#library au

Ever since Funky Music blasted through your place of work, you were unable to think of anything else. Every time those automatic doors whooshed open, your heartbeat would pick up as you prepared yourself for those puppy dog eyes and tousled brown hair. It had been weeks for Christ sake, but still you found yourself lingering by the Kid's Corner, long after you shelved the last children's book, just because it had a better view of the door.

You even started waking up earlier to do your hair before work. When you wore new earrings with a necklace to match, thats when your coworkers started to notice.

"Are you seeing someone?" Bess bluntly asks while in you were re-shelving by Philosophy and Psychology.

"Who would I be seeing Bess? I spend all my time here." You don't bother to stop shelving while answering with a beleaguered sigh.

Bess is not sold. "Then why are you getting all dressed up?" She pauses in thought. "Oh! Are you having a quarter life crisis?" She chirps in a sunny tone. Bess often got bored at work, the quiet of the library unnerving her more than anything. She also often, took out her boredom on you.

You try your hardest not to roll your eyes. "I had my quarter life crisis at 17 thank you very much," you reply, with the misplaced hope that she would drop the subject.

"Well, whats gotten into you lately? You're wearing jewelry, you keep checking your phone when I know your mom is the only person that texts you-"

"Thanks for that" you grumble.

"-so what is it? Do you have a new boyfriend? Girlfriend? Partner? C'mon throw me a bone" she begs. "Nothing interesting ever happens in my life so I need you to do it for me."

Your mind flashes back to Dennis.

Mr. Funky Music.

Honestly, you wish you had something interesting to tell Bess. But you didn't. The situation couldn't be clearer. You pulled out your best flirty moves, recommended him books, AND gave him your phone number, but he never called you or bothered to come back. What bruised your ego even more, was that at the time, you could swear he was picking up what you were putting down.

At this point it seemed like he wouldn't ever come back; not even to return his book, which was now overdue by 2 days.

"I promise you Bess, I am completely, absolutely, utterly, PAINFULLY single-"

You're interrupted by the sheepish grin that has been haunting you for the past 3 weeks and 2 days.

Not that anyone was counting.

"I don't know if you remember me? I'm back for the other books you recommended," is all he says innocently, like he hasn't been stuck in the wrinkles of your brain.

"Hi" you blink blankly at him for a moment before finally registering his words. "Yes, right the books. I saved them in the back... do you wanna..." you motioned in the direction of the storage room.

"Sure," he answers before his gaze moves to a very amused Bess. "Hi I'm Dennis" he offers a hand.

She shakes his it, grinning like a hyena. "Bess," is all she says before slinking away.

As you make your way to the storage room, he starts by apologizing. "I'm really sorry it's overdue I didn't have time to come by and return it."

"Oh, it's no problem, we get overdue books all the time" You wave him off nonchalantly, like you haven't been refreshing his account on the desk computer everyday.

"I don't really get much time to read." The timid tenor of his voice gives you an edge of confidence.

"Oh yea? What are you so busy doing?" You tease.

"I'm a med student. Fourth year. It's when we do our rounds in actual hospitals."

Holy shit. Dennis Funky Music was actually Doctor Dennis Funky Music.

"What speciality are you thinking?" You ask, partly out of curiosity but mostly because the idea of him being a pediatrician made your ovaries want to explode.

"I'm in the ED right now."

ok thank god not a pediatrician. You were in no financial means to even THINK about having a child. But ED?

"Eating disorder? Erectile disfunction?" you raise a quizzical eyebrow.

"No! No, the Emergency Department" he hastily corrects, face flushing slightly.

Well shit. This adorably bug eyed barn mouse was actually an emergency doctor??

Picturing him running around, with a stethoscope around his neck and blood splattered on his scrubs made your palms sweat.

"Ah, so thats why you never called. Too busy saving lives" You reply, hinting casually to the unresolved matter of your little sticky note.

"I didn't know you wanted me to call" he says simply, his eyes wide.

Ugh you wanted to kiss that clueless little pout off his face

"I don't know about you, but I don't typically give out my number to people who I WOULDN'T want calling me."

"That's... true" he shrugs as if he's realizing that possibility for the first time.

You open the door to the storage and room and motion for him to follow. "This is where the magic happens."

It smelled of dust and old paper, probably because that's all that sat in there; old damaged books that needed to be thrown out, new books that still needed barcodes, or books in the return bin that needed to be sorted and re-shelved. On the floor next to the return bin was a small stack of books with a sticky note placed on top that read:

Dennis Whitaker (Funky Music)

He crouches down reaching for the books in the stack, opening them to read the inside cover. You settle next to him, sitting cross legged, back leaning against a nearby desk.

"I'll have you know, my recommendations have changed slightly, now that I know you're a doctor."

He pauses reading and peers at your curiously from the corner of his eye. "Oh? Why is that?"

"Some of the books in here are like, 700 pages. I doubt you have time for a book like that if you're running around saving people 12 hours a day."

"You're probably right," he concedes with a light chuckle, "But some of these look really good" he says eyes glued to the back covers.

You can't help the warm feeling that blooms in your chest.

This was what brought you to the library. And what kept you here. There was something so intimate about sharing a piece of literature. Especially if it was a book. It was like saying, 'here. I was immersed in a completely different world and I still thought of you.'

You don't realize that you're staring until he starts talking.

"So..." he starts fiddling with one of the books, picking at the barcode sticker. "You said something back there about being... painfully single?" He quotes you from earlier and you wrinkle your nose at the reminder.

Welp, he already heard it, why lie.

"Yep. Just me and a ficus." You admit.

"Well, I am... also single... as well" he trails off, his gaze nervously flickering to yours every few seconds.

Oh.

Your lips can't help but turn up into a cheesy smile.

"Dr. Whitaker. Are you asking me out?" You teasingly bump his shoulder with your own.

"Yea, if you're okay with it, obviously. And technically I'm not a doctor yet." he returns your gaze with a soft smile and it pinches your heart in an unfamiliar way.

"Well then, I'm off at three. Can you wait till three?" You check your phone.

You watch his light up at your response. "Yes. Yep, I can wait till three"

"Great!" You move to stand, sticking your hand out to help him up. His hands are slightly rough, probably from the vigorous washing and hand sanitizer, but his grip is gentle and sturdy. It made you wonder how many people he'd saved with these very hands. It also made you wonder if your hands ever fit together this well with anyone else.

When you usher him out and shut the storage room door behind you, your eyes catch Bess' from World Languages. She mouths 'nice' while holding her pointer and thumb in an 'ok' sign.

You roll your eyes and make your way to the circulation desk.

"I just need your library card," he slides it over on the counter before you finish your sentence, something resembling pride in his eye.

"I really liked the book." He says and you must've looked a bit confused because he immediately clarifies, "The one you first recommended me. The one with your number in it. I liked it for more than just your number, though the number was also nice"

FUCK he was cute when he talked. Did any man look good when he talked?

If any man had, you were positive you'd never seen it.

"It was one of my favourite short stories," you add. "It was a little different than Call of the Wild so I worried a bit, but looks like I worried for nothing." You smile as you check in the new book.

The Lamp at Noon.

It had been one of your favourites since you were forced to read it in high school, and something about him made you think he might like it too.

Before you knew it, you were quickly whisked back to work, as more children came in with books they wanted to renew, check out, and return. There was also a bin full of returned books that needed to be reorganized. While you worked, you were still able to sneak glimpses of Dennis, settled in a chair in the corner, nose deep in the new book you gave him.

"So, did you and Linguine do it in the storage room?" Bess' wolfish voice materializes from behind you.

