Chapter Text
If there was one universal truth about Kim Jongin, known across campus by his self-appointed moniker Kai, it was that he lived his life like a highlight reel—fast, charming, and just a little bit blurred around the edges.
He was the kind of boy people didn’t forget, even if they wanted to. His laughter carried across the quad, his grin was a minor celebrity in its own right, and his name—rumored in whispered tones and group chat screenshots—was practically folklore in the dorms.
There were stories about him: how he’d once danced shirtless at a freshman party and started a minor fire (the fire was real, the shirtless part was true, and the reason was debatable). How his professors tolerated him because he was “brilliant but impossible.” How he could flirt with someone’s girlfriend, get caught, and somehow leave with both of them still liking him.
Kai had never minded the reputation. He didn’t chase it. He just let it orbit him like a star that had stopped caring who burned in its light.
So when he received an email from housing administration informing him that his new roommate assignment for the semester had been finalized, Kai didn’t give it a second thought. His previous roommate had graduated, and he figured whoever replaced him would either be an eager fan or a terrified freshman.
He was not prepared for Oh Sehun.
Sehun arrived with exactly one suitcase, a backpack, and the quiet authority of someone who had read every campus policy document twice. He was tall, pale, and precise—his movements clean and economical, his expression unreadable. His first act upon entering the dorm room wasn’t to greet Kai but to inspect the lighting, test the closet hinges, and start rearranging the furniture in his room “for better symmetry.”
Kai, still sitting cross-legged on the couch in the joint living space, surrounded by a clutter of clothes, snacks, and sheet music, watched this stranger work with mild awe and slight offense.
“Hey,” he finally said, flashing his trademark grin. “You must be the new guy. I’m Kai.”
“Sehun,” the boy said, not looking up as he adjusted the height of his desk chair. His voice was low, even, too calm for a nineteen-year-old.
“Cool, cool,” Kai said, leaning back on his palms. “So, uh, major?”
“Accounting.”
Kai raised an eyebrow. “Figures.”
“Pun noted,” Sehun replied without missing a beat, setting his laptop on the desk and opening it like the conversation was already over.
Kai blinked. “…You’re not gonna, like, fangirl or something?”
Sehun finally looked up, and the unimpressed glance he gave could have frozen water. “Should I?”
Kai stared at him for a beat too long, mouth opening, closing, then curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t defeat either. “No. Guess not.”
That was the first conversation they ever had—one minute long, zero laughs shared, and enough tension to power the campus Wi-Fi.
Three days into cohabitation, the dorm room had become a battleground of philosophies.
Sehun believed in structure: waking at 7:00 a.m. sharp, bed made tight enough to bounce a coin, desk spotless except for his laptop and a neatly stacked row of textbooks. He folded his clothes with geometric precision and arranged his pens by ink color.
Kai believed in chaos, but artistic chaos. He said his desk was “curated clutter.” He called the trail of clothes across the floor “texture.” His bed looked like it was constantly in the aftermath of a small hurricane.
By the end of the week, Sehun snapped.
He returned from class one afternoon, took one look at the disaster zone that was their shared space, and simply… started cleaning. No warning. No announcement. Just quiet, efficient, ruthless cleaning.
When Kai came back from dance practice later that evening, sweaty and content, he stopped dead in the doorway. The room was spotless. His shoes were aligned. His books were stacked. His hoodie—his favorite black one—was folded on the chair.
“What the hell happened here?”
Sehun didn’t even look up from the desk. “I cleaned.”
“You what?”
“I cleaned. You’re welcome.”
Kai gawked. “You can’t just—this is my side!”
“It was an environmental hazard.”
“It was an expression of personality!”
“More like a health code violation.”
Kai flopped dramatically onto the bed. “You’ve killed my vibe, man. I can feel my creativity suffocating under the smell of disinfectant.”
Sehun swiveled his chair slowly, arms crossed. “Your ‘creativity’ was growing mold.”
Kai grinned despite himself. “You know, you’re kind of funny when you’re mean.”
“I’m not trying to be funny.”
“That’s what makes it funnier.”
Sehun sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Not when the audience is this cute.”
“Goodnight, Kai.”
“It’s three in the afternoon.”
“I said goodnight.”
Kai laughed, utterly delighted.
If mornings were bad, nights were worse.
Kai was a night owl. His energy peaked at 1 a.m., right when Sehun was winding down with chamomile tea and a book. The first time Sehun tried to sleep while Kai was humming and typing lyrics on his phone, he lasted exactly twenty minutes before sitting up, hair mussed, and expression murderous.
