WINRINA ONESHOTS

OH, PROFESSOR

The first day Minjeong saw Professor Jimin Yoo stride into her philosophy class, she couldn’t help but laugh softly to herself. Jimin was young, sure, but she had this rigid, no-nonsense aura about her—buttoned-up blouse, thick-rimmed glasses, and her hair pulled into a severe bun. Minjeong leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, a lazy grin creeping onto her face as she watched Jimin introduce herself to the class with the stiffness of someone trying to establish authority right off the bat.

“Good morning, class. My name is Professor Yoo,” Jimin said, her voice cool, carrying just enough edge to silence the chatter immediately. She cast a quick look across the room, assessing each student as though cataloging their weaknesses. Her gaze barely lingered on Minjeong before moving on, but Minjeong noticed it—the brief flash of disapproval, or maybe even annoyance.

“Great,” Minjeong muttered, rolling her eyes. “Another one.”

Jimin’s eyes shot back to her. “Did you have something to add?”

Minjeong straightened, surprised she’d been caught but not backing down. “Just sounds like a lot of work for an intro class.”

A couple of students snickered, but Jimin’s expression didn’t waver. She just leveled a cold, appraising look at Minjeong. “If you’re finding it too much, Miss Kim, the door is right there. I’m sure you’ll find that failure is far less demanding.”

Minjeong’s grin faltered, but only for a second. She flashed Jimin a smile that was all attitude. “Thanks, Professor. I’ll keep that in mind.”

It wasn’t the first time Minjeong had challenged a professor, but it was the first time one had pushed back so quickly. She felt an unexpected thrill at the quiet authority in Jimin’s voice, and she knew right then that this class would be different.

---

Over the next few weeks, their dynamic only grew more intense. Every time Minjeong made a casual remark or veered off-topic in class, Jimin was right there, unflinchingly pulling her back, shutting down her comments with a sharp wit and unyielding tone.

One afternoon, as Jimin was outlining the basics of existentialism, Minjeong raised her hand, her face the picture of innocence.

“Yes, Miss Kim?” Jimin asked, her voice weary.

Minjeong leaned forward, propping her chin in her hand. “Isn’t this whole ‘life is meaningless’ thing a little… I don’t know, pretentious?”

The other students went silent, shifting uncomfortably. Jimin’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—something like a challenge.

“Existentialism is an exploration of life’s fundamental uncertainties. Pretentiousness has nothing to do with it,” Jimin replied, her voice icy.

Minjeong shrugged. “I mean, isn’t it just philosophers overthinking everything?”

Jimin took a deliberate breath, as if summoning patience. “You know, Miss Kim, philosophy requires a willingness to think deeply—something that’s apparently outside your comfort zone.”

A few students stifled laughter, and Minjeong’s face flushed. But instead of backing down, she leaned forward, her eyes narrowing.

“Maybe I’d think deeply if there was actually something interesting to think about,” she shot back.

Jimin’s lips curved into a slight, dangerous smile. “Then maybe you should consider dropping the course. I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

The room went silent, students exchanging glances, all wondering if this would escalate. Minjeong hesitated, realizing she was backed into a corner, but she wasn’t about to let Jimin see her falter.