"Ew. And what? Linguine?" You turn your head to convey your disgust and confusion directly.

"You know... from Ratatouille. The chef guy not the rat" her gazes fixes back on Dennis.

"Why would you-" You stop mid sentence.

Huh. Now that she mentioned it, you guess he did kind of look like that guy from Ratatouille.

His big round, down turned eyes that reminded you of a lost puppy, the slight skittishness, and his tousled brown hair, and even the soft tone of his voice.

"Ok ew don't do that," Bess makes a fake gagging noise. "Your lovesick look is disgusting."

"I am NOT lovesick. I barely know the guy." You punctuate the words, like you are trying to convince more than just Bess.

"Denial is a river in Egypt" she hums back at you. "Also," she adds casually, "you can head home early if you want. I'll re-shelve the rest in the bin today."

"Wait really?" it comes out a bit more eager than you expected.

"Yes, now go collect your boy before he melts into a puddle on the floor"

You don't even bother to correct her. You are already shrugging off your work vest and grabbing your bag by the storage room.

Bess' lip curls into a smile, muttering something that sounds like "fuckin' knew it" to herself.

You walk over to where he was, eyes still intently focused on the pages. He doesn't register you until you gently nudge his shoe with your own.

"Are you-" he checks the time on his phone. "Are you done already?"

"Bess let me get off early" you can't help but smile warmly. "Ready to go?"

"Yes" He shoots up to his feet.

Once standing your faces are much closer than either of you anticipated, but you don't move away. You see him his eyes widen in realization, immediately moving his gaze to the ceiling tiles.

He smells like soap and something else vaguely familiar. Kind of like when you walk into someone else's house at their 'home' smell reminds you of somewhere you've already been.

"You smell nice." Is all you say before starting towards the door. But just before you turn away, you can see his cheeks start to redden.

-

You opt to stop by the coffee shop a couple blocks from the library. You learned to love it after long shifts because of the reasonably priced coffee, bagels, and comfy cushioned booths (why all these swanky new coffee places decided to have rigid plastic chairs from hell, you had no idea).

As you both approached the menu, you could see his shoulders tense a little. After you give your order to the cashier you see him shake his head.

"You don't want anything?"

"I ate before I came here." Is all he says.

You don't reply and simply turn back to the counter to order two of each: the bagels and coffee.

"You really didn't ha-"

"I want to." you cut him off, and something in your tone kept him from arguing further. He shoots you a grateful smile. And that was the end of it.

After you are able to grab your food and settle down, you are quickly knee deep in work stories, as you both did little else and your jobs technically forced you to serve the public.

"I once had a kid throw up on me, and the kid's mom yelled at me like I was the one who made him eat three hotdogs and run around in circles."

"I might have you beat." An eyebrow quirks up at his words and you lean on your elbows, tilting towards him. "The first day of my ED rotation, I had to change my scrubs like 5 times. Twice because of blood, and another time because of an unsecured bottle of Mylanta, but the kicker was, I got urinated on while trying to subdue a patient."

"Okay you win" hands up in mock surrender. Hot dog kid was rough but at least you've never been pissed on. "That must've sucked"

He shrugs it off too casually in a manner even for a man who's job required him to be covered in bodily fluids. "It didn't end up being that bad. He was really nice about it. Just ended up being a guy struggling being off his meds without health insurance. That's actually how I learned about the street team." he pauses, smiling to himself softly before his smile transitions to a more mischievous one. "Plus, the same day, another intern dropped a scalpel INTO another doctor's foot so..."

All you could do was giggle at the joke and inspect the soft look in his eye.

He continued with a few of his stories from his time on the street team. The people he encountered, the glimpses of their lives he saw, and how it changed the way he worked back at the ED. The whole time you couldn't tear yourself away from his eyes. The gentle understanding and compassion was palpable; radiating off of him.

From working in a public library you also had your experiences with houseless people in the community. Many would come to use the washrooms, use wifi, print things, or even take a nap on the couches. Although you did your best to make sure the library was a comfortable place for them, you knew not everyone felt the same way.

You learned quickly from work that something that seemed as obvious as respecting someone's basic humanity wasn't guaranteed.

"So why the library?" He asks.

"I like books." you shrug and he looks at you intently like he knows theres more underneath. So you continue. Crack yourself open a touch. "I've always liked them. When written right, I feel the characters like they're real people, like they're my friends or something."

You knew how that sounded to other people; like you were a friendless recluse, obsessing over people that didn't exist; figments of your imagination. While that was true to some degree, you weren't a hermit. You had real life friends and a semi-operational social life, and you found these relationships incredibly fulfilling. But it didn't mean that the humanity of reading a book and experiencing someone's innermost thoughts and feelings was any less sacred.

"Human emotions are able to transcend time; I'm able to feel something someone wrote about 200 years ago. I feel like it's the closest thing we have to time travel."

He quirks his head in thought. "I guess... I guess I've never thought about it like that."

And you're left without anything to say because of that look on his face.

His eyes.

Even when he wasn't looking at you, you could almost see the gears turning in his brain, holding on to your every word. Now that he was looking at you, it felt like he was taking the time to absorb each and every word. Trying to absorb you.

It's an unfamiliar feeling; someone paying so much attention to you. Not to analyze you, or grade you, or lodge a complaint to the library board, but just to know you.

The realization made your heart pinch again. The same way it did back the first time, when his ringtone scared the shit out of him, and before, when he asked you out in the storage room. There's a split second where you don't know what to do with the feeling; you don't know where to put it. His sincerity sort of...

scared you.

Not in a bad way obviously, but in a way that was so clearly unfamiliar to you. People (least of all men) were rarely this attentive, or in tune with themselves or with you. His motives, his thoughts, his desires were all so clear. He was so transparent in a way that made you wanna do the same. It was something you didn't quite know you were signing up for when you ambushed with him while he was reading or when you put your number in his book.

But maybe you were ready for it.

"I really like you" is all you say, getting it out before you talk yourself out of it.

He looks a little surprised, but his face quickly softens into a smile.

"I like you too" he looks down at his drink for a moment. "... alot."

You take a quick scan of the cafe. Most of the patrons had left for the evening, leaving you two and an older couple as the sole patrons across the floor, all the way by the doors.

Without the pressure of extra eyes, you scooch into his side of the booth and slide a hand on top of his.

You feel his fingers tense up under your palm and there’s a flash of doubt in your mind before he curls your intertwined fingers into his palm.

That gives you the bravery to take one last look around the coffee shop before sneaking a quick peck to his right cheek. You can't help the giddy smile that curls on your lips as his cheeks turn red under the skin your lips just touched. His puppy dog eyes are wide and his lips are parted slightly in a way that is painfully kissable. You watch as his flush travels up his ears, and you're openly oogling him when he surprises you by asking:

"Can I kiss you?" His voice is a little hoarse, but his eyes are sincere and searching.

Completely unexpected (but not unwelcome) you're only able to nod, and his other hand, the one not curled under your own, reaches over to cup your cheek, fingertips just grazing your scalp.

You expected a peck; everything about him lead you to believe it would be.

But the firmness of his grip and the heat behind his lips catches you off guard for half a second. Your body catches up to him before your mind does, as you return the gentle pressure of his lips with your own. You can't help your tongue as it moves to lightly graze his lower lip. You feel his breath hitch before he returns the favour.

An abrupt cough rips the two of you apart.

"We're closing in 5 minutes" A very unimpressed teenager in the cafe uniform stares down at the two of you, mop in hand.

"Yep! Uh- right. Sorry, we'll be right out!" Dennis scrambles for your stuff, ushering you out of the booth while you are still a little dazed, pressing your lips together in effort to hold in a laugh.

