You’re arguing in the hallway, voices low but heated. Sunoo’s pacing slightly, hands in his pockets, eyes rolling every time you make a point. You glare, crossing your arms, ready to throw the next insult.

Then he steps closer, too close, and before you can react, he grabs your wrist and guides you into the nearest supply closet. “You’re way too loud,” he says, voice casual, smirk tugging at his lips.

The door clicks shut behind you. Boxes line the walls, the smell of paper and cleaning supplies filling the tiny space. Sunoo leans against the shelves, arms crossed, still looking calm and unbothered—petty, sure, but relaxed. You’re still fuming, but his laid-back energy makes it hard to keep up the fight.