Someone once told Park Jimin that a university degree was far easier than A-levels. He can't remember who—maybe a teacher, maybe an old classmate. Either way, he had believed it, like most people do. Probably responded with something relieved, like, "Thank God for that," or something cockier, like, "Bet I'll end up with a first, then."

Whoever had fed him that lie had clearly never faced the third-year January exam season, where deadlines loomed like executioners and dissertation stress clung to every breath. At this point, Jimin would gladly sit through his A-levels ten times over if it meant escaping the academic hellscape he was currently trapped in.

He's thought about dropping out more times than he can count. Every student does—at least once a week, especially when the workload stops being theoretical and becomes very real. But with the finish line in sight, he soldiers on.

That doesn't mean he won't complain about it at every possible opportunity.

So when he trudges into the library on a bleak January afternoon, he curses himself for ever believing such naive nonsense.

His exhaustion is probably written all over his face—tired, stressed, annoyed, starving. At this point, he'd gladly have caffeine injected straight into his veins if it meant staying awake.

Not that he has anyone else to blame. Not this time, anyway. He'd stayed up until 5 AM watching an old Love Island series over FaceTime with Jin. Sensibly, Jin had passed out by 1 AM, but Jimin had kept going, undeterred by his best friend's snores.

The library is suffocatingly silent—the kind of oppressive quiet where coughing or opening a fizzy drink feels like a federal offense. He briefly considers turning around and going home, but he knows himself too well. The second he steps into his flat, procrastination will win. Again.

On his way to a table, he makes accidental eye contact with a guy at a nearby desk, who is surrounded by enough open books to build a fort. The guy looks like he hasn't seen sunlight in days. Jimin respects that.

He gives him a solemn nod—the universal student gesture of "We suffer together."

The guy nods back. Brotherhood forged in shared academic despair.

With a resigned sigh, Jimin picks an empty table and readies himself for battle.

The moment he pulls out his laptop, it lets out an unholy, dying-walrus noise. Several students turn to glare at him. One girl clutches her chest like she's just received a personal attack. Jimin slaps the keyboard in panic, muttering a frantic, "Shhh, please, not now."

The laptop decides to cooperate, but his heart rate will take a while to recover.

The only thing keeping him going? The white Monster and Kinder Bueno in his bag—his last act of self-care before stepping into academic purgatory. He unwraps the Bueno with all the reverence of a man receiving his final meal before execution.

Somewhere across the room, the guy from earlier drops his pen. Their eyes meet again. A moment of silent understanding.

War is upon them.

Back to present, it was so quiet.

The floor he finds himself on is lined with towering bookshelves, their presence breaking up the space into quiet, secluded pockets of study. Unlike the open-plan levels below, where rows of desks stretch endlessly, this floor offers a rare sense of privacy, each cluster of round tables shielded by the weight of knowledge stacked upon the shelves.

Despite these partitions, there's a narrow gap between the bookshelves—just wide enough for Jimin to have an unobstructed view of the table directly across from him. More importantly, of the stranger sitting there.

For a fleeting moment, he considers moving elsewhere, keen to avoid the awkwardness of facing someone head-on for hours. But the table he's chosen sits closest to the history section, and his required readings wait for him like a sentence he cannot escape. Relocating would only mean delaying the inevitable.

So he stays.

His gaze lifts briefly, almost involuntarily, to the man opposite him. He doesn't know him, yet something about the stranger tugs at his attention. Perhaps it's the way the golden afternoon light catches in his curls, painting them in shades of warm chestnut and deep fawn. Or maybe it's his eyes—honey-brown even from a distance, flickering between the pages of a worn notebook and the screen of his open laptop.

He looks exhausted—though Jimin assumes they all do at this point. His shoulders curve inward, tension pressing into his frame, his jaw set in quiet determination. Every so often, he pauses to jot something down, his hand moving with swift, practiced strokes, as though his thoughts are spilling too fast for the ink to keep up.

Jimin looks away. Not because he wants to—his curiosity lingers like a whisper in the back of his mind—but because he refuses to let himself get distracted. He has work to do. No man, no matter how unfairly good-looking, is going to stand in the way of that.

He exhales sharply, setting his focus back on the screen of his laptop. With a few clicks, he pulls up the Google Doc holding his ever-growing to-do list. He finds comfort in lists. It's ironic, considering that no one in their right mind would call him an organized person—if anything, he thrives in chaos, his dorm room a constant battlefield of misplaced belongings and unfinished laundry. But when it comes to university work, lists provide structure. They offer a semblance of control in a life that often feels dictated by deadlines.

He studies the list, debating where to start. The temptation to tackle the easiest, least painful tasks first is strong, but he forces himself to go in order. That means working through the readings and notes for a seminar he had, regrettably, missed before the end of term.

A groan sits heavy in his throat, but he suppresses it. Instead, he bribes himself. Finish this first, and you can open the Monster. The promise alone is enough to keep him going.

With reluctant determination, he begins.

The article is excruciatingly dull—twenty pages of dense, mind-numbing text that manages to make even the most interesting historical events sound painfully lifeless. He trudges through it, forcing himself to underline key points, but most of it proves useless. A waste of time.

Still, a small flicker of satisfaction sparks in his chest when he finally crosses the task off his list. That small victory calls for a reward.

Without hesitation, he reaches into his bag, fingers closing around the cool can of Monster he had been saving. The excitement of it—his hard-earned prize—makes him careless.

Crack.

The sharp sound cuts through the silence.

Instinctively, his eyes snap up, and a hot flush creeps up his neck.

Across the gap, the stranger's head lifts, his honey-brown gaze locking onto Jimin's. It's only a second—a heartbeat, a breath—but it stretches impossibly long. Jimin freezes, his brain screaming at him to look away, to do something, but all he does is sit there, caught in the moment like an idiot.

The guy blinks, his expression unreadable, before his lips twitch—just the faintest hint of movement. Amusement? Exasperation? Jimin isn't sure. But then the stranger shakes his head, curls bouncing slightly with the motion, and turns back to his work as if nothing happened.

Jimin tears his own gaze away, face burning as he stares down at his desk with newfound determination. Focus. Stop being weird. Work.

But no matter how hard he tries, he finds himself glancing back every so often.

The stranger never does.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

The next day, Jimin returns to the library, this time armed with a bottle of Bong Bong grape juice and a bag of honey butter chips. He isn't about to make the same mistake with fizzy drinks again.

The previous evening had been uneventful in the best way. He'd trudged home, dumped his bag by the door, and immediately tossed a generous portion of tteokbokki into the pan. He usually eats a little healthier, mostly because Jin takes it upon himself to cook for both of them. But Jin isn't here right now, which means Jimin is free to indulge in as much sodium-packed, artery-clogging comfort food as he wants.

He had eaten on the couch with Gihyun and Hwan, the twin brothers also drowning in exam stress. Their shared misery made them the perfect company—no need for forced conversation, just occasional grumbles of frustration between mouthfuls of food. They'd spent a solid hour complaining about coursework, the unfairness of deadlines, and the absurdity of professors who acted as if their class was the only one that mattered.

Meanwhile, the rest of their flatmates—infuriatingly free of exams—had been living their best lives. The group chat was a constant source of torment, with Beomjin spamming pictures of homemade Korean barbecue spreads, complete with sizzling samgyeopsal, fresh lettuce wraps, and banchan that looked like they came straight from a restaurant. Cheol had seemingly made it his life's mission to visit every bar in Hongdae this weekend, sending increasingly incoherent messages as the night wore on.

Jin, lucky as ever, was still at his family home in Busan, spending extra time with his parents and Ryeon—Jimin's younger brother, who also happened to be Jin's boyfriend. Jimin had been bitter about leaving two weeks earlier than his best friend, especially after the warmth of the holidays.

