#mechanical engineering tutorial | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

creamflix · 14 hours ago

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TALK TOO MUCH ! ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

mission brief did you know there’s a six-foot-something guy in your class who’s smart, suspiciously well-read in your field, and loudly supportive of women’s rights all of a sudden? yeah, he’s also hopelessly in love with you. you’re just trying to get your degree. he’s trying to get your attention. the rest practically writes itself. w.c 7k

risk assessment university au, crack & fluff, female reader, mentions of weed usage, crush at first sight, himbo gojo + sukuna + toji, naoya being sexist as always, slight transphobia, toji + sukuna + gojo are part of the same frat, uraume cameo ft! gojo, naoya, geto, sukuna, toji

a/n this was inspired by the video → jock pretends to be a nerd to impress you (ASMR) ← PLEASE check it out it's very funny.

☆ GOJO SATORU: I JOINED ENGINEERING FOR THE PHYSICS AND SAT FRONT ROW FOR HER, BUT SHE STILL DOESN’T KNOW MY NAME

In Gojo’s defense — and he always had a defense, mind you — he didn’t mean to major in engineering.

It was a whim, a toss-of-the-coin decision made in the haze of post-exam delusion and overconfidence. Physics had always been his thing. He topped nationally in grade 12, solved kinematics like Sudoku, and made a meme page about Newton's laws that somehow went viral. So Engineering? Duh. Physics, but cooler, right?

Wrong. Very, violently wrong.

No one warned him that Engineering Physics was basically Physics on steroids, combined with linear algebra’s illegitimate child and the unforgiving slap of applied mechanics. Suddenly, instead of tinkering with fun little projectile motion problems, he was deriving partial differential equations for heat transfer while hungover. He didn’t even know what a Lagrangian was, and people were out here minimizing it like they did it for sport.

He should’ve switched majors. Should’ve listened to his friends, to his GPA, to that one TA who told him, “Mr. Gojo, this isn’t a YouTube prank channel. Please stop bringing a lighter to class.”

But then, you walked in during course exploration week — where students from other disciplines could sit in on any class.

You waltzed into his 9 a.m. Electromagnetic theory lecture with a coffee in one hand and a look that said “I am not here to commit.” And Gojo — Gojo who once fell asleep drooling on his differential equations worksheet — sat up straight. Literally front-row, front and center, no sunglasses, no lighter.

He was suddenly alive.

“Professor,” he said, for the first time ever, “Could you please explain how Maxwell's equations relate to boundary conditions at material interfaces?”

The professor nearly fainted.

People turned in their seats. Someone whispered, “What the fuck is wrong with Gojo.” He ignored them.

You didn’t even look at him.

You were too busy squinting at the whiteboard, taking notes, tilting your head like you were trying to find a flaw in all of electromagnetism itself. And Gojo, high-functioning himbo that he was, had never tried harder to sound like he cared about vector calculus in his entire life. He even stopped asking the dumb hypothetical questions like, “But what if the resistor was alive?”

He asked about displacement currents now. About Poynting vectors. About complex impedance.

He googled after class. He attended tutorials. He bought a fucking graphing notebook and labeled it “electric love (theory).”

And the irony? You never noticed. Never spared him more than a polite nod when he held the door open. Because, of course, you weren’t here for people. You were here for classes. Just floating through mechanical design, dabbling in Comp Sci, sitting in on Civil Engineering like a butterfly landing on several cursed flowers before committing to bloom.

You did not give a singular shit about Gojo Satoru.

And Gojo — Gojo who had people lining up to cheat off his board exam answers — was now refreshing his attendance portal and manually correcting his MATLAB syntax because a random stranger with wide eyes and a mechanical pencil made engineering look like something worth trying for.

He once asked a classmate, “Do you think she noticed me when I asked about Gauss’s Law?”

“Who?”

He was doomed. And worse? He kinda liked it.

By Friday, Gojo Satoru was a shell of the man he used to be.

His once-messy notes were now color-coded. His hair, usually in its signature tousled chaos, was combed back like he gave a shit about aerodynamics. The lighter that he once flicked open with one hand under the desk? Confiscated. Twice.

He hadn’t flirted with a single person in five days. Five.

He even knew what dielectric permittivity meant.

This week had been the longest relationship he’d ever been in.

Because ever since you walked into that lecture hall on Monday — unassuming, curious, tilting your head at inductance like it personally offended you — Gojo had been in crisis mode. A calculated, overachieving, wildly embarrassing crisis.

He should have just talked to you. Just said hi, cracked a joke, thrown one of his usual cocky smiles your way. But no. No. He doubled down on academic desperation like an unmedicated gifted child.

On Tuesday, he started showing up five minutes early and sitting right in front of you.

On Wednesday, he asked four questions, all relevant, and argued with the professor over the derivation of the Biot–Savart law.

On Thursday, he raised his hand before the professor even finished writing the topic on the board. And today? Today, he stood up mid-lecture, holding his notebook like a thesis, and asked, “Sir, do you want me to take over and explain the derivation?”

The professor stared at him, blinking. “Mr. Gojo,” he said slowly, like addressing a wild animal, “Please be seated. I… I implore you.”

You didn’t even look up. You were too busy cross-checking your notes with the projection, scribbling in the margins like a woman on a mission.

When class finally ended, the professor clapped once, looking exhausted but relieved. “To those of you visiting this week, thank you for attending. It's been wonderful having you.”

Gojo blinked. What?

Oh god. It's the end of exploration week.

His heart jackhammered. He hadn’t even spoken to you, hadn’t even gotten your name. Hadn’t done anything except become a clown in the name of electromagnetic thirst. He watched as students trickled down to the front to sign the attendance sheet, indicating whether or not they’d be continuing with the course. You stood in line, humming under your breath. Calm, like your choice was already made.

Gojo watched your pen touch the paper, and the millisecond you stepped away, he sprinted. Vaulted over a desk, and possibly elbowed some poor sophomore in the ribs. He hovered over the sheet like it was a sacred scroll.

There. Your name, written neatly. Clearly.

With a little loop at the end of the “yes.”

He read it three times, outright etching it into his brain as he felt his soul realign with the axis of your handwriting.

And as you walked past him on your way out, you glanced at him — just for a second. Just a flicker. And you smiled. Polite. Brief. Maybe a little amused.

You didn’t know. You couldn’t possibly know the chaos you’d just survived. And then the professor, as casually as mentioning the weather, added, “Ah yes — she’s the Dean’s daughter. Naturally, she’s joining engineering.”

Gojo didn’t just cheer. He howled.

“YES!”

He fist-pumped the air.

“FUCK YES, SCIENCE!”

Everyone turned. The professor flinched. You paused at the door, blinking in mild confusion before walking off, slightly faster. Gojo clutched the attendance sheet like a man reborn.

Engineering wasn’t a whim anymore. It was destiny. And her name was you.

☆ NAOYA ZENIN: I CHOSE FEMINISM TO AVOID COOKING AND NOW I’M THE FACE OF TRANS RIGHTS BECAUSE SHE SAT NEXT TO ME

Naoya Zenin was a lot of things: heir to a multi-billion dollar legacy, self-proclaimed alpha male, misogynist extraordinaire with the subtlety of a wrecking ball, and — God help the campus — now a student in WGS 204: Women and Gender in the Modern Age. He sat like he was being punished, slouched so far down his seat it was a miracle he hadn’t slipped to the floor entirely. His expression was one of perpetual disapproval, mouth in a grim line, as if just existing in this class was somehow beneath him. And in his own words, it was.

“Gender is a social construct, not a personality trait,” his professor said, gesturing passionately at a slide on transgender rights and systemic marginalization.

Naoya snorted. Loudly.

“If it’s a construct, maybe they should stop reconstructing it every five seconds.”

A groan passed like a wave through the room, as if half the class had just been collectively punched in the face by pure ignorance. Someone in the back whispered, “Jesus fucking Christ,” and the professor paused, blinking slowly, mouth slightly open like she couldn’t believe she was dealing with this on a Tuesday morning. Naoya sat back, arms crossed. Smug, proud, and very unaware of the thousand-yard stares being directed at the back of his head. And then—

SLAM.

The door cracked open, the light from the hallway pouring in like a spotlight from heaven itself.

And in you came.

Time slowed.

“Sorry! Sorrysorrysorrysorry — I missed the first bus and then the elevator in hall B broke again and—”

You were flustered, sure — late and breathless — but the chaos only made it worse. The way your hair stuck slightly to your cheek, the way your coat hung off one shoulder, your fingers fumbling to push your ID card into your bag as you mouthed another “sorry!” at the stunned professor like a fever dream in sneakers. You were rambling to her, but she was too busy experiencing ego death in real time to even acknowledge you. It was cinematic.

To Naoya, it was a fucking epiphany.

He sat up.

Fully upright. Spine erect, arms uncrossed, shoulders rolled back like a man coming alive for the first time. Like she’s beauty, she’s grace, she just saved me from a discrimination case.

A miracle.

Your perfume hit him next — not strong, just barely there, but enough. Fuck. It smelled like whatever self-respect he had left was about to rot in hell. You scanned the room, then spotted the empty seat next to him. And Naoya Zenin — top 5 least emotionally available men on campus — made space.

Like, physically moved his things.

A girl behind him gasped.

You slid into the empty seat next to him, dropping your bag and exhaling. Your perfume hit him like a physical slap again. He looked away, then looked again.

And just like that, the campus’ biggest asshole about feminism, equity, and anything remotely ‘woke’ was suddenly blinking like a deer caught in the bisexual lighting of his conscience. You let out a breathless sigh, and Naoya felt something dislodge in his chest. An organ, maybe. Or a soul. Long gone.

“Hey,” you whispered, brushing hair from your face. “What’d I miss?”

Naoya cleared his throat. The rest of the class was now actively ignoring him — he’d burned his social credibility to the ground ten minutes ago — so they didn’t notice the sudden tonal whiplash.

He blinked twice. His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.

“Uhhh,” he said, scrambling mentally, every hateful comment about this class evaporating into the ether. “We were talking about, uh, trans rights. Y’know. How, uh... society should, like… respect them more. Obviously.”

You blinked. “Oh wow. Good. That's important.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, voice suddenly patient, hushed. “Like, I think people forget how hard it is, like, navigating identity and all. They don’t choose to be — I mean, no one chooses — like, society just makes it harder, y’know?”

You smiled. Smiled. “Wow. That’s actually really thoughtful.”

Naoya’s brain bluescreened.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “I think about stuff.”

The irony was thick enough to spread on toast and then chew on. Naoya Zenin, a man who once claimed feminism was “just a phase like astrology” and was “what girls cry about when they can’t lift a dumbbell” was now sitting beside a pretty stranger and reciting Queer Theory 101 like he was born under Judith Butler’s guidance. His voice stayed low the rest of class and occasionally, he even nodded at the professor’s points. Once, he even scribbled something down.

The professor didn’t notice. She was too emotionally dehydrated to engage further with him. The rest of the class assumed he’d finally shut the hell up. But you? You leaned a little closer every time he whispered an explanation, wide-eyed and genuinely interested. “That’s so messed up,” you said once, about a statistic he half-remembered from a slide. “Thank you for telling me.”

He shrugged, like it was no big deal. He would later Google every slide from today’s class. In private.

And so, the semester began: Naoya Zenin, accidental ally, one seat away from the only person who could make him behave like a human being. The irony? It was just getting started.

Exam season descended like a curse. Students walked around campus in three day old hoodies, clutching caffeine like holy relics, some half-crying, others fully dead inside. And somewhere amidst it all, Naoya Zenin sat in the third-floor library, clutching a copy of “Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center” like it was both radioactive and sacred. He was pale, possibly sweaty. Not from the pressure of exams — no, Naoya didn’t stress. He was genetically and spiritually incapable of caring this much.

But here he was, highlighting Bell Hooks and mouthing her quotes like incantations. He hadn’t even bought the damn book. As a matter of fact, he refused to. He called it “liberal propaganda” in week one, said it’d “pollute his shelf energy.”

And yet. Here he was, in the trenches of feminism. Elbow-deep in Judith Butler and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. The library copy was so well-worn from his midnight cramming that the spine cracked when he opened it. His bookshelf at home remained a cursed shrine of “The 48 Laws of Power,” “Rich Dad Poor Dad,” and “Why Men Deserve More.” His course textbooks? They lived in the zippered compartment of his backpack, like a dirty secret. But none of that mattered when you smiled and asked, “Can we have another study session?”

And God. God, he would have written a dissertation on post-structuralist feminist theory if you so much as blinked at him encouragingly.

“Okay,” he said one evening, lounging in the study room like he wasn’t mentally on fire, “Intersectionality. Coined by Kimberlé Crenshaw in 1989, which talks about how overlapping identities like race, gender, and class create complex systems of oppression.”

You blinked. “You know the year?”

“...I know many things,” he said stiffly.

You nodded, impressed. Naoya felt light-headed.

Another time, you leaned close over your notes and said, “Can you explain ecofeminism again? I didn't get the connection.” And Naoya, Naoya Zenin, who once claimed nature documentaries made him feel “beta,” launched into a whole breakdown on how patriarchal systems exploit both women and the environment, casually referencing Vandana Shiva like she was a friend of the family.

He even made a diagram. A. Fucking. Diagram.

By the third study session, you were calling him “so smart.”

By the fourth, he was rewriting his midterm essay to sound more inclusive.

By the fifth, he was correcting other people in class.

“Uh, actually,” he said to a guy who confused gender identity with gender expression, “Those are different concepts. Read the module again, bro.”

The class started. You beamed. Naoya floated.

Exam week hit, and Naoya studied like the fate of your friendship depended on it. Because maybe it did. Maybe if he just got one thing wrong — if he mixed up Judith Butler and Simone de Beauvoir, God forbid — you’d stop looking at him like he was safe. And Naoya, king of masculine fragility, needed you to keep thinking he was worth your time.

He wrote essays in APA format. He cited. He footnoted. And when results day came around, it was biblical. The professor — a woman who once looked at Naoya like he was the living embodiment of male disappointment — cried. Real, unfiltered, mid-forties academic tears. “This—” she sniffled, waving his graded paper like a diploma, “This is why we don’t give up on our students.”

The class was dead silent. Several jaws dropped. Someone clapped. You, glowing beside him, told everyone, “See? I told you Naoya wasn’t that bad. He topped the class!”

Naoya didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His soul had left his body the moment you said topped the class. He sat still, processing the reality: He, Naoya Zenin, was now the official number one feminist in WGS 204. And worse? You were looking at him with literal pride in your eyes.

He was neck-deep in feminist quicksand. And you, smiling, sweet, oblivious you, were pushing him in deeper with every compliment.

He dry heaved a little as the class passed around his graded essay like it was a sacred relic. You whispered, “You have to help me next semester too.” And he whispered back, “...I hate myself.”

