Here's a gentle, heart-tugging continuation of "Library Lock-In", where Jo does what Jo does best: writes what he feels — but this time, about Yuma.

Set a few days after the library incident
Pairing: Jo × Yuma
Trope: Writer x Muse / Soft Confession Pt. 2

*****
"You don't describe juice boxes this poetically."

*****

Yuma wasn't supposed to find the notebook.

Jo usually kept it tucked away in the side pouch of his backpack — zipped, sealed, hidden like something too fragile for daylight.

But that morning, they'd all been in a rush. Practice ran long, snacks were low, and Jo's bag had been left wide open on the common room couch while he'd gone to refill his water bottle.

When he came back, Yuma was sitting cross-legged, holding the soft black notebook in his lap like it might shatter if he breathed too hard.

Jo froze.

"...Hey," he said quietly, heart already racing.

Yuma looked up. "You write about me."

Jo blinked. "I—I mean, not—like, not exactly—"

Yuma turned the notebook around and pointed at the page.

The boy with the softest gravity.
He walks like he's trying not to disturb the world, but people bend toward him anyway. Quiet but constant. Like the moon pulling at tides he doesn't know he moves.

Jo wanted to melt into the floor. Or maybe rewind time. Or maybe pass out.

"...That was just—" he rubbed the back of his neck, ears going pink, "—a writing exercise. Nothing serious."

Yuma's voice was calm. Almost teasing. "You don't describe juice boxes this poetically."

Jo groaned and reached out for the notebook. "Can I have it back?"

But Yuma held it tighter. "There's more."

Jo hesitated. Then slowly sat next to him.

He didn't say anything. Just watched as Yuma flipped the pages, his fingertips moving gently across the ink.

There were fragments. Lines. Half-built paragraphs. Some pages were scratched out entirely.

But others...

He's the only person who makes silence feel full.
When he smiles, it's not loud — but it lingers. I want to write poems with the way he looks at people.
He told me I was his favorite story. I haven't stopped writing since.

Yuma closed the notebook softly. Like it was something sacred.

"You know," he said, not looking at Jo. "I don't say things like that to just anyone."

Jo's voice was quiet. "I figured."

"And you don't write about anyone like this, do you?"

Jo didn't answer.

But he didn't have to.

The silence between them was soft again — like it had been in that library corner.

"I didn't know how to say it out loud," Jo finally admitted. "So I wrote it instead."

Yuma leaned his head on Jo's shoulder. "That's okay. I read loud."

Jo let out a quiet laugh, full of breath and warmth and relief.

They sat like that until someone (probably Nicholas) shouted from the other room that group practice was starting in five.

Jo didn't move.

Neither did Yuma.

*****************************************************

The rain tapped softly against the dorm windows like a metronome.

It was still early. Practice hadn't started yet. The others were asleep or pretending to be.

Jo sat cross-legged on his bed, still in his hoodie, notebook open in his lap. His pen moved slowly, fingers curled just right, the way they always were when he was writing something he didn't want to lose.

He didn't notice when Yuma walked in.

Didn't see him hesitate at the doorway, watching quietly — like someone stepping into a sacred space.

Yuma didn't speak until Jo looked up.

"Got room for one more page?"

Jo blinked. "Always."

Yuma walked over, sat beside him. Jo handed over the pen without a word.

And for once, Yuma wrote.

The page was blank. Crisp.

But when he was done — it wasn't.

Jo.

You're not the loudest in the room.
You don't try to be.
But you always hear me — even when I haven't said anything yet.

You move like you're afraid to take up space,
but you give everyone around you room to breathe.

You laugh with your shoulders. You smile with your whole face — even when you think you don't.

You write in margins,
and I've been trying to live in between those lines since the first time you looked at me like I was worth describing.

You make silence feel like something warm.
And love feel like something quiet enough to trust.

If I'm your favorite story—
then you're the author of every soft moment I didn't know how to name before you.

— Yuma

Jo read it twice.

Then a third time.

He didn't speak. Didn't need to.

Just turned the page back to his own words — the ones about the boy with soft gravity — and slid his finger across the paper until it landed on Yuma's name.

Then he reached out and covered Yuma's hand with his own.

Soft. Steady.

They sat there for a while. The notebook open. Pages full of both of them now.

Outside, the rain kept falling.

Inside, everything finally made sense.

The End.
(The notebook filled up faster after that and now they're writing it together.)