Chapter Text
Lee Minho didn’t believe in fate—he believed in planning, structure, and spreadsheets color-coded by urgency. Fate didn’t get you straight A’s or three student org presidencies. Hard work did. And maybe a little caffeine. Okay, a lot of caffeine. Which is why he was currently power-walking down the hallway of the dorm’s common room, hellbent on reaching the coffee cart before—
“Morning, sunshine.”
Jisung was already there.
Of course he was.
“Do you camp out here or something?” Minho bit out, glaring at the smug tilt of Han Jisung's mouth as the other boy took an obnoxiously slow sip of his perfectly brewed americano.
“I could ask you the same thing. What’s this—day four of you losing?” Jisung hummed thoughtfully. “I’m sensing a pattern.”
Minho's eye twitched. “It’s not a competition.”
“It always is,” Jisung said, leaning against the cart with the ease of someone who knew he was winning—again. “Besides, didn’t you say that about the Chem midterm last semester? Remind me who had the higher score?”
Minho clenched his jaw. “That was a fluke.”
Jisung's grin widened. “You keep telling yourself that, golden boy.”
Minho hated that nickname. He hated Jisung's grin. He hated that the barista always gave Jisung an extra shot of espresso for free, like he wasn’t already insufferable enough. But mostly, he hated that he couldn’t stop noticing the way Jisung's shirt clung to his chest when he leaned forward like that.
Focus, Minho snapped at himself internally.
He had better things to do than fantasize about punching—or kissing—Jisung. Like, say, surviving their Comparative Lit class without bloodshed. Except, apparently, fate had other ideas.
“Alright, folks,” Professor Jeong announced two hours later, shuffling papers like a harbinger of doom. “You’ll be working in pairs for the final project. I’ve assigned the groups myself. No switching.”
Minho didn’t even hear the rest of the names. Not once Professor Jeong said, “Lee Minho and Han Jisung.”
Jisung turned in his seat, that same smug glint in his eye.
“Looks like we’re stuck with each other.”
Minho wanted to scream.
Or maybe he just wanted to see what Jisung would do if he closed the distance between them—just to shut him up.
-
The library was nearly empty, save for the soft clack of keyboards and the occasional cough. It was past 9 p.m.—prime focus hours for Minho. The silence, the structure, the smell of old paper and mild academic anxiety in the air—it was his sanctuary.
Until Jisung showed up.
“Seriously?” Minho hissed as Jisung dropped into the seat across from him, unzipping his backpack like he owned the place. “You’re late.”
Jisung didn’t even look up. “You’re early.”
Minho exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around his highlighter. “This is why I didn’t want to work with you.”
“No one wanted to work with me,” Jisung said, finally glancing up through his messy fringe. “Something about being ‘distracting’ and ‘too argumentative.’ Can you believe that?”
“Completely.”
Jisung smirked. “You wound me, Lee.”
“And don’t call me that.”
“Whatever you say… golden boy.”
Minho slammed his book shut.
The sharp sound echoed through the library like a gunshot, drawing a stern glare from the librarian. Minho gave a sheepish bow and lowered his voice to a hiss. “Can you please take this seriously?”
Jisung leaned in, elbows on the table, voice just low enough to be heard over the turning pages. “Who says I’m not?”
There was something different in his tone—less mocking, more… curious. It threw Minho off. Just for a second. Long enough to realize how close they were now, leaning across the table like magnets pulled taut.
Minho cleared his throat and sat back, putting space between them. “We’re doing Chapter Two tonight. I already outlined our themes.”
“Of course you did,” Jisung said, flipping open his own book, which was dog-eared and chaotic and full of margin notes that were irritatingly insightful. “Let me guess—you highlighted every metaphor in yellow and every foreshadowing in blue?”
Minho stared. “How did you—?”
“You’re so predictable.” Jisung grinned.
Minho wanted to argue. He wanted to tell him off for wasting time, for being smug, for showing up late but still somehow making Minho feel like he was the one off-balance. But instead, he looked down at Jisung's notebook—messy but brilliant—and felt something hot twist in his chest.
He hated this.
He hated him.
So why was it getting harder and harder to look away?
Jisung tapped his pen against the table, eyes flicking lazily between his book and Minho's carefully typed outline. He was silent for a beat too long, and Minho could feel it—could practically hear the gears turning in that smug, overconfident brain.
“What,” Minho snapped without looking up.
“Nothing,” Jisung said, and Minho could already hear the grin forming in his voice. “Just… heard something interesting today.”
Minho didn’t respond. Just underlined a sentence with aggressive precision.
