Work Text:
The first time Soobin sees Beomgyu, it is under lighting that does him no favors, in an auditorium that smells faintly of old carpet and overheated projectors, with a presentation slide half-cropped behind him because someone forgot to adjust the resolution. There is nothing cinematic about it. No dramatic entrance, no hush falling over the room. Just a casual introduction from the department coordinator and the quiet shifting of students who are present primarily because attendance counts toward professional development credit. Soobin is only half-listening at first, doodling absent shapes into the margin of his notebook while calculating how quickly he can leave once the tote bags are distributed.
And then Beomgyu starts speaking.
Choi Beomgyu does not look like the rigid corporate figure Soobin had imagined. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing lean forearms that suggest he loosened up the moment he stepped off the train from the city. His tie is slightly crooked, like he tugged it loose halfway through the workday and never bothered to straighten it. He smiles when he speaks, and the smile reaches his eyes in a way that feels unscripted, almost conspiratorial, as though he remembers exactly what it was like to sit in these seats and feel small in a room full of expectations.
“I graduated from here two years ago” he says easily, pacing a little instead of standing stiff behind the podium. “And I promise you, no one feels ready. If they say they do, they’re lying.”
A ripple of laughter spreads through the hall, hesitant at first and then genuine. Soobin looks up fully then, really looks, and something about the casual honesty in Beomgyu’s tone makes him sit straighter without realizing it. He doesn’t know what he expected someone polished and distant, perhaps—but what he sees instead is someone who seems entirely comfortable admitting uncertainty.
The presentation itself is informative in the practical sense internship pathways, team structures, how to navigate entry-level expectations but what lingers for Soobin is not the bullet points on the slides. It is the way Beomgyu frames ambition as something that can be soft. Something that does not have to be loud or ruthless to be valid. When he says, “You don’t have to know exactly where you’re going. You just have to keep moving.” it lands somewhere deep in Soobin’s chest, heavy and unfamiliar.
He does not plan to raise his hand during the Q&A. He is not the type. But when Beomgyu speaks about choosing “a safe option that I slowly learned to love” the words scrape against something raw inside him. Before he fully understands what he is doing, his hand is in the air, and when the microphone is passed to him, he feels the weight of a hundred indifferent gazes and one attentive one.
“I’m Soobin,” he begins, hating the slight tremor in his voice. “Second-year economics. I just—how do you know if you’re choosing something safe because you’re afraid, or because it’s actually right for you?”
There is a beat of silence, and in that suspended second, Soobin regrets everything. Then Beomgyu looks directly at him, not in a sweeping or performative way, but with deliberate focus and his expression shifts from lightly amused to thoughtful.
“That’s a hard question” he says slowly. “I don’t think there’s a clean answer. I chose something safe at first because I was scared. But safety gave me room to grow. It gave me stability to figure out who I was outside of just surviving. I think sometimes we treat ‘safe’ like it’s the enemy of passion, when it can actually be the foundation for it.” He tilts his head slightly. “You’re allowed to build what you want slowly. It doesn’t make you less brave.”
The answer is not dramatic. It is not revolutionary. But it feels intentional. It feels like it is meant for him.
Soobin sits down with his pulse racing, and for the rest of the seminar, he cannot concentrate on anything except the echo of those words.
Afterward, he lingers without admitting to himself that he is lingering. Students gather around Beomgyu, asking about resume formatting and networking events, and he answers each question without glancing at his phone. Without looking bored. When the crowd thins, Soobin considers slipping out unnoticed, but before he can, Beomgyu steps in front of him.
“Second-year economics” he says with a faint grin. “Still deciding between safe and terrifying?”
The fact that he remembers feels disproportionate to the interaction they had. Soobin blinks. “You remembered.”
“You looked like you were thinking really hard,” Beomgyu replies. “That’s memorable.”
Up close, he smells faintly like citrus and coffee, and there is something in his gaze that makes Soobin feel uncomfortably visible.
“If you ever want to talk more” Beomgyu adds, pulling a business card from his pocket, “about careers. Or existential crises.”
Their fingers brush when Soobin takes it, and the contact is fleeting, accidental, and yet it lingers in a way that feels anything but.
