In Summary
Park Sungho (4th Year Architecture, Unit 904): His life is drawn with a ruler. Perfectly scheduled, disciplined, and possessing a deep hatred for "noise pollution."
You (3rd Year Painting, Unit 906): Your life is applied with a palette knife. You sleep at dawn, wake at noon, and own the "monstrosity" that almost decapitated his cactus.
But honestly? No offense... but maybe a little bit of 'chaos' is exactly what's missing from his perfect 'structure'.
Neighbors to Lovers, Fluff (Domestic Fluff), Clean Freak x Messy Artist, Grumpy x Sunshine (Tired version), Opposite Attract
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masterlist ໒꒱ིྀ༝⁺ !!
"Hey! You! Room 906!"
You froze. One leg was precariously balanced on a cheap plastic stool as you tried to angle your giant canvas to catch the moonlight just right. In your hand, a digital camera flashed—click—at the exact wrong moment.
Slowly, you turned your head to the left, following the flash...
Park Sungho, the owner of Unit 904, was standing tall on his balcony.
He looked... impeccable. Even at 2 AM.
He was wearing silk pajamas that looked ironed.
Seriously? Who irons their pajamas? Does he sleep standing up in a coffin like Dracula?
He stood with his arms crossed, glaring at you over the rim of his silver-framed glasses.
"What is it... Sunbae?" you called back, trying not to wobble.
"Condo Rules, Section 4, Paragraph 2," Sungho recited in a deep, serious voice, sounding like a living rulebook. "Personal property must not extend beyond the balcony perimeter... And that..." He pointed a long, judgmental finger at your canvas, which was flapping in the wind. "...that monstrosity is about to decapitate my cactus. If it blows over here, I’m calling security."
Monstrosity?!
That 'monstrosity' was 50% of your final grade! You emotionless graph-paper human!
"It is not a monstrosity! It’s Abstract Expressionism!" you argued, climbing down from the stool (and nearly tripping over a bucket of paint). "And sorry! I didn't know the wind was this strong up here."
"Also," Sungho continued, completely ignoring your artistic defense. "Stop climbing on that cheap plastic stool. If you fall, the police investigation will create noise pollution and disrupt my thesis timeline."
Oh.
So your death would be an inconvenience to his schedule? What a compassionate human being.
He adjusted his glasses, looking at you like you were a bug that had flown into his perfect system.
"Go inside. It's 2 AM. Normal people are sleeping. Only 'Raccoons' and 'Art Students' are still awake."
Wait... did he just categorize your entire faculty as rodents?
Before you could shout an insult back, he slid his glass door shut and yanked the blackout curtains closed. Bang.
You stuck your tongue out at his dark window.
"Naggy old man," you muttered, dragging your heavy canvas back into your messy room. "I bet he uses a ruler to measure the water level in his glass before he drinks it... Psychopath."
That was your first conversation.
The war between Unit 904 and 906 was cold and constant. It was a war of lifestyles. He was minimalism and silence. You were chaos and color.
You thought your lives would stay like parallel lines—never touching, just running side-by-side in mutual annoyance.
Like water that sits right at the boiling point but never quite bubbles over. Frustratingly static.
But the universe loves a joke.
Maybe it was karma for lying to Professor Lee about your concept being "emptiness" when you just hadn't finished the work.
The Elevator Incident
It started a few weeks ago.
You sprinted into the closing elevator, clutching a bag of stationery, smelling strongly of turpentine.
And of course... he was there.
Park Sungho stood in the corner, wearing a crisp white shirt with the top button undone. He looked exhausted, leaning his head against the metal wall.
But he looked annoyingly good. Like a fox deity statue your friend sculpted for class—if the statue never opened its mouth.
He scrunched his nose immediately. "Smells like a chemical factory explosion."
"I bathed in turpentine, thanks for noticing," you retorted, pressing yourself against the doors to be as far away as possible. "You look like you haven't slept in ten years, by the way. Rough."
"Observation skills: zero," he murmured, eyes closed. "It's only been three days."
Suddenly—Clunk!
The elevator jerked violently. The lights died.