Jisung waited a beat, then leaned in with a smirk. “Apparently you’re a virgin.”
Minho's pen froze mid-sentence.
He looked up slowly. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Jisung said, leaning back in his chair like this was the most entertaining part of his week. “Caught it from some underclassmen whispering outside the humanities building. ‘Minho's too busy being perfect to get laid,’ or something like that.”
Minho blinked, his face carefully blank.
“I didn’t realize your sex life was campus discourse,” Jisung added with a chuckle, drumming his fingers on the table. “But now I’m curious.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Minho said flatly.
“Come on, golden boy,” Jisung drawled. “Is it true?”
“No,” Minho snapped, cheeks flushing despite his best efforts. “But no one believes me anyway.”
“Really?” Jisung's brows rose. “You don’t look like someone who’s had sex.”
Minho stared. “What the hell does that even mean?”
Jisung grinned, slow and deliberate, like a cat toying with a bird. “You’re so… polished. Controlled. Blushing every time someone says anything vaguely inappropriate.” He tilted his head. “I just can’t imagine you letting go long enough to let someone touch you.”
Minho's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “That’s—You don’t know anything about me.”
“I’m starting to,” Jisung said, voice dropping lower. “And now I really want to know what you’re like when you’re not pretending to be perfect.”
There was a pause—heavy, electric. Minho's face was flushed, and Jisung was still smirking, but there was something in his eyes now, something that wasn’t just teasing.
Minho swallowed hard. “Can we—can we focus on the project?”
Jisung leaned in again, eyes locked on him. “Sure, Minho. But don’t think I’m letting this go.”
Minho didn’t respond. He just dropped his eyes back to his notes, ears burning, heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with academics—and everything to do with the boy across from him.
...
-
The next day
It started the moment Minho walked into class.
“Hey, virgin,” Jisung greeted him with a casual wink, loud enough for only Minho to hear, but with that tone that made it sound like he wanted someone else to overhear.
Minho froze halfway to his seat, his jaw tightening. “Are you seriously still on this?”
Jisung just smirked, stretching out in his chair like he had nothing better to do than get under Minho's skin. “Still waiting on proof.”
“I don’t need to prove anything to you,” Minho hissed, dropping his bag onto the seat beside him.
Jisung leaned forward, elbow on the desk, chin propped in his hand. “So defensive. It’s adorable.”
Minho narrowed his eyes. “You’re obsessed.”
“And you’re hiding something,” Jisung said, eyes glittering. “The way you blushed yesterday? Guilty.”
Minho opened his mouth to snap back, but Jisung didn’t give him the chance.
“Was it, like… some sweet high school thing? Or…” Jisung's voice dipped mockingly, “…a one-time hookup you never called again?”
Minho's eyes flared. “Why do you even care?”
Jisung shrugged. “Just surprised, is all. You walk around all perfect and untouchable, and then I find out there’s a dirty little rumor trailing behind you?” He grinned. “It’s fascinating.”
“It’s none of your business,” Minho snapped, cheeks flushed again—this time more from heat than embarrassment.
“Oh, come on.” Jisung's voice was velvet now, quiet and teasing. “I’m just trying to figure you out. You’re all straight-laced and polite, but I swear there’s something underneath.”
“Keep looking,” Minho muttered, face burning. “You won’t find anything.”
Jisung leaned closer, so close Minho could feel the breath against his ear when he murmured, “I don’t know. I think I’m getting closer.”
Minho stiffened, heart thudding violently in his chest. Jisung pulled back just in time for the professor to walk in and start the lecture—like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just lit Minho's entire nervous system on fire with a few well-placed words.
Minho didn’t hear a single word of the lecture.
Because Jisung didn’t stop glancing his way—smug, amused, and too interested.
And Minho didn’t know what scared him more:
That Jisung might be trying to get a rise out of him.
Or that it was working.
-
The campus library was dark when they got there—lights off, doors locked, and a laminated sign taped to the glass:
"Closed for maintenance until Monday. Apologies for the inconvenience."
“Seriously?” Minho muttered, tugging at the door uselessly. “I emailed them. They didn’t say anything about this.”
Jisung leaned casually against the wall beside him. “Tragic. Guess we’ll just have to cancel and fail.”
Minho rolled his eyes. “We’re not canceling.”
Jisung gave a slow grin. “What, gonna take me to your secret study bunker?”
“…We can go to my dorm.”
Jisung raised a brow. “Really? The golden boy’s inner sanctum?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“No promises.”
-
Minho's dorm room was… exactly what Jisung expected, and somehow not at all.
