Chapter Text
The fluorescent hum of the university library was a sound Han Jisung usually found comforting—a steady, white-noise blanket that muffled the chaotic racing of his own thoughts. It was late Tuesday, the kind of hour where the air felt heavy with the scent of old paper and the ozone of overworked laptops. Jisung sat tucked into a corner cubicle on the third floor, his headphones around his neck, staring at a staff paper that was currently more eraser shavings than actual notes.
The composition for his Advanced Theory class was due in forty-eight hours, and the melody he wanted—something airy but grounded—kept slipping through his fingers like sand. He sighed, leaning back until his chair creaked, rubbing his eyes.
"You look like you're trying to communicate with the dead," a voice whispered harshly.
Jisung jumped, his pen skittering across the desk. He looked up to see Hyunjin leaning over the partition, his long hair tied back in a messy half-up bun, a smudge of charcoal dusting his jawline. Behind him, Jeongin stood with his arms crossed, looking remarkably put together for eleven at night, wearing a beige cardigan that made him look every bit the primary education major he was.
"I'm communicating with my GPA," Jisung hissed back, though he was secretly relieved by the distraction. "It’s currently in critical condition."
"Well, stop performing CPR on a dead song and come get coffee," Hyunjin said, reaching over to dramatically snatch Jisung’s glasses off his face. "You’ve been in this cubicle so long you’re starting to smell like one of those old, dusty books."
"Give those back, Jinnie," Jisung groaned, squinting at the blurry version of his best friend.
"Not until you agree to move. Jeongin, tell him he’s being a hermit."
Jeongin stepped forward, a playful, sharp glint in his eyes. "He’s right, hyung. If you stay here any longer, the janitors might accidentally wax you into the floor." He reached out, his hand lingering on the back of Hyunjin’s neck, a casual, grounding touch that made Hyunjin immediately lean back into him, preening like a cat.
"See? Even Innie is worried," Hyunjin cooed, turning his head to press a quick, loud kiss to Jeongin’s cheek.
Jeongin made a face of pure, theatrical disgust, pushing Hyunjin’s face away with one hand, though he didn't move his other hand from Hyunjin's waist. "Ugh, stop it. We’re in public. Have some shame."
"You love me," Hyunjin chirped, finally handing Jisung his glasses.
"I'm considering a trade-in," Jeongin deadpanned, but the way his ears turned slightly pink gave him away.
Jisung watched them, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. This was their rhythm—Hyunjin’s explosive, colorful affection meeting Jeongin’s quiet, steady endurance. It made the world feel solid. He packed his bag, the weight of his laptop and notebooks a familiar burden, and followed them out into the cool night air of the campus.
As they walked toward the 24-hour cafe, the campus was mostly empty. The streetlamps cast long, overlapping shadows across the brick paths. Jisung trailed slightly behind the couple, watching Hyunjin try to hold Jeongin’s hand while Jeongin stubbornly kept his hands in his pockets, only to eventually give in and lace their fingers together with a suppressed grin.
Jisung felt a strange prickle at the base of his neck. It wasn't a chill—the evening was mild—but rather a sudden, inexplicable sense of being watched. He stopped, adjusting his bag strap, and looked back toward the music building. The windows were dark, reflecting the moonlight. Nothing moved. A stray cat darted under a parked car.
"Jisung? You coming?" Felix called out. The blonde boy was already waiting at the cafe entrance, waving a hand. He’d come straight from the dance studio, his sweatpants baggy and his voice still raspy from a long rehearsal.
"Yeah! Sorry," Jisung shouted, shaking off the feeling. It was just the caffeine and the lack of sleep. Brains did weird things when they were starved of sleep.
Inside the cafe, the atmosphere was warm and smelled of roasted beans and cinnamon. They settled into a corner booth—Felix and Jisung on one side, Hyunjin and Jeongin squeezed together on the other.
"You okay, Sung?" Felix asked softly, his perceptive eyes scanning Jisung’s face. Felix had a way of looking at people that made them feel completely seen. "You look a bit jumpy."
"Just the composition," Jisung lied, taking a grateful sip of the iced Americano Hyunjin had ordered for him. "I feel like someone's standing behind me every time I try to write a bridge."
"That's just the Ghost of Music Theory Past," Hyunjin joked, stealing a sip of Jeongin’s drink while the younger boy was busy looking at his phone. "He hates C-major. Try a flat key."
"Don't encourage his paranoia," Jeongin said, swatting Hyunjin’s straw away. "But seriously, hyung, don't overwork yourself. You’ve been staying at the library later than usual."
"I'm fine, really," Jisung insisted. "I’ll finish the draft tomorrow and then I’m a free man."
