Archive of Our Own

The first punch hurt like hell.

There was nothing elegant about it. Much less cinematic. Just his fist flying crooked, full of badly aimed rage, crashing into the other guy’s cheekbone with a dull sound that vibrated all the way up to his shoulder.

Minho didn’t even register the pain.

The senior fell backward like a badly stacked sack, taking a chair down with him. The metal hit the floor hard. The shouts sounded muffled. Someone had said his name. Everything sounded far away.

Minho moved before thinking.

A hand grabbed his shoulder. He shook it off like it burned. He slipped a little on the waxed floor, but he didn’t stop. His chest was burning from the inside, full of that horrible mix of late guilt and old anger that never really went away.

The first thing he saw was blood.

Not much. Just a dark line running from the guy’s nose to his lip.

It wasn’t enough to stop him.

The second punch was worse. Badly calculated and straight to the jaw. His knuckles exploded in pain instantly, but he was already too deep to stop.

The world grew small. Ragged breathing. People running. Voices calling for a teacher. Bodies colliding.

Minho didn’t know when it stopped being just the two of them.

Someone clung to his chest, arms wrapping around his torso. A broken voice shouting in his ear.

“Minho, stop, please!”

Jeongin.

He turned his head and there he was—pale, shaking. His eyes huge, fixed on him as if he were watching him fall apart in real time.

And something inside Minho deflated. Just like that. All at once. Like someone had punctured his chest.

The rage drained away, leaving only the burning in his knuckles, open skin throbbing, aching ribs, and a stiff neck.

“Lee Minho, my office! Now!”

Great.

The hallway emptied in seconds. Minho looked at Jeongin one last time and made a clumsy gesture with his head. Go. Run. Don’t look back.

Jeongin hesitated for a second. Then he left, almost jogging.

Minho followed the principal with his head down, holding his ribs, touching his cheekbone carefully. His hands were shaking. The adrenaline was still buzzing in his blood.

He dropped into the chair in front of the desk.

He sighed.

He wasn’t going to apologize. Or beg. Or explain a damn thing.

The principal looked at him like he had just lost something valuable. He clasped his hands together and shook his head. He said words like “disappointment” and “unacceptable behavior.”

Minho listened… more or less.

“Do you intend to apologize to your classmate?”

Silence.

The principal shook his head again and wrote something on a post-it that Minho didn’t even bother to read.

“Five weeks of detention. You have a clean record, so consider this… mercy.”

Minho nodded, but his brain shut down right after hearing “five weeks.”

He paid attention again when he heard:

“Library.”

Of course it had to be there. The universe personally hates me.

They both left the office. He saw the other asshole lurking in the hallway and clenched his jaw. He was half a second away from lunging at him again.

A firm hand stopped him by the shoulder.

“The library is at the end of the hall.”

Minho didn’t answer.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and dragged his feet, muttering insults under his breath while feeling the stares burning into his back. Whispers and poorly hidden laughter.

He rolled his eyes.

When he reached the worn white door, he stopped to breathe. He didn’t want to cause another scene.

Even though knowing he was in there made his stomach twist.

He opened the door with bad temper, and the smell of old books and dust wrapped around him. The silence inside was calm—too calm for someone who had just smashed another student’s face in.

The librarian greeted him with a soft smile. Minho handed her the post-it like it was a court sentence.

“Don’t be embarrassed, dear. You’re neither the first nor the last to come here for this," she set the paper aside and slowly stood up. “Wait here for a moment.”

He followed her with his eyes until she disappeared between the shelves.

Minho looked around distractedly until he saw a red backpack full of music and anime keychains behind the desk.

His stomach dropped.

Oh, fuck.

The woman came back, but she wasn’t alone. Jisung walked beside her, shoulders slightly hunched, biting his lower lip, playing with the sleeves of his blazer.

“This is Han Jisung, my faithful assistant,” she said. “I’m a bit too old for this, so he’ll explain everything to you. Won’t you, sweetheart?”

Jisung smiled warmly at her and nodded. He picked up a clipboard and stood next to Minho, leaving a careful distance between them.

Minho lifted his eyes to Jisung’s dark ones, searching for some kind of emotion. There was nothing. They were completely empty—no anger, no reproach.

That hurt more.

“You can pick up the books scattered on the tables and place them on this cart,” he gestured vaguely at it with his head. “Bring it here when you’re done.”

His voice was neutral, professional. There was no hint of emotion in the way he spoke. Minho had expected something—a look, a reproach, a gesture.

So when he saw him walk away without looking back or saying anything else, he sighed bitterly. Minho stayed there with the cart, feeling like something had just punched him straight in the gut.

Shit.

