Everyone in the architecture department knew the rule: never sit next to Kim Mingyu.

Grumpy, sharp-tongued, and always buried in sketches, Mingyu had made it clear—he worked alone. No partners. No distractions.

Except you.

No one really noticed when it started. Maybe it was the day the lecture hall was too full, and you quietly took the empty seat beside him. He glared, muttered something under his breath, but didn’t make you move.

Then it happened again. And again. Now, it’s your seat.

“You’re such a distraction,” he sighs every time you plop down beside him, nudging your coffee onto his side of the desk.

But he never tells you to leave.

You catch him adjusting your chair when you’re not looking, leaving post-its on your drafts with harsh critiques that help more than they hurt. He grumbles about how loud you type, how you hum while drawing—but when someone else tries to sit beside him, he simply says, “Taken.”

All bark, soft heart.

And no matter how many times he calls you annoying, he still brings an extra pen—just in case you forget yours again.