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The library at SNU was always too cold and too quiet.

The heaters hummed like they were trying, but the winter air from Gwanak Mountain still slipped through the old windows and settled on everyone’s shoulders.

Yuna claimed the same corner seat every day.

Back row, 3rd floor, window seat.

Where the morning light hit her sketchbook just right and made the graphite glow soft, like it was alive.

Where no one talked to her.

It was hers. Everyone knew it. Even the librarian never shelved books there.

Until today.

A navy backpack dropped on the chair beside her with a soft _thud_.

Then a basketball rolled out and bumped against her boot.

Then came a plastic cup of iced americano, condensation dripping onto the wooden table.

And finally, the boy.

Hair damp, hoodie half-zipped, untied laces dragging. Like he’d run all the way from the gym and forgot to care about looking put together.

SNU’s basketball team jacket was slung over his shoulder. Number 7.

“Is anyone sitting here?” he asked, already pulling the chair out before she could answer.

Yuna looked up. Her pencil froze halfway through a line.

He was looking at her sketchbook. At the page she’d left open to dry.

It was him.

She’d drawn him yesterday during free period, from the bleachers. The way his hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his elbows. The way he ran a hand through his hair after missing a shot. The way he laughed with his whole face, loud enough that even the art room heard it.

Her heart did something stupid.

It dropped, then sprinted.

His eyes scanned the drawing. Then flicked to her. Then back to the drawing.

His grin went crooked. Slow. Like he’d just figured out a secret.

“You draw me like that,” he said, voice low, amused, “and you’re asking if the seat is taken?”

Yuna’s face went hot. She could feel it burning all the way to her ears, to the tips of her fingers.

She snapped the sketchbook shut so fast the pages made a sharp _snap_ that echoed between the bookshelves.

“No,” she mumbled, staring hard at her scuffed shoes. “It’s free.”

He sat.

He took up space. Long legs stretching out, basketball tucked under the table with his foot. He peeled the lid off his iced americano and the cold smell of coffee filled their little corner.

“Cool. I’m Jihoon.”

He held out a hand. Big. With faint calluses on the fingers.

She didn’t take it.

He didn’t seem to mind. He just shrugged, opened his physics textbook, and started humming. Off-key. Completely unbothered.

Yuna didn’t answer.

But she didn’t move her bag from her lap either.

She didn’t pack up and leave like she always did when people got too close.

For ten minutes the only sounds were the heater, the scratch of his pen, and her own breathing.

Then his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, frowned, and muttered, “Coach is gonna kill me.”

He stood up, grabbed his backpack, and paused.

He looked down at her closed sketchbook. Then at her.

“See you tomorrow, artist,” he said. Like it was a fact. Like the seat was already his.

And then he was gone. The cold air from the hallway rushed in behind him.

Yuna sat there for a long time.

The library was still quiet. Still cold.

But the seat beside her was warm.

And for the first time in months, she didn’t feel invisible in it.

She opened her sketchbook again.

The next page was blank.

Except for one small doodle in the corner.

A basketball. With the number 7 on it.