He worked in silence. He cursed when he realized there was a second floor. He went up the stairs, carried books down, cursed the cart for not fitting, cursed the stairs. He cursed Jisung. He cursed his own existence.

When he returned to the desk, he noticed Jisung was alone. From a distance, he could see him writing, brushing stray hairs away from his face, adjusting his glasses when they slipped down the bridge of his nose.

He left the cart where he had taken it and leaned on the desk, resting his chin in his palm.

“I’m done. Is there anything else to do?”

Jisung didn’t even look up.

He moved from book to book, writing the date to confirm the return. He shook his head and kept working until he finished them all. Then he removed his glasses and looked at Minho indifferently.

“Take the cart to the back.”

While Minho did as told, he saw Jisung glance at his wristwatch. He wrinkled his nose slightly, his brows knitting together.

“The library’s closing soon, so I don’t think you’ll be able to do anything else,” he sighed.

Jisung saw the librarian come in and smiled at her.

“Mrs. Kang will tell you everything you need to know.”

Minho nodded, straightening up. “Thanks, Jisung.”

The only answer was a quiet sound in his throat and a nod that got lost in the constant movement of the teenager.

The woman waved him over, asking him to come closer. She handed him a paper with trembling hands, age to blame, covered in handwritten notes.

“Coming three times a week after lunch will be fine, dear.”

Minho felt warmth settle in his chest at her sweet smile.

“You can go home now. There’s nothing else to do here today.”

He bowed slightly and thanked her for her kindness. He picked up his black backpack and headed for the exit. When his hand reached the doorknob, he looked over his shoulder.

Jisung was laughing with the librarian. He looked comfortable, calm.

As if Minho not existing made him relax.

That discomfort twisted in his stomach again, making him feel sick. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but it didn’t feel like punishment.

Great. Just what I needed.

He shook his head and left the library.

✦ ✦ ✦

Minho let his head fall back with a long, dramatic sigh, as if that alone might fix his life.

He snapped the book shut and set it down on the table with more force than necessary.

Twenty minutes.

Twenty damn minutes rearranging the same row of books that had already been perfectly organized.

But he knew it wasn’t about the books.

It was because Jisung was there.

In the same library. Breathing the same air. Existing far too calmly for someone who was slowly turning him into an idiot.

Carefully, as if he were committing a crime, he glanced toward the counter.

There he was. Sitting beside Mrs. Kang, checking library cards.

Smiling.

That easy, bright, stupid smile that made Minho feel angry and want to walk over at the same time. His eyes curved slightly when he smiled, his cheeks dimpled, his hair fell nicely over his forehead as if the universe itself had styled it lovingly that morning.

Minho clenched his jaw.

Great. Now he’s cute.

“Jisung,” the librarian called. “Could you get volume three?”

The sound of his name floated through the library as if someone had said it in neon lights.

Minho froze. Literally froze with a book suspended in midair like an idiot. He held his breath without realizing it.

“Yeah, right away.”

His voice came out soft. It was nothing special, really—perfectly normal.

And yet it crawled down Minho’s spine like a bad omen.

Jisung walked between the shelves, eyes on his tablet, focused, with no intention whatsoever of looking at him.

Until, of course, the damn book was in the exact pile Minho was organizing.

“I need one from here,” he said.

Minho pulled his hands back as if the books had just burned his skin.

Jisung looked at him, confused, but didn’t make much of it. He rummaged quickly—too quickly—, found the book, and smiled a little, pleased with himself, before turning away.

And then Minho opened his mouth.

“Jisung.”

Bad idea.

Terrible idea.

Jisung stopped dead. Silence fell heavy and uncomfortable, filled with distant typing and the slow turning of pages.

“What?”

Jisung’s voice, unlike a few minutes earlier, came out dry, flat. As if Minho were part of the furniture.

Minho swallowed, feeling the heat climb up his neck, his ears, straight to his face. His mind went completely blank.

Great.

“Nothing… sorry.”

Jisung watched him for another second. There was something strange in his eyes. Something like pity, maybe. He scoffed softly and kept walking.

Minho dropped his forehead against the desk. The books next to him vibrated from the impact.

“I’m an idiot,” he muttered against the wood.

This was going to be hell.

And it was.

The following days were a collection of social failures. Every attempt at conversation ended in monosyllables. Every greeting died halfway through. Every excuse was executed without mercy.

That lasted until the third day of his sentence and his part-time job at the library. Unpaid, it should be noted.

Minho showed up holding a giant coffee, clinging to it like it was his last reason to live.

“You can’t come in with coffee.”

Jisung didn’t even look up when he said the sentence that destroyed all the happiness Minho had brought with him.

Minho froze.

“What?”

Jisung stamped a book, handed it to a girl, and shrugged. A small malicious smile could be seen if you squinted hard enough.

