Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Matthew didn’t see it coming.

His arms were overloaded, sketchbooks pressed tightly against his chest in a precarious stack, the edges biting into his wrist with every hurried step. In his other hand, a paper cup of coffee trembled dangerously, the liquid sloshing against the flimsy lid each time he wove past another student.

The hallway pressed in around him, a blur of chatter and footsteps, lockers banging open and shut like an uneven drumbeat.

He kept his head low, eyes fixed on the scuffed tiles beneath his sneakers. If he just moved fast enough, he’d slip into class unnoticed. One more minute. One more corner.

Crash.

The collision jarred through his entire body, sharp and sudden, like hitting a wall that moved back. His sketchbooks lurched, nearly spilling from his arms, and the paper cup buckled in his grip.

Coffee arced forward in a helpless splash, dark liquid flying before he could even gasp.

It struck clean across a chest that was broad and unyielding. The rich brown seeped instantly into the sleek black jacket, dripping downward until it stained the crisp white uniform shirt underneath.

The jacket looked expensive, the kind Matthew would never even dare to touch.

The hallway stilled. Conversations cut off mid-word. A hundred pairs of eyes seemed to swing their way at once, curiosity and anticipation crackling in the sudden silence.

Matthew froze, every muscle locking as though the floor had just dropped out beneath him. His heart plummeted into his stomach, beating so fast it made his vision blur.

The words tumbled out of him in a broken rush. “I- I’m so sorry.”

The boy didn’t answer right away. He looked down first, at the spreading stain soaking into his shirt, a dark blotch against white, then lifted his gaze slowly, deliberately.

Dark hair fell across his forehead in a way that looked careless but sharp, framing features that were unfairly striking: a clean jawline, a straight nose, eyes that pinned Matthew like a spotlight. His stare wasn’t furious, but it was unreadable, and somehow that was worse.

Matthew’s stomach twisted as the name slammed into him.

Park Gunwook.

Of all people.

The last person anyone in their right mind would want to spill coffee on. The boy who skipped class like it was a hobby, who talked back to teachers and still managed to pull off perfect scores, as if rules bent for him instead of the other way around.

Rumor said he’d once broken a guy’s nose for nothing more than looking at him wrong. Some people admired him for it. Others whispered about him like a warning. Half the school seemed to crush on him, while the other half made sure to stay out of his path.

And Matthew had just baptized him in caffeine.

But Gunwook didn’t explode. He didn’t even look angry.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly, gaze dragging over Matthew in a slow sweep that felt far too deliberate, far too assessing. Something in that look made Matthew’s chest tighten, like he was being seen and judged all at once. His pulse jumped painfully in his throat.

Then Gunwook smiled.

Not the warm kind. Not really. It curved sharp at the edges, like a blade glinting under the sun.

His eyes flicked back to the stain, lingering there for a long moment before a soft scoff slipped out, low and dry. “Wow,” he said at last. His tone was casual, almost lazy, but with an edge that prickled against Matthew’s nerves.

“What is that? House blend?”

Matthew’s throat went completely dry. He swallowed hard, voice barely managing to scrape out. “I- I didn’t mean to…”

Gunwook lifted a hand, the motion slow, dismissive, his smirk still in place. “Relax. Just my favorite jacket.”

The words did nothing to calm Matthew’s panic.

And then, with the ease of someone who knew the weight his words carried, Gunwook added, “Next time, try aiming for my face. Might improve my morning.”

Matthew blinked at him, mind scrambling. Was that supposed to be… a joke?

“I- I’m sorry,” Matthew stammered again, words tripping over themselves. His knuckles went white where he clutched his sketchbooks to his chest, as if holding them tighter could anchor him, could keep him from unraveling under the weight of every stare in the hallway. “I wasn’t looking.”

“Clearly.”

The single word landed like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward. Gunwook stepped forward, not much, just enough that the space between them felt suddenly too small.

Matthew’s breath caught when he caught the faintest trace of him, clean laundry threaded with something sharper, citrusy, like a peel freshly torn open. It was the kind of detail Matthew would normally capture in a sketch, but right now it only made his chest twist tighter.

Gunwook’s eyes flicked over him with unsettling accuracy. “You’re in my History class, right? Back row. Always doodling.”

Matthew’s pulse jumped. He knows that? The thought struck through him louder than the chatter that had slowly started to pick back up around them.

People were moving again, the warning bell cutting through the quiet like a crack of thunder, but Matthew’s world stayed locked on Gunwook’s words.

Before he could find an answer, before he could even swallow down the shock, Gunwook asked, casual as though they had been talking every day, “You heading to Mr. Jang’s class?” His tone made it clear he already knew the answer.

Matthew nodded, wary. “Yeah.”

“Cool. Me too.”

That threw him. His brow furrowed. “I’ve… never seen you there.”

Gunwook’s lips curved, slow and sharp, the kind of smirk that seemed carved just for him. “Guess you weren’t paying attention.”

And with that, he turned, slipping easily back into the flow of the hallway as though coffee stains and stares had never happened. His black jacket hung loose off one shoulder, the damp patch spreading across it like war paint, yet he wore it with the careless swing of someone untouchable.

Matthew stood frozen for a beat, sketchbooks heavy in his arms, the citrus-laundry scent still lingering in his lungs, staring at the trail of footprints Gunwook left behind.

For a moment, it felt as if the hallway no longer stood upright. The floor was solid beneath his shoes, but something inside him had shifted, tilting his balance until even the air felt uncertain.

The paper cup was still in his hand, light now with only a shallow splash of coffee sloshing at the bottom. Drops clung stubbornly to his fingers, sticky against his skin, as if reminding him of the mess he had just made. His pulse beat faster than it should have, thudding in his ears loud enough to drown out the renewed hallway chatter.

Park Gunwook had looked at him, spoken to him, as though they were on the same level. No scorn, no dismissal, no threat, just a dry joke and a steady gaze that cut right through him. That alone made Matthew’s chest feel tight. Someone like Gunwook was supposed to be unreachable, a figure you noticed only from the edges of a crowd. Not someone who noticed you back.

It was wrong in a way Matthew could not put words to. Wrong, and sharp, and laced with danger, like touching the edge of a blade and finding you did not want to pull away.

And yet, beneath all the wrongness, there was the weight of certainty, quiet but undeniable. Something had started here. Something Matthew could not stop, no matter how much he told himself he should.

Somehow, deep down, he already knew this would not be the last time.

--------

Matthew shuffled into class a few minutes later, still rattled, each step carrying the weight of something he couldn’t quite shake off. His coffee-stained cup had already long since been dumped into the nearest trash bin, yet he could still feel the phantom stickiness clinging to his fingers. The sketchbooks pressed tightly against his chest felt heavier than they should, their familiar weight now transformed into something cumbersome, as though they might betray how shaky his hands still were.

He scanned the room instinctively for a familiar anchor, a safe presence. Hao, of course.

But Hao was nowhere to be seen.

Matthew’s stomach tightened. Not seeing him made the room feel suddenly larger, colder, and somehow more dangerous. 

His usual seat by the window was mercifully untouched. He slid into it quickly, grateful for the shelter of routine, and let out a long, uneven breath. The sunlight spilling through the glass should have been comforting, but instead it felt too sharp, too exposing. He opened his sketchbook, not to draw, but to create the illusion of calm. The blank page stared back at him, unmarked, daring him to keep pretending he wasn’t falling apart inside.

What just happened?

The question circled in his head, relentless, as though replaying the collision might somehow make it make sense.

Coffee splattering across expensive fabric.

A silence that swallowed the hallway whole.

And then Gunwook. Park Gunwook. Looking right at him, speaking to him, not with anger but with a joke. Teasing him. Acknowledging him.

It should have been nothing. A random moment in a crowded corridor. But the way Gunwook’s gaze lingered, the way his words slid past Matthew’s defenses and rooted themselves there, made his chest clench tight. He had looked at Matthew like he was worth noticing, and somehow that felt worse than if he had yelled.

No, it had to be a trick. Some setup, a slow burn before the punchline. Guys like Gunwook didn’t notice guys like him. He was the quiet one, the background character, the boy who slipped through hallways with his head down and pencil smudges on his hands.

Easy to overlook. Easier to mock. 

Maybe Gunwook was just bored. Maybe Matthew had just been unlucky enough to stumble into the spotlight at the wrong time and he was the next unlucky name on the list. An easy target. The quiet kid no one would defend.

He curled his fingers around his pencil, not moving it, holding it like a weapon he didn’t know how to use. He told himself, firmly, to forget about it. To bury the memory under graphite lines and silence. To go back to being invisible, where it was safer.

But even as he tried, the echo of Gunwook’s voice lingered, stubborn and sharp, refusing to let him go.

And then, just as Matthew’s pulse had begun to even out, just as the quiet repetition of “forget about it” started to almost work, someone dragged the chair beside him back with a loud scrape and dropped into it like they owned not just the desk, but the entire room.

Matthew’s head turned slowly, unwilling, dread prickling down his spine.

Gunwook.

He was still wearing the ruined jacket, coffee stains dark against the black fabric, but now it hung unzipped and low off one shoulder, as if the mess was a fashion choice only he could pull off. A few strands of dark hair had slipped loose over his forehead, falling into his eyes as he leaned back with effortless carelessness. His long legs stretched under the desk, crossed at the ankles, claiming more space than the seat should have allowed. He looked less like a student sitting in a classroom and more like someone lounging in a place made for him.

Matthew’s mouth went dry. He stared, throat tight, words fumbling their way out. “You… you don’t sit here.”

Gunwook tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I do now.”

Matthew’s voice dropped a notch, softer, uncertain. “You usually sit in the back.”

“I usually don’t sit at all,” Gunwook countered, voice smooth, threaded with an easy grin. “Thought I’d try something new.”

The words were casual, but the way his gaze held steady, unblinking, made Matthew’s stomach twist. He couldn’t think of anything to say back. He couldn’t think, period. His brain was too busy sparking with disbelief, short-circuiting at the simple fact that Park Gunwook, of all people, had chosen to sit next to him. Park Gunwook, the boy with a reputation sharp enough to slice through rumor and truth alike, the one everyone either admired from afar or avoided altogether. And now here he was, planted at Matthew’s side as though it had been his seat all along.

And then, from the corner of the room, movement caught his eye. Hao appeared, his brow furrowed in confusion, scanning the rows.

His gaze landed on Matthew and then on Gunwook.

Hao’s eyes widened. “Uh… why is Gunwook sitting there?” he whispered, clearly baffled.

Matthew felt his cheeks heat. “I… I don’t know,” he muttered, staring down at his sketchbook as if it could swallow him whole.

Gunwook didn’t flinch, didn’t move. He leaned back in the chair, arms behind his head, gaze flicking sideways at Matthew with a teasing glint. “Guess you weren’t paying attention,” he said softly, almost to himself.

Matthew’s pulse thudded in his ears. He wanted to explain, to reassure Hao, to explain why this was… not terrifying at all. But before he could articulate anything, the warning bell rang, and the chatter in the room surged back to life. Mr. Jang entered, and lessons began, but the sense of disbelief lingered.

Because every few minutes, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the outline of Gunwook, leaning back in his chair like rules didn’t apply, arms folded behind his head in a pose too relaxed for a classroom. And worse, every so often, Gunwook’s gaze flicked sideways. Not a glance. A look. Deliberate, measured, aimed directly at Matthew.

He stole a glance at Hao who was seated elsewhere, still looking confused but didn’t move closer. Matthew just stared at the note in front of him, hands trembling slightly, the quiet weight of the moment pressing in.

The pencil in Matthew’s hand felt fragile. His grip on it tightened until his knuckles whitened.

Then, just as his pulse began to spike again, movement stirred at his side. He saw Gunwook’s arm shift, casual, like he was stretching, before a folded slip of paper slid across the narrow divide of the desk. It stopped right in front of Matthew’s hand.

A light tap of Gunwook’s finger against the desk marked its arrival. Then his hand retreated, leisurely, as though nothing unusual had happened.

Matthew stared at the note, his heart hammering too loudly in his chest, the world suddenly shrinking until all that existed was that folded square of paper and the boy beside him who had just delivered it.

Matthew hesitated.

Then opened it.

For someone who barely says a word, you sure make a lot of noise with your nerves.

His ears turned red instantly. He crumpled the note and shoved it into his pocket, not daring to look over.

Gunwook only smirked to himself, satisfied.

Chapter Text

After a long stretch of tedious lessons, Matthew finally felt a flicker of relief. The end of the day promised his favorite part: art club.

He gathered his sketchbook, pencils, and erasers, stacking them carefully in his worn canvas bag. His arms were heavy but familiar with the routine, and it grounded him. The corridors buzzed with noise: lockers slamming, snippets of conversation, the sharp ring of the bell. Students rushed past, oblivious to the small whirlwind in Matthew’s chest. He kept his gaze low, shuffling quietly, careful not to draw attention.

Pushing open the art room door, he inhaled the familiar scent of charcoal and paper. It was like stepping into a calm bubble, separate from the chaos of school. Hao looked up from his drawing, pencil poised, and his sharp gaze immediately pinned Matthew. “Hey, Matthew. Finally. Where have you been?”

Matthew’s cheeks warmed. “Just busy, with classes, obviously…” he said softly, setting his bag down.

Hao’s eyes flicked toward the hallway, his expression tight with suspicion. “Busy, huh? You are not hanging out with troublemakers again, are you?”

Matthew froze, his pulse quickening. “I, uh, no,” he stammered, adjusting the strap of his bag as if it could shield him from the question.

Hao leaned back slightly in his chair, studying him with narrowed eyes. “You know who I mean. Do not get caught up with the wrong people,” he added quietly, voice low, sharp with concern.

“I do not care how charming they are, just stay out of trouble, alright?”

Matthew swallowed hard, heart thrumming in his chest. He simply nodded, forcing a small smile. “I understand.” He didn’t want this anyways, he wanted to be hidden.

Taerae, sitting nearby, noticed the stiffness in Matthew’s posture and raised a brow. “You’re wound up like you’re about to be graded on breathing,” he remarked dryly. “Relax. Hao’s just doing his overprotective parent routine again.”

Matthew blinked, then let out a shaky laugh, the tension loosening just a little. Taerae smirked, satisfied, before turning back to his sketch.

The soft scratch of pencils against paper filled the air, mingling with the occasional back-and-forth between Hao and Taerae. For a moment, the art room felt like a world apart from the rumor-filled hallways and the sharp glances of classmates.

Matthew returned a small, grateful smile, letting himself settle into the quiet pocket of peace the room offered.

He sank into his usual corner, opening his sketchbook with deliberate care. The weight of the pencil in his hand, the grain of the paper beneath his fingers, offered a small kind of safety. Each line, each careful stroke, became a rhythm he could control, a meditation that steadied his breathing. He told himself to focus, to let the quiet of the art room sink into his skin, but the effort felt like trying to cup water with bare hands.

His thoughts slipped back to the hallway, to the brief but vivid image of Gunwook standing there.

The broad shoulders. The lazy confidence in the way he carried himself. The teasing smirk that had shifted into something heavier, something Matthew still could not name. Most of all, the memory of that steady gaze refused to fade. It lingered like a shadow at the edge of his vision, unsettling and magnetic all at once.

From across the room, Hao glanced at him, not intrusive but perceptive in the way he always was. There was a sharpness to his gaze, as though he could see through Matthew.

Matthew felt exposed under it, every twitch of his hand and shallow breath betraying more than he wanted. Yet the weight of being noticed carried its own strange comfort, as if someone else understood that he was holding something he could not put into words.

The room seemed to hold him in place. Pencils scratching faintly against paper, the low creak of chairs, the gentle smell of graphite and eraser shavings. For a few minutes, Matthew let himself sink into it, shading lines that blurred into forms, grounding himself in the tangible.

The art room had always been a sanctuary, a place where noise from the outside world dulled into a manageable hum. Here, the storm of rumors and shifting glances could not touch him. Here, there was only creation, companionship, and the fragile sense of safety he clung to.

And yet, his mind betrayed him. Every subtle creak of the classroom door made his chest seize, his pencil pausing mid-line. His heart stumbled forward each time, bracing for the possibility that it might be Gunwook stepping through, his presence filling the space and unraveling Matthew’s fragile calm. But the door stayed closed, and each moment that passed without interruption felt like a fragile victory.

But today was different.

A sudden commotion echoed down the hallway, carrying distant laughter, the rhythmic thud of sneakers against polished floors, and the unmistakable chatter of the basketball team. Matthew’s stomach twisted with nerves and anticipation as he tried to ground himself in the graphite lines forming on his sketchbook.

Through the small window in the door, he saw them: Gunwook and the basketball team, Jiwoong, Hanbin, Ricky, Gyuvin, and Yujin, making their way down the hall. Gunwook casually tossed a basketball from hand to hand, effortless and cocky, completely at ease in his element. The ease in his movements, the way his gaze flicked from friend to friend with quiet authority, made Matthew’s chest tighten. He knew that same energy could command a room or make someone feel small.

Matthew’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his pencil, trying to stay rooted, trying to make the lines on the page matter more than the storm of anxiety and admiration twisting in his stomach.

Hao’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp and observant. “You okay?”

Matthew shook his head slightly, biting his lip. “They’re loud, always loud,” he muttered quietly.

Taerae leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes narrowing in that calculating way he often did, lips forming into a hint of a smirk. “Basketball team. It is their nature,” he said with quiet amusement.

“Try not to let the noise drown out your masterpiece, or I’ll have to come over there and supervise, which you do not want.”

Matthew’s tense shoulders eased slightly, though a small part of him flushed at the teasing undertone.

Taerae’s calm, almost sardonic way of cutting through the tension was a buffer against the storm that had begun in his chest.

Before he could gather his thoughts, the door swung open, snapping his head up.

Gunwook stepped in, jacket, still stained, unzipped and draped casually over one shoulder, that familiar smirk playing across his lips. The air seemed to shift, every sound dulling around him, as if his presence alone demanded attention.

“Hey, art nerds,” he drawled, eyes flicking directly to Matthew with a teasing gleam. “Working on your masterpiece?”

Matthew froze mid-stroke, pencil hovering above the paper. His chest throbbed with a mix of dread and excitement. He could feel the weight of Gunwook’s gaze, the casual dominance, but also the strange reassurance that came with it.

Hao’s jaw tightened slightly, a protective edge in his posture, but he held his ground. “We are working, yes,” he said, tone clipped but steady.

Taerae, sitting nearby, leaned slightly back in his chair, arms crossed. His eyes lifted just enough to raise one brow, a silent gesture that spoke volumes.

Amusement, skepticism, and quiet curiosity all at once. He said nothing, letting the tension play out, observing the interaction with sharp awareness and unspoken commentary.

Gunwook’s smirk deepened, his gaze lingering on Matthew for a fraction longer, as if daring him to react. The tension coiled in Matthew’s stomach, hot and thrilling, making every line of pencil on the page suddenly feel like a test he was not prepared for.

Gunwook moved closer, crouching slightly so he could peer at Matthew’s sketchbook. The drawing was meticulous, almost painfully so, capturing a boy sitting by a window, the sunlight falling in soft, fractured patterns over his figure. There was a quiet loneliness in the lines that made the scene ache.

Matthew’s cheeks warmed instantly, heat spreading across his ears. “Don’t look,” he murmured, barely above a whisper, clutching the sketchbook a little tighter.

Gunwook’s grin widened, that lazy, confident tilt of his mouth that somehow made Matthew’s chest pound.

“Relax. I’m just curious,” he said, his eyes scanning the page with something more like genuine interest than mischief. “You’re not as invisible as you think.”

Matthew’s heart thudded painfully, caught between a reflexive urge to shove Gunwook away and an almost ridiculous desire to let him stay. There was something reckless in the way Gunwook leaned in, the way his presence filled the quiet room, and Matthew felt himself drawn into it despite every warning bell in his mind.

Before he could say anything, the door clicked open again. Hanbin’s familiar voice cut through the tension. “Gunwook, we’re heading to practice. Don’t keep the quiet kid hostage. Sorry about that guys,” he apologised.

Gunwook laughed softly, that low, amused sound that vibrated through the room. He shot Matthew one last look, one that was almost tender, almost teasing, before turning to follow his teammates out the door.

Hanbin lingered at the threshold, glancing back at the art room with something like cautious curiosity. His eyes briefly met Hao’s, who was shading a sketch with laser focus, and Hanbin’s expression softened ever so slightly. Then a shout from his teammates pulled him back, and he walked away with a polite nod, leaving the door swinging gently behind him.

Matthew exhaled shakily, closing his sketchbook and letting his trembling fingers rest on the cover. His chest was tight, his stomach a jumble of nerves and something warmer, unfamiliar, and thrilling.

Hao and Taerae exchanged worried glances, their expressions calm but sharp, the kind that measured a situation before reacting. Taerae’s eyes lingered on Matthew for a moment longer, noting the subtle tremor in his hands, the flush rising in his cheeks. He said nothing, letting the silence carry the weight of concern, his presence a steadying counterbalance.

“I don’t think he’s someone you want to get involved with,” Hao whispered, eyes flicking to the door as if Gunwook might still be watching from the hallway.

Matthew swallowed hard, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to be noticed, especially not by someone like Gunwook, the golden delinquent who everyone admired, feared, and whispered about.

And yet, despite every rational thought, he knew with a sinking certainty that things were already changing. There was no turning back now. He had been noticed, pulled into a current he couldn’t resist, and the quiet rhythm of his life had just shifted forever.

--------

The late afternoon sunlight slanted through the art room windows, spilling golden light across the scattered sketches on the tables. Shadows stretched and shifted over charcoal smudges and pencil lines, catching the small imperfections Matthew tried to smooth out. His hands trembled slightly, and the delicate lines blurred under the pressure of his own nerves.

“Maybe you should take a break,” Taerae suggested. His eyes lingered on Matthew, patient but cautious, as if he could sense the storm of thoughts swirling just beneath the surface.

Matthew gave a small nod, grateful for the excuse. His sketchbook was heavy in his bag, not just with paper and pencils but with the weight of everything that had happened today. He adjusted the strap over his shoulder and stepped toward the door, fingers gripping the fabric a little too tightly.

The hallway greeted him with a familiar roar of energy. The thump of basketballs echoed off the polished floors, mingling with laughter and shouting.

The team was on a break between drills, the players moving in a chaotic rhythm that made Matthew’s chest tighten reflexively. He pulled his sleeves down over his hands, wishing he could disappear into the background, wishing the world would blur as easily as his pencil lines.

He tried to slip past the noise, keeping his head down, listening only to the scrape of his shoes against the floor. Every step felt deliberate, cautious, calculated to avoid attention.

But fate had other plans.

“Hey!” a voice called from behind, sharp, confident, teasing.

Matthew froze, his stomach twisting as he turned slowly. There was no mistaking that lean figure against the lockers, the casual tilt of his posture, the smirk that seemed permanently etched on his face.

His pulse spiked, a quick drum in his ears. His bag felt heavier, his legs suddenly uncertain. “Running away already?” Gunwook teased, stepping forward, eyes glinting with mischief. “Thought you liked the attention.”

Matthew swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. “I really don’t want any trouble,” he managed, his voice quieter than he intended, barely audible over the distant thump of bouncing balls.

Gunwook leaned closer, just enough to let the warmth of his presence brush against Matthew’s shoulder. There was something electric in the casual proximity, the confident, almost careless way he occupied the space. “Trouble tends to find me,” he said, voice low and teasing, “You can’t hide.”

Matthew felt the air shift around him, like the hallway had contracted, leaving only the two of them in a bubble of tension and reckless possibility. His heart pounded against his ribs, both terrified and inexplicably drawn to the danger of being noticed by him. Every rational thought screamed retreat, but some stubborn, thrilling part of him stayed rooted, caught in the gravitational pull of Gunwook’s gaze and the sharp tilt of that smirk.

Before Matthew could even gather his scattered thoughts, a chorus of voices echoed down the hallway. Jiwoong, Hanbin, Ricky, Gyuvin, and Yujin appeared around the corner, basketballs tucked under their arms, calling out for Gunwook to hurry. Their laughter and shouted reminders cut through the tension like sunlight through fog, pulling the world back into motion.

Gunwook’s gaze lingered on Matthew for a heartbeat longer than necessary, sharp, unreadable, and almost daring. The smirk that usually curved his mouth had faded, replaced by something heavier, quieter, intimate in a way Matthew was not prepared for.

“See you around, quiet kid,” he said at last, voice smooth and low, carrying the same teasing edge as always.

Then his eyes flicked downward, landing on the small name tag pinned neatly to Matthew’s uniform. For a moment, he let the silence stretch, as though rolling the name over in his mind, deciding what to do with it. When his gaze lifted again, the smirk was back, sharper now, tinged with amusement.

“See you around, Matthew.”

The way he said it, like a joke, like a challenge, like he knew exactly what effect it would have, left Matthew rooted to the spot, his pulse hammering in his ears. Before he could react, Gunwook had already turned away, falling into step with his teammates, shoulders loose and posture effortlessly confident, disappearing around the corner as if he had never been there.

Matthew exhaled slowly, finally releasing the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His hands trembled as they loosened around the strap of his bag, the pounding in his chest settling into a curious mix of relief and adrenaline. The quiet life he had clung to, the safe, predictable bubble he had built around himself, suddenly felt fragile, delicate, and impossibly exposed.

For so long, he had moved through the halls unnoticed, a shadow among brighter voices and louder steps. Yet now, with a single look, with his name spoken aloud by someone like Gunwook, that invisibility had cracked. And though the thought terrified him, it also left behind a thrill he could not ignore.

Matthew swallowed hard, heart still racing, wondering if the world had just shifted in ways he could not yet understand. He shifted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and, without thinking, drifted toward the quieter corners of the school. His footsteps echoed softly against the empty stairwell, a private rhythm that separated him from the relentless tide of students. Each step carried a small, personal relief, a temporary escape from the crush of voices, laughter, and locker slams that made his chest tighten. He wasn’t looking for anyone, not really. He just needed space. A quiet refuge above the chaos.

When he reached the rooftop, he pushed open the heavy door and stepped out into the open air. The sun was warm on his face, a gentle weight against the tension in his shoulders. The school below stretched out like a living map, and for a moment, Matthew felt untethered from the spinning routines inside. A few stray leaves caught in the breeze twirled lazily across the asphalt, carrying a quiet kind of freedom he rarely allowed himself.

He sank down against the low brick wall, knees drawn close, and let out a slow, measured breath. The hum of distant city traffic softened into a muted undertone, and the wind teased at his hair and sleeves. For a while, he just let the quiet wash over him, trying to untangle the knot of feelings twisting in his chest.

Gunwook’s smirk hovered in his mind, the teasing words echoing faintly. The way the basketball team had loitered near the art room earlier, sharp and confident like a storm about to break. Matthew wasn’t sure what he wanted from any of it. The attention made him tense, raw with nerves and self-consciousness. He hated being noticed, feared it. Yet beneath the fear was a flicker of something else. A curious warmth, an ache of loneliness that made the briefest connection feel like a fragile thread worth clutching.

His fingers traced absent patterns on the rough surface of the brick wall. The lines etched there seemed to mirror the chaos in his mind, jagged yet oddly grounding. He closed his eyes, inhaling the mixture of sun, dust, and the faint, familiar scent of the school.

He realized this wasn’t the life he had imagined for himself. Quiet, predictable, tucked away. Yet somehow, in the edges of tension and unfamiliar warmth, he felt the fragile thrill of possibility. This was only the beginning, he thought. And even if he didn’t fully understand it yet, he knew he wanted to see where it might lead.

--------

The basketball court had quieted considerably, the earlier squeak of sneakers and shouts replaced by the gentle rustling of leaves in the afternoon breeze.

Hanbin dribbled the ball lazily, letting it bounce softly against the worn surface of the court, but his mind was elsewhere, circling the same thoughts he had been avoiding for weeks.

From the corner of his eye, movement drew his attention. Hao was stepping out of the art club room, his sketchbook tucked neatly against his chest, his stride unhurried, deliberate. There was a steadiness to him, a kind of calm that seemed out of place in their noisy school. Hanbin had noticed it before, ever since they had a few classes together. How Hao never rushed, never raised his voice, and carried himself with a quiet certainty that made people lean in without realizing it.

It wasn’t the first time Hanbin caught himself watching. In fact, he had been doing it more often than he liked to admit, his chest tightening whenever Hao was near. It wasn’t like the rush he got from basketball, all sweat and adrenaline. This was different, softer, but it lingered longer, sneaking into his thoughts even after practice was over.

As Hao adjusted the strap of his bag, sunlight catching on the curve of his cheek, Hanbin realized with a faint pang that his crush was no passing distraction.

It had been building for some time now, slow and steady, until it had settled in him like something permanent.

And standing there with the ball in his hands, Hanbin could not shake the thought that he wanted, just once, for Hao’s quiet focus to turn toward him.

Swallowing the sudden tightness in his chest, Hanbin jogged a few steps toward the edge of the court and called out, his voice softer than usual. “Hey, Zhang Hao.”

Hao paused, turning his head in surprise. “Oh, hey. Hanbin.”

“Got a minute?” Hanbin asked.

The hesitation before the words slipped out made him feel strangely exposed, but he couldn’t take them back now.

Hao nodded, closing the distance between them with the same quiet ease he seemed to carry everywhere. “Sure.”

They settled on a nearby bench, the space between them shrinking almost imperceptibly.

Hanbin felt the sunlight warming his shoulders, the leaves rustling overhead like a soft soundtrack to a moment that felt both ordinary and quietly important.

“So,” Hanbin began, shifting slightly, uncertainty flickering in his expression, “the annual inter-school tournament is this Friday. After the game, there’s the school festival in the evening. I was wondering if you’d like to come watch the match… and maybe stay for the festival afterward?”

Hao blinked, clearly caught off guard. A faint warmth spread across his features, and when he smiled, it was small but genuine, the kind of smile that made Hanbin’s chest tighten in a way he wasn’t used to.

“I’d like that,” Hao said quietly, his voice sincere.

Hanbin’s own smile came easier than he expected, reaching all the way to his eyes. A warmth spread through his chest, steady and unfamiliar, and he knew it had nothing to do with basketball or winning. It had everything to do with this. This quiet connection, this simple moment, and it felt like the start of something quietly extraordinary.

Chapter Text

The bell above the bookstore door jingled softly as Matthew pushed it open, stepping into the cool, quiet sanctuary of shelves and paper. The streets outside still carried the noise of students and traffic, but the shop felt a world apart, tucked two bus stops away from school. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the windows, casting long stripes of gold across the floor and between the rows of books. The faint, comforting scent of aged pages filled the air, settling around him like a familiar coat.

This part-time job had become his refuge, a place where he could slip away from the chaos of school, hide behind stacks of novels, and let the world slow down. Matthew pulled his sleeves down over his hands, feeling the soft fabric against his wrists, and began methodically organizing the newest arrivals. Each movement was deliberate and measured, almost meditative, grounding him in the present as he ran his fingers over the smooth spines and set each book into place with care. The quiet scrape of paper against cardboard and the soft rustle of pages created a rhythm that made it easier to breathe, a calm counterpoint to the ever-present hum of school life that still lingered in his mind.

Matthew froze at the corner of the shop’s window, catching sight of a figure lingering outside. The street was nearly empty, but there was no mistaking the posture, the familiar height, the presence that seemed to draw the world in around him.

Gunwook.

For once, the usual smirk was gone. He leaned casually against the brick wall, arms crossed, and watched with an intensity that made Matthew’s chest tighten. Every small movement he made, every breath, seemed cataloged and measured. The heat rising in Matthew’s face had nothing to do with the afternoon sun.

Matthew gripped a book a little too tightly, knuckles whitening. He refused to look up, forcing his eyes on the neat rows of spines and the faint scent of ink and paper. Each careful motion of stacking and aligning became a grounding rhythm, but his heart still throbbed painfully in his ears.

How did he even know I was here? Two bus stops from school, tucked away on this quiet street, and yet he found me. Did he follow me? Was it a coincidence? The questions multiplied, clawing at him. He had never felt so exposed, so visible, yet he could not deny the flicker of curiosity, a spark of thrill he both wanted and feared.

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Every small sound inside the shop, the scratch of a pencil, the low hum of the lights, the faint creak of the floorboards, was amplified under the weight of that unblinking gaze. Time slowed, each second dragging, and Matthew felt caught between wanting to hide and wanting to be seen.

Then a muffled ring broke through the quiet, faintly distorted by the window. Gunwook’s phone buzzed inside his jacket pocket, the sound weak but unmistakable. His eyes flicked down at it briefly, and with one last lingering glance towards Matthew, he pushed off the wall and slipped down the street, disappearing into the afternoon like a shadow retreating from the sun.

