Weeks passed. Min and Thyme somehow managed to finish their PowerPoint without killing each other.
Barely.
He stayed lazy, she stayed bossy—but it weirdly worked. Like… they balanced each other out. Not that either of them would ever admit that.
The next part of the project? A creative element.
Miss Park: "You'll need to visually interpret your poetry. You can paint, sketch, collage—it's up to you. Surprise me."
Thyme slouched in his chair, instantly turning to Min. "That's all you. You look like an art kid."
Min narrowed her eyes. "And you look like a gym rat. Your point?"
He snorted. "Means I can't draw. At all. You do it."
"Nope. You're helping. Suffering together, remember?"
More arguing. More eye-rolls. More "I swear if you don't—"
Which somehow ended with:
"Fine. My place after school. Don't be late."
That evening – Thyme's Room
Min stood in his room, surrounded by sketchbooks, snacks, and basketball posters.
"This feels illegal," she muttered, setting her bag down.
"Relax. My mom thinks you're tutoring me," he smirked.
They sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the blank art paper.
"So," he said, tapping a pen. "What does the poem even mean?"
Min explained softly, more to the paper than to him. As she spoke, he started doodling quietly beside her.
Turns out, his sketching sucked.
"Wait—what is that?" she laughed, pointing.
"That's a metaphor," he replied proudly.
"That's a disaster," she corrected.
But still—they laughed. For real this time.
The Day of the Presentation
Min's hands were clammy. She could barely breathe.
"I can't do this," she whispered behind the class podium. "I'll mess up. My voice sounds weird. Everyone's staring."
"Oi," Thyme muttered beside her. "Stop. You helped make this. You know it better than anyone."
"But—"
"You're not alone up there, alright? I'm here. We've got this."
It was the first time he'd ever spoken gently to her. Her heart thudded.
They began.
Thyme took the lead confidently, reading the analysis part. He passed her the mic with a nod.
Min started strong. She read the lines of the poem. But halfway through… her brain blanked.
Silence.
She panicked.
Then, Thyme leaned slightly toward her and whispered, "...'The sky wore grief like a crown…'"
She repeated it, voice soft but steady.
And just like that, she found her rhythm again.
The class clapped. Miss Park beamed.
They sat down. She exhaled hard, adrenaline still buzzing in her veins.
"Not bad," Thyme muttered.
She smirked. "Thanks for not letting me die on stage."
"Don't get used to it."
Later that day, their grade was posted.
89/100.
"Not bad at all," she texted him that night.
Thyme: We would've hit 90 if u didn't almost cry on stage lol
Min: Shut up. I carried us.
Thyme: Yea, yea, Picasso.