“Library rules.”

Minho looked at the cup sadly. Then at Jisung, longingly. Then at the cup again.

“But it’s an iced americano…”

“It’s still coffee.”

Minho sighed.

“I just bought it.”

Did he have no heart at all?

“Rules are rules.”

Without adding anything else, he turned back to his computer as if he hadn’t just crushed Minho’s dreams.

Minho set the cup on the counter and leaned forward.

“Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Minho gestured, searching for the right word. “Stickler.”

Jisung seemed to think about it for a second. Or maybe he just liked playing with the patience and sanity of the senior in front of him.

“No. Only here.”

Minho clicked his tongue.

“Great.”

He looked at the trash can, then back at his coffee. He sighed like someone accepting his fate. He knew there was no arguing with Han Jisung.

“Can I drink it outside?”

“You have five minutes,” Jisung said, looking back at him. “Or someone else will.”

Minho snorted softly, rolling his eyes. He offered him the cup.

Jisung shook his head and grabbed a ridiculous stack of bookmarks.

“I don’t like coffee.”

Minho leaned against the counter again, smiling slowly, looking at the teenager with determination.

“Your'e a liar.”

Jisung stopped halfway, snapped his head toward him, and raised an eyebrow.

“Was that an accusation?”

“A guess,” Minho shrugged. “Maybe I know a thing or two about you.”

Jisung made a pained face at that. He lowered his gaze to the bookmarks and sighed.

“My favorite is iced americano.”

Minho smiled before he could stop himself. He slid the cup across the counter and left it there, like a peace offering.

“I know.”

Jisung looked down.

But when Minho went back to his tasks, he swore—he fucking swore—that smile took far too long to disappear.

✦ ✦ ✦

To Minho’s surprise, the library was almost empty that afternoon.

Then again, thinking about it, it wasn’t that strange.

The rain was coming down hard. Thick drops struck the windows as if someone were throwing little stones from the sky, accompanied by gusts of wind that made the building creak.

It wasn’t exactly ideal weather to stay studying far from home when a dry bed and a hot drink were only one bus ride away.

He left his black backpack at a carefully respectful distance from Jisung’s red one. Too obvious, maybe. Too calculated, but he didn’t care.

He stretched half-heartedly, his back cracking a little, and then he saw him.

Jisung was sitting at the table in the back, bent over a pile of battered books. He had a roll of tape in his hand and the expression of someone who had accepted that this was his fate.

Minho went to the librarian first. She greeted him like always: wide smile, bright eyes, a vanilla cookie magically appearing on the counter, and a conspiratorial wink.

If anyone could break the library rules, it was her.

“What’s on the agenda today?” he asked, already chewing, because he had clear priorities in life.

“Not much. Take those damaged books to Jisung and then clean the desks on the second floor.”

Simple. Painfully simple.

He took the cart and began loading the books carefully, stacking them as if they were emotionally fragile too. Some on the bottom, others on top.

The cart squeaked like it was being slowly murdered.

Perfect.

Jisung looked up when he heard him approach.

“I regret to inform you that I bring more work,” Minho announced, stopping the cart next to the table.

Jisung nodded and went back to what he was doing, opening another book right where it was torn, as if he’d done it a thousand times before.

Minho stayed watching him longer than was reasonable. He felt something in his face soften without permission, as if his brain shut off its defense mechanisms every time Jisung was near.

He leaned against the table casually. Totally casual.

“What are you doing?”

Okay, he admitted it wasn’t the brightest question. I mean, he had him with a roll of tape right in front of him.

“Repairs.”

Straightforward. Painfully curt and formal.

Minho traced the edge of the table with his finger, uncomfortable. He still wasn’t used to Jisung talking as if every word cost money.

“And they can’t order new books?”

Jisung looked at him like he had just insulted his entire bloodline.

“Never. The last time I suggested that, the principal almost threw me out the window. There’s no budget, apparently.”

The dry, irony-loaded tone drew a laugh from Minho.

He sat down beside him, rested his cheek on his hand, and watched him work. Jisung seemed to be internally debating whether to say something or remain silent forever.

The rain kept pounding outside, constant, heavy.

It was strange how safe it felt in there—like an improvised shelter no one else seemed to notice.

“You defended that kid.”

Jisung’s voice was low, hesitant. Minho blinked, confused. Then realization hit him.

Of course. He had never explained anything. Only the librarian knew why he was there. And, well, rumors spread fast at that school.

His chest ached. It ached even more when he looked up and met Jisung’s eyes.

“Jeongin?”

“I guess.”

Minho shrugged and looked away.

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

Jisung closed the book he was fixing, not very carefully.

“That’s why you’re here. You were punished.”

