Chapter Text
The late August sun blazed over Seoul, casting a golden haze across the sprawling university campus. Move-in day buzzed with chaos—freshmen hauling suitcases, parents snapping photos, and upperclassmen blasting music from open dorm windows. The air smelled of fresh paint and anticipation, mingling with the faint tang of street food from vendors lining the quad. Mark Lee, a lanky music major with a worn guitar case slung over his shoulder, navigated the crowded pathway, his heart thrumming with excitement. College. Freedom. A fresh start. He adjusted his backpack, stuffed with notebooks and dreams of composing something epic, and grinned at the thought of late-night jam sessions and new friends.
His dorm, a boxy brick building with ivy creeping up its walls, loomed ahead. The lobby was a whirlwind of activity: students arguing over elevator space, a bulletin board plastered with club flyers, and a frazzled RA handing out keys. Mark’s sneakers squeaked on the linoleum as he climbed to the third floor, room 312. The hallway was narrow, lined with peeling posters and the faint hum of someone’s speaker. He paused at his door, a chipped wooden slab with “312” scrawled in marker, and took a deep breath. This is it, he thought, pushing it open.
The room was smaller than he’d imagined, barely fifteen feet square, with mismatched decor that screamed “budget university housing.” Two twin beds hugged opposite walls, one neatly made with a navy comforter, the other a mess of vibrant red sheets and pillows tossed like a hurricane hit. A scratched wooden desk sat under a window with a view of the quad, its surface already claimed by a sleek laptop and a pile of dance sneakers. The other desk, shoved against a peeling beige wall, was bare except for a flickering fluorescent lamp. A single closet, door ajar, revealed a jumble of colorful hoodies and a lone soccer ball. The air smelled faintly of citrus air freshener, undercut by the musty tang of old carpet. One wall sported a garish purple poster of a K-pop group, while the other was blank, as if waiting for Mark’s touch. It was cozy, chaotic, and utterly overwhelming.
Mark set his guitar case on the bare bed, assuming it was his, and started unpacking. His excitement fizzed like soda, each item—a stack of sheet music, a photo of his family—anchoring him to this new chapter. He was halfway through hanging a small corkboard when the door slammed open, and a blast of K-pop filled the room, loud enough to rattle the window.
“Yo, what’s with the boring bed?” a voice drawled, sharp and teasing.
Mark spun around, heart lurching. Leaning against the doorframe was a guy with tousled dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and a smirk that screamed trouble. He wore a loose red tank top, black joggers, and a single dangling earring that caught the light. His eyes, bright and mischievous, scanned Mark like he was sizing up prey. This had to be his roommate.
“Uh, hi,” Mark said, forcing a smile. “I’m Mark. Mark Lee. You must be—”
“Haechan,” the guy cut in, sauntering into the room. He cranked the volume on his Bluetooth speaker, the bass thumping through Mark’s chest. “And this—” he gestured to the messy bed with red sheets—“is my side. Don’t touch my stuff, Guitar Boy.”
Mark blinked, thrown by the nickname and the hostility. “Guitar Boy? I just got here, man.”
Haechan flopped onto his bed, kicking off his sneakers with a dramatic flourish. “Yeah, and you’re already giving off major ‘nice guy’ vibes. Bet you’re the type to apologize to furniture when you bump into it.” He smirked, tossing a soccer ball into the air and catching it. “Don’t try too hard, okay? It’s exhausting.”
Mark’s smile faltered, a flicker of irritation sparking in his chest. He prided himself on being patient—years of mediating sibling fights had honed that skill—but Haechan’s jab stung. Still, he swallowed it, determined to start college on a good note. “Cool, uh, I’ll just unpack then,” he said, turning to his suitcase.
Haechan watched him, eyes glinting with something unreadable. He hopped up, grabbed a roll of duct tape from his desk, and, with exaggerated precision, stretched a line down the center of the room—carpet, desks, even the air between their beds. “There,” he declared, tossing the tape aside. “Your side, my side. Stay out of my space, and we’ll survive this.”
Mark stared at the tape, torn between laughter and disbelief. “You’re serious?”
“As a finals week all-nighter,” Haechan shot back, winking before cranking his music louder.
The rest of the morning was a tense standoff. Mark unpacked methodically, arranging his sheet music and plugging in a small keyboard, while Haechan sprawled on his bed, scrolling his phone and occasionally tossing snarky comments (“That poster’s so basic, did you get it from a gas station?”). Mark’s patience frayed, but he bit his tongue, humming softly to drown out Haechan’s music. At one point, he caught Haechan pausing, head tilted, as if listening to Mark’s melody. Their eyes met, and Haechan’s cheeks flushed faintly before he snapped, “What? Your humming’s annoying.”
“Didn’t say anything,” Mark said, raising his hands, but a tiny spark of curiosity flickered. Was Haechan… flustered?
