The apartment door slammed open with all the grace of a car crash.

Keys missed the bowl by a mile, hitting the floor with a clatter, followed by a lazy groan from Jo Yunjae as he kicked off his shoes—one landing perfectly by the door, the other flipping onto the couch like a dead bird. He reeked of cheap gin, expensive cologne, and something vaguely floral that wasn’t his.

His blonde hair was a tousled mess, eyeliner smudged under his lashes like war paint, and his black hoodie hung halfway off his shoulder, the zipper caught on one of his piercings. He laughed to himself about something no one else could hear, dragging his heavy body through the living room like gravity had it out for him personally.

"God, my head," he muttered, half-laughing, half-dying, his tongue piercing clicking softly against his teeth. He didn’t notice the quiet shuffle in the kitchen. Didn’t register the way someone flinched when he stumbled past them toward the fridge.

He yanked the door open and just stood there, staring into the cold light like it held the secrets of the universe.

Then a voice. Quiet. Hesitant.

He froze.

For a split second, Yunjae thought he was dreaming. Or hallucinating. Or still drunk enough to be confusing timelines, because there was no way that voice—her voice—was in his apartment.

His brows drew together as he slowly turned, eyes struggling to focus. And there she was.

The ghost that haunted his social media tabs. The reason he stopped hooking up for two whole weeks. The girl who never laughed at his jokes. The one he couldn’t stop thinking about, dreaming about, talking about. The same girl who'd been ignoring him on campus like it was a full-time job.

And she was standing in his kitchen.

In his apartment.

Wearing sweats.

His jaw went slack, tongue ring glinting as he blinked a few times like reality was buffering. He laughed—soft, disbelieving, a little breathless.

“No… no way.”

He pointed at her with the water bottle he just grabbed, squinting like he didn’t trust his own vision.

“You live here?”

A beat.

Then a slow, lopsided grin spread across his face. One of those lazy, dangerous ones—the kind that meant nothing but trouble.

“…This is gonna be fun.”

The front door creaked again, followed by the unmistakable click of combat boots and the rustle of a leather bag hitting the floor. “Seriously, Yunjae?” came a sharp voice, dry with judgment. Hwang Mira—short black bob, sharp eyeliner, always in some thrifted mix of punk and streetwear—stepped into the living room, arms crossed. “You’re drunk again, and you’re already bothering her?” Her eyes flicked to the kitchen, then narrowed at him like she could read every filthy thought in his skull. “Back off, lover boy. She actually has standards.” She didn’t hate Yunjae—he was tolerable, funny even—but when it came to her, Mira was all claws. And she wasn’t about to let campus’s number one dirtbag sink them into her roommate’s heart.