Chapter Text
If Seungmin had known his summer would begin with a boy who looked like trouble and smiled like he knew it, he would’ve dropped his acceptance letter in the recycling bin and spared himself.
Instead, he was here—sitting cross-legged on a quad that looked like it belonged in an Ivy League brochure, surrounded by strangers who all seemed to know each other already, even though the program had barely started.
5-STAR Academy. The name alone sounded like a joke. But the campus? That was serious.
The June sun glazed over manicured lawns and red-brick dorms. Even the shadows looked expensive.
He didn't need the resume boost. His transcript, extracurriculars, and early acceptances already spoke volumes. But his parents would ask, and there were expectations to uphold.
He should have felt lucky to be here. Most students would’ve killed for a spot in a summer program this elite. But excitement required energy, and Seungmin was already drained.
The sun was too bright. The energy around him too chaotic. Seungmin liked order—clear expectations, precise deadlines, scheduled silence. That fantasy died the moment a shadow fell across his lap.
“Yo,” came a voice beside him. “Are you a real person or a perfectly coded AI?”
Seungmin blinked. A boy had flopped into the grass beside him, uninvited. Loose jeans, chain on his belt, tousled dyed hair that somehow looked both expensive and like he hadn’t touched a comb in days. His lanyard was already missing. His smile was weaponized.
“I’m sorry?” Seungmin said, flat.
“You just look so... manufactured. Like you were grown in a lab to lead every group project and destroy the curve.”
Seungmin folded his itinerary. “And you look like you wandered onto campus by mistake.”
“Ouch.” The boy grinned wider. “That’s cold, nametag. What’s it say? Seungmin?”
He dug into his back pocket and turned his own badge toward Seungmin, tapping it with theatrical flair.
Lee Minho. Dorm B. Course Track: Nonexistent.
Well, not really. It said Creative Writing and Contemporary Philosophy , but Seungmin could’ve sworn the font looked smug.
“I’m just saying,” Minho went on, “I bet you packed color-coded pens. And flashcards.”
“Right. And you pack… fruit-flavored condoms. And lube.”
Minho laughed like they were already friends. Seungmin refused to be charmed.
“I’ll see you around, Mr. Flashcards,” Minho said as he stood. “Save me a seat in Ethics.”
Seungmin didn’t respond. But unfortunately, he did watch him leave—tall, swaggering, completely at home here like he hadn’t spent the last five minutes antagonizing a stranger for sport.
He already hated him.
Minho, walking away with a grin, didn’t look back. Not because he wasn’t curious. But because he already knew the look Seungmin had given him: cool, unimpressed, like he was just another loud distraction in a sea of overachievers.
And that look—it burned.
Just like it had in sophomore year. Just like it always did.
They’d crossed paths before. Briefly. Shared classes, competitions, silence...but they’d never actually talked before now.
While Minho was barely treading water—balancing legacies, expectations, a family name thick with pressure—Seungmin floated through it all.
Minho didn’t hate him because he was perfect. He hated him because he made it look effortless. No panic. No cracks. No nights spent wondering if your parents were disappointed that you weren’t exceptional—just exceptional enough.
And now here they were again. Different classes. Same stupid story. Only this time, Minho wasn’t going to sit quietly and be invisible.
He didn’t care how many flashcards Seungmin had packed. This summer, Minho planned to ruin the curve.
Starting with the boy who thought he was untouchable.
That night, the dorms smelled like freshly waxed floors and anticipation. Seungmin had already claimed a bottom bunk, lined up his alarm clock with military precision, and unpacked his books in perfect rows. From a distance, someone blasted music with more bass than lyrics.
He flipped to the next page of his summer reading—something about moral frameworks—and tried not to think about the fact that he’d seen Minho three times since lunch. Each time, Minho had greeted him like they were best friends.
Why him? There were ninety-six other students on campus—probably more interesting, more talkative, more willing to fall for whatever cool-boy persona Minho was selling.
Then again, Seungmin had been the only one to scowl at him.
Maybe that was the point.
He snapped his book shut, annoyed that Minho had taken up more mental real estate than Aristotle.
Outside, the sky faded purple and gold. Near the lake, someone lit sparklers.
Seungmin leaned back on the bed and told himself he didn’t care.
He was here to win—to outscore every essay, ace every seminar, and leave with a letter of recommendation so glowing it could ignite paper.
Minho Lee was just background noise.
Unfortunate, loud, occasionally well-dressed background noise.
The frat house simmered in its own kind of luxury—leather furniture worn from too many parties, persian rugs stained with expensive alcohol, speakers humming low with lazy trap beats. The air was thick with weed, cologne, and the musk of rich boys who’d never cleaned a day in their lives.
