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01
Sehun likes studying at night. Not for the peace—though that’s part of it—but for the way the campus empties out and becomes his. The way the wind cuts sharper between buildings, how even the air in the hallways feels different, stripped bare of people and noise. He likes the clarity. The feeling that he’s not being watched, that he can just exist —in oversized hoodies and tired socks, half-curled over a printout of some godforsaken constitutional law case, highlighters bleeding slowly through the margins.
Tonight, he takes the long way to the student lounge. The main library closes early on Fridays, and the seminar rooms in the law building are booked out for a mock trial prep. So he walks.
And passes the glass-walled dance studio.
Again. And, again. And again, the boy is there.
Stretching lazily, like he’s made of something liquid and indolent. One leg pulled high over a barre, head tilted back, neck too long. Sweat clinging to the nape. Sehun catches a whiff of something in the air—floor polish and citrusy body spray, maybe. The scent’s faint, but weirdly sharp. He forgets, for a second, that he’s in the middle of reviewing a 2003 Supreme Court decision.
His eyes linger longer than they should.
He doesn’t know the boy’s name. But he’s seen him twice before—once twirling in a hoodie three sizes too big, the other time lying on the ground in the middle of a cool-down stretch, staring up at the ceiling like it had answers to things.
Sehun tells himself it’s nothing. That he’s just curious, in the same detached way you’d be if a bird flew into a convenience store. A little unusual. A little funny. But not important.
Still, he walks a little slower past the window.
Still, he ends up rereading the same paragraph three times later, head full of the way that boy’s spine curved during a backbend, of long fingers adjusting earbuds, of the soft blur of motion reflected on glass.
He tells himself he’s just distracted.
That’s all.
02
He shows up again.
Not in the dance studio this time, but near the law building.
Sehun spots him on Tuesday—upside down on one of the benches outside the moot court hall, legs hooked over the backrest, a bag of chips balanced on his stomach like he’s defying both gravity and common sense. He’s humming something tuneless. Doesn’t even look up when Sehun passes.
The next day, he’s seated on the stairs with a banana milk in one hand and his phone in the other, nodding along to something only he can hear. He looks up just as Sehun glances over.
Nods.
Like that’s normal. Like they know each other.
Sehun keeps walking.
On Thursday, he’s there again. This time sitting properly, thank god, but tossing popcorn into his own mouth like it’s a sport. He misses half. Some land on the floor. He doesn’t seem to care.
Sehun tries not to stare.
It’s starting to feel intentional.
Not the staring. The boy.
Like he’s showing up on purpose.
Sehun doesn’t like that.
(He kind of does.)
He tells himself the boy’s probably just got friends in the law department. Or maybe likes the vending machines in this building better. Or maybe the universe is just stupid and random.
Still, it bothers him a little when the bench is empty on Friday.
Weird.
Not that he’s keeping track.
03
G25 at the corner of the law building isn’t glamorous. The fluorescent lighting flickers sometimes. It hums. There’s always someone microwaving something questionable. Sehun usually drops by after a late class, around 10:30 PM, when the air is quiet and the city feels like it’s winding down. He likes that liminal stillness: the cold plastic of the triangle kimbap rack under his fingers, the hum of the beer fridge, the way his reflection in the glass door always looks more tired than he feels.
Tonight, though, there’s someone else there.
The boy. The one from the dance studio.
He’s crouched in front of the ice cream freezer, flipping between convenience store-exclusive flavors like he’s deciding his fate. Oversized hoodie swallowing his frame, hair damp from a recent shower or rehearsal. His socks are mismatched—one green, one pink—and he’s still somehow making it look intentional.
Sehun almost turns around.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he walks in with the faintest nod. The boy glances up, meets his eyes, and smiles like they’re already friends. Like this is normal. Like he’s been waiting.
“You like the red bean bungeoppang?” the boy asks, nodding at the pastry Sehun always buys.
Sehun freezes. “I… yeah.”
“Huh,” the boy grins, and grabs a vanilla cone. “You give off green tea energy.”
“What does that even mean?”
The boy shrugs, already walking up to the counter. “You look like someone who pretends to hate sweet things but secretly hoards them in your dorm.”
Sehun wants to deny it. He doesn’t.
At the counter, the boy pays for both of their snacks like it’s nothing. “It’s on me,” he says casually. “You looked like you needed a break from whatever 500-page PDF you were reading.”
“…how do you know I’m reading that?”
“I sit near the law building sometimes,” the boy says. “You always look like you’re mentally yelling at a fictional judge.”
Sehun blinks. “You’re observant.”
“I’m a dancer,” he says, as if that explains everything. “We notice posture. Movement. Vibes.”
“Vibes,” Sehun repeats dryly.