Matthew exhaled slowly, releasing a breath he had not realized he had been holding. His hands trembled as he returned to shelving the books. The familiar rhythm should have calmed him, but the shop felt impossibly still, almost oppressive in its emptiness. Gunwook’s stare clung to him, heavy and persistent, stretching across the sunlit room like a shadow. Why had he been watching? What did he want? And how, of all places, had he found this quiet corner where he thought he could disappear?

Matthew pushed the questions aside, forcing himself to focus on the physical act of work. Each motion, straightening books, aligning covers, checking labels, a way to tether himself to the ordinary. Yet the calm he sought was fragile, thin and easily disturbed by the memory of those dark eyes.

A few minutes later, the store door jingled again, signaling a customer. Matthew’s shoulders eased slightly, grateful for the distraction, but when he looked up, the street was empty except for a few stray leaves drifting in on the breeze. The sensation of being watched had not faded. It had only grown heavier.

He hugged the books he had been sorting to his chest, whispering under his breath, “Just ignore it. It will pass.” But deep inside, a small, reluctant part of him knew it would not.

--------

The street was unusually empty, a rare pocket of calm before basketball practice and the looming inter-school tournament on Friday. 

On the surface, Gunwook walked with ease, shoulders squared, hands buried in his jacket pockets. But beneath the practiced rhythm, every movement carried a tension he couldn’t shake.

This tournament wasn’t just a game. It could decide whether he advanced to regionals, maybe even nationals. Every pivot, every shot, every decision mattered, and the pressure pressed on him constantly, a weight no one else could see. 

People saw confidence, the untouchable “golden delinquent” with a smirk that kept them at arm’s length. 

They didn’t see the hours he spent replaying mistakes, the fear that one slip could undo everything, or the way his stomach twisted when he imagined letting his team down.

The quiet of the empty street was a relief, a rare chance to acknowledge nerves and doubt without pretending. During past walks to the usual café, he’d noticed a small bookstore tucked off the main street. No chatter, no expectation, just walls of books and calm that didn’t demand anything from him. 

Today, that pause was exactly what he needed.

Through the glass, he caught movement among the shelves. Matthew. Small, focused, absorbed in organizing, hands precise and careful. Gunwook’s gaze lingered, this wasn’t just a visitor. The boy worked here, quietly carving out his own corner of calm amid the busy world outside.

There was an intensity in his stillness, a careful containment that seemed to protect something fragile. Gunwook leaned against the brick wall, arms crossed, watching quietly. 

No smirk, no teasing glint, just silent attention that surprised him. For a moment, the outside world fell away, leaving only this careful, deliberate figure. Even with practice, the tournament, and Coach Kim’s scrutiny pressing down, a strange pull rooted Gunwook to the spot, leaving him momentarily untethered.

A sudden ring cut through the quiet, pulling Gunwook from the calm of the street. He hesitated, letting the sight of Matthew linger a moment longer before checking his phone.

A message from his coach,

coach kim: 

“Wook, move it. Practice starts now. The tournament won’t wait, and neither will the team.”

The words pressed against him like a sharp reminder, yanking him out of the pocket of calm. Every practice, every drill, every mistake would be noticed. Coach Kim’s standards were high, uncompromising, and failure was never an option. Gunwook felt the weight of it settle across his shoulders, but he couldn’t stop glancing back.

Matthew, small and precise among the shelves, absorbed in his own careful world. The way his hands moved, deliberate and contained, the sunlight catching at the edges of his hair, the quiet intensity that seemed to shield him from everything outside. Gunwook’s chest tightened. There was something raw and unfamiliar in the pull he felt, a mixture of admiration and a quiet longing he didn’t want to name.

He shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and leaned against the wall for one last lingering moment, committing every detail to memory. Then he pushed off, shoulders squared, letting the cool afternoon air brush across him as he jogged toward the gym. Even as he moved, part of his mind stayed with Matthew, with that quiet figure in the bookstore, a pull he could neither explain nor ignore.

--------

The next afternoon, Gunwook had practice again. The school’s basketball court buzzed with the usual energy of practice, but he moved through it with a tightness that had nothing to do with warm-ups. His sneakers scuffed sharply against the polished gym floor, each strike echoing like a warning. 

His jaw was tight, muscles straining under the weight of weeks of frustration he had refused to show. He was not yelling at a stranger but at one of his closest teammates and friend, someone who had crossed a line he rarely allowed anyone to approach. 

Beneath the usual bravado, raw tension pressed against him, a mixture of anger, anxiety, and fear that he rarely let surface.

“You think I don’t care what happens out there?” Gunwook’s eyes blazed, scanning the team with sharp intensity. His fists curled at his sides until his knuckles whitened. 

“I’m not reckless. I’m not stupid. So don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m doing!”

The gym fell into a heavy silence. The usual bounce of balls, shouted instructions, and chatter of teammates seemed to vanish, replaced by the weight of his words. 

The inter-school tournament on Friday grew large in his mind, every decision on the court carrying consequences far beyond practice. 

This was not just about winning; it was about proving himself, qualifying for regional, maybe even national-level events. 

The pressure from Coach Kim’s expectations tightened like a vice around his chest.

Ricky, quick to react, let out a scoff, his voice hollow in the sudden stillness. “Oh, come on, Wook. You’re taking this way too seriously. It’s just practice.”

Gunwook’s hands shot up slightly, trembling not from weakness but from the intensity pressing through him. The pressure, frustration, and fear pooled inside him, building into a storm that could not be contained. 

His chest heaved. “Just practice?!” he shouted, voice cracking. “Every move matters. Every mistake affects everyone! I can’t keep carrying all of it!”. His chest ached, a mix of anger and helplessness, and for a fleeting moment, his mind drifted to Matthew. 

That quiet boy in the bookstore earlier, absorbed in the rhythm of organizing books, seemed so contained and careful, untouched by expectation or pressure. The memory was a sharp contrast to the storm raging inside him now, and it made the gym feel smaller, heavier.

The other teammates froze, especially the juniors, exchanging glances loaded with worry. Gyuvin’s brows knitted tightly, a hand hovering over the basketball he had been holding. Jiwoong swallowed hard, sensing the raw edge in Gunwook’s voice that went beyond normal frustration. Even Ricky’s usual bravado faltered under the intensity of the moment, and he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

Yujin, younger and still learning to navigate the heat of the team, took a small step back, eyes wide and uncertain. He had never seen Gunwook like this before. His chest tightened, a nervous flutter in his stomach, and he hesitated, unsure if he should intervene or stay silent. The room felt heavier, every heartbeat amplified as they all absorbed the weight of Gunwook’s words.

The court hung heavy with silence. The team glanced at each other, exchanging worried looks, while Yujin’s eyes darted nervously between Gunwook and the others. The storm of frustration in Gunwook’s chest pressed against the walls of the gym, threatening to spill over further.

Finally, Hanbin stepped forward, his movements deliberate, grounding the moment. His voice was calm but carried an authority that cut through the tension.  “Wook, enough. You’re letting it get to you too much. Let’s focus on the drills. The team needs you, not a fight.” His hands lifted slightly, signaling the others to relax, but his eyes stayed sharp, aware of the fragile balance Gunwook was teetering on.

Coach Kim, watching from the sidelines, furrowed his brow. “Park Gunwook, control yourself. The team cannot perform if you lose focus over every little mistake. Channel that energy into the game.” His voice was measured but edged with authority, a constant reminder of the expectations weighing on Gunwook.

Gunwook shook his head violently, turning away from the group. “No. I… I need a break.” His voice was rough, strained, almost a whisper as much as a shout. Without another word, he stormed off toward the exit, shoulders tense, heart pounding.

Coach Kim called after him, sharp and concerned, “Park Gunwook, where are you going? Control yourself!” But Gunwook didn’t slow. The walls of the gym, the immense pressure, the judgment of his teammates, all of it pressed too close. He needed air, space, a moment to breathe. He needed to get out of there.

The gym fell into a tense, heavy silence after he left. Ricky’s usual teasing energy faltered, his hand brushing over his face as concern crept in. Gyuvin’s eyes followed Gunwook with a tight frown, worry evident in the way he shifted on his feet. 

Jiwoong’s hands curled into fists, not in anger but in unease, a protective instinct flaring for someone he considered like a brother. Yujin, younger and still learning the dynamics, clutched his jersey nervously, clearly shaken by seeing how much Gunwook carried inside. 

Hanbin stood slightly apart, shoulders tense, mind racing. As captain, he felt the responsibility to keep the team steady, to redirect their focus, but as a friend and teammate, he felt the weight of seeing someone he cared so much about unravel. 

His hands clenched subtly, a mix of authority and concern, knowing he needed to guide the team through this moment while also silently hoping Gunwook would find the space to breathe and return whole.

Matthew, making his way toward the restroom, slowed as the sharp echo of Gunwook’s voice reached him. Curiosity rooted him in place, and he found himself lingering at the doorway, peering inside the gym. His eyes followed Gunwook as he stormed toward the exit, every movement taut with frustration and something raw that Matthew had never imagined seeing.

The confident, teasing figure he knew from the halls, the one who could make the world bend slightly around him with a smirk or a glance, was gone. In his place stood a boy under immense pressure, exposed and tense, carrying a weight that was both visible and almost painful to witness. 

The controlled, easygoing energy that drew people in was replaced by sharp lines of anger and exhaustion, movements that were jagged instead of fluid.

Matthew’s chest tightened, a mix of worry and fascination coiling inside him. He swallowed hard, heart thudding, unsure why he was so drawn to this side of Gunwook, this side no one else except the ones close to him seemed to glimpse. 

There was something honest and human in it, something that made the teasing, untouchable aura he usually wore feel fragile and strangely inviting.

His eyes caught the slight trembling of Gunwook’s hands as he adjusted the strap of his gym bag and the way his shoulders slumped just a fraction as if the weight pressing down on him was physical. He avoided looking at anyone else, his gaze sharp but distant, as if he was holding himself together by sheer will.

Matthew stayed silent, barely daring to breathe, drinking in the scene. Each sharp step Gunwook took, each strained exhale, left an imprint in Matthew’s mind. A small, reluctant part of him wanted to reach out, to do something, anything to ease that tension. 

But another part, wary and cautious, simply watched, heart fluttering, realizing he was seeing a side of Gunwook that very few people ever got to see and somehow, that made the boy feel both closer and more distant at the same time.

His palms were clammy as he shifted his weight, glancing toward the exit where Gunwook had disappeared. Every rational thought told him to retreat, to slip away quietly, and yet a quiet voice inside whispered that he could not just walk away. 

He could not leave him here, alone with the storm he had just unleashed.

Matthew swallowed, forcing himself to take a slow breath. He wasn’t sure what he would say, or if he even had the right, but the thought of leaving Gunwook in that state felt impossible. 

Step by step, he moved toward the direction Gunwook had gone, each footfall careful and measured, trying not to draw attention. His stomach twisted with nerves, his chest tight, but beneath it all there was a resolve; quiet, hesitant, but real. He would find him. He had to.

As he rounded the corner, Matthew caught sight of Gunwook moving up the stairwell, shoulders tight, head lowered, as if he wanted the world to leave him alone. 

Matthew hesitated, a flicker of fear tightening his stomach. He did not know this boy, not really, and yet something inside him tugged insistently. He could not just walk away.

He fidgeted with his hands, taking a deep breath and forcing his legs to keep moving. Step by step, he followed quietly, careful not to make a sound, his heart hammering in his chest. The tension in the stairwell mirrored the storm he had glimpsed in Gunwook’s eyes, and with every flight of steps, Matthew’s resolve grew.

He did not know what he would say when he reached the top. He only knew he had to see where Gunwook went, had to check that he was alright, even if the words in his mind felt small and inadequate against the weight of what he had just witnessed.

Matthew pushed open the familiar heavy rooftop door, the warm afternoon sun washing over him and the sharp tang of wind carrying the faint scent of asphalt from below. His heart thudded painfully in his chest. Gunwook was already there, perched on the edge of the roof, legs dangling, staring at nothing in particular. The tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his jaw, the raw frustration Matthew had glimpsed in the gym, he had not imagined it.

Matthew swallowed hard, shifting from foot to foot. “Are you… okay?” His voice was small, cautious, barely carrying over the breeze. He stepped closer, unsure, wanting to reach out without overstepping.

Gunwook’s head snapped up, eyes catching Matthew’s. For a heartbeat, there was an unreadable flicker in his gaze, and then it vanished. His lips curved into a teasing smirk, the familiar confidence returning instantly. “You just wandering rooftops now?” he said lightly, voice casual, pretending the earlier storm never happened.

Matthew’s chest tightened. He hesitated, words catching in his throat. “I saw… in the court. You looked upset. I thought maybe…”

Gunwook leaned back on his hands, tilting his head, smirk widening. “Upset? Me? No, you must be imagining things. It was fine. Practice, drama, you know how it is. Don’t get your head tangled up in mine.”

Matthew’s stomach sank. He had hoped that just being there, noticing, might help in some small way. But Gunwook’s teasing tone built a wall around him, fast and unyielding.

“I… I just wanted to make sure you were alright,” Matthew said quietly, the words barely above the wind.

Gunwook chuckled softly, a sound both light and deflecting. “I said I’m fine. You worry too much. Go sketch something instead, keep your hands busy. Maybe your head too.” His eyes sparkled with teasing, hiding the vulnerability Matthew had seen moments ago.

Matthew hugged his sketchbook tighter, chest tight, caught between wanting to stay and respecting the distance Gunwook had put up. “Okay,” he murmured, stepping back. His feet felt rooted for a moment, torn between leaving and simply standing there, hoping that somehow his presence could matter without words.

Gunwook’s smirk never faltered, but Matthew noticed the faint tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tapped lightly against the concrete. The teasing tone, the confident mask, it all seemed a little too precise, a little too practiced. It made Matthew hesitate, a soft pull in his chest that urged him to say more, to reach closer. But he didn’t.

Finally, with a small, almost imperceptible nod to himself, Matthew turned. He whispered another quiet, “Sorry, I’ll… leave you be,” and stepped back toward the door. Each footstep felt heavy, like walking away from something fragile he wasn’t allowed to touch.

Once he was gone, the rooftop felt empty, but the weight of his presence lingered. Gunwook exhaled sharply, letting the breath shiver out. His shoulders sagged slightly, and for a moment, the teasing mask slipped, leaving only the raw tension he had been holding in all day.

Once he was gone, the rooftop felt empty, but the weight of his presence lingered. Gunwook exhaled sharply, the breath shivering out of him. His shoulders sagged slightly, and for a moment, the teasing mask slipped, leaving only the raw tension he had been holding in all day.

His hand dug into his pocket, pulling out a worn coin he always carried. He rolled it between his fingers, the cool metal catching the light. The steady movement grounded him, something small and familiar to hold onto when everything else felt like it was spiraling.

His outburst on the court earlier replayed in his mind with sharp clarity. His voice had cracked, the storm of frustration and helplessness spilling over in front of his teammates. Hanbin’s calm face, the worried glances of Ricky, Gyuvin, Jiwoong, and even young Yujin filled his thoughts. A tight knot of guilt pressed into his stomach. He had pushed them into a moment of tension they did not deserve.

Matthew’s presence lingered at the edges of his mind. The boy’s careful, deliberate movements in the bookstore had stayed with him, and the memory of him standing on the rooftop, hesitant but concerned, tugged at something he did not fully understand. 

It was both comforting and frustrating, a reminder that not everyone was weighed down by expectations, not everyone had to perform constantly.

Gunwook turned the coin over in his palm and clenched his fist around it, forcing another breath out of his chest. His shoulders loosened slightly, though the knot in his stomach held firm. 

The memory of Matthew’s wide, careful eyes pressed into him, and for a brief moment, he felt a pang of guilt that he had scared someone he did not even know.

He pressed a hand to his forehead and muttered to himself that he would have to apologize to his teammates later. He loved them, valued their trust and camaraderie more than anything. 

They had always had his back and he had let them see him unravel. The thought of leaving that tension unresolved sat heavier than the coin in his hand.

Even so, he could not stop the quiet pull toward Matthew. It was strange and unfamiliar, a curiosity that lingered in the corners of his mind alongside the ache of guilt. 

He would deal with the team first, but somewhere in the back of his head, he knew the memory of that quiet, careful boy would not fade anytime soon.

Chapter Text

The morning light spilled through the dorm window, pale streaks brushing across the cluttered desk and catching on the soft folds of Matthew’s blanket. He stirred reluctantly, dragging himself upright with a groan. The world looked unchanged, the same unmade bed, the faint hum of pipes in the walls, the muffled footsteps in the hallway, but the weight in his chest made everything feel heavier, off-balance.

Yesterday lingered like a bruise he couldn’t see. The fight at the gym, the sharp edges of Gunwook’s anger and insecurities, and the way every attempt Matthew had made to reach across the gap was met with silence or a wall he couldn’t climb. He had told himself to just let it go, that it wasn’t his problem. It was not like they knew one another on a deep level. And yet the restlessness clung stubbornly, turning even the quiet of the morning into something unsettled.

For a moment he sat there, blanket sliding down his shoulders, staring at the light spilling over his desk. Part of him wanted to sketch, to lose himself in the safety of lines and shadows. But his hand stayed still. Because all he could picture was Gunwook’s face from yesterday. Jaw set, eyes stormy, and the space that had stretched wider between them when Matthew had tried, and failed, to close it. He did not know why he even bothered trying, but something in his chest, a restless, insistent pull, made him do it anyway.

In the small dorm room he shared with Hao and Taerae, part of the international school’s on-campus housing, the two were already awake, their presence a quiet hum in the background. The faint scent of Hao’s tea lingered in the air, blending with the shuffle of Taerae flipping through notes.

Hao was the first to notice. His gaze lifted, soft but intent, catching on the fatigue etched into Matthew’s face. “Matthew, you look like you didn’t sleep,” he said gently, voice low but threaded with soft insistence, impossible to brush off. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Matthew pressed his lips together, forcing a faint, tired smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The words lodged in his throat, heavy and unshaped. He didn’t want to add to anyone’s burden, didn’t want to drag Gunwook’s storm into their calm morning, and yet the silence pressed back at him just as hard.

Taerae leaned against his desk, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in his usual teasingly analytical way. “You’ve been dragging yourself around all morning. Spill it, or I’m going to assume you’re hiding some big secret from us,” he said, his tone sharp but colored with a grin, the kind that dared Matthew to argue.

A small, shaky laugh slipped from Matthew’s throat, sounding almost foreign in the stillness of the room. “I’m fine,” he said softly, though the words trembled at the edges, even to his own ears.

Hao’s gaze didn’t waver. He held Matthew there, calm but steady, the kind of presence that left no room for escape. “If you were really fine, you wouldn’t look like this,” Hao said, eyeing him up and down. “You know I’m not going to let you skate past it.”

Taerae gave a short, exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. “Okay, but if you’re going to brood silently, at least don’t take up all the oxygen in the room. Breathe, figure it out, or at least try not to scare us before breakfast,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up in amusement.

Matthew blinked, a small wave of comfort rising in his chest. Even if Taerae’s words made him flinch, he couldn’t deny how steadying their presence was. He realized, not for the first time, how glad he was to have them, constants he could lean on, friends whose attention and care made the quiet corners of his world feel less heavy.

After a slow breakfast, he picked up his sketchbook, the familiar weight grounding him in something he could control. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he followed Hao and Taerae out of the dorm. Each step felt careful, yet steadied by the quiet reassurance of their footsteps beside his.

--------

The classroom filled up with quiet chatter as students settled into their seats. Matthew sat near the back, head bowed over his notebook, trying to make himself as small and invisible as possible. The teacher’s voice droned on, but his thoughts refused to settle, looping over yesterday’s encounter and Gunwook’s lingering gaze.

When the bell finally rang, relief washed over him. He packed his things slowly, each movement deliberate, as if dragging time along with him. The bustling cafeteria awaited, trays clattering and voices rising in overlapping waves, a chaotic tide he usually avoided. Today, it barely registered as he trailed behind Hao and Taerae, grateful for the familiar presence of his two friends.

They found their usual table tucked into a quieter corner near the windows, a sliver of calm in the otherwise chaotic cafeteria. Hao nudged his tray closer to Matthew, his hand brushing lightly against the edge as he offered a sandwich and a bottle of juice. “You barely touched breakfast. Don’t faint on me, okay?” His voice was soft but carried a quiet insistence, the kind that came from noticing things others overlooked. There was no judgment in his tone, only the steady assurance of someone who genuinely cared and expected his friend to take care of himself.

Taerae, perched on the edge of the seat across from him, leaned back slightly with a knowing smirk. “You’ll start fading if you keep skipping meals.” His words were sharp with his usual bluntness, but there was concern hidden in the tone, a reminder that he was paying attention, even if he masked it with sarcasm.

Matthew picked at the sandwich, the soft bread and the faint tang of juice grounding him just enough to settle his jittering thoughts. He felt strangely lucky to have these two, even if he barely said anything in return. For a brief moment, he let himself lean on that feeling, even as his gaze flicked toward the center of the cafeteria, where the basketball team held court like kings of a small kingdom.

Gunwook sat among his teammates, legs sprawled casually, hoodie half-zipped over his uniform shirt. Jiwoong’s voice carried across the table as he animatedly recounted a story, his hands moving so wide they nearly knocked into Yujin’s tray. Yujin laughed so hard he almost choked on his rice, clutching his stomach as Gyuvin thumped him on the back between his own bursts of laughter. Ricky and Gyuvin were tossing bits of bread at each other in a childish mock battle, while Hanbin, ever the captain, tried to rein them in. His tone was sharp, but his smile betrayed the fondness beneath it.

The atmosphere was chaotic but comfortable, the kind of messiness that only came from countless hours of practice, wins and losses, and the quiet knowledge that they would carry each other through both.

At a quieter table by the windows, Matthew sat with Hao and Taerae. His tray was barely touched, his focus wandering across the room more often than not. His gaze found Gunwook without meaning to, watching the ease with which he slipped back into his place among his teammates. 

The storm from yesterday, the trembling hands, the cracked voice, was nowhere to be seen. In its place was the untouchable athlete again, joking, confident, and entirely at home. Somewhere between practice and now, the apology must have come. Gunwook had made things right, and the team had welcomed him back without hesitation. It was what they always did.

Hanbin’s voice cut through the noise at the basketball table as he tried, again, to restore order, but when Matthew glanced up, he caught something else. Hanbin’s eyes had flicked toward their corner, toward Hao in particular. The captain’s expression softened for a fleeting moment, warmth breaking through the firm exterior before it disappeared again.

Matthew blinked, uncertain if he had imagined it. Hao didn’t seem to notice right away, still stirring his drink lazily with his straw. But then, almost by chance, he looked up. His gaze met Hanbin’s, brief but steady, and something unspoken passed between them.

Matthew’s chest tightened slightly. Sitting there, watching the easy flow of things, the basketball team’s bond, the quiet flicker between Hao and Hanbin, Gunwook’s restored facade, he felt both reassured and unsettled. Reassured, because it proved that cracks could heal. Unsettled, because he knew how carefully some of those cracks were hidden.

“Are you okay? You’ve been quiet today.” Hao’s voice pulled him back. His lips quirked into the smallest smile, firm yet gentle in the way he always was when checking in on him.

Matthew gave the faintest shrug. “I’m always quiet.”

Taerae glanced up, stabbing a piece of meat with his fork. “Yeah, but today you’re basically in silent mode. That’s a new level even for you.”

Before Matthew could answer, his eyes flicked back across the cafeteria. Gunwook was looking at him, gaze steady and unreadable. For a heartbeat it felt like a challenge, or maybe curiosity, before Gunwook turned back to his friends, cracking a joke that set Ricky and Gyuvin laughing again.

Matthew dropped his gaze quickly to his tray, his appetite gone. His fingers itched for his sketchbook.

Just as Matthew lowered his gaze, pretending to focus on his juice box, a ripple moved through the cafeteria. The laughter and chatter at the basketball team’s table dulled, then quieted, like someone had pressed pause on the chaos. Whispers amongst the other students could be heard.

When Matthew glanced up, he saw her, a girl standing with her shoulders squared, confidence just barely masking the nerves in her grip on a folded note. Pretty, well put-together, the kind of girl who drew eyes without even trying. Kang Soojin.

“Gunwook sunbaenim…” she began, clearing her throat when her voice wavered. “Can I talk to you?”

Jiwoong leaned toward Yujin, whispering, “Isn’t that Soojin? The popular one from your year?”

Yujin blinked, then stifled a laugh. “Yeah. Figures.”

The shift at the table was immediate. Gyuvin leaned back with a wide grin, elbowing Ricky, who muttered something under his breath with a smirk. Even Hanbin stilled, his chopsticks hovering midair as he glanced between the girl and Gunwook.

Gunwook himself looked up slowly, a bite of food suspended halfway to his mouth. His expression was unreadable, but the sudden stillness in his posture carried its own weight. “Here?”

Soojin faltered under the stares, her polished composure fraying just a little. She shifted her weight, then tightened her grip on the note as if it could anchor her. “I just… I really like you. I’ve liked you for a while now.” Her voice steadied, though her cheeks flushed pink. “Would you go out with me?”

The words rang out clearer than they should have, carrying into the nearby tables. A few students gasped softly, others exchanged wide-eyed looks, the faintest “ooh” rippling through the air like a current.

For a moment, the cafeteria seemed suspended. Trays clattered in the distance, chairs scraped, but at the center of it all was the girl’s question, hanging heavy in the quiet.

Matthew’s shoulders tensed instinctively. His sandwich halfway to his mouth as he peeked over his shoulder, pulse quickening despite himself.

Gunwook didn’t flinch. He leaned back in his seat, arms folding loosely across his chest, his expression as steady as stone. For a moment, it seemed like he hadn’t even heard her, but then his eyes lifted, locking onto hers with unwavering clarity.

“No.”

The single word cut clean through the air, sharp and final.

She blinked, her confidence faltering. “W-What?”

“I’m not interested.” His tone was flat, clipped, devoid of hesitation, of apology, of anything that might soften the blow.

The cafeteria reacted before she could. Gasps broke the silence, followed by the ripple of muffled laughter from nearby tables. The sound wasn’t cruel, but it stung all the same, a chorus that marked the rejection as public and undeniable.

Soojin’s face burned crimson. Her knuckles whitened around the crumpled note in her hand as she gave a quick, jerky nod. “Okay,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the hum of the room. She turned on her heel, retreating fast, shoulders stiff, eyes glistening as though the sheer force of composure was the only thing holding her together.

Gunwook didn’t watch her go. He didn’t even spare her a glance. His chopsticks clicked against his tray as he picked them up again, resuming his meal with the same unbothered calm he’d shown before she arrived.

“Damn,” Gyuvin muttered, the grin wiped from his face. Ricky gave a low whistle, leaning back in his seat as if to mark the gravity of it.

Hanbin exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “Cold.”

Gunwook chewed once, swallowed, then finally spoke, voice even. “Better than lying.”

Matthew’s gaze dropped back to his tray, but the food blurred before his eyes. Something twisted low in his chest, a knot he couldn’t name. Gunwook rejecting a girl like that shouldn’t have meant anything to him. It wasn’t his business. It wasn’t about him. And yet, unease pressed against his ribs all the same, sharp and disorienting.

Across the table, Hao and Taerae exchanged a quick look, their silence heavy with secondhand discomfort.

Taerae broke it first, his spoon scraping against his bowl. “He doesn’t even try to let them down gently,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward Gunwook’s table before narrowing back at his soup.

Hao’s gaze lingered a moment longer on Gunwook, thoughtful, almost weary. “He never does.”

The words lingered, but Matthew barely registered them. His stomach tightened further, and when Taerae finally glanced at him, the sharpness in his eyes softened.

“Hey,” Taerae murmured, quieter now. “You okay?”

Matthew nodded automatically, too fast, the lie almost clumsy. But the reflex did nothing to quiet the storm building inside him. His thoughts churned, loud and relentless, refusing to be silenced.

It wasn’t just the rejection itself that unsettled him. It was the way someone like Kang Soojin, confident, admired, the kind of girl who belonged under a spotlight, could stand there and bare her heart, and still be brushed aside without hesitation.

If someone like her wasn’t enough, what did that mean for someone like him?

He shrank into himself, shoulders curling slightly, as if hiding could drown out the thought. But it pressed deeper, sharper.

Why would someone who could so easily dismiss a girl like Kang Soojin kept looking, again and again, at someone like him, a boy he was sure Gunwook could never want?

--------

After what felt like an endless stretch of lessons, the final bell rang. Chairs scraped back, laughter and shouts filling the corridors as students spilled out of classrooms. The hallway became a tide of chatter, sneakers squeaking across polished floors.

Matthew slipped quietly into the current, head lowered, sketchbook clutched close against his chest as though it might shield him from the noise. His classmates peeled away to their clubs, but he climbed steadily upward, weaving past the chaos until the third floor hushed around him.

The art room sat tucked at the end of the corridor, removed from the rhythm of the rest of the school. When Matthew pushed open the door, the air changed instantly. The faint smell of paint and the earthy scent of clay lingered beneath the sunlight streaming through tall windows, the kind of stillness that always felt like a secret haven.

Hao was already there, brush in hand, bent carefully over a watercolor that spread across the page in soft washes of blue. Taerae sat opposite him, sleeves rolled, shaping clay with steady, practiced motions. He hummed under his breath while bits of clay dust clung to his fingers.

Matthew paused a moment, taking them in, then offered a small nod of greeting. His friends returned it with the ease of routine, no questions, no pressure, just quiet acknowledgment.

He made his way to his usual seat by the window, where the afternoon light spilled warm across the desk. It was his corner, his safe place, the angle perfect for sketching, the light gentle enough to bring details to life, and most importantly, no one could hover behind him there. He set his sketchbook down carefully, fingers brushing the worn cover, and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He opened his sketchbook, the paper crackling softly as he smoothed it flat against the desk. For a moment, he simply stared at the blank page, the quiet ticking of the classroom clock filling the silence in his head.

Then his pencil moved, almost on its own, before his thoughts could catch up. Light strokes first, tentative and vague, just the curve of a line, the shadow of a jaw. The slope of a nose began to take shape, though he hadn’t set out to draw anyone in particular. It was supposed to be practice, just lines and angles to keep his hands busy.

But when he blinked and pulled back slightly, the face looking up from the paper was unmistakable. Gunwook.

Not the teasing grin he wore in crowded hallways, not the sharp edge of his voice on the court. This was different. The lines on the page carried that expression Matthew had caught only once, leaning against the wall of the bookstore, the quiet distance in his eyes, unreadable, almost lonely.

Matthew’s fingers stilled, hovering above the page. A nervous flutter stirred in his chest. He should flip the paper, start over, let the unfinished sketch fade into the mess of practice doodles. Drawing people was dangerous enough. Drawing him felt reckless.

But something inside him resisted. His pencil didn’t move to turn the page. Instead, he found himself tracing the shadows around Gunwook’s mouth, trying to capture the curve, the weight of something unsaid.

It wasn’t about making it perfect. It was about trying to understand.

The door creaked open, and Matthew’s pencil froze mid-stroke. His heart thumped violently in his chest, a sudden drumbeat that made the room feel too small.

Gunwook stepped inside. His movements were effortless, casual, like he belonged anywhere he went. Maybe he was looking for someone, maybe he was just curious, but the moment his eyes scanned the room and settled on Matthew, the air seemed to thicken.

Matthew’s hand shook as he tried to close the sketchbook, but it was already too late. The image on the page had been seen.

Gunwook’s eyebrows lifted, his lips tugging into a teasing smirk. “Is that me?”

Matthew froze, his fingers pressing harder against the edges of the sketchbook. His stomach twisted and his cheeks burned with embarrassment.

Gunwook moved closer with the same easy confidence that drew attention wherever he went. He leaned over slightly, inspecting the drawing. “Didn’t know I was your muse.”

Matthew’s throat tightened and his words stumbled out, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t-”

Gunwook held up a hand, stopping him. His voice had lost some of its teasing edge and softened as he studied the sketch. “Relax. It’s actually good.”

Matthew looked away immediately, pressing his hands to the book as if to hide it from the world. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

Gunwook’s smirk softened, almost fading into a quieter expression. “I won’t.”

Silence settled between them, only broken by the faint scratching of brushes and the distant hum of activity in the art room.

Gunwook leaned a little closer, his tone low and deliberate. “Do you only draw people you like?”

Matthew could not answer. His throat was tight, his mind a whirlwind of panic and confusion.

Gunwook straightened, a small, restrained smile playing at his lips. It was less cocky than usual, more private. “Keep practicing. Maybe one day I’ll ask you to draw me for real.”

Before Matthew could respond, Gunwook turned and walked toward the door. The click of it closing behind him sounded impossibly loud in the quiet room.