He had spent the evening on FaceTime with Jin, forced to endure an excruciatingly detailed account of the couple's date night. At one point, Jimin had to firmly remind Jin that there were limits to what he wanted to hear about his own little brother. He was supportive, of course, but there were some things that were simply not meant for his ears.

Still, his mood had lifted when Jin had taken his laptop downstairs, letting Jimin chat with Eunae, Minseok, and Ryeon as well. He missed them terribly. Seeing them, even through a screen, had been enough to dull the ache of homesickness.

For once, he had gone to bed at a reasonable hour, ending the call before midnight. Even more miraculously, he had woken up to his first alarm, instead of snoozing it half a dozen times like usual. Every fiber of his being had wanted to go back to sleep, but he had resisted.

And now, for the first time in weeks, he feels productive.

When he arrives at the library, he heads straight for the same table as yesterday, relief washing over him when he finds it unoccupied. The quiet hum of the library remains unchanged, the weekend ensuring that most students have far better things to do than bury themselves in books.

It isn't until he looks up that he realizes—

The stranger is here again.

He's sitting in the exact same spot, hunched over his laptop, lost in his work. Today, he's wearing a different knitted sweater—a thick, oversized checkered knit in burgundy and navy. It drowns his frame, the sleeves falling past his wrists, making him look even softer than yesterday. His dark curls rest messily atop his head, and those same noise-canceling headphones sit snugly over his ears.

Jimin tells himself he isn't staring. But he is.

Just as he debates looking away, the stranger glances up. Their eyes meet.

Jimin braces himself for another quick, unreadable reaction. But this time, the stranger does something different.

He smiles.

It's small, brief—just a polite hello sort of smile—but it reaches his eyes, warming them to a golden brown.

Jimin, caught off guard, hesitates for half a second before returning the gesture. His own smile is softer, tinted with surprise, but undeniably genuine.

The stranger looks away first, returning to his work as if nothing happened.

But Jimin doesn't stop smiling.

Even after he turns to his own laptop, even after he pulls up his to-do list, his cheeks still carry the faintest flush of pink.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Three days in a row—this is officially a personal record for Jimin's library attendance. He can't even remember the last time he stepped into this building three times in a month, let alone in a week.

It was one of his New Year's resolutions to start using the library more, to be disciplined, organized, and proactive. He had promised himself that he would stay here between lectures instead of wandering back to his flat, where the siren call of his warm bed always won.

Today, though, he's only here for a short while. He didn't even bother bringing snacks, which is rare. He and the twins have plans tonight—a well-earned dinner at their favorite Korean barbecue place, complete with sizzling meat, endless banchan, and a round (or two) of soju. Just the thought of it makes his stomach grumble in protest.

The library is just a pit stop. All he needs to do is print out some revision sheets, and then he's free.

Like always, he heads downstairs, already locking eyes on his table. It's empty again—good. At this point, it feels like a personal territory, and he would be distinctly unimpressed if someone else tried to claim it.

But more importantly—

The stranger is here again.

Same seat. Another pile of books. Another knitted sweater—this time a deep, forest green, slightly oversized, sleeves swallowing his wrists. And once again, those same black headphones are perched over his ears, a quiet barrier between him and the rest of the world.

Jimin lingers for just a second too long, gaze flickering over the scene.

He wonders what the stranger is listening to. Something intense? Classical music to help him focus? Or maybe something unexpected—something rich and soulful?

For some reason, Jimin is certain that this is a Hozier kind of man.

The moment he entertains that thought, the stranger glances up, as if sensing the attention.

Their eyes meet.

And just like yesterday, the stranger smiles at him. Not just a polite, fleeting curve of the lips, but something warmer, something intentional.

Jimin barely has to think before returning it.

His fingers are already working at his laptop bag, pulling out his things and organizing what he needs to print. His focus shifts, momentarily consumed by the small but crucial task at hand. After sending his documents to the printer—silently praying he still has enough credits—he stands, pushing his chair back with ease.

But as he moves, his eyes scan the room—

And then he notices.

The stranger is gone.

Jimin freezes for a split second, heartbeat kicking up. His seat is still occupied by his belongings, his books left open in a way that suggests he'll be back. But where—

Oh.

Of course.

The realization is almost immediate.

Across the room, standing in front of the printers, is him.

The stranger.

And Jimin, for the first time, really sees him.

He's tall. Really tall. His broad shoulders cut an imposing silhouette, even in the slouchy embrace of his sweater. The thick waves of his dark brown hair are slightly tousled, curling at the nape of his neck in a way that looks unintentionally perfect. His hands, large and elegant, rest against the edge of the printer as he waits for his pages, fingers drumming idly.

Most strikingly—his presence is utterly effortless.

Even now, with his back turned, there's something commanding about him. A quiet gravity that doesn't demand attention but simply draws it. He's the kind of person you notice without meaning to.

And Jimin is noticing.

Far too much.

As he steps forward, his heart rate stutters.

Shit. He's going to think I followed him.

He needs to act normal. He needs to be casual. Friendly, but not too friendly. God, does that mean he actually has to say something? What does he even—

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck—

The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

The words slip out before Jimin can stop them. The moment they hang in the air, he immediately regrets every single life choice that led to this. Out of all the possible things he could have said—hello, nice to see you again, what are you studying?—his brain decided to go with that? He sounds like a complete idiot. A knob. An absolute joke.

The stranger, who had been standing by the printer, pauses and turns his head slightly, gaze settling on Jimin with an unreadable expression. His face is even more striking up close—sharp, well-defined features softened by full lips and deep brown eyes that hold a quiet intensity. His dark hair falls messily over his forehead, framing his face in a way that looks effortlessly perfect.

One eyebrow quirks upward, but thankfully, his expression leans more toward amused than offended.

Then, he reaches up with long fingers and tugs his headphones down to rest around his neck. The faintest sound of music escapes from them—something mellow and warm, the strumming of an acoustic guitar, paired with husky vocals.

Jimin recognizes the song immediately.

Kim Kwang-seok.

Of course he listens to Kim Kwang-seok. Something about it suits him—the timelessness, the emotion buried in every note, the weight of nostalgia hanging in the air.

"I kind of do at this point," the stranger finally responds, voice smooth and deep, yet surprisingly warm.

The moment he speaks, Jimin's brain completely malfunctions.

That accent—

Daegu.

Oh my god, he's from Daegu.

It sends a shiver down Jimin's spine. There's something about the way Daegu dialect rolls off the tongue—rich, slightly rough, carrying an unshakable confidence. He's always found it ridiculously attractive, and now that it's coming from the lips of an already stupidly handsome man, Jimin is officially doomed.

He swallows, scrambling to hold onto his dignity.

"Exams?" he asks, because obviously, that's why anyone would subject themselves to the misery of living in the library.

But the stranger tilts his head, lips twitching in amusement.

"No," he deadpans, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I just enjoy sitting in the library all day, every day."

Jimin blinks.

Then—

Oh.

Oh.

He's witty.

There's an easy playfulness in his tone, teasing without being cruel, confident without being overbearing.

Jimin lets out a short laugh, slightly embarrassed. "Okay, stupid question."

The stranger grins at him, and—wow.

Up close, it's lethal.

There's something lazy about the way he smiles, as if he doesn't even have to try. It isn't a sharp, blinding grin, but something subtler—crooked at the corner, slow and knowing. The kind of smile that makes it impossible to look away.

Jimin barely even notices when the printer finishes spitting out the stranger's papers. He gathers them without breaking his gaze, stacking them neatly as if he has all the time in the world.

"See you later—"

He pauses expectantly, waiting for Jimin to fill in the blank.

Jimin startles, snapping out of his trance. "Jimin!" he supplies, a little too eagerly.

