Dinner should not have mattered.
That was the thought Min Yu clung to as he walked beside Baek Hoa through the narrow street lit by uneven amber lamps. It was just food. Just an evening. Just two people who had decided—carefully—to spend time together without making promises they weren't ready to keep.
And yet, with every step, Min Yu felt the echo of the study room linger beneath his skin: the measured restraint, the deliberate kindness, the way Hoa had looked at him as if patience were a choice he made rather than a limit imposed.
They stopped in front of a small restaurant tucked between a closed bookstore and a florist whose display spilled over with damp greenery. The sign above the door flickered faintly, its paint worn thin by years of weather. Inside, the air smelled of broth and toasted sesame, warm and grounding.
Min Yu exhaled without realizing he'd been holding his breath.
Hoa noticed. He always noticed.
"You okay?" Hoa asked quietly.
Min Yu nodded. "Yeah."
It wasn't a lie. It just wasn't the whole truth.
They sat across from each other at a table smoothed by age, the surface marked with tiny scratches that caught the light. The restaurant was quiet, filled with the low murmur of conversation and the clink of cutlery. No one looked twice at them. No one whispered. No one cared.
The relief unsettled Min Yu.
Hoa ordered simply, without consulting a menu, then turned his attention fully to Min Yu as if the world outside their table had narrowed to nothing.
"You don't have to stay long," Hoa said. "If you're tired."
Min Yu shook his head. "I'm fine."
Hoa studied him for a beat, then nodded. He didn't press.
They ate slowly. Hoa asked about Min Yu's classes, about the book he'd been reading, about his grandmother's breathing that morning. He listened without interruption, without redirecting the conversation toward himself or his world. When Min Yu paused, searching for words, Hoa waited. When Min Yu apologized for rambling, Hoa shook his head and said, simply, "I want to hear it."
That should have been comforting.
Instead, it tightened something in Min Yu's chest.
Because attention—real attention—was not something he had learned to accept easily. It felt like standing in sunlight after too long in shade: warm, blinding, impossible to ignore.
When the bill came, Hoa reached for it automatically.
Min Yu stopped him. "I can—"
Hoa didn't argue. He just smiled faintly. "Next time, then."
Next time.
The words followed Min Yu all the way home, trailing behind him like a promise he wasn't sure he could afford to accept.
The call from the hospital came after midnight.
Min Yu had just finished washing the last dish, the quiet of the apartment settling around him, when his phone rang. One look at the number sent a sharp chill through his body.
His grandmother's breathing had worsened again. Not critical—yet—but concerning enough to warrant observation. They wanted him to come in the morning. Possibly sooner.
Min Yu thanked them, hung up, and stood there staring at the darkened kitchen wall as if it might steady him.
His chest felt hollow.
He sank into a chair and pressed his palms to his eyes until sparks flared behind them.
I can handle this, he told himself. I always do.
But when he stood, his legs shook.
Without thinking, he reached for his phone.
Hoa's name hovered at the top of his messages.
Min Yu stared at it for a long time.
Then he locked the screen and set the phone down.
The next day, fear found new shapes.
It began with looks—lingering glances that followed Min Yu across campus, conversations that dipped into silence when he approached. He told himself he was imagining it, that exhaustion was sharpening his nerves.
Then the whispers reached him.
"…isn't that him?"
"I heard he's—"
"With Baek Hoa? No way."
Min Yu kept his head down and pretended not to hear. He had learned long ago that attention was dangerous. Attention led to questions. Questions led to pressure.
Pressure led to collapse.
At the café, a coworker asked—too casually—if he knew anyone important. At his afternoon lecture, someone mentioned scholarships and "conflicts of interest" with a smile that didn't reach their eyes.
Min Yu felt the walls inch closer.
Hoa noticed.
He found Min Yu outside the café during his break, leaning against the brick wall, shoulders hunched against the wind. Hoa didn't speak at first. He simply stood close enough that Min Yu felt his presence like a barrier between him and the world.
"You didn't tell me," Hoa said quietly.
Min Yu didn't look up. "Tell you what?"
Hoa's gaze was steady. "That people were talking."