The tension broke when Mark reached for his snack stash—a bag of chips he’d tucked into his desk drawer—only to find it taped to Haechan’s side of the room, a sticky note reading: Stay on your side, Guitar Boy. Mark’s jaw dropped, a laugh bubbling up despite himself. “You taped my chips? Dude, that’s next-level petty.”
Haechan grinned, all teeth and mischief. “Gotta set boundaries, man. Consider it a welcome gift.”
Mark’s competitive streak, usually buried under his easygoing demeanor, twitched awake. He wasn’t about to let this slide. “Alright, game on,” he muttered under his breath, already plotting retaliation.
***
The afternoon brought a shift in scenery: the university’s football field, a sprawling green expanse ringed by bleachers and buzzing with tryout energy. The air was thick with the scent of cut grass and sweat, the sun beating down on dozens of hopefuls stretching and sprinting. Mark hadn’t planned to join the team—music was his focus—but a coach had scouted him at a high school game, praising his stamina and teamwork. Why not? he’d thought. A chance to make friends, stay fit, maybe impress a few people.
He jogged onto the field, nerves buzzing, only to spot Haechan among the tryout crowd, effortlessly weaving through cones with the grace of a dancer. Of course he’d be here. Haechan caught Mark’s eye and smirked, tossing his hair like a challenge. Mark’s stomach twisted—part irritation, part something he couldn’t name.
The tryouts were grueling: sprints, passing drills, and scrimmages under the watchful eye of Coach Kim and team captain Jaehyun, a tall senior with a no-nonsense vibe. Mark shone in the midfield, his steady pace and quick passes earning nods from teammates. Haechan, a forward, was a whirlwind—agile, flashy, and infuriatingly good, scoring twice with cocky flourishes. But during a passing drill, Haechan “accidentally” clipped Mark’s ankle, sending him sprawling into the grass.
“Oops,” Haechan called, not sounding sorry at all. “Watch your step, Guitar Boy.”
Mark scrambled up, face burning, as laughter rippled through the team. His patience snapped. “Real mature,” he shot back, brushing dirt off his shorts. Haechan raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying Mark’s reaction, and jogged off like nothing happened.
Jaehyun blew his whistle, glaring. “Lee and Dong! Save the drama for the theater club. Focus, or you’re both benched.”
Mark clenched his fists, the sting of humiliation mixing with a strange thrill. Haechan was pushing his buttons, and part of him wanted to push back—hard. As they lined up for the next drill, he caught Haechan’s smirk again, and a silent vow formed: I’m not letting you win this.
***
Back at the dorm, the evening settled into a quieter chaos. The hallway outside buzzed with students swapping stories, but inside room 312, the air was thick with tension. Mark sat cross-legged on his bed, strumming his guitar to calm his nerves, the soft chords a balm against the day’s frustrations. Haechan lounged on his side, headphones on, but Mark noticed him tapping his foot to the rhythm of Mark’s playing. Interesting, Mark thought, filing it away.
Then he saw it: his guitar picks, carefully arranged on his desk that morning, were gone. A quick glance at Haechan’s side revealed them, tucked into a jar labeled “Haechan’s Treasure.” Mark’s jaw tightened. That’s it.
He waited until Haechan stepped out—probably to charm someone in the hall—then grabbed his guitar. At 6 a.m. the next morning, as dawn crept through the window, Mark strummed the loudest, most obnoxious version of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” he could muster. The notes rang out, cheerful and relentless, bouncing off the dorm’s thin walls.
Haechan bolted upright, hair a mess, eyes bleary. “What the actual—? Are you five?” he groaned, throwing a pillow at Mark.
Mark dodged, grinning. “Just setting boundaries, man. Consider it a welcome gift.”
Haechan stared, mouth twitching like he was fighting a smile. “You’re so dead,” he muttered, but there was a glint in his eyes—respect, maybe, or something warmer. He flopped back onto his bed, but Mark caught him humming along to the melody before he yanked his blanket over his head.
Mark’s grin faded into something softer. Haechan’s hostility felt like a shield, hiding something deeper. A past betrayal, maybe? He shook off the thought, but the spark of curiosity grew. This roommate thing was going to be a nightmare… or maybe, just maybe, something else entirely.
***
The day ended with a bombshell. The RA, a harried junior named Taeyong, knocked on their door, clipboard in hand. “Bad news, guys,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “Due to a housing mix-up, you’re stuck as roommates for the semester. No swaps, no appeals. Try not to kill each other, yeah?”
Mark’s stomach sank, his vision of a chill college life crumbling. Haechan groaned dramatically, flopping onto his bed like a starfish. “Great. I’m stuck with Mr. Sunshine,” he muttered, shooting Mark a glare that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Mark forced a laugh, but his heart raced. This was war—pranks, football, everything. But as he glanced at Haechan, now scrolling his phone with that infuriating smirk, a tiny voice whispered: This might be fun.
The dorm room, with its mismatched beds and taped-off line, felt like a battlefield. But beneath the chaos, something simmered—a spark, a challenge, a story just beginning.