Work Text:
If you asked anyone in the Central University Library who owned Table 4 by the third-floor window, they would give you two names.
The first was Kim Seungmin. The second was me.
And if you asked them to describe the relationship between us, they would probably use words like hostile, cold, or a ticking time bomb.
It was 11:00 PM on a Thursday, prime time for desperation during finals week. The library hummed with the collective anxiety of three thousand students, the air thick with the smell of stale coffee and fear.
I marched toward the third floor, clutching my oversized tote bag and a venti vanilla latte that was arguably more sugar than coffee. My target was locked. Table 4. It was the best table. It had the ergonomic chairs, it was tucked away from the noisy group-study rooms, and it was right next to the radiator.
I rounded the corner of the History stack and stopped dead.
He was there.
Kim Seungmin sat in his usual spot (the left side facing the window). His posture was terrifyingly perfect. He was wearing a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up exactly to his elbows, and a pair of silver wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.
His side of the table looked like a stock photo for Productivity Magazine. A laptop, a single black notebook, three highlighters aligned in a color gradient, and an Iced Americano. No condensation. He probably willed the condensation away with his mind.
I took a deep breath, adjusted my grip on my bag, and marched over.
He didn't look up as I pulled out the chair directly opposite him. The legs scraped against the carpet with a dull thud.
"You're late," he said. His voice was calm, melodic, and absolutely infuriating. He turned a page of his textbook with surgical precision.
"I don't have a schedule, Seungmin," I retorted, dropping my bag onto the floor with a heavy clunk. "And you're in my seat."
"We established last semester that the left side is the Law zone," he said, finally looking up.
His eyes were dark behind the lenses, his expression impassive. He looked like a puppy that had been sent to a strict boarding school and learned how to sue people. "And seeing as you are currently carrying a stack of Modern Lit anthologies, you belong on the right side. The chaos zone."
I narrowed my eyes at him, but I sat down. This was our routine. We had been sharing this table for two years. We weren't friends. We barely tolerated each other. We were simply two people equally obsessed with this specific spot and too stubborn to move.
I unpacked my things. Unlike Seungmin’s minimalist setup, mine was an explosion. A laptop covered in stickers, five different colored pens, loose papers, a bag of gummy worms, and my giant, syrupy coffee.
Seungmin watched me arrange my gummy worms with a look of mild disgust.
"You're going to get sugar on the wood varnish," he noted.
"Focus on your torts, counselor," I snapped, popping a neon worm into my mouth.
He sighed, a long, suffering sound, and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Please try to chew quietly. Some of us are trying to pass the bar exam before we turn thirty."
"Some of us are trying to deconstruct the narrative complexity of post-war fiction," I shot back. "It requires brain food."
He ignored me, putting his noise-canceling headphones on. The universal sign for 'You are dead to me.'
Peace, or at least, our version of it, resumed.
The thing about Seungmin was that he was undeniably attractive. This was an objective fact that annoyed me to no end. When he was focused, his brow furrowed slightly, and his jaw clenched in a way that made half the girls in the library pretend to look for books in our aisle just to stare at him.
But they didn't know the real Seungmin.
The real Seungmin was a menace.
Around 1:00 AM, I got up to use the restroom. When I came back, there was a bright yellow Post-it note stuck to my laptop screen.
Your highlighter cap is off. It will dry out. Inefficiency bothers me. - KSM
I looked across the table. He was typing furiously, not acknowledging me.
I grabbed my pink pen and scribbled a reply on a blue sticky note, slapping it onto his water bottle.
Thanks for the concern, Mom. Also, your typing is loud. - Y/n
He didn't stop typing, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. He peeled the note off, read it, and wrote a response. He slid it across the table without looking.
I type at 110 words per minute. It’s the sound of success. You’re just jealous because you’ve been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes.
I gaped at him. He had been watching me.
I scribbled back: I'm contemplating the subtext! It’s part of the process!
Is the subtext 'I need a nap'? Because you're blinking a lot.
I crumpled the note and threw it at him. It bounced harmlessly off his shoulder. He didn't even flinch.
This was our dynamic. We communicated primarily through aggressive stationery and insults. It was exhausting. It was habitual. And, in a weird way, it was the only social interaction I had during finals week that felt real.
The storm started around 2:30 AM.
It had been threatening to rain all day, but now it broke with a vengeance. Thunder rattled the large glass windows next to us, and lightning flashed, illuminating the rows of books in stark, ghostly white.
"Focus," Seungmin muttered to himself, rubbing his temples. He looked tired. The perfect posture was slipping, his shoulders hunching slightly.
"You've been at it for six hours straight," I whispered, breaking the silence. "Take a break, Seungmin."