You yelped, stumbling backward in the pitch black. But instead of hitting cold metal... you hit a warm, solid chest.
A large hand grabbed your shoulder to steady you. "Careful."
His voice was right above your ear. In the dark, it sounded deeper.
"Stand properly. Don't be so flimsy."
The emergency lights flickered on.
You were practically hugging him. For a second, you froze. Not out of fear, but because you realized something...
Underneath the scent of expensive detergent, Park Sungho smelled really good. Cool mint, sandalwood, and distinctly man.
Damn. Suddenly you agreed that your turpentine smell was an offense to humanity.
You scrambled away as the doors pried open at the 9th floor.
"Th... Thanks," you mumbled, heart racing.
"Goodnight, smelly raccoon," he called after you.
(Of course, his room was closer to the elevator. So every night you got scolded, you’d walk past his door and stick your tongue out at it before entering your own room).
But when you looked back that night... you could have sworn there was a faint smile on his face.
The lines we drew began to inch closer during the rainy season.
You were stuck in front of the Art Faculty building, hugging your final project canvas like it was your child. The rain was pouring like a waterfall. No taxi. No bus.
You looked like a disaster—hair messy, clothes stained with charcoal and paint.
A raccoon digging through trash to protect its favorite snack.
"Great..." you whispered to the sky. "Just great."
Suddenly, a dark shadow loomed over you. A giant umbrella opened above your head.
You looked up.
Park Sungho.
"Move," he ordered sharply. He was wearing an expensive long coat, looking grumpy as hell. "I'm walking to the bus stop. Get in."
"But my canvas..."
"That's why I brought the umbrella. Hurry up. Short legs and slow walking... terrible combination."
Excuse me?
You ducked under the umbrella. It was huge, but to keep the canvas dry, you had to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with him.
You noticed he tilted the umbrella almost entirely to your side. His left shoulder—under that expensive coat—was getting soaked, the fabric turning a dark, heavy color.
He was ruining his clothes to save your homework.
You didn't want to swoon, but this was like a scene from a manhwa.
Focus, Y/N!
"Why are you doing this?" you asked softly. "You hate my art. You called it a monstrosity."
Sungho glanced down. "I hate noise," he replied flatly. "And if your project gets ruined, you’ll be crying on the balcony all night... That’s loud."
Okay, fair point.
That might have happened once or twice. When Professor Lee was being unreasonable, you chose to vent via tears and Soju on your balcony. You thought he wasn't home!
The real turning point came at 4 AM, the night before your submission. The witching hour.
You were sitting on your balcony, completely burned out, your color mixing looking like mud.
The glass door next to you slid open.
Sungho walked out. But he wasn't the "Strict Senior" tonight.
He wore loose sweatpants and an old t-shirt. And most importantly... no glasses.
His eyes looked softer, sleepy, like a big kitten. His hair was messy and fluffy.
He held a steaming mug of milk, set it down, and cracked his neck. Pop.
"Haven't slept?" you whispered.
He blinked, squinting to see you (bad eyesight). "Stuck..." he rasped. "Advisor said my design is 'technically perfect but soulless.' He told me to add some 'warmth'... I'm an Architect, dammit, not a heater."
He sighed, leaning against the railing. It was the first time he looked... human. Just another student crushed by expectations.
And he looked like a big, fluffy orange cat.
And yes... you were a cat person.
You dug into your pocket and pulled out a chocolate bar. "Want some? Sugar helps."
You extended your arm across the gap between balconies.
He hesitated, then reached out. His fingers brushed yours—warm from the milk mug.
He ate it right there, chewing until his cheeks puffed out.
God, it was painfully cute.
"Sweet..." he mumbled, looking at you without lenses. "Thanks."
He paused. "Your art... those colors aren't monstrosities. They're just... loud. Like you."
"Is that a compliment?" you tried not to laugh.
"Interpret it how you want," he grumbled. "Go to sleep. You have panda eyes. If you faint, I'll have to drag your corpse to the hospital, and that will disrupt my schedule."
"Thanks for the concern, Old Man," you smiled.
And this time... he didn't frown.
The next night felt like a sequel.
