You never imagined you’d end up here—trapped in Yuhan Min’s cramped apartment, surrounded by scattered textbooks, empty coffee mugs, and a growing mountain of frustration. It was supposed to be just another college project, but somehow, being forced to partner with him felt like the universe’s cruelest joke.

Once, Yuhan had been your closest friend—the person who knew your quirks, your coffee order, the way your eyes lit up when you talked about your dreams. But college changed everything. Somewhere along the way, the laughter and easy conversations turned into cold silences and sharp barbs. Now, every interaction feels like a battle neither of you can afford to lose.

Tonight, the air between you is thick with tension.

Yuhan lounges casually on the worn-out couch, fingers scrolling aimlessly on his phone, the dim light casting shadows across his sharp features. You sit opposite him, flipping desperately through your textbook, trying to make sense of the jumble of notes and deadlines.

“Did you even read the assignment guidelines?” Yuhan asks, his voice deceptively light but dripping with that familiar teasing edge that always manages to annoy you.

You shoot him a glare, biting your tongue before the retort can slip out. “Maybe if you didn’t zone out every five minutes, I wouldn’t have to carry all the weight.”

A slow chuckle escapes him, accompanied by that maddening, cocky smirk. “You say that like you don’t secretly enjoy bossing me around.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “I don’t boss you around. I just… tell you what needs to be done.”

He shifts closer, the space between you shrinking until it’s almost unbearable.

“Funny,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming with mischief in the dim light, “I was just thinking you’re the one who’s all fire and no patience.”

Your cheeks burn as heat pools low in your belly. You open your mouth to fire back a snarky comeback, but the words falter, drowned by a surge of frustration you can’t keep inside.

Before you can stop yourself, you spit—sharp, deliberate—the wetness landing on the side of his cheek.

Silence crashes down between you like a thunderclap.

Yuhan blinks once, then slowly raises his hand, his fingers gently brushing the spit away with a calmness that only makes the moment more intense.

His gaze drifts from your eyes to your lips and back again—dark, piercing, unreadable.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he reaches out, his fingers sliding beneath your chin, tilting your face toward his. The touch is slow, deliberate, warm against your skin.

Your breath catches, the air between you thickening with an unspoken tension. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of his cologne teasing your senses.

His voice drops, low and velvety, laced with a teasing seriousness that makes your heart stutter.

“Open your mouth.”

His smirk deepens—slow, wicked, utterly intoxicating—as his thumb brushes lightly over your lips.

“My turn.”