Min Yu did not decide to create distance.
Distance happened the way frost forms—quietly, overnight, without announcement—coating things that had been warm the evening before.
The morning after Hoa left his apartment, Min Yu stood in the kitchen long after the door had closed, listening to the echo of footsteps that were no longer there. His grandmother slept, breathing shallow but steady, and the pale dawn light filtered through the curtains as if nothing in the world had shifted.
But something had.
The couch still held the impression of two bodies. The blanket still carried warmth that had not entirely faded. When Min Yu touched the fabric, his fingers lingered longer than necessary, his chest tightening in a way that felt both full and fragile.
He hated that feeling.
He hated how easily his body remembered being held.
He hated how quickly quiet turned into longing.
So when his phone buzzed later that morning and Hoa's name appeared on the screen, Min Yu let it ring.
Not because he didn't want to answer.
Because he wanted to too much.
The day unfolded with relentless normalcy. Classes. Notes. A shift at the café where the espresso machine screamed and the smell of burned milk clung to his clothes. Min Yu moved through it all on autopilot, answering questions, smiling when required, apologizing when he bumped into someone because his mind was elsewhere.
Everywhere but here.
He checked his phone only once, heart jumping when he saw a message waiting.
I'll stop by later.
Min Yu stared at the words until they blurred.
Later felt dangerous.
Later meant the couch. The blanket. The memory of waking warm and unguarded. It meant eyes too close and hands that asked permission and a voice that said I want to as if wanting were simple.
Min Yu typed a reply.
I'm busy tonight.
He deleted it.
Typed again.
She needs rest. I don't think tonight is a good time.
He sent that one before he could reconsider.
The reply came slower than usual.
Okay. Tomorrow, then.
Min Yu's chest tightened. He didn't respond.
Avoidance, he learned, was not the same as peace.
It followed him through campus like a second shadow. He found himself choosing routes that skirted familiar buildings, entering lecture halls early and leaving late, pretending to be engrossed in his notes whenever footsteps sounded too close behind him.
It didn't work.
Hoa didn't chase him immediately. That, somehow, made it worse.
Two days passed.
Min Yu convinced himself he was being sensible. That things had moved too quickly. That warmth borrowed in crisis did not mean permanence. That he could not afford to let his balance depend on someone whose life moved on entirely different terms.
He repeated these thoughts while making soup for his grandmother. While counting pills. While filling out financial aid forms late at night, the blue glow of his laptop casting harsh shadows across the walls.
He repeated them until they almost sounded true.
Almost.
On the third day, his phone buzzed while he was crossing the courtyard.
Are you avoiding me?
Min Yu stopped walking.
The words were simple. Direct. Unmistakably Hoa.
Students brushed past him, laughter and conversation flowing around the stillness that had settled in his chest. He stood there too long, fingers curling around his phone.
He typed.
I've just been busy.
The response came quickly.
So have I.
Then..
That's not an answer.
Min Yu closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
He didn't reply.
Hoa found him anyway.
Min Yu felt it before he saw him—the subtle shift in the air, the way the crowd's energy bent around a single presence. He looked up from his book just in time to see Hoa at the base of the library steps, coat dark against pale stone, expression unreadable.
Their eyes met.
Min Yu's instinct was to turn away.
Hoa took one step forward.
That was enough.
"Min Yu."
Hearing his name out loud—here, now—sent a jolt through him.
"I was heading to work," Min Yu said quickly, before Hoa could speak.
Hoa nodded once. "Walk with me."
"I don't have time."
"Five minutes."
Min Yu hesitated. Then nodded, because refusal felt heavier than compliance.
They walked side by side across campus, the space between them deliberate and tense. Hoa didn't touch him. Didn't rush him. He simply redirected their path toward the older humanities building, quieter and less frequented, its corridors echoing faintly with footsteps that didn't belong to them.
Min Yu's pulse quickened.
"Hoa—"
Hoa stopped in front of a door marked Study Room C and opened it. "This won't take long."
The room was small and spare, the window half-covered by ivy that filtered the light into green-tinged shadows. The door closed behind them with a soft click that sounded final.
Min Yu set his bag down carefully. "You shouldn't—"
"Why are you pulling away?" Hoa asked.
The question landed clean and sharp.
"I'm not," Min Yu said, automatically.
"You are."
Min Yu laughed softly, without humor. "You don't know that."
Hoa stepped closer—not crowding, not touching, but close enough that Min Yu felt the heat of him. "You don't answer. You disappear. You look everywhere except at me."
Min Yu looked down at his hands. "I told you. I'm busy."
Hoa's voice remained calm. "I don't mind busy."
"Then what do you mind?"
Hoa paused. "Silence."
Min Yu's throat tightened. "You don't get to demand—"
"I'm not demanding," Hoa said quietly. "I'm asking."
The distinction undid him more than anger would have.
Min Yu looked up. "Because I don't know how to handle you," he said, the words spilling out before he could stop them. "You make things louder. I can't afford that."
Hoa nodded slowly. "You think warmth is a distraction."
Min Yu flinched.
"You think if you lean into it," Hoa continued, "you'll lose your footing."
"Yes," Min Yu whispered. "I will."
Hoa lifted a hand, stopping himself before it touched Min Yu. "I won't take anything you don't offer."
Min Yu laughed weakly. "That's not the problem."
"Then what is?"
Min Yu's chest burned. "That I want to."
Silence filled the room, thick and humming.
Hoa stepped closer again, stopping just short of contact. "Wanting doesn't mean falling."
"It does when you've been standing alone for too long," Min Yu said.
Hoa studied his face, eyes dark with something like understanding. "Distance isn't the same as safety."
Min Yu swallowed. "Neither is closeness."
Hoa nodded. "True."
They stood there, breathing the same air, the space between them charged with restraint.
Hoa reached out at last, knuckles brushing Min Yu's wrist. "Look at me."
Min Yu did.
Hoa's thumb traced the pulse at his wrist, slow and grounding. "That's not danger," Hoa said. "That's want."
Min Yu closed his eyes.
Hoa leaned in, stopping just short of a kiss. "If you tell me to stop, I will."
Min Yu's fingers curled into Hoa's coat. "I don't want you to stop."
Hoa exhaled sharply and pressed his forehead to Min Yu's. "Then let me do this right."
His hands slid to Min Yu's waist—steady, careful. He brushed his lips against Min Yu's cheek, then the corner of his mouth, each touch asking rather than taking.
Min Yu turned his head.
Their lips met.
The kiss was slow and deliberate, deep without urgency. Hoa kissed him as if learning, as if committing the moment to memory. Min Yu melted into it, hands gripping Hoa's coat, body leaning forward until the distance disappeared.
Hoa groaned softly and pulled back just enough to breathe. "This is what I mean," he said hoarsely. "Warmth gives. It doesn't steal."
Min Yu nodded, overwhelmed.
Hoa rested his forehead against Min Yu's. "You don't have to chase it."
Min Yu laughed quietly. "You make it sound easy."
Hoa smiled faintly. "I never said that."
They stayed there for a moment longer—close, breathing—before stepping apart.
Hoa reached for the door. "Dinner tonight," he said. "No pressure."
Min Yu hesitated, then nodded. "Okay."
Hoa's relief was immediate, unmistakable.
As Min Yu left the room, heart racing, he realized something had shifted.
He wasn't running.
He was choosing.