The stranger—the stupidly handsome, Daegu-accented, Kim Kwang-seok-listening stranger—nods in acknowledgment, as if committing the name to memory. Then, without another word, he lifts his headphones back over his ears and turns away, walking back toward his seat.

And that's when Jimin realizes.

He never got his name.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

He allows himself a lie-in before his fourth library day, stretching lazily beneath the warmth of his duvet. The sun outside is already high in the sky, casting golden streaks through the thin curtains of his bedroom. He turns on his side, checking the time on his phone—late morning. He blinks at it blearily, then decides that he has absolutely no reason to rush.

He spends the next hour lying in bed, scrolling through his phone, occasionally dozing off, until his stomach grumbles in protest. With a resigned sigh, he finally pushes himself up, throws on an oversized hoodie, and trudges to the kitchen to make himself some toast.

By the time he's fully awake, dressed, and ready to head out, it's already 2 PM. He should at least try to get some work done before it gets dark.

The walk to the university is familiar, and today, he fills it with a phone call to his brother, Jisoo. It isn't far, but he figures it's been a while since they last caught up outside of the usual video calls with Jin.

Jimin spends most of the conversation complaining—about his workload, his impending deadlines, how he has practically moved into the library at this point.

Jisoo, ever the caring sibling, responds with, "Just get over it."

Jimin huffs. "You're awful at comforting people."

Jisoo lets out a dry chuckle. "Not my job."

They talk for a little while longer, the conversation shifting to more mundane things. Just before Jimin reaches the university entrance, Jisoo reminds him about their cousin's upcoming birthday.

"I know," Jimin says. "I'll call later so we can figure out a present."

With that, they hang up.

He pulls out his student card and taps it at the entrance, the familiar beep granting him access. As he steps inside, he scrolls through Spotify, searching for something to listen to.

Inspired by him—the stranger, the mysterious man with the deep voice and impeccable music taste—he settles on a playlist called 'remind me why I have ears', which is, unsurprisingly, filled with mellow indie ballads. The first song is Kim Kwang-seok's "As Expected", and something about it feels fitting.

As he walks through the library, he wonders—what is the stranger's name?

He tries to guess. Jihoon? Minjae? Hyunwoo?

Then he considers names from Daegu.

Taehyung.

He pauses for a second, frowning. He doesn't know why, but it fits. Kim Taehyung.

He shakes his head, pushing the thought aside as he steps into the familiar study area.

And there he is, sitting at his usual spot, drowning in books and papers, a pen twirling effortlessly between his fingers. His dark hair is slightly tousled, falling into his eyes as he reads. The same old knitted sweater clings to his frame, the sleeves slightly pushed up to reveal his wrists.

Jimin pretends not to care. He pretends that he isn't specifically looking forward to seeing him.

Then the stranger lifts his gaze, and—just like the last few times—his lips curve into a small, knowing smile.

Jimin swears his heart stutters.

Maybe today, he'll finally get his name.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

On the fifth day, the stranger looks really good.

Not that he hasn't looked good every day—because he has. But today, something is different.

Jimin notices it the second he steps into the library, the moment his eyes naturally flick to that same seat, the same table, where the same man always sits. His usual oversized jumper is nowhere to be seen—well, it's there, but draped over the back of his chair, abandoned as if even the fabric had grown tired of hiding him. Instead, he's wearing a black Boohwal band tee, slightly worn, slightly faded, stretching across his chest like a quiet declaration of impeccable music taste.

Jimin isn't sure what to focus on first—the fact that the man clearly has elite music preferences, or the fact that—oh, wow—those jumpers had been keeping secrets.

The shirt clings just enough to reveal what the knitwear had so cruelly concealed: broad shoulders, lean but defined arms, and a posture that speaks of effortless confidence. The kind of confidence that isn't loud or overbearing, but lingers in the way he sits, completely at ease amidst the chaos of books and notes.

Jimin tells himself not to stare. He really does.

But his eyes have other plans, drawn helplessly to the way the man shifts in his seat, the way his fingers move as he turns a page, the way his hair falls just slightly into his face, brushing his lashes. The soft golden glow from the overhead lamp only adds to the effect, casting subtle highlights on his skin, sharpening the angles of his jawline.

Jimin swallows. This is unfair.

He tears his gaze away—only to find himself looking again a moment later.

And that's his mistake.

Because, of course, at that exact moment, the stranger looks up—straight at him.

Jimin freezes, his heart lurching in his chest.

For a moment, neither of them look away. The stranger doesn't just smile at him this time—no, this smile is different. It's not the polite, brief acknowledgment of the past few days. There's something smug about it, something almost teasing in the way the corners of his lips curl up. As if he knows exactly what effect he's having.

Jimin swears, very loudly, inside his head.

There's a glint of amusement in the man's dark eyes, a spark of something that makes Jimin's stomach flip over itself. The kind of look that says, I caught you staring.

The stranger doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. The shift in his expression is enough. His smile is less friendly now, more knowing—almost like he's waiting to see what Jimin will do next.

Jimin feels his cheeks heat instantly. He drops his gaze so fast that he might've given himself whiplash, suddenly very interested in his laptop screen.

For the rest of his library visit, he refuses to look up. He doesn't dare.

And yet, somehow, despite his unwavering focus on his revision, he feels like he got absolutely nothing done.

Maybe the man's name is Satan, and he's here to personally ruin Jimin's academic career.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Jimin reckons he might be a familiar face to the librarians by now. As he steps through the doors, he flashes a polite smile at one of the elderly librarians, and she nods in warm recognition—a regular indeed.

This morning, he woke up in an unusually good mood. Before his alarm even rang, he stirred from sleep feeling more refreshed than he had in weeks. After a hearty Korean-style breakfast—rice, kimchi, and a warm bowl of seaweed soup—he treated himself to a meal deal from a local convenience store, complete with a spicy tteokbokki snack, all carefully packed in his bag. The promise of that comfort food made his steps lighter as he descended the stairs toward the library.

Only then does his stride falter.

Somebody is sitting at his usual table.

A twinge of dismay curls in his stomach. He glances around; every table seems to be in use. But it's not just any seat he wants—it's his own little sanctuary in the midst of academic chaos.

Jimin lifts his bag higher on his shoulder, contemplating a hasty retreat back home. His good mood, he fancies, might be too fragile for such a betrayal. But just as he's about to turn away, he sees him—the stranger.

The man, with his striking fawn-colored hair, is there again. His presence is unmistakable, and today, he exudes an even more magnetic aura. Gone is the oversized jumper that used to hide his mystery; today he sports a well-worn Boohwal band tee, its faded print a proud badge of impeccable, rock-infused taste. The tee clings perfectly, revealing broad shoulders, lean but defined arms, and a relaxed confidence that makes Jimin's heart skip a beat.

The stranger catches Jimin's hesitant gaze. For a brief, charged moment, their eyes meet. The man's smile is not merely friendly—there's a playful, teasing glimmer there, as if to say, "I know you're watching." It's the kind of smile that ignites a mischievous spark, the kind that seems to acknowledge every unspoken thought.

Jimin feels his cheeks warm, and he wonders if he appears ridiculous for caring so much about a table at the university library. But then the stranger—Taehyung, as Jimin secretly dares to call him in his mind—nods slightly in a clear, wordless invitation. He even adjusts his headphones, casually setting them around his neck as if to reserve the space opposite him.

Gathering his courage, Jimin takes a deep breath and approaches, trying to quell the flutter of nerves. He pulls out the chair at the table, placing it carefully as if to claim the territory that belongs to him.

"Thanks," Jimin manages, his voice steadier than he feels.

A soft chuckle escapes Taehyung as he leans back slightly. "Didn't you know that this is your table?" he teases in a low, husky murmur, the sound barely audible over the gentle hum of the library.