Matthew exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders finally loosening. His hands still shook as he clutched the sketchbook to his chest. He could not stop thinking about the way Gunwook had looked at the drawing, the soft shift in his expression, and the impossible pull that followed.

Hao’s brush paused mid-stroke as he glanced up across the room, eyes narrowing slightly. “Was that…?”

Taerae’s head tilted, brow furrowing in surprise. “Gunwook?”

Matthew’s fingers tightened around the sketchbook, his gaze fixed on the page as if it were the only safe place in the world. His heart was still racing, a wild rhythm that refused to settle. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The drawing on the page held him captive, the lines and shadows a quiet echo of the boy who had just leaned over his work.

He had the urge to flip the page, to erase the evidence of being caught, but something stopped him. A mix of curiosity, fear, and something he didn’t want to name kept him rooted. He let the unfinished sketch sit before him, raw and exposed, a secret shared without words.

And this time, he didn’t flip the page.

Flashback – Three Years Ago (Back in Canada)

Back then in middle school, Matthew had been the boy who carried light with him. He bounded through school hallways with his sketchbook under his arm, grinning at everyone he passed, cracking jokes even when they fell flat. Teachers sighed at his chatter, but no one could deny how quick he was to help or how easy his laughter came.

And at the center of so many of his sketches was Nicholas. His best friend, his favorite person, the one Matthew found himself watching without even meaning to. Nicholas played basketball for the school team, tall and confident, the kind of presence that always drew eyes. Matthew filled pages with him: the determined set of his jaw at the free-throw line, the way his hair stuck up after practice, the crooked grin he wore when he sank a three-pointer. Innocent to anyone else, but Matthew knew the truth: the feelings in his chest were more than friendship.

One night, he had left his sketchbook out by mistake when he went for a shower. When he walked into the living room, his father was holding it, flipping slowly through the pages. His mother sat rigid beside him, her face unreadable.

“Why are there so many drawings of this boy?” his father asked, his voice low and sharp.

Matthew froze. “He’s just… my friend.”

“Friends?” his mother spat the word, eyes flashing. “Friends don’t look like this. Friends don’t… feel like this.” She jabbed a finger at a page. “This is unnatural. Shameful.”

Heat crawled up his throat. “It’s just drawing. It doesn’t mean-”

“Don’t lie to us!” His father’s voice cracked like a whip. “You think we don’t see what this is? This is sick, Matthew. Do you want people to think you’re… gay? That you’re disgusting? That you’ll ruin your life and our family’s name?”

Matthew’s chest tightened painfully. He wanted to shout that there was nothing wrong, that liking Nicholas, or even any boy, wasn’t a crime, that caring, feeling, or drawing wasn’t shameful. But the fury in his parents’ eyes held every word hostage.

“Shred it,” his father barked, snapping the sketchbook shut. “And stay far away from that boy. Do you understand me? If anyone finds out what you’re thinking… what you’re feeling… it’ll ruin you and disgrace this family.”

Matthew’s stomach dropped. “But-”

“No excuses,” his mother cut in, her voice ice-sharp, final. “From now on, you will behave like a proper son. No more foolish drawings. No more talking to him. No more of… this unnatural, disgusting obsession. Do you hear me?”

Something inside him crumpled. He nodded, because nodding was the only way to survive.

That week, he stopped talking to Nicholas. At first he made excuses. Too much homework, feeling tired. But eventually, he avoided him completely, ducking down hallways, keeping his eyes on the floor. Nicholas’ confused looks, his quiet attempts to reach out, cut deeper than any insult could. Matthew couldn’t explain. He couldn’t risk it. So he withdrew, step by step, until the friendship unraveled into silence.

The boy who once filled every hallway with chatter and laughter began to disappear. His jokes dried up, his smile dulled, his sketchbook stayed hidden under a pile of old worksheets. At school, he shrank into himself, barely speaking. At home, he vanished even more, retreating behind the walls of his room.

Matthew had learned the lesson his parents forced on him: visibility was dangerous, feelings were dangerous. And the safest way to live was to stay hidden, even if it meant losing the people he loved most.

Back to Present – Art Room, Now 

The memory dissolved slowly, like smoke clinging even after the fire had burned out. Canada felt distant now, a place of sunlit hallways and laughter that had once been easy and bright, and a sketchbook that had once been his most treasured possession was now tangled with shame, fear, and the sharp sting of his parents’ disapproval. Korea was different, new faces, unfamiliar classrooms, and the strict routines of an international high school, but it offered a fragile sense of safety as he was away from his parents. Matthew sat at the desk, the late afternoon light spilling across the pages of his sketchbook. Outside, the sky had dimmed into muted gold, shadows stretching long across the walls.

His pencil hovered above the paper. He hadn’t drawn a real person in years. Not since the sketchbook filled with Nicholas’ face had been ripped from his hands and branded as shame. Since then, his pages had been safe, filled with imagined figures, invented smiles, eyes that belonged to no one but him. Characters who could never judge him, who could never be taken from him.

And yet, without thinking, his pencil had betrayed him. Gunwook’s face stared back at him from the page; bold lines, careful shading, the sharp tilt of his eyes, the curve of his mouth caught between a smirk and something quieter, softer, something Matthew had glimpsed only once, leaning against the wall, distant and unreadable.

Matthew’s breath caught. The likeness was undeniable. It was alive in a way none of his invented sketches ever were.

And for a fleeting second, another face flickered in his mind, Nicholas. A laugh captured in pencil, a grin he once thought safe to hold onto. The pages he shredded and threw under his father’s orders. The friendship he abandoned because liking a boy had felt dangerous, even shameful. Now, here it was again, the same risk, the same temptation. Only this time it was Gunwook, another boy who lived and breathed basketball, another boy his heart had insisted on sketching when he knew better.

He almost laughed at the irony. Basketball players, always basketball players. Coincidence, or something his heart refused to unlearn, as if it hadn’t already cost him once.

The ghost of that loss pressed heavy against him. What if it happened again? What if someone saw? In Korea, where societal expectations were rigid and the stigma around being different was sharp and unforgiving, even a single misstep could ripple through a life. The fear pressed against his ribs, suffocating, a weight he had learned to carry.

His hand reached instinctively for the eraser. He could blot it out, make it disappear before anyone ever saw. That was what he had learned to do. Hide, erase, survive.

But the eraser hovered in the air, never touching the page. Something in him resisted.

Instead, he closed the sketchbook gently, pressing it against his chest. The gesture was small, fragile, but it was something he hadn’t allowed himself in years: a quiet acknowledgment. Curiosity. Interest. A flicker of trust. Not in the world, not yet, but in himself, and in the moment he had dared to create.

“Matthew.” Hao’s voice broke gently into his train of thought. He blinked, looking up. Hao stood by the doorway, bag slung over his shoulder, Taerae already tugging on his sleeve with a half-smile.

“It’s getting late,” Taerae said. “We should head back to the dorms.”

Matthew hesitated, his fingers still curled around the sketchbook. Then he nodded, standing slowly. He slipped it under his arm, close to his chest, and followed them out, the weight of the past still there, but softened by the quiet pull of the present.

Chapter Text

Friday came. The indoor basketball stadium carried the sharp tang of sweat and varnished wood, with faint traces of sports tape lingering in the air. Gunwook bent over his sneakers, lacing them with precise, mechanical motions; a ritual to steady the storm brewing inside him. The inter-school tournament had drawn teams from across the district, and every play today could decide whether they advanced to regionals in the future. The pressure pressed against him, familiar yet unyielding.

The starting five gathered at center court: Hanbin, Jiwoong, Ricky, Gyuvin, and Gunwook. On the bench, Yujin’s sneakers tapped restlessly against the floor, his wide eyes darting between the ball and his hyungs. Gunwook felt it. Not just the responsibility of his teammates, but the quiet trust in Yujin’s gaze.

Coach Kim’s voice echoed in his memory, clipped and insistent, recalling late drills, long nights, and lessons on leading without faltering. Today wasn’t just another game. It was a proving ground.

From the stands, Matthew, Hao, and Taerae slipped in, the charged scent of the court mingling with the low hum of hundreds of voices. Matthew flexed his fingers, trying to ease the tightness in his grip; anticipation had settled on him more sharply than he expected. Hao had given in to Hanbin’s invitation, and Matthew followed reluctantly, stepping into a world he had always observed from the edges.

Taerae leaned in with a grin. “Looks like Hanbin’s really trying to impress you.”

Hanbin spotted Hao in the crowd and for a second his expression changed, softer than usual. He raised a hand in a quick wave, nothing dramatic, but it was obvious who it was for.

Hao felt it straight away. Something warm flickered in his chest and he tried to play it cool, but the small smile that tugged at his mouth gave him away. The moment lasted only a breath, but it carried the quiet gravity of something private in the middle of the noise.

Matthew settled into his seat, sketchbook resting at his side rather than clutched in his hands. On the court, the team was already warming up, passes snapping, sneakers squeaking across the floor. Gunwook stood out without even trying. Every stretch, every move felt sharp, focused. Even in warm-ups, he carried himself like the whole game depended on it.

On the bench, the other juniors sat, while Yujin shifted in his seat, shoulders tense like he couldn’t settle, while the older players went through their stretches, all moving together like they’d done it a hundred times. Hanbin’s voice cut through the noise, calm but firm, and it somehow pulled everyone into step. Gunwook moved like he meant it. Passes sharp, every motion controlled, that edge in him that made it clear he wasn’t messing around. The usual easy grin was gone, replaced by a focus that made it impossible to look away.

From the stands, Hao’s attention kept pulling back to Hanbin, to the quiet confidence that steadied everyone else. It wasn’t showmanship or the need to dominate. It was something quieter, certainty worn like second nature.

Taerae leaned closer, whispering, “Huh. Thought Gunwook was supposed to be a troublemaker. Doesn’t look like it.”

Hao’s gaze lingered on Gunwook instead. “Maybe he is. But look at him. He plays like everything’s on the line. That doesn’t come from someone careless.”

Gunwook’s eyes skimmed the crowd, and Matthew’s breath snagged. Did he notice them? Or was it just the way his gaze seemed to take everything in, sharp and unrelenting? Hanbin, gazing at Hao in the stands, offered a small nod, a quiet reassurance that everything was under control.

The whistle blew, signaling the opposing team’s warm-up, but Matthew barely registered the thud of bouncing balls. His attention had already shifted. Across the court, a figure moved; taller now, lean and poised, spinning the ball with casual mastery, laughter bright and easy. Nicholas.

For a beat, the world narrowed. The tilt of Nicholas’ head, the familiar rhythm in his movements, it was him. The boy who had haunted the margins of his sketchbook. The absence that had carved out a cautious, hidden part of him now stood only meters away.

Nicholas’ gaze swept across the bleachers and then stilled. For a moment, his eyes widened, like he hadn’t expected to find Matthew there at all. The surprise flickered into something else, softer, undeniable, and Matthew felt it hit him. The guilt, the longing, the memory of running away instead of staying.

He ducked his head, fingers tightening around his sketchbook as if it could hold him together. The noise of the gym rushed back in, too loud, too bright. Every step Nicholas took, every careless flick of the wrist, dragged forward what Matthew had tried to bury. Not just nostalgia, but the fear, regret, and raw ache of what he had fled.

Hao noticed, leaning closer. “Hey Matt… are you okay?”

Matthew gave a quick nod, though the answer stuck in his throat. He hadn’t expected to see Nicholas here, not like this. Each laugh, each unthinking motion, reminded him of what he had once loved, and what he hadn’t been brave enough to hold onto.

--------

The whistle blew, signaling the start of the first quarter. The ball dribbled sharply against the polished floor, each bounce resonating through the gym like a heartbeat. Matthew’s grip tightened on the sketchbook resting against his lap, his thumb brushing over its worn edge as his attention locked onto Gunwook.

Gunwook moved like a force of nature, slicing between defenders, directing his teammates with quick, sharp commands, and keeping the tempo relentless. Ricky and Gyuvin matched his energy, anticipating passes almost instinctively, while Jiwoong anchored the defense with steady hands and sharp awareness, cutting off lanes before the other team could advance. At the center of it all was Hanbin, steady and composed, his voice carrying over the noise of the crowd. Every call he made pulled the team together, setting the framework for Gunwook’s fire to ignite within. 

Every pass and turn carried skill, experience, and responsibility, the kind that marked a leader. Matthew noticed the tight line of Gunwook’s jaw, the way his shoulders coiled before a sprint, the brief flickers of frustration when a pass went astray. Even amid the chaos, Matthew felt drawn into the rhythm, as if the court itself bent toward Gunwook’s energy.

Zhang Hao leaned closer, whispering, “He’s… intense.”

Taerae smirked. “No wonder people are scared of him.”

Matthew stayed quiet, drawn to Gunwook’s magnetic energy. Confidence radiated from him, tempered by rare, fleeting moments that hinted at something softer beneath the surface. For a heartbeat, Gunwook’s eyes met his in the stands. Recognition flared and vanished almost immediately, leaving Matthew’s thoughts spinning.

On the court, Gunwook’s movements remained controlled and authoritative, every toss and swivel exact, setting the rhythm for the team. His instinctive focus sharpened with the flow of the game, every motion driven by skill and determination. Matthew read too much into it, imagining the fire in Gunwook’s eyes as something more than competitive drive.

Meanwhile, Nicholas spun the ball, the leather thumping against his palms in familiar cadence, his smile briefly faltering before returning, bright and effortless. When he ran past a defender and launched the ball toward the net, it sailed in a perfect arc, swishing clean through the rim. Memories collided with the present, and the contrast between Nicholas’ ease and Gunwook’s intensity created a strange tension Matthew couldn’t untangle.

His focus fractured, caught between the quiet warmth of Nicholas and the compelling presence of Gunwook. The court roared around him, sneakers squeaking, the ball thudding, whistles cutting through the noise. Every glance and movement felt saturated with meaning he couldn’t fully understand. Gunwook’s presence remained constant, intense, unknowable, like a current Matthew could sense but not trace.

--------

The final buzzer blared, the ball clanging against the rim one last time before bouncing off. The stadium erupted. Hanbin’s team had won. Cheers surged from the bleachers, first for the team as a whole, then rising again for Gunwook, whose name carried effortlessly above the clamor. 

“Park Gunwook! Park Gunwook!”

Whistles, claps, and shouts punctuated the celebration, a mix of respect for skill and the magnetism of the star player.

Coach Kim jogged onto the court, clapping above his head. “Outstanding work, everyone! That coordination, that focus! You’ve shown what you’re capable of. Keep this up for the next few tournaments, and regionals isn’t just a dream; it could be reality!”

The five of them collided in a huddle, arms looping around each other, laughter and shouts spilling into the echoing gym. Even Yujin, who had stayed on the bench, joined with a wide grin, bouncing slightly on his toes. Across the court, Nicholas skated past with his teammates, exchanging quick high-fives, handshakes and lighthearted laughter. Matthew’s chest tightened, a mix of admiration and old longing curling through him.

Gunwook’s confident mask softened just a fraction as he glanced around his team, then caught Matthew’s eyes for a fleeting second. There was no teasing, no challenge, just the briefest acknowledgment, a private spark that vanished almost as soon as it appeared. Matthew’s heart thudded, an unnameable pull curling in his chest.

Hao nudged Taerae, voice low. “See? He’s not… completely what people say. There’s more to him.”

Hanbin rounded up the team, clapping hands and calling encouragement. “Great game, everyone! That’s teamwork!” His energy anchored the chaos, a steady force under the storm of cheers. Taerae’s arms stayed crossed, but the corners of his mouth lifted slightly.

Matthew’s gaze flicked again between the two figures who had occupied his thoughts all game. Nicholas laughed with a teammate, spinning the ball with easy confidence, effortless in a way Matthew both admired and resented. Then back to Gunwook: the intensity of his teammates’ embrace, the raw energy radiating from him, the way he carried himself even amid celebration. It felt like two worlds, the open warmth he could see between others, and the alluring, untouchable storm Gunwook represented.

Gunwook’s eyes flicked over the stands once more. For a heartbeat, Matthew thought he saw the faintest trace of curiosity, or was it acknowledgment? before Gunwook turned, joining the laughter, hugs, and exuberance of his team. The gym roared around him, but in that moment, Matthew felt something quieter, fragile, and strangely weighty threading through the celebration.

Matthew exhaled softly, the noise of the gym still rattling in his chest. The victory felt larger than the scoreboard; he had glimpsed something beneath the surface, a steadiness and trust that bound the team together. It was a part of Gunwook he hadn’t expected to see so clearly, and it pressed quietly against the edges of his thoughts.

Hanbin jogged over, still buzzing with energy, sweat streaking down his temples. “Hey, thanks for coming. Not everyone would sit through that chaos.”

Hao brushed a hand over his jacket, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I… yeah. It was better than I thought it’d be.”

Hanbin smirked, but there was pride in it, too. “That’s the team for you. We’ve got each other’s backs. Makes it hard not to watch.”

Hao tilted his head, thoughtful. “Yeah. You can tell it’s not just skill. It’s the way you guys move together.”

Something flickered in Hanbin’s expression, warmer, almost protective. “Exactly. It’s not just fire, it’s trust. That’s what keeps it all from burning out.”

The crowd began to thin, footsteps echoing in the wide space, the scent of polished wood and sweat slowly giving way to cool night air drifting through the open doors. Hao leaned back slightly, letting the moment settle. For the first time, the rumors about Gunwook felt flimsy against what he had just seen.

Hanbin clapped him lightly on the shoulder, his grin still bright. “Alright, I should get cleaned up before the festival. I’ll see you there, okay?”

Hao nodded, the smile that curved his mouth quieter, but genuine. “Yeah. See you there.”

Matthew remained silent beside them. The gym’s roar had faded, but the echo of it lingered inside him, the pull of old memories, the flicker of new ones, and somewhere between them, the heavy, undeniable presence of Gunwook.

The three of them, Matthew, Hao, and Taerae, made their way toward the stadium exit, the post-game energy still buzzing faintly around them. Matthew hugged his sketchbook against his side, eager to disappear into the cool night beyond the double doors. Just as they neared the entrance, a sudden voice called out.

“Matthew?”

The single word cut through the noise like a thread pulled taut. His steps faltered. He looked up.

Nicholas was weaving through the thinning crowd, jogging toward him with a grin that was part-surprise, part-hesitation. The sound of the gym dimmed instantly, the colors and motion blurring at the edges until all that remained was this impossible moment.

Out of the corner of his eye, Matthew registered movement on the court. Gunwook. His head had turned sharply toward the entrance, eyes narrowing, gaze locking on Matthew with the same stormy intensity that had fueled every play of the game. The connection sent a jolt through him, a taut pull stretching between the past and the present, between Nicholas’ grin and Gunwook’s stare.

Matthew’s fingers went slack against his sketchbook, the worn edges slipping against his palm. Footsteps closed the space quickly, each one hauntingly familiar.

“…Nicholas?” His voice cracked, disbelief breaking through despite himself.

Nicholas slowed to a stop, eyes wide, breath uneven as though he’d been chasing not just across the gym, but across years. “Matthew…? Is that really you?”

Matthew swallowed, throat dry. His heart hammered against his ribs, as though his body hadn’t caught up with the reality in front of him. “Yeah… it’s me.” He tried for a smile, but it wavered, uncertain, tugged tight at the corners. “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Nicholas raked a hand through his hair, a nervous laugh escaping. “I… didn’t think I’d see you either. You look… different. Korea?”

Matthew nodded, his grip on the sketchbook tightening until his knuckles whitened. “Yeah. High school. International school.” He hesitated, unsure how much space the past deserved here, in this crowded exitway. “What about you? Still playing basketball?”

Nicholas’s grin returned, tilted and easy, the same one Matthew had once tried to capture in pencil margins. “Yeah. Same old thing. Can’t stop.” His gaze flicked toward the court, where his teammates were still gathering their things, before settling back on Matthew. “You… still drawing?”

For a beat, Matthew faltered. Then, with a small nod, he forced the word out. “Sometimes.”

Silence pressed between them. Not the comfortable kind they used to share, sprawled across afternoons filled with sketches and bouncing basketballs, late night conversations during sleepovers at Nicholas’, but heavy and awkward, thick with memories and the weight of years unspoken. Every glance felt like a reminder of what Matthew had left behind, the close friendship and secret crush he had cut off, the silence he had buried it under. And now, standing face to face, the past felt raw and real in a way that left his being tight and unsteady.

Then, in his peripheral vision, he caught it: Gunwook’s figure pausing inside the stadium, eyes piercing, scanning toward the exit. The subtle strain in Gunwook’s shoulders, the intensity in his eyes, it was a look that carried an unreadable question.

Beside him, Hao and Taerae exchanged quick glances. Taerae tilted his head toward Nicholas and muttered, “Uh… who’s that?”

Hao’s brows knit faintly. “Not sure. But it feels like they need space.”

“Yeah.” Taerae shifted his bag higher on his shoulder. “Let’s wait outside. The last thing he needs is an audience.”

They slipped toward the doors, leaning against the wall in a show of casual disinterest, though both kept half an eye on Matthew. The whir of the gym dulled, the shouts and laughter blurring into background noise, until the air between Matthew and Nicholas felt suspended, quieter, more fragile.

Nicholas shifted the basketball from palm to palm, the motion slowing as his grin softened into something uncertain. “Hey… I know this is sudden, but maybe we could catch up sometime. Just hang out, like we used to. It’s been years, Matt.”

The name landed heavier than Matthew expected, pulling at places he’d tried to keep locked away. His breath caught before he managed a small nod, words slipping out softer than intended. “Yeah… that’d be nice.”

Relief lit Nicholas’s face, chasing some of the nerves from his expression. “Great. I’ll text you. Do you still have the same number?”

Matthew shook his head quickly. “No, new one. I’ll… give it to you.” His hands fumbled with the sketchbook before tearing a scrap from its back pages, the pencil moving in hurried, uneven strokes.

When Nicholas reached for it, their fingers brushed. The touch was brief, feather-light, yet it sent a jolt through Matthew’s stomach, twisting tight with nerves.

“Thanks,” Nicholas said, glancing down at the scrap of paper. He pulled out his phone, typed in the number, and pressed call. The line rang once or twice before he ended it, letting Matthew’s phone register the incoming number.

Nicholas looked up, a small, satisfied grin on his face. “There. Now I have your number, and you have mine. Fair’s fair.” His grin was smaller now, but steadier, carrying something closer to sincerity than bravado. “Really. I’ll reach out soon.”

Matthew forced a smile, the edges tentative. Wistfulness curled warm and heavy in his chest, but unease threaded through it, leaving him uncertain where this reconnection would lead, or what Gunwook had seen from across the court.

--------

Gunwook trailed with the team toward the locker rooms, the roar of the crowd still reverberating in his chest like aftershocks. Hanbin had an arm slung over Jiwoong’s shoulders, both of them laughing through the leftover adrenaline. Gyuvin and Ricky were already back at it, arguing over who deserved the highlight reel, their voices overlapping in noisy banter. Even Yujin, usually quieter, walked with a bright, almost shy grin, his pride bustling out of him like static.

The game was over. The victory was theirs. By all accounts, the air should have felt lighter now, charged with nothing but triumph.

But Gunwook’s gaze drifted.

Just past the edge of the court, near the stadium doors, he caught sight of a figure he knew too well. Matthew. The sketchbook tucked under his arm, his stance a little stiff, caught between staying and slipping away. Gunwook slowed a step without realizing it, his feet dragging against the burnished floor.

And then, someone else. Another boy, familiar from the opposing team. Taller than Matthew, broader in build, his presence edged with an ease that unsettled Gunwook quietly but sharply.

Gunwook’s eyes narrowed, tracking the small exchanges. The way the other boy grinned at Matthew like the world bent easily around him. The way Matthew didn’t quite smile back but didn’t look away either. The paper passing between them, hands brushing, Matthew’s fingers trembling just slightly as if the contact meant something.

The image struck him harder than he expected, a gnawing tug that spread through him. His throat went tight before he could make sense of it. He didn’t know why it hit so hard. He only knew it did.

“Wook?” Ricky’s voice cut in, sudden and too loud, snapping him back. Ricky tilted his head, eyebrows knitting. “You good? You look like you just swallowed a nail or something.”

Gyuvin leaned in from the other side, squinting at him with a crooked grin. “Seriously, what’s with that face? We just won, man. Try to look alive.”

Gunwook blinked, dragging his gaze away from the entrance. His jaw flexed, shoulders locking as he pulled the old armor back over himself. A scoff slipped out, practiced and dismissive.

“Nothing,” he muttered, tone flat. He shoved his hands into his pockets, picking up his pace. “Forget it. Let’s go.”

Ricky and Gyuvin exchanged looks and shrugs before diving back into their argument, the noise of their voices filling the space again. But Gunwook barely heard them. His heart felt heavier with every step, heat simmering in his ribs like a restless burn.

He buried it, because that’s what he did, what people expected from him. The mask, the swagger, the untouchable front. But no matter how hard he pressed it down, the image stayed, lodged like a splinter: Matthew’s hesitant smile, not directed at him but at someone else.

What unsettled him wasn’t just the smile itself, it was the difference. With Gunwook, Matthew was guarded, cautious, always weighing his steps as if one wrong move would spark trouble. But with Nicholas, even in that brief exchange, there had been a softness, a steadiness, like Matthew wasn’t afraid of being seen. The contrast gnawed at him, a lingering pang he couldn’t name, only feel.

--------

As the sun dipped lower, the school grounds transformed into a swirl of color and sound. Paper lanterns hung from strings overhead, glowing faintly as dusk settled in, their light flickering against the deepening sky. The air carried the mingled scents of sizzling street food from stalls that students and teachers tended to. Spicy rice cakes steamed in a bubbling sauce, sweet filled pancakes released warm, sugary aromas, and soft, golden egg bread baked to perfection. Music drifted from a speaker near the main stage, playful and loud enough to ripple through the crowd, blending with bursts of laughter and chatter.

Students roamed in clusters, their uniforms swapped for casual clothes, sleeves rolled up, hair let down. Some lined up at food stalls, others played ring-toss or dart games, and more sprawled out on the grass with friends, watching the sun disappear behind the rooftops. The buzz of competition from the gym had been replaced by a lighter energy, the kind that made it easy to forget the weight of classes, exams, and the week behind them.

For Matthew, Hao, and Taerae, weaving through the crowd felt like stepping into a different world entirely; warm, chaotic, and alive in a way the gym hadn’t been.

The three of them had just paused by a stall selling candied strawberries when a ripple of noise moved through the crowd.

“Yo, the basketball guys are here!” someone shouted, and almost instantly, heads turned. 

In an instant, heads turned. Excitement sparked like a fuse, spreading through the cluster of students.

Hanbin’s team emerged, freshly changed from their basketball uniforms, hair damp from quick showers. They carried themselves differently; fiery, captivating, the kind of presence that bent the current of the festival around them. Underclassmen clapped them on the back, voices rising in scattered cheers, the victory from earlier still echoing in every greeting.

Hanbin led with his trademark smile, soaking in the attention but brushing it off with mock modesty. Jiwoong walked at his side, shoulders loose as he chuckled at Gyuvin’s running commentary. Ricky and Yujin trailed a few steps behind, already debating which food stall to raid first, Ricky gesturing animatedly with his hands.

And then there was Gunwook.

Even without trying, he pulled focus. His stride was steady, shoulders squared, chin lifted just enough to carry a quiet authority. People shifted when he passed, eyes flicking toward him as though caught by some gravity they couldn’t explain. His reputation preceded him, the golden boy with the bad edge, the kind of figure whispered about in hallways, admired and half-feared in equal measure. He didn’t smile, didn’t wave, didn’t need to. Just being there was enough to send another ripple of attention through the crowd, like the whole festival had tilted slightly to make space for him.

When Hanbin spotted Hao standing a little apart from the flow of the crowd, his grin brightened, a flash of something warmer than the playful mask he wore for everyone else. Without hesitation, he lifted a hand in greeting and broke away from the cluster of teammates, jogging the last few steps until he stood in front of them, breath still catching faintly from weaving through the press of students.

“You made it,” he said, voice tinged with relief, as if he hadn’t fully believed it until now.

Hao’s lips curved into a small, composed smile. “I told you I would.”

Beside him, Taerae nudged Matthew lightly, smirking at the shift in Hanbin’s tone, the spark threaded through his words. Matthew returned the look faintly, though his attention flickered; half on them, half on Gunwook in the background. Gunwook’s gaze had passed over him once, sharp but fleeting, before sliding away. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, hands shoving into his pockets as though to bury whatever stirred beneath the surface.

Hanbin’s grin lingered as he slowed to a stop in front of Hao, his usual captain’s confidence tempered by something quieter. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come. Festivals aren’t really your thing, right?”

Hao raised a brow, amusement glinting faintly in his eyes. “Neither are basketball games. And yet… here I am.”

Hanbin laughed, a sound looser than the cheer he’d worn on the court earlier. He rubbed the back of his neck, a hint of self-consciousness breaking through. “Guess I owe you one, then. Sitting through all that, it means more than you think.”

The words carried a softness that stripped away the performance, leaving only sincerity. For a fleeting moment, it wasn’t the admired captain speaking, but just Hanbin, earnest and searching.

Hao tilted his head, studying him. “Don’t make it sound like I did you a favor. I was impressed.” His voice was certain, but the honesty in it slipped past his usual reserve, unguarded in a way that caught even him by surprise.

Hanbin’s grin faltered, not with disappointment but with something subtler, an expression that warmed into a smaller, more genuine smile. Their gazes held, unspoken meaning thrumming between them, almost too personal for the middle of a crowded festival.

From the side, Taerae arched a brow, clearly catching the change in atmosphere. He exchanged a knowing glance with Matthew, who stayed quiet, aware he was watching something delicate unfold, something that belonged only to the two of them.

“Anyway,” Hanbin said quickly, clearing his throat as though catching himself, his captain’s composure snapping back into place. His grin widened, more practiced now, but a trace of that earlier sincerity still lingered in his tone. “Come with us. Matthew and Taerae too! The group’s about to grab food. Trust me, it’s better than wandering the stalls on your own.”

Hao hesitated, not out of reluctance, but from the weight of the invitation. For a second, he looked as though he might refuse, lips parting slightly before he pressed them together. Then he gave a small nod, steady and deliberate. “Alright.”

Hanbin’s smile returned, easier this time, touched with relief. “Good.” He gestured toward the stalls with a tilt of his head, falling into step beside Hao. He walked close, close enough that the brush of his shoulder nearly touched Hao’s, as though the crush of the crowd had shrunk to just the two of them.

Matthew and Taerae trailed behind, Taerae raising his brows in a silent ‘well, that escalated fast’ look. Matthew gave a faint shrug, though his eyes strayed unconsciously toward where Gunwook moved with the rest of the team, his tall and broad outline impossible to miss even among the shifting lights.

By the time evening settled fully in, the festival grounds pulsed with restless energy. Strings of lanterns swayed gently in the breeze, scattering pools of amber light across the walkways. Students darted between stalls, clutching skewers, paper cups of soda, and bags of fried snacks. Bursts of laughter erupted near the game booths, mixing with the sharp pop of balloons and the rattle of tin cans.

Near the stage, a guitar strummed to life, each note threading through the night air until it seemed to weave into the rhythm of the crowd itself. The festival beat like a second heartbeat; alive, messy, impossible to ignore.

And in the midst of it all, Hanbin and Hao walked side by side, their conversation low enough to be drowned out by the noise around them, yet their closeness unmistakable to anyone who looked long enough.

“Hey, let’s try that one!” Gyuvin called, pointing toward the booth where students were strapping balloons to their ankles and chasing each other in pairs. A handmade sign read BALLOON TAG - PAIRS ONLY! In bold, slightly crooked letters.

Hanbin’s grin was immediate. He tugged Hao toward the sign-up. “C’mon, easy win.”

Ricky immediately grabbed Gyuvin’s hand. “We’re in. Don’t slow me down.”

Gyuvin rolled his eyes but tightened his grip. “You wish.”

On the sidelines, Yujin flopped onto a bench, bag of fried snacks in hand, waving at them. “I’ll cheer from here. Hyungs can go lose with style.”

Jiwoong, arms crossed, shot Taerae a sidelong glance. “How about you and me?”

Taerae groaned, muttering, “This better not be embarrassing,” but let himself be pulled along.

Matthew lingered a step behind the line, stomach twisting in protest. His first instinct was to back away, to find some safe spot among the spectators, some invisible corner where he could vanish.

He knew Balloon Tag was chaotic, loud, and embarrassing. Exactly the kind of attention he usually avoided.

And yet… there was a tug in his chest he couldn’t ignore. A strange, reckless thrill that came from standing next to Gunwook, from moving with him, from feeling that magnetic proximity.