"Can't," he clipped out. "Final brief is due at 8 AM."
"You're going to burn out."
"I don't burn out. I optimi-"
CRACK.
A massive clap of thunder shook the building, followed instantly by the lights flickering. Once. Twice.
And then, total darkness.
The library plunged into an abyss. The hum of the AC cut out. The whir of laptops died as the Wi-Fi routers disconnected. A collective groan echoed from the lower floors.
"Great," Seungmin’s voice came from the dark, dry and unamused. "Just great."
I fumbled for my phone, turning on the flashlight. The beam cut through the dark, landing on Seungmin. He was sitting perfectly still, hands resting on his keyboard, looking like a statue that had been unplugged.
"Save your work?" I asked.
"Auto-save is on," he said, but he sounded shaken. He looked at the window, where rain was lashing against the glass. "But the battery on this laptop is garbage. I have maybe fifteen minutes."
"Well, you can't work in the dark," I said. "Come on. Let's pack up."
"I can't leave," he said, panic bleeding into his tone for the first time. "I have three paragraphs left. If I don't finish this tonight, I lose my distinction."
I looked at him. The arrogant, composed Kim Seungmin was gone. In the harsh light of my phone, he looked young and terrified. He was just a student scared of failing, just like the rest of us.
I sighed. "Okay. Move your chair."
"What?"
"Move your chair over here. Next to me."
"Why?"
"Because I have a portable charger brick that can power a small village, and I have a battery-operated reading light in my bag."
He hesitated. "You have a reading light?"
"I'm a Lit major, Seungmin. I came prepared for the apocalypse."
He stared at me for a second, then silently stood up and dragged his chair around the table. He sat down next to me—closer than we had ever been.
I clipped the small LED light onto his screen. It cast a warm, intimate glow over the small space between us. I plugged his laptop into my power bank.
"There," I said. "Finish your paragraphs. I'll hold the light steady."
He looked at the setup, then turned his head to look at me. His face was inches away. I could count the eyelashes behind his glasses. I could smell his cologne—something clean, like sandalwood and fresh laundry.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked quietly. "I'm mean to you."
"You are," I agreed. "You're a nightmare. You criticize my chewing and you hate my gummy worms."
"I don't hate them," he murmured. "I just... dislike the artificial coloring."
"Just write, Seungmin."
He held my gaze for a heartbeat longer, his eyes searching mine in the dim light. Then, he nodded once, turned back to the screen, and started typing.
For the next twenty minutes, the only sound in the library was the rain and the clicking of his keys.
I sat with my chin in my hand, holding the light, watching him work. Up close, I noticed things I hadn't seen from across the table. I noticed the small mole on his cheek. I noticed the way he bit his lip when he was searching for the right word. I noticed that his hands, usually so steady, were trembling slightly from caffeine and exhaustion.
He wasn't a robot. He was just a guy trying really, really hard to be perfect.
"Done," he breathed out, hitting the final period with a flourish.
He slumped back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, messing up the perfectly styled bangs. "Done. Saved. Submitted via hotspot."
"Congrats, counselor," I whispered.
He turned to me. The adrenaline was fading, leaving him looking heavy-eyed. We were sitting in a bubble of light in a pitch-black library. The rest of the world felt miles away.
"You saved me," he said.
"Don't let it go to your head. I just wanted you to stop sighing so I could nap."
He chuckled. It was a low, warm sound that did strange things to my stomach. "You want a gummy worm?" I offered, holding out the bag.
He looked at the bag, then at me. Slowly, he reached out. His fingers brushed against my palm as he took a neon green one. The contact sent a jolt of electricity up my arm that had nothing to do with the storm.
He ate it, chewing thoughtfully.
"Disgusting," he ruled.
"I know."
"Give me another one."
I laughed, handing him a red one.
"Y/n," he said (and it was the first time he had used my name instead of 'you' or 'Lit major' in months). "My dorm is across campus. It's pouring."
"Yeah. My apartment is six blocks away. I'm going to get soaked."
Seungmin adjusted his glasses. He looked nervous, which was a new look for him. "My car is in the underground lot. I can... drop you off. If you want."
I looked at him. This was a truce. No, this was more than a truce. This was a breach of the treaty of Table 4.
"You'd let a chaotic, messy Lit major into your pristine car?"
"I have leather seats," he said, a small, crooked smile appearing—the kind of smile that wasn't savage or dry, but genuinely shy. "They wipe clean."
I grabbed my bag. "Deal."
Seungmin’s car was exactly as I expected: immaculate, smelling of 'new car' scent, with indie rock playing softly at volume level 8.
