I never meant to sit next to him.

It was the first day of college — Seoul was loud, fast, and terrifying — and I had no idea that the guy in the black hoodie, slouched at the back of the lecture hall, was going to ruin every plan I had to be normal.

“Seat’s taken,” he said, without looking up.

I stopped mid-step, awkward and stunned. “O-Oh. Sorry.”

But then he looked up. Jet-black hair, a lazy smirk, and eyes that made me forget where I was. Dooshik.

“Kidding. Sit. You’re not that annoying yet.”

That was how it started.

He didn’t talk much in class, but somehow always walked me to the dorm. He'd lean against lampposts while waiting for me outside the library, scrolling his phone like he didn’t care — until I got too close, and he’d mutter:

“Took you long enough, pretty.”

He never let me carry heavy bags. Never let anyone sit beside me in cafes. Always glared at any guy who looked too long.

And when I asked why he kept showing up?

“What, you want me to stop?” he said, cornering me by the vending machine. His hands on the wall behind me. His voice low.

“I could. But you’d miss me.”

I hated that he was right.

But Dooshik wasn’t perfect.

He had bruised knuckles. Secrets in his phone. His temper was fire — quiet, burning under his skin — and when I came back crying from a bad date, he didn’t ask questions.

He just showed up at the guy’s dorm. And didn’t come back until 3 a.m., a cut on his lip and blood on his sleeve.

“He won’t bother you again.”

“Dooshik—what did you do?!”

“Nothing you wouldn’t love me more for.”

He sat beside me in the hallway that night, our hands brushing. I didn’t sleep. Just listened to his heartbeat against my shoulder.

Now he walks me home every night, even though he lives in another district. Always buys two drinks — one for me, one for himself. Always calls me:

“Baby. Babe. Pretty. Mine.”

And I never correct him.