They spent the next hour falling into their usual banter. Felix talked about a new contemporary piece he was learning that required him to basically "become water," which Hyunjin tried to imitate with a series of dramatic, floppy arm movements that nearly knocked over a sugar shaker. Jeongin told a story about a kid in his practicum class who had tried to eat a crayon because it "smelled like purple," and the laughter that followed felt like a shield against the quiet darkness outside.
When they finally parted ways at the dorm junction, Jisung felt lighter. He walked the final ten minutes to his small off-campus apartment, humming the melody that had finally clicked into place during the walk.
His apartment building was an older walk-up, the stairs creaking under his sneakers. He reached his door, fumbling for his keys in the dark hallway. As he pulled them out, something white caught his eye.
Tucked into the crack of his doorframe was a small, square piece of paper.
Jisung frowned. Probably a flyer for a pizza place or a dry cleaner. He pulled it out and stepped inside his apartment, kicking his shoes off and flicking on the light.
It wasn't a flyer. It was a heavy, high-quality cardstock note. There was no writing on the outside. He flipped it over.
In neat, precise, and almost beautiful handwriting, a single sentence was written:
The bridge should stay in minor; it suits the way you sigh when you’re tired.
Jisung’s heart didn't race, not yet. Instead, it felt like a cold drop of water had slid down his spine. He looked at the note, then back at his locked door. He hadn't told anyone about the bridge of his song except his friends, and even then, he’d only mentioned it minutes ago. But the note—it felt like it had been there for hours.
"Just a coincidence," he whispered to the empty room. "Maybe I muttered it out loud in the library."
He tossed the note onto his kitchen counter and went to bed, but as he drifted off, he couldn't shake the image of that precise handwriting. It looked like someone had taken a long time to make sure every letter was perfect.
From the shadow of the alcove across the street, the world looked a little different. The apartment building was a grid of glowing yellow squares. Minho stood perfectly still, his black hoodie pulled up just enough to shade his eyes, but not enough to look suspicious to a casual passerby. He wasn't a casual passerby, though. He was a ghost who wanted to break into the ordinary that characterized Jisung's life.
He watched the light in the third-floor window flicker on. He pictured Jisung standing there, the way he always did, dropping his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door—the one with the chipped edge that Jisung never bothered to fix.
Minho reached into his pocket and touched the edge of a similar piece of cardstock. He imagined the moment Jisung found the note. He imagined the slight furrow in Jisung’s brow, the way his lower lip would stick out in that adorable pout he had when he was confused. It was a beautiful expression—puzzled, vulnerable, raw.
He had watched Jisung in the library for three hours tonight. He had sat four rows back, hidden behind a stack of oversized art history books, watching the way Jisung’s fingers tapped rhythms on the desk. He knew Jisung liked to chew on the end of his pen when he was stuck. He knew that when Jisung got frustrated, he ran his hands through his hair until it stood up in messy tufts.
Minho didn't want to hurt him. The thought of Jisung in pain was actually quite distasteful. No, he wanted to understand him. He wanted to be the silent witness to the parts of Jisung that the loud, flamboyant friends didn't see. He saw the way Jisung’s smile faded the second his friends turned away, replaced by a quiet, contemplative exhaustion. That was the Jisung Minho loved. The quiet one. The one who belonged to the night.
Minho watched the third-floor light turn off. He waited exactly ten minutes, making sure the darkness stayed dark.
"Rest well, Jisungie," Minho murmured into the cool air. "Tomorrow, we’ll try something a little brighter."
He turned and walked away, his footsteps silent, disappearing into the city as if he had never been there at all.
Wednesday morning arrived with a layer of grey clouds and the persistent smell of rain. Jisung woke up feeling groggy, the note from the night before sitting on his mind like a lead weight. When he looked at it again in the morning light, it seemed less ominous and more like a weird prank.
"Maybe Felix did it," Jisung muttered, shoving the note into a kitchen drawer. "He’s the only one who would go to the trouble of using nice paper for a joke."
He headed to his 9:00 AM Harmony class, the rhythm of campus life slowly erasing his unease. Between classes, he met Hyunjin in the student union. Hyunjin was currently covered in blue paint, looking distressed as he tried to scrub a spot off his forearm.
"It’s permanent, Jisung. My skin is going to be blue forever. I’m becoming an Avatar," Hyunjin wailed, though his eyes were darting around to see if anyone was watching his performance.
"It’s acrylic, Jinnie. Just use some oil or soap," Jisung said, leaning against the table. "Where's Jeongin?"