And you just smiled, so grateful, so fucking proud of him.

He was doomed.

☆ GETO SUGURU: I STOPPED ARGUING IN POLITICAL SCIENCE BECAUSE SHE MADE ONE POINT AND NOW I’M IN LOVE

If there’s one thing Suguru Geto cannot fucking stand, it’s being wrong.

Not even in the conventional, “Oops, I goofed” sense — no, morally, intellectually, ontologically wrong. He prides himself on being the sharpest mind in any room. His thoughts are not just thoughts; they’re theoretical frameworks. His arguments have footnotes. Citations. He quotes Gramsci like he’s invoking scripture and once corrected the professor mid-lecture for misusing “normative.”

He thrives on being right — not just factually, but intellectually, morally, philosophically, even. His brain is a steel trap. His arguments, ironclad. His tone? So assured you’d think he wrote the UN charter himself. In every debate, he's the guy who quotes obscure theorists like he's on a first-name basis with them — "well, as Chantal said in 1985..." — and if someone dares to cut in, God help them. He turns his head slow, neck taut, like he’s physically resisting the urge to pounce.

Debate, to him, is not a discussion. It's a blood sport. And political science? God's playground. His colosseum, even.

A whole class where everyone thinks their opinion is the most nuanced? Perfect. Let him feast. Well, he thought it’d be perfect — a class full of wannabe activists and half-baked libertarians ripe for intellectual evisceration. And for the first few weeks, he was thriving. Sitting in the back, all in black, with a glint in his eye that said, fucking try me. But no. It was more like a zoo of amateur philosophers, liberal arts kids fresh off a summer of reading The Communist Manifesto once, and the occasional future politician who had already learned to speak without saying anything.

Geto, meanwhile, had no patience for “devil’s advocate” takes or vague moral relativism. He’d sit there, rings on his fingers, resting his chin on his hand like a villain plotting a coup d’état, just waiting to be triggered. And when he was, oh boy. He'd raise one eyebrow, shift in his seat, and lace his fingers together like a church steeple. Then he’d go in. His rebuttals weren’t loud — no, they were cutting, calculated. Not once raising his voice, but commanding the room like he’d just cast a spell that made everyone question their degree.

As a matter of fact, he didn’t speak often. But when he did, it was like someone dropped a thesis in the room. He never raised his voice — he didn’t need to. Just leaned back, tapped his pen once, and said shit like: “You’re collapsing the distinction between procedural and substantive democracy. I suggest you revise your understanding of Dahl.”

And then he’d smirk, while the poor soul opposite him melted into their chair. Classic Geto.

So today, when someone dares to refute his point — on transitional justice, no less, one of his strongest suits — he’s already rolling up his rhetorical sleeves. He’s just finished saying, cool as ice:

“Truth commissions without retributive mechanisms become spectacles of memory. Symbolic, yes. But restorative? Rarely.”

And then someone two rows ahead — a voice he doesn’t recognize — says:

“I actually disagree. I think you’re overestimating the necessity of punitive justice. In societies undergoing democratization, restorative models like the South African TRC weren’t just symbolic. They were foundational to building participatory legitimacy.”

Geto turns his head. Like, snaps it. Because who the fuck—?

But then he sees you.

You, leaning casually on one elbow, speaking like this is a side conversation you’re having with history itself. Sitting there in a dress shirt, one foot tucked under your leg, talking through your point like you were still working it out. Your hair kept falling into your face and you pushed it back absently, totally unaware that the most arrogant man in the department had just gone silent. You don’t have notes, you’re not grandstanding. You’re just explaining. And the worst part? You’re not wrong.

Geto had a retort on his tongue, but it fizzled. Like pop rocks. Sugar, static, and nothing left but the weird sweetness of realizing he was… listening.

He's blinking, staring, processing not just your argument but also the way your hand absentmindedly tugs at your sleeve, the way your brow furrows just slightly when you try to recall a date. He opens his mouth.

“…Huh,” he muttered. You turned slightly to find him staring at you. You blinked. The professor — who had already leaned back, anticipating another of Geto’s intellectual executions — hesitates. “Mr. Geto?”

He blinks again. And then he says, slow but certain:

“She's right.”

Half the class gasps. A pen drops somewhere, and the professor visibly chokes on his thermos tea. Even the guy next to Geto turned and whispered, “What the fuck?”

And you? You turn around slightly, confused for half a second — and then just smile. A soft, polite nod, like this was a normal academic exchange and not the moment Suguru Geto’s personality dissolved in real time. And Geto — the man who’d argued with someone for forty-five minutes over a typo in the syllabus — found himself smiling back.

Like a simp. Like a man who, for once in his life, didn’t need to be right. He just needed to hear you speak again.

You turn back around, and Geto just sits there, staring at the back of your head like it holds the secrets of the polis. He's not even mad. He's fascinated. A bit dazed. Maybe humbled. Definitely down bad. He mutters under his breath, to no one in particular, “...Fuck. I didn't even think of that.”

His friend beside him glances over.

“You good, bro?”

Geto sighs, leans back in his chair, eyes still fixed on you.

“No, I'm in love.”

Every second after that class was a quiet, invisible vow from Suguru Geto to the universe. He’d rewrite entire political timelines if it meant seeing you right. He’d dismantle historiography itself. Pull out case studies and manipulate them like marionettes until they bowed in favor of your thesis.

Because if you said “reconciliation over retribution,” then he’d drag every ICC ruling through the mud until the literature reflected just that.

You were right. And if you weren’t? Then the world was wrong. It was that simple.

So when you wave him over in the campus library a week later — soft smile, denim jacket sleeves cuffed, highlighter uncapped between your fingers — and ask, tilting your head, “Hey, what was that argument about the other day? Y’know, before you agreed with me in class?” He smiles back, expression unreadable except for the way too long eye contact.

“Mm. Nothing worth remembering.”

He slides into the seat across from you, loosening his collar, as if the person he verbally decapitated ten minutes before talking to you wasn’t now recovering in the bathroom, sobbing into the syllabus. “Just a poor attempt at claiming that carceral justice should remain the dominant framework in post-conflict states.” He shrugs. “Anyone who reads even one transitional justice ethnography knows that’s laughable.”

You blink. “Oh… okay. I was just wondering. You two looked intense.” You flash him that easy smile again and it slices through his ego like sunlight on ice. And Geto — the man who’s turned entire group discussions into academic tribunals — just laughs softly and shakes his head. “It's fine. People need a reality check.”

And when you frown, lower your eyes to your notes and sigh, “Ugh. I don't think I get this part about deliberative democracy vs participatory democracy. The reading was so vague.” His brows knit together instantly as he already reaches for your printout.

“No, you’re fine. The text is poorly structured. But your instinct is right — look, here’s how I'd explain it.”

He leans forward, scribbling little diagrams in the margins. “Deliberative focuses on rational discourse, like in institutionalized settings — think Habermas, where consensus is the goal. But participatory democracy leans more on inclusion, on the act of engagement itself, even without formal consensus. They intersect, but they're distinct.”

You nod slowly, chewing on your lip, and he catches the way your brow furrows again — just slightly — and he’s already flipping pages.

“Look, here’s an example. If you're unsure, use the 1989 Brazilian constitution drafting process — that's always solid. And hey,” he lowers his voice, chin propped on his hand, “You’re not wrong. You just need a clearer framework.” You look up at him again, warm with that kind of grateful, unknowing admiration that crushes him every single time.

“You’re such a good friend, Suguru.”

Oh, God. The f-word. Geto smiles like someone just handed him a live grenade. “Yeah,” he says, voice a little too even. “Friend. Sure.”

But he swallows the chaos in his chest. Now's not the time to blow up the diplomatic bridge. You’ve got a debate to prep for. He's your teammate. You’re going up against third-years. Big names in the department. People who throw around constructivism and realist pluralism like party tricks. But you? You've got Suguru Geto.

And when the day comes, and your voice shakes ever so slightly during your opening statement, he’s already watching from his chair, eyes soft, nodding slowly like he’s willing your words into the world. And later, when you step back and whisper that you’re unsure whether your rebuttal landed—

He leans in, low enough that only you hear it. “You were flawless. And even if you weren’t — don’t worry. I'll dismantle whatever part didn’t land.”

And he does. He tailors his own segment to support yours. Shifts his citations, reframes the argument, creates a neat little circle of theory where your point was not only correct — it was inevitable. By the time the debate ends, the panel is murmuring praise and the audience is lowkey stunned. You beam at him. “We crushed that. Couldn’t have done it without you.”He just shrugs, eyes soft. “Nah, you crushed it. I just made sure the world kept up.”

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA: I SKIPPED A FRAT FIGHT AND BECAME A HISTORY NERD BECAUSE SHE ASKED FOR DIRECTIONS

Sukuna never chose Medieval History. He clicked it.

Half-baked, half-asleep, joints still smouldering in the ashtray of his brain the night before course registration — he saw one of those trippy, animated TED-Ed videos on knights and siege towers, thought “Yo, that’s hard,” and signed himself up like it was a Netflix trial. In theory? Swords, castles, bloodshed. In reality? Feudal structures, canonical texts, and three lectures in a row on land distribution in the Carolingian Empire.

So by week two, he was out. Not officially — he still showed up in the system, technically enrolled — but mentally? He was back on the court, back in his jersey, skipping classes, getting high, hosting parties with themes so stupid it’s a miracle no one died. Medieval History was a minor, anyway. He could flunk and still graduate.

But then there was you. In a sundress and sneakers, map in hand, walking around like the campus was a medieval city-state you were trying to invade. He was heading to the basketball court, already halfway through a protein bar and texting the group chat “yo strt the game w/out m i’m takin a piss” — when you walked up to him and asked, polite and lost, “Hey, sorry, do you know where the Medieval History class is?”

And something in him short-circuited. Because one, you clearly had no clue who he was — no fear, no swooning, no "Omg Sukuna?!" And two, your voice made Charlemagne sound like a relevant topic.

He swallowed his curse and his ego in the same breath. “Oh yeah, yeah — was just headed there.” You blinked. “Really?”

“Mhm,” he nods, all casual, slipping his phone into his pocket and doing the mental math to remember where the fuck that classroom even is. “You new?” he asks, voice lower, smoother, almost soft.

“Just transferred this week,” you smiled. “It’s kinda hard finding things.” He nods, like he gets it, even though he’s been skipping that specific class for three months.

“C'mon, I'll walk you.”

Then — before he can stop himself —

“You want me to carry your bag or somethin’?”

You laugh, confused but amused. “I think I can manage.”

He smiles. Charming. Not smug. (He's trying, okay?)

And as the two of you walk, he somehow starts talking about Merovingian succession crises like he didn’t sleep through that entire unit. He's pulling stuff out of his ass — but it sounds right. It sounds smart.

“Yeah, like, the power structures back then were mad fragile. You kill one heir ‘n the whole bloodline goes to shit — like, succession wasn’t even secure ‘cause they didn’t believe in primogeniture yet, y’know?”

“...Huh. That’s actually really interesting.”

He has never tried so hard to sound like he gives a shit about something that wasn’t himself. He even holds the door open for you.

And when you both walk into the Medieval History classroom — you all wide-eyed, him all tall and smug and trying not to trip over his own ego — the old professor chokes. Literally wheezes, scrambling for his inhaler like he’s seen a ghost.

“Mr. Sukuna. Good of you to finally grace us with your presence.”

Sukuna just smiles and shrugs like he wasn’t being summoned in three group chats for a 5v5 scrimmage right now. “Yeah, had to walk someone to class. Wouldn’t want her to miss the lecture on, uh—”

he turns to you with a wink,

“–Anglo-saxon law codes.”

You laugh, none the wiser. The class stares. The professor stares harder. But Sukuna? Sukuna just drops into the seat next to you, ignoring the buzz of his phone lighting up with texts:

brokie (owes me $30 + $10 + $40) [9:46 am]: bruh get ur ass here rume [9:49 am]: don’t tell me ur skipping for a girl ugly white haired incel [10:00 am]: she better be royal lineage if ur missing this fight

He doesn’t even look. You turn to him mid-lecture and whisper, “What’s up with the prof? He looked like he saw a demon when you walked in.” And Sukuna, with the audacity of a man who rewrote his personality in ten minutes flat, grins and murmurs back, “No clue. Guess he just missed me.”

And now? He's suddenly very interested in medieval history. He's got sources to cite. He's got seats to sit in. He's got… you.

And for once in his life, Sukuna thinks maybe he won’t drop out of this class. Might even pass it.

You know. For educational purposes.

—

The campus hadn’t seen Ryomen Sukuna in three months.

Not at parties, not at frat meetings, not even in the background of Instagram stories where he’d usually be shirtless and belligerent, chugging out of a funnel or doing shots off someone’s stomach. It was as if the legend of Sukuna — the frat prince, the party tyrant, the undefeated king of keg stands — had simply... evaporated.

By the first month, it was whispers.

“Yo, where’s Sukuna?”

“Dude’s probably in a coma.”

“Nah, I heard he got arrested after that Halloween party. You remember the fire?”

By the second month, it was spiraling.

“I think he dropped out.”

“Dude got expelled.”

“I heard he joined a cult. Medieval-themed or some shit.”

No one had the answer, because no one had seen him — no one that mattered anyway. No one that lived in the party circuit. Because truthfully? Sukuna hadn’t dropped out. He hadn’t died. He hadn’t been abducted by monks.

He was in the library.

Voluntarily sitting under cold fluorescent lights with you, scribbling notes and memorizing things like the date of the battle of Hastings, and getting smacked on the shoulder when he tried to argue.

“Okay, but what if I wrote the dates like — right here, see? It’d blend with my tattoos—”

“Are you seriously trying to cheat on a History final by weaponizing your body art?”

“It's not cheating. It’s being resourceful, babe.”

“Don’t ‘babe’ me.”

He pouts like a sad, bruised puppy. A six-foot-four wall of arrogance and ink, deflating when you scold him.

He listens. He rewrites his notes. He even erases his “tattoo calendar.” And when he asks if he can borrow your highlighters, you don’t even blink — because to you, Sukuna is just the guy who sits beside you in Medieval History. Quiet, funny, a little dense, but very determined. You’ve never seen the version of him that the rest of campus swears is a mythological beast.

You’ve never heard the legends of how he once drank beer out of a traffic cone. How he slept with two rival sorority presidents in the same night. How he literally ran security at every house party because no one would dare challenge him.

Nope. To you, he’s just Sukuna, who says things like “Do you think if I put ‘knights’ as a theme for my next birthday, people’ll bring me swords?” and eats your snacks when you aren’t looking. But to everyone else?

Ryomen Sukuna’s name showed up on the department topper board and people lost their fucking minds.