Around 2 AM, you gave up on working due to a lack of ideas (and a stomach rumbling like thunder). You went down to the lobby vending machine for a sugar fix, armed with leftover snacks from your part-time job (using the excuse that they were "imperfect pieces"—a great way to save money on late-night meals).
In your arms: your favorite banana milk and water. You wore a black hoodie stained with multicolored brush strokes (and actual poster paint) to cover your messy hair.
Park Sungho was there. Pacing back and forth, looking irritated. He was in the silk pajamas again. But in this dim light... you couldn't deny he looked terrifyingly good.
"Sunbae?" you called out softly.
He stopped and spun around. His sharp gaze locked onto you immediately. Strangely, he didn't look annoyed like when he shouted across the balcony. His eyes looked... relieved? "Oh... it's you."
He walked straight toward you. He didn't stop at the polite social distance but stepped a little into your personal space... just enough that you instinctively hugged the banana milk tighter.
"What are you doing down here at this hour?" His deep voice sounded softer and closer in the quiet lobby.
"Hungry," you mumbled, suddenly self-conscious about your paint-stained shirt. "What about you? Waiting for a girlfriend?"
"I'm hunting for a missing person," he replied flatly, but his eyes didn't look away. He swept his gaze over your face, stopping at your right cheek. "My friend... She disappeared to god knows where."
You coughed awkwardly, heart skipping a beat. You pointed to a dark corner behind a giant fern. "I think... that 'pile of used laundry' over there might be your friend."
Sungho blinked, snapping back to reality. He looked where you pointed. He marched over to the sofa where his friend was sprawled out—curled up in a white hoodie that blended into the sofa, one leg dangling ungracefully.
"Ugh..." He made a face of pure disgust. "Pathetic. Drooling in public."
He grabbed a newspaper from the coffee table and dropped it onto her face to cover the unsightly view. "Stay there, trash. I'll call the garbage truck (Jaehyun) to pick you up."
Friend handled, he turned back to you. The disgust vanished, replaced by that intense gaze.
He walked back, towering over you.
"You."
He raised a hand. You held your breath.
He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to you.
"Your face," he said softly. "Black charcoal smear right there." He tapped his own cheek. "You look exactly like a stray cat."
"Oh." You took it. Fingers brushing. "Thanks."
"Go upstairs," he commanded, but his voice wasn't the 'Condo President' tone anymore. It was softer. "It's late. Don't wander around. There are weirdos down here."
"You mean... like you?" you teased.
Sungho huffed. A tiny, barely visible smile tugged at his lips. "Go. Before I report you for loitering."
He leaned down, whispering. "Lock your door properly... Neighbor."
The truce was sealed the following night.
You came home to find a delivery bag hanging on your doorknob. Inside: Honey Garlic Fried Chicken (Boneless) and Banana Milk.
A yellow sticky note was attached. Handwriting: Architectural Precision (All Caps).
SUBJECT: NOISE POLLUTION
THE SOUND OF YOUR STOMACH GROWLING IS VIBRATING THROUGH THE WALLS. IT EXCEEDS ACCEPTABLE DECIBEL LEVELS.
EAT THIS IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN PEACE TO MY ROOM.
P.S. I ORDERED BONELESS SO YOU DON'T DRIP OIL ON THE FLOOR.
904
You laughed out loud. He knew your favorite flavor. And boneless so you could eat with one hand while painting.
You grabbed a marker, drew a raccoon eating chicken, and stuck it on his door.
Roger that, Mr. Architect! Stomach structure repaired. Thanks for the food! :P
Inside Unit 904, Sungho scoffed at your terrible drawing. "Childish."
But he pinned that note right in the center of his perfect corkboard.
You shoved your poster tube and art supply bag into the locker with a bit more force than necessary.
You can blame Professor Lee for that. The project he wants to send to the contest isn't exactly a walk in the park. Hence, the constant practice.
Most love-hate relationships stem from high expectations, after all. (Or maybe just the general delusion of art students).
You quickly swapped your clothes for the white uniform, pinning your name tag—BAKER—onto your chest. You tied the beige apron that matched the café's theme and used the hair tie on your wrist to pull your messy hair back into a practical ponytail.
