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Heeseung sees him for the first time in the library.
It’s a quiet September afternoon. Sunlight filters through the tall windows in long golden beams, making the dust in the air sparkle. Heeseung didn’t mean to stay this long —Jungwon had dragged him here to find a book for their mythology class, but Jungwon left ten minutes ago, and Heeseung’s still sitting on a faded armchair near the back corner.
Because of him.
The boy at the end of the aisle.
He’s sitting at one of the big oak tables, the kind that creaks when you lean on it, with a worn paperback copy of “Pride and Prejudice” open in front of him. His hair is a soft reddish brown that glows under the sunlight. He has a blue pen tucked behind his ear and a notebook filled with tight handwriting next to him. Every so often, he smiles at the page.
Not because someone is talking to him. Not because there’s a joke.
Just because he’s happy.
And Heeseung can’t look away.
Until the boy glances up.
Their eyes meet, and Heeseung panics. He looks away too quickly, grabs the nearest book on the shelf (which turns out to be an encyclopedic guide to mushrooms), and tries to look busy. Too late.
"Everything okay?" the boy asks, and his voice is soft, curious.
Heeseung freezes, then turns.
"Yeah! I just—Jane Austen. She’s… good. I mean, the book. And her. They’re… yeah."
A pause.
The boy blinks once, and then he laughs. Not in a mean way. More like the sun laughing.
"Thanks, I guess."
Heeseung wants to evaporate.
But then, the boy says:
"I’m Jake."
Heeseung stops breathing.
Jake is smiling kindly at him now, elbows on the table, head tilted slightly.
"Heeseung."
Jake nods, like it fits.
And that night, Heeseung dreams of golden light, blue ink, and someone smiling at him like he’s part of a soft, beautiful story.
It happens again the next week.
Heeseung’s in the library for real this time—he has a test coming up in Music Theory, and even though he knows the material, he wants an excuse to stay a little longer. Just in case.
Jake is already there when he arrives. Same table. Same notebook. A different Austen novel—“Emma.”
Heeseung takes the chair across from him without thinking.
Jake looks up, surprised, but his eyes light up like he was hoping for this.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey."
It’s awkward for about three minutes. Then Jake pushes a granola bar across the table.
"You skipped lunch too?"
Heeseung smiles. Takes the granola bar. Doesn’t say that he’s been skipping lunch a lot lately—too many butterflies in his stomach.
They don’t talk much. Heeseung studies. Jake reads. Sometimes Jake hums under his breath—tiny little melodies—and Heeseung forgets what page he’s on.
It becomes a routine.
Mondays. Thursdays. Always at the same table.
Jake always has something to share—clementines, sour candy, once even an iced coffee he claimed he accidentally bought two of.
Heeseung starts writing lyrics again. Just little phrases, in the margins of his notes.
They all feel like Jake.
It rains for three days straight in October.
On Thursday, the library is louder than usual—crowded with people trying to stay dry. Their table is taken, so Jake and Heeseung end up in a window alcove, sitting on cushions beneath a tall, rain-streaked window.
Jake’s sweater sleeves are too long. Heeseung watches him fiddle with the hem as he reads.
"Do you like the rain?" Jake asks suddenly.
Heeseung blinks.
"I think so. It makes everything quieter."
Jake hums.
"I like it too," he says. "Makes it easier to stay still."
He leans his head against the window. The light is soft and grey. His hair is damp. There’s a freckle near his eyebrow that Heeseung hadn’t noticed before.
And then Jake says, very softly:
"You make it easier to stay still, too."
Heeseung forgets how to breathe.
They don’t talk for a while after that.
But Jake stays close.
Closer than usual.
It’s the last Thursday of the month.
Heeseung’s nervous. He doesn’t know why —nothing is different, technically. Jake is waiting in their usual spot. He’s wearing a red hoodie today, sleeves pushed up, fingers curled around a cup of hot tea. He smiles when Heeseung sits down.
But something is different.
Jake looks tired, like he hasn’t slept well. His smile is still there, but it’s softer. Slower.
Heeseung takes out his notebook and pretends to study.
Ten minutes in, Jake breaks the silence.
"Do you ever think about how things... start?"
Heeseung blinks.
"Like what?"
“Like this. Us. This routine. When did it stop being coincidence?"
Heeseung feels his heart kick against his ribs.
"I don’t know," he says. "But I’m glad it did."
Jake looks at him then, really looks, like he’s memorizing every part of his face.
"I think I started liking you the second you panicked over Jane Austen."
Heeseung laughs, but it catches in his throat.
"I thought you were laughing at me."
“Never." Jake’s voice is firm. "You were the best part of that week."
Heeseung doesn’t know what to say. So he says the only thing that feels real.
“I like you too."
Jake’s smile blooms slowly. Like sunlight through clouds.
"I’d like to kiss you"
“I’d like that too” Heeseung answers.
The kiss is gentle. No fireworks. No dramatic music.
Just warmth.
Fingers brushing knuckles.
Two hearts slowing down, finally in sync.
They’re not perfect.
Jake forgets to text sometimes. Heeseung overthinks. They both get shy about holding hands in public.
But they share playlists now. Study together more often. Exchange sleepy goodnights over the phone.
Heeseung writes a song.
It’s short—barely two minutes. Just vocals and an acoustic guitar. He uploads it anonymously to his private SoundCloud.
Jake finds it anyway.
"You wrote about us," he says one night, sitting next to Heeseung on a bench outside the music building.
Heeseung nods.
Jake leans his head on Heeseung’s shoulder.
“It sounds like a sunset."
Heeseung smiles.
"You are a sunset."
Jake groans.
"That was so cheesy."
"You love it."
"I love you."
It’s the first time either of them has said it.
Heeseung’s breath catches. He turns.
Jake is watching him with eyes full of warmth.
"I love you too."
They don’t kiss right away. They just sit there, holding onto each other, letting the silence speak.
Months pass.
Midterms come and go. Rain turns to snow. Jake brings hot cocoa instead of iced coffee.
Heeseung starts keeping a journal. Not lyrics. Just memories.
The first time Jake touched his hand under the table.
The rainy day Jake lent him his hoodie.
The kiss in the alcove where the light hit them just right.
One page is titled: “The Day I Knew.”
It’s blank for a while.
But one morning, as they sit in their usual library spot—Jake reading, Heeseung sketching song ideas—he writes:
I knew when he looked at me like we had our own chapter in the middle of someone else’s story.
I knew because it felt like coming home.
I knew because he made silence feel like music.
Jake finds the journal later.
Adds one line at the bottom of that page.
“Me too.”
And that’s how their story stays—written not in grand declarations, but in small, quiet moments that feel like forever.