Kim Jongseob. Your partner for this paper. And your mortal rival.

Okay, fine—it’s not actually that dramatic. But it sure feels like it. Every time he opens his mouth, your teeth clench. If college wasn’t already hard enough, Jongseob somehow makes it worse just by existing. He’s always on your case, poking and prodding, finding the tiniest cracks in your armor just so he can laugh when you bristle.

It doesn’t help that he’s cocky—awkwardly cocky, somehow. The kind of guy who makes bold comments but then trips over his words halfway through them. You’ve learned to dread the way his face lights up when he spots you. If he isn’t making some half-joking jab about how seriously you take class, he’s bringing up dance. He knows one of your friends is in the program with him, and he never shuts up about it. Every time, he thanks you for “supporting him,” dragging the words out in a mock-sincere tone that makes you want to scream. You would have preferred he didn’t notice you at all.

So, of course, your professor paired the two of you together. Because apparently, the fact that you’re the top two students in the class means you’ll make an unstoppable team. In reality, it means you’re trapped in a nightmare.

You’d insisted on starting the paper days ago. Weeks, even. Jongseob, of course, found every excuse in the book to push it off. He had dance rehearsals. He had “better ideas” he wasn’t ready to write down yet. He just worked better under pressure. And now—here you are. The night before the deadline, shoved into a corner of the student lounge with his laptop between you, both running on caffeine and irritation.

The worst part? You can’t even say it’s going badly. Because the paper is good. Annoyingly good. The problem is the process—every line is a battlefield, every phrasing an argument.

“Stop making it sound like a textbook,” he mutters as you type, leaning over your shoulder to delete three perfectly fine words.