It was printed out in clean black ink:

MEDIEVAL HISTORY – SPRING SEMESTER TOPPERS

#2: RYOMEN, SUKUNA – 89.2%

And the scream that left Gojo’s mouth when he passed by the bulletin board nearly broke a window.

Toji dropped his protein bar. Uraume looked like they had seen the end of days, and even the student union president gasped audibly and had to sit down.

“Is this real?” Gojo whispered.

“Is it a typo?”

“Sukuna?? As in — kegstand-Sukuna???”

Toji muttered under his breath, “No way that bastard beat me in anything.”

And just like that, a pilgrimage began. Students in sweats, hoodies, and half-dead finals week eyes, flocked to the history board. Phones came out. Pictures were taken. Memes were made in real-time: “Sukuna has upgraded from shots to scholarly citations.” And meanwhile, you were there too — holding your printed essay, scanning the board out of curiosity.

“Oh hey, Sukuna! Look, you’re number two! That’s so cool.”

He blinked. “Uh… yeah,” he shrugged, trying not to look like he was having an internal stroke. “Guess the studying paid off.”

“You didn’t even tell me you were that smart!” You looked genuinely impressed, nudging his arm.

“Dunno. Didn’t think it mattered.”

You smile. Behind you, someone takes a photo of him like he’s Bigfoot. And you, ever oblivious, tilt your head. “Why are there so many people looking at you?”

Sukuna shrugs. “No idea. Maybe they just like historians now.”

He grins, and he’ll keep grinning as long as you never find out that fratland has declared him officially missing, and that the guy once known as the king of parties is now spending his nights elbow-deep in primary sources and peer-reviewed articles. God help him if anyone sees the matching medieval-themed bookmarks you gave him last week. He's doomed.

But then you smile at him again. And really? Maybe it’s worth the death of a legacy.

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO: SHE CALLED ME DUMB IN PHYSIOLOGY AND NOW I KNOW WHAT AN ENDOCRINE GLAND IS

Toji Fushiguro chose Human Physiology because, in his words, “Bro, I’m the peak of human physiology.”

Shirtless in his dorm mirror at 12:30am, flexing with a joint hanging off his lips and a bag of Cheetos in hand, he thought it was the smartest idea he ever had. He looked like a walking anatomy chart — biceps shredded, abs defined like a Greek statue, veins prominent enough that someone could probably trace his vascular system with a sharpie.

So when the course application portal blinked open, and Sukuna simply texted,

strawberry shortcake [11:47 pm]: medieval history

Toji shrugged, selected Human Physiology, took another hit, and muttered, “Guess I'll be the specimen.”

It was all downhill from there.

The first class hit him like a truck. Terms flying over his head like “sarcoplasmic reticulum,” “acetylcholine receptors,” and “sinoatrial node.” The only thing he caught was when someone mentioned “skeletal muscle,” and even then, he leaned to the guy next to him and whispered, “They’re talking about gains, right?” The dude didn’t even respond, just shifted his chair away.

The professor was a wiry old man who wore Crocs and had the excitement of a caffeinated squirrel. He moved like he had six different tendons operating independently of each other. “Welcome to the miracle of the human body! Today we’re talking about the hypothalamus! Anyone know what that does?”

Toji raised a hand. The professor blinked.

“Yes, Mr. Fushiguro?”

“Does it… help you bulk?”

Dead silence. Someone coughed.

“No,” the professor said slowly, like he was speaking to a dog. “It regulates things like temperature and hunger. Internal balance.” Toji nodded like he understood.

He did not.

Because everything he knew about homeostasis was just that he sweated a lot at the gym and drank protein shakes. Once someone in class asked about the neuromuscular junction, and Toji genuinely thought it had something to do with a sports injury. The problem was, this course wasn’t about looking good — it was about being a nerd. People in class actually knew the difference between “smooth” and “striated” muscle. They knew that the myelin sheath wasn’t something you picked up at a dentist’s office.

The worst part? No one was fun. Not even hot in an interesting way. Just blank stares, open laptops, and girls with ponytails who chewed gum like it was a form of protest. He leaned back in class one day, muttering under his breath, “This is gonna be a long fuckin’ semester.”

The guy beside him replied without looking up, “Language.”

“Ya wanna step outside, ‘language’?”

“No, I'd like to finish this lecture on vasodilation, thanks.”

Toji groaned. He had once broken someone’s nose in a bar fight and felt less pain than sitting through this.

He missed the frat. He missed Sukuna and the other white-haired freak (though he would never admit that). Hell, he missed failing in peace. And yet, he showed up. Begrudgingly. With a pocketed switch knife in class, tank tops that showed off his delts, and a water bottle the size of a small child.

When the professor drew the digestive tract on the board, he muttered, “Yo, that’s me after Taco Bell.” No one laughed, but that was fine. Toji wasn’t here to make friends. He just needed to survive this course. And maybe — just maybe — someone in here would eventually be hot and interesting enough to make him care about the difference between the ileum and the jejunum.

Until then, he’d sit in the back, scroll through Sam Sulek’s TikToks, and occasionally mutter things like, “Yo is it just me or does the sternocleidomastoid sound like a dinosaur?”

—

Toji didn’t get flustered. He got annoyed, he got pissed, he got violent if he really had to — but flustered? Nah.

Until you came along with your smartass remarks and your sharp little grin and your little nerd girl brain that somehow made words like “epithelial tissue” sound like roasts from God himself. You sat next to him out of nowhere one day — no hesitation, no fear, just a bag dropped beside his massive gym duffel and a chirped, “Yo, Popeye. That seat’s not taken, right?”

And Toji, who had barked at three other people for looking in his direction that week, just grunted and nodded. You didn’t ask dumb questions, instead you asked things like, “Did you forget the Mitochondria again or do you just hate the powerhouse of the cell?”

And somehow, that shit landed. He stared at you, blinking once. Then twice.

“You tryna start something?”

“You couldn’t handle it.”

What the fuck. He was supposed to be offended. Instead, he just swallowed his pride and…

opened his textbook.

You were dangerous like that.

When he mumbled something about skeletal muscles and their “activation time” being just like his reps, you had the audacity to raise a brow and go, “Oh? So the same muscles that fail on your third rep?” And Toji — Toji Fushiguro — who once body slammed a guy for making a fat joke in the gym, just sank in his chair and muttered, “Man, fuck off.”

The entire row turned like it was a soap opera scene. He had never said that with less venom. And you? You just popped a highlighter cap with your teeth and kept on explaining the muscular system.

He hated it. Hated that you were smart and funny and that your perfume always smelled faintly like citrus and library books. And most of all, that you were the only one in the class who didn’t stare at him like he was a human barbell. Instead, you did things like gently tap his notebook with your pen and say, “So this is the respiratory cycle. Think of it like your pre-workout and cooldown routine. Inhale, exhale, gas exchange. Your lungs are doing cardio for you.”

“So you're saying I got lungs of steel.”

“I'm saying you have no idea what your own body is doing.”

He scratched his head and muttered, “...Damn. Alright.”

What was he supposed to do? You helped him. Not in a “pity the dumb gym bro” kind of way. But like you were actually invested. You explained how lactic acid buildup worked by comparing it to that one time he overdid legs and couldn’t walk for two days. And when he groaned about the endocrine system being boring, you whispered, “You know how you get those ‘gains’? Hormones. Testosterone. Regulated by glands. Do not skip this chapter or you’ll flunk.”

Toji blinked.

“...That’s hot.”

“What, hormones?”

“You talkin’ science like that. I'd almost let you tutor me.”

“Almost?”

“I didn't say I would.”

You threw a pencil at him and he didn’t even dodge. Just caught it, grinning, ears burning under the weight of your teasing. And for the first time in his whole damn academic career, Toji Fushiguro…

actually passed a test. Barely. But the professor handed his paper back with a shocked, “improvement noted,” and a side-eye glance at you like we know who’s responsible. Toji looked at the C+ and muttered, “Yo, you’re a fuckin’ wizard.”

You just shrugged. “Nah. You’ve got a brain. It’s just hidden under six layers of protein powder and ego.”

God. He'd die for you. But for now? He’d settle for sitting next to you every class, scribbling notes with a confused frown, and letting you roast him with terms like “autonomic nervous system” and “delayed onset muscle soreness.”

It was the closest he’d ever get to falling in love academically.

a/n i don't know what to write here but i'm procrastinating the hate sex fic is what i can tell you..please enjoy this. also sorry i didn't include nanami & choso, i didn't have anything in mind for them </3

343 notes · View notes

estellan0vella · 6 months ago

Text

My Very Own Speed Demon: K.S Kim Seungmin x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 15.5K

CW: Seungmin is bad at feelings, talks of a guy making reader uncomfortable with touching, Mechanic Student Seungmin, Hyunjin is a bit of an ass

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

The sun sinks lower, painting Miroh College in golden hues as shadows stretch lazily across the almost-empty parking lot outside the engineering building. The faint hum of machinery fades into the evening air as Seungmin steps out, rolling his shoulders with a slight groan. His black shirt hangs open, the silver chain on his chest catching the light with every movement. He wipes his slightly greasy hands on a rag stuffed into his back pocket, his boots scuffing against the pavement as he heads toward his car.

But something halts him. A few rows down, parked like a relic from a cooler era, is a 1977 Datsun 280Z. The hood’s popped open, and standing in front of it is you.

You’re bent slightly over the engine, your phone in one hand as the other gestures vaguely toward something under the hood. A quiet sigh escapes you as you tilt your head, clearly deep in a YouTube tutorial. The sunlight plays off the chain belt draped around your waist, your layered necklaces, and the flutter of your blue maxi skirt. A loose strand of hair brushes against your face as you mumble softly to yourself, brows furrowed in concentration.

Seungmin slows, lips twitching into a barely restrained smirk. “Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath. You’re cute. And absolutely lost. Before he realizes it, his curiosity gets the better of him, and he strides toward you.

When he’s close enough to see the way you’re squinting at your phone like it holds the secrets of the universe, he clears his throat. “You’re looking at the wrong engine model.”

You jolt like you’ve been shocked, nearly dropping your phone as you whirl around. Your wide eyes meet his, and your voice comes out breathy, startled. “Shit, you scared me!”

Seungmin raises his hands in mock surrender, the silver rings on his fingers glinting. His smirk deepens. “Sorry, sorry. I just couldn’t help noticing you looked like you were fucking struggling.”

Your cheeks flush, but you huff out a laugh despite yourself. “Yeah, well. I don’t know jack shit about cars, so I’m improvising.” You gesture toward the duct tape crisscrossing random parts of the engine. “This seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Seungmin leans closer, eyebrows raised as he inspects the tape job. “Jesus Christ. That’s a lot of duct tape.”

“Duct tape works,” you insist, crossing your arms in a half-defensive, half-sheepish posture.

He straightens up, deadpan. “How’s it working for you right now?”

Your lips twitch, trying not to laugh. “Okay, point taken.”

He snorts, rolling up his sleeves as he steps closer to the car. “Mind if I take a look? Because this thing isn’t running without some proper help. And no offence, but I don’t think YouTube’s got you covered.”

You hesitate for a moment, then sigh, stepping aside. “Go ahead. I’d appreciate it. Just, please don’t tell me it’s completely fucked.”

He leans over the engine, peering into the mess of parts. “Probably just your spark plug. Maybe the alternator if you’re really unlucky. But this? This is salvageable.”

You lean against the side of the car, watching him as he works. The way his fingers move over the parts, quick and sure, makes you feel a little less panicked. “The grease on your face tells me you’ve done this before, so I have faith in you"

Seungmin glances at you, smirking. “You should probably raise the bar for what counts as a ‘professional mechanic.’ But yeah, I’ve worked on cars since I was a kid and I'm a mechanics student. You’re in decent hands.”

“Well, considering I almost called Hyunjin to come save me, you’re already a fucking upgrade,” you admit with a small laugh.

He freezes for a split second, looking up at you. “You know Hyunjin?”

“Yeah,” you say, tucking your phone into your bag. “We’re supposed to be working on this art history project together. He’s going to fucking kill me for being late.”

That earns you a quiet laugh as Seungmin wipes his hands on his rag. “You’re meeting him at the Alpha Phi house?”

You blink at him in surprise. “Wait, you’re in Alpha Phi?”

He shrugs, leaning casually against the car. “Yeah. I'm Seungmin. I live there with him and the other idiots.”

A grin tugs at your lips. “I'm Y/N and Hyunjin's mentioned you. Mostly just complains about you being soulless.”

Seungmin snorts. “Sounds about right.” He glances back at the engine, then at you. “Hate to break it to you, but this car isn’t going anywhere until you replace the spark plug. You’re fucked for tonight.”

You groan, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Of course I am. That’s just perfect.”

“Hey,” he says, his tone softening slightly. “I’m heading home anyway. Why don’t you let me give you a ride? It’s either that or you haul your ass across campus alone.”

You hesitate, biting your lip as you weigh your options. “Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you or anything.”

Seungmin tilts his head, his voice calm but teasing. “What kind of dick would I be if I let a pretty girl with good taste in cars walk all the way to campus alone?”

“The same kind of dick as most of the guys on this campus?”

He bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “Well, they’re all assholes. I’m not.”

That gets a real laugh out of you, and you push off the car. “Alright, fine. Let me grab my bag.”

As you fall into step beside him, he shoves his hands into his pockets, glancing at you sideways. “So, art history, huh? What’s the project?”

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s on Tudor art. Specifically how Anne Boleyn’s image was erased after her execution. Hyunjin’s handling the movement and symbolism stuff.”

Seungmin groans, rolling his eyes. “That tracks. Hyunjin loves overanalyzing the fuck out of everything. Half the time, I think he’s just making shit up to sound smart.”

You laugh softly, your steps matching his as the two of you head into the twilight.

The drive to the Alpha Phi house is unexpectedly comfortable, considering you’re riding with a guy you’ve known for all of ten minutes. Seungmin’s Honda Civic smells faintly of coffee and motor oil, and the faint hum of the engine is almost soothing as it cuts through the winding streets of Miroh College. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, curious about this sharp-tongued yet oddly chivalrous stranger. He’s relaxed, one hand gripping the wheel while the other rests on the gear shift, the silver rings on his fingers glinting in the muted streetlights.

Seungmin breaks the silence first, his voice dry but not unkind. “So, why a 280Z?”

You blink, his question catching you off guard. “What do you mean?”

He flicks his gaze toward you briefly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his eyes return to the road. “It’s a cool car, sure. But let’s be honest—it’s a high-maintenance pain in the ass. And judging by your duct tape situation earlier, I wouldn’t peg you as the ‘engine whisperer’ type.”

You laugh softly, your fingers fiddling with the bracelets on your wrist. “Okay, fair enough. I’m not exactly a mechanic. But it was my dad’s car. He restored it when he was in college, and it’s been in the family ever since. It’s sentimental, you know?”