Neat. Organized. Shelves of color-coded textbooks. Matching bedspread and curtains. A whiteboard with study goals. Even a plant that looked suspiciously healthy. It was almost too put-together.
But then something caught his eye.
A small black makeup bag, half-zipped, sitting on the edge of Minho's desk. A couple items were scattered next to it—lip tint, concealer, eyeliner.
Jisung stared.
“Don’t touch that,” Minho said a little too fast, crossing the room in two strides to shove the bag into a drawer.
Jisung tilted his head. “Didn’t peg you for the makeup type.”
“I forgot to put it away,” Minho said stiffly, turning his back to him. “I went out last weekend.”
“With… someone?”
Minho hesitated for half a second. “None of your business.”
Jisung's brows rose. “Girlfriend?”
“No.”
That surprised him.
“So… you wear it for fun?”
Minho turned to face him, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Why do you care?”
Jisung shrugged, but his gaze lingered on the drawer where the bag had disappeared. “Just didn’t expect it. You always act like you’ve got everything under control. Thought maybe you were hiding a double life.”
Minho didn’t say anything for a long moment. His voice was quieter when he finally answered. “Maybe I am.”
Something about that made Jisung go still. The room felt smaller suddenly, like he’d stumbled into something he wasn’t supposed to see—but now that he had, he couldn’t look away.
Minho sat on the edge of his bed and pulled out his notes like nothing had happened. “Are we working, or are you just going to keep being nosy?”
Jisung didn’t answer right away. He just watched him, curiosity sharpening into something else entirely.
Maybe Minho wasn’t as perfect as everyone thought.
And maybe… that made him a lot more interesting.
They were fifteen minutes into studying when Minho's phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
Three times in rapid succession.
Jisung didn’t look up at first—he was mid-sentence, lazily annotating the margins of their text. But the fourth buzz made Minho flinch, and that caught Jisung's attention.
“You gonna get that?” he asked, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice.
“It’s nothing,” Minho said quickly, flipping the phone screen-down on the bed beside him.
Another buzz.
Jisung reached over without thinking and flipped it back.
“Hey, when can I see you again?”
“Last night was so nice :)”
“You looked so pretty with that gloss on… still thinking about it.”
Jisung blinked.
Minho snatched the phone back, ears red. “Don’t read my texts.”
“You left it in front of me,” Jisung said, holding back a smirk. “So that’s what the makeup was for.”
Minho didn’t respond, just shoved the phone under a pillow like he could bury the entire conversation with it.
Jisung leaned back in his chair, studying him. “You’ve got a type, huh?”
Minho exhaled through his nose, clearly annoyed. “Not really.”
“They seemed very into you. The gloss? The sweet emojis?” Jisung smirked. “Let me guess—soft voice, clingy after one round, calls you ‘baby’ like it’s your name?”
Minho stayed silent, which told Jisung everything.
“Oh my god. Too soft, huh?”
Minho's jaw flexed. “It’s not like that.”
“No? Then why do you look like you’re dying inside?”
Minho finally looked up, his eyes sharp now. “Because you’re loud and nosy and you think everything about me is some kind of game.”
Jisung grinned slowly, the same way he did every time Minho got riled up. “I just didn’t expect the golden boy to get his dick wet with someone who probably cried after.”
Minho didn’t blush this time.
He just looked him dead in the eye and said, low and even, “That’s why I didn’t go back.”
The air shifted.
For a beat, neither of them said anything. Jisung's grin faltered—just slightly. He wasn’t sure what he expected Minho to say, but it wasn’t that.
Minho looked away, flipping a page. “Some people talk too much. Some people feel too much. It’s exhausting.”
Jisung tilted his head, curiosity sharpening. “So what does work for you?”
Minho didn’t look up.
But after a long second, he muttered, “Someone who doesn’t treat me like I’m breakable.”
Jisung's pulse kicked up. That wasn’t nothing. That was… layered. Vulnerable. Frustrated. Honest.
Minho caught him staring and raised a brow. “What?”
“Nothing,” Jisung said, biting back a smile. “Just re-evaluating a few things.”
Minho rolled his eyes and scribbled something into his notes. “You’re so annoying.”
“Maybe,” Jisung said, voice low and teasing again, “but I’m definitely not soft.”
And this time, Minho did blush.
They tried to get back to work.
Minho was determined—staring hard at his notebook like he could will the heat in his face to disappear. He was scribbling bullet points furiously, posture stiff, eyes laser-focused.
Jisung… was not helping.