Your laughter finally breaks when the door of the cafe shuts behind you both. He gazes down at you amused, chuckling alongside you.

"I can't believe you got me kicked out of my favourite coffee shop" you muse.

"Don't blame me, you started it" he raises his hands in mock surrender. You take a second to drink in his expression; eyes still slightly crinkled with remains of his laughter and his cheeks still slightly pink.

"Hashtag worth it."

"You did not just hashtag something in real life" he deadpans.

You quickly bring your lips to his in a quick peck, pulling away quickly.

Could someone be addicted to kissing?

"I did, big time" your tone is casual but a sly smile gives you away, as you walk toward the bus stop. There's a beat of silence before you hear his rapid footsteps catching up to you.

---

AFJGYODISIHUDYSGUEB thank you for reading, I really did love writing this, Whitaker deserves all the love in the world and I really love writing fluff. I already have ideas for a 3rd part, involving an introduction to the rest of the Pitt gang so if yall would be into that lemme know!!!! (also some smut next maybe...)

Is This Seat Taken?

The library always smelled the same after four in the afternoon.

Old paper. Dust warmed by the late afternoon sun. Coffee that students weren't technically supposed to bring inside, though the librarians had long since given up pretending not to notice.

Juhoon preferred it that way.

Not silent, he'd never liked absolute silence, but quiet enough that the loudest sounds were the soft rustle of turning pages, the occasional click of a keyboard somewhere across the room or the muted squeak of a chair against the polished floor.

Truthfully, he'd rather have been at home.

His room was quieter, his desk more comfortable and he rarely got distracted there. Under normal circumstances, he would've finished his assignment curled up in his desk chair with a playlist humming softly in the background.

Unfortunately, normal circumstances didn't include tracking down journals that only existed in the university library archives. His research paper was due in a few weeks, and while most of the writing would happen at home, the library was the only place he could get his hands on half the references he needed.

So, for the past few afternoons, this corner table tucked between the sociology shelves and the academic journals had become his temporary workspace.

It wasn't particularly popular.

Most students gravitated toward the sunlit tables by the windows or clustered together near the charging ports.

Which suited him perfectly.

He adjusted his glasses, flipped another page of the reference book spread open before him and neatly copied down another citation into his notebook.

It was…peaceful.

Predictable.

Predictable lasted exactly twelve seconds.

The library doors swung open with enough force to make several people glance up from their books.

By the time you shoulder your way into the library, you're already regretting every life choice that led to carrying this many books at once.

You were balancing an impressive amount of things for someone who looked one misplaced step away from disaster: a backpack hanging half-open, a paper cup of coffee that had almost certainly gone cold, two teetering stacks of library books, headphones tangled around one wrist, and a half-torn folder doing a frankly terrible job of containing what looked like an entire semester's worth of loose papers. Sticky notes peeked out from random pages like tiny surrender flags.

Juhoon watched the scene unfold with the quiet resignation of someone witnessing a chain of events that was already too late to stop.

A notebook slipped.

You caught it against your elbow, but unfortunately, the movement tipped the folder.

“...No, no, no!”

The folder gave up.

Sheets of paper burst free, drifting across the floor like oversized confetti.

A few students looked over before immediately deciding that whatever was happening was none of their business.

You dropped into a crouch with a sigh, trying to rescue the papers while simultaneously preventing three textbooks from collapsing on top of them.

For a second, Juhoon simply watched. Then he closed his notebook, stood and walked over.

Without a word, he retrieved a page that had floated beneath the neighbouring table. Then another that had somehow landed beside a bookshelf. By the time you looked up, he was holding a surprisingly neat stack of rescued papers.

You stared at him, mortified. “Oh my God... I'm so sorry. You really didn't have to—”

“They were on the floor.”

“...Right.” His answer was so matter-of-fact that you couldn't even argue with it. “Still... thank you.”

He gave a small nod before returning to his table as quietly as he'd left it.

Only then did you finally look around the library.

Every table was occupied.

Every single one.

Except...

Your gaze landed on the empty chair opposite him. You hesitated for a moment before making your way over, clutching what remained of your dignity along with your books. “Um...”

Juhoon looked up from his notebook. “You okay?”

“I'm thriving.”

He looked from you to the papers threatening to spill from your folder again, then to the coffee you'd nearly dropped twice in the last minute.

You followed his gaze, then gave him a sheepish smile. “...That was a lie.”

A tiny nod. “So it would seem.”

Despite yourself, you let out a quiet laugh. “Is this seat taken?”

He glanced at the empty chair before looking back at you. “No.”

“Thanks.”

You carefully lowered yourself into the seat, taking far more care than seemed necessary.

It didn't matter.

The second you let go of the backpack, it tipped sideways. Two books slid onto the floor. The folder followed, ejecting another handful of papers as though personally offended that you'd managed to pick them up in the first place.

You closed your eyes. “...So much for making a good first impression.”

For the first time since you'd walked in, the corner of Juhoon's mouth twitched upward. “It could've been worse.”

You blinked. “...How?”

“You could've spilled the coffee.”

You looked down at the cup still miraculously clutched in your hand. “...You know what? I'll take that as a win.”

For the next forty minutes, Juhoon discovered that concentrating was significantly harder than he'd expected.

It wasn't because the library had become noisy. If anything, it remained as quiet as ever, interrupted only by the occasional turn of a page or the soft tapping of keyboards scattered throughout the room. The distraction sat directly across from him.

The moment you'd claimed the empty seat, you'd emptied the contents of your backpack onto the table with complete confidence, as though there was a perfectly logical system behind the chaos. A planner landed first, followed by two notebooks, a pencil case, a charger with its cable hopelessly tangled around itself, several loose sheets of paper, a packet of sticky notes, another packet of sticky notes and what looked suspiciously like yesterday's half-eaten protein bar.

One pen promptly rolled off the edge of the table.

Without thinking, Juhoon reached out and caught it before it hit the floor, setting it beside your notebook just as you looked up.

“Oh, thanks,” you said distractedly, already rummaging through your bag again.

He gave a small nod and returned to his book.

Or at least, he tried to.

You weren't loud. In fact, apart from the occasional muttered complaint, you barely made a sound. But there was something about the way you worked, or rather, tried to work…that kept drawing his attention despite himself.

Within minutes, your desk had transformed into what could only be described as controlled chaos. Books were stacked in uneven piles around your laptop, loose papers disappeared beneath open textbooks, and sticky notes poked out from nearly every page in a rainbow of colours. Somehow, despite having an entire pencil case in front of you, you still spent a solid minute searching for a pen that had been tucked behind your ear the whole time.

Juhoon noticed.

He also noticed that you opened five browser tabs in quick succession, only to spend the next several minutes bouncing between them without reading more than a few lines of any article. Every so often you'd return to the blank document waiting patiently on your screen, type a title, stare at it for a few seconds, then delete it and try again.

The first title lasted all of ten seconds.

The second survived a little longer.

By the fourth attempt, he'd unconsciously begun keeping count.

You still hadn't written a single sentence. Instead, you opened another article, highlighted an entire paragraph, frowned as though the yellow somehow looked wrong, switched to blue, immediately regretted that decision too, and closed the document altogether.

A long, theatrical sigh escaped you. “...Come on.”

Whether you were talking to yourself or the laptop, Juhoon wasn't entirely sure.

He looked back down at his notes and copied another citation. By the time he glanced up again, you'd finally begun typing.

Seven words appeared on the page.

You read them once. Twice. Then selected the entire sentence and pressed backspace.

The blank page returned.