His smirk softens into something more genuine, and he nods. “Yeah. I get that.”

The car falls into a comfortable quiet again, broken only by the soft buzz of the engine and the occasional sound of tires crunching over the asphalt. The two of you fill the gaps in the silence with casual conversation. You complain about campus parking, and he counters with a running list of the best parking spots he’s commandeered over the years.

He mentions a coffee shop near the library that’s cheap but “doesn’t taste like watered-down pretentious-cunt water,” and you can’t help but laugh at the absurdity. When you bring up how much you love late-night drives, his face lights up just slightly, and he shares how he used to drive aimlessly to clear his head when shit got overwhelming.

By the time he pulls up in front of the Alpha Phi house, its massive white columns glowing in the night like some over-the-top temple to chaos, you’re almost disappointed that the ride is over.

The house looms ahead, loud even from the outside. Someone’s yelling from the second-floor window, and you catch a glimpse of a guy leaning halfway out, waving his arms. “For fuck’s sake, Chan, shut up and come back in before you fall!” someone shouts from inside.

Seungmin just shakes his head, exhaling sharply as he pulls into the driveway and cuts the engine. “Every day, I wonder why the fuck I still live here,” he mutters under his breath, grabbing his keys.

You step out of the car and sling your bag over your shoulder, smoothing your skirt as he leads the way up the wide, creaky steps. The faint light from the porch lamp glints off the chain around his neck as he digs into his pocket for the keys.

“Hyunjin’s probably upstairs,” he says, unlocking the door with a practiced ease. “You’ll hear him before you see him.”

The door creaks open, and the chaos of the frat house spills out into the night. Inside, the space is somehow both clean and a complete disaster. The floors are clear of clutter, but the mismatched furniture in the living room is piled with discarded hoodies, random solo cups, and what looks suspiciously like a pair of boxers. A giant flat-screen TV blares some football highlight reel, and the faint smell of beer, sweat, and something burnt lingers in the air.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say quietly, taking a tentative step inside. The house feels like it’s pulsing with energy—voices shouting, footsteps pounding, someone laughing like a maniac in the kitchen.

Seungmin shrugs, brushing past you toward the noise. “No problem. Hyunjin’s room is upstairs, last door on the left. Just tell him I didn’t kill you or anything.”

You smile a little at that and nod, heading toward the stairs. The wooden steps creak under your Converse, and the sounds of the house get louder with each step. Behind one door, someone’s blasting music—something heavy and bass-driven. Behind another, you hear what sounds like a heated debate about the “existential meaning” of SpongeBob.

Finally, you reach the last door on the left. You knock softly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you wait.

“Come in!” Hyunjin’s voice booms out almost immediately, loud and theatrical as always.

You push the door open to find Hyunjin sprawled dramatically on his bed, his long limbs draped across the comforter like he’s auditioning for some avant-garde art piece. He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips, and his golden hair is messy in a way that looks too good to be accidental.

“Took you fucking long enough,” he says, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. “I was about to start working without you.” His eyes land on you, and then narrow slightly. “Wait—how the fuck did you even get here? Did you walk?”

“No,” you say, stepping into the room and closing the door behind you. “Your friend Seungmin gave me a ride. My car decided to fuck me over in the middle of the engineering lot.”

At the mention of Seungmin, Hyunjin groans, flopping back onto his bed like the mere thought of his frat brother is exhausting. “Of course he did. Bet he was an absolute cunt about it too, wasn’t he?”

You laugh softly, setting your bag down on the chair near his desk. “He was actually pretty nice. Surprisingly helpful, considering the duct tape situation.”

Hyunjin snorts, propping himself up on his elbows. “That asshole’s full of surprises. Don’t get used to it, though. He’s usually too busy being a sarcastic dick to help anyone.”

You smile faintly, settling into the chair and pulling out your notes. “He’s not that bad.”

“Trust me,” Hyunjin says, grabbing a notebook from the floor and flipping it open. “You haven’t known him long enough yet. Give it time.”

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm, the chaos of the house fading into the background as you dive into your project.

Seungmin steps into the kitchen, popping the tab on a cold beer before leaning against the counter. The sound of the aluminium can hissing open is barely audible over the general buzz of conversation. He takes a long, quiet swig, hoping for just a moment of peace. But when he lowers the can, he immediately notices it. Six pairs of eyes fixed on him like vultures circling a fresh carcass.

Minho, Felix, Jeongin, Changbin, Jisung, and Chan sit scattered around the dining table, their expressions ranging from smirking amusement to outright glee.

“So,” Chan starts, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms like he’s conducting some kind of frat house tribunal. “She was cute.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, playing dumb. “Who?”

“You fucking heard me,” Chan replies, his smirk widening. “The girl. The one who came in your car.”

Minho snickers, lazily spinning a pen between his fingers. “Yeah, I saw her. Very your type. You into hippies now?”

Felix immediately elbows Minho in the ribs, his voice sharp with mock outrage. “Shut the fuck up, Minho. She wasn’t a hippie; she was hot.”

Seungmin groans, tipping his head back and muttering to the ceiling like it might spare him. “Here we fucking go.”

“You don’t just offer a girl a ride unless there’s something there,” Jeongin cuts in, his grin pure mischief as he leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head.

Seungmin shoots him a glare. “Her car was busted, and it was getting dark. What was I supposed to do, leave her there to get mugged or some shit?”

Jisung raises a hand like he’s in class, his grin borderline feral. “Counterpoint: You’re totally the guy who lets people fend for themselves because you’re too busy being a soulless bastard”

Changbin chuckles, lifting his can in a mock toast. “Be honest. You didn’t give her a ride because you’re a nice guy. You did it because she’s hot, right?”

Seungmin takes a slow, deliberate sip of his beer, his patience thinning with every word. When he sets it down, he exhales sharply. “From an objective standpoint, sure. She’s, objectively speaking, good-looking. I can admit that.”

“‘Objectively,’” Jisung parrots, squinting at him. “Why the fuck do you keep saying it like that?”

Jeongin smirks, leaning forward with his chin resting on his palm. “Because our boy here doesn’t know how to handle the fact that he just lived a fucking meet-cute.”

Seungmin rolls his eyes so hard he’s surprised they don’t pop out of his skull. “I don’t know her. I gave her a ride, that’s it. The end. Stop making this a fucking thing.”

“Yet,” Changbin drawls, grinning like he’s cracked the code. “You don’t know her yet. But you could.”

“This isn’t a fucking fanfiction,” Seungmin snaps, slamming his beer down on the counter hard enough to make the others laugh. “Alright? This is real life. She’s not some pixie dream girl who’s gonna change my fucking world or whatever.”

“Relax,” Jisung says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “We’re just saying it’s a possibility. You’ve got the whole oil-smeared, black-on-black, moody mechanic thing going for you. Girls eat that shit up.”

“Exactly,” Jeongin agrees, nodding sagely. “She’s probably already imagining you fixing her car shirtless in slow motion. Hell, I’m imagining it.”

“Fucking gross,” Seungmin deadpans, shaking his head as the table dissolves into laughter.

Chan raises an eyebrow, his voice mockingly serious. “You’re saying there’s no chance, none at all, that she might’ve been a little into you?”

Seungmin stares at him, his tone flat. “Zero. I’m the asshole who told her duct tape isn’t a real fix and then made her leave her car in the lot. Really romantic.”

“That’s your version,” Felix says with a grin. “Her version is probably all, ‘Oh my God, this sexy, grumpy mechanic saved me and then gave me a ride in his cool car.’”

“It’s a Honda Civic,” Seungmin mutters.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jisung replies. “You’re a walking Wattpad trope right now.”

Seungmin sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re all idiots. I helped her out because it was the right thing to do. That’s it.”

But as their teasing fades into background noise, Seungmin can’t help the way your face lingers in his mind. The way you’d smiled at him, soft and sweet, like you weren’t sure if you were supposed to but couldn’t help it anyway. The way you’d laughed when he’d called you out on your duct tape fix, not defensive, just genuine. And the way you’d looked so at ease in the passenger seat of his car, your hair catching the light from the streetlamps as you told him about your dad’s 280Z.

He shakes his head, pushing the thoughts aside. This is nothing. Just a pretty girl who needed a ride.

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself as he finishes his beer and listens to his friends laugh.

The autumn sun bathes the campus in golden light, shadows stretching across the cobblestones as Seungmin strides toward the café. The crunch of fallen leaves under his boots echoes in the crisp air, his every step purposeful but unhurried. His black compression top clings to his frame, the fabric outlining his shoulders and arms. The silver chain against his chest catches the light as he shifts the strap of his bag, his fingers absently toying with the chunky rings that gleam on his hand.

He spots the café ahead, its tables littered with students hunched over laptops, sipping steaming cups of caffeine. His plan is simple. Grab coffee, kill some time, and enjoy the rare peace between classes. But as he rounds the corner, the sight of you freezes him mid-step.

You’re standing near the entrance, your sage green blouse slipping slightly off one shoulder, the delicate strap of your bra peeking out. Layers of necklaces glint against your skin, and your chain belt sways with every tiny shift of your weight. You’re smiling, polite but clearly uneasy, as a Sigma Chi douchebag looms too close. His navy sweatshirt emblazoned with the frat’s oversized logo makes Seungmin’s lip curl immediately.

“You’re such a fucking tease, you know that?” the guy sneers, his voice dripping with mockery.

Your polite smile falters, but you hold your ground, your tone gentle despite the venom aimed at you. “I’m sorry. I just don’t think—”

“Bullshit,” the guy cuts you off sharply, his voice rising. “You were sweet as fuck at the party, all flirty and cute. Now you’re ghosting me like I’m some fucking loser? What the fuck is that about?”

Seungmin’s jaw tightens. The guy’s posture, leaning in with fake bravado, makes his blood simmer. You’re too nice, too soft-spoken, trying to defuse the situation instead of telling this idiot to fuck all the way off. Not on Seungmin’s watch.

“Hey, Y/N!” Seungmin calls out as he strides toward you.

Your head snaps to him, relief flashing across your face. “Oh! Hi, Seungmin!” The brightness in your voice is unmistakable, and you take a step toward him, only for the Sigma Chi asshole to block your way.

The guy sneers, glancing between you and Seungmin. “Kim Seungmin? Really? You’re ditching me for this fucker?”

Seungmin’s boots crunch loudly against the gravel as he closes the distance. His sharp eyes narrow, and his voice drops, calm but laced with menace. “Got something you want to say, Sigma Chi?”

The guy stiffens but holds his ground, though the confidence in his sneer wavers. “Yeah. I’m saying she’s ditching a real man for some emo mechanic wannabe. That about cover it?”

Seungmin tilts his head slightly, his lips curving into the faintest smirk. “Funny. You sound like a lot of talk for someone who’s about five seconds away from having their teeth kicked in.”

The frat guy falters, glancing around to see if anyone is watching. Seungmin steps closer, his boots scraping loudly against the pavement, and lowers his voice. “Walk away, asshole. While you still have a choice.”

The guy scowls but backs off, muttering something about “fucking losers” under his breath as he storms off. Seungmin watches him go, the tension in his posture easing only once the guy is out of sight.

“Fucking dickhead,” he mutters before turning his attention back to you. “You alright?”

You nod, your fingers fidgeting with the bracelets on your wrist as you take a steadying breath. “Yeah. I didn’t know how to get him to leave without making it worse.”

“You don’t have to,” Seungmin says simply. “Guys like that don’t deserve your time. Next time, just tell him to fuck off.”

You laugh softly, though it’s tinged with a bit of nervousness. “Easier said than done.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” he says, his voice lighter now, though the edge of protectiveness hasn’t left. He tilts his head toward the café door. “Come on. Let’s get coffee before some other Sigma Chi asshole shows up.”

You fall into step beside him, the warmth of the café greeting you as you step inside. The scent of fresh coffee and pastries wraps around you like a blanket, and the low hum of conversation fills the space.

“Grab a seat,” Seungmin says, gesturing toward the tables. “I’ll order.”

You choose a small table by the window, your nerves finally settling as you watch him at the counter. He exchanges a few quick words with the barista, his tone casual but confident, and a few minutes later, he’s making his way back to you with two drinks in hand.

He sets a cup in front of you before sliding into the seat across from you. “Chai latte,” he says. “Figured that’s more your speed than straight black coffee.”

You blink, pleasantly surprised. “How’d you know I like chai?”

He shrugs, smirking faintly as he takes a sip of his own drink. “Lucky guess. You just seem like the type.”

You chuckle, wrapping your hands around the warm cup. “Well, thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Least I could do,” he says, leaning back in his chair, his silver rings tapping lightly against the ceramic mug. “That guy was a fucking disaster.”

You trace your finger around the rim of your cup, your voice soft. “He wasn’t always like that. We just didn’t click, and I thought he’d understand, but I guess not.”

Seungmin snorts, setting his drink down with a small thunk. “Yeah, because entitled shitheads like him don’t take rejection well. They think they’re God’s gift to the world and lose their shit the second someone disagrees.”

You smile faintly, though there’s a sadness in your eyes. “I just try to see the good in people. Maybe that’s stupid.”

He watches you for a moment, his eyes softening. “It’s not stupid. It’s just risky. Too many people out there are assholes, and being nice doesn’t mean they’ll stop being assholes.”

You nod, taking a sip of your latte and you glance up at him with a small smile. “Well, I’m lucky you were there.”

“Damn right, you were,” he says with a smirk. “Seriously, though. If some other dick tries that shit, call me. I’ll handle it.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “What, glare them into submission?”

“Exactly,” he deadpans, taking another sip of his drink. “It’s a very refined technique.”

You laugh, the sound light and genuine, and the tension from earlier melts away completely. Seungmin surprises you with his dry humour and blunt honesty, and before you know it, the conversation flows easily, dipping into random topics and shared complaints about campus life.

When you finally leave the café, the sun has dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the quad. Seungmin walks beside you, his hands shoved into his pockets as the two of you approach the main campus intersection.

“You heading to class?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Art history in ten.”

He nods. “Workshop for me. Another day of fixing shit that some moron broke.”

You laugh softly. “Sounds riveting.”

“Oh, it’s a fucking thrill,” he replies with a faint grin.

At the intersection, you pause, turning to face him. “Thanks again, Seungmin. For everything.”

He nods, his expression softening. “Anytime. Just don’t let assholes like that ruin your day, alright?”

You smile warmly, your voice quiet but sincere. “I’ll try.”

With a small wave, you head off toward your class, and Seungmin watches you go, the sound of your footsteps fading into the autumn breeze.

He shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. You’re sweet, soft-spoken, and far too good for this world. And somehow, you’re starting to get under his skin.

