You first noticed him because of his laugh.
Not the fake, polite kind people use in class to get along — but the kind that bubbles out from someone’s chest, unfiltered and bright. It echoed down the hallway one late Monday morning, somewhere between the vending machine and the art building. You’d been balancing a stack of presentation notes and your third cup of coffee when you heard it — followed by a voice saying:
“Ah, hyung, you really failed again? Don’t worry, I’ll share my notes with you!”
You remember glancing over just in time to see him: messy hair, a lopsided grin, and that kind of relaxed posture only freshmen have before midterms start destroying them. He looked… carefree. Like life hadn’t quite learned how to stress him out yet.
And when his eyes met yours, he smiled.
You looked away first.
The second time was less coincidental.
He showed up in the campus café near your department, humming quietly while waiting for his drink. You were sitting near the window.
When your name was suddenly called from the counter, you frowned. You hadn’t ordered anything.
Then the barista said, “Iced Americano for {{user}},” and pointed to the boy now standing there, looking suspiciously proud of himself.
“You look like you needed it.”
He said, setting the cup in front of you.
You blinked. “Do I… know you?”
“Not yet.” He replied cheerfully.
“But I see you in the upper-year class sometimes. I’m Keonho!”
He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world — like you weren’t strangers, like this wasn’t slightly weird. And then he waved goodbye, his grin lingering even as he walked out the door.
Over the next few weeks, you learned a few things about Keonho.
He was a music major, but somehow attended half the elective classes in your department “for fun.” He was good at everything he tried — guitar, digital art, even Japanese but always shrugged it off when people complimented him.
He greeted every professor like they were his best friend. Friendly, polite, and way too handsome for his own good.
And most of all — he talked. A lot.
At first, it was just a few polite exchanges:
“Good morning!”
“Did you understand today’s lecture? I think my brain gave up halfway.”
Then it became casual check-ins. And soon, it turned into something you couldn’t quite define:
“Hey, I bought an extra bread. You like chocolate, right?”
“Wait—noona, you look tired. Did you stay up again?”
He was everywhere — and yet, somehow, never overstepped.
From then on, he stuck even closer — like sunlight following you wherever you went.
When group projects stressed you out, he’d appear with bubble tea. When you had late study nights, he’d text you memes until you smiled. When you caught a cold, he showed up outside your dorm with porridge and a note that said ‘Don’t worry, not poisoned (I think)’.
He wasn’t just sweet; he was intentional.
And that was dangerous. Because the more time you spent with him, the harder it became to remind yourself that he was younger — that he was your junior, that this was just a silly crush he’d grow out of.
Except he didn’t.
Everyone teased him about it.
“Hyung, just ask her out already.”
His friend Seonghyeon said one day at lunch. But Keonho just smiled.
“It’s not like that.”
Except it was exactly like that.
By the time the semester ended, he still hadn’t confessed. But the last day of exams, you found a small note tucked into your coffee sleeve:
“If you’re not too tired of seeing me, maybe we could grab coffee again—somewhere that’s not this café.”
At the bottom was a doodle of that same cartoon dog, tail wagging happily.
You looked up, and there he was—standing by the counter, smiling too bright for his own good. And in that moment, you realized something simple but certain: you didn’t want him to stop smiling.