It was uncomfortable, risky, and entirely his own choice. Matthew swallowed hard, forcing himself to step forward.

Gunwook’s presence was poised but imposing. He crouched down, tying the balloon to his ankle with practiced efficiency. When he tossed the second balloon toward Matthew, his eyes flicked up briefly, sharp, almost guarded, but he didn’t say anything else. His tone, clipped and defensive, carried the weight of their usual unspoken tension. “Fine. Whatever.”

Matthew caught the balloon, holding it a second longer than necessary, as if measuring the risk of letting his own clumsiness betray him. He felt the warmth of proximity, the subtle pull of Gunwook’s body just a step away. And yet, something was off. Gunwook wasn’t teasing. Not now. Not like he usually would. That uncharacteristic stillness, that unfamiliar restraint, made Matthew’s stomach twist with nervous curiosity. Why was he like this? What was up with this sudden change? Despite the nervous tightening in his stomach, he let himself move forward.

The whistle blew.

Matthew’s pulse spiked, not just from the game ahead, but from the quiet, thrilling certainty that he was closer to Gunwook than he’d allowed himself to be to someone in a long time. Even if the chaos of Balloon Tag came next, this proximity, this shared moment, was enough to make him take the first step.

The small court erupted into chaos. Students darted in every direction, laughter ringing out as balloons popped in sharp, echoing bursts. Hanbin and Hao moved in perfect sync, competitive but smiling. Ricky and Gyuvin argued mid-match, limbs flailing, yet somehow holding their ground. Jiwoong’s calm precision paired surprisingly well with Taerae’s stubborn energy, slipping into rhythm faster than anyone expected.

Matthew and Gunwook, however, moved differently. Gunwook’s eyes never left Matthew, positioning himself so that he blocked potential threats to his partner. Each movement was calculated, protective, almost territorial.

“Yah, it’s a game, not a bodyguard contest!” Ricky shouted from across the court, earning laughter from the crowd.

Matthew’s pulse thumped in time with the chaos. Gunwook was too close, his presence a weight pressing at his side, transforming a silly festival game into something charged and almost serious.

Then, in a rush of misstep, Matthew tripped on the uneven mat, his balance faltering. Instinctively, Gunwook’s hand shot out, catching him by the elbow. Their bodies pressed together for a heartbeat, breaths mingling, the heat from their close proximity prickling across Matthew’s skin. His chest hammered, cheeks burning, and for a moment, the chaos of the festival, the laughter, the shouting, the music, faded into a distant hum.

Gunwook’s dark eyes locked onto his, intense and unreadable, a flicker of something unspoken hovering beneath the surface. He noticed the slight tremor in Matthew’s fingers, the way he clutched at the edge of his shirt, hesitant and uncertain. There was an awareness there, quiet but sharp, that seemed to pull the space between them electric.

Matthew stumbled slightly again, and Gunwook’s grip tightened just enough to steady him. He didn’t speak, didn’t shift the moment with words, but his presence pressed in, deliberate and unyielding. Every breath, every subtle shift in Matthew’s stance, was registered, stored. Their faces were inches apart, the air between them charged, each heartbeat magnifying the thrum of tension that neither wanted to name.

Matthew’s hand shot up instinctively, pressing against Gunwook’s chest to create distance. “Sorry!” His voice was tight, uneven, a poor shield against the heat racing through him.

Gunwook blinked slowly, expression unreadable, then pivoted back into the game. His movements sharpened, as if Matthew’s nearness had carved a mark into the rhythm of his motions. The thought lingered at the edge of his awareness, unacknowledged, but the weight of it pressed down, coiling tight and inescapable, a tension that refused to dissipate even as he forced himself forward.

The round ended without them noticing. Hanbin and Hao were declared winners, Ricky howled in defeat, Gyuvin collapsed dramatically onto the grass, and Jiwoong smirked faintly at Taerae’s exaggerated complaints.

Gunwook finally stepped back, letting out a sharp breath. His eyes flicked to Matthew, registering every micro-expression. The twitch of his fingers, the faint flush on his cheeks, the hesitation in his stance. For a moment, the noises seemed to fade, leaving only the thrum of his own pulse and the weight of that quiet observation.

Matthew adjusted his stance, unsure if he wanted to step closer or retreat, acutely aware of the charged silence lingering between them.

Gunwook straightened abruptly, shoulders stiff, and muttered under his breath, “Whatever.” Without another word, he strode away from the stall, leaving Matthew blinking in surprise. His steps were brisk, deliberate, but beneath the casual front, a quiet register of Matthew’s presence stayed with him, coiled like a shadow he couldn’t quite shake.

He weaved through clusters of students, the laughter and chatter of the festival becoming a muted hum around him. Every flash of movement in his peripheral vision. Matthew adjusting a balloon, Matthew laughing at some small joke, made his chest tighten. He didn’t understand the sensation that lurked behind his frustration, the flicker of jealousy that he couldn’t name, and that made it worse.

Ricky, noticing the sharp set of Gunwook’s jaw, jogged to catch up. “Yo, you okay, man? You look like you just lost a fight.”

Gyuvin fell in step beside him, arms crossed. “Seriously. Did you forget how to have fun? You’ve been pacing like a caged animal since the game ended. It’s just a game, it’s okay to lose.”

Gunwook shot them a quick, annoyed look, brushing past their concern. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Let’s go,” he said, voice clipped, the familiar “golden delinquent” mask sliding back into place. Inside, though, a tight knot of jealousy twisted in his chest, Matthew could smile so easily at that other guy at the stadium, hand him a paper even. But while with him, Matthew pushed him away, awkward and guarded. And God, why did it sting so much?

He’d started this, teasing Matthew, as a joke, a way to shake up the dull routine, to mess with the quiet kid who never looked up from his sketchbook. But now, the joke felt hollow, fragile. Why did Matthew pull back? Fear? Or maybe it was what Gunwook himself was feeling? Something unfamiliar, a hesitation gnawing at the edges of his bravado.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration prickling beneath his skin. He’d never been one to hold back, to play safe, but Matthew… quiet, fragile Matthew… was different. There was something about him that made Gunwook want to tread carefully, even if his smirk didn’t show it.

Could it be that he was starting to fall for Matthew? The thought landed in his chest like a sudden, sharp blow, leaving him breathless for a moment. He recoiled from it, questioning everything he thought he knew about himself. Was this just a fleeting crush, a passing flicker he could ignore? Or was it something deeper, something that unsettled him so thoroughly it made him want to step back before it could consume him?

Ricky and Gyuvin exchanged a glance, recognizing that this wasn’t the usual fire-in-the-belly frustration. “Sure, whatever you say,” Ricky muttered, letting it go, though the concern lingered in his eyes.

Gunwook’s steps carried him toward the quieter edge of the festival grounds, leaving the laughter and chaos behind, the weight of his own conflicted thoughts pressing him forward.

--------

Matthew watched Gunwook disappear into the crowd, shoulders stiff, jaw tight. A strange pang settled in his chest, half disappointment, half confusion. His hand twitched at his side, an instinct to call out, to bridge the distance before it widened. But the word never left his lips. He had pushed him away, and now all he could do was watch the space grow.

Still, the question lodged in his mind the moment their hands brushed: Was any of that real? Or just another one of Gunwook’s games?

He replayed the moments over and over: the balloon slipping from his grip, Gunwook leaning in just enough to steady him, that sharp look when their eyes met. It had felt intimate, magnetic, dangerously close, but was it genuine? Or was he reading into it, like he had so many times before? Gunwook had a way of making everything feel urgent, personal, yet untouchable, and Matthew knew too well how quickly closeness could turn to pain.

For a heartbeat, regret pricked at him; not for the stumble, not even for the heat of their bodies pressed together, but for pushing him away before the moment could deepen. Part of him had wanted to linger, to see what might happen if he didn’t retreat. His fingers flexed as though to reach, to follow, but the weight of memory dragged him back. Back at home, wanting the wrong thing had always been dangerous. Affection was a risk, love a liability. He had learned to retreat before anyone could notice.

He swallowed hard, breath catching as the festival noise surged back in. Students laughed and shouted, lights swung overhead, but all he could feel was the echo of Gunwook’s steadiness, the way his grip had burned against his skin.

He wanted to believe it had meant something, that Gunwook cared in a way that reached past teasing or bravado. But every instinct whispered caution: Pull back. Protect yourself. If he was just playing, if this closeness was fleeting, Matthew would be left more exposed than ever. Not just to embarrassment, but to shame, to exposure, to a truth he wasn’t ready to let anyone, especially his parents, see.

And yet, even with that gnawing fear, he couldn’t deny the pull. His heart had stuttered when Gunwook leaned in, and the warmth of proximity lingered long after the stall was behind him. His fingers twitched once more, a ghost of an almost-reach that never happened.

I don’t understand him. I don’t know what he wants. And maybe I never will.

Chapter Text

Matthew trailed after the group, his steps careful, almost distant, like he was walking alongside a world he could see but never quite touch. The festival lit up around him, lanterns glowing against the stalls, laughter rising and falling, the smell of sweet pancakes and spicy rice cakes drifting through the air. But it all washed over him, like water over stone. He was there in body, nothing more. The warmth, the energy, the easy joy of everyone else brushed against him without staying.

Hanbin still carried the buzz of their balloon tag win, moving with that easy confidence that made him hard to ignore. His grin was wide as he laughed and bumped Hao’s shoulder. “Told you we’d crush it,” he said, light and certain.

Hao ducked his head, heat creeping into his cheeks. “Only because I was cheering,” he muttered, the words caught somewhere between teasing and a slip of honesty.

Hanbin didn’t even pause, giving Hao’s arm a quick squeeze. “Then I guess that makes you my lucky charm,” he said with another grin. “Better stick around for the next game.”

Hao’s face warmed, his gaze darting away like he’d been caught in the lantern light. Hanbin either didn’t notice or didn’t care, his laugh spilling out, open and unrestrained, carrying through the crowd like sunlight. Joy came easily to them, natural and uncalculated. For Matthew, it landed differently; sharp, hollow, unbearable.

Nearby, Yujin was tearing into a cone of fried dough, sugar sticking to his fingers while Jiwoong teased Taerae for almost falling over during the balloon game. Taerae’s mock complaints and Jiwoong’s easy laughter melted into the hum of the festival, light and carefree, like nothing outside of this moment existed.

Matthew drifted behind, tugging his hoodie sleeves over his fists, letting the gap between him and the others settle like a wall. The laughter, the touches, the quick glances, they only reminded him of what he’d taught himself to bury. Closeness meant risk. Attention brought exposure. And wanting someone could be dangerous.

He forced himself to keep up with the group, though every step felt caught between relief and regret. Gunwook was gone, swallowed by the crowd with Ricky and Gyuvin trailing after him, shoulders tight, jaw locked. Matthew hadn’t seen him since, and maybe that was a mercy. No sharp gaze cutting through him, no silence heavy with everything they hadn’t said.

Still, his guilt ate at him. He kept replaying the way his hands had jerked back, pulling away instead of reaching out, instinct winning over trust. His parents’ warnings had always kept him safe. But now, with Gunwook’s absence lingering like an open wound, those warnings felt more like chains.

The crowd pressed closer, shoulders brushing, voices swirling. Every flicker of movement at the edge of his vision, every shadow that might have been Gunwook, made a jolt ripple through him. It wasn’t the absence, it was the anticipation, the expectation, the impossibility of knowing if Gunwook even noticed.

“Matthew?”

Hao’s voice cut through the noise, quiet but steady. He lingered close, watching, like he was trying to anchor Matthew without making it obvious. “You look… distracted. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Matthew forced a smile that cracked too easily at the edges. “Yeah. Just… tired. Long day.”

Hao studied him a beat longer, brow furrowed faintly before Hanbin tugged him forward, hand brushing Matthew’s arm in a casual movement that lingered just a fraction too long. Hanbin’s laughter rose above the throng, and Hao’s quiet smile followed, soft and hesitant, a dim echo to Hanbin’s brightness.

“Hanbin hyung!” Yujin’s voice cut through the noise, bright and abrupt, sugar sticking to his fingers as he glanced around. “Where’d Gunwook hyung run off to?”

Hanbin grinned over his shoulder, like the question barely mattered. “Knowing him? Probably raiding a tteokbokki stall by now. If Ricky and Gyuvin went after him, that’s three pigs on the loose.”

Yujin cracked up, nearly choking on the last of his fried dough. “Yeah, that sounds right. They’ll wipe out the vendors if no one stops them.”

The group erupted into laughter, Jiwoong shaking his head while Taerae muttered about guarding his fishcake skewer later. Their voices tangled with the music and lantern light, turning the street into something warm and alive. For Matthew, though, it only underlined how far away he felt. His smile was tight, fleeting, tugging at the corners of his mouth before disappearing.

The group wandered over to a ring toss stall. Hanbin leaned in, tossing rings like it was nothing, then bumped Hao with a grin. “You’re slacking. Don’t let me down.”

Hao rolled his eyes, but the small, unguarded smile betrayed him. Hanbin slung an arm around his shoulders, easy and thoughtless, like it cost him nothing. For everyone else, it looked natural. For Matthew, it struck too close to memory. Gunwook leaning toward him during the game earlier, teasing about his sketch a few days ago, the almost that had left him rattled before he pulled away. A closeness so delicate it couldn’t hold under the weight of fear.

Then low voices cut through the night. Matthew caught fragments, sharp and invasive.

“Isn’t that the guy who was playing balloon tag with Gunwook earlier?”

“Yeah… they were practically glued together.”

“Looked like more than a game to me.”

The snicker that followed burned in his ears. His chest tightened, heat creeping up his face. Heart pounding, he froze, vision narrowing, lantern light streaking and blurring around him.

The memory from earlier hit him hard, pinning and accusing. It wasn’t just embarrassment. It was the weight of being seen. The flicker of closeness with Gunwook, all of it threatening to expose something he’d been trained to hide. 

Every lesson he’d learned came back heavier now. Not just caution for himself, but the unspoken rules of a world that wouldn’t accept him. Being noticed, even a little, could bring whispers, judgment, or worse. 

The subtle prejudice in the hallways, his parents’ warnings drilled into his head, the pressure of a society that punished any misstep, it all pressed in, making his chest tighten, like one slip could shatter him.

“I… uh…” His voice barely surfaced. He leaned toward Hao, desperate. “I… I need to-”

But he didn’t wait. Legs carrying him on pure instinct, Matthew surged forward, weaving through the crowd, dodging stalls, sidestepping students. Every shout, every laugh slammed into him, a harsh echo of the anxiety twisting inside.

“Matthew! Wait!” Hao’s voice rang out, urgent, fingers brushing against his sleeve in a fleeting, almost-touching plea. But Matthew couldn’t stop; couldn’t look back. The tether of Hao’s hand slipped through him like smoke, leaving only the raw ache of being seen yet untouchable.

By the time he reached the quieter streets, the festival noise had faded to a distant hum, but the anxiety didn’t let go. Each step felt necessary and empty at the same time, like running could somehow dissipate the heat and the shame.

Whispers replayed in his mind. Imagined glances cut through him. Gunwook’s absence pressed down heavier than ever.

At the dorm, his hands shook as he fumbled with the lock, knuckles gone white. Heart hammering, vision narrowing, body trembling, he tried to count one, two, three, but the numbers slipped past him.

Inside, the silence made every thought louder. His bag thumped to the floor, the blanket weighed on him, but the storm inside didn’t ease. He tried to disappear, stay small, a shield against feelings he couldn’t name. 

Memories he’d shoved down surfaced anyway: Nicholas, laughing in quiet corners, closeness always tinged with warnings. Don’t let anyone see that side of you. This is wrong. This is… disgusting. Every one of those lessons shaped how he moved, how he pulled back from warmth, how he kept himself contained.

Even alone, those lessons twisted into guilt and longing. For a split second, he had wanted it, wanted Gunwook to lean closer, to notice him, to want him. 

He wanted the ease Gunwook carried, the way he could move through the world without fear, without hiding, without apology. He wanted the small gestures that felt like recognition, the teasing, the glances that made him feel seen in a way no one else ever did. 

He wanted the warmth, the freedom, the carefreeness that seemed to spill from him effortlessly, and he wanted it reflected back at him.

The lines on the ceiling blurred. 

It didn’t mean anything. 

Just one almost. Safe. Forget it.

The words felt empty. Panic slammed through him, each heartbeat crushing and unrelenting. He clutched the blanket like letting go would leave him exposed to the whole world.

Breaths came shallow and jagged, stabbing at his lungs. The room tilted with each inhale, each exhale trembling through him. He buried his face in the pillow, searching for something solid to hold onto, but the fear twisted inward, coiling through his chest, climbing his throat, settling in the hollow behind his eyes.

Minutes passed, though he couldn’t tell how many. Waves of fear rose and crashed again and again, leaving him raw, trembling, sweat prickling at his temples. Slowly, painfully, they began to fade, each shiver grounding him a little more, each shallow breath reclaiming a fraction of control. His chest still ached, but the suffocating grip loosened enough for his thoughts to creep back in; scrambled, scattered, fragile.

Sleep finally came, but like a thief, dragging his body under while his mind raced. The spark lingered, stubborn and unyielding, a quiet ember that refused to die. Even as his body went slack and exhausted, part of him stayed awake flinching at imagined stares, at the desire for something he wasn’t allowed or supposed to want. 

It was impossible to bury, impossible to forget, impossible to quiet.

--------

Matthew slipped out of bed earlier than usual, careful not to wake Hao or Taerae. He wanted to avoid their questions about leaving so suddenly the night before. Their concern always pressed against him in a way that made him shrink. Moving quietly, he dressed and left the dorm before anyone stirred, hoping the hallway would be empty and that he could vanish into the morning unnoticed.

The hallways were already alive with morning energy: chatter drifting along lockers, footsteps echoing off the tile. A few teachers lingered in the classrooms, supervising the extra tutorial sessions and extracurricular activities the school had scheduled on Saturday, but most of the students were clustered in corners, cramming for exams or gossiping in small groups. Matthew reached into his locker, fingers brushing the notebook inside like it could shield him, when a burst of laughter cut sharply through the air. Too loud. Too deliberate. Coming from just around the corner.

He froze.

A pair of girls huddled near the windows, voices carrying without effort.

“Did you see them at the festival yesterday?” one giggled, twirling a strand of hair.

“They were so close,” the other snorted. “Like… inches away. Ew, what is he even doing with Gunwook?”

“Maybe our Gunwookie has a thing for the quiet ones,” the first said, sing-song, dripping with amusement. “You know… that kind of thing.”

“Please, he’d never go for a guy,” the second laughed. “He’s way too… normal and good-looking for that.”

Heat pooled inside him, precise and suffocating. His knees wobbled. Every word cut deeper than teasing; it was exposure, a spotlight on everything he had fought to hide.

He didn’t need to see their faces to feel the judgment. He gripped the locker, knuckles white, as the hallway seemed to shrink around him. The girls’ laughter lingered like a sharp knife, a reminder of just how visible, how exposed, he could be.

Later, in the art room, the usual sanctuary of soft light and quiet rustle of paper, everything felt off. The air, normally sweet with the faint scent of pencils and paint, hung too close, oppressive, as if it could see through him. 

Matthew stepped inside cautiously, shoulders tight, ears picking up every small sound, the scrape of a chair, the faint tap of pencil on paper, like they were amplified, accusing.

Hao and Taerae were already at their usual tables, sketchbooks open. Their heads lifted as he entered, expressions shifting instantly: curiosity tinged with concern, something in their posture inviting questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

“Matt…” Hao’s voice cut through the quiet, soft and careful. “You left the festival so suddenly yesterday… what happened?”

“Yeah,” Taerae added, leaning forward slightly, voice low but insistent. “We were worried. You also just… kinda disappeared from the dorm this morning.”

Matthew’s pulse quickened, a knot of dread tightening inside him. His fingers clenched around his sketchbook, forcing the paper flat as though the weight could anchor him. He drew a shaky, measured breath, jaw tight.

“I’ll tell you guys later,” he said, clipped, tone sharper than he intended. “I just… need to focus on my sketches right now.”

Hao glanced at Taerae, then back at Matthew, hesitating. “You sure? You don’t have to-”

“I’ll let you know later,” Matthew cut in, eyes flicking back to the paper, pencil hovering uselessly above it. His words were firm, a wall, to avoid answering. “Now, please, just let me draw.”

He slid into his usual seat, lowering the pencil but finding no relief. The sunlight through the window glinted off paint jars like tiny spotlights, and the soft scratch of pencils across paper became a drumbeat in his chest.

A flicker of guilt wormed its way in. 

What if they knew? What if someone found out that I might like Gunwook? 

His hands twitched over the pencil, but he didn’t pick it up. The sketches that had once been a refuge now stared back at him blankly.

He tried to focus on the page, on the empty space where lines should have been. His breathing slowed by force, each count of his pencil strokes a silent plea for calm. But his heart thudded violently, each beat reminding him that he couldn’t escape what he felt, or what he feared others might see.

Taerae shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes, silently waiting. Hao’s gaze lingered, soft but searching, holding a question Matthew couldn’t let himself answer.

His fingers itched to move, to sketch something, anything, just to feel grounded. But the lines wouldn’t come. He pressed his forehead to his hands and let out a slow breath, then sat back, eyes drifting to the window. The afternoon light slid across the floor, shifting and flickering, and he tried to lose himself in its movement.

Even here, in the one place that used to feel safe, he felt unsteady. The world beyond the paper felt too sharp, too real, and it made him want to disappear. 

He put the pencil to paper at last, dragging out a single, tentative line, shaky but there. One mark. One small claim to steadiness. He added another, then another, the strokes loose and unfocused, just something to keep his hands busy while his mind floated elsewhere.

From the hallway, a burst of laughter spilled into the room. The voices weren’t talking to him, and they weren’t talking about him, but the tone; light, teasing, a little cruel, hit like a pinprick, intense and sudden, stirring up memories and shame he thought he’d buried.

His hand froze mid-line. The pencil snapped under his grip, a sudden, tiny fracture that echoed through him like a hammer. Charcoal-stained fingers trembled as he stared at the ruined sketch, dark smears spreading across the page like a stain on his resolve.

The broken drawing seemed to scream all the warnings he’d carried in his mind for years: Stay careful. Stay invisible. Protect yourself. Don’t embarrass your family. Don’t love.

His body tensed as he swallowed, forcing his shoulders back as though rigidity could armor him against the panic rising. 

Noticing Matthew’s tight posture, Hao’s voice cut through, soft and hesitant. “Matt…?”

Matthew jerked, startled, fingers tightening around the pencil. His words tumbled out too quickly, too thin, wavering despite his effort. “I’m fine… I just- uh, forgot something in the dorm.”

He yanked his bag up with more force than necessary, shoulders stiff, eyes glued to the floor. The imagined weight of every stare pressed down on him.

“Wait-” Taerae’s voice called after him, but Matthew didn’t stop. The scrape of a chair against the floor sounded impossibly loud, like a warning. Each step felt heavy with unease, every movement designed to vanish, to shrink, to convince the world he wasn’t there.

Even after the laughter and whispers faded, their echo clung to him, curling like smoke, thick and suffocating. He moved through the stairwell with shallow breaths, each heartbeat jagged and uneven. Every instinct screamed that being seen, or understood, would undo him.

The narrow, dim space offered a fleeting refuge. The cool wall pressed against his back, grounding him slightly, but it did little to stop the tremors racing through his body. He slid down the wall, curling his knees to his chest, arms wrapped tight around them. 

His breaths hitched, ragged and uneven, and the first tear slid free, warm and stinging. Another followed, then a rush, each sob shaking him to the core. Pressing his face into his arms, he let himself crumble, knuckles pale, seeking something, anything, to anchor himself amid the storm inside.

The crying started quiet, shaky, almost inaudible, a tremor of frustration and shame. But as the wave of panic surged, it grew ragged and raw. He pressed his hands over his mouth, trying to muffle it, gasping through the gaps, terrified someone might hear. 

Each breath came uneven, slicing through him, and he buried his face in the crook of his arm, head shaking against his knees. Small whimpers slipped out despite his efforts, and he hugged himself tighter, willing the sounds to disappear, but his body betrayed him.

Tears soaked his hoodie, mixing with sweat, each drop a bitter reminder of how exposed he felt. He curled inward, trying to take up as little space as possible, but the sobs came anyway, relentless and impossible to hold back. 

Even pressed against the wall, trembling, a stubborn ember lingered deep inside him: desire, fear, longing, and the need for connection all tangled together. It stayed just out of reach, buried beneath the surge of muffled cries and everything he had been taught to hide.

--------

Gunwook heard the whispers. Of course he did.

He didn’t flinch. Gossip had a way of curling through the hallways like smoke, settling in the cracks of lockers and classroom doors, drifting until everyone breathed the same poisoned air. People talking about him was nothing new, he’d been the center of attention long enough to know the rules. 

But Matthew’s name? That made it different.

“Did you see Gunwook at the festival? With that quiet Canadian kid? What was his name again?”

“Matthew.”

“Maybe he was just messing with him. Or maybe…” a pause, followed by a snicker, “…he’s into that kind of thing.”

“Please. Gunwook? Liking a guy? Don’t be ridiculous.”

The laughter spilled into the hall, easy and careless. Gunwook tilted his head, expression unreadable, letting the noise wash over him. 

They think they know me. They don’t. They have no idea.

Ricky’s rant about practice drills reached him, loud and unbothered. “-and if you don’t keep up, you’re dead weight, I swear!” Ricky yelled, flinging his backpack over one shoulder. Gunwook let the noise cover him, half-listening, nodding and laughing at the right moments, his outward calm hiding the churn of thoughts beneath.

Because it wasn’t about him, he could handle people twisting his image. What stuck was the thought of Matthew hearing it, shrinking under those words. The idea of Matthew feeling exposed or small made his jaw tighten behind the smirk. He couldn’t let Matthew see this.

Gunwook was still letting the murmurs sink in when Gyuvin slid up beside him and Ricky at the lockers, a sly grin tugging at his mouth.

“Yo, Gunwook,” Gyuvin said, nudging him lightly. “Heard some of the chatter going around.” His eyes flicked down the hall, casual but sharp. “Seems like everyone’s noticing… Matthew.”

Ricky snorted, elbowing Gunwook. “Close, huh? Really paying attention.”

Gunwook let a lazy grin curve his lips, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “You guys hear stuff about everyone. Don’t act innocent.”

“Yeah, but this one’s different,” Gyuvin pressed, head tilted, eyes glinting. “People are saying you keep looking at him, hanging around him… like you’re actually interested.” He waved a hand vaguely, and Ricky laughed, loud and shrill, clearly enjoying the tease.

He leaned against his locker, jaw tight behind the smirk he wore so easily, letting the laughter of others wash over him. 

Ricky and Gyuvin’s teasing only sharpened the edge, a reminder that everyone noticed, everyone judged. 

But that wasn’t the worst part. 

The worst part was seeing Matthew shrink under that weight, knowing he couldn’t do anything here without drawing even more attention.

Gunwook’s gaze swept the hall until it landed on Matthew, standing at the edge of the lockers, posture tight, head lowered, trying to disappear into the noise. A knot twisted in Gunwook’s stomach. Instinct screamed to pull him out, to shield him, yet he stayed rooted, the practiced grin firmly in place. 

Not here. Not now. Too many eyes.

Even from across the hall, Gunwook felt the tension in Matthew. The way he stiffened, tried to make himself smaller. It pressed against him, harsh and unfair. He wanted to shout at the world to stop, to stop making this quiet boy feel unsafe just for existing.

Beneath that protectiveness, another force took hold: Fascination. Matthew carried a quiet strength, calm and steady even when everything around him was chaotic, and Gunwook couldn’t look away. 

He noticed the small things, how people felt, the effort behind their actions, and it struck him how few people truly saw him the way Matthew seemed to.

There was complexity too. Matthew could seem fragile, but beneath it lay intelligence, empathy, and a quiet cleverness that made Gunwook want to lean in, to understand him. 

He liked that Matthew didn’t perform, didn’t seek approval; he was genuine, a contrast to the masks everyone else wore. Even the small ways Matthew resisted attention, quietly pushing back, sparked a curiosity Gunwook couldn’t shake.

And somewhere beneath it all, there was a resonance. Matthew’s hope, his fear, his longing, it mirrored parts of Gunwook he usually kept hidden. 

He wanted to know him. All of him. 

Every glance, every hesitant smile, every careful movement left him searching for answers he didn’t yet have.

A flash of helplessness hit him. In this crowded hallway, there was nothing he could do. Matthew slipped through the crowd like he wanted to vanish, and Gunwook’s chest tightened. He ached to step in, to shield him, to close the distance, but one wrong move could draw every eye and make things worse.

He exhaled slowly, a quiet crack in the mask he wore for everyone else. Matthew might try to stay small, cautious, measured, but he wasn’t invisible. 

Not to Gunwook. Not now. Not ever.

And lately, the signs were everywhere. In shared classes, Matthew’s eyes no longer lingered, he barely looked at Gunwook at all. In the halls, he packed up early, slipping out before their paths could cross. He took side passages, ducking away as if just being near Gunwook was dangerous. Even lunch was gone; he didn’t show up in the cafeteria, skipping it entirely rather than risk a chance encounter.

At first, Gunwook told himself it didn’t mean anything. Maybe Matthew was shy, distracted, lost in his own thoughts. But it kept happening. Every day, the same careful patterns. Excuses ran out. 

This wasn’t random. This was distance. 

Chosen. Careful. Intentional.

Each averted glance, each careful sidestep, pressed against him, a quiet weight at the edge of his patience. Rumors about himself could be shrugged off, dismissed as background noise, but Matthew pulling away was different. It wasn’t just distance. It felt like rejection. Silent, sharp, laced with fear. 

The idea that Matthew might be protecting himself, or avoiding him, twisted something deep in his chest.

The possibility ate at him. 

Was he making it worse? Was his presence a burden, drawing attention, making things harder for Matthew? 

The questions left a raw sting he couldn’t shake. He hadn’t meant to hurt Matthew, hadn’t meant to be the one he flinched from. And still, the pull lingered, keeping him close to the edges of Matthew’s orbit, catching every subtle movement, every fleeting glance.

He saw it all: the way Matthew’s hoodie shifted as he turned down a hall, the quick sweep of fingers through his hair, the way he vanished before their paths could cross. Every small motion carved itself into Gunwook’s mind, a weight no reassurance could ease.

He reminded himself it wasn’t his fault. He was careful. He meant no harm. And yet each retreat made the pain cutting, relentless, undeniable.

And with it came frustration, a slow burn coiling tighter every day, settling in his jaw, prickling under his skin. 

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he wanted to shout. 

“I’m not someone you need to hide from.”

Every detour, every careful step away felt like an accusation, as if Matthew’s fear was calling him cruel, careless, untouchable, when all Gunwook wanted was to be anything but.

By the seventh day, that frustration snapped taut. He leaned against the lockers, the chatter and footsteps of the hallway blurring past, and watched Matthew move by, head low, shoulders tight, eyes deliberately elsewhere.

“Hey! Matthew!” Gunwook called, his voice just loud enough to cut through the hum.

A few heads turned. Whispers rippled along the hall.

Matthew’s pace only quickened. Not a glance. Not once. Every step was a wall rising between them, deliberate and precise, as if Gunwook’s voice hadn’t even reached him.

A surge of unease hit Gunwook. He’d expected avoidance, he’d lived with it all week, but not this. Not the way Matthew moved, as if untouchable, as if the small, quiet moments they’d shared meant nothing.

Was that really how Matthew saw him? 

Reckless. Thoughtless. A boy who toyed with hearts and left them raw?

Did all those moments at the festival or at school mean nothing? Just a game? 

And then there was that guy during the tournament, Matthew’s hesitant but easy smile, the way his hands brushed his without hesitation. 

It hit Gunwook like a punch. 

Why was he invisible to Matthew, while another person could take up space in his world so effortlessly?

He stayed frozen for a moment, watching the hem of Matthew’s grey hoodie disappear around the corner. His fists clenched against the locker until his knuckles burned. With a sharp clang, he slammed it shut. 

The sound split the hall like a gunshot. 

Heads jerked. A girl dropped her drink. Someone muttered, “What the hell?”

Gyuvin and Ricky walked toward him, looking up mid-laugh as their teasing faded when they saw him.

“You good?” Ricky asked, careful.

“Yeah. Fine,” Gunwook said, voice dry and sharp, tasting like ash.

Inside, nothing felt fine. He wasn’t mad at the rumors, not really. It was Matthew. How fast he’d pulled away, how deliberate the distance had become.

Underneath that anger was something sharper, harder to bear: the tug of missing him. Even when Matthew stayed back, he filled every space. 