"Library. He has a test on child developmental stages. He told me if I didn't stop humming while he was studying, he was going to put me in a 'time out,'" Hyunjin pouted. "He’s taking his major too seriously. I’m a grown ass man and I’m technically older than him. I don't need a time out."
"You definitely do," a new voice joined. Felix slid into the chair next to them, smelling like laundry detergent and orange juice. "I saw the video Jeongin posted of you dancing with the mop in the studio. You were definitely being a 'distraction.'"
Jisung laughed, the sound bright and easy. This was normal. This was safe. They talked about their weekend plans—a movie night at Felix’s place, maybe some karaoke if they could convince Jeongin to sing.
"Oh, by the way," Jisung said, trying to keep his voice casual. "Lix, did you leave a note on my door last night? About my music?"
Felix tilted his head, his brow furrowing. "No? I went straight home after coffee. Why? Did someone leave you a fan letter?"
Jisung felt a small prick of coldness return. "No, just... some weird feedback. Probably just a classmate messing with me."
"A classmate who knows where you live?" Hyunjin asked, his playfulness dropping for a second as he looked at Jisung. "That's a bit weird, isn't it?"
"I mean, I’ve had people over for group projects," Jisung shrugged, though he couldn't remember the last time he’d hosted a study session. "It’s probably nothing. Forget I mentioned it."
The day continued. A boring lecture on 18th-century counterpoint, a quick lunch of convenience store kimbap, and a rehearsal session. By the time 4:00 PM rolled around, Jisung was heading back to his apartment to drop off his books before meeting the guys for dinner.
As he approached his building, he noticed something sitting on the bottom step of the staircase.
It was a small, brown paper bag, neatly folded at the top. A single wildflower—a yellow wood sorrel—was tucked into the fold.
Jisung’s heart gave a slow, heavy thud. He looked around. The street was busy with students and residents, everyone moving with purpose. No one was looking at him.
He reached down and picked up the bag. It was light. He opened it.
Inside was a single, perfect cheesecake tart from the bakery three blocks away—the one Jisung always lingered in front of but rarely entered because it was too expensive. Underneath the tart was another piece of that heavy white cardstock.
You skipped breakfast again. You shouldn't compose on an empty stomach. It makes your melodies too sharp.
Jisung didn't eat the tart. He walked up to his apartment, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. He locked the door—deadbolt and chain—and leaned his back against the wood.
The note wasn't a joke. It wasn't a classmate. Someone was watching his habits. Someone knew he’d skipped breakfast. Someone knew he liked that specific bakery.
He pulled out his phone to call Hyunjin, his thumb hovering over the contact. But then he stopped. What would he say? Someone gave me a free cheesecake and a polite note? He would think he was being dramatic. Hyunjin would make a joke about secret admirers, and Jeongin would tell him to be careful but probably wouldn't think it was a crisis.
He looked at the tart. It looked delicious. It looked kind.
And that was the most terrifying part.
Minho sat on the polished wooden floor of one of the campus dance studios, taking a shaky breath after the nth routine he had run through that afternoon. His muscles ached and sweat clung to his skin, but he didn’t mind—he barely noticed, lost in thought. He bent over to tie the strings of his shoes, the familiar scrape of fabric against fabric grounding him for a moment. The faint echo of music lingered in the empty studio, bouncing off the mirrors and walls. But his mind was three blocks away, in a locked apartment.
He knew Jisung was scared. He had seen the way Jisung’s shoulders had bunched up when he picked up the bag. He had seen the way Jisung had scanned the street, his eyes wide and dark like a startled deer.
Minho felt a pang of something like guilt, but it was quickly overwritten by a surge of affection. He just wanted Jisung to take care of himself. The boy was so careless with his own well-being. He stayed up too late, he ate poorly, he gave too much of himself to his friends and left nothing for his own soul.
Minho told himself he was just balancing the scales.
He leaned back against the mirrored wall of the studio, cool glass pressing into his shoulders. Without meaning to, his fingers tapped out a familiar rhythm against the floor—one Jisung always hummed under his breath when he was nervous, barely loud enough to notice unless you were listening for it. Minho closed his eyes, held onto that small detail, and let it ground him for a moment longer
He wasn't a stranger, Minho reasoned. A stranger wouldn't know that Jisung’s favorite color wasn't actually green, but the specific shade of blue the sky turned just before a thunderstorm. A stranger wouldn't know that Jisung hummed when he was nervous.
He was the only one who truly saw Jisung. And soon, very slowly, Jisung would start to see him too. Not as a threat, but as a necessity. A constant.
Minho smiled, a small, private thing, and went back to dancing the same choreo he had been practicing for hours.