The boy just grins, sticks out a hand, still holding the ice cream with the other. “I’m Jongin.”
Sehun hesitates for a beat too long, then shakes it.
“Sehun.”
The name fits strangely in the air between them. Like a leaf caught mid-fall.
“Nice to finally meet you,” Jongin says, voice warm. “I've been waiting for the right moment.”
“Waiting?” Sehun raises a brow.
“To say hi without it being weird.”
“This is weird.”
“Yeah,” Jongin agrees, already biting into his cone. “But vibes .”
They walk out together into the chill of late spring air, Jongin's ice cream melting down his fingers. Sehun doesn’t offer a tissue. He figures Jongin wouldn't use it anyway.
He doesn’t know it yet, but Jongin will become a fixture in his life. Like the buzzing of the G25 lights. Like the smell of rain on concrete after rehearsals. Like the quiet thrum of music leaking from a dance studio down the hall.
But for now, they just walk side by side, not talking, sharing the same air like it's enough.
04
Sehun doesn’t know why he keeps noticing.
It starts small. Jongin’s name in the attendance list of a shared elective. A hoodie flung over a studio bench with a tangled pair of wired earphones dangling out. A flash of familiar laughter echoing down the hallway of the student union, where dance majors cluster in clumps, always stretching, always in motion.
Sehun’s not used to paying attention like this.
His world is usually quiet. Schedules, precision. The comforting click of ballpoint pens, highlighters lined up like sentinels. But now it’s like Jongin’s presence has shifted something in the axis of his day-to-day.
Like today, for example.
He's in the library, third floor—law reference section, tucked into a corner where nobody goes unless they're desperate. He has a final in two weeks, a mountain of readings, and a half-written outline mocking him from the top of his laptop screen.
And yet—
He keeps glancing toward the window.
Jongin’s outside. Lying on the grass, limbs spread dramatically like he’s auditioning to be an abstract sculpture. His notebook is open on his chest, his mouth moving as he mouths choreography or lyrics or maybe both. There’s music leaking faintly from a tiny Bluetooth speaker. Sehun recognizes the song: something wordless and echoey, like a memory trying to take shape.
He doesn’t realize he’s been watching for ten minutes until Jongin suddenly sits up and looks directly at him.
Dead. Eye. Contact.
Sehun jerks back so fast his chair creaks.
When he dares to peek again, Jongin’s waving.
And then: texting?
Sehun blinks at his phone, which vibrates a moment later. He doesn't remember giving Jongin his number. Then again, Jongin has a habit of appearing where he’s least expected and most disruptive.
[Unknown]: u looked like u were gonna combust. library is a crime against dancers
[Unknown]: wanna get iced tea with me? i’ll even let u pretend u hate it
Sehun stares at the messages. Then at the window. Jongin’s still looking up at him, hand shading his eyes.
He replies before he can overthink:
[Sehun]: you're paying
[Jongin]: u wound me 😔
[Sehun]: and you're walking. i'm not going back down four flights.
[Jongin]: i’m already on the stairs
Sure enough, three minutes later, Jongin appears at the edge of the law section like he belongs there. Like it's perfectly normal to come pluck a law major out of his study session on a Tuesday afternoon.
“Hi,” Jongin grins, slightly breathless. “You looked tragic.”
“I was studying,” Sehun says, gathering his things. “Like a functional adult.”
Jongin snorts. “No one functional color-codes their tabs.”
They head out together, shoulders brushing once, twice, as they walk down the sidewalk toward the cafe near the back gate. Sehun doesn’t pull away.
Jongin buys the tea, as promised. Peach oolong for him, lemon for Sehun. They sit by the window, sunlight slanting in.
“You’re not as uptight as I thought,” Jongin says casually, sipping his drink.
“And you’re more annoying than I anticipated,” Sehun retorts.
But he’s smiling when he says it.
05
The library, like all broke cliché college kids, becomes their place.
Not because it’s romantic. Not because they ever said it out loud. But because midterms hit like a freight train, and suddenly Sehun is camped out at the same window seat on the third floor every night until 3AM, surrounded by towers of textbooks and the graveyard of convenience store caffeine.
And Jongin—somehow, inexplicably—just starts showing up.
At first it’s small things. A honey butter chip bag slid across the table without a word. A canned coffee nudged toward his hand while Sehun is too deep into tort law to notice the world burning. Then Jongin starts staying.
Not to study, not really. He brings his own things—earbuds, a stretch band, sometimes a dog-eared notebook—but mostly he just exists beside Sehun, loose-limbed and quiet in the dim fluorescent light. He stretches under the table, legs pushing out until his toes nudge Sehun’s shin. Sometimes he hums under his breath. Once, he falls asleep with his head pillowed on a rolled-up hoodie, fingers twitching like he’s dancing even in dreams.
