Chapter Text
“I saw a light in Suho. But did Suho ever see one in me?”
The thought always returned to Yeon Sieun whenever he was alone, the silence in his room pressing in like a weight.
Transferring from Byuksan Middle School to Eunjang High had been a complete shift. The hallways buzzed differently here—less suffocating, less heavy. The air felt lighter somehow, but Sieun knew the real change wasn’t the school itself. It was the boy who had walked into his life without warning.
Ahn Suho.
For the first time in years, Sieun’s colourless world had begun to bloom, threads of light and warmth weaving through the grey.
It had started so simply, so unexpectedly.
That day in class, when a group of baseball players barged in, their heavy footsteps and loud voices breaking the quiet rhythm of the room. They were looking for Suho—who was half-asleep at the back row, his head tilted lazily against the wall. The student in front of him nudged him awake.
The baseball boys accused him of something trivial—a girl, probably. Sieun didn’t care. He didn’t even lift his head at first. Fights were common, noise was common. But this one was different.
As fists swung and desks scraped against the floor, Suho’s back slammed against the edge of Sieun’s table, jolting it sharply. His pencil case tumbled to the ground, scattering pens and erasers like spilled glass marbles across the floor.
Sieun finally looked up. By the time the scuffle ended—with Suho, somehow, the last one standing—their eyes met for the first time.
It was brief, fleeting. Sieun immediately dropped his gaze, not wanting to linger, and instead tilted his eyes toward the pencil case lying on the ground. A wordless gesture, almost instinctive.
Suho followed the signal. Realizing what had happened, he crouched without hesitation, gathering every pen and his eraser, as though they were precious things. His movements were unhurried, careful, deliberate.
When he returned the pencil case, their eyes met again. Suho’s gaze was steady, warm in a way that didn’t feel forced.
“Sorry,” Suho murmured, his voice soft but firm, sliding the last pen neatly inside before placing the case on Sieun’s desk—with a kind of gentleness, as though it might break if he wasn’t careful.
Sieun, expression flat, finally spoke. “Fight outside.” His tone was cool, dismissive, as if to draw a line.
But Suho didn’t bristle. He didn’t defend himself. He simply smiled—just a small, almost imperceptible curve of his lips—before retreating back to his seat in the back row.
It was nothing. Just a moment.
But for Sieun, it lingered.
After that day, it was like unlocking a new character in his life—one he couldn’t stop noticing.
He began to see Suho everywhere.
During break, when most students filled the classroom with chatter and noise, Suho stayed at his seat, head resting on a soft pink bunny hand pillow, his breathing steady, almost childlike in its calmness.
Sieun found his eyes straying toward him more often than he should. It wasn’t intentional—at least, that’s what he told himself. But there was something grounding about the quiet rhythm of Suho’s existence, as though his very presence smoothed the edges of Sieun’s restless mind.
He learned things without meaning to. That Suho was talented at sports but seemed almost indifferent toward academics. That he worked a part-time job after school, which might explain why he always skipped lunch in favor of dozing off. He must be tired, Sieun thought once, watching the rise and fall of Suho’s shoulders.
The thought came softer than he expected, tinted with concern. And when concern turned to habit, Sieun realized he was cataloguing Suho’s small routines—the way he chewed on his straw when drinking milk, the lazy scratch at his neck when he was half-asleep, the faint smile that appeared when someone made a joke he actually liked.
He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment they began talking more. Maybe it was the first time Suho casually asked for his notes, or when Sieun found himself sitting next to him during study time.
Somehow, casual exchanges became conversations, and those conversations became something harder to define. What lingered most was the warmth—that unshakable, confusing warmth that settled in Sieun’s chest whenever Suho was near.
And sometimes, when Suho looked at him, it felt different.
Like Suho wasn’t just looking at a friend.
Like he was seeing him—in a way Sieun wasn’t ready to name.
Maybe it was all in his head. Maybe it was just wishful thinking blurring the line between reality and whatever dream he wanted to believe in. He told himself that often. But his heart never fully believed it.
He remembered the first time Suho insisted he ride his motorbike—just to help deliver food after school. Suho only had one helmet, and without hesitation, he handed it to Sieun.
The helmet felt heavy in his hands. Then Suho stepped closer, lowering it onto his head with a care that made Sieun’s throat tighten. Fingers brushed against his jaw as he adjusted the strap, movements unhurried, almost gentle. And then, without thinking, Suho tapped the top of the helmet with his palm.
“Cute,” he murmured—so soft Sieun almost wondered if he imagined it.
Sieun froze. Was that casual? Just a throwaway word? Something a friend could say without meaning anything?
Maybe it’s because I’m his friend…
But Sieun’s gaze lingered too long—on the slope of Suho’s shoulders, the streetlight glinting against his hair, the ease in his movements that felt so unattainably effortless. He looked at him like he was trying to memorize every line, every angle, before reality caught up and demanded distance. Thankfully, Suho didn’t notice. Thank God, he didn’t notice.
