beside the lockers. Eunseo checked his wristwatch and walked over. The deadline was five o’clock. His watch also read five o’clock.
But Eunseo couldn’t bring himself to ask the man blocking the box to step aside. Talking to strangers was hard enough; stepping forward was even harder — he’d insisted on taking attendance by checking the assigned-seating chart precisely because of it.
“Um….”
The moment he managed to speak, the silent man whipped his head around. Their eyes met for an instant through his glasses, and Eunseo ducked his head. The man’s face, far above Eunseo’s eye level, was strikingly handsome. Straight eyebrows, long but softly curved eyes beneath them, and small, neat features — eyes, nose, mouth — on a surprisingly small face.
“Um, are you the General Chemistry II TA?”
“……..”
“No?”
“…I am.”
At his mumbled answer, delivered in a voice gone stiff, he heard the man laugh above his head. Before he knew it he’d looked up, then back down; Eunseo slipped into the small space the man had made and unlocked the box.
Glancing sideways, he saw the nape of his neck through his white shirt. His gaze caught on the dip of his collarbone and he startled, barely suppressing his reaction as he opened the drop box. The afterimage of the figure before his eyes lingered in his vision. The shirt pulled taut across broad shoulders, and the nape of his neck visible between….
“TA.”
“…Yes?”
“About that ‘counted as not submitted’ thing.”
“……..”
Counted as not submitted? He had no idea what the man was talking about, but too afraid to meet his eyes, Eunseo stubbornly opened the drop box and hauled out the heavy bin. Crammed every week by nearly 150 students, the assignment box was always full.
When he finally turned around with the bin, the man was still standing there. Trapped between the lockers and the man, Eunseo tried to sidestep out — but the man followed, step for step.
“What is it….”
“Ah, sorry. I should’ve introduced myself first.”
“……..”
“I’m Han Jaeheon, Chemical Engineering.”
…Han Jaeheon? At the familiar name, Eunseo lifted his head, and his eyes met a pair of beautifully curved ones. It was still hot summer, and every time the breeze came through the window, goosebumps rose on the arms bared by his short sleeves.
“You said my assignment and report would be counted as not submitted.”
“…Yes. A zero on the assignment doesn’t count as submitted.”
“Right, and the report too.”
“The report as well….”
He seemed to be getting closer, and Eunseo, uncomfortable, lifted the assignment bin higher — up to his chest — to put distance between them. In a voice gone stiff as stone, and an even stiffer tone, he spat out:
“…Referencing old reports is fine, but turning one in verbatim is not allowed.”
“Ah, yes. Of course.”
Answering as casually as if they were discussing someone else, Han Jaeheon gazed down at Eunseo. Eunseo dropped his head before their eyes could meet, but the top of his head burned hot — he was clearly being stared through.
“I need to graduate.”
“……..”
“It’s been so long since I took general chemistry, I don’t remember any of it.”
His glasses slid greasily down his sweaty nose. He tried to push them up while hugging the bin with one arm, but the coated bin slipped right out from under his arm.
Shit — bracing for the crash of papers everywhere, Eunseo squeezed his eyes shut. No sound came. Cautiously opening them, he saw a large hand casually catch the bin and set it down beside them. The bin he’d needed both arms to carry, lifted with one hand, lightly.
“If I keep going like this, I’ll have to copy the solutions for the assignments and copy old reports for the reports — but that’s not what you want, is it, TA?”
“…Have you considered solving or writing them yourself instead of copying?”
“I don’t have time for this in my graduating semester. But I can’t afford an F either. If my graduation gets pushed back, I’m in real trouble.”
Eunseo was about to wave him off — not my problem — when Han Jaeheon’s face thrust into view. Startled, he jerked back, and the back of his head slammed into the metal locker. The clang echoed down the hallway. He didn’t even register the pain. His pupils were filled with that face; it stole his whole mind, and he couldn’t make a sound.
Leave a Reply