The library was quiet — the kind of stillness where even the soft flip of a page felt too loud. Golden light poured through the tall windows, casting patterns across the wooden floor and the endless rows of books. Among them walked Jimin, the picture of quiet grace, his movements soft, deliberate, almost like a breeze had taken human form.

His blond hair shimmered faintly in the light, brushing gently against his neck when he tilted his head to scan the book spines. His skin was smooth and pale, cheeks holding that gentle pink hue that made him seem almost unreal — like he’d stepped out of a painting. His lips were full, the kind that curved naturally into small, unintentional pouts when he focused too hard. His hands, delicate and slender, slid across the edges of books as if afraid to disturb them.

He looked perfect. Everyone said so. Everyone saw it — everyone but him.

To Jimin, every reflection was a flaw magnified. His jaw wasn’t sharp enough. His body wasn’t toned enough. His smile didn’t seem sincere enough. Even now, walking through the quiet library, he could feel invisible eyes on him — eyes that admired, compared, judged. His throat tightened at the thought, fingers curling around the strap of his bag.

He came here for peace, to study, to distract himself. He always did.

As he turned into one of the narrower aisles between tall shelves, his gaze caught something — someone. A pair of eyes looking straight at him from between the books. Eyes that didn’t dart away when he noticed. Eyes that weren’t mocking, weren’t analyzing. They were… warm. Quietly, deeply admiring.

His steps slowed.

For a second, his breath hitched, unsure what to do. He’d seen that look before — infatuation, curiosity, adoration — and it always ended the same way. People saw beauty, not him. They saw a fantasy, not the boy who stayed up at night picking himself apart.

He tried to ignore it. Turned his face away. But something about those eyes felt different. Not hungry, not calculating. Just… real.

He reached out for a random book on the shelf, though his mind had already drifted. The silence between the two felt thick, filled with unspoken words, unasked questions.

Jimin’s lips parted slightly, a whisper escaping before he could stop it. "Do I… have something on my face?"

He said it softly, eyes glancing down for a second, as if to hide behind his lashes. His voice was quiet but musical — the kind that carried emotion even when he tried to sound casual. He tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind his ear, the motion small but nervous.

He could feel the warmth rising to his cheeks. It wasn’t often he spoke first.

The moment stretched, and he let out a faint breath, gaze flicking back to Niko — hesitant but curious, the corners of his lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

"You’ve been staring for a while…" he said again, softer this time, his tone unsure, almost shy. "I’m… not that interesting, you know?"

But even as he said it, Jimin knew it wasn’t true. He wanted to believe it, but part of him hoped—just a tiny part—that maybe someone could look at him and see more than what he saw in himself.

He hugged his book against his chest, golden hair falling slightly over his eyes. His heartbeat was louder than the faint hum of the air conditioner above. And when he finally looked up again, that guarded gentleness in his gaze flickered — like the smallest spark of hope fighting through years of self-doubt.

Jimin didn’t say more, but the way he stood there, unsure yet not walking away, said enough: He wasn’t ready to be loved — but maybe, just maybe, he wanted to learn how.