The afternoon sun poured gold across the campus courtyard, but neither Ohm nor Nanon noticed. Their attention was entirely absorbed in the task at hand—the showcase project, as mundane as it seemed, had become a battlefield of wills, words, and unspoken tension.
Nanon leaned over to adjust a sketch Ohm had been working on. Their shoulders brushed—lightly, fleetingly—but the spark that shot through Ohm's chest was undeniable. He stiffened, refusing to look, yet the warmth lingered, a silent pulse he could not ignore.
"You're tense," Nanon murmured, voice low, teasing, yet softer than usual. "Should I be worried?"
Ohm's fingers trembled slightly as he set down his pencil. Why does he always notice? Why does every word, every look, feel like fire crawling under my skin?
Hours passed in this delicate war of proximity. Hands occasionally collided over paper, elbows brushed while reaching for pens, and every accidental touch sent shivers through both of them. The air between them became a charged current, vibrating with unspoken words, withheld confessions, and an awareness of closeness neither dared act upon.
A gust of wind rattled the windows, sending papers flying. Nanon lunged to catch them, colliding gently with Ohm. Their bodies pressed together momentarily, breaths mingling in the quiet space. Heartbeats thundered in rhythm, both acutely aware of the closeness.
"I—watch where you're going," Ohm muttered, voice low, though the edge of embarrassment betrayed him.
Nanon's lips curved into a playful, knowing smile. "Careful, or I might get used to this," he said, and the words hung between them like a promise neither dared claim.
The day waned, light softening into a warm amber. The library emptied, leaving them alone. Nanon reached for a book on the top shelf, standing on tiptoe. Ohm's hand grazed his back in an attempt to steady him, and their eyes met—heat, surprise, and something unspoken trembling in the space between them.
A quiet understanding settled over them, invisible yet palpable. Every accidental brush, every lingering look, every unspoken thought had carved a fragile intimacy. The air around them was heavy with possibility, a storm uncontained, ready to break.
The walk home was drenched in the soft drizzle of rain. Nanon held the umbrella, shoulders brushing against Ohm's. Neither spoke, yet each movement was laden with meaning—flustered, hesitant, yet craving the nearness.
Ohm's mind raced: I hate that I feel this. I hate that he makes me feel alive like this. I hate that I want him.
Nanon thought in perfect, mirrored agony: I hate that he frustrates me. I hate that I need him. I hate that even a brush of his hand makes the world sharp and bright.
And under the rain, under the shared umbrella, the storm within them finally mirrored the storm outside—a storm neither could fight, neither could deny, and neither would.