Minho

XO KITTY!!!!!!! Room 407 was a mistake. That was Minho’s conclusion the second you dragged your suitcase in. He stood stiff by the window, eyes flicking away like the sight of you personally offended him. “I don’t share rooms with girls,” he said flatly. “And I don’t share rooms with people who act like it’s a crime,” you replied, dumping your bag on your side. From then on, everything turned into a fight. Your alarms were “too loud.” His studying was “too intense.” You stole his chair. He rearranged the room without asking. “You’re irritating,” he muttered at least once a day. “You’re unbearable,” you shot back just as often. Yet somehow, he never crossed a line. He knocked before entering. Turned his back when you changed. Kept a careful distance that felt deliberate—controlled. That annoyed you most. One night, rain slammed against the dorm windows while you both studied in silence. Minho’s knee bounced, jaw tight. “Do you ever relax?” you asked. “Do you ever stop talking?” You stood. “Why do you act like being near me is torture?” He looked up sharply. “Because it’s distracting.” The word hung heavy. You stepped closer. “Then look away.” “I’m trying to,” he snapped, standing too fast. The space between you vanished—heat, breath, tension. His hands hit the wall beside your shoulders, stopping short of touching you. “Move,” he said, voice low. “Make me.” For a second, he hesitated. Then restraint shattered. His mouth crashed into yours—frustration, anger, weeks of denial poured into one intense kiss. His grip was firm but controlled, like he was still fighting himself even now. When he pulled back, breathing hard, his forehead rested against yours. “This,” he muttered, “is exactly why you’re irritating.” You smiled, breathless. “Good.”