“...Why am I like this?” you mumbled under your breath, resting your forehead dramatically against the edge of the desk.

Juhoon's eyes lingered on the screen for a brief moment before returning to his own work.

It wasn't that you didn't know what you were doing. Judging by the number of sources you'd already gathered, you clearly understood the material. You just seemed unable to let yourself begin.

Juhoon didn't think about you for the rest of the afternoon. At least, that's what he told himself.

By the time the library announced it would be closing in fifteen minutes, he'd managed to finish annotating another journal article, make decent progress on the bibliography for his research paper and photocopy the last chapter he needed before returning the reference book to its shelf.

His assignment was finally beginning to take shape. It was the sort of work he normally preferred doing at home, tucked away in the quiet of his room with a mug of tea growing cold on his desk. The library wasn't somewhere he lingered unless he absolutely had to, it simply housed resources he couldn't access anywhere else.

Once he'd gathered everything he needed, he'd happily return to working from home. That had always been the plan.

He packed his belongings with the same unhurried routine he followed every evening. Laptop first. Notebook on top. Pencil case zipped shut before being slipped into the front compartment of his bag. Charging cable wrapped into a loose loop instead of being shoved inside carelessly.

When he stood, his eyes drifted almost unconsciously towards the chair opposite him.

You were still there.

One elbow rested on the table, your forehead pressed dramatically against the back of your hand as you stared at the glowing cursor on your laptop screen with an expression that suggested the two of you had become mortal enemies.

Your desk looked no less chaotic than it had when you'd first arrived. Books remained stacked in uneven towers around your laptop. Sticky notes protruded from every other page, each one scribbled with hurried handwriting that only you could probably decipher. Somewhere beneath the mess was the essay you'd been trying to write for the better part of two hours.

Judging by the screen, you still hadn't made much progress.

You sighed, sat up, typed something, immediately deleted it, then sighed again.

Juhoon almost smiled. Almost. Instead, he adjusted the strap of his backpack and quietly left the library.

By the time he reached his apartment that evening, the girl with the exploding folder had already become one of those small, forgettable moments that occasionally brightened otherwise ordinary days.

She'd been memorable, certainly. A little erratic. Probably carrying twice as many books as she needed. But university was full of brief encounters like that. People drifted through lecture halls, libraries and cafés every day, crossing paths once before disappearing back into their own routines.

He doubted he'd see you again.

The following afternoon proved him wrong.

Juhoon had barely settled into his usual corner table when he heard the library doors open.

He didn't look up immediately. There was no particular reason to.

Someone else would come in eventually. The library was busiest around this time, when lectures had finished and deadlines suddenly felt much closer than they had that morning.

He continued copying a citation from one of the journals spread across the table.

Only when a familiar voice muttered a quiet, “...Please still be free,” did he glance up.

There you were.

Your backpack was still hanging half-open. The same battered folder was tucked under one arm, this time bulging even more than yesterday. A coffee cup balanced precariously between your fingers while your eyes scanned the room with growing panic.

Then your gaze landed on him. More specifically...On the empty chair opposite him.

The relief that washed over your face was almost comical. “Oh.”

You let out a breath you seemed to have been holding. “You got the table.”

Juhoon looked at the empty chair. “It usually stays free.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

“Huh.” You adjusted your grip on the books before smiling to yourself. “Lucky me.”

Without waiting for permission, you stopped. “...Actually,” you frowned. “I should probably ask.”

He looked at you expectantly.

“Is it okay if I sit here again?”

He glanced around the room, as though checking whether another empty seat had miraculously appeared in the last five seconds. “I don't own the table.”

“I know.”

“...”

“I just didn't want to assume.”

The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “It's fine.”

“Thanks.”

You dropped into the chair with considerably more success than yesterday.

A pause. Then—

Your pencil case slipped from your lap and landed on the floor with a loud clatter.

“...I'll take that as an improvement,” you muttered.

Juhoon looked down at the pencil case before meeting your eyes again. “You didn't lose any papers.”

“...See?” You pointed at him with complete sincerity. “Glass half full.”

It happened again the next day.

This time, Juhoon noticed your absence before he realized he was looking for it. Four o'clock came and went. He turned another page of the journal in front of him, copied a quotation into his notebook and adjusted his glasses.

The chair opposite him remained empty.

He frowned ever so slightly, not because he was waiting. Just...Because, by now, he'd expected someone to occupy it.

At four-ten, the library doors swung open.

You hurried inside, slightly breathless, hair escaping from whatever attempt you'd made to tame it that morning.

Your eyes immediately found the corner table. “So sorry.”

Juhoon looked up. “...For?”

“I know I'm late.”

“You weren't meeting me.”

“I know,” you muttered as you shifted your backpack higher onto your shoulder. “I just..” You laughed awkwardly. “It feels rude to show up ten minutes late.”

He considered that for a moment. “You weren't keeping me waiting.”

You blinked. “...Right.”

Another pause. “I guess that's a strange thing to say to someone whose name I don't even know.”

“It's Juhoon.”

You looked pleasantly surprised. “Juhoon?”

He nodded.

“I'm Y/N.”

“I know.” The words left his mouth before he'd quite thought about them.

Your eyebrows rose. “...You do?”

“You signed your name yesterday.”

Seeing your confusion, he nodded towards the loose sheets you'd dropped around the library floor.

“It was on the first page.”

“Oh,” You laughed, shaking your head. “Right...That makes a lot more sense.”

For reasons he couldn't explain, Juhoon found himself smiling too.

It was small, barely noticeable, but it was there.

The days that followed settled into a rhythm so quietly that neither of you could later pinpoint exactly when it had begun.

No messages were exchanged. No plans were made. There was never a conversation about meeting after class or saving each other a seat.

Somehow, it simply... happened.

If Juhoon arrived first, the chair opposite him remained empty until you wandered in, usually juggling more things than any one person should reasonably be carrying.

If you arrived first, which happened only once after oversleeping had taught you a valuable lesson about setting five alarms instead of just the one, you'd instinctively choose the same corner table, your books already spread across half of it by the time he appeared a few minutes later.

Juhoon had always assumed there were only two kinds of people who came to the library.

The first were the ones who treated it like another class period. They drifted in at the same time every afternoon, claimed the same seat, unpacked the same notebook, worked steadily for two or three hours, then disappeared just as quietly as they'd arrived.

The second were the deadline people. They stormed through the doors carrying three cups of coffee, looked permanently one inconvenience away from tears, speed-read an entire chapter in forty minutes, and vanished before anyone could witness the consequences.

After spending a week sharing a table with you, Juhoon quietly decided there was, in fact, a third category.

You.

You weren't particularly loud. In fact, compared to the study groups occupying the larger tables, you barely made any noise at all. You didn't answer phone calls in the library, you didn't play music through your headphones loud enough for anyone else to hear, and you never interrupted him while he worked.

Yet somehow, you still managed to occupy the space around you with an energy that was impossible to ignore.

It began the moment you sat down.

While Juhoon unpacked with the efficiency of someone who had repeated the same routine hundreds of times, your side of the table unfolded more like an archaeological excavation.

Your backpack landed beside your chair with a soft thud before you pulled it into your lap and reached inside without looking. One by one, objects began appearing on the table. A planner decorated with sticky tabs. A thick sociology textbook covered in handwritten annotations. Two notebooks, one considerably more worn than the other. Your laptop. A pencil case that looked suspiciously overstuffed.

By the time you finally seemed satisfied, your side of the table looked less like a study space and more like someone had attempted to recreate a stationery shop from memory.

Juhoon looked at his own side. One notebook, one reference book, one pen and a bottle of water. That was all. The contrast amused him more than it probably should have.

