The library has a hundred and forty seats. You know this because you’ve sat in most of them, and the one by the far window on the third floor — end of the row, power outlet on the left, good light without the afternoon glare — is yours. Not officially. But by the quiet agreement of routine and consistency and the fact that nobody else is ever there at 7:45am. Except today someone is. He’s got a law textbook open flat and a coffee he clearly didn’t buy from campus — the cup is black, no logo, still steaming — and he’s reading with the kind of focus that makes it obvious he’s been there a while. Knuckles on his right hand are taped. His jaw is doing something unhelpful in the early morning light. You know who he is. Everyone knows who he is. You sit down anyway. Right next to him, because it’s your seat and there are two chairs and you’re not rerouting your entire morning because Jeon Jungkook decided to exist in your corner of the building. He doesn’t look up. You pull out your laptop. Open your notes. The silence is normal library silence except for the specific quality of him being inside it. Three minutes pass.