pairing : stranger! seonghwa x fem! reader
synopsis : On a rainy afternoon in a quiet bookstore, a chance encounter with a soft-spoken stranger turns into hours spent between shelves and coffee cups. Between playful book suggestions and quiet sincerity, you realize some people feel less like strangers and more like the start of a story.
genre : slice of life, fluff, strangers to maybe lovers, bookstore
author’s note : soft hwa is always my fav 🥹🤍
The rain had been steady all afternoon, draping the streets in a silver curtain.
By the time you push open the heavy glass door of the bookstore, droplets cling to your sleeves and hair, dampening your mood as much as your clothes.
The little brass bell above the door chimes a gentle note, announcing your arrival.
Warmth envelops you instantly, along with the faint perfume of old paper and fresh coffee drifting from the café tucked in the back. You exhale slowly, shaking off the last chill of the outside world, and let your eyes adjust to the dim glow of overhead lamps.
This bookstore has always felt like a refuge.
Its aisles stretch long and narrow, shelves packed to the brim with stories—some new and glossy, some softened by countless hands. You come here when you need quiet, when you want to let the world blur into ink and pages.
Today is one of those days.
You wander in without much aim, your fingers trailing absentmindedly over spines, reading titles you’ve never heard of.
It’s only when you round a corner too quickly that you almost collide with him.
Your breath catches as you jerk to a stop.
The boy in front of you does the same, stepping back just in time, the surprise mirrored in his eyes.
“Ah—sorry,” he says quickly. His voice is soft but clear, gentle enough that it makes the apology feel genuine.
You look up at him fully.
He’s taller than you, though not imposing. His frame is slim, mild in build—neither broad nor heavy, but graceful in a quiet way, as though his body moves with thoughtfulness rather than force.
There’s something delicate about him, yet not fragile; he feels approachable, like someone you could lean into without fear of breaking.
His features are striking in their gentleness.
Dark hair falls neatly, framing a face with soft edges, lips curved in a hesitant half-smile. His eyes—deep and earnest—meet yours with a kind of openness that’s rare in a stranger.
“It’s okay,” you murmur, stepping aside to let him pass.
But he lingers a moment, his head tilted as though to make sure you’re really fine. “Are you… looking for something specific?”
The question startles you—not just because it’s unexpected, but because it’s so direct without being intrusive.
You shake your head. “No, just wandering.”
He nods, a smile flickering across his face like he understands. “Me too.”
For a heartbeat, silence hangs between you.
Then he dips his head politely and steps past, disappearing down the aisle.
You release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
Something about him clings to the edges of your mind—the softness of his voice, the careful way he looked at you.
You brush it off and continue browsing, but the moment lingers like the faint aftertaste of tea.
It happens ten minutes later.
You’re crouched in front of the lower shelves, tilting your head to read spines, when something shifts in the pile of books in your arms. You glance down to see an unfamiliar cover perched neatly on top.
Your brows knit. You didn’t pick that one.
A quiet chuckle makes you turn.
He’s there again—the same boy, standing a few feet away with a book in hand, his lips tugged into a sheepish grin.
“Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t look very sorry at all. “I thought you might like that one.”
You blink at him, holding up the book. “Do you… usually put random books in a strangers’ arms?”
He laughs softly, his shoulders rising in a small shrug. “Not usually.” His voice is warm, teasing but cautious, as if he doesn’t want to overstep. “But you looked like you were deciding too hard. I figured I’d help.”
You narrow your eyes, though you can’t quite hide the amusement tugging at your lips. “Help?”
He tilts his head, bunny-like, his smile brightening just a little. “Yeah. You don’t have to take it, of course. I can put it back.”
For a moment, you study him—the mild slope of his shoulders, the way he hovers with his hand half-raised, ready to relieve you of the book if you refuse.
Playful, yes, but not pushy.
You sigh, shaking your head. “It’s fine. I’ll give it a chance.”
The effect is immediate. His smile softens, eyes curving into crescents, and he nods like you’ve just agreed to something important. “Good.”
Not hovering directly beside you, but meandering through the same aisles, his presence steady and unhurried. Sometimes you catch him glancing at the books in your hands; sometimes another unfamiliar cover appears on your pile, slipped in with a grin or with no explanation at all.
