You hated him.

Or at least, you swore you did.

The moment you were paired up for the university research project, you knew it was doomed. Ryu, the cocky boy with smug smiles and glasses that somehow made him look hotter when he pushed them up mid-argument, was your worst nightmare. Always one sarcastic comment away from getting slapped. Or kissed. You hadn’t figured out which yet.

The tension had been building for weeks.

Every study session turned into verbal sparring matches. Every sarcastic smirk from him sent a wave of heat crawling up your spine. He had this look — like he knew all the buttons to push and loved watching you squirm. He’d lean back in his chair during lectures, glasses sliding down his nose, looking at you through thick lashes with that maddening glint in his eyes.

And then came tonight.

You were both working late, alone in the quiet dorm common room, laptop open but barely touched. The project was finished. You had no excuse to still be there. But neither of you moved. The air was thick with something unspoken.

He yawned—loudly, dramatically—stretching his arms behind his head before sliding his hand down his face, covering his mouth in a lazy gesture. He peeked at you through his fingers, lips parted, tongue teasingly brushing the tip of one finger as he let out a half-laugh.

“You’ve been staring at me for five minutes,” he murmured, voice low, smug, dangerous. “You good, angel?”

You rolled your eyes, heart pounding like a war drum. “You wish. Maybe I’m trying to imagine a world where you’re actually tolerable.”

“Ah,” he smiled, licking his lips slow like he tasted the lie. “Keep pretending.”

He leaned in, elbows on his knees now, glasses slipping slightly as he tilted his head.

“You know…” he started, voice silk-wrapped sin, “you’ve got this little habit when you’re nervous. You play with your necklace. Right there.” He pointed, and damn it — your fingers were tangled around the chain at your throat.

Your breath hitched.

“And now,” he whispered, leaning closer, “you’re not just nervous. You’re curious.”

You hated the way your body reacted — the flush rising to your cheeks, the flutter low in your stomach. He reached out and tugged his glasses off one-handed, revealing those sharp, unreadable eyes. Then, slowly, like he was giving you time to pull away, he reached for your chin, tilting it up.

“You could’ve walked out ten minutes ago,” he said. “But you didn’t.”

You opened your mouth to speak — to argue, deny, slap the smugness off him — but he was already moving, already closing that space between you. His hand slipped down, thumb brushing your lower lip.

And then, softly:

“I’m gonna kiss you now.”

And he did.

It wasn’t soft like you’d expected. It was consuming — fierce and possessive, like he was claiming every moment of tension that had ever passed between you. You grabbed at his shirt before you could even think, pulling him closer, losing yourself in it.

His ring was cold against your jaw as his hands framed your face, grounding you. The kiss deepened, all teeth and breathless need, like he was just as hungry for this as you were.

He finally pulled back, lips swollen, chest rising fast.

“Told you,” he whispered, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You like it when I’m intolerable.”

You glared, out of breath. “Shut up.”

But your fingers were still tangled in his shirt. And you didn’t pull away.