Chapter Text
There’s this guy who always sits two rows behind Kim Dokja.
Which is strange—because Kim Dokja studies Architectural Engineering, and Yoo Joonghyuk, the man in question, is a Medicine major. He’s the kind of student professors point to when they talk about excellence; someone with a spotless academic record, eyes that miss nothing, and a reputation that follows him like a shadow.
Professors admire him for his flawless academic performance, praise him for his precision. Girls talk about him in hushed tones in the halls, drawn in by his cold, sharp beauty and the mystique that clings to him. Boys pretend not to care—they’d never admit it outright—but the bitterness shows in the way they grumble over the attention he receives, the confessions he routinely and indifferently turns down, about how Yoo Joonghyuk never bothers to acknowledge anyone and the way he brushes past people like he doesn’t need anyone at all.
Dokja has heard the stories. Everyone has. The rumors always sound the same: Yoo Joonghyuk is charming when he wants to be, polite when he needs to be, but the moment someone tries to get close, he shuts down. Friendly one day, unpredictable the next. No one can get past the wall he’s built. Not classmates, not admirers. No one ever quite knows where they stand with him, he’s practically unreadable. Again, girls seem to dig that kind of mystique—they’re fascinated by him, although none of them have ever managed to be asked out by Yoo Joonghyuk. Professors seem to fare better; Yoo Joonghyuk adopts a kind of detached but respectful and almost rehearsed civility with them, like he’s playing a role and playing it well.
Some say it’s unnerving, the way he’s so distant despite all the attention, and how private he is. Others—again, mostly the female part of the student body—say the mystery is part of the appeal. The real problem, they whisper, is that no one really gets close to him. No one ever has.
Kim Dokja has noticed him since the start of the semester. It’s kind of hard not to.
Always the same seat, always silent. Yoo Joonghyuk never talks to the people around him, though plenty have tried. Classmates greet him, ask questions, offer small talk—but he meets them only with silence or a glance that never lingers, as if even acknowledging their presence requires more energy than he’s willing to spare. There are a lot of people who call it rude and off-putting. Some say it’s simply arrogance. Others, allure.
Dokja doesn’t call it anything. Maybe that makes him different. Or maybe he just tells himself that, to keep the restlessness at bay. Because sometimes—rarely, but never by accident—when Dokja glances over his shoulder, Yoo Joonghyuk is already looking at him. Their eyes lock, not with curiosity or kindness, but with something different. Something sharper.
It isn’t a question. It isn’t exactly curiosity, not in the traditional sense. It feels strangely intimate, like a claim. But Dokja always looks away. Dismisses it before he can think too long about it. He’s never even spoken to the man, after all. Whatever this is, if it even is anything at all, is probably just a trick of proximity, of the overthinking he knows he always does. Yoo Joonghyuk is practically untouchable—brilliant, distant, unreachable. So far above someone like him. Everyone knows that. Whatever it is, it’s probably nothing. And so, Dokja brushes the thought of Yoo Joonghyuk off, once again.
Instead, he turns his attention to the steady rhythm of the lecture. To the inaudible scratching of pen against paper. To the low hum of the projector, the slide transitions, the drone of the professor’s voice. These things are solid. Measurable. They make more sense than a look held a little too long. He ignores the lingering feeling of wonder in him, even if part of him still feels the weight of Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze, long after he’s looked away.
Still, Dokja can’t help but notice how Yoo Joonghyuk always seems to be there. Not just in class—though he never misses a session—but in places Dokja doesn’t expect. Late-night tutorials. Oddly timed room changes. Corners of the library that stay open long past when most students have gone home. Yoo Joonghyuk shows up there too, not always nearby, not always watching, but always present. Always within reach, like clockwork.
It’s a pattern. And Dokja, for all his quiet, notices patterns.
No one else knows the specifics of his schedule, no one should—not that he has many people to share them with. Not even friends, if he were the type to be able to keep any. He mostly drifts through his days in silence: polite nods and half-meant smiles in class, a seat by the window in the cafeteria, notes taken without interruption. At night, he returns to an apartment that’s too still, too empty, too silent. The silence there isn’t restful. It is adhesive. The kind of quiet that clings onto you stubbornly, turns familiar, then starts to ache.
