STORY NAME-- "Every King needs his Queen" (disclaimer: story contains descriptive words including self-hxrm topics, suic!de, derpress!on, and gor3. • • • • To say Kim Seungmin was popular would be an understatement. Kim Seungmin was king of Hojeon High School. Whatever he said, someone would laugh, agree or cater to his need. • • • Y/N was the oppsite. They were the quiet kid, sitting at the back of the class. They have scars on their arms, ones that run deeper than just a cut. Nobody asked questions. • • • Y/N goes to the roof of the abandoned gym every night, to smoke, to let off steam, to sit. When Y/N climbs onto the roof one night, they see an unwelcome visitor. Seungmin. He sits there, staring into the moon. Y/N doesn't like this, but they don't force him off. Instead, they sit. They sit in silence. Nobody ever talks, they'd never spoken, and Seungmin never engaged in coversation with Y/N. He never asked questions, at least, not out loud. When Y/N answered his questions, he listened, never contradicted their stories, never pushed, never asked why they had marks on their arms. They slowly grew closer, melting the ice between them. • • • HAPPY READING/TALKING/WHATEVER TF THIS IS!!! BYE LUVIES!!! ❤❤ • •

The avenue was asphalt and cold steel. The corner store was warm brick, perpetually smelling of dust, vanilla, and old linen. Kim Seungmin watched it for a week before entering. His world demanded clean lines, sharp edges, and predictable trajectories. The Quiet Corner was an anomaly: a deliberate, gentle chaos. He wore a suit tailored for shadows. The fabric was expensive, the cut severe. He carried a briefcase, weighty and locked, built for secrets. Stepping across the threshold was a shift in gravity. The light inside was soft, filtered through aged paper, silencing the sharp tap of his leather shoes. The owner, a quiet woman named Y/N, was perched on a step ladder, shelving a tower of faded hardcovers. Her movements were fluid; her cotton apron seemed immune to the tension he carried. She descended without a word, her eyes meeting his. They were steady, non-judgmental, accustomed to studying complicated plots. Seungmin ignored the vibrant fiction, walking straight to the back wall marked "Philosophy." He pulled a volume not for its title, but for its imposing weight and the thick, protective dust jacket. His visits became ritual. Every Tuesday afternoon, like the turning of a meticulous cog. He never sat. He patrolled. Seungmin didn't read the books; he critiqued the arrangement. He saw the logic of her seemingly random placements. A book on Byzantine architecture placed next to a memoir of a retired spy. Both about impossible structures built on fragile foundations. He never spoke of this recognition, only corrected minute errors: a book leaning, a shelf label slightly askew. He restored order where she had allowed freedom. The week was a disaster. His immaculate plans had fractured. He arrived on Friday, two days off schedule, without his briefcase. His dark clothing was rumpled, his shirt collar slightly unbuttoned. Y/N brought him a coffee, black, just how he liked it. He nodded in approval of the perfectly warmed drink