---
Soobin stares at the card for three days before texting. He drafts multiple versions of the message, each one too formal or too casual, before settling on something painfully neutral. When Beomgyu replies within minutes lightly teasing, it feels like a small victory he has not earned but desperately needed.
What follows is not dramatic. It is not immediate. It is the quiet accumulation of small things: late-night conversations about classes and deadlines, Beomgyu’s complaints about meetings that could have been emails, voice notes sent while walking home through the city. There is an ease to their exchanges that surprises Soobin. He expects awkwardness, expects the imbalance of experience to create distance, but Beomgyu never speaks down to him. If anything, he listens more than he talks.
Their first coffee meeting is framed as advice, but it does not feel transactional. Beomgyu arrives straight from work, sleeves rolled, hair slightly windswept, apologizing for being five minutes late as though it matters deeply. They sit across from each other in a small café near campus, and what begins as discussion about internship applications drifts gradually into stories about childhood dreams and the quiet panic of realizing adulthood is less structured than it seems.
“You look at me like I have everything figured out” Beomgyu says at one point, stirring his drink absently. “I don’t. I just learned how to function while not knowing.”
Soobin wants to say that he does not look at him like that. He wants to say he looks at him because he feels steady. Because he feels like someone who has survived the exact stage Soobin is currently drowning in.
Instead, he says nothing.
And Beomgyu smiles at him like he understands anyway.
---
By the time Wednesday becomes routine, it does not feel like a decision either of them consciously made. It happens gradually, naturally, like something settling into place. Beomgyu finishes work, sends a brief message 'On my way' and Soobin times his walk from the library so that he arrives at their usual café within minutes of him. There is comfort in the predictability of it, in the way the middle of the week transforms from something heavy into something quietly anticipated. Soobin begins measuring time not by assignments due or lectures attended, but by how many days remain until he sees Beomgyu again.
It is not just the meetings themselves that matter. It is the way Beomgyu listens when Soobin talks about his anxiety over grades, leaning forward slightly as though the details are precious rather than trivial. It is the way he nudges Soobin’s knee lightly under the table when he spirals too far into self-criticism, grounding him without making a spectacle of it. It is the way his hand finds the small of Soobin’s back when guiding him through crowded sidewalks after dinner, fingers splayed there with gentle certainty, never possessive but undeniably protective. The touch is always brief, always appropriate, but it lingers long after contact ends, warm and steady and impossible to ignore.
The realization that admiration has shifted into something softer and far more dangerous comes slowly. Soobin notices it in the way his chest tightens when Beomgyu smiles at someone else. In the way he replays voice notes before sleeping, not because of what is said but because of how it is said. his name spoken casually, comfortably, as though it belongs there. He notices it in the quiet disappointment that creeps in the first time Beomgyu cancels their Wednesday because of a late meeting.
The cancellation itself is reasonable. Responsible. Adult. Soobin tells himself he is being childish for feeling the hollow ache that follows. They have never defined what they are. They have never labeled these meetings as anything more than conversations. But when one cancellation turns into two over the course of several weeks each accompanied by sincere apologies and promises to reschedule doubt begins to seep into the spaces where certainty had once rested.
Maybe the novelty has worn off. Maybe Beomgyu has realized that talking to a university student every week is less charming than it initially seemed. Maybe Soobin misread everything.
He hates how quickly insecurity reshapes his perception. He answers messages with slightly less enthusiasm. He takes longer to reply. He tells himself he is protecting his pride, but the truth is far simpler: he is afraid of wanting something that might not exist.
The misunderstanding crystallizes unexpectedly one afternoon when Soobin finds himself near Beomgyu’s office building for a department errand. He does not intend to look inside, but habit draws his gaze toward the glass lobby doors and there Beomgyu stands, laughing at something a coworker says. They are close. Too close, in Soobin’s suddenly fragile estimation. The coworker’s hand brushes Beomgyu’s arm, and Beomgyu does not pull away.
The sight should not matter. It is normal. Harmless.
It matters anyway.
Soobin leaves before he can be seen, heart thudding with a mixture of embarrassment and something sharp he does not want to name. That evening, when Beomgyu texts, Are you okay? You seem quiet today, Soobin debates ignoring it. Instead, he answers carefully, too carefully.
“I was near your office earlier” he types. “You looked busy.”
There is a pause before the reply. "Oh. You should’ve said hi."