So when he sees Yoo Joonghyuk again—standing by the printer when Dokja arrives to scan his notes, leaving the library just as he enters, brushing past him in the stairwell—it starts to feel like more than coincidence. A little too exact. A little too consistent.
But Dokja doesn’t mention it—there is no one to mention it to, and no one who would be interested in talking to Dokja anyway—and doesn’t think about it too much. The campus isn’t that big, after all. Sometimes, paths cross and schedules align. And Yoo Joonghyuk… Well, someone like Yoo Joonghyuk has no reason to follow around someone like Kim Dokja. The thought makes him huff under his breath. As if someone like Joonghyuk would go through the trouble of tracking some Architectural Engineering major, as if Yoo Joonghyuk would waste time following around a forgettable student with quiet grades and no real presence. As if he would even bother—Dokja’s life is not nearly interesting enough to notice.
After all, Yoo Joonghyuk is just a guy who happens to sit two rows behind him. That’s all. Nothing more. Just a guy who once smiled at him—slowly, deliberately. A smile that had dried Dokja’s throat mid-swallow. It hadn’t been unfriendly, exactly. Just… focused. Like Yoo Joonghyuk had seen something in him no one else had thought to look for. He’d tilted his head then, only slightly, and for some reason, the movement had reminded Dokja of a hawk. Still. Clinical. Watching. Dokja had felt like a mouse in that moment, like prey.
The comparison had embarrassed him. He’d felt heat creep up his neck, horrified at the thought of being caught staring. He’d offered a weak, uncertain and vaguely apologetic smile—more a reflex than anything—then looked away so quickly it almost made his eyes water.
When Yoo Joonghyuk finally speaks to him, it’s on a rainy afternoon. The student lounge is mostly empty, save for a few scattered bags and the sound of vending machines and water tapping against the windows. Dokja is curled into the corner of a couch, coffee cooling in his hands, notes open on his lap more out of habit than intent. He hasn’t looked at them in some time. Today, the effort to pretend feels like too much.
The footsteps don’t register at first. Not until they stop in front of him. Then, quietly—
“Hey,” Yoo Joonghyuk greets. His voice is low, even. There’s a kind of certainty in it—not loud, but sure. The kind of tone that holds your attention.
“You always sit here,” he adds, like it’s a fact he’s been holding onto. “Thought I’d join you.”
Dokja blinks, momentarily caught off guard. “Oh. Hi. Sure.”
His voice comes out smaller than expected. Thin, fragile at the edges, like it hasn’t been used for anything beyond polite murmurs in hours. Maybe longer.
Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t hesitate. He lowers himself into the seat beside Dokja with the same kind of deliberate motion as always—effortlessly assertive. The distance between them disappears without ceremony, and suddenly Yoo Joonghyuk is there, real and solid in a way that makes Dokja sharply aware of the space he occupies. Of how warm he feels. How still.
It’s a familiar sensation, being overwhelmed without anything having actually happened. Like standing too close to something with a burn. Or realising a shadow has moved closer and deciding not to mention it. Dokja tells himself it’s nothing. Just a passing moment, a polite gesture, someone choosing to sit beside him instead of across the room. There’s no reason for his chest to feel tight or for his shoulders to tense the way they do. No reason for the heat rising to his ears or the immediate, instinctive urge to pull away. And yet…
Kim Dokja has always been like this: Jumpy in subtle ways, his thoughts folded in on themselves. Soft-spoken to the point of retreat, nervous in a way that clings to his skin. He startles easily—his body always seems to react before his mind can reason with it. Dokja is someone whose first response is to shrink, not speak. A sparrow startled by movement, caught between stillness and flight. Logically, he knows Yoo Joonghyuk has done nothing strange. Not really. And still, something about the moment feels poised. Tense, but not in a threatening way. Like the air before a thunderstorm; not dangerous, just waiting.
