Chapter 5 : Things That Bloom Quitely

The air between them had shifted. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was real.

After that afternoon under the gingko tree, they walked home in silence—comfortable, even tentative. Their hands didn’t stay linked the whole way. Sometimes Min-Joon pulled back when someone passed, cheeks flushed. Sometimes Yujun let go first, as if giving him space to breathe.

But their pinkies always found their way back.

At Min-Joon’s gate, they stopped.

“Do you want to come in?” Min-Joon asked, almost shyly.

Yujun hesitated. “Will your mom…”

“She likes you,” Min-Joon said, smiling a little. “She always has.”

So they sat in his room, not saying much at first. Yujun lay back on the floor, staring at the ceiling while Min-Joon flipped through his sketchbook, wondering which version of Yujun he could dare to show.

There were many.

One with furrowed brows, one laughing in mid-sprint, one asleep during a school trip, mouth slightly open.

He stopped at one drawing he hadn’t meant to show—Yujun in profile, with his gaze turned soft, eyes full of something too intimate to name.

Yujun noticed.

“Is that me?” he asked, craning his neck.

Min-Joon tried to close the book, but Yujun reached over, gently tugging it back.

“You see me like this?”

“I don’t draw lies,” Min-Joon whispered.

Yujun sat up. “You don’t say much, either.”

Min-Joon’s eyes flickered up to meet his. “Because I’m afraid it won’t be enough.”

“It already is,” Yujun said. “It always was.”

And when he leaned in—forehead to forehead, breath mingling in the space between them—it wasn’t a kiss. Not yet.

But it was a promise.

A quiet beginning.

The next morning, the world felt both new and terrifying.

Min-Joon stood in front of the mirror, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear, replaying last night’s words again and again. He could still feel the weight of Yujun’s forehead against his, the silence they had shared like a sacred pause between two lines of poetry.

At school, everything seemed unchanged—and yet, everything was different.

Yujun was waiting by the gate, as usual.

He said nothing, as usual.

But when Min-Joon reached his side, Yujun fell into step beside him like always—only this time, his pinky brushed against Min-Joon’s for just a moment. Light. Careful. Real.

The hallways buzzed around them. Summer festival banners had started going up—bright colors, messy tape, the scent of fresh paint lingering in the air. Excited voices spilled through classrooms and corridors, yet Min-Joon could only hear the echo of his own heart.

In the art room, Jiho appeared again, carrying boxes of supplies and a bruised sort of smile.

“Hey,” he said to Min-Joon. “We could still use another hand for the lantern prep. You’re good with delicate things.”

Before Min-Joon could reply, Yujun was suddenly beside him.

“I already asked him to help me with the booth,” Yujun said.

Jiho’s eyes narrowed, but he forced a laugh. “Of course. Min-Joon always keeps busy, doesn’t he?”

After Jiho left, Min-Joon nudged Yujun’s arm. “You don’t have to keep chasing him away.”

Yujun looked at him, serious. “I’m not chasing him. I’m standing where I’ve always been. He’s the one circling.”

Min-Joon swallowed. There it was again—that quiet possessiveness. It never shouted. It never demanded. But it was there, like gravity, keeping him grounded.

Later that day, they sat beneath the old ginkgo tree again. Yujun peeled an orange, handing half to Min-Joon without a word.

“You remember when we used to come here in middle school?” Min-Joon asked, voice low.

“You wore your uniform backwards once,” Yujun said, lips tugging into a rare grin. “I didn’t tell you.”

“You’re the worst.”

“But I stayed beside you anyway.”

The orange between them tasted sweet.

So did the silence.

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