It became a familiar ritual over the next few afternoons. He found himself recognising it before you did. If you reached into your bag with a puzzled expression, he already knew you were looking for your headphones. If you patted your pockets twice, you'd forgotten where your pen had gone. If you sighed before even opening your laptop, today's assignment was probably one you weren't looking forward to.

He wasn't trying to pay attention. He simply... noticed. It was something he'd always done, little details tended to stay with him.

The way one of your notebook corners was permanently folded over because you absentmindedly bent it whenever you were reading. The fact that you always uncapped your highlighter with your teeth before immediately remembering you probably shouldn't. The tiny habit of pushing your sleeves up your forearms every time you settled in to work, only to pull them back down five minutes later when the library's air-conditioning reminded you why you'd worn them in the first place.

None of it was important, yet somehow, all of it lodged itself quietly in the back of his mind.

One afternoon, somewhere between you emptying half your backpack onto the table and Juhoon finishing the same paragraph he'd been reading for the past five minutes, a pen rolled free from the mess and made its way towards his side of the table.

It bumped gently against his notebook.

You noticed it a second later and immediately reached across to retrieve it. “Sorry.”

Juhoon glanced at the pen in your hand, then at the collection of papers, notebooks and books surrounding you. “For what?”

You gestured vaguely at the table. “This. I feel like I'm slowly taking over your half.”

He looked down. Apart from the pen, nothing had actually crossed the invisible boundary you'd both somehow established between your respective piles. “It's fine.”

“I swear I'm usually more organised than this.”

He gave you a look.

You paused. “...Okay. I'm usually not.”

The corner of his mouth lifted.

You tucked the pen back into your pencil case, though you didn't bother closing it. “You're very calm about all this.”

“About what?”

“The mess.”

Juhoon glanced at your side of the table again. “I've seen worse.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“That's disappointing. I thought I was special.”

“You still might be.”

You stared at him for a second, trying to decide whether he'd actually made a joke. He had already gone back to his book.

You smiled to yourself before opening your notebook.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, you looked up again. “Can I ask you something?”

Juhoon lifted his eyes.

“Why are you here every day?”

He seemed mildly surprised by the question. “Here?”

“In the library.”

He nodded towards the pile of books beside him. “Assignment.”

“Right.” You looked at the stack. “But what kind of assignment requires you to basically move into the library? You’re the only one here, other than me, who’s here every day at the same time, like clockwork.”

“A research paper.”

“That bad?”

“Not really.”

“Then why not just do it at home?”

Juhoon considered that for a moment before answering. “I usually do.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You don't seem like someone who enjoys studying around people. I mean…You look like the kind of person who would consider studying a more, um, solitary activity?”

“I do.”

The answer came so matter-of-factly that you laughed. “Then I'm confused.”

“I need some of the reference books here.” He tapped the thick volume beside his notebook.

“They aren't available online?”

“Not the ones I need.”

“So you're basically being held hostage by the library.”

“Pretty much.”

You glanced at the books again. “How long do you have left?”

“A little while.”

“That sounds suspiciously vague.”

“I'll finish it.”

“I wasn't doubting you.”

“I didn’t think of it that way.”

“I was asking.”

“Mhm.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You're very difficult to interrogate.”

“And you're very nosy.”

“I prefer curious.”

“I'll remember that.”

You smiled and turned back to your notes, finally beginning to highlight the material you'd been avoiding for the past ten minutes.

Juhoon returned to his assignment as well.

Neither of you thought much of the conversation after that. Not then, anyway.

To you, it was simply the first time you'd learned something about the quiet boy you'd somehow ended up sharing a table with every afternoon.

And to Juhoon, it was simply an explanation for why he was there. He needed the books. That was all. At least, that was still true.

Your conversations never felt like interruptions. They slipped into the quiet between studying almost by accident, lasted a minute or two, then disappeared again without either of you feeling obligated to keep talking.

He found... that he didn't mind. The realization surprised him.

Juhoon liked silence, liked predictability. He liked knowing exactly how an afternoon would unfold. By every reasonable measure, studying across from someone whose belongings seemed determined to migrate across the table should have irritated him. Instead...He caught himself waiting to see what would happen next.

By the time another week had passed, Juhoon had stopped being surprised by the state of your side of the table. He'd learned that the mess was mostly temporary. By the end of every afternoon, you would gather your papers into their respective folders, shove your notebooks back into your bag and somehow leave the table looking almost respectable. The real problem was never the mess itself. It was everything you did before you allowed yourself to begin.

He started noticing it more clearly once he'd seen it happen enough times.

You would arrive with a new assignment, determined to finish it that day, and for the first twenty minutes you would work with almost frightening efficiency. Your laptop came out, your notes were arranged and your planner appeared with a list of everything you needed to accomplish. You'd check each requirement against the syllabus, underline the important parts, divide the assignment into sections, and sometimes even write yourself a little timeline for the evening. Juhoon had watched you make schedules so detailed that he was fairly certain there was once a schedule for when you were supposed to stop making schedules.

Then the research would begin. One article became another, which led you to a study referenced in its bibliography, which reminded you of something you'd read in a lecture slide, which sent you searching for another source to make sure you hadn't missed anything. Your browser tabs multiplied until the titles became unreadable, and every few minutes you would pause over one of them, frown, and open another.

Juhoon didn't interrupt. At first, he assumed you were simply being thorough. Then he noticed that you weren't actually getting any closer to writing.

You'd already have enough sources. More than enough, probably. Your notebook would be filled with notes, your outline would be sitting neatly beside the laptop, and you'd have underlined the exact points you wanted to discuss. Yet instead of starting, you'd keep looking. Another article, another source, another possibility.

It was as if you were waiting for some final piece of information to arrive and give you permission to begin.

The first time Juhoon pointed it out, he didn't mean to. You had been staring at your screen for so long that he eventually looked up from his own work.

“How many sources do you need?”

You glanced at him. “For what?”

“That essay.”

“I don't know.”

“You have twelve.”

You looked at the browser tabs. “I know.”

“Your professor asked for five.”

You frowned. “I know that too.”

“Then why are you looking for another one?”

You opened your mouth, paused, and glanced back at your screen. “...Because I might need it.”

“For what?”

“I don't know yet.”

Juhoon nodded as though you'd just confirmed something for him. “Right.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“It definitely means something.”

He returned to his notes, leaving you to stare suspiciously at him for another few seconds before turning back to your laptop.

You lasted perhaps three minutes. Then another tab opened.

Juhoon didn't say anything this time, he only glanced at the top of your screen.

You caught him. “Don't.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Your face did.”

He looked down at his notebook again, but you could have sworn there was the faintest hint of amusement in his expression.

You closed the new tab…for approximately thirty seconds. Then you opened it again.

Juhoon sighed quietly. That was when he began to understand that your problem wasn't that you didn't know how to study. You were, in fact, incredibly good at preparing to study. You could organise a mountain of information into colour-coded categories and produce an outline so detailed that someone else could probably write the paper from it.

The problem came afterwards.

The moment you had to turn all that preparation into something imperfect and unfinished, you seemed to freeze.

He saw it most clearly with your writing. You'd type a sentence, read it twice, and delete it. Sometimes you'd change one word and read it again. Other times you'd rewrite the entire thing because it didn't sound as intelligent as you'd imagined it in your head.

One afternoon, he watched you spend nearly ten minutes on the opening sentence of a paper. Eventually, you leaned back and groaned.

“It sounds stupid.”

Juhoon looked up. “What does?”

“The sentence.”

“What does it say?”

You turned the laptop slightly towards him.

He read it. “It's fine.”