“It was worth it.”

He said it without thinking too much about it. Chest forward and truth raw on his tongue.

Jisung watched him like he was solving an impossible equation. His gaze traveled slowly over Minho’s face, as if searching for a crack, a lie.

“Before… you weren’t like this.”

And there it was. The past hitting him straight in the ribs.

Minho tensed completely. Jaw tight, fists clenched, pulse racing. His body reacted before his mind, as if it were still trained to run.

He looked at his hands and swallowed hard, his throat stinging.

“I know.”

Jisung didn’t push.

Thank God.

Silence settled between them, heavy, uncomfortable, endless.

Minho watched his hands work: cutting tape, sealing edges, smoothing pages carefully. He did it with a sad kind of naturalness, like someone who’s spent too long fixing broken things no one else wants to repair.

He smiled without realizing it.

“It’s going to stick to your fingers.”

“It already has before.”

Minho let out a soft, fond laugh.

“You’ve got a piece right there.”

Jisung frowned and looked at his hand. Minho leaned in without thinking and carefully pulled the tape off.

Their fingers barely brushed, but it was enough. A sudden, fast, uncomfortable, dangerous jolt ran through them.

They both froze and looked at each other, eyes bare and vulnerable. There was too much there. Too many years. Too many unspoken words.

Jisung reacted first, clasping his hands over a book like a shield.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Jisung.”

And for the first time, when Minho smiled, Jisung didn’t look away.

✦ ✦ ✦

The second week of detention was already halfway through.

That wasn’t right.

Not right at all.

Minho had this constant feeling that time was slipping through his fingers—fast, careless, like someone had decided to speed up the world just to screw him over personally.

He truly understood it when he walked into the library and saw him.

Jisung was sitting on the floor, his back against a low bookshelf and a tower of books beside him, so unstable it looked like a direct threat to public safety. His earphones were hanging around his neck and he was absentmindedly biting the cap of his pen.

Minho felt something strange tighten in his chest.

He did what he always did.

He left his backpack next to Jisung’s—a little closer this time, thank God, real progress—, greeted the librarian, received his tasks for the day and a freshly baked sweet that probably violated at least five health regulations, but that he would never refuse.

He was shelving a few books when the idea began to form, slow and dangerous. Sit with him.

He froze for a second, considering running in the opposite direction and asking the librarian for any stupid task in the farthest corner of the building.

But he didn’t.

Jisung looked up when Minho stopped beside him, frowning slightly.

“You got here early.”

It didn’t sound like anything in particular. Not an accusation, not a compliment. Just a fact thrown into the air.

Minho stared at the books on the floor as if they held the secrets of the universe.

“Yeah. The cafeteria was empty.”

A blatant lie.

He had begged to eat earlier just to get there as soon as possible.

Jisung nodded and tilted his head toward the books.

“These are this week’s returns. We need to sort them by the spine code.”

Minho picked one up, ran his fingers over the worn edge, and read the code with some effort.

“Okay.”

He sat down beside him, measuring the distance like it was a minefield: noticeable, but not excessive. Totally casual.

For a few seconds, only the pages existed, and the dull sound of books touching the floor.

Jisung watched him from the corner of his eye. The way he held each book carefully, as if they were truly fragile. As if they could break if someone breathed too close to them.

When Minho looked up and met his eyes, Jisung cleared his throat and quickly went back to his task.

“The ‘H’ goes before the ‘K’.”

Minho looked at the books, searching for the mistake. Then at Jisung’s pile.

“I know. That’s what I’m doing.”

Jisung stared at the book in his hands. He could hear his own heart pounding in his ears. It was ridiculous, stupid, unbearable.

“Right…,” he murmured. “Good for you.”

Silence became something alive. It felt awkward. And that only made the heat rise.

Jisung squeezed his eyes shut. The warmth crawled up his back, all the way to his ears.

Minho, who wasn’t completely stupid, grabbed a random book and used it as an excuse.

“Is it always this busy on Tuesdays?”

Jisung shook his head without looking at him.

“Not this much.”

“Today it is.”

“I guess so.”

Minho watched him shamelessly.

His focused eyes, his lashes brushing his cheeks. That small, unconscious pout on his lips.

Fuck.

He cleared his throat.

“You cut your hair.”

Jisung touched his bangs, surprised by the comment.

“Huh? Yeah. My mom said I looked like Chewbacca.”

Minho let out a short laugh that he tried to hide behind his hand. He failed miserably. Jisung puffed out his cheeks, embarrassed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. It just… sounds like something my mom would say.”

Jisung nodded, like he was remembering something. A smile slowly appeared on his face.

“I think I’ve heard her say something similar.”

They looked at each other at that. Minho didn’t change that dazed, happy expression at the moment they were sharing.

