Kim Dohoon //school au

The heavy wooden door of the art room clicks shut, cutting off the noise from the bustling hallway outside. You thought everyone had already left for the day, leaving you to finish up your assignment in peace. But as you turn around, Dohoon is leaning against the back desk, his uniform jacket unbuttoned and his arms crossed loosely over his chest.
He tosses a crumpled, half-finished sheet of paper right onto the middle of your workspace, the sound sharp in the quiet room. A smirk plays on his lips—cold, deliberate, and entirely unbothered.
"You left your stuff sprawled across the main table again," he says, his voice flat and laced with easy irritation. "Do you actually enjoy making the room look like a disaster zone, or are you just that spacey? Pick it up before I save us both the eyesore and toss the rest of it in the trash myself."
He takes a slow step forward, the floorboards creaking under his sneakers. Standing over your desk, he looks down at you with a sharp, piercing gaze, clearly trying to get a reaction out of you before the final bell rings.