“I didn’t want to interrupt.”
Another pause, longer this time. "That was my teammate. We were arguing about a slide deck."
The explanation is simple. Innocent. And yet the insecurity lingers because the real issue is not the coworker. It is the uncertainty of where Soobin stands.
“I know,” he replies. “It’s not my business.”
The typing indicator appears almost immediately. Disappears. Appears again.
"Why wouldn’t it be your business?"
The question lands heavier than expected. Because what are they? Because he has no claim. Because wanting more without knowing if it is offered feels reckless.
“Can we talk in person?” Beomgyu sends finally.
They meet the next evening on their usual bench near campus. The air is cooler than usual, wind slipping between buildings in restless currents. Beomgyu looks less composed than he typically does, hands shoved into his coat pockets, shoulders slightly tense.
“I don’t want you thinking you’re just convenient...” he says without preamble once they sit. “Or that I only show up when it fits neatly into my schedule.”
Soobin’s breath catches. “I didn’t think that.”
It is not entirely true.
Beomgyu exhales slowly. “When work got busy, I thought giving you space would be better than dragging you into my stress. I didn’t want you to feel obligated to wait around for me.”
“I wasn’t obligated” Soobin says quietly. “I wanted to.”
The admission settles between them, fragile but undeniable.
Beomgyu studies him for a long moment, and the vulnerability in his expression strips away the confident ease he usually wears so effortlessly. “I like you” he says finally, voice softer than Soobin has ever heard it. “Not casually. Not in a way that disappears when things get inconvenient. I like you in a way that makes me double-check my phone even when I know you’re in class.”
The world narrows to the space between them.
“I thought you might not feel the same” Beomgyu continues. “You’re still figuring things out. I didn’t want to rush you.”
Soobin lets out a shaky breath that is almost a laugh. “I’ve liked you since the seminar” he confesses. “Since you said it’s okay to build things slowly.”
Relief transforms Beomgyu’s features in an instant. He steps closer, lifting one hand hesitantly, as though awaiting permission. “Can I?”
Soobin nods.
The first kiss is not rushed. It is not desperate. It is deliberate. Beomgyu’s hand cups Soobin’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly along his jaw as though grounding them both in the reality of the moment. His lips press softly at first, testing, and when Soobin leans in, when he answers without hesitation the kiss deepens with quiet certainty. Beomgyu tilts his head, adjusting naturally, his other hand sliding to Soobin’s waist in a gesture that feels both protective and guiding. There is no urgency, only warmth, only the steady reassurance of someone who knows exactly what he is doing and chooses to move slowly anyway.
Soobin’s hands curl lightly into the fabric of Beomgyu’s coat, anchoring himself as his thoughts scatter into sensation the warmth of breath shared, the gentle pressure that builds and eases and builds again, the way Beomgyu hums softly against his mouth when Soobin kisses back with growing confidence. When they finally part, it is only by a fraction, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling in the cooling air.
Beomgyu murmurs. “You’re my favorite part of the week.”
Emotion swells in Soobin’s chest so quickly it nearly overwhelms him. Beomgyu smiles and kisses him again, softer this time, slower, as though sealing something unspoken but understood.
(◍•ᴗ•◍)
Months later, Wednesdays still belong to them, though they are no longer confined to café tables and careful touches. The relationship settles into something steady and warm, built from conversations that stretch past midnight and shared silences that feel just as meaningful. Beomgyu still guides Soobin through crowded streets with a hand at his back, still presses gentle kisses to his temple when he studies too long, still listens with unwavering attention when doubts resurface.
The first “I love you” does not arrive during a grand gesture. It happens on an ordinary evening, after dinner at Beomgyu’s apartment, while Soobin is half-asleep against his shoulder on the couch. Beomgyu brushes his fingers through Soobin’s hair absentmindedly, the motion slow and soothing.
“You know...” he says quietly, almost to himself, “I love you.”
The words slip out naturally, without ceremony.
Soobin lifts his head, blinking in surprise, and the softness in Beomgyu’s expression removes any lingering uncertainty.
“I love you too.” Soobin replies, and the answering smile is gentle, certain, and entirely unafraid.
Outside, the city continues in restless motion. Inside, in the quiet space they have built slowly and intentionally, everything feels exactly where it should be.