The stiff shoulders, the careful steps, the small pauses. Each one hit Gunwook, leaving him wanting to close the distance, to make it right, even if Matthew wouldn’t let him.

He wanted to call out, to reach for him, to say something, anything, but the hall was full of people. Friends and students drifted past, laughter bounced off lockers, sneakers clattered against tile. 

One wrong move and Matthew’s careful balance could break. Still, Gunwook followed him with his eyes, taking in every small detail.

Frustration and longing twisted together in his chest. Anger flared, fists itching to do something, then a hollow emptiness took over, the absence gnawing at him like an open wound. 

He exhaled, forcing the mask back into place. If Matthew wanted to act like nothing had happened, to vanish, then fine. Gunwook would match him.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders tight, and turned away. Every step felt heavy with control. But the pull remained. Matthew’s absence lingered, a shadow he couldn’t shake.

Chapter Text

The dorm was unusually quiet that afternoon, each tiny sound carving its space in the air. The air conditioner hummed in the background, steady and low, the only thing cutting through the stillness.

Hao sat at his desk flipping through his History notes, pencil tapping against the paper in slow, distracted rhythms. Taerae sprawled on his bed, earbuds dangling from one ear, phone resting on his stomach. 

Matthew sat at the foot of his bed, homework spread across his knees, pen hovering above a page of math problems that refused to make sense. Half-finished equations littered the page, abandoned before they became anything at all.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back with a rough, frustrated motion, letting out a shaky sigh. He could not focus at all.

Numbers blurred across the page, equations twisting into something meaningless, mocking him. He pressed the pen into the paper, then pulled it away again, tapping it against the page as if the rhythm could force clarity into his mind.

A soft vibration drew his attention to his phone. Matthew glanced down. A message from Nicholas blinked on the screen, 

Nicholas:

“Hey Matt, Nico here!” 

“Told you I’d reach out.”

“Free now? Wanna meet up? I’m nearby.” 

“I can pick you from your school in 5 minutes! There’s a café nearby, 2 bus stops away.”

He swallowed, a mix of tension and guilt knotting in his stomach. The idea of going tugged at him in two directions. 

Part of him craved the distraction and part of him was afraid of what it meant to leave. Beneath it all sat the same familiar guilt, the kind that came from promises he’d never said aloud but still felt bound to keep.

Hao glanced over, brow furrowed. “Matthew… you’ve been really down since the festival. You sure you’re okay?”

Matthew stiffened, gripping the pen a little too tightly. He wanted to answer, to say something that made sense, but the words caught in his throat. “Yeah… just… tired, I guess. Don’t worry.”

Hao’s gaze sharpened. “Tired again?” His voice was soft but carried weight. “That’s what you keep saying every time we ask. You don’t have to lie to us. I can tell that’s not the real reason…”

“You told us at art club the other day that you’d explain later… but all you’ve been doing is avoiding.”

Matthew’s throat tightened. The words stayed at the edge of his mind, restless but unsaid. He wanted to tell them, to unload even a piece of it, but everything felt tangled and dangerous to say out loud. He let his head fall forward, forehead resting briefly against the page, letting the frustration and helplessness hold him down.

Taerae pulled one earbud out and tilted his head, voice skeptical. “Look, I don’t know exactly what’s going on with you and that troublemaker, but I don’t think ignoring him is helping.” 

“And… I’ve noticed something. Lately, he’s been different. He acts like it doesn’t matter, but it’s obvious he notices when you’re not around or when you avoid him. He’s affected. And you don’t have to tell me everything to see it.”

Matthew’s pulse quickened. He’s… affected?

“I’m not avoiding anyone,” he responded quickly, too quickly. The lie sat heavy in his mouth.

Taerae gave him a long look. “Every time we ask what’s up, you just push it off. You act like it’s nothing, but it’s obvious. And you really think ducking him, or even us, fixes anything?”

Matthew pressed the pen into the page until it left faint, shaky grooves instead of numbers. He wanted to say it wasn’t about them, not really, but admitting that would mean saying more than he could handle.

Hao leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His voice was gentle, but it held a calm firmness. “You don’t have to tell us everything. Just… Please don’t shut us out completely. We’re still here for you. Always.”

Matthew nodded faintly, eyes fixed on the blank space of his Math homework. Inside, the knot of anxiety tightened. He already was shutting himself off, and he didn’t know how to stop. Hao’s quiet concern and Taerae’s skeptical honesty made him feel both seen and exposed.

His thumb hovered over Nicholas’ message again. A small, nervous smile tugged at his lips. He typed back quickly,

Matthew: 

“Okay, give me a while. I’ll see you at the gates in 10 minutes.”

Since the café was just a couple of stops away, and conveniently near his shift at the bookstore in a few hours, he figured it made sense. A short detour, a little break before work, and a chance to step away from the tension. 

Why not?

He grabbed his bag, took a deep breath, and slipped out of the dorm, careful not to draw attention. Each step carried the weight of the afternoon with him, but also a small spark of relief, the kind that comes from making a simple choice for himself.

The late afternoon sun slanted across the school gates, painting long shadows over the pavement as students poured out in clusters. Voices carried, laughter, arguments, plans for the weekend, all of it washing over Matthew like static. He kept close to the edge, bag strap digging into his shoulder.

Then, “Matt!”

The sound of his name made him freeze. It wasn’t the cautious tone of a classmate or the clipped voice of a teacher. It was warm, bright, like it had been years ago. He turned, pulse stuttering, and there he was: Nicholas, leaning casually against the railing, one arm lifted in an easy wave.

Matthew blinked. For a moment, the world around him blurred, and all he could see was the boy he used to know. Nicholas, who used to sit beside him at lunch and classes, who he always had sleepovers with, who always made him laugh at the smallest things, who had been the one constant until Matthew had pulled away. 

Guilt swelled inside him, sharp and familiar.

“You actually came,” Matthew said, voice soft, almost testing the words as if he didn’t quite believe them.

Nicholas’ grin widened. “What, you thought I wouldn’t? After all these years? Come on, you ditched me once, I’m not letting you do it again.”

The words landed heavier than Nicholas probably meant them to. A familiar shame stirred in him, the old remorse pressing deeper. 

He’d wanted to stay. He had. But things had gotten complicated. His family, the whispers he feared, the part of himself he couldn’t explain. And Nicholas had been part of that world, a reminder of what felt too dangerous to hold on to.

Still, Nicholas didn’t look angry. 

They fell into step together, heading toward the bus stop just down the road. Matthew’s eyes kept drifting to him, and with each glance, the past washed over him, sketches he’d made in quiet corners of his notebook, afternoons spent trying to capture the tilt of his smile, the way sunlight had caught his hair. 

He had grown taller, sharper around the edges, but his familiar grin; open, unshaken, pulled Matthew back into those memories, a bittersweet echo of a closeness that once felt effortless, before everything had changed.

When the bus arrived, they climbed aboard and slid into a pair of seats near the back. The city shifted past the window, sunlight flashing against glass. For a while, neither spoke. Matthew stared at the reflection in the window, two boys side by side, one familiar and one distant all at once.

Then Nicholas leaned back, stretching out his legs, and said quietly, “You know, you haven’t changed much.”

Matthew blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re still the calm one,” Nicholas said, turning his head slightly to study him. “The one who holds everything steady, even when you’re falling apart inside. You never wanted people to see when things got heavy. I used to hate that.” His voice softened, less teasing now. 

“You were my best friend, Matt. I could always tell when something was wrong, even when you tried to make it seem like nothing was.”

The words made Matthew’s throat tighten. He gripped his bag a little harder, fingers twisting the strap. “People change,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the passing blur of cars outside.

“Yeah, maybe.” Nicholas shrugged, casual but not dismissive.

“But to me, you’re still the same kid who’d share his snacks with me after my basketball practice. The same one who stayed up way too late helping me cram before tests, even though you were tired. The one who… never laughed when I messed up.” He gave a small chuckle, shaking his head. 

“Who does that? Most people thought I was just the screw-up. But not you.”

A familiar pang stirred deep within Matthew, tangled with nostalgia and discomfort. No one else remembered those details. 

No one else saw him like that anymore.

Nicholas leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice dropped lower, steadier. “I don’t know why you disappeared or avoided me back then…”

“Maybe you had your reasons, and maybe it wasn’t about me at all. But I missed you, Matt. And seeing you now… I don’t want to lose you again.”

The bus rattled over a bump, jostling them both slightly, but neither moved away.

Matthew stared at his reflection in the window, trying to ignore the sting behind his eyes. He wanted to say something, to explain, to apologize, but the words tangled and stuck. All he could manage was a quiet, “…I’m sorry.”

Nicholas gave him a small smile, gentle, not pressing. “You don’t have to be. Just… let’s not pretend we’re strangers anymore, okay?”

Matthew nodded faintly, the tightness in his chest easing just enough to breathe. For the first time in days, the silence between him and someone else didn’t feel suffocating.

--------

Gunwook was walking from his dorm block. He hadn’t planned to notice anything, just heading to the school’s gym for basketball practice.

Then he saw them. 

Matthew, a little hesitant, walking alongside a boy, the one he’d played against during the inter-school tournament. He didn’t know his name, just the way Matthew moved beside him, lighter somehow, the small smiles that weren’t meant for him. Something twisted tight in Gunwook’s chest.

Why am I even feeling this? he thought, reprimanding himself silently. 

It’s not like he’s mine, not like it should matter… 

He does not want to be near me anyways. 

The image of Matthew’s muted, easy laughter with someone else clung stubbornly in his mind, and his heart felt heavy in a way he couldn’t explain..

He paused, overwhelmed by frustration, before forcing himself to move.

Focus. Don’t make a scene, he muttered under his breath, though the tension followed him all the way to the gym. 

By the time he reached the court, the feeling hadn’t eased at all; it had only sharpened, threading through his movements and making his hands clamp harder on the ball than usual.

The gym was alive with sound; squeaking sneakers, balls slapping against the floor, Coach Kim’s whistle cutting through the air. Normally, Gunwook thrived in the chaos. Practice was where everything else blurred out. Here, he was sharp, locked in, the player everyone expected him to be.

But not today.

His passes cracked too hard against teammates’ palms, making them wince. His shots were rushed, bouncing off the rim with a clang that made his agitation flare. Even his footwork was uneven and heavy, like he was trying to force out the tension brewing in his chest. 

Every movement carried more force than necessary, as if pounding it out could erase the image of Matthew walking alongside that other boy or just Matthew in general.

From the sidelines, Ricky leaned lazily against the wall, one foot propped, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Wow. Our star player missing shots? That’s… unusual. Guess your art boy really got to you.” His voice carried easily over the thud of basketballs and the squeak of sneakers.

A few guys on the other side of the gym, using the spare court just to hang out, snickered and threw quick glances toward Gunwook, as if daring him to lose his composure.

Gyuvin jogged past, hands brushing his knees as he grinned, casual but sharp. “Gunwook-ah, what’d you do this time? Break his pencils or something?”

The words hit harder than they were meant to, cutting through the controlled chaos of the gym. Gunwook caught the next pass, fingers tightening until the leather squeaked under his grip. His jaw clenched, and when he spoke, his voice cut sharp across the court, louder than intended.

“Shut your mouths. You guys don’t know shit.”

The gym froze. Sneakers paused mid-step, the rhythmic thud of bouncing balls seemed to stall, and even Coach Kim, mid-whistle, lowered it from his lips to glance over, brow furrowed. 

Ricky’s easy smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty, while Gyuvin’s grin faded into something closer to genuine surprise, as if for the first time he realized how deep Gunwook’s frustration ran.

Yujin, standing quietly at the edge of the court, felt a pang of unease. Being a junior, he knew better than to speak up, but watching his hyungs unravel like this, even subtly, made him shift on his feet, cautious, unsettled.

Gunwook’s anger wasn’t new, but this… this felt unguarded, something untamed and dangerous that made him feel uneasy. He lowered his ball slowly, heart racing, each movement feeling fragile, as if the floor itself might give way.

Gunwook’s thoughts churned as he moved, each failed pass and misfired shot echoing the tight knot in his chest. 

Why do I even care? He wondered bitterly. 

Why does it twist me like this? Does he hate me? It’s not even supposed to matter…

The oppressive calm stretched, thick and uncomfortable, hanging over the court like a heavy fog. Even the usual energy of practice felt stifled, weighed down by the tension radiating from him, an invisible storm the others couldn’t touch, but everyone could feel it.

Then, “Enough.”

Hanbin’s voice cut through. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a kind of precision that made the gym pause. The murmurs died down almost automatically, and for a second, it felt like the air itself had thickened.

“Stop spouting nonsense and focus,” Hanbin said, eyes drilling into Ricky and Gyuvin. No humor, no smirk, no softness, just cold authority. 

The two of them shifted, uncomfortable under the intensity, muttering half-hearted excuses before forcing themselves back into drills, every movement stiff and aware.

Hanbin’s gaze moved to Gunwook, “You too. Get your head in the game.”

Gunwook met his eyes for a brief, taut second. The ball was clenched in his hands, knuckles pale. He didn’t reply, he didn’t need to. He just turned sharply, launching forward with coiled energy. Sneakers squeaked, muscles snapping and releasing with raw precision, and then, bang. The dunk slammed through the rim with a violent rattle, the echo shaking the rafters.

The ball skidded across the floor, rolling to Yujin at the edge of the court. He bent to pick it up, keeping his gaze low.

From the sidelines, Jiwoong shifted slightly with hands tucked into his hoodie pocket. He didn’t speak, didn’t draw attention, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from following Gunwook, the slight tremor in his movements, the way his frustration radiated outward. 

--------

After practice, the locker room was nearly empty, the last echoes of running showers fading into a soft, hollow hum. The metallic clang of lockers opening and closing reverberated faintly, punctuating the silence. Steam lingered in the air, carrying the faint scent of sweat and soap.

Gunwook slouched on the bench, shoulders tense, jersey clinging to his back, damp and heavy. The basketball sat at his feet, untouched, as if even it couldn’t anchor him. His hands rested on his knees, fingers tapping a restless, uneven rhythm against the fabric of his shorts. 

He didn’t look at the lockers, the floor, or even the faint reflection of himself in the mirror. He just stared, eyes unfocused, mind racing.

Every muscle in his body thrummed with pent-up energy, the kind that made stillness feel impossible. Frustration clenched at him, and he tugged at the back of his hair, exhaling slowly, sharply, as if trying to force the storm inside him to settle. Yet the more he tried to calm himself, the more the restlessness coiled tighter, spiraling through his limbs like electricity with nowhere to discharge.

The room smelled faintly of damp towels and linoleum, sterile but oddly grounding, and still he stayed there, suspended between motion and pause, letting the emptiness press against him.

Hanbin stepped in, towel draped over his neck, and took a seat across from him without a word. He watched quietly for a moment, letting Gunwook simmer in his own space.

Finally, Hanbin spoke, soft but firm. “You don’t lose focus on the court unless something’s really eating at you.”

Gunwook gave a dry, humorless laugh. “Guess I’m starving then.” He shook his head. 

“He won’t even look at me. Like I did something wrong.”

Hanbin leaned forward slightly, steadying his gaze on Gunwook. “You’re talking about Matthew, aren’t you?”

Gunwook froze, the name hanging in the air. After a long pause, he muttered, “Yeah… I am.”

Hanbin’s tone softened further, no judgment, only curiosity. “What’s wrong?”

Gunwook let out a heavy breath, running a hand down his face. “I don’t get it. He’s… different. I’ve never… I don’t even know...”

“Even when he acts like I don’t exist, I can’t stop noticing him. Every soft smile, every look, it sticks. And he avoids me like I’m… dangerous or something.”

Hanbin’s expression didn’t waver. He spoke slowly, thoughtfully. “Maybe he’s scared. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. People react in ways they don’t understand themselves. Maybe he doesn’t know how to face what he wants.”

Gunwook’s jaw clenched. “I don’t care about most people noticing me. I’ve had stares, whispers… teasing, it’s whatever. But him…” His voice faltered, almost cracking. “…I didn’t think I’d be interested in someone like him. And now, I don’t know how to stop.”

Hanbin nodded, leaning back, letting him absorb the words. “There’s nothing wrong with that. Liking someone isn't a weakness. Being thrown off by it, that’s normal.”

Gunwook’s hands twisted the ball in his lap. “And at the tournament… there was this other guy. Matthew… he smiled at him. Hesitantly, sure, but I couldn’t stop thinking how different it was. How he never looks at me like that.”

Hanbin’s brow furrowed slightly. “Wait, other guy? Which guy?”

“Some kid from the other school,” Gunwook muttered quietly. “Didn’t even catch his name. But when Matthew looked at him… he seemed lighter. Like he could just exist without thinking. He’s never like that around me. It’s like I make him nervous just by being there.”

Hanbin nodded slowly, understanding settling in. “So it’s not about the guy. It’s the space between you. You can tell he’s scared, and that’s what gets under your skin. You want to close that distance, but you don’t know how.”

Gunwook exhaled sharply, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel like this. I didn’t think I’d want someone to see me like that. And now… I can’t stop thinking about it. About him.”

Hanbin leaned forward, resting a hand on the bench near Gunwook. “That’s just part of being human. You care, even when it hurts. And that’s okay. You just have to figure out how to deal with it, your feelings, before they start dealing with you.”

Gunwook’s shoulders slumped, the tension easing slightly. “Every time he’s near, I feel this… mix of exasperation and wanting. I can’t even put it into words. And seeing him smile at someone else, even hesitantly… it twists me up inside, and I hate that it matters that much.”

Hanbin smiled gently, teasing lightly but with care. “You’re jealous. Admit it.”

Gunwook shot him a look, half a glare, half defeated. “I’m not-” He stopped, exhaling. “Maybe I am. I don’t know.”

Hanbin shook his head slowly, his tone turning calm and steady. “No one said you were. But if you care about him that much, don’t turn it into something ugly. Don’t run from it or push him away just because it hurts.”

Gunwook looked down at the ball, twisting it in his hands. “I just… I don’t even know if he likes me. Or if he notices at all. Every time I think I can… talk or even look, he slips away. It’s maddening.”

Hanbin studied him for a moment, expression unreadable but kind. “Then tell him. Not all at once, just… stop hiding behind the frustration. He won’t know what’s real if you keep acting like you don’t care.”

Gunwook’s gaze dropped, the words settling heavier than he expected. “And if I mess it up?”

Hanbin’s lips curved into a small, reassuring smile. “Then at least you’ll know you tried. You’ve got a good heart, Wook. We all love you.” 

“He’ll see that, if you give him the chance even.”

Gunwook exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest loosening just enough for air to fill his lungs again.

Hanbin nudged his shoulder lightly. “Start by not losing your head on the court again. And maybe… reach out instead of waiting for him to do something.”

Gunwook gave a short laugh, more exhale than sound. “Yeah, right. Me, confessing feelings? That’ll go great.”

Hanbin arched a brow, smile tugging wider. “Oh please. You’re Gunwook. Park Gunwook. You walk into a room and half the school forgets how to breathe. Subtle isn’t exactly your thing.”

Gunwook rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a small grin. “You make it sound like I’m some drama lead or something.”

“You kinda are,” Hanbin said lightly, then his voice softened. “But for once, maybe don’t play the part everyone expects. Just be honest with him. That’s the version he probably wants to see.”

The teasing faded into an unspoken understanding, hanging between them. Gunwook’s fingers toyed with the basketball in his lap, thumb tracing the worn leather seams. “You really think that’s enough?”

Hanbin’s smile turned faint but sure. “It’s a start. And knowing you, that’s already saying something.”

Gunwook let out a slow breath, tension easing slightly. “Thank you. Really.”

Hanbin stood, clapping him lightly on the shoulder before heading toward the lockers. “Don’t mention it. Just… try not to scare him with all that intensity, yeah?”

Gunwook smirked, shaking his head. “No promises.”

“Figures. Now get cleaned up. And remember… I’ll be watching. Don’t make me roll my eyes at your training again.” Hanbin chuckled, voice echoing off the tiles as he left. 

When the door clicked shut, the silence that followed didn’t feel as suffocating anymore. Gunwook looked down at the ball once more, the faintest smile ghosting his lips. 

Maybe Hanbin was right. Maybe it was time to stop hiding behind frustration and start doing something about it.

Matthew’s face slipped into his mind before he could stop it. 

How he looked when he was focused, when he smiled without realizing, the way his shoulders tensed when someone called his name. Gunwook exhaled, a humorless huff.

“If I told you, you’d probably just stare and not say a word,” he muttered under his breath. But even as he said it, there was a flicker of warmth beneath the frustration; a faint, persistent hope that maybe Matthew wouldn’t walk away this time.

He leaned back, head resting against the locker, eyes closing briefly. Just enough to let the thought linger before it slipped away with the hum of the ventilation vents.

--------

The evening air was cooler now, heavy with the scent of rain that hadn’t quite fallen. The streets near the dorm blocks were nearly empty, lamplight stretching long across the pavement.

Matthew tightened his grip on his bag strap as he walked, exhaustion weighing on his shoulders, the calm of campus settling around him. The streets near the dorm blocks were almost empty, the bookstore’s faint scent of old paper and dust still lingering on his clothes.The shift at the bookstore had passed at a muted pace, the soft murmur of customers, the hum of old jazz playing faintly from the radio. 

It should’ve been calming. Instead, his thoughts kept circling back to earlier at the cafe before his shift, to Nicholas’ easy smile, to the way laughter felt strange in his throat after so long.

He kept replaying small moments from the day. It was strange, how something that once felt like home now felt distant, like a photograph from a life he barely recognized.

By the time he reached the path leading toward the dorm blocks, his thoughts had started to blur. He just wanted to get upstairs, change, and sink into his comfy bed.

Then he saw him.

Gunwook stood a few paces ahead, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, hair still damp from a quick shower after practice. The streetlight above them flickered once, catching the edge of his expression, unreadable, but softer than Matthew remembered.

For a second, neither moved. The air between them felt heavy, suspended.

Gunwook’s gaze lifted first. “You’re back late.” His voice was low, almost cautious, lacking the sharp confidence he usually carried.

Matthew halted mid-step, his heart skipping erratically. He hadn’t prepared for this, hadn’t expected to face him here, like this, after so many days of silence and avoidance. 

“Yeah. I just… finished my shift at the bookstore.” he said, trying to sound casual, though the words felt awkward and heavy.

Gunwook nodded slightly, eyes locked on him. There was something restrained in his posture, searching, as though he was holding himself back, measuring the distance between them with care.

Silence draped over the street, broken only by the faint hum of a distant streetlamp. Then Gunwook took one careful step forward.

“Matthew, I-” he said, voice softer now, hesitant but steady. “Can… can we talk?”

The question hung in the air between them, fragile and heavy, a weight that neither knew how to bear. Matthew felt a surge of fear and unease. He opened his mouth to answer, but no words came.

For a moment, the world seemed to pause; the lamplight, the distant hum of traffic, even the slight rustle of the trees in the breeze. Everything narrowed to the space between them, to the one question that had the power to change everything.

“Can we please talk?” Gunwook asked again, a faint edge of urgency threading through the words, and Matthew finally met his gaze, caught in the quiet gravity of the moment.

Chapter Text

“Can we please talk?”

Matthew stopped mid-step, his heart skipping. The street around them was almost empty, broken only by distant chatter from the dorm blocks. For a moment, neither moved. The air felt unusually heavy, as if it had paused to listen.

He tugged at the hem of his hoodie, just to feel something under his fingers, anything to fill the silence. His thoughts scattered, every possible answer slipping through his mind before he could catch it.

“About what?” he finally managed, his voice smaller than he intended, almost swallowed by the quiet.

Gunwook exhaled roughly. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Matthew’s head snapped up, his eyes darting away almost instantly. “I- I haven’t,” he said too quickly. There wasn’t anger in his voice, just the kind of panic that comes from being seen too clearly.

Gunwook blinked, slow and deliberate, like he was gathering himself. He shook his head slightly before finally meeting Matthew’s gaze.

“Really?” His voice softened, fragile and uncertain, like he was exposing something he usually kept buried beneath his mask. “Because it feels like you have,” he hesitated, voice cracking slightly. “And I don’t know what I did to make you want to disappear like that.”

The words hung there, and Matthew froze, because that voice, hesitant and vulnerable, wasn’t one he’d ever heard directly from Gunwook before. The confident golden boy he knew was gone, replaced by someone restless, exposed in a way he hadn’t expected. 

It made his mind race, a mix of surprise and something deeper he didn’t want to name. He realized, painfully, that he hadn’t expected to see this side of Gunwook again, and that seeing it made him feel both unsteady and… unsettlingly drawn in.

He forced out, “You’re drawing meaning where there isn’t any.” Eyes dropping to the floor, as if avoiding his gaze could make the lie sound real.

Gunwook breathed out shakily, the sound caught somewhere between frustration and the subtle breaking of his own heart. “Right… so you just happen to take the long way around campus? And leave early every time I show up?”, words wavering slightly, soft and almost pleading.

Matthew’s jaw twitched. “You’re imagining things…”

“Then look at me and say that,” Gunwook murmured.

But he couldn’t. His fingers twisted together, his posture folding in on itself, shrinking beneath the tension of the moment.

Gunwook stepped closer, shoulders slumped, the hard edge gone from his stance. “Did I… do something wrong?” His voice was low, almost a whisper, carrying a weight that made the street feel emptier than it already was.

Matthew’s body stiffened, his chest rising and falling a little too fast. “Why does it matter?” he blurted out, the words sharper than he intended, a mix of frustration tangled with something fragile underneath. 

Gunwook blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean, why-”

“We’re not even close,” he retorted, cutting him off, the words spilling out faster than he could soften them. “You don’t have to pretend like it’s a big deal.”

Something flickered across Gunwook’s face; surprise first, then confusion, then something that looked too close to hurt. He drew in a shallow breath, his eyes searching Matthew’s as if trying to find where he went wrong. The shift in him was small, but it was enough to make the atmosphere feel colder and tighter between them.

The quiet that followed felt thick, almost unbreathable.

His fingers curled at his sides, the words rising before he could stop them.

“Just… stop,” he said, teeth clenched, words rough with frustration. “Stop playing with my feelings. If teasing someone is what you want, fine. But leave me out of it. Don’t-” his breath hitched slightly “-don’t make this about me.”

Gunwook’s shoulders sank, his lips pressed together, eyes glinting with the tears he refused to let fall. He blinked fast, forcing himself to hold it together.

“Is that what you really think?” he asked, voice rough and brittle, each word almost breaking. “That I was pretending? Playing?”

Matthew exhaled sharply, looking away. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it,” Gunwook pressed further, voice gentler now. “Help me get it.”

Matthew looked down, words tumbling out small and uneven. “It’s just easier this way.”

“Easier?”

“If I don’t talk to you,” he said, his tone cracking on the edges, “then nothing gets weird. People don’t stare. I don’t have to-” He cut himself off, swallowing hard.

Gunwook’s brows knitted together. “You don’t have to what?”

Matthew didn’t answer. His silence was answer enough.

Gunwook broke the silence “You think I care about what people say?” 

“It’s not about you,” Matthew muttered. “It’s about me.”

For a while, the only sound was the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze filling the space between them.

Gunwook finally said, “You don’t have to hide every time I look at or when I’m near you.”

Matthew flinched like the words stung. “I’m not hiding.”

“Then what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, tracing the shadows between them.

Gunwook kicked at a pebble, watching it tumble into the gutter. His sigh came out tired. “I just thought maybe what we had, whatever it was, meant something.”

Matthew sighed, breath snagging on the truth he couldn’t bring himself to speak. He wanted to say it did, that it meant everything, but the words never came.“You’re reading into things,” he muttered, voice barely steady.

Gunwook gave a faint, humorless smile. “Maybe I am.”

The wind brushed past, cool against the side of Matthew’s face. For a long second, he couldn’t bring himself to look up. But when he finally did, Gunwook wasn’t meeting his eyes anymore. 

His eyes were distant, unfocused, as if he were somewhere else entirely. His lips pressed together, and the usual ease in his posture had slipped, leaving him slightly hunched, like he was bracing himself.

There was something about him that made the space between them feel fragile, like it could collapse with a single word. Matthew’s stomach knotted. He wanted to say something, anything, to soften the moment, to undo what he’d just said, but the words got caught somewhere behind his teeth.

Gunwook blinked hard once, the movement sharp enough to chase away the subtle tears that had gathered at his eyes. “I- I wasn’t pretending,” he said, unsure, pausing as if testing the words. “I don’t know. I’m not good at this…” 

“At letting someone see me. I’ve always had to be loud, or tough, or funny, just to keep people from noticing anything else.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a small, awkward gesture that made him seem smaller somehow. “But with you, it feels different. I really wanted to be my real self with you. I tried but I could not. And I- I don’t know how to do or handle it.”

“I didn’t want to… hurt you, if I even did. I wasn’t trying to play with your feelings.”

His eyes flicked up at Matthew, glimmering faintly. “I just don’t know how to not mess things up. I wanted to try, but I-” He swallowed, cutting himself off, hands curling slightly in his pockets.

“I’m not good at this,” he said again, softer now, almost to himself. “I don’t know how to be honest without breaking something...”

Matthew’s chest tightened, breath snagging, shocked at Gunwook’s vulnerability. The sharpness in his throat softened into something hesitant, fragile. He wanted to reach out, to open up, to let go of his fears, but he did not. Instead, he let himself look at Gunwook, really look, for the first time that evening.

“I don’t really know what I’m supposed to say,” Gunwook admitted finally, quieter now, folding the ache into something he could manage. “I just- I don’t want things to stay like this.”

Matthew shifted, uncertainty coiling in his chest. “And what if this is better?”

Gunwook looked startled, searching his face. “For who?”

Matthew didn’t answer. 

“You don’t have to want what I do,” Gunwook said. He hesitated, eyes flicking up for a moment. “Let me be someone you don’t have to hide from. We don’t have to be anything else. No weird expectations, no one else has to know.”

Matthew blinked, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Why would you even want that?”

Because I like you. The thought stayed in Gunwook’s head, but he only offered a small, tired smile. 

“Because I don’t want you to keep looking at me like I’m something you need to run from. I’m not who you or what others think I am.”

The words silenced Matthew completely. His throat bobbed, caught somewhere between apology and fear.

Finally, all he could manage was a quiet, “I’ll think about it.”

Gunwook nodded once, expression soft, almost hopeful.

As Matthew turned to leave, Gunwook called out, “Just so you know-” 

When he glanced back, Gunwook’s gaze was steady. “I don’t think you’re strange for what you feel,” he said, “Whatever it is.”

Matthew froze, eyes wide, but Gunwook didn’t wait for an answer. He just shoved his hands in his pockets and walked off toward the fading light, leaving Matthew standing there; heart racing, caught between fear and a fragile hope.

--------

“Earth to Matthew.”

Hao leaned across the table and poked at Matthew’s cheek, grinning when he jolted, eyes wide and face tinged pink.

“What’s gotten into you?” Taerae asked, tilting his head, his voice carrying that soft concern he never quite managed to hide.

“You know what,” Hao said suddenly, clapping his hands together, “it’s been forever since the three of us actually hung out. Let’s hit the convenience store, get snacks before it closes at midnight.”

Matthew blinked, still half-lost in thought. “Sure…” he muttered.

“Perfect,” Hao declared, already halfway to the door as he grabbed his jacket off the chair. “Come on, slowpokes! The good chips sell out fast.”

Taerae sighed, standing to follow. “You say that every time, and we always end up getting ice cream instead.”

“That’s because someone-” Hao spun around, pointing accusingly “-takes ten minutes to decide between two flavors.”

Taerae gave him a flat look. “Some of us appreciate the value of choice.”

Matthew chuckled under his breath as he pulled on his hoodie, the sound of their familiar bickering loosening something in his chest. It had been a while since he’d felt something this simple, this unguarded.

When they stepped outside, the evening air was cool, the pavement still damp and glistening under the orange glow of the streetlights. The campus had gone quiet, the usual noise replaced by the hum of cicadas and the distant echo of laughter from the dorms.

Hao led the way down the narrow path lined with trees, his voice animated as he launched into a retelling of a show he’d started watching. “No, but seriously, the main character’s cat saves the world in episode three. A cat, Taerae.”

Taerae raised an eyebrow. “What are you even watching. But then again… That sounds like something you’d write.”

“I could write it better,” Hao said proudly. “The cat in my story would at least have dialogue.”

Matthew smiled, amusement tugging at his mouth. He stayed a few steps behind them, letting their conversation fill the air. The laughter felt steady and grounding. Something ordinary to hold onto after days that had been anything but.

By the time the store’s flickering sign came into view, Hao was still talking. “Okay, I’m getting honey butter chips. No arguments.”

“You always get those,” Taerae replied, pushing the door open. “Try being adventurous for once.”

