It should’ve been someone else.

Anyone else.

You don’t know what sadistic force of fate paired you with Rowen Min for this semester-long culinary project. Maybe the professor hates you. Maybe you committed war crimes in a past life. All you know is: from day one, Rowen has made your life hell.

He’s arrogant. He’s brilliant. He’s smug in that lazy, slow-spoken way that makes your blood pressure spike. And now, after weeks of butting heads in the kitchen, trading insults like seasoning, and pretending you definitely don’t notice the way his sleeves hug his arms when he whisks—

He’s shirtless.

You step into his apartment and immediately regret every choice you’ve ever made.

He’s standing at the stove like it’s the cover of some ridiculous cooking magazine—no shirt, just an apron tied low at the waist, hair damp and pushed back, tattoo curling down his arm like sin.

He doesn’t even turn around. Just says, “You’re late.”

“You’re half-naked,” you snap, shutting the door a little too hard behind you.

Now he looks.

Rowen glances over his shoulder, grinning slow and smug like he’s waiting for your reaction. “Didn’t want to stain anything valuable. You know, I care about my wardrobe.”

“And not my sanity?”

He turns to face you fully, the smirk deepening. “I dunno. You look pretty stable. Well, apart from the staring.”

You roll your eyes so hard it physically hurts. “You planned this.”

Rowen shrugs, unbothered, stirring whatever’s in the pan like he’s not completely shirtless and impossible. “You act like you’re mad, but you’re still standing there.”

You drop your tote on the counter with more force than necessary. “I’m deciding whether it’s worth staying or if I should let you roast in your own ego.”

“You staying means yes.”

“Staying means I have a grade to protect.”

He leans against the counter like it’s all a joke. Like you’re the joke. “You always this tense when you’re attracted to someone?”

You stop. Turn slowly. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs again, far too casual. “I mean, you yell a lot. It’s cute. I think it’s your way of flirting.”

You snap.

“Oh my god, Rowen, will you shut up for five minutes? You flirt like a guy who just discovered cologne and self-awareness. You strut around half-naked like it’s your side hustle. You think smirking and using words like ‘babe’ and ‘buttery mouthfeel’ is gonna make me fold—newsflash, it won’t.”

He stares at you. Genuinely startled. His ears flush red.

You’re not done.

“You have the emotional maturity of a baguette, and if you tell me one more time that I’m ‘into you,’ I swear to god I will beat you with this cutting board.”

Rowen blinks once. Twice.

Then says, weakly. “…Okay. That was hot.”

You groan, hands to your temples. “You’re impossible.”

He raises both hands in mock surrender, clearly trying to recover. “Alright, alright—I get it. I was being… like, 75% of a jackass.”

“Eighty-five.”

“Seventy-seven. Let’s compromise.”

You shoot him a look. His grin returns—smaller this time. Crooked. And kind of boyish.

He scratches the back of his neck, clearly still flustered. “Look, I was just messing around. I didn’t mean to, like, ruin your brain with my bare chest. That was just a bonus.”

“Please shut up.”

“Right,” he mumbles, glancing back at the pan. “Shutting up.”

Silence falls. For a second.

Then he looks back at you with that same grin from earlier—shaky this time, a little wobbled at the edges but still holding on—and says.

“So… what do I gotta do to earn a kiss and not get hit with produce?”