The library at Seoul National University is a cathedral of silence. It is a place where the air itself feels heavy with the collective ambition of thousands of students, all vying for a future that feels both within reach and impossibly far away. As we approached the massive stone steps of the Central Library, the evening chill of Seoul began to bite through my hoodie, making my injured leg ache with a dull, insistent throb.
Beside me, Hanbin walked with his usual steady, rhythmic gait. He didn't speak much—he never did—but his presence was a constant, solid weight that anchored me. After the chaos of the lab and the suffocating feeling of being watched by everyone from the flirty Jisoo to the perfect Sunho-sunbae, being alone with Hanbin felt like finally coming up for air.
We were just about to push through the heavy glass doors when the rhythm of our walk was interrupted.
A girl appeared from behind one of the grand pillars. She was beautiful in that effortless, polished way that always made me feel a bit like a messy sketch next to a finished painting. Her hair was perfectly curled, and she wore a stylish trench coat that looked far too expensive for a regular Tuesday on campus. In her hands, she clutched a small, elegantly wrapped gift box topped with a silk ribbon.
She didn't look at me—at least, not at first. Her eyes were fixed entirely on Hanbin, sparkling with a mixture of nerves and practiced charm. But as we came to a halt, she flicked a sharp, cold glance toward me. It was a look I knew well—the silent command of a girl who was used to getting what she wanted, telling me to disappear, to excuse them, to give her the stage.
I felt a familiar sting of inadequacy. I took a half-step back, my sneakers scuffing against the stone. "I'll... I'll just wait inside," I murmured, my voice small.
Hanbin didn't look at me as I moved aside, but I heard him let out a long, weary sigh—the sound of a man who was exhausted by a script he never asked to be cast in.
"Hanbin-ssi," the girl began, her voice high and melodic, tilting her head just so. "I'm sorry to interrupt you. You don't know me... I'm from the English Department. My name is—"
"I don't need to know," Hanbin interrupted. His voice wasn't loud, but it was like a shard of ice falling onto a marble floor.
The girl blinked, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second. She held out the gift box, her fingers trembling slightly. "Wait! This is for you. I've seen you in the central plaza... you don't know me yet, but we can know each other. I really wanted to give you this—"
She was still speaking, her face flushed with the hope of a romantic confession, but Hanbin didn't stay to hear the end of her sentence. He didn't even look at the gift. He simply turned his back on her, leaving her standing there like a statue in the middle of her own confession. The rejection was so absolute, so silent, that it felt more brutal than a shout.
He stepped toward me, his expression softening just a fraction—a shift so subtle only someone who spent hours watching him would notice.
"Let's go," he said.
It wasn't a suggestion; it was a retrieval. He didn't look back at the girl from the English Department, who was now being watched by a few passing students, her face burning with humiliation. I felt a pang of sympathy for her, but mostly, I felt a dizzying rush of something I didn't want to name. He had chosen to walk away from a "finished painting" to stand next to a "messy sketch."
The hours inside the library passed in a blur of rustling paper and the low hum of the heater. By the time I had gathered the heavy reference books I needed for our next project—three massive volumes on Discrete Mathematics and System Architecture—the sky outside the tall library windows had turned a deep, bruised purple.
My stomach let out a treacherous, audible growl. I bit my lip, hoping Hanbin hadn't heard, but he looked up from his notebook immediately.
"It's late," he noted.
"I'm almost done," I said, trying to lift the stack of books. My arms felt like jelly. I tried to sling my backpack over my shoulder, but the weight of the new books made me stumble slightly, the strap digging into my collarbone.
Before I could adjust, the weight was suddenly gone.
Hanbin had moved with that shadow-like speed of his. He reached out and took my bag right off my arm. Before I could protest, he slung it over his left shoulder. He already had his own heavy laptop bag on his right.
"Hanbin! No, it's too heavy," I whispered, reaching for the strap. "I can carry it. You already have your own."