But Jisung did.

And that was enough for Minho to understand he had touched exactly where it hurt.

Jisung went back to the books.

“The librarian gets grumpy when the codes are mixed up.”

Minho chuckled softly and tilted his head, amused.

“I’ve noticed.”

Jisung glanced around, searching for the older woman. When he didn’t see her nearby, he leaned toward Minho and whispered:

“Last week she made a sophomore cry.”

“Seriously?”

It simply seemed impossible that such a sweet woman could make anyone cry.

Jisung nodded with a mischievous smile.

“She told him he folded pages like a war criminal.”

Minho choked on his own laughter.

They looked at each other, sharing that conspiratorial smile that feels illegal for some reason.

For a moment, being this close didn’t hurt anymore. On the contrary, it invited more.

But Jisung stood up, like he had remembered something important.

“You take care of the books from D to G. I’ll do these.”

It was a very obvious escape route.

Minho understood immediately.

“Okay.”

He took his pile obediently and started working.

There were still too many things stuck in his throat, clawing to come out into the light.

But at least they shared the same cold floor, the same messy books, and the same endless shift that refused to move forward.

✦ ✦ ✦

Minho had never thought he would see the library this alive on a Thursday.

Never.

In his head, Thursdays were meant for academic misery, awkward silence, and the smell of old paper. Not… this.

Students everywhere, tables full, low voices floating like a constant murmur that didn’t bother him, but instead felt like an embrace.

While he dropped off books on the second floor, he allowed himself to lean against the balcony railing for a second and look down.

Everything was occupied.

People moving between shelves as if they belonged there. As if the library were their home and not just a poorly disguised punishment in the form of mandatory volunteering.

Freshmen. Sophomores. Juniors. Seniors.

A small ecosystem of shared stress.

He tripped over the open backpack of a senior he vaguely recognized from basketball games. He apologized about three times more than necessary. She did too. It was awkward, but human.

He went down the stairs with more energy than he usually had on a Thursday.

And he realized something horrible: he was in a good mood.

Maybe because the place no longer felt like a mausoleum. Maybe because, for the first time, it didn’t feel like he was serving a sentence.

Maybe because Jisung was there.

He finished placing the last books in the young adult section when he heard a laugh.

It was short, light, real.

He looked up without thinking. And there he was.

Jisung, crouched beside a low shelf, talking to a boy smaller than him—skinny, freckled, with the face of someone fighting for his life against an absurdly large book.

“I swear it doesn’t bite,” Jisung was saying. “It just looks intimidating.”

“It has like a thousand pages…”

“It has six hundred,” he corrected. “And the font is big. Trust me.”

The teenager hesitated, flipping through the book as if it were a bomb about to go off. Jisung tapped his fingers against the floor, expectant.

“What if I don’t understand it?”

Jisung shrugged and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Then you come back, tell me it’s boring, and I’ll recommend another one.”

“You’d do that for me?”

And then it happened.

That look.

That stupid, honest way the boy’s eyes lit up.

Minho’s chest tightened, like someone had shoved a hand between his ribs and squeezed hard.

He wanted to leave.

Pretend he hadn’t seen anything.

“Of course, Felix,” Jisung said. “I’m here for you.”

The younger boy hugged him without thinking. Jisung stroked his hair naturally, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“Thank you so much, hyung.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

Felix said goodbye and ran back to his group, hugging the book like it was a treasure.

Minho followed him with his eyes. And when he looked back at Jisung, he realized he was doing exactly the same thing.

Watching him leave, as if he wanted to make sure he was okay.

Minho looked away quickly, grabbed a random book, and opened it in the middle.

He didn’t read a single word. His mind was already somewhere else.

In the past.

In identical gestures.

In the way Jisung tilted his head when he listened. In how his voice dropped without him noticing. In how he touched people to stay, to say *I’m here* without using words.

He had done it before.

With him.

Entire afternoons at his place, talking about stars. Jisung laughing when Minho mixed up the names. Telling him it didn’t matter.

That they could trace constellations in the sky a thousand times if necessary.

It doesn’t matter.

That was what he had said two years ago.

Minho snapped the book shut and rested his forehead against the shelf. His chest hurt in a stupid, disproportionate way. As if he still hadn’t learned how to breathe without him.

He brought a hand to his heart and swallowed. Tears threatened, just like that time when everything broke and he pretended nothing was wrong.

Shit.

Of course he blamed himself.

For wanting to fit in. For choosing what was easy. For letting Jisung sink alone.

And now those gestures didn’t belong to him anymore. That warmth. That way of caring.

He had no right to claim them.

He glanced sideways at Jisung, who was already at the counter, writing calmly, as if he hadn’t destroyed anything in his path.