“Do you have to sing right now?”
Kai blinked innocently. “Inspiration struck.”
“Strike quieter.”
“It’s a love song.”
“Then it’s tragic.”
Kai laughed. “You’ve got a sharp tongue, Mr. Accountant.”
“You’ve got a loud mouth, Mr. Problem.”
Kai grinned. “That’s your nickname for me now? Problem?”
“It’s accurate.”
“Hot,” Kai said without hesitation.
Sehun groaned and threw a pillow at him. “I’m filing a complaint.”
“With who?”
“The housing office. Or God.”
“God’s a fan,” Kai said with mock solemnity. “He made me.”
Sehun muttered something unholy in response and stomped grumpily back to his room.
Kai smiled into the dark, absurdly entertained.
The infamous hoodie incident happened on the seventh day of this reluctant coexistence.
Kai had come back late from dance rehearsal, dropped his hoodie on the back of a chair, and collapsed into bed, hair damp, skin warm from exertion. He’d fallen asleep instantly, sprawled across the mattress like a king in exile.
The next morning, the chair was empty.
At first, he thought he’d misplaced it. But then his sleepy gaze landed on Sehun sitting by the window, reading something on his laptop, one leg crossed over the other—wearing his hoodie.
Kai blinked.
Then blinked again.
And then, grinning, he propped himself up on an elbow. “Well, well, well. Look who’s cozying up to chaos.”
Sehun didn’t even glance over. “It was cold.”
“That’s my favorite hoodie.”
“Then maybe don’t leave it on my chair.”
Kai gasped dramatically. “You stole from me.”
“I borrowed it.”
“Without asking.”
Sehun scrolled on, utterly calm. “Consider it payment for emotional damage.”
Kai’s grin widened. “You are funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Oh, I think you are. Deep down, under all that existential bitterness, there’s a tiny comedian dying to be loved.”
Sehun finally looked up, expression sharp enough to cut glass. “You’ve got two options, Kai. Shut up or choke on your own ego.”
Kai beamed. “Option three: flirt harder.”
“Option four: homicide.”
“I like your spirit,” Kai said, still grinning.
Sehun rolled his eyes, closed his laptop, and stood, brushing imaginary lint from his hoodie. “You can have this back when you learn how to fold laundry properly.”
“Never gonna happen.”
“Then it’s mine.”
Kai smirked, watching him walk to the door. “You look good in it, by the way.”
“Stop talking.”
“I’m serious,” Kai called after him. “It suits you! Brings out your inner warmth!”
Sehun paused at the door just long enough to mutter, “You’re insufferable.”
Kai’s laughter followed him all the way down the hall.
That night, Kai found himself staring at the empty chair where his hoodie used to hang.
He wasn’t used to people taking things from him—at least, not without trying to give something back. Usually, people wanted a piece of him because they liked the idea of Kai: the charm, the confidence, the noise.
But Sehun didn’t care. Sehun stole his hoodie like it was practical, not sentimental. Like Kai wasn’t special. Like they were just two guys sharing a room, trying not to kill each other.
It should’ve been infuriating. Instead, it was… weirdly grounding.
Kai fell asleep that night with the faintest smile, the words you look good in it replaying in his mind like a song he hadn’t finished writing.
By the end of the month, the entire dorm knew about “the guy who tamed Kai.”
Sehun, of course, insisted he’d done no such thing.
But the rumors persisted—whispers in the dining hall, grins in the corridors, Baekhyun’s dramatic commentary whenever he visited.
“You two are a sitcom,” Baekhyun said one Friday evening, watching them argue over whose turn it was to do the dishes. “You should charge admission.”
Sehun didn’t even look up from the sink. “You’re not helping.”
Kai, leaning against the counter, smirked. “We’re pretty entertaining, though.”
“I’m filing for emotional damages,” Sehun muttered.
“Already paid,” Kai said. “In hoodies.”
Baekhyun howled with laughter. “Oh, this is gold.”
Sehun flicked water at him. “Leave before I throw the sponge.”
Kai grinned, eyes soft. “You’d miss me if I left.”
“I’d get more sleep.”
“You’d be bored.”
Sehun’s lips twitched, the tiniest curve—barely there, gone in a second. “You’re overestimating your charm.”
Kai tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Or maybe you’re underestimating it.”
Sehun sighed, turning back to the dishes.