third time's the charm - chwe hansol
a/n: random meet-cute (?) fic with vernon just because my work is stressing me out so much i need some teeth-rotting fluff or i'll go insane😭
for the ugly criers such as myself, this is for you, babe😘
The first time he met you, you were ugly crying to the photocopier lady stationed at the entrance of the main library. He was standing behind you, waiting for his turn and holding a thick pile of reviewers in both of his hands.
He was actually contemplating if he should just go back at a later time since the kind middle-aged lady was still busy comforting you. To be honest, he feels a little bit annoyed with the scene unfolding before him because it's delaying him. But at the same time, he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave.
You were crying so hard it didn’t look like the dramatic kind people usually put on in public. There was nothing graceful about it. Your nose was red, your shoulders shaking, your words tumbling over each other as you tried to explain something to the poor photocopier lady.
“I—I studied,” you sniffed, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “I swear I did. I just—my mind went blank. Completely blank.”
The middle-aged woman nodded sympathetically while feeding a stack of papers into the machine. “Ay, that happens sometimes, iha. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
You sniffed again, clearly unconvinced.
Behind you, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the stack of reviewers pressing heavily against his forearms. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Five minutes had already passed.
Part of him wanted to sigh.
The other part—annoyingly persistent—kept listening.
“Everyone else finished so fast,” you said miserably. “I was still on question twenty.”
The photocopier whirred loudly.
He stared at the back of your head.
Your hair was messy, like you had run your fingers through it too many times. Your backpack hung off one shoulder, half open, papers sticking out at odd angles. There was a pen tucked behind your ear that you seemed completely unaware of.
“I think I failed,” you muttered.
The lady made a soft, sympathetic sound.
Something about the way you said it—quiet, defeated, like you had already accepted the worst possible outcome—made the irritation in his chest loosen just a little.
Before he could stop himself, the words already came out of his mouth. “You probably didn’t.”
Your eyes were still glossy with tears, lashes clumped together, cheeks blotchy when you turned around to face him. Up close, you looked even worse than you did from behind.
For a brief moment, you simply stared at him like you had forgotten how to process the existence of another human being.
“How would you know?” you croaked.
He lifted the reviewers in his hands slightly. “Because people who cry about exams usually studied.”
The photocopier lady chuckled softly.
You sniffed again, clearly trying to regain some dignity. “That’s… not scientific.”
“Neither is assuming you failed.”
You squinted at him, as if trying to determine whether he was mocking you. But he wasn’t smiling.
That, oddly enough, seemed to convince you.
“…Still,” you muttered, turning back to the photocopier lady, “I think I messed up.”
The machine spat out the last page with a soft whrrt.
The lady handed you your copies with a gentle smile. “Here you go, iha.”
You accepted them with a grateful nod, still looking a little miserable.
Then you glanced at him again.
Your gaze dropped to the thick stack of reviewers in his hands.
Your eyes widened slightly.
“…Sorry,” you added sheepishly. “I didn’t realize you were waiting.”
He looked at you for a moment.
“…It’s fine.” He replied with a shrug.
You studied his face for a second longer, like you were trying to memorize it.
And for the record, this wouldn’t be the last time he would see you crying.
The second time happened two weeks later.
You were sitting on the concrete steps outside the main library, knees pulled to your chest, aggressively wiping your face with a crumpled tissue like you were personally offended that tears existed at all.
He almost walked past you.
But then you sniffed loudly, and he recognized you.
Or more specifically—he recognized the ugly crying.
You hadn’t noticed him yet because you were too busy muttering to yourself.
“I hate statistics,” you grumbled. “I hate numbers. I hate confidence intervals. I hope they all disappear.”
He stood there for a moment, debating whether acknowledging you would make things worse.
Unfortunately, you looked up at the exact second he decided to keep walking.
You pointed at him accusingly. “Photocopier guy.”
“But that’s how I know you.”
He considered that. Fair enough.
You suddenly seemed to remember you were mid-breakdown. Your hand rushed to your face, wiping your cheeks again.
“I’m not crying,” you said quickly.
He looked at the tear tracks on your face.
You squinted at him. “Why do you keep saying it like that?”
“Because you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
You opened your mouth and closed it again.
“…I failed my statistics quiz.” You found yourself confessing it to him, and you didn’t even know why. He was a stranger, yet he gave off the kind of presence that made you feel like you could say anything—and he wouldn’t judge you.
“Then you probably didn’t fail.”
Your eyes narrowed. “That’s literally the same thing you said last time.”
You sniffed again and buried your face into your arms while he just stood there awkwardly for another few seconds before sitting down two steps away from you.
Then you muttered into your sleeves, “You’re very calm around crying people.”
“That’s because you haven’t seen me around group projects.”
You snorted—actually snorted that you were mildly horrified that the sound came out of you.
He pretended not to notice.
And then, somehow, the two of you sat there in silence for ten whole minutes like that.
When you finally stood up, you looked slightly less miserable.
“Thanks… Photocopier guy,” you said.
He sighed. “You should probably learn my name.”
You shrugged. “Maybe next time.”
He didn’t know why, but that answer stuck with him longer than it should have.
The third time he saw you crying was three months later. Except this time, it wasn’t about an exam.
He spotted you near the campus vending machines at almost nine in the evening. The hallway was mostly empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing quietly above.
You were sitting on the floor.
Just quiet tears rolling down your face while you stared at a text message on your phone.
He immediately recognized you.
And apparently, so did fate—because the vending machine beside you suddenly swallowed his coins without dropping the bottled water he paid for.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
You looked up at the sound of his voice.
Your expression shifted from confusion… to recognition… to embarrassment in less than two seconds.
“Oh no.” you gasped half in shock, half in scandalized disbelief.
He crossed his arms. “That’s a strange reaction to seeing someone.”
“This is the third time,” you said weakly.
“The third time for what?”
“The third time you’ve caught me crying.”
“…I wasn’t keeping count.”
“Well, I was!” you said, mortified. “This is so humiliating.”
He leaned against the vending machine.
“If it helps,” he said calmly, “this one seems more justified.”
You blinked at him. “How would you know?”
“You’re not yelling at statistics.”
You let out a shaky laugh despite yourself.
For a moment you just stared at your phone again.
Then you sighed and locked the screen.
“My boyfriend broke up with me,” you said quietly.
“That explains the upgrade.”
“From academic crying to emotional devastation.”
“…You’re terrible at comfort.”
You wiped your face again, but your shoulders weren’t shaking anymore.
After a moment, you glanced up at him.
“You’re still Photocopier guy to me, by the way.”
He exhaled through his nose.
“You’ve cried in front of me three times,” he said. “You should at least know my name by now.”
Then you held out your hand.
“I’m the girl who cries a lot.”
He looked at your hand for a second, then took it.
Your grip was warm, a little awkward, like you weren’t sure whether this counted as a proper introduction or an apology.
“…I guess I should finally tell you my name.”
“You probably should,” he said.
He repeated it once, like he was committing it to memory.
“Hansol,” he curtly replied.
For a brief moment, the hallway was quiet except for the faint hum of the vending machine beside you.
You wiped the last of your tears with the sleeve of your sweater.
“Well,” you said, standing up and dusting off your jeans, “now you know my name.”
You slung your bag over your shoulder and started walking down the hallway, then paused after a few steps and glanced back at him.
“…See you around, Photocopier guy.”
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