Your expression immediately soured. “That's not helpful.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don't know. That it's good.”

“It's good.”

“You said that like you don't mean it.”

“I mean it.”

“You sound very convincing.”

He looked at the screen again. “It's an introduction. It doesn't have to be brilliant.”

You stared at him. “...Excuse me?”

“It just has to introduce the paper.”

“But if the opening is weak, the whole thing is going to feel weak.”

“Why?”

“Because it sets the tone.”

“It's one paragraph.”

“It's the first paragraph.”

“Which means there are several more after it.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Juhoon went back to reading.

After a moment, you quietly muttered, “You're very annoying.”

“I've heard that.”

You looked back at the screen. For once, you didn't delete the sentence.

That was the first time he noticed something else, too. You weren't simply trying to do well. You seemed to believe that doing well only counted if you did it exceptionally well. Anything less appeared to register in your mind as failure, even before you'd actually failed.

It showed up everywhere. You'd get halfway through an assignment and decide the entire thing was going badly because one section wasn't perfect. You'd make a perfectly reasonable study plan, miss one task because a lecture ran late, and immediately conclude that the whole evening was ruined.

You were always reaching for the version of yourself who could do everything perfectly. The problem was that she never seemed to arrive.

And the more Juhoon noticed it, the more he began to suspect that you were exhausting yourself trying to catch up to her.

He didn't say that. Not yet.

Instead, he started doing small things.

When you opened too many tabs, he'd glance at them and ask, “Are you actually going to read all of those?”

When you began rewriting an outline you'd already finished, he'd quietly ask, “What was wrong with the first one?”

When you stared at a blank document for too long, he'd occasionally look up and say, “You've been thinking about the same sentence for ten minutes.”

You'd glare at him. “I am thinking.”

“I know.”

“Then let me think.”

“I'm letting you.”

“You sound very unconvinced.”

“I am.”

It should have irritated you, and sometimes it did, but slowly, you started listening.

Not because Juhoon pushed particularly hard. He never did. He didn't tell you what to do, didn't take over your work and never made you feel stupid for struggling with something that seemed easy to him. He simply noticed when you were making something harder than it needed to be and when he thought you might let him, quietly pointed it out.

That was what surprised you most about him. He never seemed impressed by the version of you that was trying desperately to impress everyone else. He didn't care whether your essay sounded sophisticated enough, whether your notes were colour-coded, whether you'd read every article available or whether you'd managed to finish three assignments in one night.

When you apologized for falling behind, he'd simply ask, “Behind who?”

When you complained that someone else in your class had already finished their paper, he'd tell you, “You're not writing theirs.”

When you looked at a long list of things you hadn't done yet and insisted you should have accomplished more, he'd glance at the list and say, “You did four things today.”

“But I was supposed to do seven.”

“You did four.”

“It wasn't enough.”

He'd pause then, studying you with that same calm expression that somehow made it difficult to argue with him. “Why?”

You never had a good answer.

Because that was the thing Juhoon was beginning to understand about you. You were constantly measuring yourself against some invisible standard that moved further away every time you got close to it. No amount of preparation ever felt like enough because there was always another source to read, another sentence to improve, another assignment to do better on. You weren't afraid of hard work. If anything, you were willing to work yourself into the ground.

You were afraid that if you stopped pushing, you'd discover you weren't doing enough after all.

And somehow, without ever making a big deal of it, Juhoon became the person who noticed when you were doing it again.

The real conversation happened a few days later.

The library was unusually quiet. It had rained earlier that afternoon, leaving the windows misted at the edges and the sky outside washed in a dull grey that made the warm lights above the tables feel softer than usual. You arrived later than you normally did, but you didn't make your usual comment about nearly missing the bus or your professor assigning an unreasonable amount of reading. You simply sat down, pulled your bag onto your lap, and began unpacking.

Juhoon noticed immediately that something was wrong. He didn't ask right away.

You were quieter than usual, and although your movements looked normal enough, there was something strangely deliberate about them. You took out your planner, your laptop and your notebook in the same order you always did, but you didn't make the little adjustments you usually made before settling in. Your water bottle remained untouched beside you. Your phone stayed face-down. Even your backpack, which usually ended up half-open beneath your chair, was zipped properly and pushed out of the way.

Then you pulled a sheet of paper from between the pages of your notebook and stared at it.

Juhoon watched your eyes move down the page once, then again. You folded it in half, unfolded it, read it a third time.

He went back to his book, though he wasn't really reading anymore.

A few minutes passed before you finally spoke. “I got my practice paper back.”

Juhoon looked up. “How did it go?”

You gave a small shrug. “Fine.”

The answer came too quickly. He waited.

You looked back down at the paper. “I got seventy-two.”

There was no reason for the number to sound like an apology.

Juhoon frowned slightly. “That's not bad.”

You laughed under your breath. “I know.”

Something about the way you said it made him close his book. You were still staring at the paper.

“I know it's not bad,” you repeated, quieter this time. “That's the stupid part.”

“It's a practice paper.”

“I know.”

“You have time to improve it.”

“I know.”

“You did well.”

“I know.”

Your voice cracked slightly on the last word, as you pressed your lips together and looked away.

Juhoon stayed silent.

For several seconds, neither of you moved. Then you exhaled shakily and dropped the paper onto the table. “I just thought I'd done better.”

There it was.

It wasn't really anger, and it wasn't disappointment in the grade itself. It was disappointment in yourself.

“I thought I'd finally gotten it right,” you continued, staring somewhere beyond the table. “I checked everything. I re-read it three times. I fixed the citations, I changed the introduction, I went through all my notes again because I thought there might be something I'd missed, and then I got it back and...” You swallowed. “Seventy-two.”

Juhoon's eyes moved to the paper. Then back to you. “You thought you'd done better.”

You nodded. “I thought I was finally getting somewhere.”

“You are.”

“It doesn't feel like it.”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the paper. “I don't understand what I'm doing wrong.”

Juhoon was quiet for a moment, before reaching across the table and gently pulling the paper out of your hands before you could fold it again. “You're not doing anything wrong.”

You looked at him. “I got a seventy-two.”

“Yes.”

“That's average.”

“Yes.”

Your expression twisted. “Exactly.”

Juhoon set the paper down between you. “Y/N.”

Something in his voice made you stop. He didn't usually say your name like that…Not because it was particularly soft, but because he sounded certain.

“You need to listen to me for a minute.”

You blinked.

He held your gaze. “I've been watching you do this for weeks.”

You looked down. “Do what?”

“This.”

He gestured towards the paper, then towards the stacks of books surrounding your laptop.

“You get an assignment, and you immediately decide you have to do better than everyone else. You research until you know more than you actually need to know. You make a plan, then another one because the first one isn't good enough. You spend an hour trying to write one paragraph because you don't think the first version sounds intelligent enough. You look at one mistake and decide the entire thing must be bad.”

You were silent.

He continued, his voice calm but firmer than you'd ever heard it. “And when you finally do something well, you don't let yourself feel good about it because you're already thinking about how you could have done better.”

Your eyes stung as you looked away. “I don't do that.”

“You do.”

“I just want to do well.”

“And there's nothing wrong with that.” His answer came immediately. “But there's something wrong with thinking that anything less than perfect means you failed.”

You swallowed hard. “I just...” You rubbed at your eyes before the tears could fall. “I don't want to be mediocre.”

Juhoon's expression softened. “You're not.”

You shook your head. “You don't know that.”

“I do.”

“How?”

“Because I've seen you.”

The words were so simple that they hurt more than anything else could have.