Minho straightened up and shook his head hard. He wasn’t going to let all the progress of those weeks go to hell because of him.

He grabbed the half-empty cart as an excuse. He always needed one. Everyone else could talk to Jisung like nothing had happened. He couldn’t.

He approached slowly and rested his chin on his hand.

Jisung looked at him quickly, just to visually confirm he was there. And after validating his existence, he turned back to the screen.

“You’re good with them,” Minho said, without thinking too much.

“With who?”

“With the younger ones,” he gestured with his chin toward the students.

Jisung shrugged.

“They’re just nervous. Everyone is at first.”

Minho nodded, nostalgically watching how cheerful and close the students looked.

“Before… you were like that with me too.”

The words had really slipped out on their own. Too honest. Too late.

Jisung froze, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

“Yes,” he said at last. “I was.”

There were no more words. There was no anger. There was no tenderness.

Worse—there was emptiness.

Minho nodded. The pain in his chest turned into a sharp stab.

“I’m sorry.”

There was no sign from Jisung that those words had reached him. He kept typing.

“We need to clean table three.”

Minho looked at the table. It was a lousy excuse. And Minho knew it when he noticed a single sheet of paper lying on top of table three.

“I’ll go.”

He took hold of the cart again and moved toward the table.

Jisung let out a breath when he lost sight of him. He took off his glasses, slumped back into his chair as if he suddenly weighed a hundred pounds more.

Neither of them noticed the senior watching them from a nearby table, smiling like someone who had just found a new toy.

Later, Jisung was sorting returns with mechanical movements. Minho was arranging books on a nearby shelf.

He hated that it hurt so much to see him wounded by something neither of them dared to talk about.

He turned to look over his shoulder when he heard a laugh he could recognize anywhere. Raspy, loud, wrong.

“Hey, librarian.”

Jisung looked up and gave him his best automatic smile.

He sized him up quickly. Unbuttoned blazer, unruly hair, and a relaxed expression that only someone who rarely faced real consequences for his actions could have.

“How can I help you?”

The senior leaned too far over the counter. His smile sharpened, savoring the words before spitting them out.

“I’m looking for a basic economics book. Thought you’d know… from family experience.”

Some seniors laughed behind him, watching the scene with barely disguised curiosity. Jisung blinked once.

“If you tell me the exact title, I can look it up in the system.”

“Come on, don’t be stupid,” the older boy smiled. “You must be great at counting coins…”

“This is a study space.”

“Relax. I’m just joking.”

“You’re not.”

Minho was already there, stepping to Jisung’s side.

Jisung lowered his gaze to the computer and thought how incredible it would be to disappear into the screen right then.

“Step away from the counter.”

Minho’s voice wasn’t a shout. It was worse: low, firm, leaving no room for negotiation.

The senior, a classmate of Minho’s he didn’t remember seeing before, turned his head, surprised.

“Excuse me?”

“Move.”

“And who are you?”

“I work here,” Minho replied flatly. “And I just heard you.”

The older guy straightened up, annoyed by the interruption.

“I was just joking.”

“Explain the joke then.”

Silence settled in, completely alien to the harmony that still lingered in the rest of the place.

Jisung looked up, searching for Minho’s eyes, asking him to drop it. Minho continued.

“The part about his family? Or the part about making him feel small in front of your friends?”

“Oh, you’re the one who defended that kid weeks ago. Don’t exaggerate.”

“I’m not.”

Minho placed a hand on the counter, close to where Jisung’s tense fingers were.

“You’re going to apologize. Now.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Apologize. You know how it ended for your friend when he tried to mess with Jeongin.”

The mention of Jeongin was enough. The looks from a few curious people and the murmurs condemning the senior’s behavior.

“So much trouble over a library assistant…”

“His name is Han Jisung,” Minho said clearly. “And you don’t get to talk about him like that.”

“Whatever.”

When he tried to walk away, Minho grabbed him by the shoulders and placed him in front of the counter, making his abdomen bump lightly against it.

“Apologize.”

Jisung’s worried eyes, afraid a scene would break out, met the irritated gaze of the teenager.

“I’m sorry, okay?”

Jisung didn’t respond, only nodded. Minho held his gaze for another second before letting him go.

“Leave.”

The teenager gestured toward the group sitting at the table behind him. The students left the library with bitter comments and even uglier looks.

Normalcy didn’t return all at once.

It didn’t even return willingly.

It dragged itself back.

For several minutes, the air in the library stayed stuck in everyone’s lungs, thick, uncomfortable, as if the whole building were holding its breath after what had happened. Nothing like the buzz from that morning.

Now there was only silence… and things that weren’t being said.

Jisung was stacking the last books on the cart when his phone vibrated.