"You're early today."
"Finished class early," you replied, walking into the main bar area. "Plus, there was nothing to do at the studio. Wait—Sunbae, haven't you changed shifts yet?"
"Psychology department has a long exam today, so I'm covering," Lee Han, the Marine Bio senior and head barista, smiled his usual friendly smile before turning back to the ancient cash register that you didn't understand at all. "Are these cookies enough, Y/N?"
"I'll go bake a fresh batch," you said, checking the display. "Sunbae, make me a Banana Milkshake, please?"
Lee Han nodded.
One of the best perks of this job: free drinks.
Although, if you had to make it, the brand-new coffee machine the owner just bought would probably downgrade itself out of sheer offense at your terrible skills.
As an Art Student working as a Baker, you were confident in your pastry skills. That definitely compensated for your "dishwater-flavored Americano."
"Y/N-ah! Come help me take orders once you're done!"
The deep, soft voice of the handsome barista called out from the front.
Just in time. The cookies on your tray were cooled and smelling divine. You shouted a cheerful reply and walked out to restock the display case.
You heard the familiar chatter of Lee Han and his best friend, Riwoo (who was also your coworker's boyfriend, so he was here often enough for your goldfish memory to recognize him).
You wouldn't have thought twice about it if it were just the two of them.
But there was a third voice.
A voice that sounded very familiar.
Like... the owner of Unit 904.
"Ah. The Raccoon bakes too?"
...
Open his mouth and the first thing out is sarcasm. Charming.
You looked up. Park Sungho was looking at you with a face full of shock, as if he had just discovered a new Wonder of the World.
Excuse me? People have roles in life, you know. You aren't just a messy raccoon hugging trash-canvases!
"But doesn't he come here often?" Lee Han asked, looking confused. He usually worked the morning shift, so he was out of the loop.
"Every time he comes, he misses Y/N," Riwoo explained. He had been witnessing this for half a year. "Either my girlfriend is taking orders, or Y/N is busy causing chaos in the kitchen."
"Oh," Lee Han nodded, piecing it together. "So the 'Divine Pastry Chef' who saves your life every morning is actually—"
Han’s sentence was cut short by Sungho’s finger pointing aggressively at his face to shut him up.
Sungho—who was usually a grumpy giant orange cat—looked much more relaxed around his close friends.
You had completely forgotten the look of disgust he gave his drunk friend that night.
It was a side of him you’d never seen.
And you couldn't deny... it was nice to look at.
...
No.
You were definitely working too hard if you thought this nagging neighbor was "nice to look at."
Nice to look at? Him?
You were losing your mind.
"Y/N?"
Lee Han called your name, sounding concerned.
You snapped out of your internal monologue to find three pairs of eyes staring at you.
Riwoo looked like he knew something (which made you feel panic for no reason).
And looking at the guy from Unit 904 was even worse. Sungho... his eyes behind the silver frames held a faint amusement.
Damn it. Not amusing at all.
Your face heated up, probably from embarrassment (you told yourself).
You quickly turned away to take an order from a customer who was standing there calmly, even though you had zoned out for three minutes.
You punched the order into the system and handed her the buzzer. But the feeling of being watched didn't go away.
You stole a glance at the table.
Your face burned hotter when you met sharp eyes behind silver frames.
They held a faint glimmer of... amusement.
Dammit.
You didn't like this at all.
The rush hour died down.
You retreated to the kitchen the moment you got your milkshake. Leehan took over the register.
Five minutes later (don't underestimate yourself, you were very efficient for those five minutes), the next batch of pastries was happily baking in the oven.
You popped back out to the counter.
Leehan was sitting at a table with Riwoo and Sungho.
Huh.
He never sat down. Usually, only Riwoo sat there, typing alien language on his laptop in the corner.
It felt like your thoughts summoned him—Park Sungho turned toward the counter, saw you, and immediately stood up.
Do all cats have sensors or something?
Sungho walked straight to the counter. He leaned his elbows on the surface, staring intensely at your face.
"Did you really make these?"
You followed his gaze.