Jimin blinks, momentarily caught off guard, then laughs—a breathy, self-deprecating laugh. "I know, right? The cheek of it."

Taehyung returns to his work with a final playful remark: "This table is better anyway."

Silence falls between them—a comfortable, shared silence. Although Jimin initially feared that working directly across from Taehyung might distract him, he finds that the magnetic pull of the encounter somehow sharpens his focus. Every now and then, he steals glances at the man—admiring the effortless sway of his dark hair, the precise tilt of his head as he reads, and the quiet intensity in his eyes. Under the warm glow of the library's overhead lights, Taehyung appears almost ethereal—a living, breathing enigma who seems to belong to another, more intriguing world.

For the rest of his study session, Jimin refuses to look up, at least not too often. Yet even as he buries himself in his revision, he can't shake the sensation that Taehyung's smile lingers like a secret promise. Perhaps today, fate has given him a glimpse of something more than just a shared table—a tantalizing hint that this silent stranger might be someone worth knowing.

Maybe, just maybe, Taehyung is here to tempt Jimin away from his studies and into a world where even the humblest of library tables holds the possibility of something extraordinary.

Maybe it is the stranger's sheer determination and focus that keeps Jimin motivated. Each time he looks up, the man remains engrossed in his work—either flipping through the pages of a thick book with careful precision or typing swiftly on his laptop, the rhythmic clicks of his keyboard filling the otherwise quiet space.

Jimin exhales softly, shifting his attention back to his own work. He starts solving the worksheets he printed out earlier, eyes flickering between his lecture notes, the stack of borrowed books in front of him, and the printed pages. It feels like a never-ending cycle—read, solve, check, repeat—but somehow, sitting across from someone so effortlessly disciplined makes him push himself harder.

He manages to complete three worksheets before hunger gets the best of him. With a satisfied sigh, he finally reaches for his bag, ready to reward himself with his meal deal.

It's only when his fingers wrap around the packaging that a sudden thought strikes him—what if the stranger silently judges his food choices? Is a BBQ chicken wrap too plain? Are salt-and-vinegar McCoys too intense? Will a Pepsi Max Cherry make him seem like a child clinging to artificial sweetness?

For a split second, he hesitates. Then, just as quickly, he shakes his head. If this man is the type to judge meal deals, then maybe he isn't the man for him.

As Jimin peels back the wrapper of his sandwich, he notices movement across the table. The stranger looks up, his gaze flickering toward Jimin's hands. His expression is unreadable—not a trace of disapproval, but no particular reaction either.

And then, unexpectedly, he closes his laptop.

Jimin freezes. Is he leaving? Did his questionable food choices scare the man away?

But instead of packing up, the stranger reaches into his own bag, rustling through its contents before pulling out a meal deal of his own.

A chicken and bacon wrap. A Mars bar. A Pepsi Max Cherry.

Jimin stares, momentarily thrown. Is it absurd to think this is weirdly romantic? Can two people eating the same drink and snack at a library table count as a first date? It already feels better than any date he's had before—quiet, comfortable, effortlessly aligned.

He mentally tells himself to shut up. He doesn't even know this man's name, let alone his preferences. Jin always scolds him for being too delusional for his own good (to which Jimin always responds, Pot. Kettle.).

The stranger finally speaks, his voice rich and smooth. "You've got good taste." He nods towards their identical drink choice.

Jimin grins. "So do you."

The stranger doesn't pause his reading, flipping a page while taking a bite of his wrap. No rest for the wicked, Jimin supposes. He debates saying something more—striking up a conversation, maybe—but the thought of interrupting seems almost criminal.

So, instead, he follows suit, unwrapping his sandwich and flipping open his textbook. Still, the lack of conversation gnaws at him. They've hardly exchanged more than a few words, and that bothers him. There's something about this man that is so... intriguing. Jimin wants to know more—everything, really.

Starting with his name.

He gathers his courage and, in a voice deliberately casual, says, "I never got your name."

The stranger looks up, his expression shifting from deep focus to mild surprise. He closes his book slightly, keeping his place with a finger, and tilts his head as though considering the question.

Then, finally, he says, "Taehyung."

Jimin repeats it under his breath, rolling the syllables over his tongue. "Taehyung."

He grins. "It suits you."

Taehyung raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Does it?"

"Yeah," Jimin replies with mock seriousness, tapping a finger against the table. "You don't look like a Gareth or a Tom, if that's what you're wondering."

Taehyung lets out a quiet laugh, low and warm, and Jimin swears he's never been more eager to know someone.

Taehyung snorts at that, shaking his head. Jimin looks at the book in his hand, 'Literary theory.'

"You study Literature?" Jimin asks.

Taehyung nods, "and you study History." It isn't much of a question, more of a statement. Jimin is flattered that Taehyung had been paying him enough attention to notice.

"No. I just enjoy reading History books in my spare time." Jimin retorts, much like Taehyung' own sarcastic comment the other day.

Taehyung rolls his eyes, a smile spreading across his lips. "Knob."

They fall back into quiet after that, working in a similar sort of tandem to before. Jimin keeps replaying the conversation in his head, refraining from smiling to himself like an idiot. All he wants to do is giggle like a school girl and kick his feet.

He isn't like this usually. He's quite relaxed when it comes to the men that he's interested in. He doesn't usually partake in the chase, preferring to be the one being chased. Usually all he needs to do is use his seductive eyes and flick and sway his hair and he's got an in.

This feels different though. It isn't some club hookup or a guy he's been messaging on tinder. It isn't meaningless and quick. Or impersonal and casual.

This is slow, deliberate, and strangely thrilling in a way Jimin isn't used to. Jimin isn't rushing into things, he isn't immediately going for what he wants. He's slowly reading the person that Taehyung is, letting things build up naturally until it becomes clear to him what is going on between them. He's always been the type to dive headfirst into things, to throw himself at whatever catches his attention and figure the rest out later.

Jimin isn't even sure that Taehyung feels any way about him. The man isn't giving away anything at all, which is perhaps what excites him. This is unfamiliar territory for Jimin, but he can't deny how much he's enjoying it.

Taehyung, for his part, doesn't give much away. He's focused, thoughtful, and maddeningly hard to read. Jimin isn't used to this kind of restraint—it makes him want to work for it, to earn those rare smirks and knowing glances.

God he hopes that this man is queer. More than he's wanted any man to be queer before—and that includes Chris Evans.

He glances up occasionally, watching the way Taehyung reads with such focus, the slight furrow of his brow as he makes notes. His handwriting is small and neat, the kind that probably looks just as good on the last page of a notebook as on the first.

Taehyung packs his things up to leave at about 4pm. Jimin is disappointed, he wishes that he'd stay a little longer, so that they can talk a little more. He watches him put his notebook and his laptop into his bag and deposit the books he'd been using back on the shelves.

Before the man leaves, he looks down at Jimin from his standing position and says, as more of a question "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Jimin blinks up at him. "Er, yeah. I'll be here."

He tries to play it cool, though his lips twitch into an uncontrollable grin.

They're making progress.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Jimin tells Jin about Taehyung during their usual phone call on his walk to the library. Today marks exactly one week of his sudden dedication to academia, a fact that Jin simply refuses to believe. His best friend insists that Jimin is lying to them all—that there's no way he has willingly become a library person.

It wasn't until Jimin offhandedly mentioned the very attractive Korean man that Jin suddenly changed his tune, humming in understanding.

"Do you want me to try and find him on KakaoTalk?" Jin asks, his tone filled with mischief.

Jimin lets out a laugh. "I don't even know his last name, I doubt you'd have any luck."

