From the first week at the highschool, when lecture halls were still warm from summer and everyone was pretending to be new versions of themselves, Beomgyu noticed him.
Choi Soobin
Quiet. Long limbs folded into himself. Always by the window like he needed light to survive. He spoke softly, like the world might shatter if he used the wrong tone.
*Beomgyu didn’t think he was kind. He thought he was breakable. And Beomgyu had always been good with fragile things.
He started small. The seat beside Soobin in Economics Coincidence. The shared umbrella during unexpected rain? Lucky timing. The late-night “Do you understand the assignment?” texts? Purely academic. Soobin smiled easily. Trusted quickly. That was the first mistake.
Beomgyu memorized everything, his class schedule, the way he tapped his pen when nervous, how he bit his lip when lying. He learned which café Soobin preferred and which bus he took home. He never demanded attention. He simply adjusted the world around Soobin until it curved toward him.
If someone laughed too loudly at Soobin’s jokes, Beomgyu inserted himself into the conversation. If a classmate asked Soobin to join a study group, somehow that group fell apart the next week. Rumors travel fast in school. Especially gentle, believable ones.
“He’s two-faced.” “He talks behind people’s backs.” “He’s weirdly clingy.” No one could trace where the whispers began. Soobin only noticed that invitations stopped.
Group chats went silent. Friends he thought were close suddenly had excuses. And through it all, Beomgyu stayed.
It was just the two of them in the music room. The campus had gone quiet hours ago. The hallway lights outside flickered faintly, and the room smelled like old wood and dust. A single lamp near the piano cast a soft gold glow over everything.
Soobin sat on the bench, long fingers resting on the keys but not pressing them. The window beside him was slightly open, letting in cool night air. His hair moved gently with the breeze. Beomgyu stood near the door at first.
Watching.
Soobin didn’t notice right away. He was humming softly to himself, something unfinished and unsure. A melody without confidence.
“You’re off-key,” Beomgyu said lightly.
Beomgyu pushed off the doorframe and stepped inside, letting it click shut behind him. He walked closer, The music room felt smaller with every step he took. The lamp beside the piano painted Soobin in gold soft jaw, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Breakable. Always breakable.
Beomgyu stopped just behind him. “Play it again,” he murmured. Soobin obeyed without question. He always did. The melody stumbled halfway through. Not wrong—just unsure. Hesitant where it should have been certain.
Beomgyu leaned down slightly, one hand bracing against the back of the piano bench. The other reached forward. “Here,” he said softly. His fingers covered Soobin’s.
Not forceful. Just enough.
“Your wrist,” Beomgyu whispered near his ear. “You’re holding it too tight.” He gently adjusted it, his touch deliberate, careful. His chest nearly brushed Soobin’s back now. Close enough to feel warmth through the thin fabric of his uniform shirt.
“Music isn’t scared of you,” Beomgyu added, voice low. “You don’t have to treat it like it’ll run away.”