Perfectly arranged macarons. Gradient colors from light to dark. Pastries of identical size, caramelized to a golden perfection. Just looking at them made you smell the sweetness.
"What now?" you asked defensively.
"Nothing," he replied calmly. “Just... unexpected. Interesting."
He paused, looking you in the eye.
Interesting.?
Damn it! How can he say that without getting shy?!
You felt flustered, not knowing how to respond. Once again, your cheeks started to feel hot.
He raised a hand.
You flinched slightly, but he just reached across the counter...
His long fingertips touched your cheekbone gently.
The contact felt like a small electric shock.
"Flour on your cheek," he whispered. His thumb lingered there for a second longer than necessary.
"You really are a raccoon," he murmured, his voice low. "Charcoal at night... flour in the morning."
Th... This guy...
Sungho pulled his hand back, rubbing the white powder off his thumb.
And there was a small, defeated smile playing at the corner of his lips.
You stood there, frozen like a statue, the tray of macarons nearly slipping from your grip.
Meanwhile, the culprit returned to his seat, sipping his coffee with the calmness of a monk. As if he hadn't just short-circuited your entire nervous system.
"Dangerous," you muttered to yourself, touching your cheek. The warmth of his fingertip still lingered.
Seriously, does he have no mercy for your poor heart?
Closing time. Leehan left. You were locking up.
You turned to walk home—and stopped.
Park Sungho was still there. Leaning against a lamp post like a model for a lonely autumn magazine (contradicted by the convenience store bag dangling from his wrist).
"Not going back yet?" you asked.
He looked up from his phone. "Riwoo left me for his girlfriend," he deadpanned. "And the way home is dark... I don't want to be a witness on the front page news: 'Art Student Kidnapped with Cookie Tray'."
"If you're worried, just say you're worried," you teased, walking past him.
"I'm worried about the building's security system," he retorted, matching your pace with his long legs.
The walk was quieter than usual. But tonight... the silence was full.
"Tired?" he asked suddenly.
"Huh?"
"Standing all day... studying hard," he said softly. "Leehan said you barely rest."
"Used to it," you shrugged. "Art kids are tough. Plus... seeing people happy when they eat makes the tiredness go away."
Sungho stopped walking. You stopped too. He adjusted his glasses, looking straight at you.
"It's delicious."
"..."
"Your dessert," he clarified, enunciating every word like a thesis presentation. "It's really delicious... It's the only thing that wakes me up in the morning."
Okay, who taught this emotionally constipated man to compliment people with a deadpan face? The damage was ten times stronger than cheesy pick-up lines.
Elevator. 7... 8... 9. Ding.
You walked toward Room 906.
"Wait."
You turned back. Sungho stood in front of Room 904. He held the doorknob with one hand and held up the familiar paper bag... the macarons you packed.
"What is it?"
He looked left and right, nervous, then cleared his throat. "So... I bought 4 macarons."
"I know. I packed them."
"Usually, I only eat 2."
"..." You raised an eyebrow. And?
"Eating four alone is gluttony. Eating one is insufficient," he stated with absolute seriousness in English, then switched back. "Two and two. Symmetry is crucial for a balanced diet."
"..." You raised an eyebrow. Is he for real?
"Also," he spoke quickly, ears turning pink. "I have a consultation regarding the 'structural integrity' of the caramel filling."
"Structural integrity?" You laughed, shaking your head. "Are you going to build a building with caramel, Sunbae?"
"It is a serious architectural academic question!" he argued, eyes darting around. "So, are you coming? I have chamomile tea... it helps with sleep."
You looked at him. The neat freak, nagging architect, completely losing his cool and using the lamest excuse in the world to invite a girl into his room.
Mouth saying 'Architecture,' eyes shouting 'Please come in.'
"Just tea?" you teased.
"There's... there's Netflix too," he added quickly. "And... I promise I won't criticize your outfit for twenty-four hours."
You smiled broadly. The border between 904 and 906 had officially dissolved.
"Open the door, Mr. Architect," you walked toward him. "The structural expert will conduct an inspection."
The Museum.
That was your first thought. If your room was an explosion of color, Park Sungho's room was a Museum of Discipline. White, Gray, Black. Books arranged by height. Floor so clean you could eat off it.