"You doubt me?" Jin gasps, feigning offense. "Kim Taehyung isn't that common of a name. I bet I could find him in two seconds."

Jimin rolls his eyes, even though Jin obviously can't see it. "I don't want to seem like a stalker."

Jin snorts. "Since when have you ever cared about that? He must be Kang Dongwon levels of attractive."

Jimin groans, kicking a stray pebble on the pavement. "He's better."

A bold statement—one that even he knows is a dangerous thing to say. Tempting fate, Park Jimin. He has watched Temptation of Wolves at least five times, after all. The moment Kang Dongwon had swung that umbrella? Life-altering.

There's a dramatic gasp from the other end of the line, and Jimin hears a scoff in the background.

"You're lying just to be dramatic," Jisoo chimes in, utterly unimpressed.

"I'm really not," Jimin insists.

"I'm going to find him on KakaoStory," Jin announces, the sound of rustling confirming that he is already reaching for his laptop.

"I'll check Instagram," Jisoo adds, voice far too smug for Jimin's liking.

"No, no, no. You can't!" Jimin quickly tries to stop them.

"We just won't tell you what we find, then," Jisoo replies easily.

Jimin groans, picking up his pace on the way to the library, as if physically escaping the conversation will somehow make them drop it. "You two are impossible," he mutters, though the fond exasperation in his voice is impossible to miss.

Jin's laugh rings through the phone. "We're just trying to help. You're the one pining like a historical drama lead over some mysterious Korean guy."

"I'm not pining," Jimin argues, even though he absolutely is. "I'm... curious."

Jisoo snorts, thoroughly unimpressed. "You've gone to the library seven days in a row. What else would you call it?"

"Determination? Academia? Scholarly pursuits?"

Silence.

And then, both men burst into loud laughter.

Jimin hangs up.

—

His first exam is quickly approaching, and Jimin feels the pressure today. He has a list of readings to get through, and the weight of unfinished work hangs over his head. His dissertation looms over him like a dark cloud, each email from his professor a reminder that he is, in fact, running out of time.

He exhales as he steps into the library, mind already racing with everything he needs to get done.

But then—

There.

At their table.

Taehyung.

And just like that, Jimin suddenly remembers exactly why he has been here every single day.

-

Jimin exhales as he taps his student ID against the sensor, the familiar chime granting him access to the library. The glass doors slide open with a soft whir, and he steps inside, greeted by the subtle scent of paper and the faint hum of the air conditioning.

He feels like he's drowning.

The first semester had been deceptively easy, almost relaxed, with few deadlines and a manageable workload. But now, in the second term, reality has come crashing down. Four exams, a dissertation, and a major project—all looming over him, all demanding to be completed within the next few months.

The pressure to succeed is suffocating. It lingers in the back of his mind like an unshakable shadow, whispering that he cannot afford to fail. It's his own voice now, but he knows exactly where it came from.

His parents.

Although he hasn't spoken to them in years, their expectations remain, woven into the very fabric of his being. The relentless push to be the best. The unspoken rule that anything less than perfection is unacceptable. The belief that success is not just expected but owed.

Jimin knows the Park family would be proud of him no matter what—proud simply because he's trying, because he's putting in the effort. But that isn't enough to silence the part of him that still aches for validation he will never receive.

If his parents had their way, he wouldn't be here, studying something he actually enjoys. He'd be in Seoul National University's Business School, wearing suffocating suits and preparing to inherit the family company. He'd be shadowing executives, sitting in board meetings, learning to be enough—for them.

Jimin grits his teeth and rubs at his temple, as if he can physically wipe the thoughts away.

Not now. He needs to focus.

He takes the stairs down to the study area, his mind finally settling—only for all his thoughts to scatter the moment he spots his usual table.

Occupied.

And not by just anyone.

Kim Taehyung.

Jimin's eyebrows raise slightly as he glances over at Taehyung's usual spot, expecting to see someone else sitting there. But it's empty—completely untouched.

His lips curl into a knowing smile.

Interesting.

He strides over, pulling back his chair with an easy confidence. "Something wrong with your table?" he asks, setting down his books.

Taehyung looks up, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. He shrugs. "I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I'm starting to understand why you like this one better."

"Oh?" Jimin leans in slightly. "Am I being conquered?"

Taehyung tilts his head, mirroring his stance. "You're not willing to share?"

Jimin hums, considering. If yesterday was progress, then today is victory.

Because for the first time, Taehyung is giving something back.

Jimin pulls the hair tie from his wrist and gathers his hair into a loose bun as he answers, "Only if you don't distract me."

He does it on purpose.

He knows exactly what he's doing.

And it works.

Taehyung stares, his gaze lingering for just a second too long before flickering down—to his neck, then back up to his eyes.

His response is smooth, but there's a slight pause. "Likewise."

Jimin bites back a smirk.

The two settle into a steady rhythm, their books open, pens tapping against paper. Jimin should be focusing, but every now and then, his eyes drift across the table.

At one point, he looks up—and catches Taehyung watching him.

There's a moment, brief but charged.

Then, Taehyung glances away as if nothing happened.

Jimin hides his smile behind a hand, pretending to rub his chin as he turns back to his book.

But later—

He does it again.

This time, he finds himself staring at Taehyung's lips.

It's entirely unintentional—or at least, that's what he tells himself. They're talking about something unimportant, but his eyes betray him, darting downward for just a second too long.

Taehyung notices.

Of course he notices.

His smirk grows wider, and he tilts his head slightly, as if daring Jimin to do it again. "You were saying?" he asks, voice light, teasing.

Jimin clears his throat, heat rising to his cheeks.

He wants to kiss him.

To lean over the table and press their mouths together, to feel Taehyung's hands on him—his face, his hips, everywhere.

Instead, he blurts out, "I was saying that Folklore is definitely better than Evermore. It's not even a competition."

Taehyung raises an eyebrow, amused by the sudden shift. "That's like comparing Lee Sedol and AlphaGo," he muses. "Both are brilliant in their own right."

"But if you had to pick?" Jimin challenges.

Taehyung doesn't hesitate.

"Evermore."

Jimin mock gasps, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. "Traitor!"

Taehyung only smirks. "Speaking of... have you been watching it?"

Their conversation shifts effortlessly, work forgotten as easily as the textbooks in front of them. Jimin's once-meticulous plan for a productive study session crumbles entirely under the weight of their chatter.

They talk about everything and nothing at all.

Their favorite dramas. The songs they have on repeat. The difference between homemade kimchi jjigae and the one from the convenience store. Whether or not mint chocolate ice cream is an abomination.

Jimin learns that Taehyung doesn't like coffee but drinks it anyway when he's tired. That he prefers cats over dogs but has never owned a pet. That he eats doenjang jjigae at least three times a week.

But he still doesn't know his last name.

And that bothers him more than it should.

When Taehyung finally announces that he needs to leave, Jimin frowns, unable to mask his disappointment.

Taehyung notices. Of course he notices.

"I'll be here tomorrow," he says, amusement dancing in his voice.

Jimin straightens. "Same time?"

Taehyung nods as he gathers his things, slinging his bag over one shoulder. He pauses, then smirks. "If you're lucky."

Jimin watches him walk away, his silhouette disappearing through the library doors.

The second Jimin steps outside, he pulls out his phone and dials.

The line barely rings twice before Jin picks up. "How was the library visit?"

Jimin doesn't bother with pleasantries.

"Tell me what you found out about him."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Kim Taehyung is also in his third year. They have multiple mutual friends, and he's from a small town near Busan. Jin sends Jimin the links to all the Kim Taehyungs he and Jisoo managed to find, and Jimin filters through them, his fingers pausing when he finally lands on the right one.

There he is.

