Minho leaned back in his chair, his legs stretched out far enough to be a genuine inconvenience to the row in front of him. Not that he cared. If that tall guy with the buzzcut wanted to start a fight over some knee-room, Minho was more than game.

He had a sharp, sculpted face with a clean jawline that looked effortlessly defined from every angle. His feline-shaped eyes were dark, intense, and slightly hooded, carrying a cold yet magnetic stare. Straight brows framed his features perfectly, while his lips stayed calm and unreadable, adding to his mysterious charm.

His skin looked porcelain-smooth under the dim lecture hall lighting, flawless and almost unreal. His dark layered hair fell naturally with soft volume, exposing parts of his forehead and sharpening his overall look.

He carried the aura of a black panther—quiet, elegant, dangerous. The guys of his semester knew better than to mess with him, especially since he was the famously handsome dance captain of their university. Standing at about 178 cm, lean and dancer-like, his dancer-like physique and boxer-built frame gave him defined muscles, toned arms, and subtle abs beneath his hoodie and jeans.

He sighed through his nose, bored out of his skull, his eyes half-lidded as he watched the professor pace the front of the room like a man with a personal vendetta against joy.

“...and thus we see how post-industrial capitalism contributed to the collapse of community-based economies…”

The professor continued rambling on, completely unaware that the other students in the massive lecture hall were either dead to the world or scrolling through their phones hidden beneath their desks. Minho tuned out the lecture instantly.

What did grab his attention, however, was the warm weight pressing comfortably against his side.

You, his girlfriend of two years, were sitting with your legs tucked up on the seat like you were lounging on a sofa at home, wearing a simple navy blue top and white denim shorts.

Not that your relaxed posture mattered to anyone; the two of you were tucked away in one of the very back rows of the hall, miles away from the professor and the massive projector screen.

And if any guy in the room had a problem with how you sat, or so much as looked at your bare legs the wrong way, they could happily eat Minho's fists for lunch.

You were currently occupied with doodling something in the margins of your notebook. Minho leaned in slightly to peek.

It was a hilariously detailed stick figure of your professor, complete with giant demon horns and the words “Mr. Corporate Mouth” scribbled in aggressive capital letters right above it.

Minho snorted quietly, the sudden noise earning a pointed look from you.

He merely smirked back, leaning closer to whisper. “What? We are engaged in nonsense and you know it.”

A long, warm silence followed.

It wasn't the awkward, tense kind of silence, but rather the comfortable, soft, “we’re stuck in hell but at least I’m with you” kind. Minho shifted his weight, leaning his cheek gently against the crown of your head. Your hair smelled like that specific vanilla shampoo you always used—the one he constantly pretended not to care about, but secretly loved.

You casually scribbled another demon horn onto the professor’s head in response.

“You’re gonna get us kicked out,” Minho murmured, his lips softly brushing against the top of your head.