Because if he did… if he knew… he might step away.
And if he stepped away, they wouldn’t just lose this fragile closeness. They’d stop being friends.
For Sieun, silence was safer. Silence meant keeping Suho close, even if it meant swallowing the truth until it burned.
Suho swung a leg over the bike, settling into the seat before tilting his head back, waiting for Sieun to climb on. The engine rumbled beneath them, steady and strong. As Sieun slid into place behind him, the realization hit with dizzying clarity: something that felt so safe could still feel like dangerous territory. Not because Suho was a danger, but because Sieun himself was. Because the closer he was, the harder it became to hide.
—
The next day in class, Sieun sat at his desk, his notebook open, pen gliding steadily across the page as he reviewed the formulas he’d memorized the night before. The classroom buzzed with the usual chatter, but his focus remained sharp—until a voice cut through the noise.
“Sieun-ah.”
His pen paused mid-stroke. Sieun lifted his head slowly, and there was Suho, standing right in front of his desk. The way Suho said his name was unguarded, almost casual, yet it tugged at Sieun’s chest in a way he didn’t want to examine.
Suho rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically hesitant. “Just this one time… can I copy your homework? Not everything—I’ll change it up. I just… forgot the due date. You can say no, it’s fine.”
His words tumbled out like someone who had rehearsed excuses on the way here, but what caught Sieun wasn’t the request—it was Suho’s face. He looked tired, the kind of tired that came from late nights juggling school and part-time work. There was a faint weariness in his eyes, yet when they met Sieun’s, there was still warmth there.
Sieun stared back, heart clenching unexpectedly. How can I ever say no when you look at me that way?
“Just this once,” he heard himself say, quieter than he intended, as he slid the notebook across the desk.
Suho’s lips curved into that easy smile of his. “Thanks.”
Before Sieun could steady himself from the effect of it, another voice intruded.
“What!?”
Baku appeared beside his desk, eyes wide, disbelief painted all over his face. “That time I asked, you coldly shot me down. But him? You just hand it over like it’s nothing?”
Sieun blinked, caught between irritation and embarrassment. Suho looked just as startled, glancing between them.
“Because you didn’t have a clear reason,” Sieun replied evenly, his tone clipped.
“I did!” Baku protested, stepping closer. “I also forgot the due date last time—don’t you remember?” His pout was half playful, half accusatory as he turned his head toward Suho. “Guess you’re just lucky.”
“Lucky?” Suho echoed, brows lifting as if he was testing the word. Then he turned back toward Sieun, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, like he was asking am I?
The way he looked at him—steady, searching—made Sieun’s stomach twist. He could feel Suho silently waiting for an answer, but Sieun said nothing. His gaze lingered a fraction too long, though, and in that silence the truth sat exposed.
Yes. Because it’s you.
He looked away quickly, hoping Suho hadn’t caught it, hoping it wasn’t written all over his face. But his pulse betrayed him, quick and restless, and he had no idea whether Suho had noticed—or chosen to pretend he didn’t.
Then the teacher entered, books tucked beneath one arm, and the ripple of chatter in the room cut off almost instantly. Chairs scraped softly against the floor as students hurried back to their seats. Suho and Baku exchanged glances before sliding into their places, though Baku was still grumbling under his breath about Sieun’s "double standards."
“Settle down,” the teacher’s voice carried easily, firm yet distracted. “We have a new transfer student today. He’s from Byuksan Middle School, so let’s welcome him warmly.”
A collective murmur rose, curious eyes turning toward the door. Sieun’s hand, still resting on his pen, froze without him realizing.
The door creaked open.
A boy stepped inside. His pace was unhurried, almost deliberate, like he had no intention of blending in. His presence alone seemed to change the air in the room—lighter conversations died down, replaced with an uneasy hush. He stopped just beside the teacher, posture relaxed, head tilted slightly downward as if measuring the class before deciding what they were worth.
“This is Geum Seongje,” the teacher announced. “Please take care of him.”
The boy lifted his head at last, and the morning sunlight caught the sharp glint of his glasses. His eyes swept across the room—and then landed on Sieun.
That’s when the corner of his mouth curved. Slow. Controlled. A smirk that carried no warmth, no friendliness. It wasn’t an introduction—it was a provocation.
Through the thin barrier of glass, Sieun saw it clearly: those eyes weren’t here to make peace. They were the same as before, maybe even sharper now, gleaming with something.
A cold shiver ran down Sieun’s spine, but it quickly hardened into heat, boiling into the familiar knot of resentment. His pen dug into the page, leaving a faint imprint where his notes had cut off.
The classroom seemed to shrink, the silence stretching. Everyone else only saw a new student. But to Sieun, it was something else entirely: the ghost of his past walking back into his life with a smirk.
Their gazes locked—his filled with quiet, burning hate, Seongje’s unreadable yet smug. And in that collision, Sieun knew instantly: peace would not last long.