The library was Joshua Hong's second home.
Tucked between shelves of classic poetry and modern tragedies, he found peace. With his oversized sweaters, shy glances, and a tendency to speak softly even when he was alone, Joshua often faded into the background of his university's bustling literature department. But there was one place one person that stirred his heart into something loud and frantic.
Professor Jeon Wonwoo.
Tall, unreadable, with eyes that looked through people rather than at them, Wonwoo taught the Advanced Literary Theory class like it was a secret only a few were worthy of. His voice was a deep murmur, each word delivered with precision. Most students found him intimidating, distant. But Joshua... Joshua found him fascinating.
He started attending the optional help sessions that Professor Wonwoo held every Wednesday evening. At first, he had genuine questions. By the third week, he was making up ones.
"Professor, I didn't quite understand the metaphor in the last stanza..."
Wonwoo would look up from his book, eyes narrowing slightly in that way that made Joshua's stomach flip. He always had an answer slow, deliberate, never condescending. And sometimes, just sometimes, Joshua swore he saw the tiniest smile tug at the corner of the professor's mouth.
It had rained all evening.
Joshua didn't have an umbrella. He had been walking home from the campus café when the downpour started, soaking him through his cardigan and jeans. Cold, wet, and shivering, he should've gone back to the dorms.
Instead, he found himself climbing the stairs to the faculty offices, a flimsy paper notebook clutched to his chest. He told himself it was for clarification. But in truth, he just wanted to see Wonwoo.
Joshua paused outside the office door, pressing his wet sleeve to his mouth. Maybe this is too much. Maybe he'll think I'm weird. But before he could turn around, the door creaked open.
Wonwoo stood there, holding a mug of tea in one hand, a novel in the other. He blinked once. Slowly. Then his gaze dropped, taking in the sight of Joshua dripping hair, flushed cheeks, sweater clinging to his slim frame.
"You're soaked," Wonwoo said, his voice quieter than usual.
"I...I'm sorry," Joshua stammered, suddenly hyper-aware of how ridiculous he looked. "I... I just had a question."
Wonwoo stepped aside without a word and motioned him in.
The office was warm. Books lined every wall, paper stacks teetered near the window, and a desk lamp cast soft golden light across the space. Joshua hovered awkwardly by the door, unsure of where to sit, until Wonwoo returned with a clean towel.
"Sit," he said simply, and Joshua obeyed.
The towel smelled faintly of cedarwood. Joshua patted his hair dry, still trembling slightly. Wonwoo returned to his desk but didn't open his book again. Instead, he watched.
"I've noticed you come to almost every help session," Wonwoo said after a beat.
Joshua's heart stuttered. "Y-Yes. I just... your class is hard."
"Is it?"
Joshua swallowed, avoiding eye contact. "No. I mean, yes. But I like it."
Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "You're a good student. You don't need help."
The words hung in the air like a challenge. Joshua's eyes widened. "Then... why do you think I come?"
Wonwoo tilted his head, studying him. Joshua could feel his face heating, his damp clothes suddenly colder.
