And it belonged to Min-Soo.

At first, Ji-Hoon tried to convince himself it was nothing.

That Min-Soo showing up at the café right when he ordered tea was just coincidence.

That passing him outside the Engineering building “on his way out of a meeting” was purely chance.

That appearing in the library again—same time, same corner—was nothing but routine.

But deep down, Ji-Hoon knew better.

Min-Soo wasn’t intrusive. He didn’t press, didn’t pry. He just showed up—like sunlight sneaking through blinds, steady, uninvited, and strangely comforting.

---

Ji-Hoon sat curled in his usual spot between the shelves, sketching a robotics diagram. He was so absorbed he didn’t hear the footsteps until a familiar voice broke the quiet.

“You’re always here when I need an excuse to procrastinate.”

Ji-Hoon looked up. Min-Soo stood there, holding two cans of cold coffee, grin as annoyingly charming as ever.

“I thought you might want one,” Min-Soo said, extending a can.

Ji-Hoon hesitated. “…I don’t usually drink caffeine.”

“Then you’re about to make a terrible choice,” Min-Soo teased, settling down beside him. “Live a little.”

Ji-Hoon accepted the can.

It wasn’t much. But it felt like lowering a wall.

---

“Why do you keep trying to talk to me?” Ji-Hoon asked, after a stretch of easy silence.

Min-Soo didn’t dodge the question. He leaned back against the shelf, head tilted thoughtfully.

“Because I think you’re interesting.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Exactly,” Min-Soo said with a small smile. “That’s what makes you interesting.”

Ji-Hoon’s gaze fell to a crack in the floor tile.

“I’m not someone people usually go after.”

Min-Soo’s smile softened. “Maybe they just weren’t looking closely enough.”

There it was again—that quiet sincerity that made Ji-Hoon’s defenses ache. And worse, he hated how much of him wanted to believe it.

---

Later that night, back in his dorm, Ji-Hoon pulled a worn notebook from under his mattress.

It was private, filled with poetry he’d never share—thoughts he couldn’t say aloud. And in the middle of a half-finished stanza, his pen moved almost on its own, leaving a new line:

> He lingers like sunlight on cold glass—warming, uninvited, impossible to ignore.

He stared at it.

Then snapped the notebook shut.

No. Not again.

But his chest ached anyway.