The Alpha Phi house looms ahead as you walk up the driveway, your oversized portfolio folder tucked under one arm. The autumn breeze toys with the hem of your blue maxi dress, making it swirl around your ankles as you climb the steps to the front door. Stray strands of hair escape from the clip holding them back, brushing against your face as you adjust the strap of your bag and shift the weight of the folder. Your mind is focused on Tudor art, Anne Boleyn, and the mountain of work you need to finish before tomorrow—definitely not on how chaotic the frat house is probably about to be.

You knock lightly on the door and step back, waiting. The sound of heavy footsteps grows louder before the lock clicks, and the door swings open to reveal Seungmin, barefoot, in grey sweatpants slung low on his hips and a white t-shirt clinging to his damp frame. A towel hangs loosely around his neck, his dark hair tousled and still wet from a shower. The sight is so effortlessly casual yet striking that it catches you off guard, and for a second, you forget why you’re even here.

His sharp gaze flicks to the massive portfolio folder you’re holding. “Jesus Christ,” he deadpans, leaning against the doorframe. “That thing’s almost as big as you.”

You huff a soft laugh, shifting the folder to rest it against your hip. “Well, Tudor art’s got a lot of depth. It’s heavy, literally and metaphorically.”

Seungmin’s lips twitch into a faint smirk. “Right. Deep. Heavy. Bet it’s still more entertaining than the shit Hyunjin tries to call art.”

You grin, your voice light as you step past him into the house. “Oh, it’s profound. Intricate. Emotionally moving. You’d love it.”

The house, predictably, is chaotic but lively. There’s the faint sound of a video game coming from one of the rooms down the hall, the kitchen smells faintly of burned something, and a pair of sneakers is inexplicably hanging from the banister. You glance around, searching for any sign of Hyunjin.

Seungmin notices your scanning gaze and rubs the back of his neck. “About that,” he says, his voice edged with mild irritation. “Hyunjin left, like, twenty minutes ago. Went to meet up with that Marissa girl.”

Your shoulders slump slightly as you let out a quiet sigh. “Of course he did. Perfect timing as always.”

Seungmin shrugs, dropping the towel onto the back of the couch and crossing his arms. “If it helps, I can try to help you out. And by help, I mean I’ll sit here, look up shit on my laptop, and let you do all the actual work.”

Your grin softens into something more genuine. “That would actually be amazing. Thanks, Seungmin.”

He jerks his head toward the stairs. “Come on. It’s quieter in my room.”

You follow him up, navigating past a stray hockey stick and what looks like a torn-out couch cushion, until you reach his room. It’s surprisingly neat—especially for a frat house—with a neatly made bed in one corner, a desk covered in mechanical tools and textbooks, and walls lined with posters. Your gaze lands immediately on one—a half-naked woman straddling a motorcycle, her pouty lips and sultry gaze seeming comically out of place compared to the otherwise functional vibe of the room.

“Wow,” you say, unable to suppress a small laugh. “A half-naked girl on a motorcycle? Real classy.”

Seungmin glances at the poster, his smirk returning. “What can I say? It’s vintage. Been with me since I was thirteen. Practically a family heirloom at this point.”

You hum thoughtfully, setting your portfolio down on the bed. “I had Bruno Mars on my wall. Right next to Edward Cullen.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Bruno Mars and Edward Cullen? What a lineup.”

You shrug, your lips quirking. “I was multifaceted.”

“Clearly,” he says, smirking as he leans back on his hands. “But Edward Cullen, though?”

You nod, unzipping your portfolio. “Oh, obviously. A staple for any teenage girl. But for the record, I was team Alice.”

That makes him pause, his brow furrowing slightly. “Team Alice? Not team Jacob or Edward?”

“Too mainstream,” you say with a grin. “Alice deserved better. She’s underrated.”

Seungmin lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I can’t even argue with that.”

You settle cross-legged on the bed, flipping through the pages of your portfolio and spreading your sketches and notes across the comforter. Seungmin leans forward slightly, picking up one of your reference images.

“So,” he says, studying the sketch of a Tudor-era portrait. “What’s the big project?”

“It’s about how Anne Boleyn’s likeness was erased after her execution,” you explain, pointing to a specific note scribbled in the margin. “They painted over her portraits, rewrote history through art. It’s fucked up, but it’s also fascinating. Some of her portraits survived, though. It’s like this tiny act of defiance against a system that tried to erase her completely.”

Seungmin traces his thumb along the edge of the image, his dark eyes thoughtful. “That’s some heavy shit. People really went that far to bury her?”

“Yep,” you reply, smoothing out another page of notes. “Art’s more powerful than people realize. It can tell the truth—or rewrite it. That’s what makes this so interesting. It’s like solving a mystery but through brushstrokes and canvas.”

He watches you for a moment, his gaze steady and unreadable. The way your eyes light up, your voice gaining a quiet confidence as you explain something you’re clearly passionate about—it’s distracting in a way he didn’t expect. And maybe doesn’t entirely hate.

“Alright,” he says finally, snapping out of it. “Tudor art, huh? I think I’ve got some old books on restoration techniques that might help.”

You blink, surprised. “You do?”

He gets up, heading to his desk and rummaging through a small shelf. “Yeah. Took an elective on historical restoration last year. Figured I’d keep the books in case I needed them. Didn’t think they’d actually be useful, though.”

You watch as he pulls out a few worn textbooks, his movements efficient but with an almost surprising gentleness. He tosses them onto the bed beside you.

“Here,” he says. “See if there’s anything in there you can use.”

You pick up one of the books, flipping through the pages with growing excitement. “Seungmin, this is perfect. Thank you.”

He sits back down, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “No problem. Just don’t let Hyunjin take all the credit for this shit.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “He’s not that bad.”

Seungmin snorts, his smirk turning sharp. “Sure he’s not.”

Seungmin leans back against the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him, one foot tapping lazily against the edge of the bed. He watches you sketch in your portfolio, the soft scratch of your pencil filling the otherwise quiet room. The occasional rustle of paper or your quiet hum of concentration is the only sound beyond the faint chaos filtering in from the house downstairs.

For a moment, he just observes. The way your brow furrows slightly as you work, how the delicate chain around your neck glints every time you shift positions.

Finally, he breaks the silence, his tone dry. “So, how many times has Hyunjin ditched you for shit like this?”

You pause mid-sketch, glancing up at him with a small shrug. “It’s not that bad,” you say. “He lets me use his printer when I need it. Mine broke a while ago, and I haven’t replaced it yet.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, his smirk sharp as a blade. “Do you own anything that actually works, or is your whole life just duct tape and crossed fingers?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “A few things work. My blender’s still going strong.”

“Great,” he deadpans, gesturing at the mess of notes and sketches spread across the bed. “And how much of this ‘collaborative’ project is actually Hyunjin’s work?”

You hesitate before flipping to a single page in your portfolio, its sparse, half-assed notes glaringly out of place among your meticulously detailed work. You push it toward him, your lips twitching in a sheepish smile.

Seungmin peers at it, his expression blank for a beat before he lets out a low whistle. “Holy shit,” he mutters, leaning back. “He’s really pulling his weight, huh?”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. “He’s busy, I guess.”

“Yeah, busy being a useless dick,” Seungmin says bluntly. “Honestly, you should erase his name from the project and turn it in as your own. Fuck him.”

Your eyes widen, and you immediately shake your head, scandalized. “I can’t do that! He could fail!”

“And?” Seungmin’s gaze sharpens, his voice edged with disbelief. “That’s his problem. You’re the one busting your ass here. What’s he even doing, fucking Marissa while you save his degree?”

You groan softly, dropping your pencil and fidgeting with the hem of your dress. “It’s not that simple. I don’t want to screw him over.”

Seungmin sighs, his tone exasperated but not unkind. “Then you need to tell him to step the fuck up. You’re not his babysitter.”

You grimace, avoiding his eyes as you pick at a loose thread on your skirt. “Confrontation makes me feel like I’m going to physically die.”

He snorts, his lips curving into a smirk as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Yeah, you seem like the type who’d eat around a deathly allergen just to avoid ‘causing trouble.’”

Your silence is damning. You don’t even look up.

“Oh my fucking god,” Seungmin says, his voice laced with incredulity. “You’ve actually done that, haven’t you?”

You groan softly, covering your face with your hands. “I had my EpiPen! I was being polite!”

He stares at you for a long moment before letting out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You risked death to be fucking polite? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Peeking at him through your fingers, your cheeks burn with embarrassment, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “To be fair, the coconut added to the flavour. I wasn’t even mad when my throat started closing up.”

Seungmin’s jaw drops, and he shakes his head, looking genuinely appalled. “What the actual fuck? You’re insane. Like, genuinely fucking insane. Who the hell does that?”

You shrug, biting your lip to hide a laugh. “It was a really good dessert.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. “You’re gonna be the fucking death of me.” When he looks back at you, there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes, though his voice is firm. “You’re unbelievable. Sweet, sure. But fucking unbelievable.”

“I just don’t like making people feel bad,” you say softly, fidgeting with your pencil again. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” he counters, his voice dropping into something almost serious. “You shouldn’t have to risk your life or your grade just to keep everyone else happy. That’s not how it works.”

You glance at him, surprised by the sudden edge in his tone. The usual sarcasm in his voice is gone, replaced by something quieter, heavier. It’s unexpected, but it doesn’t feel unwelcome.

“Maybe you’re right,” you murmur, your gaze flicking back to the portfolio spread across the bed. “But it’s hard. I don’t want to cause trouble.”

Seungmin leans back against the headboard, watching you for a long moment. His expression softens just slightly. “Standing up for yourself isn’t causing trouble,” he says, his voice quieter now. “It’s just making sure people don’t walk all over you. And trust me, people will walk all over you if you let them.”

You nod slowly, taking in his words as you absently trace the edge of your sketchbook. For a moment, the room is quiet again, save for the faint noise of the frat house below.

Seungmin’s voice cuts through the silence, light and teasing once more. “So, about the coconut. Did someone finally figure out you were dying, or did you just sit there and wait for your ‘polite death’?”

You laugh softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “One of my friends noticed and freaked out. She basically tackled me and stabbed the EpiPen into my leg while I was trying to tell her it was fine.”

Seungmin lets out another laugh, running a hand through his damp hair. “Jesus fucking Christ. You’re lucky you’ve got people watching out for you, because clearly, you won’t do it yourself.”

You stick your tongue out at him, earning a sharp smirk in return. “Maybe I’ll start being more assertive. After this project is done.”

“Good,” he says, stretching his legs out and crossing his arms. “Because if you let Hyunjin keep pulling this shit, I’m gonna start calling you Saint Y/N. Patron fucking saint of doormats.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “Fine, fine. I’ll try to stand up for myself. No promises, though.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, his smirk laced with challenge. “I’ll believe it when I fucking see it.”

And though he’s teasing, there’s something in his voice that feels almost encouraging, like he might actually believe you can do it.

The house hums with faint background noise as Seungmin sits cross-legged on his bed, the fan lazily pushing air through the room. Your portfolio rests open in front of him, the pages fanned out carefully on the comforter. His sharp eyes flick over your sketches, pausing on the intricate lines and shading of Anne Boleyn’s face.

One piece in particular, a half-finished sketch of Anne wearing her iconic "B" necklace, makes him stop. Her expression is soft but haunted, the shadows under her eyes suggesting both weariness and resilience. It’s not just good; it’s fucking captivating.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath, running a thumb along the edge of the page. “She's talented as fuck.”

He leans back, letting his head rest against the wall as his thoughts drift. He’s not sure what it is about you that keeps grabbing his attention. Maybe it’s the way your sweetness feels genuine, like it hasn’t been diluted by the world yet. Or maybe it’s the quiet determination you carry, even when people like Hyunjin leave you holding the bag.

The thought of Hyunjin makes his jaw tighten. That asshole.

By the time Hyunjin walks through the door later that night, the house is alive again. Bowls of Minho’s kimchi jjigae are being passed around the living room, the spicy, rich aroma filling the air. Seungmin sits on the floor, his back against the couch, spooning stew into his mouth like it’s his last meal.

The front door opens with a bang, and Hyunjin strides in, looking far too pleased with himself. His hair is slightly mussed, and he hums under his breath as he kicks off his sneakers. Before he can even greet anyone, a slipper flies through the air, smacking him square in the face.

“What the fuck?!” he yells, stumbling back and clutching his nose. His wide, offended eyes dart to Seungmin, who’s glaring at him.

“You,” Seungmin says, setting his bowl down on the coffee table with deliberate care, “are fucking lucky Y/N is too nice for her own damn good.”

The chatter in the room screeches to a halt. Chan, perched on an armchair, raises an eyebrow and gestures vaguely with his spoon. “Alright, what the hell is happening?”

Seungmin doesn’t even glance away from Hyunjin as he explains. “Our dear friend here has left Y/N to carry their entire art history project on her back. She’s done everything, while he’s done jack fucking shit.”

Minho, who’s leaning casually against the wall with a beer in hand, lets out a low whistle. “Classic Hyunjin move. Should’ve seen it coming.”

Hyunjin groans, rubbing the spot on his cheek where the slipper hit him. “She said she didn’t mind! I asked her if she needed help, and she told me it was fine!”

“Of course she did,” Seungmin snaps, his glare intensifying. “Because she doesn’t like confrontation, you absolute dickhead. And you fucking know that.”

“That’s rough, man,” Felix says from the couch, slurping his stew loudly. “Kinda makes you a cunt, doesn’t it?”

Hyunjin groans again, throwing his hands up. “Okay, okay, I get it. I fucked up. What do you want me to do?!”

Seungmin doesn’t even hesitate. “Pay for her car repairs.”

The room goes completely still. Then, one by one, everyone nods in agreement.

“Yeah,” Chan says, pointing his spoon at Hyunjin like a judge passing down a sentence. “That’s fair.”

“Her car’s a fucking 280Z,” Minho adds, taking a swig of his beer. “Repairs aren’t cheap. Pay up, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin looks around the room in disbelief, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “You guys are ganging up on me! What the fuck!”

“No, what the fuck is you,” Seungmin snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. “You owe her. If it weren’t for her, you’d fail that class. Pay for the fucking car.”

Hyunjin sighs heavily, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine. Fucking fine. I’ll pay for her car repairs. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Seungmin says flatly, picking up his bowl of stew again. “And if you flake on this, I’ll throw something heavier than a slipper next time.”

“Like what?” Hyunjin challenges weakly.

“Like the fucking coffee table,” Seungmin replies without missing a beat.

The room bursts into laughter, but Hyunjin mutters under his breath as he grabs a bowl of jjigae for himself. Changbin, seated on the floor with his legs stretched out, nudges Seungmin with his foot. “You really stepped up for her, huh? Study buddy and all.”

Hyunjin squints at Seungmin, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “Wait. You? Helping with art? What’s next, you learning to waterpaint?”