Jimin stares at the profile picture longer than necessary—an effortlessly candid shot of Taehyung, caught mid-laugh. His dimples are deep, his eyes bright, and there's something undeniably magnetic about him. Even in a still image, he radiates presence. Jimin exhales slowly.

In the group chat, Jin sends a long string of exclamation marks.

"We were hoping it'd be him," Jin admits, following it up with, "I understand why you've completely lost it over this man."

"He's ridiculous," Jisoo adds. "Like, offensive. People should not be allowed to be this good-looking."

Jimin doesn't respond right away. Instead, he taps through Taehyung's photos, glancing at snippets of his life. There's one where he's in a café, a cup of Americano in hand, staring pensively out the window. Another at the beach, hair windswept, grinning widely. A short video clip shows him playing the saxophone, brows furrowed in focus.

Jimin locks his phone before he can do anything embarrassing.

He falls asleep that night in a good mood, an inexplicable warmth lingering in his chest.

—

The good mood doesn't last.

The moment Jimin wakes up, something feels wrong. It's not exhaustion, not exactly, but something heavier. Like he's been crushed under a mountain of expectations and responsibilities before the day has even begun.

His brain floods with thoughts the second he opens his eyes.

Exams. Deadlines. His dissertation. The project he hasn't started. The future waiting ahead of him, uncertain and terrifying.

A sick, anxious feeling rises in his throat.

What if he fails? What if he doesn't get a job? What if he spends all these years studying only to end up nowhere?

His limbs feel leaden, unwilling to move. He stares at the ceiling, unblinking, spiraling deeper into his thoughts. The hours pass without him realizing. He hasn't even reached for his phone.

Until it vibrates.

Once. Then again, immediately after.

Jimin groans and blindly gropes for it. "What?" he mutters, voice rough.

"What's wrong?" Jin asks immediately. His voice, usually teasing and playful, is gentle now.

Jimin exhales sharply. "I don't know."

Jin pauses for a moment. "Okay. Have you made a list?"

Jimin squeezes his eyes shut. "I need to go to the library. And buy groceries."

"That's good," Jin says, thoughtful. "Alright. Here's what we're going to do. First, you're getting out of bed."

Jimin hesitates. His body doesn't want to move, doesn't want to cooperate. "Mmm."

"Not 'mmm.' Say it properly."

Jimin groans. "Okay."

"Then, you're going to shower. And then," Jin's voice shifts, a playful lilt returning, "you're going to the library, where you'll just happen to run into that Daegu boy you can't stop thinking about, that gorgeous Kim Taehyung of yours.."

A small laugh escapes Jimin before he can stop it.

"Don't push yourself. Just getting to the library is enough," Jin says, his voice calm yet firm, the kind of steady reassurance Jimin so desperately needs. "Stop by Emart on your way home and grab whatever you need. Then, once you're back, you're going to FaceTime me, and we're going to watch The Devil's Plan together, because I simply refuse to believe they left us on that ridiculous cliffhanger last week."

Jimin exhales, the tightness in his chest easing just a little. "Thank you." His voice is quiet but sincere.

"You're welcome," Jin replies easily, and Jimin can hear the familiar grin in his tone. "I'll stay on the phone if you want."

Jimin doesn't hesitate before nodding, even though Jin can't see him. "Yeah. Please."

So, they talk. Or rather, Jin talks, weaving through an endless stream of amusing anecdotes, half-formed rants about a professor who seems to have a personal vendetta against him, and complaints about how Jisoo is determined to drag him to a new café every weekend. Jimin listens, occasionally throwing in a hum or a half-hearted response, but mostly, he just lets Jin fill the silence.

The call doesn't end until Jimin pushes open the doors to the library nearly an hour later, feeling somewhat lighter but still frayed at the edges.

He takes a deep breath.

It's enough.

He tells himself that again and again as he walks down the familiar stairway to his usual table. He doesn't need to be perfect today. He doesn't need to excel. Just being here is enough.

Taehyung is already there, sitting in his usual spot, and the moment Jimin steps closer, Taehyung looks up.

For a split second—so brief that Jimin almost thinks he imagined it—there's something in Taehyung's gaze that looks like relief.

"I was starting to think you weren't coming," Taehyung says, tilting his head slightly, his voice as smooth as ever.

Jimin can't stop the small smile that pulls at his lips. "I wouldn't leave you hanging," he says, aiming for nonchalance.

Taehyung raises an eyebrow, a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're late, though," he points out, leaning back in his chair. There's no malice in his tone, only that same effortless ease, that playful familiarity that Jimin is already starting to crave more than he should.

"I had... a bit of a slow start today," Jimin admits, rubbing the back of his neck as he pulls out his chair. He doesn't mention the weight in his chest, the spiral of anxieties that had gripped him since morning. Taehyung looks so relaxed, so unbothered—Jimin doesn't want to bring that energy into their space. "But I'm here now, right?"

"You are." Taehyung's expression softens slightly. "I'm glad you made it."

Jimin doesn't know why that simple sentence makes something warm settle in his chest, but he doesn't let himself dwell on it. Instead, he flips open his notes, determined to shake off the lingering unease.

For the first half-hour, he feels fine. He manages to jot down a few key points, sketches out a mind map, and even gets through a couple of pages of his reading material.

But then, it happens.

A single sentence in the thick dissertation book in front of him.

He's read it eight times now. The words blur together, refusing to make sense, slipping from his grasp no matter how hard he tries to absorb them.

The frustration creeps in, slow at first, then all at once. His grip tightens on the pen, and a familiar voice in the back of his head whispers, You're never going to get this. You're already so behind. Why are you even trying?

Jimin swallows hard, his throat dry.

He's fed up.

He's frustrated.

And for the first time since sitting down, he feels like maybe he's not enough after all.

Jimin's vision blurs. His throat tightens, the weight of his own breath pressing heavy upon his chest. He swallows hard, willing away the sting in his eyes, yet no amount of restraint can quell the suffocating pressure threatening to consume him whole.

Compose yourself, he commands inwardly. Steady your hands. Breathe.

But the words before him—the elegant script inked upon parchment—smudge and distort, their meaning slipping through his grasp like sand through trembling fingers. His mind, clouded and restless, refuses to absorb a single line. His heart pounds against his ribs, the erratic rhythm deafening in the silence of the grand hall.

Somewhere beyond his tangled thoughts, a voice calls his name.

"Jimin?"

Soft, measured, laced with concern.

He does not look up. His fingers tighten around the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening against the polished mahogany. Heat rises to his cheeks—an embarrassing tell of his unraveling composure. He blinks rapidly, but it is futile. The sting only worsens.

"Jimin."

The voice is closer now—low, steady, grounding.

"Are you alright?" Taehyung murmurs, gentler this time.

Jimin exhales sharply, as if the very act of answering will shatter the fragile control he clings to. His hands curl into fists upon the table, the parchment beneath them crinkling slightly.

His gaze lifts only a fraction, yet he refuses to meet Taehyung's eyes. "I am fine," he utters, too quickly, too rigidly. The words are but a brittle shield against the truth, his voice betraying its own fragility.

With deliberate slowness, he turns the page before him, feigning interest in ink he can no longer decipher. A futile effort.

Silence lingers.

Then, a touch—light, yet grounding. A warm hand upon his arm.

Jimin stills. His breath catches in his throat.

The fabric of his sleeve does little to dull the warmth that seeps through, and for a fleeting moment, the crushing weight within his chest lightens—just slightly. His throat remains thick, his eyes still burn, but somehow, the gentle reassurance in Taehyung's presence makes it easier to breathe.

Jimin drags a hand across his face, though it does nothing to rid him of the overwhelming sense of exposure. He feels raw. Bare.

"I must go," he says abruptly, his voice hoarse. "Forgive me."

He withdraws, the loss of contact instant and jarring.