He casts a glance at Yoo Joonghyuk and wonders, for the briefest moment, why someone like him would choose to sit here. There’s an entire lounge of empty tables. Dozens of chairs. But instead of asking, Dokja swallows the question down. He’s never been good at confrontation, not even the harmless kind. So instead, he lets himself glance over, briefly. Barely a turn of the head. Yoo Joonghyuk’s movements are precise, almost methodical. Thick, heavy medical textbooks thud onto the table, titles printed in dense, stern serif font letters, veined diagrams sketched in muted reds and blues. Anatomy, diagnostics, the language of bones and blood. His fingers—long, pale and slender—move with an elegant familiarity, turning pages as though they’ve memorized the path.
Dokja finds himself watching longer than he means to. It’s the rhythm that holds him there; the steady, soft sound of shifting paper, the unhurried flipping of pages, the occasional pause to underline a phrase… something about it pulls at his attention like a thread. There’s something grounding about the controlled calmness of it.
Eventually, he drags his eyes back to his own materials. His textbook that has the words “Structural Analysis” printed on them in big, bold letters in black; it lies open like it’s been waiting, spine cracked, margins filled with tired yellow ink. He takes a sip of his now cold coffee, sets it down with care, and reaches for his highlighter. He doesn’t notice Yoo Joonghyuk looking at him. Not the book. Not the notes. But at Dokja himself. Attentively, as though he’s reading something far more intricate than anything printed on the page, eyes fixed like he’s memorizing something only he can see.
At last, the light outside shifts toward dusk. The kind that stains everything amber and makes the world feel softer, slower. Dokja’s hand pauses over his notes. He sets his pencil down, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm, stifling a yawn that pulls at his ribs.
“You’re a shy one, aren’t you?”
The voice cuts through the silence gently, like a ripple in still water. Unexpected, but not abrupt. Just… there.
Dokja startles anyway. Not visibly, but enough that the muscles in his back lock for a few seconds. He’d grown so accustomed to Yoo Joonghyuk’s restful, fixed presence, warm and wordless beside him, that he’d almost forgotten he wasn’t alone.
He blinks lamely. “Um—”
For a heartbeat, he’s unsure whether the question was meant to be answered. A casual observation, maybe. Something tossed out into the space between them without expectation, something Yoo Joonghyuk said without thought. But when Dokja risks a glance, he finds himself held in place by a look—soothing and steady, dark eyes locked onto his own with expectation.
It’s not rhetorical.
Dokja’s mind stutters, scrambling for something to say. His mind starts combing through possible replies, sorting them like cards in a shaky hand. Something true enough to pass but harmless enough not to reveal anything real. He tries to read Yoo Joonghyuk’s expression—cool and distant, but not unkind. Still, there’s something in the way he watches Dokja that makes the air feel thinner. Is this teasing? Is he curious? Does he really want to know?
Dokja hesitates, caught in the strange tension between honesty and performance. Part of him wants to answer sincerely. Part of him wants to say whatever would please Yoo Joonghyuk—whatever would make him keep looking at Dokja like that. Eventually, he offers a small smile, more reflex than certainty.
“I guess I am. A little. Shy, I mean.”
Yoo Joonghyuk hums—a low, velvety sound that seems to roll through the unassuming silence like smoke. It’s a simple sound, but it slips under Dokja’s skin, curls somewhere in his chest. He suppresses the urge to react, to shiver or look away. He holds still, the same way someone does when they’re trying not to betray just how much they’ve been seen.
“I noticed,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, his tone unhurried. “You’re a little skittish.”
There’s no judgment in the words—just observation, soft and strange.
“Like a cat,” he continues, almost as if to himself. Then, after a beat, he amends it. “No… like a baby deer.”
Dokja almost laughs—almost. But Yoo Joonghyuk’s voice is too composed, too thoughtful. He’s not joking.
“You always look like you want to run away.”
It shouldn’t feel like a compliment. It shouldn’t feel like Yoo Joonghyuk sees something in him that others miss—something delicate, something trembling. But it does. And Dokja doesn’t know what to do with that. He can’t help the quiet smile that tugs at his mouth. A deer. A baby deer. It’s oddly endearing, the way Yoo Joonghyuk says it—like he’s noticed the fragility in him, and instead of picking it apart, he’s just… naming it.