“Hey, honey butter chips are elite,” Hao said, scandalized.

Matthew grinned, trailing after them. “Not unless they start selling durian-flavored ones.”

Hao gasped dramatically, spinning to face him. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

Taerae laughed, shaking his head as he grabbed a basket. “Not when it involves your snack addiction.”

Inside, the store was bright and quiet, filled with the low drone of refrigerators and the crinkle of plastic packaging. An older woman behind the counter looked up and smiled warmly. “Ah, you three again! Come to raid the shelves?” she said with a teasing tone, waving a hand at the aisles.

Hao grinned back. “Of course, ahjumma! We can’t let the best snacks sell out, can we?” He darted straight for the snack aisle, already loading up on chips like he was preparing for a week-long trip. 

“Take it easy, or you’ll get a tummyache before bedtime.” She said, staring at them as if they were her own children.

Taerae followed more calmly, inspecting expiration dates like it was a science experiment.

Matthew lingered by the drink fridge, watching his friends move through the aisles. For a second, something in his chest eased completely. The tension that had followed him all week, the guilt, the questions, the way his thoughts kept circling back to him, faded beneath the soft warmth of the moment.

Hao’s voice rang out from the next aisle. “Matthew! What snack do you want?”

He blinked, smiling faintly. “Uh… surprise me.”

Taerae snorted. “He’s going to regret that.”

“Yup,” Hao said, already tossing something mysterious into the basket.

Matthew laughed, eyes flicking between them.

They ended up at the benches just outside the store, a few meters from the entrance where the yellow light spilled unevenly across the pavement. Hao tore open his bag of honey butter chips while Taerae cupped his hands around steaming instant noodles, the faint scent of Teumsae Ramen broth curling through the cool night air.

Matthew sat between them, a canned drink resting between his palms, condensation gathering against his fingers. Beside him, Hao offered him the snack he chose earlier, ripping open the shiny gold orange packet with exaggerated flair.

“I told you not to regret letting me choose your snack,” Hao said, grinning as he gave the contents with a flourish. “Peanut butter squid. A masterpiece.”

Taerae made a disgusted face. “That’s a crime, not a snack.”

“Don’t diss it till you try it,” Hao shot back, popping one into his mouth.

Matthew couldn’t help a quiet laugh, a small smile tugging at his lips as Hao shoved the packet toward him. The smell hit first, sweet and salty in a way that didn’t make sense. “That’s… questionable,” he said.

“Questionably delicious,” Hao countered.

Taerae snorted, blowing on and slurping from his cup noodles. “You say that about everything.”

Matthew hesitated a moment, then picked one up and popped it in his mouth. His eyes widened slightly. “Huh… wow. That’s actually… not bad,” he admitted, eyebrows raising in surprise.

Taerae choked on his noodles. “I cannot believe you just said that. Peanut butter squid. Really, Matthew? You’re endorsing this?”

Matthew grinned faintly, shrugging. “It’s weird, okay? But… tasty. Don’t judge me too harshly.”

Hao laughed, grinning proudly. “See? I told you it was a masterpiece. Welcome to the dark side.” He wiggled his fingers teasingly, like he was casting a tiny spell.

Taerae scoffed and let out a bemused smile. “You’ve officially lost any credibility with me. I’ll let it slide… this time.”

For a moment, the easy rhythm of their voices filled the space, the buzz of cicadas in the distance, the faint flicker of the store’s neon sign, the warm glow of the benches under the streetlight. The air felt light again, unhurried.

Hao leaned back, stretching. “Man, it’s been forever since we did this.”

Taerae snorted. “Yeah, because someone’s been ghosting us.”

Matthew looked up from his unopened drink. “I haven’t-”

“I’m fine,” he said automatically, twisting the drink in his hands.

Hao sighed, settling back against the bench. “You always say that.”

Matthew’s lips curved into a small, forced smile. “Because it’s true.”

“Sure,” Hao replied, crunching on a chip, shooting Matthew a knowing look. “And I totally believe that.”

“Okay, so, ground rules,” Taerae said, pointing his chopsticks at Matthew. “You can’t just say ‘I’m fine’ this time. We already know that’s a lie.”

Matthew’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard. “What-”

“Don’t what me,” he cut in, tone sharp but not unkind.

“Taerae,” Hao said warningly.

“What? I’m being honest.” Taerae shrugged, chopsticks midair. “He’s been spacing out since forever. Even Ms Jung called his name three times today before he looked up.”

Matthew gave a weak groan, glancing down at his hands. “Guess I’m tired.”

“Right,” Taerae said dryly. “Because you’ve never been tired before.”

Hao leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We’re not trying to pry,” he said quietly. “We just… want to know if you’re okay. For real this time. We’ve been hearing things…”

Matthew forced a brief chuckle, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s not a big deal. People like to talk.”

“Sure,” Hao murmured. “But they’re not the ones who look like they’ve been losing sleep over it.”

That silenced him. He let his eyes fall to the puddle of light. “It’s stupid,” he muttered finally. “He just- he says things. The kind that sounds real until you think about them too long.”

“Gunwook?” 

Matthew nodded at Hao’s question.

“Like what?” Taerae asked, watching him carefully.

Matthew hesitated. The memory flickered back to him. Gunwook standing in front of him by the dorm blocks, the air between them tight and cold. The way his voice had dropped when he said, “I wasn’t pretending.” The way his eyes had looked angry, but hurt underneath, like he didn’t know which feeling to hold onto.

Matthew remembered how he couldn’t look at him then, how every word he tried to say came out wrong. Gunwook’s face, tired, trying not to fall apart, kept replaying in his head no matter how much he tried to shake it off.

“He said things,” Matthew said, pulling himself back to the present.

“He said something that sounded like… like a confession,” he admitted, his voice small. “But not really. It’s hard to explain.”

Taerae tilted his head. “Half-confession? Half-joke?”

“Maybe…” Matthew said quietly. “I’m not sure. And I don’t know which half was real.”

Hao’s expression softened. “And that’s what’s been bothering you?”

Matthew sighed, eyes tracing the lines of his palms. “It’s not just that. It’s me. I don’t even know how to deal with… any of it. If it meant something to him, I wouldn’t even know what to do.”

Taerae gave him a long look, then said, “You think too much for someone who keeps pretending he doesn’t care.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“You are,” Taerae replied simply. “You like him, or you’re scared that you might. Maybe both.”

Matthew’s breath hitched slightly. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?” Hao asked softly.

He swallowed, fingers wrapped around the cold can. The metal was cold against his skin, grounding him when everything else felt like it was slipping. “It’s confusing,” he said finally. “He- he’s Gunwook. Everyone likes him. And I just…” His voice dropped lower. “I don’t want to be the joke.”

Hao’s expression softened. “No one’s laughing at you, Matt.”

Matthew shook his head quickly. “You don’t get it. It’s not just that.” He hesitated, words snagging in his throat. “I don’t- I’m not like that. I don’t like guys.”

The silence that followed was gentle, not sharp. Just the faint sound of Taerae’s noodles stirring.

Then Taerae said, as if he could read through his lie. “You do know that there’s nothing wrong if you do, right?”

Matthew froze, his heart stuttering at the words. Hao gave a small nod. “Really. It’s not weird. Not wrong. You don’t have to keep acting like it is.”

Something in Matthew’s chest twisted, tight with discomfort, but also something else he didn’t know how to name. The tension didn’t fade, but it shifted, like the first crack in a wall he’d built too high. He didn’t look up, just stared at the reflection of the vending machine light on his drink, trying to steady his breathing.

“…You guys make it sound easy,” he murmured.

Hao smiled faintly. “It’s not. But it gets easier when you stop trying to fight yourself.”

“Well, we did not exactly say it was easy. Just that it’s unfair to you, and probably to him too.” Taerae shrugged. 

Hao nodded. “Maybe you don’t have to figure it out right now. Just… don’t keep running from it. Or from us.”

Matthew finally let out a breath that sounded a little less heavy. “For the record, you guys are terrible at interventions.”

“Yeah, well,” Taerae said, finishing the last of his noodles and leaned back. “Good. Because I’m not doing another fake snack run just to watch you mope.”

Matthew huffed out a laugh, a real one this time. Hao smiled, relief flickering through his eyes.

“Good,” Hao said. “Because next time, you’re buying.”

“Unbelievable,” Taerae muttered. “We pour our hearts out and still end up broke.”

Matthew gave a small shake of his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. For a while, they just sat there. The three of them bathed in the soft vending machine light, the night alive with quiet hums, talking about nothing and everything until it didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

The walk back to the dorms was peaceful. Hao chatted about something silly, a strange snack combination he wanted to try, while Taerae occasionally jabbed him with a sarcastic comment, making Matthew snicker quietly despite himself.

Matthew clutched his snacks a little closer, the half-empty peanut butter squid packet now slightly crushed at the corners. His thoughts kept drifting back to Gunwook, to the confrontation earlier, and to the words he hadn’t dared speak. It was confusing, overwhelming, but somehow, walking with Hao and Taerae beside him made it feel better.

By the time they reached the dorm, Taerae had already disappeared toward the showers, calling back something about needing hot water to fix his bad mood. Matthew lingered near the entrance, unsure whether to go straight to his room or linger outside a little longer. 

“You okay?” Hao noticed, lowering himself onto the low step of the entrance. He patted the space beside him. “Sit. I won’t bite.”

Matthew hesitated, then sat, the cold metal steps a little uncomfortable. He fiddled with his snack bag, avoiding Hao’s eyes.

Hao leaned back on his hands, letting a small silence stretch between them before speaking again. “You know… I think I like Hanbin,” he confessed casually, like it was nothing. “And… it’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with liking guys. Or anyone, really.”

Matthew’s eyes flicked up, startled, then quickly darted away. His throat felt tight, and a strange flutter of relief mixed with shame swirled in his chest. “I… I didn’t think-”

“Shh,” Hao interrupted gently, tossing a small grin Matthew’s way. “You don’t have to explain. I’m just saying, it’s fine. You don’t have to hide how you feel. Not from me, not from anyone you trust. We all love you for who you are.”

My family does not though…

Matthew shook the negative thoughts away this time, hands relaxed slightly around the snack bag, his shoulders loosening. He let out a small, shaky breath, the tension from earlier unwinding just a little. Slowly, he reached into his bag and offered Hao one of the peanut butter squid snacks. Hao took it, mock indignation flashing briefly across his face.

“You’re sharing with me?” Hao said, surprised. “I’ll take that as a sign of trust. Or that you don’t like it yourself.”

Matthew managed a small laugh. Hao nudged him lightly with his shoulder. “See? Not so bad, right? Just… don’t run away from it. Don’t run from yourself, either.”

Matthew nodded, letting the words settle. He didn’t have to say anything more, not tonight. Just being here, just letting himself feel a little less alone, was enough.

When he finally stood, heading toward his room, the air felt softer, the shadows less heavy. For a fleeting moment, he glanced toward the window, looking at the other dorm block where Gunwook’s group stayed. He didn’t know what would happen next. Still, the tight weight in his chest had eased just enough to let him take a proper breath.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for tonight.

Chapter Text

The cafeteria was louder than Matthew remembered.

Lunch trays clattered, chairs scraped, and voices blended into a blur of sounds. For someone who’d gotten used to quiet corners, quick exits and skipping lunch, it was almost overwhelming.

“Relax,” Taerae said, bumping his shoulder lightly. “You look like you’re walking into a battlefield.”

Matthew tried for a small smile. “Kinda feels like it.” 

“Then consider us your shield,” Hao declared, balancing his tray with mock seriousness. “Come on! Pork cutlets and cold noodles today. We’ll never forgive ourselves if we miss them.”

Taerae snorted. “You sound like you’re leading a war campaign.”

“I am,” Hao said gravely, glancing back at them. “Against hunger.”

That earned a quiet laugh from Matthew.

They found their usual corner table by the windows, the late afternoon sunlight pooling over their trays. Hao immediately started arranging his food like a food reviewer; Taerae just sighed and began eating. Matthew sat across from them, head slightly bowed, pretending to focus on his bowl of Naengmyeon.

It was easier that way, to act normal, to not think about who else might be here.

But halfway through his meal, a familiar laugh cut through the noise. Deep, bright, impossible to ignore.

He didn’t mean to look, but he did.

Across the cafeteria, Gunwook sat surrounded by his usual group, the same middle table alive with chatter. Ricky was waving his spoon animatedly, Gyuvin nearly choking from laughing too hard, and Hanbin looking defeated, like he’d given up trying to keep them in line.

Gunwook was in the middle of it all, head tilted back slightly as he chuckled at something Yujin and Jiwoong said, eyes crinkling at the corners.

For a second, Matthew’s world went quiet.

Then Gunwook’s gaze lifted, and for a heartbeat, he looked almost startled to see Matthew there. The surprise flickered across his face before melting into something gentler.

His laughter faded, the noise of his friends dimming around him as his focus stayed on Matthew. The corners of his mouth curved, small but real, the kind of smile that slipped out before he could stop it.

It wasn’t teasing, not guarded, just quiet, like he was trying to say I see you without words.

Surprisingly enough, Matthew didn’t look away this time.

His breath caught. He forced himself to look back down at his food.

Hao noticed, of course. “Everything good?”

“Yeah,” Matthew said quickly. “Just- hot.”

Taerae raised an eyebrow. “You’re literally sweating over cold noodles.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, stabbing at his lunch.

The conversation drifted around him after that, Hao complaining about the vending machine eating his coins, Taerae teasing him for getting the same thing every day, but Matthew barely caught any of it. 

His thoughts wouldn’t settle. Every few seconds, he caught a flash of movement from that table across the cafeteria, Gunwook turning his head, passing a drink to Gyuvin, laughing again like nothing had changed.

But once or twice, Matthew swore he caught him glancing over. Quick, almost nervous. Like he wanted to look, but wasn’t sure if he should.

By the time they finished eating, Matthew felt both restless and oddly lighter.

“Okay,” Hao announced, clasping his hands together. “Snack run. We need dessert.”

Taerae groaned. “You just had lunch.”

“And?” Hao said, already standing. “Dessert is a separate stomach.”

They were halfway to the tray return station when it happened.

Matthew was about to put away his tray when someone stepped into his path. The sudden movement made him stop short, and when he looked up, his heart stumbled.

Gunwook.

He stood there, a tray in one hand, expression unreadable except for the faintest nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth. Behind him, his friends were watching, some pretending not to (Ricky, Gyuvin and Yujin failing miserably), Hanbin saying something quietly to Jiwoong as if telling him to chill.

For a second, no one said anything. Then Gunwook’s lips curved into a faint grin.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft enough that it barely carried over the noise.

Gunwook locked eyes with him, and for a second, it felt like the whole cafeteria dimmed around them.

Matthew’s pulse jumped. He darted a quick look around, Hao and Taerae were still at the tray return, no one seemed to be watching, before he let out a quiet, almost tentative, “Hi.”

Gunwook lifted something from his tray, a small pack of Choco Pie, and set it down on Matthew’s, careful not to meet his eyes for too long. “You, uh… dropped this,” he said.

Matthew frowned in confusion. “I didn’t-”

But before he could finish, Gunwook tapped the wrapper with two fingers. There was a tiny folded piece of paper taped to the side. Then he stepped back, that teasing smile flickering again, nervous this time, almost shy.

“See you around,” he said quietly, and with that, turned to rejoin his group.

The entire exchange lasted maybe ten seconds. But Matthew just stood there, tray still in his hands, pulse racing like he’d just run across the field.

When he finally sat back down, Hao gave him a suspicious look. “What’s that?” 

“Just a snack,” Matthew muttered, trying to sound casual.

He waited until Hao and Taerae were distracted bickering over a bag of chips before he peeled the note off taped to the side, the edges crinkled from being handled too many times. The handwriting was unmistakable; messy, a little slanted, like it had been written in a hurry.

“Didn’t think I’d get another chance to do this properly. Here’s my number, text me if you want to.

- Gunwook (010-xxxx-xxxx)”

His breath hitched. He stared at it for a long moment, his chest feeling oddly full.

Across the cafeteria, Gunwook was trying too hard to act normal, grinning at something Gyuvin said, but not quite meeting his friends’ eyes. Ricky leaned in to whisper something, and Gunwook’s ears turned red.

Matthew pressed his lips together, trying to fight a smile. It didn’t work.

Hao caught it instantly. “You’re smiling. Why?”

“I’m not.”

“You so are,” Taerae said. “He’s grinning like he just got free dessert.”

“...Maybe I did,” Matthew murmured, pocketing the note before either could grab it.

Outside, the air was warm, sunlight catching on his hair as they walked to their next period of classes. The sound of Hao and Taerae’s chatter faded a little behind him, and for a fleeting moment, Matthew glanced down at the note again, folded neatly in his hand.

His thumb brushed over the words. 

His mouth twitched faintly, small, soft, and a little nervous. But real.

--------

The school’s lounge lights were dim, the projector throwing warm light across the room. Clusters of students sat scattered on beanbags, murmuring through the start of the movie. The air smelled faintly of popcorn and coffee, richer than usual, the lounge’s own popcorn machine was whirring in the corner, steam curling up beside the small coffee station. A few students lingered near the counter, pouring themselves drinks and sneaking kernels straight from the bowl.

Hanbin waved from a corner couch, one arm draped casually over the backrest. “Hao! Over here.”

Hao smiled when he spotted him, hair slightly messy from rushing over. “You actually saved me a seat? I feel special.”

Hanbin grinned, patting the spot next to him. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Please, you’d be bored without me. And besides… You’re the one that invited me.” Hao teased, dropping down beside him with a small bounce. The couch dipped, shoulders brushing for a moment before they both pretended not to notice.

“This is perfect,” Hao said, popping a kernel into his mouth. “Movies, popcorn, coffee… it works.”

Hanbin’s lips quirked into a soft smile. “You’re really dramatic about it, you know that?”

“Dramatic is my middle name,” Hao said, jokingly rolling his eyes. Then, after a beat, he added more quietly, “I like watching movies with you, though.”

Hanbin’s eyes softened, though he didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he turned slightly, watching the screen, and then glanced back at Hao. “Can I ask… how Matthew’s doing?”

Hao’s eyes’ widened, caught off guard. “Matthew?” he repeated, voice a little uncertain.

Hanbin nodded, leaning back against the couch. “Yeah. I’ve noticed he hasn’t been around you and Taerae as much lately. I just… wondered how he’s holding up.”

Hao swallowed, picking at a popcorn kernel. “Better,” he said finally. “He’s… managing. That’s all I’ll say for now.”

Hanbin’s gaze softened. “That’s good. I wasn’t sure what to expect after the festival, especially with all the rumours going around.”

Hao raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been… noticing?”

“Not too much,” Hanbin admitted, shrugging slightly. “Just… enough to notice how Gunwook’s been acting. Quieter than usual. Less jokes. Spending more time outside alone.” he gave a small shrug, “And well, he did give Matthew a choco pie during lunch earlier. I thought that was… something.”

Hao blinked, then smiled faintly. “You saw that too?”

Hanbin raised an eyebrow. “Too?”

Hao leaned back, tone soft with quiet amusement. “There was a note taped to it.”

Hanbin looked up, surprised. “Wait, seriously?”

“Mm.” Hao’s smile deepened. “Before I could even read what it said, Matthew shoved it straight into his pocket. Like he didn’t want anyone else to see it. But it wasn’t just a random snack. It felt like Gunwook meant it.”

He paused for a moment, growing thoughtful. “But honestly… I don’t really know what to think about Gunwook. I don’t know him well. And, you know, people talk.” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “All those things about fights, skipping classes, getting into trouble, breaking people’s hearts. Typical popular bad boy stuff. I just don’t want Matthew to get hurt.”

Hanbin’s expression softened. “I get it,” he said quietly. “But those rumours aren’t the whole story.”

Hao looked up, curious.

“Gunwook’s got this… tough image,” Hanbin continued. “But he’s not what people say. He’s actually a good guy. Loyal. Stubborn as hell, yeah, but he cares deeply when he lets someone in. He’s just bad at showing it the right way.”

Hao studied him for a moment, then exhaled slowly. “You sound pretty sure of that.”

“I’ve seen him around the team,” Hanbin said simply. “He jokes a lot, but when it matters? He’s the kind of guy who’ll stay behind to clean up after everyone leaves. Or walk a friend home without saying a word about it.”

“And if you actually get to know him, he can be very cute. He’s a really sweet guy.”

Hao hummed, considering that. “I guess people only see what they want to see.”

“Exactly.” Hanbin’s voice softened with a faint smile. “He’s not perfect, but he’s genuine. And if he’s looking at Matthew the way he’s been… then he means it. Even if he doesn’t know how to show it right.”

Hao’s eyes flicked back to the screen, though his attention had already drifted. “I hope he figures out how to show it then,” he murmured. “Matthew’s scared enough as it is.”

A comfortable silence stretched between them, the movie flickering over their faces. The faint scent of coffee and popcorn wrapped around them, making the room feel almost private, like they were the only two people in it.

Then Hanbin said, almost under his breath, “You notice a lot about people, don’t you?”

Hao blinked, then smiled faintly. “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

“Not bad,” Hanbin murmured, eyes meeting Hao’s. “Just… maybe no one notices you back the same way.”

Hao’s chest stumbled slightly. “You do,” he said before he could stop himself.

Hanbin blinked, then smiled, a little shy, but not pulling away. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

Hao’s heart thumped, and he had to resist the urge to grin like an idiot. The movie played on, but the glow of the screen couldn’t compete with the quiet heat of the moment between them. Their knees brushed lightly as they shifted, small, accidental contact that somehow felt deliberate.

Neither of them looked away this time. Just the two of them, sitting side by side, the rest of the world fading into background noise. The popcorn bucket sat between them, forgotten for a moment, as the soft hum of the projector and cozy atmosphere wrapped them in something warm and quiet.

Hao found himself leaning back slightly, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Hanbin’s shoulder was just close enough to brush against his own. And at that moment, Hao didn’t feel like he had to be anything other than himself.

--------

The dorm was quiet that evening, save for the low hum of Gyuvin’s game and Ricky’s soft music coming from his desk. Gunwook was sprawled on his bed, one arm thrown over his face, trying not to think about anything. Or at least, trying not to think about Matthew.

His phone buzzed once.

He ignored it at first, probably a group chat or some random school notice. But then it buzzed again. And this time, the preview on the screen made his pulse stutter.

Unknown number:

“Hey… it’s me. Matthew.”

“Um, I was thinking, maybe we can try this thing…?”

“Yknow, being… friends?”

Gunwook sat up so fast that Gyuvin actually paused his game. “Whoa, dude, did your bed catch fire or something?”

Gunwook just stared at his screen, wide-eyed, the words burning into his brain. He reread the message three times before his hands finally caught up with his heart.

Ricky turned from his desk, raising an eyebrow. “You look like you just saw a ghost. Or won the lottery.”

“Neither,” Gunwook said, voice way too calm for the way his chest was pounding. “Just uh. Message.”

Gyuvin grinned immediately. “From who? Which girl this time? Oh wait, don’t tell me… him?”

The way he said it, teasing but knowing, made Ricky smirk too.

Gunwook opened his mouth, closed it again, then buried his face in his pillow. “Maybe.”

Ricky chuckled. “So, it is him.”

Gyuvin gasped dramatically, tossing his controller aside. “No way. The art boy, Matthew? The one you’ve been-”

“Don’t say it,” Gunwook whined, voice muffled against the pillow.

“-totally not obsessing over?” Gyuvin finished, grin widening.

Ricky chuckled, nudging him with his elbow. “Wow… you’re actually blushing. Like, full-on tomato mode.”

Gyuvin groaned. “Man… seeing our Gunwookie the untouchable golden boy, fall apart over a text… I can’t handle it. I’m cringing so hard I might implode.”

Ricky leaned back in his chair, amused. “So what’d he say?”

Gunwook hesitated, lifting his head slowly. “He… wants to try being friends.”

There was a beat of silence before Gyuvin whooped, loud enough to make Ricky flinch. “Friends? Gunwook-ah, that’s like the soft launch of getting back together!”

Gunwook’s ears turned pink. “We were never-”

Ricky smirked, interrupting his words. “Bro, your usual ‘perfect cool’ image is officially dead. And honestly? This is way too cute.”

Gyuvin shook his head, half-laughing, half-horrified. “Seriously. Matthew doesn’t even know what he’s done. You’re a mess!”

Gunwook’s fingers hovered over the screen, heart racing as he tried to think of what to reply. His mind was a blur of everything, relief, nerves, the way Matthew’s texts looked on his screen after so long.

Ricky noticed and said quietly, “Just text what you really want to say.”

“Yeah,” Gyuvin added. “But not too fast. You don’t wanna look desperate.”

Gunwook shot him a look. “You’re literally the last person I’m taking advice from.”

“True,” Gyuvin admitted, already back to his game. “Still right, though.”

Gunwook stared at the message again. His thumb hovered, then typed back carefully.

Gunwook:

“hey matthew”

“yeah… i’d like that.”

“friends sounds good. :)”

He hesitated, then deleted the smiley. Rewrote it. Deleted again. Finally sent it without one, because his heart was already doing enough smiling for him.

The second it was sent, he flopped back on his bed again, phone clutched to his chest.

Ricky turned down his music a little, watching him with a small, knowing smile. “You look happy.”

Gunwook couldn’t stop the grin this time. “Yeah,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “I think I am.”

Ricky leaned back, shaking his head while Gyuvin tried hiding a laugh behind his hands.

Gunwook peeked out from under his pillow. “Shut up… and keep this to yourselves, okay? He hasn’t even replied yet.”

Ricky nudged him again. “And that’s the part that’s so cute! Look at you, all jittery and flustered. It’s… honestly terrifying. Can’t say I’m used to this.”

Gunwook warned, “This stays in here.”

“Fine, fine.” They both answered, rolling their eyes at him.

When their teasing finally faded into comfortable noise, Ricky’s music low again, Gyuvin scrolling through his phone, Gunwook let out a slow breath. His pulse was still racing, but in a good way this time. He stared at the faint glow of his phone screen, the tiny chat bubble still open.

He thought back to that night outside the dorm blocks, Matthew’s voice shaking, his own words spilling out quite wrong but honest. It had been messy, but maybe necessary.

A small smile tugged at his lips. He was glad he’d taken Hanbin’s advice, and said something then. Glad he hadn’t let it end there.

Because now, at least, there was this; a text, a beginning, and a little bit of hope he hadn’t dared to have before.

--------

Between classes, the hallway buzzed with chatter and the clang of locker doors. Matthew waited by his locker, pretending to rearrange his books while his pulse thudded a little too fast. He’d been thinking about this all morning, how to give it without making it weird, or obvious, or… anything, really.

His hand hovered over the small Choco Pie tucked between his notebooks. He’d even drawn a tiny doodle last night, just something simple, a chibi version of Gunwook holding a smiling Choco Pie with sparkles around it, and taped it to a folded note. It was silly, maybe too much, but he couldn’t help it.

“So we’re even now.”

The words had looked casual enough when he wrote them, but now they felt embarrassingly obvious.

Then Gunwook appeared down the hall with Ricky and Gyuvin, cackling about something, loud and easy, like he always was with them. His hair was still damp with sweat at the edges from P.E., uniform half untucked, sleeves rolled up. 

A few girls near the lockers giggled as he passed, whispering behind their hands. One even nudged her friend, eyes following him with that look everyone seemed to have when Gunwook was around, half awe, half crush.

Matthew noticed, of course. It was impossible not to. He tried to ignore the way his stomach twisted at the sight, the way it made his palms feel clammy. It was stupid how Gunwook could look that effortlessly good when Matthew felt like his heart was about to jump out of his throat.

So now here he was, standing awkwardly in the middle of the hallway, debating for the fifteenth time whether to just walk away.

He hesitated, then before he could overthink it, he stepped forward.

“Gunwook,” he called softly.

Gunwook’s head snapped up, surprise flickering across his face. For a moment, he just stared, then that slow grin spread, the one that always made Matthew’s stomach twist a little. “Hey,” he said, almost disbelieving. “You’re talking to me.”

Matthew rolled his eyes, trying not to smile. “Don’t make it weird.”

He held out a small choco pie, still in its wrapper. “Here. For… the other day.”

Gunwook blinked, looking from the snack to Matthew’s face. “Wait, seriously? You’re giving me this?”

Matthew shrugged, trying to play it off. “Just… thought you might like it. You gave me one, so… you know, fair’s fair.”

For a heartbeat, Gunwook didn’t say anything. Then that grin broke fully, bright and boyish in a way Matthew hadn’t seen. “Oh, so this is a ‘payback snack.’ Got it. I like how you think.” he said softly, taking the choco pie from Matthew’s hand. Their fingers brushed, just for a second, and it sent a spark up Matthew’s arm he pretended not to feel.

Matthew’s fingers fidgeted, cheeks warming slightly. “It’s… not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Gunwook repeated, laughing softly. “Don’t be surprised if I start expecting snacks like this more often.”

Matthew groaned, but couldn’t help smiling. “Don’t push your luck.”

From behind them, Gyuvin smirked, whispering to Ricky. “Oh my god, are we watching a drama right now?” 

Ricky elbowed him, snickering. “Shut up, this is historic.”

Gunwook shot them a glare over his shoulder. “Mind your business. Say one more word and I’ll tell everyone about your secret playlists.” But he was smiling too wide to sell it.

“Worth it,” Ricky said under his breath, smirking.

Matthew huffed a quiet laugh, the sound barely audible, but Gunwook caught it. It was the first time in weeks he’d seen that small, genuine smile curve on Matthew’s face, and it made his stomach feel weirdly light.

Matthew ducked his head, flustered. “Anyway, I should go. Class.”

“Wait,” Gunwook said quickly. When Matthew looked back, Gunwook’s expression had softened. “Thanks. Really.”

Matthew just nodded, barely managing a quiet “You’re welcome,” before slipping back into the crowd of students with his head low.

Gunwook watched him go, the choco pie still warm in his hand from Matthew’s touch. When Gyuvin opened his mouth again, he cut him off with a grin that was impossible to hide. “Not. A. Word.”

Gyuvin and Ricky exchanged looks and snorted.

“Too late,” Ricky said. “You’re so down bad, man.”

Gunwook just laughed, turning the snack over in his hand. “Yeah,” he admitted under his breath, more to himself than to them. “Maybe I am.”

And down the hall, Matthew could already hear the whispers start, snatches of voices, curious glances, that familiar prickle of attention that used to make him shrink. But this time, he didn’t.

He just kept walking, heart light, a small smile tugging at his lips. For once, he didn’t care who was watching.

When the crowd thinned and the bell finally rang, Gunwook lingered by his locker, pretending to dig for a book until Ricky and Gyuvin disappeared down the hall.

Only then did he glance down at the Choco Pie still in his hand. The wrapper crinkled softly under his thumb, and that’s when he noticed it.

A tiny square of folded paper taped neatly to the back.

He peeled it off carefully, trying not to tear it, and opened it. Inside was Matthew’s handwriting, small, neat, a little tilted, and next to the short message “So we’re even now”, was a tiny chibi drawing of Gunwook himself, holding up a smiling Choco Pie surrounded by sparkles.

For some reason, it hit him harder than it should’ve.

Gunwook’s grin spread upwards slowly, helplessly. “This cutie…” he muttered under his breath, pressing the note flat between his fingers. He traced the tiny doodle with his thumb, the corners of his mouth refusing to stay still.

He looked down the direction Matthew had gone, still feeling that faint flutter in his chest.

Ricky’s voice echoed from around the corner. “Gunwook! You coming or what?”

“Yeah, yeah!” he called back, quickly folding the note again. But instead of tossing it away like he usually did with other confession notes, he slid it carefully into the back of his phone case.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. It wasn’t even a confession, just a small doodle and a few teasing words. But somehow, it felt more personal than all the folded hearts and love letters he’d ever been given.

As he closed his locker, he couldn’t stop the quiet laugh that slipped out. “So we’re even, huh?” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

But even as he walked off to class, the grin never left his face, because somehow, it didn’t feel like they were even at all.

Chapter Text

Gunwook found the note again that night, tucked behind his phone case like a secret. The edges were already starting to curl, the paper soft and a little crumpled from how often he’d taken it out, unfolded it, then tucked it back in like it meant nothing.

It was stupid, really. Just a short line and a doodle, but something about it made his chest feel too tight, in that weird, good way he didn’t quite know what to do with.

He traced a thumb over the little drawing, smiling to himself. His hair in the doodle was all messy and lopsided, like Matthew couldn’t quite decide how to draw it right. It wasn’t perfect, but it looked like him.

And that was what killed him a little.

He could imagine Matthew hunched over his desk, brows furrowed, maybe chewing the cap of his marker while sketching. Probably debating if he should even give it at all. Probably worrying he’d look stupid.