Seungmin glares at him, but the heat doesn’t quite reach his voice. “I know how to read, dumbass. It’s not that hard to help someone find sources.”

Jeongin smirks from his spot by the coffee table, resting his chin in his hand. “Nah, it’s not just that. Seungmin’s got a soft spot for her. We all see it.”

Felix leans forward, his grin mischievous. “Yeah, the mean mechanic act breaks real quick when she walks in with her flowy skirts and shy little smile. You’ve got a thing for her, don’t you?”

Seungmin flips him off with zero hesitation, his eyes narrowing. “Eat shit, Felix.”

“I’m just saying,” Felix continues, unbothered. “You’re kinda protective for someone who’s ‘just helping.’”

“I don’t have a fucking thing for anyone,” Seungmin retorts, shoving a spoonful of stew into his mouth. “She needed help, so I helped. End of fucking story.”

“Right,” Jisung says, drawing out the word with an obnoxiously knowing smirk. “Totally believable.”

Seungmin groans, standing up and grabbing his empty bowl. “You’re all fucking insufferable.”

As he stalks out of the room, the sound of their laughter echoes behind him. But as much as he tries to ignore their teasing, the image of you sketching quietly on his bed lingers in his mind.

Maybe they’re not entirely wrong. But he’s not about to admit that. Not yet.

The late afternoon sunlight slants through the wide windows of the Alpha Phi living room, turning the room golden and catching motes of dust as they swirl lazily in the air. The mismatched furniture gives the space a slightly chaotic charm. Minho is sprawled on the couch like a cat, his cherry-red hair catching the sunlight as he lazily flips through a magazine about exotic pets. A faint smirk plays on his lips, suggesting he’s less interested in the articles and more in the idea of tormenting his housemates with his next grand idea.

Chan is perched on the armrest of the couch, his easy grin in place as he scrolls on his phone. His head bobs faintly to the playlist humming from a speaker tucked in the corner.

The peace doesn’t last.

Seungmin walks in, his boots heavy against the floor, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black cargos. His shoulders are tense, his jaw locked tight, and his sharp eyes dart around the room like he’s searching for something or someone to aim his frustration at.

Minho looks up first, instantly zeroing in on Seungmin’s sour expression. He doesn’t bother hiding his amusement. “Well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Sunshine himself,” he drawls, tossing the magazine onto the cluttered coffee table. “What’s got your panties in a twist today?”

“Fuck off,” Seungmin snaps, sinking into the armchair across from them with all the grace of a dropped anvil. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and drags a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath.

Chan raises an eyebrow, setting his phone aside. “Uh-oh. You look like you’ve been thinking too hard. What’s going on?”

Minho leans forward, his smirk sharpening like a predator scenting blood. “Yeah, Seungmin. Lay it on us. Who pissed you off now? Or is this your natural state?”

Seungmin glares, his gaze flicking between them like he’s debating whether or not to just leave. But the weight in his chest refuses to budge, and he knows he’s going to explode if he doesn’t say something.

Finally, he exhales sharply, his voice low and tight. “It’s about Y/N.”

Minho and Chan exchange a quick glance, eyebrows shooting up in unison. Minho’s grin stretches wider, and Chan’s expression softens with interest.

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” Minho says, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Go on, lover boy. We’re listening.”

Seungmin scowls, but the heat in his glare feels more defensive than angry. “I don’t know,” he mutters, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I’ve just been thinking about her. A lot. And it’s fucking annoying.”

“Thinking about her how?” Minho presses, his tone a mix of curiosity and outright glee.

“Fucking... I don’t know! Like that!” Seungmin snaps, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “That’s why I’m asking you two assholes. What the fuck is going on with me?”

Minho’s grin turns predatory. “Oh, you absolute dumbass. You like her.”

Seungmin freezes, his sharp gaze snapping to Minho. “Do I?”

“Yes,” Chan says immediately, clapping his hands together like he’s just cracked the case of the century. “It’s so fucking obvious. How do you not know this?”

Minho cackles, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hand. “Are you emotionally stunted, or just slow on the uptake?”

“Probably both,” Seungmin mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “God, this is fucking stupid.”

Chan’s grin turns fond, his voice teasing but not unkind. “Oh, Seungminnie. You’re so cute when you’re like this.”

Seungmin flips him off without hesitation. “Don’t fucking start.”

Minho tilts his head, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’re really out here having a whole-ass existential crisis because you caught feelings. It’s almost... endearing.”

“Fuck you, Minho,” Seungmin bites out, though his tone lacks any real venom. “I didn’t ask to be analyzed. I just want to know what the fuck I’m supposed to do about it.”

Minho sits up, rubbing his chin like he’s deep in thought. “Well, for starters, you could try not being such a cold, emotionally constipated robot. That might help.”

Seungmin glares, leaning back in the chair. “So helpful. Thanks.”

Chan chuckles, reaching over to pat Seungmin’s shoulder. “He’s right, though. If you like her, you’ve gotta stop acting like a brooding asshole and actually talk to her. You’re good with words when you want to be.”

“Yeah, but not like that,” Seungmin mutters, crossing his arms. “What the fuck do I even say? ‘Hey, I’ve been thinking about you a lot and it’s annoying as fuck, so maybe we should go out?’”

Minho bursts out laughing, nearly falling off the couch. “That’s... wow. No. Don’t say that.”

Chan shakes his head, biting back his own laughter. “Just be honest, man. You don’t have to make it weird. She’s the type who’d appreciate the truth.”

Seungmin sighs, tipping his head back against the chair. “What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if I just fuck it all up?”

Minho snorts. “Then at least you’ll know instead of sitting here stewing like a fucking idiot. Either way, it’s a win for me. Free entertainment.”

“Go to hell, Minho,” Seungmin mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Chan chuckles, his voice softer now. “You’ll figure it out, Seungmin. Just don’t overthink it. You’re not as bad at this stuff as you think.”

Minho hops off the couch with a shit-eating grin. “And if you fuck it up? Well, we’ll all be here to laugh about it.”

Seungmin sighs heavily, standing and heading for the kitchen. “You’re all fucking insufferable.”

In the kitchen, he grabs a beer from the fridge and twists the cap off, taking a long swig before leaning against the counter. Minho and Chan follow him, their shit-eating grins still firmly in place.

“So,” Minho begins, hopping onto the counter and dangling his legs like a kid on a swing. “What’s the grand plan, Romeo?”

“There is no fucking plan,” Seungmin mutters. “I’ll keep helping her with her project and hope I don’t make things weird.”

Chan raises an eyebrow. “That’s not a plan. That’s avoidance.”

“Thanks for the analysis, Freud,” Seungmin deadpans, taking another swig of his beer.

Minho nudges him with his foot. “You like her. Just admit it to yourself and do something about it. Don’t be a coward.”

Seungmin sighs again, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I’m not a coward. I just don’t want to fuck up something good, alright?”

Chan claps him on the back. “Then don’t. Keep it simple. Honest. She’ll appreciate that more than anything.”

Minho grins smugly. “And if she doesn’t? Well, at least we’ll have fun watching you crash and burn.”

Seungmin glares at him, but the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “Go fuck yourself, Minho.”

Minho smirks. “Already planned for later.”

Seungmin groans, pushing off the counter and heading for the stairs. “You’re fucking unbearable.”

Minho’s laughter and Chan’s chuckling follow him as he heads back to his room, but even with their teasing, Seungmin feels a little lighter. Maybe, just maybe, he can figure this out.

The low whir of Seungmin’s fan hums through the room as you sit cross-legged on his bed, your laptop balanced precariously on your thighs. Stacks of old books are scattered around you, a testament to the marathon research session you’ve been enduring. The late afternoon sun filters through the blinds, casting soft golden streaks across the room. You’re wearing a light summer dress, its fabric brushing against your skin as you adjust your position, the hem barely brushing mid-thigh. Strands of your hair have slipped out of the clip holding it back, framing your face as you squint at your screen.

At his desk, Seungmin leans back in his chair, his black sweatpants and tight tank top clinging to his frame in the warm room. One hand flips through a heavy book on Tudor history, the other absently twirling a pen. His brow furrows in concentration, but every so often, his gaze flicks to you. Curious, amused, unreadable.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “So,” he starts, his voice slicing through the hum of the fan, “have you talked to Hyunjin yet?”

Your fingers pause mid-typing, and you glance up, blinking. “Uh, no. I don’t think I need to. It’s not really a big deal.”

Seungmin’s pen drops to the desk with a loud clink, and he swivels to face you, his expression flat but his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, sure. Not a big deal. He slacks off, you do all the work, and he gets to keep floating through life like a fucking golden retriever on vacation. Totally fine.”

You shake your head, a soft laugh escaping despite yourself. “He didn’t mean to slack off. He’s just... busy.”

“With what? Pouting for his Instagram stories?” Seungmin leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. His sharp eyes glint with mockery. “Come on, Y/N. Don’t let him off the hook so easily. I could shave one of his eyebrows off.”

You laugh again, waving him off. “Seungmin, no. It’s fine, really. I’ll just finish the project, and we’ll move on.”

“Yeah, no.” He stands abruptly, his chair squeaking against the floor. “That’s not happening. Get up.”

You blink at him, confused. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to teach you the art of confrontation,” he says, walking over to you with an air of finality. He holds out a hand, clearly expecting you to take it. “And before you say anything, no, you don’t get a choice.”

You lean back, groaning. “Oh no. I’m bad at that. Absolutely not.”

“Exactly why we’re doing this.” He grabs your hand, his grip firm but not forceful, and pulls you to your feet.

The movement sends your laptop sliding precariously to the side of the bed, and you hastily catch it before steadying yourself. Your dress brushes against his sweatpants, and for a moment, his hands linger on yours, warm and steady.

“I already hate this,” you mutter, pouting.

“That’s the spirit,” he quips, smirking. He takes a step back, crossing his arms as he looks you up and down. “Alright. Repeat after me. Hyunjin, you’re a selfish asshole, and your hair isn’t even that great.”

Your eyes widen, and you shake your head frantically. “I can’t say that! What if he hears me?”

“Good,” Seungmin says, his smirk widening. “Maybe he’ll learn something.”

You laugh nervously, covering your face with your hands. “This feels so wrong.”

Seungmin sighs dramatically, stepping closer and gently tugging your hands down. “I was prepared for this,” he says, his voice carrying a note of triumph. He walks to his closet, rummaging around until he pulls out a dartboard with a photo of Hyunjin’s grinning face pinned dead centre.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, your jaw dropping as you stare at it.

“It’s modular,” Seungmin says nonchalantly, holding it up. “I’ve got all the guys’ faces in here. They piss me off in cycles.”

“This is insane,” you say, barely stifling your laughter as he hangs the dartboard on his door.

“It’s cathartic,” he corrects, tossing a dart into your hand. “Go on. Aim for the pretty boy’s stupid smile.”

You hesitate, holding the dart awkwardly. “I’ve never thrown a dart in my life.”

“Not fucking rocket science,” he says, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Just throw it. Let your rage guide you.”

Rolling your eyes but laughing, you square your shoulders and toss the dart. It bounces off the board and clatters to the floor with an anticlimactic thunk. Your cheeks heat up as you bury your face in your hands.

“Jesus Christ,” Seungmin mutters, pushing off the wall and walking over to you. “Alright, rookie. Relax. You’re trying too hard.”

He steps behind you, his hands gently resting on your arms and you feel your breath catch slightly as he leans in, his voice low and soft.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, his thumbs brushing your forearms lightly. “Loosen up. You’re not throwing a grenade.”

You nod, trying to ignore how close he is, or the way his cologne lingers, sharp and clean. “Okay. Relax. Got it.”

“Good,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Now, aim. And don’t overthink it this time. Just let it go.”

With his guidance, you throw the dart again. It sticks in the board, just outside Hyunjin’s cheek. Your eyes widen in surprise, and you turn to look at Seungmin with a triumphant grin.

“See?” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Not so bad.”

You laugh, the tension from earlier dissolving. “Okay, that was kind of fun.”

“Kind of?” He raises an eyebrow, feigning offence. “It’s the best fucking stress relief there is. Try again.”

Grinning, you grab another dart and throw it. It lands even closer to the centre, and you let out a delighted cheer.

“Nice,” Seungmin says, nodding approvingly. “You’re a natural. Hyunjin should be scared.”

As you line up another shot, Seungmin leans back against the wall, arms crossed. There’s a softness in his expression now, a flicker of something he doesn’t let show often. Watching you laugh and let loose feels oddly satisfying.

“Alright,” you say, aiming carefully. “What do I get if I hit his stupid grin?”

“A medal for bravery,” Seungmin deadpans, but his smirk betrays his amusement.

You throw the dart, and it lands just shy of the photo’s centre. Laughing, you turn to him with a mock pout. “I want a rematch.”

“You’re not ready for that kind of pressure,” he says, his tone teasing but warm.

And for the first time all day, the weight of your project and the tension with Hyunjin feel far away. In this room, with Seungmin, all that exists is the laughter, the easy banter, and the flicker of something unspoken in the air between you.

The sun dips low, casting a warm, golden hue over the Alpha Phi house as you neatly pack up your things in Seungmin’s room. The quiet scratch of your pen against paper, the occasional tap of your laptop’s keyboard, and the hum of his fan have created a soothing rhythm all afternoon. Now, as you finish jotting down the last of your citations, you stack your books and papers into an organized pile.

Seungmin leans back in his chair, his legs stretched out and his dark eyes lazily tracking your movements. A pen twirls effortlessly between his fingers, his expression calm but sharp—like he’s quietly taking in more than he lets on.

“Leaving already?” he asks, his tone casual but carrying a note of something you can’t quite place.

You glance up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah, I’ve got to get ready. I have a date tonight.”

The words hit like a brick, and Seungmin freezes for half a second before resuming the pen twirl, though his fingers grip it a little too tightly. His face remains neutral, but his jaw ticks slightly.

“A date?” he says, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You nod, slipping your laptop into your bag. “Yeah, Minho introduced me to a guy in his class. Animal behaviour or something? He seems nice.”

His forced smile cracks for a moment, but he patches it quickly. “Nice,” he echoes, leaning forward in his chair. “That’s… great.”

The silence lingers, awkward and heavy. You tilt your head at him, your soft gaze curious. “Are you okay?”

“Me? Fine,” he says quickly, too quickly, sitting up straighter. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You frown slightly, unconvinced, but you let it go, offering him a gentle smile. “Thanks for all your help today, Seungmin. I really appreciate it.”

He nods stiffly, watching you head for the door. His chest feels tight, like someone’s wrapped a steel band around it. When the door clicks shut behind you, he lets out a low, frustrated sigh and tosses the pen onto his desk.

A beat passes before he’s on his feet, striding purposefully down the hall toward Minho’s room.

