The sky above Baekhyun hung like spilled watercolor—blue bleeding into lavender, streaked with a quiet trace of gold. It was the kind of evening that made silence feel sacred.
Hae-won sat cross-legged in the old greenhouse at the back of campus, tucked behind the sculpture hall like a forgotten thought. The light inside was soft and golden, filtered through glass smudged by rain and time. Vines curled against the windows like they'd been trying to get in for years.
She had a book open on her lap, but she wasn't reading.
The air smelled of wet citrus leaves, warm soil, and something faintly sweet.
"Some people would kill for this kind of peace," came a low voice.
She didn't need to turn.
Seok-min stood there, glasses fogged slightly at the edges, a worn satchel slung over one shoulder. His presence didn't disturb the quiet. He slipped into it, like punctuation at the end of a long sentence.
"I didn't think anyone else came here," she said.
"I do," he replied, stepping forward. "Especially when I don't want to talk to people."
"So… I'm the exception?"
He didn't answer. Just looked at her for a long, unreadable moment, then sat down on the bench beside her, not too close.
"I brought snacks," he said, producing a small brown paper bag from his coat. "You looked like you forgot to eat again."
"You keep saying that like it's a hobby of mine."
"It's more of a recurring tragedy," he murmured, offering the bag. "Chestnut mochi. Still warm."
She blinked. "Seriously? You're like an overachieving anime character."
"I'll take that as a thank you."
She took one anyway.
They ate in silence, the kind that didn't beg to be filled. A soft wind shivered through the vines above, rustling the leaves like whispers.
When she caught him staring, he didn't look away.
"What?" she asked.
Seok-min blinked. "You have rice flour on your lip."
She reached up to wipe it, but her hand missed, and he reached forward instinctively, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth with quick precision.
The touch barely lasted a second. But something in the air shifted.
She didn't say anything for a while. Neither did he.
Instead, he pulled out their literature book and set it between them.
"Want to quiz each other?" he asked, voice quieter than usual.
She raised a brow. "Is this your version of a date?"
"I don't date."
"Let me guess—you don't flirt either?"
"I definitely don't."
"Well, you're doing terribly," she said, grinning.
He smirked slightly but didn't argue.
---
The sun dipped lower, bleeding gold across the floor. At some point, the greenhouse felt like its own world—sealed off and suspended.
She leaned her head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
He glanced at her. "You already are."
"Have you ever been attracted to someone?"
Seok-min went still.
Then—slowly—his ears turned red. He blinked once, twice, like the question hadn't translated properly.
"I—uh—that's not..."
"You're stuttering," she said, watching him like a hawk.
"I'm not stuttering," he muttered, adjusting his glasses furiously.
"You are. Oh my god, you've totally been in love with someone before."
"Hae-won."
"And now you're blushing. Wow. I feel like I just uncovered a national secret."
He stood abruptly. "I'm leaving."
She laughed, standing to follow. "You're running. Admit it."
"I'm walking."
"running."
He shoved the door open, flustered and tense. She slipped after him, grinning.
"Wait," she said, catching his sleeve lightly as they stepped out into the dim garden path.
He stopped.
"I'm glad you stayed, I needed this" she said quietly.
He turned toward her slowly.
The world went quiet again.
And then—because tension is always afraid of being named—he cleared his throat, stepped back, and muttered, "I'll bring something else next time."
She watched him walk off into the darkening campus.
He is so easy to talk to. And nice.
She stood still while holding her books to her chest.
Smiling.