Gunwook laughed softly, shaking his head. “Idiot,” he murmured, but his voice came out too fond to mean it.

He read the note again.

“So we’re even now.”

It was meant to sound casual, but he could almost hear his voice, soft and shy, like he’d tried to make it sound like a joke to hide the meaning underneath.

And now, lying on his bed with the dorm lights dimmed and Gyuvin’s snoring in the background, he couldn’t stop grinning like an idiot. His phone sat on his chest, screen dim, more than a 100 unread messages blinking. 

He had been staring at the contact name, ‘matthew’, for the past five minutes, trying to think of something to say that didn’t make him sound completely whipped.

Ricky, who was scrolling Tik Tok on his own bed across the room, glanced up when he caught the tiny, stupid smile on Gunwook’s face. “Dude,” he whispered, one earbud half-out, “you’ve been smiling at your phone for ages. You look like you’re about to propose to it.”

Gunwook groaned, shoving his pillow over his face. “Shut up. I’m just thinking.”

“Thinking,” Ricky echoed, clearly unconvinced. He leaned over, voice low so Gyuvin wouldn’t wake. “Is this about Matthew again?”

There was a pause. Then, muffled through the pillow, a quiet, “Maybe.”

Ricky smirked, tossing a stray sock at him. “You’re hopeless, man.”

Gunwook peeked out from under the pillow, cheeks warm but smiling anyway. “Yeah, well… maybe I like it that way.”

Ricky just shook his head, grinning to himself as he went back to his phone. “You’re so gone it’s kinda cute.”

Gunwook huffed a laugh, turning his screen on again. The chat with ‘matthew’ was still open, empty, and waiting. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Maybe just one message. Something simple. Not too obvious.

Gunwook:

“so this is what you were doing last night instead of sleeping huh”

He stared at it for too long before hitting send. The moment it went through, he groaned and rolled onto his side. “Why did I send that-” he muttered into the fabric.

But then the phone buzzed.

matthew:

 “?? What do you mean…”

He peeked at the screen, and his grin returned instantly. He could practically see Matthew’s confused face, the tiny crease between his brows, that little pause before he’d type again.

Gunwook:

“the doodle”

“you drew me as a choco pie mascot lol”

matthew:

“You saw that?”

Gunwook:

“uh yeah it was taped to the choco pie genius”

matthew:

“Oh. Right.”

Gunwook bit back a laugh, his heart doing that stupid fluttering thing again.

Gunwook:

“you made me look cute btw”

The reply took longer this time.

matthew:

“It wasn’t supposed to be”

“Cute I mean.”

“I was just doodling…”

Gunwook:

“sure you were”

matthew:

“Seriously it wasn’t a big deal haha.”

Gunwook:

“felt like one to me”

The typing bubble blinked, disappeared, came back again.

matthew:

“…Why?”

Gunwook stared at the message, his grin softening. He didn’t know how to answer that without sounding like he was confessing something, so he settled for,

Gunwook:

“dunno. just made my day i guess.”

matthew:

“Oh.”

“That’s good then.”

He laughed under his breath. That was such a Matthew answer; short, careful, like he didn’t know how to handle being told he made someone’s day.

Gunwook:

“you’re bad at taking compliments, you know that?”

matthew:

“I’m bad at a lot of things.”

That one made him pause. His smile faded a little.

Gunwook:

“well, drawing isn’t one of them.”

“thanks, matthew”

There was another long pause, and then,

matthew:

“You’re welcome…”

“Goodnight.”

Gunwook’s thumb hovered over the screen for a while before he typed back.

Gunwook:

“night cutie :)”

He read the chat again, twice, before finally slipping his phone under his pillow. The note, still slightly crumpled, stayed tucked behind the case, right where it had been since that afternoon.

He fell asleep smiling, though he’d never admit it out loud.

--------

Matthew stared at his phone long after the message had gone through. Hao was still at his desk, frustratingly muttering to himself as he worked on a math problem, and Taerae had his laptop open, fingers tapping rhythmically. They hadn’t noticed him staring at his phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard like it might betray him if he moved too fast. 

Oh no. Did I sound weird? He’d typed and now he was second-guessing every word. Every punctuation mark. Did he really have to add “haha”? Was that too much? Not enough?

He exhaled slowly, rereading Gunwook’s last message:

Gunwook (History Class):

“dunno. just made my day i guess.”

He pressed his lips together, cheeks warming. Made his day? His chest felt tight in that fluttery, horrible-good way, and he shifted, pretending to rearrange his pencils so Hao or Taerae could not see how stupid he felt.

Matthew’s fingers floated over the screen. He typed something, erased it, typed something else. 

Why is this so hard?

With drawing, he could control every line, every tiny detail. With texting Gunwook, he was fumbling over words that felt too big, too clumsy, too obvious.

Matthew:

“Oh.”

“That’s good then.”

He stared at the blinking dots on the screen, imagining Gunwook staring at his phone too, maybe grinning, maybe trying to act casual. Matthew’s heart skipped. What if he’s laughing at me? What if I’m completely embarrassing myself?

Then the reply came,

Gunwook (History Class):

“you’re bad at taking compliments, you know that?”

Matthew blinked, swallowing the warmth creeping up his neck.

Matthew:

“I’m bad at a lot of things.”

He knew it wasn’t a joke. He knew Gunwook could hear the hesitation behind those words, even across the chat. Matthew’s chest tightened again.

Gunwook (History Class):

“well, drawing isn’t one of them.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to grin too widely. That was… exactly what he wanted to hear, wasn’t it? Someone noticing, quietly and gently.

Gunwook (History Class):

“thanks, matthew”

Matthew:

“You’re welcome…” 

“Goodnight.”

Should he type something else? He shook his head. No, let it be. Let it sit. Let the careful weight of the words hang between them.

Gunwook (History Class):

“night cutie :)”

Matthew stared at the screen for a long moment, eyes wide, his thumb frozen over the last message.

“night cutie :)”

The words shouldn’t have made his heart race like this. He reread it once, twice, then quickly locked his phone, as if that would stop the warmth spreading across his chest.

His cheeks were burning. “Cutie,” he whispered under his breath, and immediately regretted saying it out loud.

From across the room, Hao glanced up from his notebook. “You okay?”

“Fine!” he blurted too quickly, fumbling with his pencil. “Just- uh, tired.”

Taerae didn’t even look up from his laptop. “You always say that when something’s up.”

Matthew’s mouth opened, then closed again. “It’s really nothing,” he muttered, but even he didn’t sound convincing.

He turned back to his desk, trying to focus on the open sketchbook in front of him. The page was blank, crisp, waiting. His pencil hovered above it, fingers twitching with that familiar urge to draw something, anything. Maybe a silly doodle again.

But the moment he imagined it, his chest tightened. A flash of memory surfaced, his father’s voice, sharp and cold.

“Shred it, Matthew. It’ll ruin you and disgrace the family.”

The smell of paper and charcoal. The sound of pages crumpling under his own hands. Nicholas’ face, drawn over and over, disappearing in a curl of smoke.

He set the pencil down, pulse quick.

He told himself it was easier this way, to stop before it could turn into something he’d regret, something someone might call wrong.

But tonight, with the text “night cutie” glowing faintly in his mind, the ache in his chest felt slightly different. 

He shut the sketchbook gently and leaned back in his chair, eyes stinging more than he wanted to admit, thoughts racing as he tried to convince himself.

We’re just friends, nothing more. Friends can call each other cute. That's normal.

Across the room, Taerae yawned. Hao was still studying, earbuds in. The dorm was calm except for the faint hum of the air conditioner blowing.

Matthew picked up his phone again, the screen lighting up his face in the dim room. He reread Gunwook’s message one last time, heart twisting.

Then he whispered, almost to himself, “Goodnight, Gunwook,” before turning off the desk light and heading to bed.

--------

History class wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

It was supposed to be boring, predictable, maybe even sleepy. But the second Matthew stepped inside, that plan went straight out the window.

Because sitting by the window, head tilted just a little, grinning at something his deskmate said, was him.

Gunwook.

He’d gotten so used to that empty seat by the window that seeing it occupied again made his heart palpitate unexpectedly.

He froze for half a second, halfway to his seat, because of course his brain decided to replay last night’s message right then.

“night cutie :)”

His ears went warm. His entire face felt like it was on fire.

“Uh, Matthew?” someone said behind him. “You’re kind of blocking the door.”

He jolted, responded with a quick sorry, and practically stumbled into his chair beside Hao.

“Uh,” Hao said slowly, raising an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“What?”

“You just… stopped moving for like ten seconds,” Hao said, watching him closely. “Did something happen?”

Matthew fumbled with his pen cap, forcing a laugh. “No, I just zoned out.”

Hao didn’t look convinced. His gaze flicked toward the front of the room, then back to Matthew. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Totally.”

“Uh-huh.” Hao leaned back slightly, quiet for a moment, brow furrowed as if still trying to figure something out.

Across the room, Gunwook glanced over at the sound of Hao’s voice. His eyes found Matthew almost instantly, head ducked, shoulders tense, and his lips twitched.

Mr. Jang clapped his hands once, loud enough to jolt a few sleepy heads upright. “Alright, class, I’m handing back your quizzes. Any volunteers to help me distribute these?”

The room went silent. No one moved. Chairs creaked, pens clicked, and several students suddenly found their desks very interesting.

Then, from the back, a voice said casually, “I can do it.”

Every head turned.

Gunwook leaned back in his chair, one hand raised lazily.

A ripple of disbelief spread instantly; small gasps, muffled laughter, whispers bouncing between desks.

Mr. Jang froze mid-shuffle of papers. “You?” His brows shot up. “Park Gunwook? You actually remember what this classroom looks like?”

Laughter broke out this time, Seojun, Gunwook’s usual desk neighbor, barely hiding his smirk, and Jimin whispering to Jungeun nearby.

Gunwook only smiled. “Guess I missed it, sir.”

Mr. Jang sighed, clearly torn between annoyance and amusement. “Missed it, huh? You mean the last three or four lectures?”

A few students snorted. Near the window, Koko leaned toward her friend Saebi and whispered, “Is he seriously volunteering? Did the sun rise in the west today?”

Saebi giggled. “Maybe he’s trying to impress someone.” Her gaze flicked, not-so-subtly, toward Matthew’s direction.

A few students snickered, one of them muttering, “Yeah, right. Like that’s his type. Gunwook is straight, don’t talk about him like that.”

Matthew ducked his head, pretending very hard to write something in his notebook, though the pen trembled slightly in his grip.

His ears burned red.

Mr. Jang shook his head, exasperated but faintly smiling. “Fine. Maybe helping for once will remind you where your seat is. Don’t disappear halfway through, if not detention again.”

“Yes, sir,” Gunwook said cheerfully, standing and taking the stack of quizzes.

The room immediately fell into an anticipatory hush. Even the sound of the air conditioner seemed louder. Seojun muttered under his breath, “What is happening?”

Gunwook ignored him, striding down the rows. Every few steps, someone made a small comment.

“Whoa, he’s actually doing it.”

“Should we take a picture? This is history.”

Minju fanned herself dramatically. “He can hand me my paper any day.”

Gunwook huffed out a laugh, sliding her paper across the desk. “Yeah, yeah. Here.”

The girls still giggled, but his tone was easy, more polite than flirty.

But when he reached Matthew’s desk, the teasing faded. His steps slowed, grin softening as he set the paper down gently, fingers brushing the edge of Matthew’s textbook.

“Morning,” he said, voice lower now, almost careful.

Matthew’s head shot up. “Oh, uh, morning.”

“You look tired. Studying too late?”

“Something like that,” Matthew mumbled, trying, and failing terribly, to sound casual.

From the corner of his eye, Hao was watching quietly, his expression unreadable.

As Gunwook moved on, Seojun whispered behind him, “You’re so obvious.”

“What do you mean?” Gunwook whispered back, feigning ignorance.

By the time he made it back to his seat, half the class was still exchanging looks. Mr. Jang gave him a long, skeptical stare before finally starting the lecture.

“Now that our star volunteer has blessed us with his presence,” he said dryly, “let’s see if anyone remembers the causes of the 1894 peasant rebellion. And no, Mr. Park, you can’t volunteer for that.”

The class burst into laughter. Gunwook just leaned back with an obnoxious grin.

For a few minutes, the room settled into silence, Mr. Jang’s voice, pens scratching, pages turning, the hum of the projector.

Then Hao spoke softly, just loud enough for Matthew to hear. “You’ve been talking to him again, huh?”

Matthew froze mid-scribble. “What?”

“Gunwook,” Hao said, tone careful. “You’ve been texting?”

Matthew hesitated. “A little, maybe.”

Hao nodded slowly, lips pressing together, but his voice wasn’t sharp this time. “That’s good. He seems… different around you.”

Matthew blinked, thrown by the lack of judgment. “Different how?”

“Just less of that act he puts on,” Hao said quietly. “I’m not saying trust him right away, but… if he’s trying, maybe give him the chance.”

Matthew looked down at his notes, a faint smile tugging at his lips before he quickly hid it. “It’s not like that,” he muttered. “We’re just friends.”

Hao hummed, half-smiling. “If you say so.”

Matthew’s pen started moving again, though his handwriting turned messy. We’re just friends. Liking guys is wrong. Mom and Dad are always right, he told himself, doodling random stars in the margin.

But the stars curved, turning into messy curls of hair and the outline of a grin before he even noticed.

When Hao glanced over, he exhaled softly, no teasing this time, just a quiet understanding. “You’re drawing him, huh?”

Matthew stiffened, then slowly closed his notebook. “I’m not… I’m just doodling.”

“Yeah.” Hao paused, then offered a small, genuine smile. “Whatever it is, just be careful with your heart, okay? Not because it’s wrong or anything like that, but just because it’s you.”

Matthew blinked, caught off guard by the warmth in his tone. “…Yeah,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

Across the room, Gunwook peeked back again, just for a second, and grinned to himself when he saw Matthew smiling at something Hao said.

Seojun noticed immediately. He snorted under his breath, looking lowkey disgusted. “Be careful Mr. Popular,” he said, then added with a faint curl of his lip, “I know you’re not like that, but people are gonna start saying things, man.”

Gunwook’s grin didn’t falter, but the tap of his pen slowed just for a second.

Then he leaned back in his chair, the mask sliding easily back into place, that familiar, careless smile everyone expected.

“Yeah… whatever,” he muttered under his breath, eyes flicking once more toward Matthew before returning to his textbook.

But just for a heartbeat, no one else could see it, his lips twitched into a softer grin, and his chest felt that same ridiculous flutter he’d been trying to ignore. The facade was back in place the next second, golden delinquent perfected.

--------

Matthew pushed open the bathroom door, the hum of the art room fading behind him. He carried an empty cup in one hand, sleeves rolled up and the faint smell of paint still clinging to him. He was halfway to the sink when someone stepped out of the next stall, and he nearly dropped the cup.

“Whoa,” Gunwook said, startled as he steadied the door. “Didn’t think anyone else was here.”

Matthew looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Oh, uh... Hey.”

“Hey.” Gunwook tilted his head. His hair was still damp with sweat, his basketball jersey half-tucked, towel slung around his neck. “Art club?”

Matthew nodded, shifting the cup in his hands. “Yeah. Just… needed more water. For the paints.”

Gunwook leaned against the counter, arms crossed. His eyes flicked to Matthew’s fingers, faint green and blue smudges staining the edges. “Looks like it’s been a productive day,” he said, a teasing lilt under his voice. “You always stay this late?”

“Sometimes,” Matthew said quietly. “When it’s quiet.”

Something about that answer made Gunwook’s grin soften. “Quiet’s nice. What about your friends… Hao and Taerae, am I right?”

Matthew blinked, a little surprised he remembered. “Yeah. They’re still here, finishing up some art projects of their own too.”

“Ah,” Gunwook said, nodding. “So you’re not completely alone, then.”

Matthew smiled faintly. “Not really. We share a dorm too. Block A.”

“Block A, huh?” Gunwook smirked. “Explains why I see Taerae half-asleep in the cafeteria every morning. Guess all those late-night art sessions catch up to him.”

Matthew chuckled softly, shoulders easing a bit. “Not all the time, but pretty much... Hao tries to wake him up with toast, but it doesn’t always work.”

“Dedicated,” Gunwook said, sounding almost approving. “You three must be close.”

“I guess you can say that,” Matthew replied, chucking softly, then added, “They make it easier to stay late.”

For a short moment, Gunwook let himself enjoy the sound of Matthew laughing. Then, after a pause, he nodded at the cup. “So what are you working on that needs that much water?”

“Nothing big,” Matthew said quickly, looking down. “Just watercolor painting… Uh, something simple… The ocean.”

“Mm,” Gunwook hummed, his eyes still on him. “Bet it’s good.”

Matthew didn’t know what to say after, so he focused on filling the cup, watching the thin stream of water ripple and rise. His phone buzzed on the counter beside him, lighting up just enough for Gunwook to catch the wallpaper, Blastoise, looking ridiculously determined.

Gunwook blinked, then smirked. “Blastoise?”

Matthew froze. “What?”

“Your wallpaper,” Gunwook said, nodding toward the phone. “Didn’t take you for a Pokémon guy.”

“Don’t worry,” he continued, voice easy. “I’m not judging. Kind of cute, actually.”

Matthew’s ears went pink. “Blastoise’s… strong,” he muttered, staring at the sink. “Reliable.”

Gunwook chuckled. “You say that like you’ve thought about it.”

“I have,” Matthew admitted before he could stop himself. “When I was a kid, I used to draw him all the time. He looked like he could protect everyone. I liked that.”

The words hung there, unguarded. By the time he realized what he’d said, it was too late. He glanced up, flustered, but Gunwook wasn’t laughing. He just looked… thoughtful.

“Yeah,” Gunwook said quietly, voice low now. “I get that.” He looked away, his reflection faint in the mirror. “It’s nice. Having something that feels like it’s got your back.”

Matthew’s grip on the cup tightened slightly. “You think so?”

“Mm.” Gunwook smiled faintly, still not looking at him. “Guess it’s why I like basketball. When it’s good, it’s like that. You’ve got people you trust to guard you. Even when you screw up.”

“I used to play basketball with my Eong-ah when I was little. Always tried to outscore him before dinner… never worked out, but I liked it.”

Matthew’s eyebrows lifted. That wasn’t something Gunwook would usually say or share out loud.

A small smile tugging at his lips. “Really? You? Losing at basketball?”

“Hey,” Gunwook said, mock offense in his tone. “I was young and learning. Doesn’t make me a pro yet.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was surprisingly warm and… full. Like both of them had accidentally said too much and didn’t know how to take it back.

“Next time you paint, I wanna see it. Maybe I can give pointers.”

“Pointers?” Matthew answered, caught off guard.

“Yeah,” Gunwook teased. “Make sure your Pokéballs actually look round or something.”

Matthew laughed, shaking his head. “I think I can survive without your pointers.”

Gunwook nudged him lightly. “We’ll see about that.”

Finally, he pushed off the counter and nodded toward the cup. “Don’t spill that, Mashu. You’ll cry if you ruin your masterpiece.”

Mashu?

Matthew blushed at the sudden new nickname, rolling his eyes, but there was the tiniest smile tugging at his lips. “I wouldn’t cry.”

“Sure.” Gunwook’s grin widened, boyish and a little proud. “See you around.”

Matthew’s fingers brushed the cool surface of the cup, still warm from the conversation. “Yeah,” he said softly. “See you.”

Gunwook left, the faint squeak of his sneakers echoing down the hall. Matthew stood there for a few seconds longer, looking at his reflection, cheeks flushed, heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the water.

--------

As the days passed, things started to shift in quiet, barely noticeable ways.

They’d talk between classes; quick, stolen snippets of conversation in the hallway or by the lockers. It was never long, just enough for Gunwook to catch that shy little smile of Matthew’s before he disappeared into the next classroom.

He learned things.

Matthew liked mint chocolate, hated cheese. He occasionally watches anime before bed, has a Pokémon card collection, and has an embarrassingly soft spot for stuffed animals (not that Gunwook would ever tease him for it. Okay, maybe just a little).

One night, Gunwook sat at his desk, pen in hand, notebook open. The dorm lights were low, Gyuvin scrolling on his phone while Ricky half-watched something on his laptop. It was peaceful, until Gyuvin glanced over and squinted.

“Wow, Gunwook-ah. Are you actually writing down notes? Since when do you write notes? I thought you just winged it during exams.”

Gunwook turned around. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. My learning style’s changed. You got a problem with that?”

Gyuvin held up his hands in mock surrender. “No, no problem, scholar-nim. Just impressed, that’s all.”

Ricky leaned over slightly, peeking without shame. “Wait. Why are there doodles of… Pokéballs?”

Gunwook slammed the notebook shut so fast the desk rattled. “Mind your own business.”

The other two exchanged knowing looks before bursting into laughter.

They went back to their screens, but Gunwook sat there, heart thumping.

When the dorm finally quieted down, he reopened the notebook, flipping to the page no one else was allowed to see.

matthew’s likes and dislikes (an ongoing list): 

likes: mint choco, chicken, pokémon, blastoise, anime, drawing, stuffed animals, surprisingly… league of legends?

dislikes: cheese (absolutely hates), noise(?), hopefully not me :(

He tapped the pen against the paper thoughtfully before adding, in smaller handwriting,

likes: mint choco, chicken, Pokémon, Blastoise, anime, drawing, stuffed animals, surprisingly… league of legends? making me lose my mind.

He leaned back, grinning childishly to himself.

Who knew he would compile a list like this?

Yeah, maybe Gyuvin and Ricky were right. He was completely, hopelessly done for.

Outside, the wind picked up, brushing against the window like a whisper. The sky had been heavy all day, clouds swollen and waiting. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled low, the kind that promised rain before morning.

Gunwook didn’t notice.

He just sat there, smiling at a page full of tiny truths, unaware that the calm, the easy rhythm they’d found, was about to break.

Chapter Text

“Hey Matthew! Since you’re heading out, could you help us pass this to Ms. Jung?” Hyemin from his English class smirked, hands reaching out with a stack of papers.

Matthew knew their intentions. They were doing this on purpose, the same way they had been for months now.

At first, it had been small things.

“Matthew, could you hand this in on your way to class?”

“Matthew, we forgot our homework. Let us copy yours? You’re good at English right?”

“Matthew, would you mind saving us a table in the library?”

“Matthew, you’re heading to the cafeteria, right? Can you grab me some bread too?”

Always with that same sweet tone, the same teasing laugh.

And every time, he said yes.

Because saying no meant drawing attention, and attention had never been safe for him.

He nodded, taking the papers carefully from her hands. “Sure.”

“Thank you, Matthew, you’re literally the best.” The group giggled, one of them adding, “You should join our group chat sometime, you’re like our personal assistant!”

Matthew forced a small smile, pretending it was funny.

As he stepped out into the hallway, Hao and Taerae were already waiting, leaning against the lockers.

“You’re doing them favors again?” Taerae asked, glancing down at the stack of papers in Matthew’s hands, voice half exasperation, half concern. “You’re too nice for your own good.”

Hao crossed his arms, giving Matthew a knowing look. “That’s why we’re friends with him, Taerae-yah. We need balance in this group.”

Matthew’s smile wavered but stayed. “It’s not a big deal. They’ll just… make things harder if I don’t.”

“Harder how?” Taerae asked, frowning.

Matthew shrugged, keeping his tone light. “It’s easier that way. I’m just… trying to be nice to everyone.”

Hao exchanged a look with Taerae. “You don’t have to say yes all the time, you know,” he said gently.

But it wasn’t really easier.

It was the little things that got to him; the way people talked about him like he wasn’t there, the way they nudged each other when Gunwook passed or stopped by to have a small conversation with him, whispering under their breath. The way they smiled at him only when they needed something.

And then there were the rare moments when they decided to “tease” him more directly. He remembered one day, cornered by Hyemin’s group.

“So…” one of them started, glancing at him with a knowing smile. “You and Gunwook seem close lately.”

Another leaned in, twirling her hair. “Yeah, that’s kinda unexpected. He usually only hangs out with his clique, right? Hanbin, Gyuvin, those guys.”

“Guess you must be special,” someone added, half-laughing. “What did you do to catch his attention?”

Matthew’s stomach tightened, but he managed a small, polite laugh. “Haha, nothing. We just share the same History class.”

“Oh, relax, we’re just playing,” Hyemin said, but her tone was all sugar and poison.

The boy beside her stepped closer, slinging an arm casually around Matthew’s shoulders. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry, we know Gunwook’s just being nice. And you’re just being friendly too, right? ’Cause no way he’d actually…”

He trailed off, grin widening. “You know how people talk.”

Matthew’s throat went dry. He gave another forced laugh, hugging the sketchbooks tighter against his chest. “Yeah. Of course. We’re just classmates.”

Inside, his mind was racing. 

Please don’t start anything. Please don’t… notice. Please don’t ruin everything.

The group nudged each other, then finally moved on, their laughter trailing behind like smoke. Matthew let his shoulders sag slightly once they were out of sight, though his heart still thumped painfully against his ribs. He didn’t want anyone else to see how close he’d come to panicking, how fragile it all felt.

He’d learned to move quietly, to keep his head down, to make himself easy to like and a little less to hate.

That was safer.

Safer, and necessary. Because what if someone noticed the way his stomach twisted when Gunwook laughed or smiled at him? 

What if someone figured out he might actually like a guy, especially a guy like Gunwook? 

Years of careful lessons about being “normal,” still echoed in the back of his mind. Being seen… that could be dangerous.

Still, as they walked down the hallway, his grip on the papers tightened slightly.

“Fine,” Taerae muttered, clearly annoyed. “You keep saying you’re okay with it, but it never sounds like you mean it.”

Matthew didn’t reply. He just smiled again, smaller this time, and changed the subject. “You guys going back to the dorms after this?”

Hao looked at him for a moment before answering. “Yeah,” he said softly. “We’ll go with you.”

--------

Matthew sat on the edge of his bed, sleeves pulled over his hands, fingers nervously tracing the seam of his hoodie. 

His heart wasn’t pounding quite as wildly as it used to when he thought about this, it still scared him, but not the way it once did. 

He was terrified, of course; terrified of saying the words out loud, of letting himself be seen.

He’d been meaning to say something for weeks. Afraid of how it might feel, afraid of how it might change things, he’d held it back every time. 

But tonight felt different. He felt he owed it to them, Hao and Taerae, who had always been there, always worried about him, always gentle. 

Every time he tried to speak before, the words knotted up inside him. But tonight, maybe because of that night they’d shared snacks and soft confessions, when Hao had said it was okay, when Hao had admitted he liked Hanbin and showed him it was fine to like who you like… Matthew realized it was finally his turn to be truthful.

“I, um.” His voice cracked a little. “Can I tell you guys something? It’s kinda… personal.”

Both of them looked up immediately. Hao closed his notebook. “Of course,” he said gently.

Matthew’s fingers fidgeted with the sleeve of his hoodie. “It’s… about me.” 

He took a breath, then another. 

“I used to have a best friend. Back in Canada. Nicholas.”

Recognition flickered briefly across their faces, they both remembered the name from that awkward moment at the basketball tournament.

Hao tilted his head. “Wait… was he the guy you were talking to that day at the tournament?”

Matthew nodded. “Yeah… that was him.”

“We were close,” Matthew continued, eyes fixed on the floor. “Like, really close. I drew him a lot. My parents… they found out.” His voice wavered. 

“They didn’t like it at all. They thought it meant something was wrong with me.”

He let out a shaky laugh. “They told me it was shameful. Made me throw everything away. My sketchbook, the drawings, all of it. And I-, I believed them. For a long time, I thought maybe they were right.”

No one spoke. The silence wasn’t empty, it was full, heavy and careful.

Matthew rubbed his palms together, grounding himself. “After that, I stopped drawing him. I stopped talking to him too. Just… disappeared, ghosted him. Because I thought if I didn’t, I’d ruin everything. I learned to keep quiet. To stop liking people I shouldn’t.”

Hao’s brows furrowed. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Matthew.”

“I know,” he said quickly, then faltered. “Or at least… I’m trying to know. It’s just, it’s hard to stop hearing their voices, you know?” He smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. 

“They made me believe that being like this meant being broken.”

Taerae sat up slowly, setting his phone aside. “Being like what?”

Matthew hesitated, then finally looked up at them. “Liking guys.” The words came out quiet, but they didn’t shake. “I like guys.”

For a moment, neither Hao nor Taerae moved, not because they were shocked, but because they didn’t want to break the weight of the moment.

Then Taerae reached across the small space between their beds and gave his wrist a light squeeze. “We know,” he said simply.

Matthew blinked, startled. “You-?”

Hao smiled, small and kind. “You’re not that hard to read, Matt. But we wanted you to tell us yourself when you were ready.”

Something in Matthew cracked open; relief, disbelief, all tangled together. “You’re… okay with it?”

“Of course,” Hao said without hesitation. “You’re still you.”

Taerae grinned a little. “Maybe even more you now.”

Matthew laughed weakly, rubbing at his eyes. “You guys are terrible at being serious.”

“That’s why you like us,” Taerae said, leaning back against his pillow.

Then Hao leaned forward slightly, voice gentle. “Do… do you still have feelings for him? Him as in Nicholas.”

Matthew swallowed. He wanted to be honest, but he wasn’t sure himself. “I… don’t know. We text every now and then. It’s complicated. I did meet up with him to catch up, just to talk. It felt normal, I guess. But I don’t know about… feelings.”

Taerae nodded slowly. “Makes sense. It’s been a long time.”

Matthew exhaled, relief and nerves mingling. “Yeah… it’s just different now. And I’m trying to figure it out.”

“I was so scared,” he admitted. “That it would change things.”

“It doesn’t,” Hao said. “If anything, it makes sense of a lot of things.”

Matthew squinted at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hao raised an eyebrow, too innocent. “Oh, nothing. Just… explains why a certain someone can’t stop staring at a certain tall guy with bad habits and good hair.”

Matthew flushed instantly. “What? No. Gunwook’s just- he’s just my friend.”

Taerae blinked. “Uh, nobody said it was about Gunwook.”

Hao’s grin widened. “Interesting choice to bring him up, though.”

“I don’t…” Matthew buried his face in his hands. 

Hao chuckled. “You don’t have to call it anything if you’re not ready.”

“Seriously,” Taerae said. “You think we didn’t notice the way he looks at you? Or how you look at him?”

Matthew’s shoulders tensed. “He doesn’t look at me like that. He likes girls only.” The word caught a little, like it hurt to say. “He’s probably just being nice.”

Neither Hao nor Taerae argued. They exchanged a small glance before Hao said softly, “Even if you’re right, it doesn’t make your feelings any less real.”

Matthew’s throat tightened. “I just don’t want to mess things up again,” he murmured. “With him… or with myself.”

Taerae leaned forward, voice quieter now. “You won’t. You already did the hardest part, you stopped pretending.”

Matthew didn’t answer right away. He just nodded, a small, uncertain motion, but the air in the room felt lighter, freer somehow.

Even so, he felt bitter when he remembered what had happened just a few days ago. A couple of students had been joking in the hallway, about “how weird it’d be if Gunwook actually liked a guy.” Matthew had frozen, cheeks burning.

Gunwook had been there too, leaning against the lockers, headphones around his neck. He didn’t glare, didn’t say anything. Just ignored it, like it wasn’t worth his time, like it was the truth, like it’d be weird if he really did like a guy.

Matthew had wanted to feel relief, maybe even hope, but all he’d felt was that familiar twist of doubt. Maybe Gunwook really was just… straight. 

Maybe he would never look at Matthew the way Matthew sometimes dared to hope.

Yeah, we’re definitely just friends. 

He’s probably just being nice, trying to make sure I don’t start avoiding him. 

Wouldn’t want that to mess with his reputation. It’s only me who feels that way about him, anyway.

He exhaled slowly, letting the tension ease a little anyway. “Thanks,” he said at last, voice quiet but steady. “For listening.”

Taerae grinned. “Always.”

Hao nudged his knee lightly, making a playful kissy face. “Anytime… anything for you, my pookie.”

“Ew,” Taerae said, giving him a side-eye and mock vomiting.

Matthew couldn’t help but laugh. He was glad he’d finally said it. He finally didn’t feel like he was holding his breath, though a small part of him still worried he might.

--------

It was after school hours on a Wednesday. “Dang it, you guys go ahead and start practice first,” Gunwook called out, jogging a few steps back toward the gym exit. “I forgot my jersey. I’ll be back!”

Hanbin groaned from the court. “Bro, again?”

“Five minutes!” Gunwook yelled over his shoulder, waving them off.

The campus was quieter this late, the sound of bouncing balls and sneakers fading as he cut through the side path toward the dorms. His head was still full of drills, of how to fix his jump shot, when a lazy voice drifted from the shadows near the bike racks.

