The campus air felt thin and cold, as if the oxygen had been sucked out by the sight of Min-ho's silhouette. Seo-yoon turned away, her legs feeling like lead. She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to be the girl standing in the shadows of someone else's happiness. The plaza was almost empty now, the evening light stretching long and orange across the pavement.
She took a few staggering steps, her vision blurring with hot, stinging tears. But then, she stopped.
A few meters away, standing near a row of dark pines, was a figure that didn't belong in Seoul. He was tall—impossibly tall—wearing a familiar dark brown overcoat. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, and his gaze was fixed directly on her.
Li Yan-chen.
Seo-yoon froze, her breath hitching in a sob. She was shocked, certain that her grief had finally caused her to hallucinate. "Y-Yan-chen?" she whispered, the name feeling foreign in the Korean air.
He walked toward her, his stride calm and purposeful. As he reached her, his expression remained stoic, but his eyes were searching her face with an intensity that was almost painful. "Gwaenchana?" he asked—Are you okay? His pronunciation was careful, a sign of the hours he'd spent trying to bridge the gap between their languages.
In that exact moment, Min-ho and the girl turned their heads toward the sound of their voices. Before Min-ho's eyes could land on Seo-yoon, Yan-chen moved.
He didn't hesitate. He stepped into her personal space, his large hand finding her waist while the other reached up to cradle the back of her head. He pulled her firmly against his chest, tucking her face into the wool of his brown coat. He became a human wall, shielding her from Min-ho's sight and providing a dark, quiet sanctuary.
Seo-yoon didn't fight him. She clutched the fabric of his coat and finally let the tears fall, her body shaking against his solid frame. Yan-chen didn't say a word. He just stood there, a silent anchor in a city where she felt like she was drowning.
Later that evening, they sat on the stone steps overlooking the Han River. The city lights flickered on the water, and the distant hum of traffic provided a steady backdrop to their silence. Yan-chen had bought two warm drinks from a nearby stall, handing one to her.
"How are you here?" Seo-yoon asked, her voice quiet but stable now. "Wei said you were forbidden from leaving the lab."
"I finished my bridge model ahead of schedule," Yan-chen said, looking out at the water. "And I wanted to see Korea."
Seo-yoon knew it was a partial lie—the kind of lie told to protect someone's pride—but she didn't call him out. Instead, she looked at him and gave a small, weary smile.
"Why were you crying?" he asked, returning to his usual direct tone.
Seo-yoon looked at the river. "Just... I saw the truth, and it hurt."
"A protagonist shouldn't cry for a character who has already been written out of the story," Yan-chen said, taking a sip of his warm coffee. "You have better scenes ahead of you, Seo-yoon."
The words, though phrased in his cold, architectural way, warmed her more than the drink. "How long are you staying?" she asked.
"One week," he replied. He had come to bring her back, but he wouldn't say that yet.
Seo-yoon stood up, dusting off her coat. "Then let's go home?"
Yan-chen stood as well, his height once again making the world feel a bit smaller. "I booked a hotel."
"But I don't live in Seoul," Seo-yoon explained. "I live in Busan. While you're here, you can stay with me."
Yan-chen cut a sharp glance at her, a hint of his teasing smirk appearing. "With you?"
"At my house!" she corrected quickly, her cheeks flushing.
Yan-chen smiled, a rare, genuine expression that reached his eyes. "Fine. But tonight, stay at the hotel with me. It's too late for the KTX to Busan. Separate rooms, okay?"
"Okay," she agreed.
However, the universe had other plans. When they arrived at the hotel, a massive convention had taken over the city. Every room was occupied. After a long, frustrating conversation at the front desk, the clerk gave them the only remaining option: a single suite with one large bed.
They stood in the center of the room, the silence between them suddenly feeling very different from the silence on the riverbank. Parallel lines had finally met, and now they had nowhere else to go.