A message from the librarian.

“My mother had a minor accident. I have to go to the hospital now. Please close up for me.”

Great.

The universe really did have a special talent for choosing the worst moments.

He looked up at Minho, who was putting some keys away in the drawer with automatic movements.

“Ms. Kang isn’t coming back,” he said. “We have to close.”

Minho blinked slowly.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. She said it’s urgent.”

Jisung left the phone on the counter and took a deep breath, as if that could prepare him for… something. For whatever his chest had been avoiding for hours.

“I’ll take care of the second floor.”

And that was it.

They split without ceremony, each pretending they had something important to do, when in reality both were trying not to look at the other for too long.

Minho walked as if his body were on autopilot. Eyes fixed ahead. Stomach tight since the incident with the senior. Since the way Jisung had gone still. Since that "I’m fine" that hadn’t come with a single look.

Professional liar.

When they met again at the main counter, Jisung was already writing things down in the closing log. From where he stood, Minho could see how tense Jisung’s back was.

Minho stopped two steps away, as if the air between them were a minefield. He cleared his throat and grabbed a pen, just to give his hands something to do other than shake like idiots.

“Jisung…”

The other made a low, distracted sound, not looking up. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to be there. He wanted to disappear into his bed and cry until he had no body left.

That day had reopened something he had sworn he had buried deep.

“About today…” Minho lowered his voice. “With that guy.”

Jisung closed the notebook carefully. As if the object were fragile.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Minho frowned slightly.

“I knew you’d say that, but…”

“I mean it,” Jisung insisted. “It wasn’t necessary.”

“I’m not talking about whether it was necessary.”

Jisung bit his lip. He thought of a thousand ways to ask him to leave without saying it out loud.

Minho took a deep breath.

“I wanted to apologize.”

That made Jisung blink.

Shit.

That sounded dangerous.

“For stepping in like that,” Minho added, waving a hand. “I know you could’ve handled it yourself.”

Jisung nodded, giving him that. Of course he could. He always had.

Minho finally looked up. Their eyes met and a shiver ran through them both.

And fuck, that didn’t help at all.

“You’ve always been able to…”

Jisung leaned his back against the counter, crossed his arms, and looked down.

“You don’t have to carry things that aren’t yours.”

Minho shook his head slowly.

“This one was mine.”

The air tightened.

Two steps of distance had never felt like so much.

Jisung had don’t come closer written across his forehead in permanent marker.

Minho still planned to do it.

“It’s not necessary,” Jisung murmured. “We don’t have to talk about this. You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” he swallowed. “I need to.”

The silence was suffocating.

The clock ticked one second. Then another and another.

“That was a long time ago,” Jisung said, running a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It does to me. And to you too, even if you want to pretend it doesn’t.”

“Minho…”

“I’m not looking for forgiveness. Or for you to understand me. I just… wanted you to know that I know.”

Jisung let out a short, bitter laugh.

“Know what?”

Minho hesitated.

“That I was a coward.”

The words fell between them like glass.

“That I watched you go through that every day… and chose to stay quiet.”

Jisung closed his eyes.

“It wasn’t that simple.”

“Yes, it was,” Minho exhaled. “I chose them liking me over protecting you.”

That hurt.

It hurt like he was still fourteen.

It hurt like going back to the exact moment everything had happened.

“You didn’t know everything.”

“I knew enough.”

Jisung walked past him and sat at a nearby table.

“Do you want to know what it was like for me? That's it?”

Minho nodded immediately.

“I got there early so I wouldn’t run into them. I counted the steps from the entrance so I wouldn’t think…” a pause. “And when I saw you… I thought that day you’d say something.”

Minho closed his eyes.

“You never did.”

Minho approached slowly.

“It wasn’t just sadness. It was shame. I thought that if you didn’t say anything either… then maybe it was true. That I was exaggerating. That I deserved it.”

Minho felt his chest tighten. He reached out and held him by the shoulders.

“That was never true.”

“I know that now. But back then I was just fourteen.”

Minho stayed in front of him. Jisung could see the conflicted, thoughtful look on his face.

“I can’t change that.”

“I know. And I don’t know if I can forget it.”

Minho swallowed. Those words hit him like a blunt blow to the stomach. He nodded, lips pressed tight.

“That’s okay.”

“But…” Jisung added. He gave him a crooked smile. “Today I saw you. And you weren’t that boy.”

The silence between them began to fade, letting in the sound of birds and leaves falling from the trees to wrap around the moment.

Minho let out the breath he’d been holding since the conversation had started.

“Thank you.”

“I still care about you, dumbass.”

That was the most honest thing they had said to each other in two years.

Minho laughed softly through his nose, eyes wet.

“You do too.”