The drive to my apartment was short. The rain hammered against the roof, cocooning us. He drove with one hand on the wheel, relaxed now that his assignment was done.
He pulled up to the curb outside my building. The engine idled.
"Thanks for the ride," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. "And congrats on the brief."
"Thanks for the light," he replied. He shifted into park and turned in his seat to face me. The streetlamp outside cast shadows across his face.
I put my hand on the door handle. I should go. It was 3 AM. We were rivals. Tomorrow, we would go back to the library and he would leave sticky notes about my posture.
"Hey," he said.
I stopped. "Yeah?"
"Tomorrow," he started, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. "I'm going to get coffee before I hit the library. Around 10."
"Okay. Good for you. Get five shots."
"I was wondering," he looked down at the gear stick, then back up at me, his gaze intense. "If you wanted me to pick up a vanilla latte. Extra sugar. Since you're going to be late anyway."
My heart hammered against my ribs.
He wasn't just offering coffee. He was offering to memorize my order. He was offering to wait for me.
I smiled, a slow, teasing smile. "Are you asking me out on a coffee date, Kim Seungmin? In the middle of finals week?"
"I'm maximizing efficiency," he countered, though his ears were turning pink. "If I bring you coffee, you won't have to stop for it, which means you'll arrive at the library ten minutes earlier. Which increases productivity."
"Calculated," I noted.
"Always."
"Okay," I said softly. "I'll take the latte."
"Okay."
"Goodnight, Seungmin."
"Goodnight."
I opened the door and ran through the rain to my building entrance. When I reached the glass door, I looked back. His car was still there. He waited until I was safely inside the lobby before he flashed his headlights once and drove away.
I walked up the stairs to my apartment, clutching my chest.
I pulled my phone out. There was a new notification. A text from an unknown number.
You forgot your blue pen in my car. I'm holding it hostage until 10 AM. - KSM
I laughed aloud in the empty hallway.
The war at Table 4 was officially over. A new, much more dangerous game had just begun.
The next morning, the ecosystem of Table 4 changed forever.
When I arrived at the library at 10:05 AM (five minutes late, but who's counting), Seungmin was already there. But this time, sitting on the right side of the table, my chaotic side, was a Venti Vanilla Latte.
It wasn't just sitting there. It was placed on a coaster. Because of course Kim Seungmin brought a coaster.
He didn't look up as I sat down, but as I reached for the cup, he spoke. "I asked for oat milk. I noticed you were rubbing your stomach after the dairy one last night."
I froze, hand halfway to the cup. "You noticed that?"
"I notice everything," he said simply, turning a page. "Also, here is your hostage."
He slid my blue pen across the table.
"Thank you," I muttered, taking a sip. It was perfect. Dangerously perfect. "So, are we friends now? Is that what this is?"
Seungmin finally looked up. He adjusted his glasses, his gaze sharp and unreadable. "We are... collaborators. We have a shared interest in survival."
"Right. Survival."
"Also," he added, pulling a small packet of gummy worms out of his bag, the organic kind with natural fruit juice. "I bought these. They are objectively better for you. Try them."
I took the bag, staring at him. "Kim Seungmin, are you... taking care of me?"
"I am optimizing my workspace environment," he corrected, his ears turning pink. "If you crash from a sugar coma, you will snore. If you snore, I cannot focus. Therefore, feeding you quality sugar is a self-serving act."
"You're unbelievable," I laughed.
"I'm efficient," he said, but he was smiling.
For the rest of finals week, the "efficiency" continued. He brought me coffee. I brought him a better ergonomic wrist rest. He helped me format my bibliography (while critiquing my font choice). I quizzed him on case law using flashcards I drew stupid doodles on.
The hostility was gone, replaced by a thick, simmering tension that was infinitely more distracting. Every time our knees bumped under the table, he didn't pull away immediately. Every time I caught him staring, he didn't look away; he just raised an eyebrow as if challenging me to acknowledge it.
We were dancing around the inevitable, waiting for the clock to run out on the semester.
Friday, 4:00 PM.
I walked out of the Literature Hall feeling like my brain had been put through a blender. It was done. The semester was over. I was free.
I checked my phone. One new message.
Seungmin (3:58 PM): Meet me at the quad. Table 4 is closed for the season.
I walked to the central grassy area of the campus. It was crowded with students celebrating. Some were sleeping on the grass; others were popping cheap champagne.
I found Seungmin sitting on a bench under a cherry blossom tree. He looked... different. He wasn't wearing his usual stiff button-down. He was wearing a soft, oversized cream sweater and jeans. He looked younger. Softer.
He stood up when he saw me. "You survived."