Min Yu sighed. "They always do."
Hoa's jaw tightened. "This is different."
Min Yu finally met his eyes. "Why? Because it's about you?"
"Because it's about you," Hoa replied.
The correction landed harder than Min Yu expected.
"It'll pass," Min Yu said. "They'll get bored."
"They won't," Hoa said. "Not when they think they've found leverage."
The word twisted something sharp in Min Yu's chest.
"I'm not leverage," he said.
Hoa turned fully toward him. "I know."
"Then stop talking like I am."
Hoa inhaled slowly, visibly tempering himself. "Someone paid part of the hospital bill."
Min Yu froze. "What?"
Hoa held his gaze. "Quietly. From an account that doesn't want to be named."
The ground tilted.
Min Yu's voice came out tight. "Did you do it?"
Hoa hesitated.
Just for a moment.
That was enough.
"Don't," Min Yu said, stepping back. "You can't do that."
"She needed care," Hoa said.
"And I need agency," Min Yu shot back. "I need to know that if I'm standing, it's on my own feet."
Hoa looked genuinely wounded. "I wasn't buying you."
"I know," Min Yu said, tears threatening now. "That's why it scares me."
Hoa exhaled slowly, reining himself in. "Tell me what you want."
Min Yu laughed, breathless. "I want things I shouldn't."
"Tell me anyway."
Min Yu shook his head. "I want to feel safe. I want my grandmother to live. I want to stop being afraid that the ground will disappear under me if I lean too hard."
Hoa stepped closer. "You won't fall."
"You can't promise that."
Hoa cupped Min Yu's face gently, thumbs brushing his jaw. "I won't let you."
Min Yu closed his eyes, leaning into the touch despite himself.
That was when fear fully bloomed.
Because he wanted to believe him.
The message arrived that night.
Unknown number. No name.
You don't belong in his world.
Min Yu stared at the screen.
Another followed.
People like you always get crushed.
His hands trembled.
He didn't tell Hoa.
He deleted the messages and lay awake until dawn, staring at the ceiling, the taste of fear bitter and unmistakable.
By morning, the rumors had teeth.
A classmate cornered him with false concern. A supervisor asked uncomfortable questions. Someone mentioned "optics" with a smile that felt sharp.
Min Yu felt exposed.
And still—when Hoa appeared beside him at the edge of campus, coat dark against the gray sky—relief surged through him before he could stop it.
Hoa noticed the way Min Yu flinched at his phone.
"What happened?" Hoa asked.
"Nothing," Min Yu lied.
Hoa didn't push. That restraint frightened him more than pressure would have.
They walked in silence until they reached Min Yu's building. At the door, Min Yu hesitated.
"I don't think it's a good idea for you to come in," he said.
Hoa nodded. "Okay."
He turned to leave.
Fear spiked sharply.
"Wait," Min Yu said.
Hoa stopped.
"Just… stay for a minute."
Inside, the apartment was quiet. His grandmother slept. The city hummed faintly outside.
They stood too close in the narrow living room.
"If I let myself get used to you," Min Yu said quietly, "what happens when it costs me everything else?"
Hoa answered without hesitation. "Then we figure out how to protect what matters."
"You make it sound like a strategy."
Hoa smiled faintly. "It is."
Min Yu laughed weakly. "You're terrifying."
Hoa's gaze softened. "Only to people who threaten you."
Min Yu's breath caught.
Hoa stepped closer—not touching. "I don't want to cage you. I want to stand beside you."
"And if standing beside you means stepping into your shadow?"
Hoa leaned down, stopping just short of Min Yu's lips. "Then I'll make sure it's warm."
The almost-kiss hovered—closer than ever—aching and dangerous.
Min Yu's hands gripped Hoa's coat.
Hoa inhaled sharply, then pulled back just a little.
"Fear doesn't mean stop," Hoa said softly. "It means careful."
Min Yu nodded, heart pounding.
They didn't kiss.
But the space between them burned all the same.
When Hoa left, Min Yu locked the door and slid down against it, breath unsteady.
He finally understood.
Warmth was not the opposite of fear.
It was the reason fear mattered.