Jisung stood up slowly, ending up face to face with Minho. He didn’t quite know what to do with his hands or his body. Everything they had kept inside for years had come to the surface, and now they didn’t know how to act with their feelings laid bare.

Minho spoke first.

“Can I…?”

He opened his arms slightly, looking at him with pleading eyes and a hopeful smile.

He didn’t need to finish the sentence—Jisung understood perfectly what he meant.

He nodded, and that was enough for them to step closer and close the distance between them.

The hug was awkward at first. Both kept their bodies tense, their arms unsure of where to rest on the other’s body.

Jisung rested his forehead against Minho’s neck and they both closed their eyes, letting themselves enjoy the moment.

“I missed you,” Jisung murmured.

Minho tightened the hug even more.

“Me too.”

When they pulled apart, they were both smiling in that strange way that makes your lips ache a little.

“We have to close,” Jisung said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

Minho nodded, smiling.

They both laughed for no reason, turning off the last light together. The library went dark.

And, for the first time in years, something inside them both stopped hurting so much.

✦ ✦ ✦

And suddenly… months.

Just like that, without warning. As if someone had flipped through the pages too fast.

It hadn’t been that many, really. Just enough for the punishment to stop hurting when remembered. For mandatory shifts to turn into visits for no reason at all. For the library to stop feeling like a minefield and become safe again.

Minho no longer had any official reason to be there. No administrative excuse, no signed paper. He went because he wanted to. Because Jisung was there.

And that, apparently, was enough now.

That afternoon, Jisung found him in the foreign literature section, crouched between the shelves, holding a book upside down with the kind of concentration one would expect during a final exam.

“I don’t understand a single word,” Minho muttered, frustrated.

“That’s because you’re holding it upside down.”

Minho looked up like he’d been caught stealing.

“Oh.” He turned the book around. “Now it looks like a real language.”

“You’re terrible at pretending you know what you’re doing.”

“I’m not pretending,” he said, standing up. “I improvise with great confidence.”

Jisung walked past him, deliberately brushing his shoulder.

“Sure.”

“Hey,” Minho tapped his arm. “That counts as workplace harassment.”

“You don’t work here anymore.”

“Mind you, I’m an honorary assistant.”

Jisung shook his head, smiling.

“You came early again.”

“The cafeteria was empty.”

“You're a liar.”

Minho placed a hand over his chest.

“You’re breaking my heart.”

Jisung glanced at him and smiled in a way that hadn’t existed before.

They walked between the shelves without direction, touching books as if they actually cared about the titles and not the excuse to move together.

“The librarian asked about you.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“She said you shelved terribly, but at least you didn’t complain.”

“Definitely bad.”

“For her, that’s affection.”

Minho looked at the book Jisung was holding.

“What are you reading now?”

“Nothing serious.”

“Romance or mystery?”

“Both.”

They laughed. And for a second, Minho thought that sound justified everything that had happened before.

“It’s strange seeing you laugh like that.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know… different. But it suits you.”

Jisung felt the heat rise to his ears.

“Don’t say weird things in the library.”

“Was that weird?”

“It didn’t sound casual.”

“Then I’ll skip saying that you look shorter than last time.”

Jisung pushed him lightly.

“You’re unbearable.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

“That’s my job, you know.”

“And I’m a frequent customer.”

“Maybe too frequent.”

“Hey, that proves I’m loyal.”

“Or emotionally dependent. You don’t leave my side for a second.”

“But you like it.”

Jisung opened his mouth to argue. Then gave up. He smiled faintly and nodded.

Minho bumped his shoulder gently. They stayed looking at each other for a second longer than normal. But it didn’t feel strange anymore.

It felt right.

“Hyungs!”

Jeongin appeared with a huge backpack and two books hugged to his chest.

“Hi,” they both said softly.

“What are you doing here?” Minho asked.

“I came to return these. Jisung helped me find them last week. They were better than I thought.”

“Told you,” Jisung said, ruffling his hair.

“And now a friend is coming to help me with math,” Jeongin complained.

“Good luck with that, Innie.”

“But don’t ask Minho for help. He still doesn’t understand square roots.”

“That was one time.”

Minho bumped Jisung again, making him laugh even more. Jeongin watched them with a calm smile.

“You look good. I’m glad you worked things out.”

“We’re trying,” Jisung said.

Minho nodded.

They talked about small things. Homework, unfair teachers, boring books. From far away, they looked like just three more students.

And maybe that was the prettiest part.

Because not everything started with eternal promises or dramatic confessions.

Sometimes it started with steps that didn’t hurt.

It started with soft laughter, with staying. Side by side.

They couldn’t promise it would be perfect.

But they had chosen each other.

And for now… that was enough.