The Booth and a Steady Hand

Caught in the crushing grip of social anxiety after a public blunder, Jaemin struggles with fear and loneliness, finding an unexpected anchor in Sungjae's unwavering presence.

“What’s… stupid?” Jaemin’s voice, when it came out, felt like a brittle thing, ready to crack. He traced the condensation ring left by his iced tea on the laminate table, a meaningless ritual. He could feel Sungjae’s gaze, heavy and unblinking, from across the scratched-up cafe booth. It wasn’t accusatory, not really, but it burrowed under his skin, made him want to squirm, made him want to vanish.

“The whole… reaction,” Sungjae said, his tone low, measured. He didn’t raise his voice, not even a little, but the words cut through the low hum of the cafe, the clatter of ceramic mugs, the distant grind of the espresso machine. Jaemin hated that machine. It always sounded like someone was ripping apart a sheet of metal, slow and deliberate. Sungjae’s thumb, he noticed, was running a slow, almost imperceptible rhythm against the worn edge of his own mug. He always did that. A tell.

Jaemin shrugged, trying for casual. It felt like trying to balance a bowling ball on a toothpick. “People talk. Whatever.” He took a too-loud slurp of his tea, the straw scraping the bottom of the plastic cup. The sugary liquid tasted flat, suddenly. His throat felt tight. He glanced at the other booths, hoping no one was listening, even though he knew they were all too wrapped up in their own conversations. Still, the paranoid crawl in his gut wasn't quieted.

“‘Whatever’ isn’t exactly a full emotional disclosure, Jaemin.” Sungjae’s lips twitched, just a fraction. It was a familiar ghost of a smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes when he was being serious. Sungjae, always reading the room, always reading *him*.

God, Sungjae was impossible. He didn't let things go, not ever. Not when he decided something mattered. And Jaemin, he knew, mattered to Sungjae in a way he couldn't quite name, but felt acutely, a constant pressure, like warm air behind him. It was comforting and terrifying all at once. Like standing too close to a bonfire, needing the heat, but knowing a single spark could burn everything down.

A memory, sharp and unwelcome, flickered: earlier that week, the loud laughter in the hall, the way Min had elbowed Dylan, pointing at him with that dumb, knowing smirk. Jaemin had just been talking, too loudly maybe, about that new indie film, the one with the quiet, intense leading man. He’d gotten too animated, too close to describing *feelings*, not just plot, and the words had tangled, coming out wrong, too earnest. And Min, always Min, had caught it, twisted it. A throwaway comment about him being 'sensitive,' then a smirk and a nudge, 'Careful, don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea.' The memory made his ears burn, even now, under the fake-friendly cafe lights.

He picked at a loose thread on the worn denim of his jeans, just above his knee. “What do you want me to say, Sungjae? That I loved being the joke of the week? That I thought it was hilarious that Min called me… whatever he called me?” He finally looked up, met Sungjae’s eyes. Sungjae’s pupils seemed darker than usual, reflecting the low, yellowish light. A ripple went through Jaemin, something like a current. His chest felt heavy, then light, then heavy again, a seesaw of panic and a weird, almost dangerous thrill.

Sungjae leaned forward, just slightly, resting his forearms on the table. The movement pulled Jaemin’s gaze to the subtle flexing of muscle under Sungjae’s hoodie sleeve. “I want you to say what you’re actually thinking. What you’re actually feeling. Not the defense mechanism.” Sungjae's voice dipped lower, for his ears only. “And I want to know why you walked away from me like I wasn’t there.”

That last part was the kicker. After Min’s comment, Jaemin had just… bolted. Out of the hallway, out of sight, leaving Sungjae standing there. He hadn’t meant to. It was just instinct. The need to disappear. He felt a fresh wave of heat flood his face. Embarrassment, sure, but also something else, a jolt of pure shame that he’d abandoned Sungjae, even for a second, when Sungjae had been the only one who hadn't joined in the smirking.

“I just… I didn’t want to talk about it,” Jaemin muttered, looking away again, focusing on a speck of something indistinguishable on the table. He fidgeted with the straw, pushing it up and down in the lid. The plastic groaned softly. “It was nothing. Seriously. People are idiots.”

“It wasn’t nothing to you,” Sungjae countered, his voice steady, uncompromising. “Your face went white. You could barely breathe. I saw it, Jaemin.” He reached across the table, his fingers brushing against Jaemin’s arm, just above the elbow. It was a light touch, almost accidental, but it sent a sharp, unexpected jolt through Jaemin. His breath hitched, a small, involuntary sound. It was like a static shock, familiar and yet always new, always surprising. He felt the warmth of Sungjae’s skin, a counterpoint to the chill spreading through his own chest.

Jaemin pulled his arm back, not violently, but quickly, as if burned. He knew Sungjae saw it, registered the sudden withdrawal. His heart hammered a fast, uneven drum against his ribs. Stupid. So stupid to react like that. He was sixteen, almost seventeen, and he was reacting like a kid who’d touched a hot stove. But the feeling… it was more than just physical. It was a deep, resonant hum, an acknowledgment of something too big, too important.

“Look,” Jaemin started, trying to sound exasperated, trying to put up a wall. “It’s just… it’s annoying, okay? Being picked apart. Everything I say. Everything I do. It’s like they’re waiting for… for something.” He didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn't. The 'something' hung in the air, a phantom limb that he couldn't quite hide.

Sungjae withdrew his hand, but his eyes never left Jaemin’s. They held a quiet intensity that Jaemin found both unnerving and deeply compelling. “For what, Jaemin? What are they waiting for?” There was no judgment in the question, only a relentless, quiet push. Sungjae wouldn't let him off the hook. He never did.