"Barely," I said, dropping my bag on the bench. "I wrote an essay on existential dread that I'm pretty sure was just a cry for help. How was Torts?"
"Easy," he scoffed, but his eyes were bright. "I crushed it."
"Of course you did."
He looked at the students partying around us. "It's loud here."
"It's a celebration, Seungmin. People are happy."
"I know," he said. He turned to me, his expression shifting from observant to intent. "I want to celebrate, too. But not here."
"Where then? The library is probably locking up."
"No libraries," he said firmly. "I'm done with books for at least forty-eight hours. I was thinking... karaoke."
I blinked. "Karaoke? You? Mr. 'Please Chew Quietly' wants to go to a singing room?"
"I have excellent vocal control," he said defensively. "And I need to release stress. Are you coming, or are you going to stand there judging my sweater?"
"I like the sweater," I blurted out. "It looks... huggable."
Seungmin paused. A slow smirk spread across his face. "Well," he said, stepping closer. "We can test that hypothesis later. But first, singing."
We went to a small coin karaoke place near the university gates. It was a tiny room with disco lights and a sticky floor, a far cry from his pristine environment, but he didn't seem to mind.
We sang for two hours.
And god, he wasn't lying. He could sing.
He started with ballads, his voice rich and emotional, filling the small room. I sat on the couch, shaking a tambourine, completely mesmerized. It was unfair. How could one person be smart, organized, handsome, and sound like an angel?
Then, the mood shifted. We ordered beer and fried chicken. We sang upbeat pop songs, shouting the lyrics, jumping around the tiny room. I saw a side of Seungmin I didn't know existed, a playful, chaotic side that matched mine.
By 9 PM, we were exhausted, sitting on the small sofa, the credits of a song rolling on the screen. The room was bathed in a spinning purple light.
Seungmin took a sip of his beer, loosening his collar. He looked at me. The air in the room suddenly felt very thin.
"So," he said, his voice lower now, stripped of the music. "Hypothesis testing."
"What?"
"The sweater," he reminded me. "You said it looked huggable."
My face heated up. "I was just... making an observation."
"Inefficiency bothers me, remember?" he said, placing his drink on the table. He turned his body fully toward me. "Making an observation and not acting on it is inefficient."
"Seungmin," I breathed.
"Y/n," he replied. He reached out and took my hand—the one that wasn't holding the tambourine. He ran his thumb over my knuckles. "I don't want to be your rival next semester."
"No?"
"No. I don't want to sit across from you and argue about sticky notes." He looked down at our joined hands, then back up at my eyes. "I want to sit next to you. I want to buy you coffee because I'm your boyfriend, not because I'm 'optimizing your workspace.' I want to kiss you when you get a question right, and I want to kiss you when you get one wrong, too."
My heart did a somersault. It was the most Seungmin confession possible. Direct, logical, and devastatingly romantic.
"That sounds... productive," I whispered.
He laughed, a breathy sound. "Is that a yes?"
"I don't know," I teased, leaning in. "I have a strict 'no dating Law majors' policy. They argue too much."
"I'll win every argument," he warned, leaning in until our noses brushed.
"I know."
"But I'll let you win the important ones."
He didn't wait for a response. He closed the gap.
Seungmin kissed like he did everything else, with precision and intensity. One hand came up to cup my cheek, his thumb tracing my jawline, tilting my head back. His lips were soft, tasting of cheap beer and honey butter chips.
It wasn't a tentative first kiss. It was a release of two years of library tension, of stolen glances over textbooks, of bickering that was always just foreplay.
I dropped the tambourine. It clattered to the floor with a jingle, but neither of us cared. I buried my hands in his soft sweater (hypothesis confirmed: very huggable) and pulled him closer.
He made a low noise in his throat and deepened the kiss, his other arm wrapping around my waist to pull me flush against him.
When we finally broke apart, breathless and flushed under the purple disco lights, Seungmin rested his forehead against mine.
"So," he whispered, his eyes dark and dilated. "Did I pass the exam?"
I laughed, tracing the line of his collarbone. "A-plus, Kim Seungmin. With distinction."
He grinned, a real, messy, happy grin. "Good. Now pick the next song. We have twenty minutes left on the meter, and I haven't sung DAY6 yet."
"You're a dork," I said affectionately.
"I'm your dork," he corrected, pressing a quick kiss to my nose. "Now, hand me the mic."
We spent the last twenty minutes singing 'Zombie' at the top of our lungs, his arm heavy and warm around my shoulders.
The semester was over. The rivalry was dead. But as I looked at Seungmin belting out the high note, looking happier than I'd ever seen him, I knew the best chapter was just beginning.