“Just saying,” Jisung murmured after a beat of silence, “I think I’d like to see that gloss on you.”
Minho's pen faltered. “Shut up.”
“No, really.” Jisung leaned in, elbow propped on the desk, chin in hand. “You’d look good. Lips all shiny, that serious little pout—killer.”
Minho stared at him, absolutely scandalized. “We’re supposed to be studying.”
“We are. I’m studying your reaction.”
“Jisung.”
“Yes, Minho?”
Minho exhaled hard through his nose and tried to refocus. “If I ignore you, will you stop?”
“Not a chance.”
Minho said nothing, but his ears were already pink.
Jisung kept going, voice a touch quieter now, like he was sharing a secret. “You keep acting like I’m getting under your skin, but I think…” He leaned in, smirking. “…you like it.”
“I don’t.”
“Uh-huh.” Jisung casually reached over and circled a word on Minho's notes—his finger brushing his hand just barely. “You’re writing too fast. Calm down, golden boy.”
“I am calm,” Minho snapped, pulling his notes away.
Jisung just chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “You weren’t this jumpy yesterday.”
“That’s because you weren’t practically crawling into my lap with your mouth running.”
“You want me to?”
Minho turned to glare at him so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. “What is wrong with you?”
Jisung shrugged. “Nothing. Just curious what it’d take to finally wipe that whole ‘untouchable’ thing off your face.”
Minho's breath caught for a second too long. He looked like he wanted to throw something—maybe himself out the window.
But instead, he held Jisung's gaze and said, voice tight, “You think I don’t get touched because I don’t let people?”
Jisung blinked. The edge in Minho's voice was new. Sharp. Challenging.
“…Do you?”
Minho's eyes flicked down to Jisung's mouth for half a second before he yanked his gaze back up, cleared his throat, and buried himself back in his notes.
“We’re studying,” he said stiffly. “You can either behave, or you can leave.”
Jisung sat back, his grin widening. “You’re really cute when you’re lying.”
Minho didn’t answer.
But his hand was trembling slightly on the page.
And Jisung wasn’t sure he wanted to behave anymore.
-
The next day.
Class had already started.
Jisung tapped his pen against his notebook absently, trying to focus, but his eyes kept drifting toward the empty seat next to him.
Minho wasn’t there.
Which was weird. Minho was never late. Never missed a class. Not even when he’d had the flu that one time and showed up with a face mask, a thermos of tea, and enough tissues to supply the entire row.
So where the hell was he?
Jisung tried not to care. He tried. But his knee bounced under the desk, his focus shot. He didn’t even realize the professor had started writing on the board until half the lecture was already up.
Then the door opened.
And Minho walked in.
Heads turned. Jisung did a double take.
Because… he looked different.
Not wildly different. Still put-together, still the polished golden boy everyone expected—but there were cracks.
His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it instead of styling it. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose—rare, but not unseen. He wore a turtleneck under his blazer, neat and pressed, tucked in just right.
But Jisung saw it.
There was a faint shimmer at the corners of Minho's eyes—barely visible under the lenses. Glitter.
Not much. Just a trace. But it was there.
Jisung's gaze sharpened.
Minho didn’t meet his eyes as he slid into the seat beside him. He didn’t say anything, didn’t offer his usual stiff nod or quiet good morning. Just opened his notebook, stiff in the shoulders, moving a little slower than usual.
Like he was sore.
Jisung leaned in, voice low. “Overslept?”
Minho didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”
“You never oversleep.”
Minho's pen scratched across the page. “Don’t read into it.”
But now Jisung was watching him closely—really watching. The way Minho winced just a little when he adjusted in his seat. The slight redness at the base of his throat, barely covered by the collar of his sweater.
His mind raced.
Glitter.
Late.
Tired. Sore.
Jisung's lips curved, but it wasn’t his usual smirk—it was slower, more curious. “Rough night?”
Minho's jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the board.
Jisung leaned just a little closer, his voice dropping to a whisper only Minho could hear.
“Or maybe you finally found someone who’s not too soft for you.”
Minho didn’t react for a second.
Then he turned slightly, just enough to glance at Jisung out of the corner of his eye, and said flatly, “Maybe I did.”
And fuck.
That did something to Jisung he wasn’t ready for.
Because suddenly, the teasing didn’t feel like a game anymore.
It felt like a challenge.
-
Later that evening — Library, back corner study table
They had returned to their usual spot. A tucked-away corner where the hum of fluorescent lights was softened by dusty shelves and the distant shuffle of pages.
Minho was quieter than usual.
