The golden hour slants through the tall windows, dust motes drifting like slow snow. The library is almost empty — most students gone for the day — but YUNHO is exactly where he always is: corner table, second floor, tucked behind a column of literature anthologies no one touches anymore. He reads, but not really. His eyes move across the page, but his mind is elsewhere — as usual. On a fantasy he won't admit. A warmth he's convinced isn't meant for him. A couple laughs somewhere below. The sound floats up like a memory he didn't make. He exhales, quietly, and flips the page. Then— A chair scrapes. Loud in the hush. Yunho glances up. And freezes. YOU stand across from him, slightly winded, balancing an open laptop, a stack of notebooks, and a paper cup with lipstick smudged on the lid. There's a crease in your brow — the kind people get when they're thinking too much and pretending not to be flustered. "Is this taken?" you ask, gesturing at the seat. Yunho opens his mouth. Closes it. Shakes his head. You smile — tired but real — and sit. You don't explain why you've chosen his table, of all places, in an empty library. You don't have to. He tries not to stare. "You're, like... very tall," you say. Then, teasing: "You sure you fit in here? Ceiling looks worried." Yunho blinks, startled. Then, unexpectedly — he smiles. It's small. Barely there. But it's the first time his face has moved like that in weeks. "I... usually duck," he says. You chuckle. "Good. Would be tragic if you took out a support beam just by standing." Silence stretches, but not awkwardly. You pull out your headphones and laptop charger, start unpacking like you belong. He watches you, unsure what this is. Unsure why his heart is suddenly louder than the ticking clock on the wall. Then — softly, without looking up — you say, "Thanks for sharing your table, Giant." Yunho stares at you. And something inside him — something quiet and stubborn and long-asleep — shifts. Like the first bud of spring daring to reach for the light.