Juhoon leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms against the edge of the table. “I've seen how much you work. I've seen how much you know. I've watched you explain things you thought you didn't understand. I've seen you spend hours trying to make something better when it was already good enough.”

His voice lowered. “You're not stupid.”

Your eyes finally met his.

“I know you're smart.”

The tears you'd been trying to hold back slipped free.

Juhoon didn't look away. “And you're allowed to get a seventy-two.”

You gave a small, broken laugh. “That sounds awful when you say it like that.”

“It isn't.”

“It feels awful.”

For a moment, he simply looked at you, then he reached across the table and pushed the practice paper a little farther away from you. “One grade doesn't decide how good you are.”

You wiped your cheek with the sleeve of your sweater. “But what if I keep getting average grades?”

“Then we'll figure out why.”

“We?”

His expression didn't change, but something warm flickered briefly in his eyes. “You don't have to figure everything out alone.”

The words settled between you, quiet and certain.

You looked down at your hands. “I just don't know how to stop doing this.”

“I understand.”

He said it so gently that your throat tightened again. “But you can start small.”

“How?”

“Stop trying to make everything perfect before you let yourself move forward.”

You nodded faintly.

“Write the bad first draft.”

You looked at him. “Bad?”

“Bad.”

A tiny smile appeared despite yourself. “And if it's terrible?”

“Then we'll fix it.”

“We?”

This time, his mouth curved properly. “You're very focused on that word.”

“Because you keep saying it.”

“Maybe I'm trying to make a point.”

You looked down again, and for the first time since you'd received the paper, the knot in your chest seemed to loosen.

Juhoon picked up his pen and turned his notebook back towards himself.

After a moment, he added quietly, “You don't have to earn the right to be proud of yourself.”

You went still.

He didn't look at you when he said it.

Maybe because he knew the words were enough.

Maybe because saying them directly had already required more courage than he'd expected.

Either way, you sat there for a long moment, staring at the boy across from you and wondering how someone you'd only known for a few weeks had somehow managed to understand a part of you that you'd spent years trying not to explain.

When your last exam finally ended, you walked out of the building with the strange, almost disorienting feeling that you had forgotten how to be a person who wasn't constantly working.

For the past several weeks, your life had been measured in deadlines. Lectures had blurred into study sessions, study sessions had stretched into late nights, and every time you finished one assignment, another had been waiting behind it like some particularly cruel game of academic whack-a-mole. Even your free time had somehow become productive. If you weren't studying, you were thinking about studying. If you weren't thinking about studying, you were feeling guilty for not studying.

Now, suddenly, there was nothing.

You stood on the steps outside the building, staring at the afternoon sky with your bag hanging loosely from one shoulder. “...What am I supposed to do now?”

Your friend, who had been celebrating beside you for the last five minutes, stared at you. “Enjoy your life?”

You frowned. “That sounds fake.”

“It's not fake.”

“It feels fake.”

“You're telling me you don't know how to have free time?”

“I don't remember the instructions.”

By the time you reached the library that afternoon, you had already decided that doing absolutely nothing for at least three hours was going to be your reward.

Unfortunately, Juhoon was already sitting at your usual table. He looked up when you approached, and his eyes immediately narrowed slightly. “You look suspicious.”

You dropped into the chair opposite him. “I'm free.”

He blinked. “That's what you're excited about?”

“Do you understand what this means?”

“No.”

“I have no deadlines.”

He considered that. “For how long?”

You paused. “...Don't ruin this for me.”

A quiet laugh escaped him.

You leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head until your shoulders cracked. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“I can breathe.”

“You've been breathing.”

“Not emotionally.”

Juhoon shook his head and returned to his book.

You watched him for a moment before grinning. “You know what's weird?”

“What?”

“I don't have to study today.”

“Mhm.”

“I could go home.”

“Mhm.”

“I could watch something.”

“Mhm.”

“I could take a nap.”

“Mhm.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you even listening?”

“I'm listening.”

“You're not reacting.”

He looked up, and there was the faintest smile on his face. “You've been talking for three minutes.”

“And?”

“I'm impressed you haven't mentioned needing a schedule yet.”

You gasped. “I have changed.”

“Have you?”

“Yes.”

“You've been here for less than five minutes.”

“...That's unrelated.”

The laughter that followed came easily, without either of you having to think about it.

It was strange, in a way, how ordinary it felt.

A month ago, you'd barely known his name.

Now, you could tell when he was amused by the barely-there curve of his mouth, knew something was wrong when he grew quieter than usual, and had learned exactly how he liked his books arranged on the table. You could even recognise the particular look he gave you whenever he realised you were about to make another questionable academic decision.

Somewhere along the way, the table had stopped being a place where two strangers happened to study. It had become yours.

The thought made something warm settle in your chest.

You looked down at your hands. “Hey, Juhoon?”

“Hm?”

Your voice was quieter when you spoke again. “Thank you.”

He looked up. “For what?”

You smiled faintly. “For... all of this.”

He seemed genuinely confused. “The library?”

You laughed. “No. You.”

His expression changed almost imperceptibly.

You picked at the edge of a sticky note on your notebook, suddenly finding it easier to look at that than at him. “I don't think I ever told you properly.”

“You don't have to.”

“I know.” You paused. “But I want to.”

He waited.

“You noticed me.”

His brow furrowed slightly.

“I mean it. You noticed things that I didn't even realise I was doing. You noticed when I was making things harder for myself. You noticed when I was spiralling over something that probably didn't matter. You...” You smiled to yourself. “You somehow knew when I needed someone to tell me to stop.”

Juhoon's gaze softened. “You would've figured it out.”

“Maybe eventually.”

“You would've.”

You shook your head. “Not like this.”

He was quiet for a moment before saying, “I didn't give you anything you didn't already have.”

You looked at him.

“You already knew how to do all of it. You just didn't trust yourself enough to believe it.”

Something about the simplicity of the statement made your chest tighten. You smiled. “You're really good at making things sound obvious.”

“They usually are.”

“That's an annoying quality.”

“I know.”

You laughed softly. Then, after a moment, you added, “Still... thank you for noticing.”

This time, Juhoon didn't immediately answer. His eyes stayed on you for a second longer than usual, and there was something in his expression you couldn't quite place. It wasn't quite amusement. It wasn't quite the calm attentiveness you'd grown accustomed to either.

Something softer.

Something that made you suddenly very aware of the fact that you were sitting across from him, close enough to see the faint reflection of the library lights in his glasses.

Eventually, he looked away. “You were hard not to notice.”

Your heart gave a strange little stumble. You opened your mouth…Then closed it.

Juhoon, apparently unaware of the effect his words had produced, picked up his pen.

You stared at him for another second before deciding that if you stayed quiet, you were going to make the moment far more awkward than it needed to be. “So...”

He glanced up.

“You know how you've been coming here every day because of that assignment?”

There it was, the perfect subject change.

Juhoon nodded. “…Yeah, the assignment.”

“How far along are you?”

He looked at you. “Pretty far.”

“Good.” You grinned, leaning back in your chair. “Because now that my exams are over, I can finally help you. You've been sitting here with that thing for weeks. What do you still have left?”

“Nothing.”

You blinked. “Nothing?”

He shook his head. “It's done.”

You frowned. “Done as in... almost done?”

“Done as in submitted.”

You stared at him. “When?”

Juhoon looked down at his notebook, completely calm. “Well…”

He turned a page. “I submitted it ages ago.”

You went completely still. “...What?”

He finally looked back at you. “I submitted it weeks ago.”

For a moment, you could only stare. Then your eyebrows drew together. “Wait.”

Juhoon waited.

“You've been coming here every single day.”

“Mhm.”