Technically, Minho was assigned to Dorm B like everyone else attending this program—but he wasn’t about to give up his real bed, real speakers, or privacy. The frat house was his, and everyone knew it.
He sprawled across the sunken couch, joint dangling, eyes half-lidded in the amber glow of a vintage lamp. His sneakers were off, one socked foot tossed over the armrest like he ruled this grimy kingdom of bongs and privilege.
Jisung paced, twitchy and half-buzzed. Hyunjin lounged nearby, exhaling smoke like it owed him something.
Then Minho muttered, slicing through the haze:
“Fuck Seungmin.”
The words landed hard, too loud even in the ambient noise. He didn’t look up—just stared at the ceiling, bitterness barely veiled by his lazy drawl.
Hyunjin blinked, then snorted. “Yeah, fuck Seungmin,” he echoed with a grin, rolling the name over his tongue like a joke. “What’d he do? Turn in homework too early again?”
Minho stayed quiet. Smoke curled from his joint as Seungmin’s image replayed in his head—composed posture, calm gaze, oblivious to the rest of them suffering in silence.
It wasn't just the fact that Seungmin was acing even enrichment classes for some unfathomable reason. It was the way he was present – that pristine focus, that almost clinical detachment. That air of quiet superiority, that utter lack of awareness of the simmering boredom around him… it was infuriating.
"He's just… so untouchable," Minho finally said. "Like he exists on some higher plane. Doesn't even seem to notice anyone else."
He flicked ash into a tray, sharp irritation mirrored in the movement.
Hyunjin watched him closely now. That edge in Minho’s voice—it wasn’t boredom anymore. It was personal.
A slow smile curled across Hyunjin’s face.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, voice dropping just enough to feel intentional.
“Fuck... Seungmin?” he said slowly, thoughtfully, like he’d just stumbled onto a puzzle worth solving.
He let the words hang in the air, soft but precise, watching Minho’s reaction like a scientist studying a specimen under glass.
Then the glint in Hyunjin’s eye sharpened.
“You ever think about that?” he continued, voice smooth now, silk over steel. “Someone that put-together. That unreachable. What it would actually take to…” He tilted his head, like the thought truly fascinated him. “Get under his skin. Past the perfect posture. Past the rules.”
The room seemed to shift around his words—music humming faintly, smoke curling, but everything else just a little quieter.
“Seriously,” Hyunjin said, eyes locked on Minho. “What would it cost to watch someone like him come undone?”
Jisung, halfway to the fridge, paused. He caught the energy shift, turned back.
Then he snorted.
“Shit,” he muttered, grinning. “Probably a grand. Easy. Guy walks like he’s never even touched himself.”
That got Minho’s attention.
He hadn’t thought about it like that—not really.
Up until now, it had just been about nudging Seungmin off balance. A few disruptions. A little teasing. Loud music in study hours, stolen seats, dragging him into conversations he didn’t want.
But now the idea sat there—sharper. Hungrier. Tempting.
Seungmin—perfect, untouchable Seungmin—unraveled and flustered... all because of him.
That kind of control? That kind of power?
That would feel better than any grade he’d never gotten.
A slow, predatory smirk unfurled across his face, sharp and mean.
“I bet I could have him under me in a month.”
Hyunjin barked out a laugh, nearly choking on smoke. “You're funny.”
Minho just stretched, finally sitting up a little. His eyes had lost the lazy glaze, now gleaming with something colder—calculated.
Hyunjin leaned forward, skeptical but entertained. “Tell you what—I’ll give you 3 months, and I’ll put down five hundred.”
Jisung wheezed. “And I’ll toss in the rest of my stash. Plus another five hundred. Just for the fucking spectacle.”
There was a pause. A beat.
Then Minho exhaled slowly, his smile turning razor-sharp. “Deal.”
Hyunjin blinked. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
Jisung’s laughter stalled, a note of caution threading into his voice. “Minho, come on. One—he’s a guy. Two—he’s Kim fucking Seungmin.”
Hyunjin nodded, flicking ash into a tray. “Yeah, I know you’ve got half the campus on your roster, but this isn’t a party hookup. This is Seungmin. That dude probably schedules his breathing. You think a few smirks and half-assed charm are gonna crack that?”
Minho leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the joint smoldering between two fingers. His grin never wavered.
And when he spoke, his voice was low. Dangerous. Certain.
“By the end of July, I’ll have a thousand dollars,” he said, “And Seungmin—legs open, begging—just like a bitch in heat.”
The room fell into a stunned silence, the weight of the words sinking between the smoke and the laughter.
No one replied—not because they didn’t believe he’d try, but because for the first time that night, Minho sounded like he really, really meant it.