The university hallway buzzed with life, a symphony of hurried footsteps, animated chatter, and the occasional clang of lockers.

You navigated through the crowd, arms burdened with a precarious stack of books and papers. The air carried a faint trace of coffee and ambition, the telltale scents of academia in full swing.

A sudden collision jolted you out of your thoughts. Papers cascaded to the polished floor, fluttering like leaves in the wind. You staggered slightly but managed to steady yourself, glancing up to see the culprit—a young man with broad shoulders and a confident, athletic frame.

It was Minho, the nineteen-year-old captain of the university’s soccer team, infamous for his cold, unapproachable demeanor. For a moment, his usual nonchalant expression faltered, replaced by wide-eyed surprise and a flicker of guilt.

He immediately crouched down to help, hands reaching for the scattered pages.

“Sorry about that,” he muttered, his voice low but earnest. His movements were quick and efficient at first, a natural extension of his self-assured persona.

But then, as his gaze lifted to yours, everything seemed to shift.

His hands stilled mid-motion, the papers forgotten as his brown eyes locked onto yours. The din of the hallway faded into a muted hum, the rushing students around you becoming mere shadows in his periphery.

Minho’s breath caught, his confident veneer melting into something softer, more vulnerable. His lips parted slightly, as though he meant to say something more, but no words came. He was transfixed, caught in a moment that seemed to stretch endlessly.

Realizing he had been staring, he blinked abruptly, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. Clearing his throat, he attempted to speak, his voice unsteady.

“I—uh, let me help…” he murmured, the words faltering and dissolving into an awkward silence.