“For an assignment you finished weeks ago.”

“Yes.”

You looked at him suspiciously.

“But...” You laughed softly. “You had to stay back at the library for the reference books. Your assignment's been done for weeks, so why have you been coming here every day?”

“...Because you were.”

And that's when you saw him.

He was sitting at a small table by the window, bathed in a spill of late afternoon light. A heavy book lay open before him, and he looked utterly absorbed, a faint smile tugging at his lips as though the words themselves were whispering secrets only he could hear. His hair fell in a soft curtain around his face, occasionally shifting when he reached up to turn the page with a kind of reverence, as if the act itself were sacred.

You froze between two aisles, a book clutched in your hands though you hadn’t glanced at its title. There was something so disarming about the sight of him there, so at ease, so quietly content, that you found yourself simply watching.

He chuckled under his breath, the sound low, warm, unguarded. Whatever he was reading, it delighted him. And you, standing metres away, felt a sudden pang of envy, not at the book, but at the intimacy he seemed to share with it. You wanted to be the reason someone smiled like that.

You shifted your weight, torn between slipping away unnoticed or somehow finding the courage to speak. But what could you possibly say? Hello, I was staring at you because you look beautiful when you read hardly seemed like a winning introduction.

As though sensing your gaze, he lifted his head. His eyes blue, impossibly blue, met yours across the stacks. For a heartbeat, you couldn’t breathe. You expected him to frown, to be annoyed at being caught. Instead, his lips curved into the softest grin, a quiet acknowledgment as if to say I see you too.

Flustered, you ducked your head and pretended to study the spine of the nearest book. Your fingers brushed over faded letters: Poems of the Romantic Era, and before you realised what you were doing, you pulled it free. Gathering what little bravery you had, you wandered over and stopped at the end of his table.

“Is this seat taken?” you asked, your voice quieter than intended.

He looked at the empty chair, then back at you. That smile hadn’t left his face. “Not unless you’re planning to steal it.”

You laughed softly, setting the poetry book down as you slid into the chair. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable though, it was the kind that hummed with possibility.

He glanced at your book, then at you. “Poetry?”

You nodded. “Thought I’d give it a try.”

There was a sparkle in his eyes then, as though you’d just offered him his favourite subject. He tapped the cover of his own book, a worn copy of The Odyssey. “Not a bad place to start. But if you ever want recommendations…”

“Would you give me some?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.

He smiled again, softer this time, the kind of smile that felt like it was meant just for you. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

"I'm aware. I've done a lot of it. In my previous role as an assistant. I believe this role is for junior archivist."

"Junior," he tilts his head. "It's your first day. Don't stress."

You tug on your blouse. It's hot among the shelves.

He untangles his arms and taps the table to his right. "You can set up shop here."

"I believe the role came with an office." You reply.

"Easier here," he motions to your left. "Those boxes."

You glance over at the banking boxes marked with sharpie. "Library two counties away. They had a fire. Municipality cut funding after that. We got most of their historical documents."

"You said the students usually do this?"

"It's a good learning activity. I said I'd train you." He shrugs and hooks his thumbs in his front pockets. You bite on your cheek to keep it from twitching.

"I can more than handle your leftovers," you assure him.

You step past him and grab a box. You heave it up and turn awkwardly. It's not too heavy, just heavier than you expected. He comes up to you and grabs the other end of the box.

"Let me do that," he tries to slip it out of your grasp.

"I can do it--"

He forces it free so the cardboard chafes your fingers. He snorts and turns, carrying it easily to the table. He drops it without mind to the noise.

"Don't think we put heavy lifting in the job description," he rests his hand on the lid. "Don't want you hurting yourself, doll face."

"Respectfully," you circle around the table. "That's not my name."

You turn to the table as you pull out a chair. You drag the box across it and put your bag next to it. You push your sleeves up and lift the lid. You take your time as you stir in your bag. You set out your things meticulously. You have a system.

You sit as you slide out the first document. He comes around with tags and sets them by you. You thank him without looking.

"One hour for lunch. Your choice when. Noon usually works. I'm sure you'll be counting down the seconds." He drawls.

"Sounds good," you adjust your glasses.

He lingers. You tag the first document. You'll alphabetize them as you go.

"Am I missing something?" You glance up.

He stares at you, cheeks dimpling as his eyes scale you. He shakes his head.

"No, looks like you have it all figured out."

He taps the table with two fingers and pushes away. You ignore his departure even as he makes his steps especially distracting. It isn't the first time you've dealt with passive defiance. He might be your superior but you've done nothing to earn his suspicion.

You fall into the familiar with only a hint of resent. You're doing the work they give to temps. Not like it isn't important but you were looking forward to doing more than just tagging and bagging. Still, you won't complain. That's what they want.

The chafe of paper is the only noise aside from the scratch of your pen. You work efficiently as you make piles for different letter groups. A-F, G-N, so on and so on.

You pause to strip off your chest as sweat slakes down your temples. Your scalp is itchy with the heat. You tug at your collar as you blow out a deep breath.

"How are you liking it?" The deep timbre breaks your concentration. You finish the tag and sort the file into one of the stacks.

"Nothing too unusual," you answer the man. The one who called himself Rogers. "Simple enough."

"Uh huh," he leans on a shelf, one hand on his hip. "Quiet work. Easy."

"Better than sitting in the boxes untouched," you toss back.

"Ha, fair enough. They've been doing that a while." His lips curve slightly. "So, you fresh out of grad school?"

"I have experience."

"Oh, I can tell," he tilts his head. "I just figured... I read a study that attractive women tend to do better in interviews."

You flinch. Well, that didn't take long. You suppose if you cared, you would take that as a compliment.

"From my experience, competence tends to leave a better impression." You say calmly and slide out the next page.

"Seems like you have that in spades," he stands straight and nears the table. He touches the corner of the tallest stack. G-N. He touches the corner as he bends to read the top tag through his lenses. Suddenly, the paper flutters over the edge. "Oh, clumsy me." He steps back. "You know, my hands get dry in this heat. Can't seem to hold onto anything."

You look at him and your brows rise just a little. You set down your pen and stand. You round the corner of the table and bend, gathering up the pages. The brush together loudly as he backs up. You get them in hand then feel something against your trousers. You twitch then it presses firmer, right against your backside.

"Oops, sorry, it's so tight in here," Rogers says. "Archives are always so crowded."

He wiggles his pelvis so you feel him clearly through the layers of fabric. You stand up and spin away from him. You stare at him in disgust.

"Are you serious?"

"Hm? What? Look, I'm sorry about the paper. I was only looking--"

"You just--"

"Huh, imagine that. Junior archivist, not liking all this menial work so she presses up on the senior archivist, trying to get special treatment," he clucks. "She could just ask nicely. No one would need to know."

"I-- would never--"

"I'm sure. You must have a flourishing personal life."

You scoff. "You... you did it."

You look around, searching the edges of the ceilings and the corners.

"Cameras in common spaces only. The wiring is a fire hazard for the amount of paper in here." He explains. "Everything here is our little secret."

You gape at him. You shake your head and go all the way around the other side of the table. You sit and clear your throat.

"What secret?" You focus on keeping your voice steady. "I've only been cataloguing."

You set down the stack and start sorting. You ignore him as he remains. You don't look up even as you sense his movement. He rubs himself through his pants, barely a foot away.

"Lots of work to do," he growls. "I must be distracting you." You don't answer as you stay on task. He groans and drops his hand. "Alright, sweetheart. Keep up the good work."

He pets your head and walks away. As he disappears behind the shelves, you pause. You clutch the papers and stare at the blurred letters.