A group of their classmates, loud and boisterous, pushed through the cafe door, letting in a gust of crisp autumn air that smelled faintly of damp leaves and distant woodsmoke. Jaemin flinched, pulling his shoulders up around his ears. He instinctively ducked his head, hoping to become invisible. He could hear them laughing, the high-pitched shriek of Chloe, the deep rumble of Mateo. He didn't want to engage. Not now. Not ever.

“Jaemin? Sungjae?” Mateo’s voice boomed across the cafe. Jaemin squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then opened them to see Mateo and Chloe making a beeline for their booth. Chloe, with her bright pink scarf and even brighter smile, waved enthusiastically. Dylan, Min, and Liam trailed behind them. The very people he wanted to avoid. The air in the cafe, which had been merely warm, now felt suffocating. He felt a tremor start in his hands.

Sungjae, without a word, shifted slightly in the booth, subtly blocking Jaemin from the direct line of sight. It was a small, almost imperceptible movement, but Jaemin felt it. The quiet protection. It made his chest tighten, a strange mix of relief and renewed panic. He hated needing to be protected. He hated that Sungjae understood, without him saying a single word, what he was going through.

“Hey guys! What’s up?” Mateo slid into the booth opposite them, Chloe practically falling in beside him, laughing. Dylan and Min pulled up extra chairs, creating a semicircle of familiar, yet suddenly menacing, faces. Liam, quieter than the others, just leaned against the wall near their table, scrolling on his phone.

“Just chilling,” Sungjae replied smoothly, his voice betraying none of the tension Jaemin felt. He gave a brief, easy smile, the kind that deflected attention. Jaemin watched him, mesmerized by the sheer composure. How did he do it? How did he always manage to maintain that rock-solid facade?

“Oh, good,” Chloe said, pulling her scarf tighter. “Did you guys hear about the drama from Tuesday? Seriously, the entire hall was buzzing. Someone said Min said something…” She trailed off, glancing at Min, who grinned innocently. Jaemin’s stomach dropped. He felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him cold. This was it. The public rehashing. The moment he’d been dreading. He wanted to curl up into a tiny ball and roll under the table.

Min feigned surprise. “Me? What did I say? I just said someone was a little… *sensitive* about their movies. Didn’t want to, you know, hurt anyone’s *feelings*.” He winked at Dylan, who snickered. The implication hung in the air, thick and sticky, a silent accusation. Jaemin felt his cheeks flush crimson. He kept his eyes glued to the table, to the faint scratch marks in the laminate that looked like tiny, desperate spiderwebs.

A low hum started in Jaemin’s ears, drowning out the other voices. He could feel his breath getting shallow, caught somewhere in his throat. His leg started bouncing under the table, a nervous habit he tried, usually unsuccessfully, to control. He could feel Sungjae’s knee brush against his, a solid, grounding presence. Another subtle touch, a lifeline, but it only amplified the electric tension within him. He wanted to lean into it, but also wanted to recoil. He was trapped, both by the public scrutiny and by the overwhelming, quiet intensity of Sungjae beside him.

“Yeah, well, Min, sometimes people *are* sensitive,” Sungjae said, his voice still even, but with an underlying steel that Jaemin recognized. It wasn’t a challenge, not overtly, but it was a clear warning. “And some people are just needlessly loud about it. Maybe try being less of a jackass.” The last part was delivered with a smile, but his eyes, for a split second, were hard. Min’s grin faltered.

Chloe giggled nervously, sensing the shift. “Oh, Sungjae! Always so… direct.” She tried to lighten the mood, but the air remained thick. Jaemin risked a glance at Sungjae. Sungjae was looking at Min, but his hand had subtly moved under the table, his fingers finding Jaemin’s knee and resting there, a reassuring weight. The contact was almost too much. Jaemin's entire body thrummed. He felt a desperate urge to grasp Sungjae’s hand, to hold on, but he couldn’t, not here, not now, not with everyone watching, even if they weren’t *really* watching.

“I just… I didn’t think it was that big a deal,” Min mumbled, suddenly less confident. He hated being called out. Sungjae had a way of doing that, of cutting through the bullshit without raising his voice, without making a scene. It was devastatingly effective.

“It wasn’t,” Jaemin forced himself to say, his voice thin and reedy. He finally looked up, his gaze sweeping over the faces of his friends, then settling on Sungjae. Sungjae’s eyes met his, and in their depths, Jaemin saw something profound: understanding, acceptance, and a quiet, almost fierce protection. It was a mirror, reflecting back a part of himself he was terrified to acknowledge. A wave of unexpected emotion washed over him – gratitude, fear, and a burning, aching longing.

He watched the faint pulse beat at Sungjae's throat, felt the warmth of his hand still pressed against his knee. It was a silent conversation, a bond forming in the quiet moments between the cruel words and the nervous laughter. Sungjae was telling him, without words, that he was seen. That he was okay. That he wasn't alone. And for a moment, the crushing weight of the world, the fear of judgment, loosened its grip. The cafe hummed, the autumn light outside softened, and Jaemin felt a fragile, hopeful warmth begin to spread through his chest, chasing away the chill.

He wanted to say something, anything, but his throat was still too tight. He just nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement, and Sungjae squeezed his knee, a silent promise, a steady hand in the rushing current.

“Right,” Sungjae said, pulling his hand away with a deliberate slowness that still left the phantom warmth on Jaemin’s skin. He turned to Mateo. “So, about that calculus project…” The conversation shifted, the immediate threat receding, but the electric tension between Jaemin and Sungjae remained, a vibrant, humming undercurrent, a promise of something yet to be fully uncovered.