Sehun doesn't mind.
It’s weird. He should. He used to hate people hovering. But Jongin doesn’t hover—he lingers, like music in the background or the low buzz of a vending machine. Steady. Comforting. A new part of the night.
They don’t always talk. Sometimes hours pass in silence, Jongin upside down in his chair or scribbling something unreadable in the margins of his planner, while Sehun highlights his way through administrative law like he’s preparing for war.
But sometimes Jongin says things like: “Do you think time feels slower when you're miserable, or is it just college?”
And Sehun, without looking up, replies, “College is a time loop. You die, but with a GPA.”
Jongin grins at that. Grins a lot, actually.
Sometimes they share earbuds. Sehun pretends not to notice when their arms brush. Jongin pretends not to notice when Sehun saves the green tea Choco Pie for him.
They don’t call it hanging out, but they are friends.
06
One night, Sehun shows up at the dance studio instead of the library.
Jongin’s practicing alone, as usual. The building’s mostly dark except for the one room on the third floor that always smells like sweat and peppermint muscle spray. His speaker’s playing something soft, something with a steady beat that’s almost hypnotic. He’s mid-spin when he sees Sehun in the mirror—leaning against the doorframe, hoodie too big and eyes heavy.
“You okay?” Jongin asks, catching the end of the phrase and running a hand through his hair, sweat curling behind his ear.
Sehun nods and slides down the wall, backpack thudding to the floor. “Couldn’t focus. Too much noise in my head.”
Jongin doesn’t say anything, just switches tracks and keeps moving. Sehun watches, eyes tracking each glide, each effortless shift of weight like he’s trying to memorize the way Jongin moves through the world. And maybe he is.
Eventually, Jongin stops. Drops onto the mat beside Sehun, chest heaving, shirt clinging to him in damp patches. He grabs his water bottle and downs half of it in one go. Sehun’s next to him now, not saying anything, just watching—like he always does.
At some point, Jongin feels the room go still behind him—not just quiet, but soft . He turns, and there’s Sehun, fast asleep on the edge of the studio mat.
Correction: not just the mat. His head is in Jongin’s lap.
Jongin freezes. He’s still catching his breath, shirt sticking to his back, heart pounding from the dance or the proximity or both. Sehun’s face is tilted toward him, cheeks faintly flushed, lips parted just slightly. Completely unguarded.
He hadn’t even noticed him move. His hand hovers awkwardly in the air for a second—like he’s not sure whether to move, to adjust, to wake him. But he doesn’t do any of those things. Jongin can feel the weight of him now, both literal and not, and it settles into his lap like something ancient and delicate.
So he stays like that.
When Sehun finally stirs—an hour later, maybe two—he blinks up at Jongin with the kind of confusion people wear after dreaming something real.
“You stayed?” he mumbles, voice raspy.
“I was kind of trapped,” Jongin grins, tapping his own thigh. “You’re heavier than you look.”
Sehun flushes, but doesn’t move immediately. He rubs his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, then looks at Jongin like he’s still deciding whether this is a dream.
And Jongin—still soft, still warm from the quiet of it all—says:
“Wanna go to the spring festival with me?”
07
Sehun complains the whole walk the cherry blossom festival. Says he has readings. Says it’s allergy season. Says he’s going to sue if he sneezes. But he never pulls his arm away when Jongin loops it through his.
The park is a blur of soft petals and crowded booths and overpriced snacks. Jongin eats three sticks of hotteok in a row and tries to get Sehun to pose for pictures under the blossoms. Sehun refuses. Jongin takes them anyway.
Later, Sehun finds petals between the pages of his admin law book. More than once. At first he thinks it’s just wind. Then he opens a textbook to a folded page and finds one pressed flat—neatly folded like it had been tucked there on purpose.
Jongin just shrugs when asked. “They’re prettier than your highlighter.”
That’s not the only thing.
Sehun starts noticing stuff. Subtle things.
Like how his chapstick keeps going missing. Not his—Jongin’s. The same blue tube Jongin always forgets in classrooms or between couch cushions. The one Sehun started keeping in his own pencil pouch, without really thinking about it. Jongin doesn’t even ask for it back anymore. Just reaches over and takes it from him whenever his lips are dry, then drops it right back into Sehun’s hands like it belongs there.
Or how Jongin always stretches out on Sehun’s floor when he visits, but now he’s bringing his own blanket. Sehun recognizes it—fuzzy, warm, smells like Jongin. It somehow makes his apartment feel less cold, like spring's finally crept inside.
Or how Jongin’s phone background changes—first to a photo of cherry blossoms. Then to one of the blurry shots he took of Sehun beneath them.