Minho’s door is ajar, soft music filtering out as Seungmin pushes it open without knocking. Minho is sprawled on his bed, headphones around his neck, scrolling through his phone with his usual smug expression. Minho barely has time to look up before Seungmin grabs a pillow from the bed and swings it at him with alarming force.

“What the fuck?!” Minho yells, his phone flying from his hand as he scrambles to defend himself.

“You!” Seungmin growls, punctuating each word with a swing of the pillow. “Fucking introduced her. To. A. Guy?!”

Minho bursts into laughter, raising his arms to shield himself. “It’s incentive, Seungminnie!” he cackles, gasping between laughs. “You needed a push!”

“I don’t need a fucking push!” Seungmin snaps, hitting him even harder.

Minho tries to sit up, still laughing despite the onslaught. “You’re so fucking obvious- Ow! Stop, you lunatic!”

“Good!” Seungmin barks, his voice sharp as he lands another hit. “Maybe next time you’ll keep your matchmaking bullshit to yourself!”

The commotion attracts Chan, who appears in the doorway with his arms crossed and an amused look on his face. “What’s going on here?”

“I’m smothering Minho,” Seungmin says flatly, not even looking up as he presses the pillow down over Minho’s face.

Chan nods approvingly, stepping into the room. “Good. Carry on. You’re doing the lord’s work.”

Seungmin lets out a humourless laugh, pressing the pillow down harder as Minho’s muffled protests grow louder. “I know, right? Someone’s gotta do it.”

“While you’re at it,” Chan says casually, leaning against the doorframe, “make sure he can’t reproduce. The last thing we need is a mini Minho terrorizing the campus.”

Minho’s muffled yell rises to a panicked pitch as Seungmin shifts his weight, digging a knee into Minho’s crotch. The resulting strangled groan is enough to make Chan burst into laughter. “Jesus Christ, Seungmin,” Chan says, shaking his head. “You’re fucking ruthless.”

“Yeah, well,” Seungmin mutters, his tone clipped. “He fucking deserves it.”

Minho finally manages to yank the pillow away, his face red and his hair a mess as he glares up at Seungmin. “You’re a psycho!”

“And you’re a fucking meddler,” Seungmin snaps, tossing the pillow back onto the bed. “What the hell were you thinking, setting her up with some random guy?”

Minho sits up, rubbing his face. “I was helping! You’re clearly into her but too chickenshit to do anything about it!”

“I didn’t fucking ask for your help!” Seungmin snaps, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

Chan raises a hand, stepping between them with a smirk. “Alright, let’s all take a deep breath. Minho’s an idiot, but he’s not wrong. You’re jealous, Seungmin. Just admit it.”

Seungmin glares at him, his jaw clenching. “So what if I am? What am I supposed to do about it, huh? March up to her and say, ‘Hey, I think about you way too much, and it’s driving me fucking insane?’”

“Honestly? Yeah,” Chan says, shrugging. “She’s sweet. She won’t bite your head off.”

Minho smirks, leaning back against the headboard. “And if she says no, at least you’ll have closure. Better than sitting here brooding like some tragic fucking Byronic hero.”

“Fuck off,” Seungmin mutters, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

Chan claps him on the shoulder. “You’ve got this, man. Just be honest. It’s not as scary as you’re making it out to be.”

Seungmin huffs, glancing between them. He hates that they’re right. The thought of you with someone else already twists his stomach into knots, and the idea of doing nothing feels even worse.

Without another word, he storms out of the room, leaving Chan and Minho grinning behind him.

“Think he’ll do it?” Chan asks, leaning against the wall.

Minho snorts, rubbing his sore ribs. “Oh, he’ll do it. Or he’ll self-destruct. Either way, we win.”

Their laughter follows Seungmin down the hall, but for once, he doesn’t care. He’s got bigger things to worry about and her name is Y/N.

The Alpha Phi living room is a vortex of noise and chaos. The mismatched couches are packed with bodies. Jeongin and Felix are loudly arguing over the outcome of a video game, their hands flailing in exaggerated gestures, while Jisung lies sprawled on the floor, chip crumbs scattered around him like evidence of a crime. The massive TV blares the commentary of a football game, its volume competing with the general din. Minho is perched half-asleep on the armrest of the couch, his cherry-red hair a mess from running his fingers through it repeatedly, while Chan sits cross-legged on the floor, calmly trying to fix the connection on a janky Bluetooth speaker.

Seungmin reclines in the worn recliner, scrolling idly on his phone, tuning out the noise with practised ease. His legs are stretched out, and his dark eyes are fixed on the screen in front of him. It’s an average evening in the house, loud, chaotic, and comfortably predictable.

Until his phone rings.

The name flashing on the screen makes him sit up so abruptly that the chair creaks. He immediately presses the green button, his heart rate kicking up as he brings the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” His voice is calm, but there’s a sharp edge of alertness in it.

A soft sniffle echoes on the other end of the line, and every muscle in Seungmin’s body goes taut. “Seungmin,” your voice breaks, trembling and fragile, and it’s enough to make his blood run cold. “I—I didn’t know who else to call. He… he was awful. I just- I’m so sorry-”

“Hey,” Seungmin cuts in, his voice firm but gentle. “Stop apologizing. Just breathe, okay? Tell me where you are.”

Your breathing is shaky, but you manage to get the words out. “That sushi place near campus. I’m in the bathroom. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did the right thing,” he says, already slipping his boots on with one hand and gesturing wildly at Minho with the other. “Stay there. Don’t leave the bathroom until Minho and I get there. We’re coming to get you.”

“Okay,” you whisper, barely audible, and the line goes quiet.

Seungmin stands, his movements quick and purposeful. “Minho. Shoes. Now. You’re driving.”

Minho’s lazy posture vanishes as he sits up, alert. “What? Why? What’s going on?”

“Y/N,” Seungmin says sharply, grabbing his jacket. “She’s in trouble.”

The room quiets instantly. Jeongin and Felix stop arguing mid-sentence, their heads snapping toward Seungmin. Jisung sits up from the floor, the chips forgotten. Even Chan abandons the Bluetooth speaker, standing with his arms crossed and his face serious.

“Fuck,” Minho mutters, pulling on his shoes. “What kind of trouble?”

“She’s at the sushi place,” Seungmin says, his tone tight. “And it’s because of the guy you introduced her to.”

Minho’s face falls, guilt flashing across his features. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit,” Seungmin snaps, already halfway to the door. “Now move.”

The drive to the restaurant is tense. Seungmin sits in the passenger seat, his foot tapping a relentless rhythm against the floor. He checks his phone every thirty seconds, the tight line of his jaw only softening when he glances at the screen and sees no new messages. Minho keeps his focus on the road, his hands gripping the wheel tighter than usual.

When they pull into the parking lot, Seungmin is out of the car before it even comes to a full stop. His sharp gaze sweeps across the glass front of the restaurant. Through the window, he spots the guy sitting at a table, casually scrolling through his phone as if nothing’s wrong. Seungmin’s blood boils.

Minho sees him too, muttering a low “Fuck” under his breath. “I’ll handle him,” he says, his voice hard. He pushes the car door open and strides toward the entrance, his usually laid-back demeanour replaced with something cold and dangerous.

Seungmin doesn’t wait to see what Minho does next. His focus is on you. He heads straight for the bathrooms at the back of the restaurant, his boots thudding heavily against the tile floor. Stopping just outside the door, he takes a deep breath before knocking softly.

“It’s me,” he says, his voice gentler now. “You can come out.”

There’s a long pause, followed by the faint sound of shuffling. The door creaks open slowly, and you step out. Your eyes are red and puffy, tear tracks glistening on your cheeks. Your arms are wrapped tightly around yourself, your whole frame trembling slightly.

The second you see him, something in you breaks. You step forward and bury your face in his chest, your hands clutching his jacket like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Seungmin freezes for a split second, his eyes wide with surprise. Then his arms wrap around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other presses against your back, holding you close. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady. “You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

You don’t say anything, but your fingers grip his jacket tighter, and your trembling becomes more pronounced. He holds you like that for what feels like forever, his heart pounding as he tries to stay calm for you.

When you finally pull back slightly, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his dark eyes searching your face. “You’re safe,” he says, his voice firm but soft. “I promise. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Your lips tremble as you nod, but you still can’t bring yourself to speak. Seungmin brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch careful, grounding. “Do you want to tell me what happened? Or do you just want to leave?”

“Leave,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Alright,” he says without hesitation. “Let’s go.”

He keeps a protective arm around you as he guides you out of the restaurant. As you pass through the dining area, his sharp gaze finds Minho, who is standing over the guy’s table, his expression icy and his arms crossed. The guy is slouched in his chair, looking decidedly less cocky than before, and Seungmin feels a flicker of satisfaction at the sight.

Outside, Minho’s car is waiting. Seungmin opens the back door for you, helping you in before sliding in beside you. Minho climbs into the driver’s seat a moment later, his face pale but his expression grim.

“Where to?” Minho asks, his voice quieter than usual.

“Back to the house,” Seungmin says firmly. “She’s staying with us tonight.”

Minho nods, starting the car without another word.

In the backseat, you lean against Seungmin’s shoulder, your body still trembling slightly. He doesn’t say anything, just rubs slow, soothing circles on your back with one hand, his touch steady and reassuring. The warmth of his presence and the quiet strength in his gestures begin to ease the tension in your chest, bit by bit.

The drive back to the Alpha Phi house is suffocatingly quiet. Minho’s hands grip the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white, his jaw clenched like he’s holding back a thousand words. In the backseat, Seungmin sits close beside you, one hand resting on your knee, steady and firm. It’s not invasive, not demanding. It’s just there, a silent promise of safety.

Your head leans against his shoulder, your breath shaky but starting to even out. He hasn’t said much since getting you out of the restaurant, but his presence is enough. When the car pulls into the driveway, the headlights casting long shadows against the house’s worn exterior, Seungmin nudges you gently.

“We’re here,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost soothing.

You sit up, your movements sluggish, and Seungmin is already out of the car, holding the door open for you. He offers you his hand, and you take it without hesitation, your fingers trembling slightly in his firm grasp.

Minho hesitates by the car, glancing between you and Seungmin with guilt written all over his face. “Do you need—”

“No,” Seungmin cuts him off sharply, his glare like a blade. “Just... go inside.”

Minho opens his mouth to argue but thinks better of it, nodding stiffly and heading up the steps without another word.

Seungmin keeps his arm around you as he guides you toward the house. The muffled sound of laughter and chatter spills out the windows, but the moment the two of you step through the front door, it dies like a switch has been flipped.

Jeongin, mid-laugh, stops abruptly, his expression shifting to confusion and concern. Felix, perched on the back of the couch, opens his mouth to say something, but Seungmin’s sharp glare silences him instantly.

“Not now,” Seungmin says, his tone flat but carrying an unmistakable edge of authority.

The room goes completely silent, everyone exchanging uneasy glances as Seungmin leads you upstairs. His grip on your shoulder remains steady, a grounding force as you ascend the creaky steps. You barely register the concerned murmurs behind you, too focused on the warmth of his touch and the growing knot in your chest.

When you reach his room, Seungmin pushes the door open and gently guides you inside. The familiar scent of his cologne wraps around you, grounding you further. He closes the door with a soft click, shutting out the world, and turns to face you.

You stand in the middle of the room, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself. The dam you’ve been holding back all night finally breaks, and a small sob escapes before you can stop it.

“Hey,” Seungmin says softly, stepping closer. He sits on the edge of the bed, patting the space beside him. “Come here.”

You hesitate, fiddling with the hem of your dress. “I—”

“Y/N,” he interrupts, his tone gentle but firm. “Come here.”

You move slowly, sitting beside him. The second you’re close enough, he pulls you into his side, one arm draped securely around your shoulders. His warmth seeps into you, steadying your ragged breathing.

“You wanna tell me what happened?” he asks after a moment, his voice quieter now. “Or we can just sit here. Your call.”

You swallow hard, nodding slightly. “I- I tried to call the date off,” you start, your voice trembling. “I just- he wasn’t what I wanted. And when I told him that, he got-” Your breath hitches, and you shake your head, trying to steady yourself. “He started touching me. Grabbing me. I- I didn’t like it. I told him to stop, but he just laughed, and I panicked. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Seungmin’s entire body goes rigid beside you. His arm tightens protectively, and his jaw clenches so hard you can hear his teeth grind. “That piece of shit,” he mutters under his breath, his tone low and venomous.

You glance up at him, your eyes wide and glossy. “Maybe I overreacted,” you say quickly, your voice defensive as though you’re bracing for judgment. “Maybe I just-”

“No,” Seungmin cuts in, his voice sharp. He shifts to face you fully, his hands gripping your shoulders gently but firmly. “Don’t fucking do that, Y/N. Don’t blame yourself. If you were uncomfortable, then you were uncomfortable. That’s it. No one gets to fucking touch you without your consent.”

His words make your chest tighten, but in a different way. A warmth spreads through you, breaking through the lingering fear. “Thank you,” you whisper.

Seungmin’s gaze softens, his hands sliding down to your elbows. He exhales slowly like he’s forcing himself to calm down. “You deserve better than that,” he says quietly. “Better than some asshole who doesn’t know how to take no for an answer.”

“He wasn’t you, Seungmin,” you say before you can stop yourself.

The room goes still, the weight of your words hanging in the air between you. Seungmin’s eyes widen slightly, the sharpness in his expression giving way to something warmer, something softer.

“Good,” he says after a beat, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He pulls you into a tight hug, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head. “Because I’d never fucking treat you like that.”

You bury your face in his chest, letting his steady heartbeat and the warmth of his arms melt away the last traces of fear. For the first time all night, you feel like you can breathe again.

After a while, Seungmin pulls back slightly, one hand lingering on your shoulder. “You know,” he says, his tone lighter now, “Minho owes you a massive apology. I say we make him grovel.”

You let out a shaky laugh, wiping at your eyes. “It’s not his fault.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow. “Sure, but letting him squirm a little wouldn’t hurt.”

You laugh again, stronger this time. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he says with a smirk. Then his expression softens, and he leans forward slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. “Hey. I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“What?” you ask, tilting your head.

He hesitates for half a second, then his lips curl into a faint smile. “Go out with me. Let me take you on a real date.”

Your breath catches, your heart thudding in your chest. “You mean that?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low but steady. “I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a while. I just didn’t know how.”

A small smile spreads across your face. “I’d like that.”

Seungmin’s shoulders relax, the tension he’s been carrying all night finally easing. “Good,” he says, his smile widening. “Because I’ve been waiting for an excuse to make a move.”

You laugh softly, the sound bright and genuine. “You’re not very subtle, you know.”

He groans, rolling his eyes. “Don’t rub it in.”

“Cool and mysterious,” you tease, leaning a little closer. “Not exactly your vibe.”

