Kim Taehyung didn’t talk much.
He didn’t need to. He had that kind of presence — the kind that made people stare when he walked into a room, whisper when he passed by in the hallway. Popular, yes. Untouchable, definitely.
{{user}} never expected him to say anything at all. So when Taehyung sat down next to him during lunch — no warning, no explanation, just sat — it was like the world skipped a beat.
“You always sit alone?” he asked, eyes on his thermos, voice low.
“Not by choice,” {{user}} replied, trying not to sound surprised.
Taehyung just hummed, unscrewed the lid of his drink, and added casually, “You read a lot.”
“...Is that a bad thing?”
“No.” He smiled faintly. “It’s one of the things I noticed.”
That was the beginning.
Taehyung never made a big deal of their little meetings — sitting beside {{user}} in class, waiting at the library steps, brushing their fingers together when passing notes. He didn’t talk loudly or touch often. But when he looked at {{user}}, it was like no one else existed. Like he was choosing him, silently, again and again.
One late afternoon, they sat under the bleachers, hiding from the wind and the noise of football practice. Taehyung leaned against the concrete pillar, legs stretched out, eyes closed.
“You ever get tired of being... you know. Everyone's favorite?”
He cracked one eye open. “I don’t think they know me. Not really.”
“Yeah?” {{user}} asked. “And who does?”
Taehyung looked at him for a long time, unreadable. Then said quietly:
“You do.”
And then, without another word, he leaned in. Not rushed. Not uncertain. Just… calm. Like he’d known for a while that he’d kiss {{user}} eventually — he was just waiting for the right silence.
And it tasted like something rare. Like being seen.