Chapter 10: Library Negotiations
The library’s second-floor psychology section smelled of dust and forgotten arguments. Joan moved through the stacks like a ghost, her body a dissonant echo of the night before. Every slight shift sent a reminder—the tender ache between her thighs, the phantom pressure of Joshua’s fingers, the musk of release that seemed baked into her sinuses no matter how long she’d stood under the shower’s scalding spray.
She needed focus. Theory. Anything to armor herself for Practice Room Four at four o’clock. Cheol’s cold professionalism was a threat she didn’t know how to meet.
The shelf labels blurred: Psychogenic Arousal. Neurochemical Precursors. Somatic Feedback Loops. She pulled a heavy volume on autonomic responses, its cover cold and grainy under her fingertips.
“Heavier reading than usual.”
The voice, smooth and lightly teasing, came from behind her left shoulder. She didn’t need to turn. Jeonghan.
She slid the book back into place with a definitive click. “I’m shopping for light entertainment. This isn’t it.”
He stepped into her periphery, leaning a shoulder against the shelf. He wore his uniform with a deliberate carelessness, tie slightly loosened, top button undone. In the dim amber light of the library, he looked like a painting of a bored angel. “Let me guess. Research for your collaborative project with our beloved president.” He made the title sound like a curse.
“It’s an academic assignment.”
“Of course it is.” He pushed off the shelf and drifted past her, his fingers trailing along the spines. “The science of making a woman gush. And they paired you with a human glacier. The administration’s sense of humor is truly underrated.”
Joan felt a spark of irritation, welcome after the numbness. “Do you need something, or are you just here to narrate my life?”
He paused, plucking a book out without looking at the title. “I’m here because the acoustics in this section are perfect for hearing someone’s soul quietly leaving their body. Yours is doing a slow, wheezing leak.” He finally looked at her, his gaze a clinical sweep. “You look like you didn’t sleep. And not in the fun way.”
The accuracy was offensive. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar. It’s one of your few charms.” He turned fully, holding out the book he’d randomly selected. It was a thick, older text: Sexual Response Cycles: Interdisciplinary Models. “Here. You’ll need this one. Cheol’s approach will be brute-force linear. A leads to B leads to C. But female ejaculation…” He tapped the cover. “It’s not a linear path. It’s a critical mass. It happens when anxiety, anticipation, and pleasure hit a certain tipping point. It’s chaos theory with better plumbing.”
Joan stared at the book, then at him. “Why are you helping me?”
“Who said I’m helping? I’m correcting a methodological flaw in a school-wide experiment. If you fail, it throws off my own data.” He pushed the book into her hands. “Don’t let him intimidate you. His weapon is silence. Your counter is observation. Watch his hands. They’ll tell you everything before his face does.”
A strange, unwelcome flutter moved in her chest. Gratitude mixed with profound suspicion. “You’ve observed his hands?”
Jeonghan’s smile was a brief, sharp thing. “I observe everyone. It’s why I’m never bored.” He took a step back, fading into the long shadow between two towering bookcases. “Good luck, Han Joan. Try not to freeze to death.”
He was gone, absorbed by the library’s gloom, leaving only the faint scent of his clean, citrusy cologne and the weight of the book in her hands.
She stood there for a full minute, clutching the text. Chaos theory with better plumbing. The absurd phrase rattled around in her head, dislodging the clinical dread. She found an empty carrel by a stained-glass window and opened the book. Jeonghan had dog-eared a page.
Jeonghan had dog-eared a page.
The highlighted section discussed the psychological paradox of spectatoring—the act of observing oneself during intimacy, which inevitably smothers the spontaneous neural cascade required for culminative release. The mind must be submerged, not standing on the shore. Joan’s own mind, always a frantic observer, recoiled at the diagnosis. She read it twice. Then a third time. The words mapped her failure with clinical precision: Joshua and Ara’s detached methodology had made her a spectator in her own body, and Cheol’s promised professionalism would only cement the role.