By the time you reach the register, your stack is nearly double what you remember picking up.
You turn to him with an incredulous look. “How many of these are yours?”
He laughs, the sound soft and melodic. “Maybe… half?”
“Half?” you echo, raising a brow.
“Okay, maybe less,” he concedes quickly, lifting his hands in mock surrender.
Then his grin returns, gentle and unassuming. “But I think they suit you.”
You can’t help it—you laugh, shaking your head. And his smile widens like your laughter is the very thing he wanted all along.
The bookstore’s café is tucked in the far corner, a little haven of warm light and quiet chatter.
Without really discussing it, the two of you end up there, your heavy bags of books set down by the table.
Rain patters steadily against the wide windows, blurring the city beyond.
The air smells of espresso and cinnamon, a comforting counterpoint to the gray world outside.
You sit across from him at a small round table, cradling a steaming mug in your hands.
For the first time, you’re aware of how strange this should be—sitting with a stranger, sipping coffee like you’ve known each other longer than an hour.
But with him, it feels… natural.
He leans back slightly, wrapping his own hands around his cup.
“I’m Seonghwa, by the way,” he says after a pause, his tone light but sincere.
You give your name in return.
His lips curve into a soft smile. “Nice to meet you.”
And somehow, you believe he truly means it.
The conversation drifts easily from there.
You talk about genres you love, the books that shaped you, the ones that stayed. He listens intently, his eyes never wandering, nodding at the right moments, asking thoughtful questions that make you reflect.
When he shares his own favorites, his expression lights up, almost boyish in its brightness. His hands move as he speaks, slim fingers sketching invisible shapes in the air.
He leans forward sometimes, then leans back with a soft laugh when he realizes how animated he’s become.
You find yourself laughing more than you expected, too.
He teases you lightly about your towering pile of books, exaggerating how you nearly toppled under the weight of them. But then, almost under his breath, he adds, “I just wanted to see you smile.”
The words hang between you, tender and disarming. His cheeks tint faintly pink, as though he’s aware of how much he’s revealed.
Yet he doesn’t retract them.
And you don’t want him to.
At some point, you excuse yourself to wander again, leaving him at the table with your stack of books.
When you return, you stop in your tracks.
Seonghwa is leaning over one of them—not just any, but the one you’d mentioned in passing, almost shyly.
Your favorite. The book that’s been with you through seasons of your life, the one you carry like a secret.
He’s reading it carefully, lips moving faintly as he traces each line. His expression is focused, but there’s a softness to it, too, something reverent. He cradles the book like it matters.
You watch for a moment before speaking.
He startles slightly, looking up with wide eyes.
Then he closes the book gently, fingers brushing the cover. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.”
“You’re reading that one?” you ask, surprised.
He nods, his smile sheepish but warm. “You said it was your favorite.”
“So,” he says softly, meeting your gaze with quiet earnestness, “I want to understand you better.”
The words settle in you like warmth seeping into cold hands. They’re simple, almost plain—but the sincerity behind them feels like a thread pulled tight around your chest.
You don’t know how to respond, so you smile. Small at first, then fuller as his own smile grows.
And for a long moment, that’s enough.
By the time you leave, the rain has eased into a drizzle.
The streets shine with reflections, lamplight shimmering in puddles, the air crisp and clean.
You walk side by side, bags heavy with books, silence easy between you. Every so often, your shoulders brush, and he glances at you with that soft, bunny-like smile that makes your chest ache in ways you can’t quite name.
At the corner, where your paths split, he hesitates.
He shifts the strap of his bag, then looks at you with quiet determination.
“Today was… really nice,” he says. His voice is soft, but it carries.
You nod, your heart tugging. “Yeah. It was.”
He bites his lip, as though weighing something.
Then, almost shyly: “Maybe… we could do it again sometime?”
You let the word roll on your tongue before releasing it. “Maybe.”
His smile brightens, hopeful and gentle all at once.
He waves, his figure blurring slightly in the drizzle as he walks away.
And you stand there, watching, the weight of your books warm against your side.
Because somewhere between the shelves and the café, between the playful additions to your pile and the quiet confession over your favorite story, Seonghwa has already written himself into the margins of your life.
And maybe—just maybe—this is only the first chapter.
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