The air smelled faintly of ink, paper, and forgotten afternoons.
Baekhyun's west wing library wasn't popular during daylight. Students preferred the brighter lounges, the rooftop café, the digital labs. But here, among the dustier shelves and filtered light, everything felt slower. Older.
Hae-won had no plan—just the weight of sketchbooks in her bag and questions she didn't know how to ask out loud. She tucked herself between two low shelves labeled "Aesthetic Theory" and "Experimental Design," settling on the floor with her back against cool marble.
It had been a strange week.
Not bad. Just… off. Like a violin ever so slightly out of tune—still music, but something trembled underneath.
First the anonymous sketches. Then the note. Then Jin-woon's smirk like he knew more than he was saying.
And earlier that morning, when she'd tried to focus in class, Soo-min had laughed a little too loud when Kyung-min leaned over to whisper something in her ear.
The glance he gave Hae-won afterward was brief, unreadable.
She wasn't paranoid. Not exactly. Just observant.
Too observant, maybe.
A soft shuffle of fabric broke her thoughts. She looked up.
Seok-min stood at the end of the aisle, long limbs relaxed, a stack of books in his hand. His glasses caught the light briefly before he stepped fully into view, gaze drifting down to her sprawled notes without comment.
"I thought you didn't like libraries," Hae-won said quietly.
He didn't answer right away. Just sat down across from her, crossing his legs in one smooth motion. The books remained closed in his lap. "I like silence," he said.
She nodded.
It wasn't awkward. Seok-min didn't fill silences. He didn't break them either. He just existed inside them like furniture or a well-made chair—solid, composed, quietly necessary.
She returned to her sketchpad, not drawing, just turning pages. He glanced over.
"That one's not yours," he murmured, not asking.
"No."
Seok-min looked at the paper—a portrait, rough but precise. Her face, again. Shaded in a way that made her look almost sad, or thoughtful, or both.
"Who?"
"I don't know." Her voice caught slightly. "They don't sign."
He didn't push.
After a beat, he reached into his coat and pulled out a chocolate bar. Broke it in half, handed her the bigger piece without fanfare. His fingers brushed hers. Cool, brief.
"Thanks," she said, surprised.
He leaned back against the bookshelf. "Don't thank me yet. It's from the student council stash. Might be poisoned."
She laughed quietly, and for a moment, the strange weight in her chest eased.
Across the library, she caught a glimpse of movement—shoulders squared, jacket immaculate, hair too perfect to be accidental. Kyung-min.
He moved between rows without looking their way. But she saw the pause. The fractional halt in his step before he turned a corner and vanished again.
Her stomach did something stupid.
Seok-min didn't notice. Or maybe he did and chose not to say anything.
Smart boy.
She stared down at the sketch again, at the careful lines and softness around the eyes.
She's actually beautiful.