"Let's eat dinner together," he said, ignoring my outstretched hand.
He stood there, a bag on each shoulder, looking perfectly composed despite the literal weight of our combined futures pressing down on him. He didn't wait for my answer. He didn't ask if I was busy. He just started walking toward the exit, his silhouette tall and unwavering.
"Wait! Where are we going?" I hurried after him, my limp more pronounced now that I was tired.
"Your family's restaurant," he replied without turning around. "The soup is good for your leg."
The walk to my uncle's restaurant was quiet, but it wasn't the heavy, suffocating silence of the morning. It was the kind of silence that happens when two people are walking in the same direction, and words aren't needed to bridge the gap.
As we pushed open the door of Dohyun's Kitchen, the bell chimed with a friendly ting. The smell of simmering beef bone broth and toasted sesame oil wrapped around us like a warm hug. It was the smell of my childhood, of safety.
"Aigoo! Our Danoh is here!" Uncle Dohyun's voice boomed from the kitchen. He wiped his hands on his apron and walked out, his eyes widening when he saw who was standing behind me.
Hanbin bowed—a deep, respectful ninety-degree bow. "Hello, Uncle."
"And you brought the hero!" Uncle beamed, ignoring my mortified expression. He hurried over and practically wrestled the bags off Hanbin's shoulders. "Sit, sit! You look like you've been carrying the whole university on your back. Hanbin-ah, I'll bring you the special. Extra meat, on the house."
"Thank you, Uncle," Hanbin said, sitting down at our usual corner table—the one furthest from the door, tucked away in the shadows.
I sat across from him, my face still warm from the walk. The restaurant was nearly empty, the lighting soft and amber. For the first time all day, I didn't feel like a student at a high-pressure university. I didn't feel like a girl who had tripped and bled.
I looked at Hanbin. He was staring at the table, his hands resting flat on the wood. His knuckles were still a bit blue, a silent testimony to what he had done for me.
"You shouldn't have done that," I said softly, my voice barely audible over the bubbling of the soup in the kitchen.
He looked up. "Done what?"
"The bags. And... the girl at the library. She was really pretty, Hanbin. You didn't even give her a chance to finish her name."
Hanbin leaned back, the shadows of the restaurant playing across the sharp lines of his jaw. He looked at me with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.
"Names don't matter," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble. "I already have enough variables to worry about."
"Like what?" I asked, my heart skipping a beat.
He reached across the table. For a second, I thought he was going to touch my hand, but he just moved the small container of napkins closer to me.
"Like making sure you don't trip again," he said. "Like making sure you eat. Like making sure the noise doesn't get to you."
The soup arrived then, steaming and fragrant. We ate in a comfortable, rhythmic silence. I watched him—the way he ate with the same precision he used for coding, the way he hovered his spoon to ensure no broth splashed. He was a boy of order and logic, yet he had thrown a brick in an alleyway for me. He was a boy who hated attention, yet he had walked through the most crowded part of campus carrying two heavy bags just so I wouldn't have to.
As I looked at him through the steam of the beef soup, I realized that Hanbin wasn't just a shadow. He was a shield. And for the first time in my life, I didn't feel like I had to be a "finished painting" to be worth looking at.
"Hanbin?" I said, as he finished his last spoonful.
"Hm?"
"The soup... was really good. Thank you for bringing me."
He looked at me, and for the first time that evening, a very small, very real smile touched his lips. "I told you. The soup is good for the soul."
As we walked out of the restaurant and toward my apartment, the city of Seoul felt smaller, quieter. He didn't leave me at the street corner. He walked me all the way to my door, handing me my bag only when I was safely inside the gate.
"Sleep well, Danoh," he said.
"You too, Hanbin."
I watched him walk away, his figure disappearing into the night. I leaned against the door, my heart feeling heavier than the bag he had carried—but in a way that didn't hurt at all.