Taehyung's fingers hesitate, lingering for but a breath longer than necessary before retreating. He does not stop him, does not demand an explanation, yet Jimin can feel his gaze—heavy, searching, unspoken words lingering in the air between them.

"Jimin—"

But Jimin does not allow him to continue.

He gathers his books, his scrolls, his carefully written notes—stuffing them into his satchel with none of his usual meticulousness. Pages fold, ink smears, but his hands are unsteady, his mind far too clouded to care.

"I am sorry," he murmurs, voice tight. "I must take my leave."

Taehyung does not move to stop him, does not chase after him.

Instead, a quiet sigh escapes him. "Very well," he says softly. "Just... take care of yourself."

Jimin pauses, his back to Taehyung, his grip tightening around the strap of his satchel.

His throat aches, the weight of unspoken words pressing against it.

"Of course," he whispers.

And then, he leaves.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Jimin returns to the library the next day, guilt gnawing at him like a relentless tide, rising and crashing with every step he takes.

He had treated Taehyung unfairly. He had known it in the moment, but the need to flee—to escape before his emotions betrayed him—had consumed him entirely. And now, with the weight of his actions settling deep in his chest, regret coils around his ribs like an iron vice.

As he pushes open the grand doors, a wave of nervous anticipation rushes through him. His heart thrums unsteadily, an uncomfortable staccato rhythm that refuses to settle. He's been practicing his apology, going over it again and again in his head. I shouldn't have left like that. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you worry. The words had come easily in the silence of his room, whispered to the ceiling in the dim glow of his bedside lamp.

But now, standing in the familiar scent of old books and parchment, his resolve wavers.

He hates the thought of Taehyung being upset with him. Hates knowing he might have hurt him. The image of Taehyung's face from yesterday is seared into his mind—the soft concern in his eyes, the quiet patience in his voice, the way his touch had grounded Jimin, even if just for a second.

And yet Jimin had pulled away.

He clenches his fists at his sides, shame burning hot beneath his skin.

His steps are hesitant as he makes his way toward their usual table, his pulse roaring in his ears. But as soon as he catches sight of it, a hollow sort of disappointment settles in his stomach.

The seat across from his is empty.

Jimin swallows hard. He had hoped to find Taehyung here, to get this over with—to apologize, to make things right, to see him. But the absence before him is stark, an unsettling reminder that not all mistakes can be immediately undone.

Still, he waits.

And he waits.

He eats his meal deal, though the food tastes like nothing in his mouth. He flips through his readings, forcing himself to focus on the words, but they blur together, his mind elsewhere. He goes through the list he had made that morning—tasks meant to distract him—but even as he checks them off one by one, a gnawing unease lingers.

He waits.

Time drags.

Jimin stays longer than he needs to, longer than he ever has, long after his work is done. Every time the library doors creak open, his heart leaps in foolish hope, only to plummet seconds later when it isn't him.

Taehyung never shows.

And it hurts in a way Jimin isn't prepared for.

He tells himself it's just guilt, just the weight of his regret pressing down on him. But deep down, he knows better.

It isn't just guilt. It's the aching want to see him. To hear his voice, to feel the quiet steadiness of his presence.

It's the realization that he misses Taehyung.

And that?

That is terrifying.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊

Jimin considers not going to the library the next day.

He's convinced he's ruined everything—that he's pushed Taehyung away, scared him off with his mess of emotions.

They'd gotten to a good place, and now he's gone and ruined it.

Jin and Jisoo try to talk sense into him. They tell him he's overthinking, that maybe Taehyung was just busy, that skipping a single day doesn't mean anything.

But Jimin doesn't listen. He never does when it comes to Taehyung.

Instead, he spends the night torturing himself, replaying the moment over and over, dissecting the way Taehyung had looked at him—the quiet concern, the hesitation, the way his hand had lingered just a second too long before he let go.

Jimin keeps thinking about that touch. About how much it had settled him and how quickly he had thrown it away.

The guilt is unbearable.

And yet, despite the ache in his chest, despite the fact that he spent hours convincing himself to stay home, he finds himself at the library doors again.

He tells himself he's only here because he has things to print. That's it. Nothing else.

But as soon as he steps inside, his stomach twists.

He wonders if Taehyung will be there. If he should even look. A part of him wants to run to another floor, avoid the possibility of seeing disappointment—or worse, indifference—in Taehyung's eyes.

But he forces himself forward.

And then he sees him.

Taehyung is there.

Jimin's heart stutters violently in his chest.

He's seated in his usual spot, head bent over a notebook, pen tapping idly against the paper as he writes. His headphones are on, and his foot bounces lightly under the table, keeping rhythm with whatever song is playing.

Relief crashes into Jimin so fast it nearly knocks the breath out of him.

For a moment, he just stands there, gripping the strap of his bag tightly, steadying himself. He rehearses his apology one last time.

Then, gathering his courage, he walks over.

He clears his throat softly, not wanting to startle him.

Taehyung looks up.

For a split second, his expression is unreadable. His golden eyes flicker with something—surprise, maybe? Annoyance? Jimin isn't sure.

"Hi," Jimin says, his voice quiet.

Taehyung pulls off his headphones, setting them on the table. "Hi."

Jimin hesitates, fingers twitching against the strap of his bag. "You didn't come yesterday."

Taehyung raises an eyebrow at the observation. Something flickers in his expression again, something fleeting. "I didn't."

He doesn't elaborate.

Jimin swallows, shifting on his feet. The silence stretches between them, taut and uncertain. Then, slowly, Taehyung looks back at him—waiting.

Jimin clenches his fists and forces himself to speak.

"I—I wanted to apologize. I-um-I'm sorry about the other day." Jimin begins. "I was worked up and I didn't mean to offend you, I just–"

Taehyung stops him with a quiet certainty. "It's okay, Jimin. You didn't offend me."

The tension in Jimin's chest loosens, but it doesn't fully disappear. That single reassurance isn't enough to wash away the hours he spent agonizing over his mistakes, over the possibility that he had somehow ruined everything. He searches Taehyung's face for any sign of lingering resentment, of anything unsaid between them, but all he finds is patience—calm and steady, like always.

Jimin swallows. His fingers twitch against the table. "You didn't come yesterday," he murmurs, his voice softer now. "I thought it was because of me."

Taehyung huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head, the corners of his lips quirking up into something amused. "I was having the time of my life at my best friend's girly sleepover for her birthday," he deadpans.

Jimin blinks, startled by the unexpected response, before a surprised laugh escapes him. He hadn't realized just how tightly wound he had been until now, how much he had needed to hear something so ridiculous to pull him out of his spiral. The relief that floods his chest is warm and almost dizzying, embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck at how far he had let his worries go.

"Tell me about it," Jimin says, finally allowing himself to relax, settling properly into his chair, shoulders losing their stiffness.

And Taehyung does.

He tells him all about it—about how he had been manipulated into wearing a face mask that, according to the birthday girl, would make his skin 'glow like the moon.' About how he had spent half the night trapped in a room full of tipsy, giggling women who somehow managed to drag him into their endless stream of gossip. He recounts, with a dramatic sigh, the absolute madness of the night—how he had been forced to suffer through three entire romance films, one of which had him invested against his will. He admits, somewhat grudgingly, that he had actually enjoyed the gossip, that he hadn't heard anything quite so scandalous since secondary school, and that, surprisingly, he had missed it.

They laugh together, their conversation slipping into an easy rhythm, warmth threading between them like invisible string. They talk about Lily and Marlene—mutual friends Jimin had pretended he didn't already know about, just to see how Taehyung would describe them. The familiarity of it all settles something in his chest, a quiet contentment he hadn't realized he had been craving.