Sehun pretends not to notice.
He still calls Jongin annoying. Still threatens to shove him into traffic when he steals fries. Still acts like nothing’s different. But he starts answering Jongin’s texts faster. Starts remembering which nights he has practice. Starts saving half his sandwich during lunch without being asked.
And neither of them are quite ready to say it out loud. So instead, they keep slipping things quietly into each other’s lives.
Petals. Chapstick. Time.
And each time, it means a little more.
08
It’s 2:13 a.m. and Jongin is on the verge of a full breakdown over a group project he should’ve started three days ago.
The PowerPoint is a disaster. The fonts are inconsistent. One of his group mates wrote “capitalism is cringe” in slide six and forgot to delete it. The presentation is in six hours. Jongin has eaten nothing but banana milk and stress for the past twelve hours.
Sehun finds him in the dorm lounge, hunched over his laptop like he’s mourning it.
"You look like a soggy raccoon,” Sehun says. Jongin flips him off without looking up.
Still, Sehun sits down beside him and starts reading through the slides. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t scold. Just casually starts editing bullet points, fixing transitions, changing “capitalsim” to “capitalism,” muttering sarcastic commentary the whole time.
At some point, Jongin goes limp against the couch, hoodie up, eyes dead.
“I’m gonna drop out,” he says into the void. “Join a dance cult. Open a tofu shop in Busan. Vanish.”
Sehun, still typing, glances at him. “You can’t even handle spicy tteokbokki. You’ll die in Busan.”
Jongin groans. Then flops his hood up even higher, until it covers most of his face. His nose is red. His cheeks are pink from embarrassment or exhaustion or both.
That’s when Sehun reaches over. Calmly, with one hand, he pulls the drawstrings of Jongin’s hoodie. Slowly, deliberately, until the fabric scrunches up around Jongin’s face like a dumpling, his mouth the only thing still visible.
“What are you doing,” Jongin mumbles through it, voice muffled. “I look like a sock puppet.”
Sehun shrugs. “Good. You’re annoying.”
Then—without giving him time to react—Sehun leans in.
And kisses him. Right there. Right on Jongin’s dumb, stressed-out, sock-puppet mouth.
Once. Then again. And again.
Quick, soft kisses, like punctuation. Like a reward. Like muscle memory.
Jongin doesn’t move at first—just blinks, wide-eyed, lips still slightly parted under the scrunched-up hoodie. Then his breath catches. His fingers twitch. And when Sehun finally pulls back, Jongin is flushed down to his neck, hoodie still cinched like he’s been gift-wrapped.
“You kissed me,” he says dumbly.
“You’re welcome,” Sehun says. Like it's nothing. Like it's obvious. Like it isn’t the beginning of something about to split both of them open.
Jongin is still staring.
“Say thank you,” Sehun mutters.
Jongin opens his mouth. Then closes it.
Then: “Can you do it again?”
Sehun does.
After he clicks Save on Jongin’s presentation.
09
It’s late again. Same kind of night. Same sharp wind, same empty campus.
Sehun’s walking home from the library, hands tucked in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill. Finals are coming up. He’s already knee-deep in constitutional law hell. But his brain’s stopped absorbing anything useful, and the vending machine ate his last ₩1000 bill, and he figured—well.
He figured Jongin might still be around.
Sure enough, when he rounds the corner, the studio lights are still on. Not the harsh fluorescents—just the low ones, the soft kind they leave on for cool-down stretches and late-night wanderers. Through the glass, he sees Jongin on the floor, half-asleep against his bag, hoodie bunched under his head like a pillow. One leg is still stretched out like he’d been mid-split and forgot to finish.
Sehun pushes the door open with his shoulder. Doesn’t say anything right away. Jongin cracks one eye open anyway.
“Hey,” he mumbles, voice a little rough.
Sehun drops his tote by the door. “Hey, babe.”
He walks over, crouches down beside him, and tugs gently on Jongin’s ankle. “You’re gonna wake up with a cramp if you sleep like that.”
Jongin groans, flopping sideways. “Worth it.”
Sehun settles beside him, back against the mirror, legs stretched out. Jongin shifts, curls into his side without needing to be asked. It’s easy now. Comfortable.
“Did you finish the reading?” Jongin asks, muffled against Sehun’s hoodie.
“No. Gave up. Thought I’d find you instead.”
“Aw. Romantic.”
“Shut up.”
Jongin laughs, quiet and pleased. He reaches up blindly, catches Sehun’s sleeve, and tugs until their fingers find each other somewhere in the middle.
They sit like that for a while. Eventually, Jongin shifts again. “You hungry?”
“Starving.”
“There’s still kimbap in my bag.”
Sehun kisses his hair. “Love of my life.”