Something about that feels unexpectedly safe. Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze lingers, and Dokja doesn’t notice the moment his eyes drop—to his lips, soft and curved in that rare smile. Instead, Dokja glances back at the open pages of his book, fingers curling against the edges like he’s not sure what to do with them. The conversation slips into silence, just for a moment, but Yoo Joonghyuk picks it back up with ease, as if the lull hadn’t happened.
“What’s your name?” he asks, casually.
Dokja blinks, caught off guard again, and then huffs a soft, embarrassed laugh. “Oh. Sorry, I never introduced myself.”
He winces slightly and offers his hand, the motion tentative but sincere. “I’m Kim Dokja.”
Yoo Joonghyuk looks at the hand like he’s evaluating it and then, without a word, he reaches out and takes it. His hand is warm—much larger than Dokja’s—and when their palms meet, Yoo Joonghyuk’s fingers wrap around his so fully it’s almost startling. Dokja swallows. He hadn’t meant to notice the size difference, not really, but something about the way his hand disappears so completely in Yoo Joonghyuk’s grip makes his pulse stutter, just once. Dokja flounders and ignores the weird feeling.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Yoo Joonghyuk.”
“I know,” Dokja admits with a sheepish smile, eyes flitting away for a moment. “You sit behind me in Professor Hwang’s class. You’re sort of famous. That’s why I know. I’m not, like… a stalker or something.”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s lips twitch and curve into a smile that makes Dokja feel like the room’s gotten a little too warm. It’s slow, almost lazy, a half-smirk that seems to settle right into his bones. His teeth are distractingly white, framed by full, flushed lips, and dimples that crease the edges of his sharp cheekbones.
Dokja’s tongue flicks out instinctively to wet his lips—nervous tic—and just like that, the weight of Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand in his becomes too much. He pulls back abruptly, as if the contact had started to burn, and retreats to the safety of his textbook. He clears his throat, jaw tight, gaze fixed firmly on the table as his Adam’s apple bobs.
“I bet you’re curious, aren’t you? Why I go to Professor Hwang’s class, even though I’m clearly not in Engineering.” Yoo Joonghyuk hums, his tone casual. And mercifully, he doesn’t bring up the awkward way Dokja just recoiled like he touched a live wire.
Dokja peeks at him through his lashes, the barest hint of a nod betraying his interest.
Yoo Joonghyuk lifts a shoulder, casual and dismissive, as though it’s not a big deal. “I like gaming. And design.” His tone is even, as if he’s reciting something obvious, though his eyes remain sharp, unwavering. “I’ve been working on a game of my own. It’s going well enough… except the buildings.”
A faint huff of laughter escapes him, dry and self-deprecating, like someone long accustomed to obstacles and the persistence required to overcome them. “No matter what I try, they look wrong. Hollow. Like props on a stage instead of part of a world.”
He leans back slightly. “It’s a simulation game—I want it to feel real, or at least purposeful. So I started sitting in on Professor Hwang’s classes. Architecture has a logic to it. I figured if I learned to see it properly, I could make my world look alive.”
Dokja’s mouth forms a soft “Oh,” lips parting slightly in surprise and understanding. For the briefest moment, something dark and unspoken flickers through Yoo Joonghyuk’s mind—something far from innocent. Those lips, so expressive and unguarded, could be put to much better use. But he reins himself in. No—too soon. His earlier observation still holds: Kim Dokja is skittish. A baby deer, all wide eyes and quavering hesitation. He doesn’t want to startle him. He wants to lure him in gently, completely, until there’s nowhere left to run.
“I see, that makes sense,” Dokja says with a quick nod, eager to bridge the silence. “There’ve been a lot of people in our class wondering about it. Guess this clears things up.”
Yoo Joonghyuk just shrugs, unbothered. “I don’t really talk to them, so I wouldn’t know.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Dokja says offhandedly, leaning back in his chair. But the moment the words leave his mouth, his eyes widen in panic. “I—I mean that in the most neutral way possible! Just that I’ve seen people try to talk to you and, er, you don’t always reply. Not that I’m judging—please don’t misunderstand.”