Eventually, the moment shifts. Jimin glances across the room, spotting the section where the book he needs should be. It's tucked away, nestled in a quiet corner of the library that rarely sees much foot traffic. The perfect hiding spot for someone seeking solitude.

"Back in a minute," he tells Taehyung as he stands, stretching slightly before making his way over.

Even with his back turned, Jimin can feel the weight of Taehyung's gaze lingering on him, steady and unrelenting. He doesn't dare look back, too aware of the way his pulse has picked up, the way something warm has settled low in his stomach. Instead, he focuses on scanning the shelves, eyes darting from title to title, searching for the book he needs.

It's harder to find than he thought.

He scans the shelves again. And again. His fingers trail absentmindedly over the spines of the books, frustration growing with every passing second.

And then—

A presence at his side. Close. Closer than necessary.

He jumps slightly, startled by the sudden proximity, the quiet hum of warmth that radiates off the figure beside him. His breath stutters, heart lurching, and when he turns his head, Taehyung is there.

Jimin lets out an awkward laugh, pressing a hand to his chest as if to steady the erratic beating of his heart. "You scared me," he murmurs, the words coming out softer than intended. He blinks up at Taehyung, eyes flickering with amusement. "I can't find my book—"

Taehyung kisses the sentence right out of his mouth.

It happens so fast that Jimin barely has time to process it.

One second, he's standing there, mid-sentence, heart still trying to settle from the scare, and the next, Taehyung is closing the distance between them, his body pressing in just enough to leave no room for hesitation. A hand finds its way to Jimin's lower back, firm and grounding, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his sweater. The other cradles his jaw, warm and careful, tilting his face up just enough to guide him into the kiss.

It's hot. Urgent.

Taehyung kisses him like he means it, like he's been thinking about this for a while, like he's been waiting for the right moment and finally decided that this—right here, right now—is it.

Jimin doesn't need to think. He doesn't need to question.

His body reacts instinctively, melting into Taehyung's touch as if it had been waiting for this exact moment all along. His fingers tighten around the edge of the bookshelf, his knees feel weak, his heart is hammering against his ribs with a force that makes him feel breathless.

And yet—he doesn't pull away.

He leans in.

This is it.

This is what Jimin has been waiting for—what he's been anticipating, what he's been dreaming about for far longer than he'd ever admit.

And yet, nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for this.

Because it's better. Far better than he ever could have imagined.

Taehyung moves with an effortless kind of certainty, pushing him back until his spine meets the bookshelves, caging him in with the heat of his body. Jimin barely has time to process it before Taehyung is kissing him deeper, harder, with a heated rush of desperation that steals every last thought from his head.

It's consuming. Dizzying. The world around them ceases to exist, fading into a distant blur as Taehyung claims every ounce of Jimin's focus.

Jimin has never seen him like this before—so unguarded, so completely untethered. Taehyung, who is usually so calm, so composed, now kissing him like a man starved, like he's wanted this just as badly, just as long. It sends a shiver down Jimin's spine, his entire body reacting before his mind can catch up.

His hands fly to Taehyung's shirt, clutching at the fabric, pulling him impossibly closer. He feels Taehyung groan against his lips, the low sound vibrating through him, sending something hot and electric straight to his core. God. Jimin thinks he could die happily now, knowing his ears have been blessed by that sound.

Every nerve in his body is alight, burning with an intensity that threatens to unravel him entirely. The feeling of Taehyung's hands—his hands—roaming over his waist, his sides, his back, mapping out every inch like he's memorizing him—it's too much. It's overwhelming in the best possible way.

And then—

A sharp tug, a teasing scrape of teeth against his bottom lip, and Jimin lets out a sound he didn't even know he was capable of making.

Taehyung smirks against his mouth, clearly pleased with himself, but Jimin doesn't give him the satisfaction of teasing him for it. Not when he's already so lost in the way Taehyung feels, the way he tastes, the way every part of him is demanding more, more, more—

They finally break apart, gasping for breath, foreheads nearly touching, the space between them charged and heavy.

Taehyung is the first to speak. Or—he tries to.

"Are you–" he begins, his voice hoarse, rough in a way that sends another shiver down Jimin's spine.

"Yeah," Jimin cuts in, breathless. "I'm—"

He doesn't even bother finishing the sentence. It doesn't matter. None of it does. Because suddenly, he's kissing Taehyung again, stealing whatever thought he was about to say right off his tongue.

He needs this.

He needs to feel him again, needs to taste him again, needs the dizzying rush of their bodies pressed together, of heat building between them, of Taehyung's lips slotting so perfectly against his own like they were made for this.

Jimin's hands slip up, fingers tangling in the soft curls at the nape of Taehyung's neck, pulling him in deeper, anchoring himself to the moment. He doesn't think. He doesn't second-guess it.

All that exists is this.

Taehyung's touch. Taehyung's warmth. The way they fit together so seamlessly, so perfectly, like this was inevitable, like they had been hurtling toward this moment since the second they met.

Eventually—far too soon—they pull apart again, panting, lips swollen, skin tingling with the remnants of heat.

Jimin blinks, his brain struggling to catch up with reality, struggling to comprehend anything beyond the fact that Taehyung just kissed him—Taehyung just kissed him.

"Wow," he breathes out, the only word his brain can manage.

Taehyung lets out a quiet hum of agreement, his chest still rising and falling with uneven breaths.

A beat of silence. Then—

"I didn't think—" Jimin swallows, voice still dazed. "You hardly even know me."

Taehyung exhales a soft chuckle, his lips curling into a grin that's far too smug for Jimin's liking.

"My friends searched you on Facebook," he says easily, completely unbothered. "I know enough."

Jimin can't help the laugh that escapes him. It bubbles up before he can stop it, bright and giddy, his whole body still buzzing from the kiss. "Jin did the same thing," he says between chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief.

That does it.

They're both laughing now, loud and uncontrollable, the kind of laughter that shakes through their entire bodies, rendering them breathless. Taehyung's grip remains firm on Jimin's waist, his fingers curled possessively around the fabric of his shirt, as if he's still anchoring himself in the moment. His head dips slightly, golden eyes crinkling at the corners as he looks at Jimin like he's never seen anything quite as amusing, as wonderful, as breathtaking before.

Jimin can barely keep himself upright, leaning into Taehyung as if the sheer force of their laughter might knock them over. He feels warm all over—not just from the embarrassment or the lingering heat of their kiss, but from this. The easy, unrestrained joy between them. The way everything feels light, effortless, like the world has shrunk down to just the two of them in this tiny, hidden corner of the library.

And then—

A loud, sharp shush cuts through the air.

Taehyung freezes.

His eyes go comically wide, his entire expression morphing into one of exaggerated horror. For a split second, there's pure silence, the kind that stretches just long enough to be dangerous.

And then Jimin loses it.

He laughs even harder, nearly doubling over, clutching at Taehyung's arms to keep himself steady. It's a miracle his legs are still holding him up.

Taehyung, still looking scandalized, mutters, "We're so getting kicked out," but he's grinning, barely able to contain his own laughter as he ducks his head against Jimin's shoulder, trying (and failing) to stifle it.

Jimin shakes his head, still breathless. "We should go," he manages between gasps, his face hurting from smiling so much.

Taehyung nods, his cheeks flushed—not just from the embarrassment, but from the kisses, the laughter, the everything that has unfolded between them in the last few minutes.

And then, after a beat, he says it—casual, like it's the easiest thing in the world. "Coffee?"

Jimin tilts his head, pretending to consider it, but the grin that spreads across his lips betrays him.

"Definitely."

And just like that, with their hands still lingering, their bodies still close, and their hearts still racing, they slip out of the library together.

Jimin doesn't know where this is going—not yet.

But for the first time in a long time, he's willing to find out.

THE END