Seungmin snorts, but the warmth in his gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Yeah,” you say, your smile softening. “I know.”

The quiet knock on the door is hesitant, a rare sound from someone like Minho. Before either of you can respond, it creaks open, revealing him standing there in sweats and a hoodie that’s slightly too big for him. His cherry-red hair is a mess, like he’s spent the last hour running his hands through it in frustration. His usual cocky smirk is absent, replaced by something far more uncertain—almost guilty.

Seungmin’s eyes narrow, though he doesn’t move from where he’s perched on the bed beside you, his arm loosely draped behind your back. “What do you want?” he asks, his tone clipped.

Minho hesitates in the doorway, his eyes flicking between you and Seungmin. His hands stay buried in his pockets, his shoulders slouched as if he’s bracing for impact. “I’m… fuck, I’m sorry,” he mutters, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t fucking know he was going to be like that. I just thought—shit, I thought I was helping.”

You exchange a quick glance with Seungmin, who huffs but doesn’t say anything. Slowly, you stand and cross the room toward Minho, ignoring the way his eyes widen slightly in surprise. Before he can protest or retreat, you wrap your arms around him and pull him into a hug.

Minho stiffens for a moment, caught off guard, but then he melts into the embrace with a sigh, resting his chin on your shoulder. His arms come up, circling your waist with a grip that’s firmer than you expect—like he’s the one who needs comforting.

“I know,” you say softly, your voice muffled against the fabric of his hoodie. “It’s okay. You didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

Minho lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Still. I feel like a fucking asshole.”

“You’re not,” you say firmly, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “I think you scared him off, anyway.”

Minho smirks faintly, though the guilt still lingers in his eyes. “Good,” he mutters. “But I’m gonna fight him. Just so you know. That prick doesn’t get to pull that shit and walk away.”

“Do what you need to,” you reply softly, resting a hand on his arm.

His smirk falters, and his grip tightens almost imperceptibly. “You’re too fucking nice,” he mutters, his voice low and rough. “You know that?”

“Minho,” you wheeze dramatically, giggling weakly as his hold becomes borderline crushing. “Can’t breathe.”

“Shut up,” Minho says, though his tone is lighter now. “I’m processing being wrong, and I’m not taking it well.”

Seungmin snorts loudly from the bed, crossing his arms as he leans back against the headboard. “Never thought I’d see the day,” he says dryly. “Minho, wrong about something? Someone call the press.”

You laugh again, a little stronger this time, and Minho scowls over your shoulder. “You’re fucking enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Seungmin replies without hesitation, his smirk sharp.

Minho pulls back from the hug, ruffling his already messy hair with a groan. “This is a disaster. I try to help, and it just blows up in my face. I should’ve known you were too much of a coward to ask her out on your own.”

“Here we fucking go,” Seungmin mutters, rolling his eyes.

Minho points an accusatory finger at him. “You. This is partly your fault. If you’d just grown a pair and asked her out, I wouldn’t have had to intervene!”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And your intervention led to exactly what? A shitshow?”

Minho throws up his hands. “I’ll admit it! I fucked up, alright? But don’t act like you didn’t need the nudge.”

Seungmin leans forward slightly, his voice razor-sharp. “Next time, keep your fucking nudges to yourself.”

“Boys,” you interject softly, your tone patient but firm. Both of them snap their attention back to you, and you give Minho a small, reassuring smile. “It’s okay. Really. No one’s perfect, Minho.”

Minho looks at you, his expression softening further. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Seriously, though. If you need anything—anything at all—you come to me. I don’t care what it is, okay?”

You nod, your smile warm. “I will. Thanks, Minho.”

He leans down slightly, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. His voice drops to a low, serious tone. “I mean it, Y/N. I’ll fight anyone for you. Literally anyone.”

“I know,” you whisper, your chest tightening at the sincerity in his words. “But I think you’ve done enough for tonight.”

Minho straightens up with a sigh, ruffling your hair playfully. “Fine. But if that prick so much as breathes in your direction again, he’s dead.”

Seungmin chuckles from the bed, shaking his head. “You’ll have to get in line for that, Minho.”

Minho smirks, turning back to him. “Big talk from the guy who’s been dragging his feet all fucking semester. Don’t get all protective now—you’ve got a date to plan.”

Seungmin flips him off without missing a beat, and Minho’s grin widens. You can’t help but laugh, the tension in the room finally dissolving as they slip back into their usual banter.

For the first time all night, everything feels like it might actually be okay.

The hum of the city murmurs faintly in the background as you linger outside your apartment building, your phone clutched loosely in one hand. The early evening air is warm, carrying the faint tang of gasoline and asphalt. The golden glow of the setting sun drenches everything in soft, honeyed light. You catch your reflection in a nearby window and smooth down the strap of your yellow bustier crop top. The fabric hugs you snugly, the bright color contrasting against your black flared pants, which sway lightly in the warm breeze. Your black Converse scuff against the pavement as you shift your weight nervously.

The distant growl of an engine draws your attention, low and throaty, vibrating through the air. You glance up as a sleek black motorbike rounds the corner, Seungmin perched effortlessly on top like he was born there. The machine glints in the fading sunlight, polished but clearly well-loved, with just enough wear to make it look lived-in. Seungmin slows the bike as he approaches, and your breath catches at the sight of him.

He’s dressed head to toe in black, cargo trousers that hang low on his hips, a fitted black t-shirt that clings to his lean frame, a well-worn leather jacket zipped halfway, and scuffed boots that look like they’ve seen more road than carpet. His hair is slightly tousled from the wind, and there’s a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he kills the engine and kicks the stand down.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, stepping closer as the silence rushes in to fill the space the engine left behind. “You didn’t tell me you had a motorbike.”

Seungmin swings his leg off with ease, the motion fluid and confident. His boots hit the pavement with a satisfying thud as he straightens up, shrugging casually. “Not something I go around broadcasting,” he says, his tone dry but tinged with amusement. “But I figured it’d make a decent first date impression.”

“Decent?” you echo, your eyes wide and sparkling. “Seungmin, this is fucking unreal.”

His smirk deepens, and he reaches behind the seat, pulling out a smaller leather jacket. He holds it out to you, his fingers brushing yours briefly as you take it. “Jisung’s,” he explains. “Figured you’d need one. You’re about the same size, and he won’t notice it’s missing for at least a week.”

You shrug the jacket on, the leather slightly oversized but warm and reassuring. “It’s perfect,” you say, zipping it up. “Jisung has surprisingly good taste.”

Seungmin chuckles, then picks up the helmet hanging from the handlebars. He steps closer, his movements deliberate as he gently places it over your head. “Hold still,” he murmurs, his voice dropping a notch. His fingers brush against your jaw as he fastens the strap under your chin, his touch light but lingering. Once the helmet is secure, he pulls back, his dark eyes meeting yours through the visor. “Ready?”

You nod eagerly, your pulse quickening. “Hell yes.”

He grins, climbing back onto the bike and steadying it with ease. He gestures for you to climb on, his smirk playful. “Hop on, daredevil.”

You swing your leg over the seat carefully, your movements slightly hesitant as you settle in behind him. The leather of his jacket is cool against your palms as you wrap your arms around his waist. You feel the firm press of his body beneath your hands, steady and grounding.

“How fast do you want to go?” he asks, glancing back at you over his shoulder, his voice muffled but clear.

You lean closer, your voice daring and breathless. “Fast enough to feel like we’re fucking flying.”

His smirk turns almost wicked, and he nods. “Alright. Hold on tight.”

The bike roars to life beneath you, the deep rumble reverberating through your legs and chest. You tighten your grip on Seungmin’s waist as he pulls onto the street, the bike purring as it eases into motion. The city blurs past, a kaleidoscope of lights and colours, as Seungmin weaves through traffic with effortless precision. The wind rushes against you, tugging at the loose strands of your hair that escape from the helmet.

You laugh, the sound bubbling out of you like champagne, light and effervescent. “This is fucking insane!” you shout, your voice barely audible over the wind.

Seungmin glances at you in the rearview mirror, his grin sharp and full of exhilaration. “You good back there?” he calls.

“Never better!” you reply, tightening your hold on him as he picks up speed.

The city begins to thin, the towering buildings giving way to open stretches of road. The air cools as the sun dips lower, painting the sky in streaks of deep orange and fiery pink. Seungmin leans into the curves of the road, his movements fluid, the bike responding to him like an extension of his body. You cling to him, your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Faster?” he calls over his shoulder, his voice teasing but tinged with excitement.

“Y!” you shout back, your voice full of laughter.

He obliges, twisting the throttle and sending the bike surging forward. The wind whips past you, the world blurring into streaks of colour and motion. For a moment, it feels like nothing else exists. Just the bike, the open road, and Seungmin’s steady presence.

Eventually, Seungmin slows the bike, pulling onto a quiet stretch of road lined with tall trees. He kills the engine, the sudden silence almost deafening after the rush of the ride. He flips up his visor, glancing back at you with a smirk.

“Still breathing?” he asks, his tone light and teasing.

You pull off the helmet, shaking out your hair as you catch your breath. “Barely. That was incredible.”

He chuckles, leaning back slightly as he watches you with a mixture of amusement and something softer. “Glad you liked it.”

“Liked it?” you repeat, your grin wide. “Seungmin, that is the best fucking date of my life.”

His smirk softens into a genuine smile, and he reaches out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Good,” he murmurs. “That was the goal.”

The sky above has deepened into twilight, the first stars beginning to dot the horizon. You tilt your head back, taking in the clear expanse, the cool night air brushing against your skin. Beside you, Seungmin shifts slightly, resting his elbows on the handlebars as he watches you.

“You’re something else,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a note of awe.

You glance at him, your cheeks warming at the sincerity in his gaze. “So are you, Seungmin.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, but I think you’ve got me beat.”

You laugh softly, leaning closer to him, the warmth of his presence chasing away the lingering coolness of the air. “Guess we’ll call it a tie.”

His grin returns, sharp and playful. “Deal. But only because it’s you.”

The air between you feels charged, the adrenaline from the ride mingling with something deeper, more electric. Seungmin's eyes meet yours, and without hesitation, his hands find your waist, his grip firm but grounding as he lifts you gently off the bike and sets you down. The world feels steady beneath your feet, but your heart is anything but.

“Come here,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, a sound that sends a shiver coursing through your spine.

Before you can respond, his hand slides to the small of your back, tugging you closer. His other hand tangles in your hair, tilting your face toward his. The heat of his body presses into you as he dips you slightly, his lips crashing into yours with an urgency that leaves you breathless. The kiss is searing, unrestrained. Like he’s been holding himself back for far too long and has finally decided to let go. His fingers tighten in your hair, and the hand on your back presses you flush against him, eliminating any space.

Your hands fly to his chest instinctively, gripping the fabric of his t-shirt as you melt into him. The faint scent of leather, wind, and his cologne surrounds you, intoxicating and grounding all at once. His lips are soft yet demanding, each movement carrying the weight of everything he hasn’t said out loud. The cool night air bites at your skin, but it’s drowned out by the fire between you.

When he finally pulls back, his lips linger close to yours, his breath warm against your skin. His thumb brushes against your waist absentmindedly, and his eyes, dark and intense, lock onto yours. A grin slowly spreads across his face, equal parts smug and genuinely amused. “You’re gonna have to hang on tighter than that for the ride back to the frat,” he teases, his voice roughened with desire.

You let out a soft laugh, still catching your breath as you clutch his jacket for balance. “I think I can manage,” you say, your voice softer than usual but no less sure. “I’ve got my very own speed demon. How could I say no?”

His grin widens, that slightly cocky, slightly boyish charm making your stomach flip. “Damn right you do,” he mutters, leaning in to steal another kiss, this one quick and playful but no less electrifying.

He steps back reluctantly, letting out a breath as if steadying himself, before turning to grab your helmet from the bike. “Helmet back on, daredevil,” he says, his voice light but still carrying that teasing edge.

You tilt your head as he steps closer, holding the helmet up for you. “Oh, you’re worried about safety?” you tease, but you stand still as he slides the helmet over your head with careful hands.

His fingers brush against your jaw as he adjusts the strap under your chin, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “Gotta keep you alive,” he says with a smirk. “Wouldn’t be much of a date if you died halfway through.”

You laugh, the sound muffled by the helmet but no less genuine. “Fair point.”

Once the helmet is secure, he tilts the visor down, his dark eyes crinkling slightly with amusement as he steps back. “More Tudor art when we get back?” he asks, his tone casual but his gaze still holding that spark of mischief.

You pretend to think, tapping your finger against the helmet. “Depends. Are you going to admit that Anne Boleyn was a badass?”

“For you?” he says, his smirk softening into something more sincere. “I’ll admit anything.”

Your laugh echoes in the cool night air as you climb back onto the bike, wrapping your arms around his waist again. This time, your grip is tighter, not just because of the ride but because you don’t want to let go.

Seungmin revs the engine, the deep, throaty growl vibrating through your chest. He glances over his shoulder, his voice carrying over the roar. “Ready?”

“Always,” you say, your voice steady despite the helmet.

He grins, twisting the throttle, and the bike surges forward, cutting through the night like a blade. The city lights blur around you as Seungmin navigates the streets with the same effortless confidence as before, but this time, the ride feels different. It’s not just adrenaline now—it’s something more grounded, more connected. Each twist and turn feels like a shared secret, the warmth of his body steadying you as the wind rushes past.

As the city falls behind you, replaced by quiet streets and patches of open road, the sky above deepens into twilight. The stars begin to peek through the inky blackness, their faint light mirrored in the shimmering horizon ahead. You press yourself closer to Seungmin, the steady rhythm of his breathing grounding you even as the bike picks up speed.

When the lights of the frat house finally come into view, you feel a pang of regret that the ride is almost over. The bike slows as Seungmin pulls smoothly into the driveway, the rumble of the engine fading as he cuts the power. He kicks down the stand and turns to you, his grin still firmly in place.

“Still breathing?” he asks, his voice teasing as he removes his helmet.

You pull off your helmet, your hair tumbling out in a mess of strands. “Barely,” you reply, laughing softly. “But that was fucking worth it.”

He chuckles, watching you with a mixture of amusement and something softer. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Takes one to know one,” you fire back, your smile widening.

Seungmin shakes his head, clearly trying not to laugh, and steps closer to help you off the bike. His hands find your waist again, steadying you as your feet hit the ground. This time, his touch lingers, his dark eyes scanning your face as if committing every detail to memory.

“Ready to dive back into Tudor art?” he asks, his tone teasing but affectionate.

You roll your eyes, a laugh bubbling out of you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“For you?” he says, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Always.”

You shake your head, biting back a grin, and follow him toward the house. The warm glow of the frat house lights spills out onto the driveway, and as you step inside, you feel the lingering coolness of the night disappear entirely. With Seungmin by your side, everything feels exactly as it should.

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