"Slippers," he mumbled, placing gray slippers perfectly parallel to the door.
"Thanks." You put them on. "Do you actually live here? Or is this a showroom?"
"I live efficiently," he replied, going to the kitchen. "Sit anywhere, but... use a coaster."
You sat on the gray sofa. Firm, expensive. You watched him brew tea. It was a ritual. He timed the steeping. He placed the mug in front of you (on a coaster) and one Salted Caramel macaron on a small plate.
"Alright," you blew on the tea. "Where's the defect?"
Sungho sat opposite you, crossing his legs elegantly. He picked up the macaron, inspecting it like a miniature building model.
"The shell," he started seriously. "The 'feet'—these ruffles at the edge—are perfectly perpendicular. Indicates stable air bubble distribution."
"Uh-huh," you nodded, suppressing a laugh.
"The filling..." he took a bite. Chewed slowly. "The viscosity of the caramel supports the upper shell structure, preventing collapse, yet yields immediately under pressure."
He looked up at you. "It is the perfect balance between rigidity and softness."
"Sunbae..." you whispered, leaning forward. "You could just say 'It's yummy'."
Sungho sighed, dropping the academic act. He leaned back, brushing his hair up. "I just wanted to use big words to impress you." He admitted with a deadpan face. "Did it work?"
"Not at all. Felt like talking to a textbook."
"Wow..." A low chuckle escaped him. Rare... and genuine.
You looked around the room. Your eyes landed on his desk. Blueprints, rulers, expensive models, and a corkboard... arranged with military precision.
Except for one thing.
Right in the center... pinned with a red pin... was a yellow Post-it note with a terrible drawing of a 'Raccoon eating chicken'.
Your heart skipped a beat. "You kept it."
Sungho froze. He followed your gaze, face turning red. "It... provides contrast to the overall composition," he stammered. "Aesthetically speaking. To break the monotony."
"Liar." You stood up and walked to the board. Seeing it up close made you smile. It was the only "messy" thing in his life. And it was yours. "You kept it because you missed me."
Sungho stood up. He walked toward you. From this angle, he looked bigger. He moved closer until you backed into the edge of his desk.
"I didn't miss you," he whispered, looking down at you. "I see you every day."
"Then why keep this trash?"
"Because..." He moved closer. The scent of mint and tea surrounded you. He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "It reminds me that... a little chaos isn't always bad."
His eyes dropped to your lips. The atmosphere in the room grew heavy with gravity. It seemed his 'structure' of self-control was collapsing.
"You know, Sunbae..." you breathed out shakily. "Your room is too quiet."
"I like silence," he mumbled, leaning down. "But now I'm starting to think... I like the noise you make more."
He closed the distance. This time, no hesitation. He kissed you like he was finally allowing himself to break every rule he ever made. His hands grabbed your waist, pulling you away from the hard edge of the desk into his soft embrace.
For a moment, in Room 904, there were no rules, no thesis, no perfect angles. Just a messy, chaotic, perfect collision between Art and Architecture.
And honestly? This macaron tasted much sweeter than usual.
A/N
‘Eating four alone is gluttony. Eating one is insufficient. Two and two. Symmetry is crucial for a balanced diet.’ ...or so he claims. personally, i could demolish a whole tower of macarons if someone fed me (っ'ヮ')っ
just realized almost this entire series is the 'opposites attract' trope... so i guess you already know what's coming next.
anyway! feel free to like, reblog, or leave a comment! i appreciate every single interaction (seriously, i even brag to my friends about your comments (。-`ω´- 𐃷))
I was watching a James Mcavoy's interview for Starter for 10. Why is he so cuteeeee and adorable and precious!!!!!! I just want to put him in a little pocket and carry him everywhere. Cute aggression at its finest really 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 I wanna screammmmmmmmmm
Hey y'all so as some of you know I have a very important event coming up so I'm gonna be offline for around 6 ish days have a good week and stay safe @clearlydusty @thatasexualfriend @measfaf @mnxael @venuscancer2003 @emm1ch1 and everyone else BYEE