Not in the usual annoyed by Jisung way, but distracted. Still sharp, still efficient, but his eyes weren’t staying on the page for long. His hand paused between notes like he was catching his breath between each bullet point.
Jisung noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He hadn’t stopped noticing since Minho walked into class looking like he’d been kissed stupid and then stuffed into a turtleneck to hide the evidence.
Now, under the warm yellow lamp, Jisung kept glancing at him between scribbles. The glasses. The slight flush that hadn’t fully faded from Minho's skin. The way his collar shifted when he leaned over his notes.
And then it happened.
Minho bent forward to grab a reference book, pulling his sweater slightly to the side. Just for a second.
But it was enough.
A bruise. Low on the side of his neck. Dark, fresh. Unmistakably a bite.
Jisung blinked, his pen stilling.
“Don’t stare,” Minho muttered, not even looking up.
“You knew I’d see that?” Jisung said, voice lower now, laced with something that wasn’t just teasing.
“I knew you’d go looking.”
That made Jisung smile, slow and a little sharp. “So you’re not denying it this time?”
Minho finally met his eyes. He looked tired, but not fragile. There was something simmering under his calm—something Jisung couldn’t name.
“I have nothing to prove to you,” Minho said softly.
Jisung leaned in. “No, but you like when I look, don’t you?”
Minho's mouth twitched—half a frown, half something dangerously close to a smirk.
“You’re projecting.”
Jisung reached out, daring, and tapped the edge of Minho's notebook with the back of his knuckle. “You’re glowing today, you know that?”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious. You’re all soft around the edges. Like you finally got—”
“Don’t say it.”
Jisung grinned. “Wrecked?”
Minho's eyes narrowed. “Say it again and I swear I’ll end this project partnership.”
“Tempting,” Jisung said, leaning even closer, his voice dipping into something darker. “But not before you tell me who put that bruise there.”
Minho said nothing. Just held his gaze, unblinking, unflinching.
And that silence said more than words ever could.
Jisung sat back slowly, the weight of something new sinking into his chest.
This wasn’t a game anymore.
And Minho?
He wasn’t playing fair either.
The silence between them had stretched just a little too long.
Not uncomfortable, exactly. But charged.
Jisung kept glancing at that damn bruise every time Minho turned his head, like he couldn’t not look. And Minho knew. Of course he knew. He didn’t try to fix his collar. Didn’t hide.
He just kept scribbling notes like nothing was happening—except Jisung saw it. The slight smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. Barely there, but enough.
Minho was enjoying this.
Jisung leaned forward again, voice low and full of amusement. “So… did he use his hands? Or just his mouth?”
Minho didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up.
But his pen paused.
And then, calmly, still not looking at him, he said, “Why? Jealous?”
Jisung blinked.
Okay.
Okay.
That was new.
“You think I’d be jealous of some random guy you let bite your neck?” Jisung asked, biting down a grin. “I could do it better.”
Minho finally looked up, slowly, glasses slipping just the slightest bit down his nose. “Mm. Everyone thinks they can.”
Jisung's eyebrows shot up. “Wow. You’re cocky today.”
Minho tilted his head, that smirk spreading just a little wider now—small, smug, and just bratty enough to knock Jisung off his axis.
“You started it,” he said. “I’m just responding.”
Jisung leaned in, eyes narrowing with interest. “Oh, so this is what you’re like when you’re not pretending to be a saint?”
Minho blinked slowly. “You think I pretend? That’s cute.”
Jisung stared, heart beating a little too fast now. Because damn. Where was this side of Minho hiding? The slight edge in his voice. The subtle challenge behind his eyes. The way he held Jisung's gaze like he was daring him to say more.
Minho leaned forward then, resting his chin in his palm, expression all innocent mockery. “You’ve been teasing me for days. What, are you surprised I finally bit back?”
Jisung wet his lips. “Not surprised.”
“Then what?”
Jisung's voice dropped. “Turned on.”
Minho's breath caught—but he didn’t look away.
He just blinked once, lips parting slightly. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, a flicker of something uncertain flashing in his eyes.
And then he said, way too softly, “Thought you didn’t like soft.”
Jisung's stomach dropped.
Fuck.
That wasn’t just bratty. That was a line. A dig.
And for the first time in days, he was the one off-balance.
Minho leaned back with a slow smile, flipping a page in his notes like nothing had happened.
“So,” he said sweetly, “are we going to finish this outline, or are you too distracted again?”
Jisung stared at him, lips parted, pulse racing.
Yeah.
The golden boy had claws.
And Jisung was definitely going to make him show them again.
-