She sank deeper into the carrel, the world narrowing to the texture of the paper and the precise, damning prose. Hours dissolved. The amber light from the window bled into the gray of late afternoon, painting the dust motes in the air a dull gold. Her back ached from stillness.
A soft thump on the table broke her concentration.
A cold bubble tea, pearls settled at the bottom, sat sweating onto the wood. Another identical cup hovered beside it before landing with a lighter tap. She looked up.
Mingyu slid into the chair opposite her, his smile wide and easy, a stark contrast to the library’s grim silence. He took a long sip from his straw. “You look like you’re trying to solve a murder, not study for bio.”
“What are you doing here?” Joan asked, her voice raspy from disuse.
“Saving you from terminal nerd syndrome. I come bearing sugar.” He nudged her cup closer. “Drank mine already. Chaeyoung and I finished our practical this morning. Paper’s drafted and everything.”
Joan’s stomach tightened. She stared at the condensed water trailing down the plastic cup. “You’re done?”
“Yeah. Heard a bunch of others are, too. Jeonghan and Soomin wrapped up in like, an hour, but I think they just wrote pure fiction.” He shrugged, grinning. “Not my problem. Our data is solid. Observed release, clear methodology. Easy.”
The information landed like a series of small, sharp blows. Each completed assignment was a step closer to her own unavoidable confrontation in Practice Room Four. The clock was ticking past three. Her own project was a void of non-communication and simmering resentment. “That’s great,” she managed, the words hollow.
Mingyu’s smile faded. He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “Hey. What’s up? You’re practically vibrating.”
The concern undid her. The words spilled out in a rushed, tense whisper. “It’s Cheol. He’s being impossible. We’re supposed to meet in an hour and he hasn’t said a word beyond giving me a time and a location like I’m a delivery. He was all ‘be professional.’” She mimicked Cheol’s low, flat tone poorly. “What does that even mean? He used to at least look at me. Now it’s like I’m a stain on the floor.”
She picked at the plastic lid of her drink. “Remember after the thing with Soomin in the cafeteria? He brought me that honey tea. Just left it on my desk. Didn’t say anything, but it was there. He saw me. Now he just sees a problem to be managed.”
Mingyu listened, his expressive face turning serious. He took another slow sip, then sighed. “Joan. Come on. You know what it is.”
“Enlighten me.”
“He’s obviously into you.”
She groaned, letting her forehead thump onto the open book. “Ugh. Then why doesn’t he just say it? Why this… this ice prince act? It’s exhausting.”
“Because it’s Cheol,” Mingyu said, as if explaining a basic law of physics. “He’s the president. He has this whole… thing to uphold. The protector, the unshakeable one. He can’t afford to put it out there and not have it reciprocated. Can you imagine? Choi Seungcheol, rejected? His entire architecture would crack.”
Joan fell silent. She lifted her head, staring past Mingyu at the endless rows of books. The truth of it was so simple it felt stupid. He was protecting himself. By assuming the worst—by assuming she was distracted, uninterested, playing games with people like Jun—he’d built a wall. A professional, methodological wall.
It was unfair. The thought was a hot, sudden flare in her chest. He’d decided her answer for her. Liking him back wasn’t just a possibility; it was a reality she’d been wrestling with since the moment he’d met her on her first day.
But he didn’t know that. He’d never asked.
Mingyu watched the conflict play out on her face. He stood up, gathering his empty cup. “Just… go to the room. His hands will tell you everything, remember?” He winked, echoing Jeonghan’s unexpected advice, and headed toward the stairs.
Joan was left alone with the cold drink, the heavy book, and the frantic, accelerating beat of her own heart. The spectator in her mind was finally quiet, submerged under a wave of resolve. She had one hour to stop being a problem to be managed.
She closed the book, the dog-eared page a reminder. The mind must be submerged.
It was time to dive.