BEYOND THE LECTURES

CHAPTER 12: The Space Between Us

The days after their whispered promise felt different.

Not louder. Not brighter.
Just… sharper.

Every morning Dunk woke up with the same thought: He’s still here. He’s still waiting.
And every time he walked into the lecture hall and found Joong already at the front — sleeves rolled up, pen twirling between his fingers, pretending not to search for Dunk in the crowd — his heart tugged painfully.

They had never agreed to rules, but they didn’t need to. The rules were there anyway.

No touching.
No lingering in doorways.
No stolen moments where someone might see.
No letting the truth slip past their lips too soon.

Only glances — stolen, soft, careful glances — and the silent promise they both carried like a fragile thing tucked deep in their chests.

Dunk took his usual seat in the middle row, cautious but not too cautious, trying to look as normal as the other students flipping open their notebooks. But he felt Joong the way one feels a warm light even with eyes closed — present, steady, dangerous to look at for too long.

For the first thirty minutes, they didn’t look at each other.

They both tried not to.

But by the time Joong paused at the whiteboard to drink water, Dunk’s eyes flicked up.

And of course — Joong was already looking.

Their gazes collided in the smallest second, but it was enough to send a shiver down Dunk’s spine. Joong cleared his throat, looking away too quickly, almost flustered. When he resumed the lecture, his voice was a little too tight, a little too aware of itself.

Dunk lowered his eyes to his notes, his heart thudding.
Every day it felt like this — a silent battlefield of wanting and waiting.

The students around them never suspected a thing. Why would they? Joong was the epitome of professionalism — crisp shirts, precise tone, perfect posture. And Dunk was just another architecture kid, messy-haired and overwhelmed, scribbling notes at twice the speed of anyone else.

But under the surface, something electric was shifting.

Later that afternoon, Dunk headed to the studio to finish his final model. Phuwin was sprawled on the floor with cardboard scraps everywhere, humming some random pop song off-key.

“You’re glowing,” Phuwin said suddenly, squinting at him. “Like someone got confessed to.”

Dunk choked. “W–What?! No!”

Phuwin snorted. “Relax. If anyone confessed to you, we’d all hear you screaming into a pillow.”

Dunk threw a scrap of foamboard at him. Phuwin ducked, cackling.

“Seriously, you’re acting weird,” Phuwin pressed. “Did something happen? With… someone?”

Dunk hesitated just long enough for Phuwin’s grin to widen in evil triumph.

“Oh my god, something DID—”

“PHUWIN,” Dunk hissed, cheeks burning, “nothing happened. We’re just… waiting.”

Phuwin blinked. “We?”

Silence.

Phuwin’s grin slowly faded, replaced by something softer — something that looked a lot like understanding.

“Oh,” he whispered. “Oh!!!.”

Dunk didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. Phuwin reached over and squeezed his shoulder gently.