The first time it rained
You were late.
And not the kind of late where you could slide in unnoticed — the kind of late where the classroom door creaked just enough to turn every head, where the professor paused mid-sentence and the teaching assistant politely gestured you to the last open seat at the back.
You mumbled an apology, bowing your head slightly as you hurried past rows of students. The soles of your shoes squeaked against the clean linoleum, your hoodie still damp from the drizzle outside. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep during your bus ride, but the rain tapping against the window had been too gentle, too lulling.
The only empty seat was near the sound equipment rack — a messy corner with cables, backup stands, and the lingering scent of metal and old speakers.
You sat down, slid your hood down, and tried not to look like a walking sigh.
And that was the first time you saw him.Noticed him, really.
Lee Minho.
He wasn’t at his usual seat with the other music composition majors. Instead, he was crouched at the front, sleeves pushed up, a bundle of cables in one hand and a furrowed brow that looked both annoyed and focused. His hair was a little messy — not in the styled-on-purpose way, but the kind that said he’d run his fingers through it too many times already today. Headphones hung around his neck. He looked like he belonged in the room, like the silence bent a little around him.
He didn’t look up at you.
And that was fine. Why would he?
.______.
After class, you remembered your umbrella too late.It was the small, foldable kind — black, kind of bent on one side, but it had survived two semesters. You retraced your steps and found it near the speaker setup, half-tucked behind a plastic crate.
As you reached for it, a hand beat you there.
“Looking for this?” a voice said.
You looked up.
It was him.Minho.
He held it out without expression, just the umbrella in one hand and a half-lidded glance like this was no big deal. You weren’t sure what surprised you more — that he had noticed you left it, or that he’d waited long enough to return it.
“Oh. Yeah. Thanks,” you mumbled.
You reached for it. His fingers brushed yours — just barely.
Something small fluttered in your chest.
He nodded. No smile. But there was something unreadable in his eyes, something just a little softer than you’d expected.
And then he turned and left.
.______.
You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.
Lots of people returned umbrellas. You would’ve done the same. He probably just didn’t want it cluttering the space. Maybe he didn’t even know it was yours.
But when you saw him again, two days later — alone in the back corner of the campus library — you sat across from him without thinking.
The table had other empty seats. You could have sat anywhere.
But you didn’t.
He looked up once. Raised an eyebrow.
You fumbled with your laptop. “I like the quiet here,” you said quietly, like it needed explanation.
Minho blinked. Then nodded. “Me too.”
That was it. No other words.
You stayed for two hours.
.______.
It became a pattern. Unspoken, unplanned — but it started to feel like something. You’d spot him in the cafeteria, headphones on, typing into his phone with one hand while lazily eating with the other. You never sat with him directly, but sometimes you ended up near him. A table over. A seat down.
He didn’t speak much. But he never left, either.
You found yourself waiting an extra few minutes after class, lingering by the vending machines near the dance studio. Sometimes he came out, flushed and towel-draped, smelling faintly of fabric softener and citrus shampoo.
“You’re here again,” he said once, towel around his neck.
You didn’t deny it. “Just needed air.”
He gave you a look. “You always choose the vending machine air?”
You pretended to think about it. “It’s the best kind.”
That made him laugh — a soft huff, barely there, but you heard it.
That was the first time he handed you a drink — banana milk, cold from the machine.
You blinked at it. “You don’t like these?”
He shrugged. “Not really. But you might.”
You took it.You drank the whole thing, even though it was sweeter than you liked.
.______.
Over time, things began to shift.
Minho started noticing small things.
He started finishing his practices right when your classes ended. He started sharing earbuds on the bus rides when you ended up together, letting you hear his unfinished mixes — soft piano loops, raw violin overlays, stripped-down beats that felt like secrets.
Sometimes, he’d catch you staring.
He never teased.
But once, during a particularly quiet walk home, he bumped your shoulder lightly with his.“You always walk like you’re afraid the ground might bite,” he said.
You blinked. “I just don’t like making noise.”
He gave you a sideways glance. “You never do.”
There was a pause.
“But I still notice you.”
.______.
You found yourself saving your best thoughts for him — the quiet ones. The funny things you didn’t say out loud, the music recommendations you only sent to him. The dumb things that happened in class that only he would understand.
He started sending you videos of cats.
He started calling you by a nickname — short, dumb, not even based on your name. Something like “Button” or “Ghostie.” It changed depending on his mood. You didn’t mind.
It was late one evening when you almost asked him if he liked being around you.
You didn’t.
But he leaned against the stair rail beside you and said, unprompted, “You make the quiet feel nice.”
And that felt like more than an answer.
.______.
You still didn’t know what this was.
But when it rained again the next week, he stood outside your class building with two umbrellas.
He didn’t say anything. Just looked up as you walked out, handed you one, and started walking.
You followed.
No words. No explanations.
And the weirdest part? It felt natural.Like something clicked.