Yoo Joonghyuk regards him for a beat, and then smiles slowly in an indulgent kind of way. It’s devastating. Heat rises to Dokja’s cheeks before he can stop it, and he scrambles to think of something clever, anything at all, but the words dissolve before they reach his tongue. He shuts his mouth again, awkward, fingers flexing in his lap as if searching for an anchor.
“It’s fine,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, his tone light, threaded with faint amusement. “I’ve been told worse about my attitude.”
“No, no—” Dokja cuts in hastily, shaking his head, the words tumbling out faster than he can control. “Actually, I think a lot of the girls… they, um, like it. The whole enigmatic, aloof thing, you know?”
His voice falters, trailing off into silence as the heat of embarrassment creeps up his neck. He stares fixedly at anything that isn’t Yoo Joonghyuk, as though sheer force of will might rewind the last few seconds. Sometimes, his thoughts move too quickly for his mouth to keep up—thoughts stacked messily like dominoes, toppling forward before he’s figured out where they’re meant to land.
Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t reply right away. He just watches him. There’s no malice in his expression, only a kind of calm intensity, like he’s studying Dokja rather than judging him. The way Dokja shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“You talk a lot when you’re nervous,” he observes, voice low and thoughtful.
Dokja laughs, weak and sheepish. “Yeah. Sorry. I kind of… spiral.”
Yoo Joonghyuk tilts his head, and once again Dokja can’t shake the uncanny impression of a hawk sizing up its prey. “Do I make you nervous?”
Dokja freezes, caught off guard. Once again, he can’t tell if it’s an honest question or if Joonghyuk is toying with him, pulling at his seams just to see how he’ll unravel. But before he can answer, Joonghyuk speaks again.
“It’s fine,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t mind listening.”
And somehow, that makes it worse. Or better. Dokja can’t tell. Only that his heart thuds a little faster.
“Should we talk casually now?”
“…Sorry, what?” Dokja blinks again, thrown off again. Casual speech is for friends. And Yoo Joonghyuk and he—whatever this is—are not friends.
“Well,” Yoo Joonghyuk shrugs, “we are friends now, aren’t we? So talk casually to me.”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s smirk lingers, just a shade too satisfied, as though he’s already decided the answer for both of them.
Dazed, Dokja only nods. He can’t begin to understand why Yoo Joonghyuk—no, Joonghyuk now, apparently, since they’re “friends”—would want to bother with someone like him. They don’t know each other, not really, and Dokja is… well, Dokja. Plain. Awkward. Boring.
But he doesn’t complain, because it’s not like he’s ever had much in the way of friends before, and if this—whatever this is—means he might someday feel a little less alone, then it’s too tempting to push away. So he nods again, quietly, almost obediently.
“Okay… I guess I should call you Joonghyuk now.” Dokja offers a tentative smile. “We should be the same age, right? So there’s no need to use honorifics.”
“You’re older than me,” Joonghyuk replies without missing a beat, his tone even, deliberate. “Hyung.”
The word lands with a weight Dokja isn’t prepared for. No one’s ever called him that before—he’s never had friends close enough to warrant it—and the unfamiliar warmth that blooms in his chest catches him off guard. He startles faintly at the sound, coughing into his fist in a clumsy attempt to cover it up. Something inside him stirs at the intimacy of it, enough to distract him from the simple, glaring fact: Joonghyuk should have no way of knowing his age. Dokja doesn’t notice. Not at all. He’s too busy holding onto the fragile glow of belonging, too busy convincing himself that maybe, just maybe, he’s finally gained a friend.
So he smiles again, soft and unguarded, while Joonghyuk watches him with eyes that see far more than they should.
“Hey, if you have the time… would you ever help me with my buildings? Since you’re majoring in Architectural Engineering, you must have an innate understanding of it.” Joonghyuk says.
Kim Dokja, unaware of the fine, invisible threads of the web already drawn around him, moves forward without pause. He doesn’t see the careful symmetry of the web, doesn’t feel how every step tugs him closer to its center.
“Sure,” he says, smiling easily—never noticing how thoroughly he’s already caught.