“Yah, Park Gunwook.”

He looked up. A few seniors, all older by a year, maybe two, were lounging by the fence, uniforms half-unbuttoned, cigarettes dangling from their fingers. The kind of guys everyone knew to avoid.

“Still as rude as ever, huh? You think just cause you’re popular you can act like this?” one said, smirking. “Didn’t your parents teach you to greet your sunbaenims?”

Gunwook stopped, took a breath, and bowed politely. “Afternoon, sunbaenim.”

He started walking again. He wasn’t looking for trouble, really. He just wanted to get back to practice quickly.

But trouble had already found him.

“Damn, he’s all polite now. Must be that new friend of his rubbing off on him.”

“Ah, you mean that tiny guy from the art club? The one from Canada?”

“Yeah, Matthew, right?” A chuckle. “Cute face, soft voice, your type, Gunwook?”

Gunwook stopped walking and froze for a beat. “Don’t talk about him.”

His voice was steady, turning back to look at them. He meant it as a warning.

They didn’t take it.

“Why so serious? We’re just saying, you two are always together these days. Walking him to class, talking to one another in the hallways… sharing snacks, right?”

“Maybe they share more than that,” one of them added, snickering.

The others burst out laughing.

Gunwook clenched his jaw, still trying his best to be polite despite the ridiculous situation. 

“I said, stop.”

“Oh, come on, don’t get so defensive,” the first guy said, stepping closer. “We all know you like girls. You don’t have to prove anything. Ain’t that right, boys?”

The others snorted.

“Yeah, no way Park Gunwook would ever go for some quiet, soft-spoken boy. Unless he’s that desperate.”

“Or maybe,” one of them leaned in with a smirk, “he’s letting that kid do something nasty to get close to him.”

Another voice chimed in, mocking: “What happened, Gunwook? Got tired of girls and decided to play house with the miserable wallflower?”

“Honestly, Matthew’s so fucking pathetic,” one of the seniors scoffed. “All twitchy and quiet, like a kicked dog. What? You into strays now? Or is it just easier to keep someone who’ll never talk back, someone so invisible no one even notices when you screw them up?”

Gunwook’s jaw tensed. He could take it when they said things about him, he always had. He’d learned to let it roll off, to pretend it didn’t matter. But this wasn’t about him.

Someone else whistled low. “You know what? I get it. He is pretty cute. Wouldn’t mind doing a few things to that pretty face.”

That was it.

Before he even registered the motion, his fist connected with the guy’s jaw; a sharp, cracking sound that silenced everything.

“Say that again.”

The words were low, trembling with anger.

The senior staggered back, clutching his face. “You crazy-”

Gunwook hit him again.

Another tried to shove him away, and Gunwook swung, blind with fury now.

“just-” thud

“messing with-” crack

“stop-” thud

Every punch landed heavier, the world narrowing to noise and breath and blood.

It wasn’t until someone shouted, “Gunwook! Stop!” that he realized how heavy his breathing was.

Hao and Taerae stood a few meters away, frozen in place, they’d just been walking back from the store. Hao’s phone was already out, fingers trembling as he dialed a number.

“Hanbin, I-, you need to get here, it’s Gunwook,” he muttered. “Outside Dorm Block C. He’s fighting, there’s blood-”

Moments later, the pounding of sneakers filled the air, the basketball team sprinting across the courtyard. Jiwoong grabbed Gunwook’s shoulders from behind, trying to pull him back, but failing to do so, as Gyuvin and Ricky dragged the senior away.

Yujin stood there, wide-eyed, not knowing what to do.

“Gunwook, what the hell are you doing?!” Hanbin’s voice cracked with panic.

Gunwook barely heard them.

Then a teacher’s voice cut through the chaos, furious.

“Park Gunwook! Everyone, stop this instant!”

By the time the teacher tore him back, arms hooked tight around his torso, Gunwook was panting, trembling with rage. His shirt was torn at the collar, lip split and bleeding. But it was his arm that screamed at him now, white-hot pain shooting up from wrist to shoulder.

He didn’t need to be told it was broken.

Didn’t need a doctor to confirm that something inside had snapped; bone, pride and restraint.

But even through the throbbing ache, the sting of blood in his mouth, the chaos pressing in on all sides, he didn’t regret it. At all.

Not when he saw the look on the other guy’s face; all bruised, bloodied, no longer smirking.

Gunwook’s chest heaved as he was dragged back, but he didn’t take his eyes off them.

He’d do it again.

Even if it broke him.

Even if it cost him more than a broken bone, Gunwook didn’t care.

The shouting blurred into a dull hum. Gunwook’s heartbeat roared in his ears, his chest still heaving. Somewhere behind the haze of anger, shame crept in, not for the fight, but for the thought of what they’d said.

The things they said about Matthew.

He hadn’t meant to lose control. Really, he wasn’t the type to resort to violence.

But the sneers and taunts struck a nerve deeper than anyone could see. Memories of his hyung flashed vividly, the boy who had laughed too softly, who had taken every jab, every shove, every whispered insult, until one night he was gone, leaving only silence behind. 

Gunwook’s fists clenched tighter, the rage not just for himself, but for Matthew, for the people he couldn’t protect, and for his Eong-ah he couldn’t save.

--------

The antiseptic smell stung Gunwook’s nose the moment he stepped in.

His right arm was strapped against his chest, the faint throb of pain pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The nurse had muttered something about a possible fracture and told him to wait for the doctor’s report.

But he wasn’t thinking about that.

He was thinking about the silence.

Hanbin sat a few chairs away, head bowed, hands clasped tight between his knees. No one said a word when the door opened again, not until Coach Kim walked in.

The man’s face was unreadable at first. Then he saw the bruises, the sling, and the blood on Gunwook’s lip. His jaw tightened.

“Everyone out,” Coach Kim said quietly.

Hanbin stood immediately. “Coach-”

“Out.”

Hanbin hesitated, glancing at Gunwook, then nodded and slipped out with the rest of the team. The door shut with a heavy click, leaving just the two of them.

For a moment, the only sound was the ticking of the wall clock.

“What were you thinking, Park Gunwook?”

Gunwook didn’t look up. His fingers twisted in the fabric of his pants. “I wasn’t.”

“That much is obvious.” Coach Kim’s voice was sharp, cutting through the still air. “You’re one of our main players. Our point guard. Do you even realize what you’ve just done?”

Gunwook said nothing.

“You might’ve ruined our shot at nationals,” the coach snapped, his tone rising. “Do you know how important you are to this team? To your teammates?!”

The words hit hard, not because they were new, but because Gunwook knew they were true. He’d worked years for this. Hours of drills, bruised knees, late-night practices. All of it, gone in one impulsive moment.

Still, he didn’t defend himself.

Coach Kim’s voice dropped, lower now. “You were supposed to lead them along with Hanbin. Be their anchor. Instead, you get into a fight like a street punk?” 

He exhaled sharply, pacing once before stopping in front of him. “I’m deeply disappointed.”

Gunwook’s throat felt tight. He forced himself to swallow.

“I know,” he said quietly, avoiding his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

Coach Kim’s eyes softened, just barely. He sighed, rubbing his temple. “Sorry won’t fix a broken arm.”

Gunwook’s jaw flexed. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” the coach snapped. “You can’t even hold a ball for the next few weeks or maybe even months. You’ve jeopardized everything.”

Gunwook finally looked up, eyes glassy but steady. “They said something about someone I care about.”

Coach Kim blinked. “What?”

Gunwook’s voice was shaky, rough around the edges. “They said things about him. About me. I couldn’t-” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I just couldn’t let them.”

Something flickered across Coach Kim’s face, something that wasn’t anger this time. Maybe understanding. Maybe pity.

But it disappeared as quickly as it came.

“You’re young,” he said quietly. “You think every fight is worth it. But sometimes protecting someone means not throwing the first punch.”

Gunwook stayed silent, eyes fixed on the white tiles.

After a long pause, Coach Kim let out another sigh. “You’ll rest. No practice, no games, no gym until the doctor clears you. I’ll handle the school board.”

Gunwook nodded once.

As the coach turned to leave, he stopped by the door. “You’ve got heart, Gunwook. But you need to learn control before it eats you alive.”

The door shut behind him, leaving the quiet hum of the clinic light and Gunwook sitting there; bruised, exhausted, and alone with the weight of what he’d done.

Wow. I’m so fucked.

--------

Matthew found out hours later.

He was working in the quiet backroom of the bookstore, methodically stocking shelves, the soft rustle of pages and the faint scent of paper surrounding him. The peaceful and steady rhythm of the day was shattered when his phone vibrated sharply in his pocket.

It was Hao.

That was strange. Hao rarely called.

“Matt-” Hao’s voice came out rushed, uneven. “There was a fight. Gunwook got hurt. It- it was about you. We’re at the clinic right now. I thought you should know.”

The words hit him like a blow. He barely heard the rest, the background noise fading into a blur as panic clawed its way up his throat. 

“Where are you?” he nervously replied.

Hao told him the location, and that was all it took.

Matthew mumbled something to his manager, something about an emergency, and was already out the door before he’d finished the sentence.

He ran.

The city blurred past in streaks of sound and color, his lungs burning, heart pounding harder with every turn.

When he reached the clinic hallway, time seemed to stop.

Gunwook was sitting on the edge of the examination bed, his arm cradled in a makeshift sling. Fresh bruises bloomed across his face, a darkening gash just above his eyebrow. Despite the swelling and the pain etched on his features, Gunwook looked up as the door creaked open.

And he smiled.

Soft, lopsided, trying so hard to be brave, like he was the one trying to make Matthew feel better.

Matthew froze. Breath caught in his chest.

The room spun, and suddenly he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

This wasn’t what he wanted.

Chapter Text

Gunwook closed his eyes.

For a second, it wasn’t the clinic anymore.

It was the old courtyard near his house, back in Osan, the one with the faded hoops and half-cracked court lines.

He was much smaller then, voice still uneven, hair sticking up from sweat and wind after practice. His palms were always scraped, his knees always bruised, but that never stopped him.

Because beside him, like always, was his hyung. His role-model.

“Best of three?”

He would spin the ball on one hand, that easy grin spreading across his face, confident but never smug. 

Gunwook would roll his eyes, pretending to sigh, “You always say that,” 

But his hands were already reaching for the ball.

They’d play until the world blurred into rhythm; sneakers squeaking, the dull thud of the ball against the ground, laughter slipping out between breaths. 

Sometimes they’d argue about fouls, sometimes they’d just collapse onto the cracked court, panting and grinning at the sky.

Eong-ah always won. Of course he did.

He was taller, steadier, and older by just enough years to make it unfair. But he never rubbed it in Gunwook’s face. 

He’d toss the ball back, clap his shoulder, and say, “Wookie, you’re getting better.”

And every time, Gunwook believed him.

Because when his hyung said it, it sounded like the truth, like something solid to hold onto.

He always had Gunwook’s back. When neighborhood kids teased him for being too small, he would show up the next day, arm slung over Gunwook’s shoulder, smiling like he dared anyone to try again. 

When Gunwook got into trouble for scuffed knees or forgotten homework, he would quietly help him patch things up, smoothing over their mother’s worry with that easy charm only he had.

To Gunwook, he wasn’t just an older brother, he was a constant, a promise that no matter how loud or uncertain the world got, someone would always be there for him, to protect him.

They’d play until the sky turned gold, the sun sinking behind the roof, until their mother’s voice carried faintly from down the street calling them in for dinner.

Then one day, he stopped saying it.

It started small.

His hyung had just started high school; a new world of longer days, heavier books, and endless responsibilities. Busier, always tired, slipping further into a schedule Gunwook couldn’t follow. 

Gunwook still waited every afternoon, ball in hand, sneakers scuffing the cracked concrete, ready for a quick one-on-one before dinner. But most days, his hyung would send a text instead:

Gunwook:

“eong-ah! basketball today? :D”

eong-ah ^_^:

“Sorry Wookie, not today.”

“Got homework stuff.”

“Next time, okay?”

At first, Gunwook didn’t think much of it. 

Eong-ah was older, smarter, the kind of person everyone admired; teachers praised him, neighbors trusted him, younger kids trailed behind him like he was safety itself. There was no reason to think anything was wrong.

But little by little, things began to feel… off.

Replies grew shorter, almost mechanical. Calls came less often, and when they did, his voice sounded distant, like he was speaking from behind a thick wall. 

Gunwook noticed the faint tremor in his words, the pauses that weren’t there before, the exhaustion that even a brief game couldn’t fix.

Once, he visited his hyung’s school for a tournament.

He still remembered how big the campus felt; taller buildings, louder voices, everything just slightly out of reach. He’d been excited to see his hyung, to wave from the benches and show off to his hyung’s friends that he had such a supportive younger brother.

That excitement vanished the moment he spotted him across the courtyard.

His hyung stood by the benches, hands tucked in his pockets, backpack slung loosely over one shoulder. Around him, laughter rang out, but it didn’t sound friendly. 

A group of older boys brushed past, one of them saying something low enough that Gunwook couldn’t catch the words, only saw the way his hyung’s shoulders stiffened, the small, too-polite smile he forced in return.

Gunwook froze.

Too far to hear, too young to understand. But the soundless moment branded itself into him, the look in his hyung’s eyes, the way he seemed to shrink just a little as the laughter faded.

He wanted to walk up, to say something, to do something, anything, but his legs wouldn’t move.

He was thirteen. Small. Angry. Useless.

That night, he asked if everything was okay.

“Of course,” his hyung said with that same soft smile, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Don’t worry so much, Wookie.”

Gunwook wanted to believe him. So he did.

He didn’t see the way his hyung’s hands trembled slightly when he poured water, or how long he’d stare at the TV long after the show ended, eyes unfocused. 

He didn’t think much of the untouched dinners, the mumbled “I already ate,” or the quiet that filled the house like something thick and heavy.

At thirteen, he thought that meant peace. That silence was just comfort.

He didn’t know it could mean pain.

By the time he learned the difference, it was already too late.

That night, Eong-ah came home silent. Didn’t touch dinner. The faint clink of his fork against the plate went unnoticed, or maybe Gunwook was too young, too naive to see it. 

He lingered in the doorway, basketball tucked under his arm, pretending it was just another evening, that nothing had changed.

“Eong-ah, wanna play a bit? Just one game.”

His hyung didn’t look up. The corner of his lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Wook-ah, not today...”

Gunwook lingered at the doorway, eyes flicking toward the living room. 

That’s when he saw it, the bruises on his arm, the faintest tremor of shoulders, the way his head dropped just for a moment. Low sniffles. A flash of tears glimmering in the soft light.

“Eong-ah?” Gunwook asked softly, stepping closer, pulse quickening.

His hyung shook his head quickly, wiping at his face with the back of his sleeve. “It’s nothing, Wookie. Just a bad day. Don’t worry about me.”

Gunwook blinked, unsure what to do. He felt utterly helpless.

He wanted to say something, to take the pain away, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he swallowed, nodded, and shuffled back to the doorway, clutching the ball tighter.

The ball felt impossibly heavy after that. 

Ever since that night, each dribble echoed like a reminder of absence, each bounce a small hammer against his chest. 

He carried it outside every afternoon, letting it pound the cracked concrete until his arms ached, until the sound seemed loud enough to fill the silence left behind by his hyung’s forced smiles.

He told himself Eong-ah would come out again. 

That maybe tomorrow, things would go back to how they were.

Tomorrow never came.

The morning it happened, the sun was bright, too bright, cruelly so.

He remembered hearing his mother’s scream, high and breaking. Remembered running, lungs burning, heart hammering, the world shrinking into a single, unbearable image; a pair of shoes, a patch of stillness, a silence that would never be undone.

He didn’t remember crying. Only sitting there, knees scraped, fingers clawing into the dirt, whispering over and over, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should’ve-

They told him later it wasn’t his fault. That there had been nothing he could have done, that he hadn’t known.

But it didn’t help with the noises in his head, the gnawing echo that came every time someone said “team,” every time he picked up a ball, every time he thought about trust and protection.

Because when it had mattered most, when it should have mattered most, he hadn’t been able to protect the one person who needed him the most.

Sometimes Gunwook scrolled through their old messages. The ones from the week before it happened made his chest ache:

Gunwook:

“eong-ah! are you okay? you haven’t been playing with me these days. :(“

eong-ah ^_^:

“I’m fine Wookie, just been feeling tired these days.”

Gunwook:

“are you sure??? you sounded off on the phone earlier :(“

eong-ah ^_^:

“Yes Wookie, I promise, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

Gunwook:

“come on eong-ah, i know something’s up T_T you sound really sad…”

eong-ah ^_^:

“I said I’m fine Wookie. Stop texting.”

Gunwook:

“okay… i’m going home soon. basketball pls?”

And then the silence stretched. No reply. Nothing. 

When he got home, he knocked on the door countless times, soft at first, then urgent, desperate, but it remained shut. Locked.

Gunwook shrugged it off and eventually slumped back to his own room.

It hit him then, all at once: if only he had known, really known how much pain his hyung carried inside, maybe he could have done something. 

If he had stayed closer, said the right words, noticed the cracks… maybe he could have done something. Maybe he could have stopped it.

The funeral didn’t answer any of those questions. His mother’s sobs dulled into wordless sighs. His father worked late, dinners grew cold and untouched.

And Gunwook, too young to process the enormity of it all, didn’t sleep in his own room anymore.

Not with the ghost of his hyung still echoing through the walls.

Every night, he read the messages again. Each “I’m fine” stung like a warning he had missed, a signal he should have recognized. 

He couldn’t save his hyung.

Gunwook:

“eong-ah i miss you so much…”

“i beg you”

“pls tell me this is all a joke”

He stared at the screen, waiting for the typing dots that never came. His throat burned.

Gunwook:

“it’s all my fault…”

“eomma and appa are devastated”

“pls come back”

“i should’ve noticed something was wrong”

He pictured his hyung’s small grin, the way he'd always teased him for worrying too much, and now he’d give anything to worry more.

Gunwook:

“i failed you”

“you always protected me…”

“what am i even doing…” 

“eong-ah, this can’t be real”

He paused, swallowed a sob, then typed again:

Gunwook:

“pls forgive me, i should’ve stayed. i should’ve talked to you more. i should’ve been there for you…”

“i hate that i can’t fix this.”

“ i hate that you’re gone.”

“i hate that i didn’t see the signs.” 

“i hate… i hate that i’m here and you’re not.”

He pressed send over and over, the words blurring together, the chat filling with echoes no one would ever read. His fingers ached from the typing, but he couldn’t stop. 

He wanted to rewrite the past, wanted to erase the silence, wanted to hold his hyung one more time.

Finally, he dropped the phone onto the floor, trembling. He curled onto his bed, basketball still clutched in his arms, sobbing, whispering into the dark room:

“I’m so sorry, Eong-ah… I could have saved you.”

His room shared a wall with his hyung’s. Every night, he could hear it, or thought he did, the faint creak of the bed, the soft shuffle of footsteps that weren’t there. 

He started leaving his light on, started sleeping on the couch, anywhere but his own room.

So when it came time for high school, he begged to go somewhere else, anywhere else.

An international high school with dorms sounded like a chance to breathe, to forget, to not have to walk past that door every morning and pretend it didn’t still hurt.

But it didn’t matter how far he went. The echoes followed anyway.

Now, sitting in the clinic, arm throbbing under the bandage, the sharp sting of disinfectant in the air, it felt the same.

The same silence after something breaks. The same helpless ache that filled the space where his hyung’s voice used to be.

Maybe that’s why he’d lost control.

Maybe that’s why he’d thrown the first punch.

Because deep down, it wasn’t just about the words they said.

It was about every word he hadn’t said and never got the chance to.

--------

The room was too quiet.

Gunwook’s teammates stood by the door, frozen in place. Hanbin’s arms were crossed tight, jaw set. Yujin shifted uneasily, eyes flicking between the two boys. Ricky, Gyuvin, and Jiwoong leaned against the wall, faces drawn and solemn.

Hao and Taerae lingered in the corner, worry etched deep into their features. They weren’t just anxious about the fight, they were afraid of what it was doing to Matthew.

No one dared to move.

“Could you… give us a minute?” Matthew said softly.

Hao hesitated, glancing at Gunwook, then back. He saw the way Matthew’s fingers trembled at his sides, the thin line of tension in his shoulders, and nodded.

“Come on,” he murmured to Taerae.

Taerae squeezed Matthew’s shoulder on his way out. 

The others followed slowly, heavy with unspoken questions. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving the two of them alone in the humming silence of the clinic room.

Matthew finally exhaled.

He stepped closer. Gunwook looked up, the overhead light catching on the bandage of his cut above his brow. 

His arm was still in a makeshift sling, knuckles raw and swollen. He tried to look unfazed, but his eyes betrayed him.

He looked tired, unfocused, and faintly dazed.

“Why,” Matthew whispered, “would you do something like that?”

Gunwook blinked. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

The sharpness in Matthew’s tone startled even himself. 

He swallowed, tried again, calmer. “Hao said it was about me.”

Gunwook’s gaze dropped. “Doesn’t matter now.”

“Gunwook.”

The way Matthew said his name, small and trembling, made Gunwook look up. 

And suddenly Matthew was right there in front of him, eyes glistening, breathing uneven.

“Why?” Matthew asked again, voice breaking.

Gunwook opened his mouth, then hesitated. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” Matthew said, words shaking. “Because all I can think about is that you got hurt, and somehow, it’s because of me.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Gunwook said softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why does it feel like I did?”

His voice cracked. He blinked rapidly, but it was too late, the tears came anyway. They spilled quietly, tracing down his cheeks in uneven streaks.

Gunwook froze. “Hey- hey, wait, don’t cry.”

Matthew tried to wipe at his face, but his hand trembled too much. “I’m fine,” he muttered, voice wobbling.

“No, you’re- you’re not fine,” Gunwook stammered, a wince flickering across his face as the pain shot through his arm, but he pushed himself to sit up straighter anyway despite the sling. 

“Shit, don’t- don’t cry, it’s not-” He reached out instinctively, then stopped halfway, unsure if he should touch him. 

“I’m okay, see? It’s not even bleeding anymore. It looks worse than it actually is.” He tried reassuring him.

Matthew shook his head, tears still falling. “You shouldn’t have-” His voice cracked again. “You shouldn’t have had to do that.”

Gunwook’s heart was racing now, the panic rising in his chest. “I didn’t- I just- they said stuff, and I couldn’t just let them-”

“Why would you get hurt?” Matthew’s voice was raw. “Over me?”

Gunwook’s throat bobbed. “I couldn’t just stand there,” he said finally, voice low and rough.

He froze for a heartbeat, just taking him in, how small Matthew looked, the way his chest rose and fell, the trembling of his hands. The sight was almost too much, like a punch straight to the gut. 

Gunwook’s own hand itched to reach out, to pull him close, to make the world safer somehow, but he didn’t know if he was allowed.

Matthew exhaled shakily. He reached out, hesitant, fingers brushing the back of Gunwook’s wrist. “You idiot,” he whispered.

Gunwook blinked, heat rushing to his cheeks. “What-”

“You scared me,” Matthew said, words dissolving into a choked laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “I thought- I thought something worse happened.”

Gunwook looked completely undone now. “Hey, don’t-” He reached up, his free hand hovering awkwardly near Matthew’s face, like he wanted to wipe his tears but he didn’t.

Instead, he slowly drew his hand back and reached for the tissue box on the bedside table, pulling one out and holding it out to him.

“You’re gonna make me feel worse if you keep crying.”

Matthew sniffled, finally letting out a small, wet laugh. “You already should feel bad.”

Gunwook gave a low, sheepish smile. “I do.”

“Good.”

They stayed like that, close enough that Matthew could feel the warmth radiating from Gunwook’s skin, his breath still uneven.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full of all the things they didn’t know how to say.

Matthew’s hand hesitated for a moment before he finally reached out, gently tracing over the bandage above Gunwook’s eyebrow, careful not to press too hard.

“Does it hurt?” 

Gunwook was surprised but gave a small, broken laugh, eyes flickering away, shy. “I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,”

“You should’ve seen the other guys,” Gunwook murmured, tilting his head with a weak attempt at a smile.

Matthew frowned, brushing at his face with the back of his sleeve. 

“That’s not funny.”

“I know,” Gunwook murmured, voice low. “But if I joke about it, maybe it won’t feel so bad.”

“You’re really okay?” Matthew asked, voice a little shaky.

Gunwook nodded, eyes gentler now. “Now that you’re here.”

Matthew blinked, chest fluttering in a way that wasn’t fear or pain. Just a small hope. Maybe… maybe Gunwook cared in that special way.

For a moment, they simply sat, eyes lingering. Though it was silent, comfort still threaded the space between them.

“It’s getting late. Hao and Taerae are waiting. I should head back with them,” Matthew said, glancing at the door.

Gunwook leaned back slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright. Let me know when you get back. I like knowing you’re safe.”

Matthew let out a small laugh, cheeks warming up, teasing lightly. “You should worry about yourself, not me.”

Gunwook shrugged. “Fine. But don’t forget the text.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Matthew said, brushing past toward the door. “And you? Take care of yourself, alright? You’re the one with bruises and a broken arm...”

“I’ll manage,” Gunwook said softly, a hint of warmth in his voice. “Just… don’t make me wait too long for that text.”

Matthew stepped back with a small grin. “Don’t overthink it. I’m with them, so nothing’s going to happen.”

Gunwook watched him go, eyes glued to the curve of his cheek, the way his sweater sleeves practically swallowed his hands. Damn… he looked so… cute.

His chest tightened, a little warmth crawling through him, the kind that made it hard to think straight. Matthew, normally so careful, so quiet with his words, had let himself slip tonight.

Let him see the worry, the fear, the tiny teasing smirk.

And just like that, Gunwook’s had that stupid fluttery feeling again, the one that made him feel light and tense and completely undone all at once.

Nothing else mattered. All that mattered was that Matthew had let him in just a little.

--------

Gunwook walked slowly, his arm in a sling, flanked by Ricky and Gyuvin, with Hanbin, Jiwoong, and Yujin keeping pace around him. The night was still, streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement as they moved towards the dorm blocks.

“You guys really didn’t need to walk me back. Ricky and Gyuvin are enough, they live with me anyway,” Gunwook said, wincing slightly as his arm swung with the movement. “My arm’s broken, not my legs.”

“But thanks anyway…”

Ricky shook his head. “Seriously… you can’t just get your arm and face wrecked and act like it’s fine. We all had to be here to make sure you don’t trip over your own ego on the way back.”

Gyuvin frowned. “Seriously, Wook. You can’t just Hulk-smash your way through drama and call it a plan. That’s not how life works.”

Gunwook exhaled, feeling a mix of shame and frustration. “I know… I just… sorry, guys. I really fucked up. I can’t play properly for a while, and I made all of you worry.”

Hanbin sighed. “Gunwook, the fight isn’t what we’re talking about. You need to take care of yourself first. That’s the part you’re messing up.”

Jiwoong nodded. “Yeah. You can’t just charge in because someone said something. You’re lucky it didn’t get worse.”

Gyuvin crossed his arms, glancing at him. “You almost got yourself seriously hurt. For what?  Over some trash talk? Come on, man. You’re better than that.”

Yujin added, “We get it hyung, it upset you. But being reckless isn’t protecting anyone, it just puts yourself in danger.”

Gunwook’s shoulders slumped. “I know… but the things they said, it got under my skin. Reminded me of Eong-ah…”

Hanbin put a hand on his shoulder, a slight worry on his face. 

“Gunwook. What happened to your hyung isn’t your fault. You can’t keep punishing yourself for things you can’t control. And you can’t let that turn into hurting yourself.”

Jiwoong added softly, “It’s okay to feel shaken. But you have to remember your limits. You can’t be responsible for everything.”

Ricky smirked faintly. “Yeah. And seriously, next time, try using your words first instead of your fists.”

Gunwook gave a small, sheepish laugh, the tension easing slightly. “Yeah… thanks, guys.”

He exhaled, shoulders easing, walking a little taller despite the sling. 

I’ll be careful. I have to. Basketball isn’t just a game, it’s part of me. And I can’t let my mistakes break that… or me.

“I’ll be careful,” he murmured, mostly to himself, as they continued back toward the dorms.

He hadn’t admitted it to anyone, not even himself, but caring for Matthew… letting himself feel protective again… it reminded him of Eong-ah. 

Could this be why he’s so drawn to him?

Gunwook learned young that showing cracks made you a target, that softness could be taken, twisted, used against you. He didn’t want anyone to see him, or the people he cared about, as fragile.

So he became someone else: the golden delinquent. Sharp-tongued, untouchable, always in control.

It was more than a mask. It was a vow to himself: I won’t let anyone I care about break the way Eong-ah did.

A sudden ping in his pocket broke his reverie. 

A message. From Matthew.

matthew:

“I’m back safe. I’m well and alive haha.”

Gunwook’s lips twitched into a small, crooked grin, heat rising to his cheeks. 

He typed something teasing, something dumb, fingers hovering over the keys, but before he could even hit send, another ping pulled him out of his thoughts.

matthew:

“Can we talk tomorrow? There’s… a lot I need to say.”

The words were simple, almost awkward, but the weight behind them pressed down like the first chill of winter.

Gunwook slipped his phone back into his pocket without replying, heart pounding.

What did Matthew mean?

He felt a flicker of worry. Like something bad was going to happen.

Tomorrow.

And just like that, nothing would be the same.

“Gunwook. Stop spacing out and keep moving!” Gyuvin’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Gunwook blinked, shook his head, and fell in step beside his friends again, trying to shove the racing thoughts back into the shadows.

Chapter Text

It was already 3 a.m.

Hao and Taerae were sound asleep, their breathing soft and steady in the dark. But Matthew couldn’t sleep.

He lay there, eyes open, tracing the faint cracks on the ceiling like they could stop him from overthinking. But of course, they didn’t. 

He turned over once, then again, sheets tangling around his legs. His mind wouldn’t stop moving.

He kept replaying everything that had happened earlier. 

The way Gunwook’s face twisted in pain, how he still tried to smile through it all, the bruises that wouldn’t stop flashing in his head. 

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Hey- don’t cry.”

How could he have cried? How could he have had the audacity to cry in front of him, when Gunwook was the one injured, bruised, sitting there trying to reassure him?

He could still see it, Gunwook struggling to sit upright despite the sling, trying to joke, trying to comfort him. Reaching out for tissues with his one good arm because Matthew couldn’t stop shaking.

That image burned into him.

Gunwook hurt, and still worried about him.

And then, “Alright. Let me know when you get back. I like knowing you’re safe.”

It was supposed to make him feel better, actually.

Instead, the thought of it now made him uncomfortable. 

It made his gut clench.

Because for a second, he’d felt… happy.

Hopeful, even.

Like maybe Gunwook did care about him, in that way Matthew was too afraid to acknowledge.

And that was what made him hate himself more.

How could he have felt anything good in that moment, when Gunwook was sitting there, bruised and bandaged because of him?

What kind of person feels warmth in the same breath as guilt?

He pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes, trying to chase away the memory.

He shouldn’t be the reason someone ended up in a clinic.

He shouldn’t be the reason Gunwook got hurt at all.

And fuck, his arm. 

He loved basketball. And now, because of me, he probably can’t play for weeks. Maybe months.

How could Gunwook just brush it all off like it was nothing? 

It wasn’t nothing.

It meant everything to Matthew. 

Maybe I shouldn’t have started anything. Shouldn’t have texted him that day.

Should’ve ignored the Chocopie note.

I always ruin everything.

He let out a shaky breath, the words echoing in his head until they didn’t sound like words anymore, just noise.

Should’ve kept it low and quiet.

“Fuck, man,” he whispered to no one. “Mom and Dad are right.”

They always are. 

It sucks. 

He rolled over again, pressing his face straight into his pillow, guilt eating him alive. But the guilt wouldn’t stop clawing at him. It started spreading, crawling up his throat, quick and tight.

His heart was racing. Too fast.

His breaths came out uneven. He tried to slow them down, but every time he did, another thought hit him harder.

I always ruin everything, don’t I? 

He flipped onto his back, gasping a little, eyes darting around the dark room like it could give him something solid to hold onto. 

Taerae stirred once in his sleep.

Matthew froze, glancing towards his direction while holding his breath. 

He didn’t want to wake anyone. Didn’t want them to see him like this.

He tried counting his breaths.

In, out. In, out.

But it just made him hear Gunwook’s voice again. 

“Now that you’re here.”

And that was the worst part, because he wanted to be there. He always wanted to be there.

And maybe that was exactly the problem.

Tears burned at the corners of his eyes. His breathing hitched. 

He’d be better off without me.

His hands trembled as he reached for his phone, re-reading the message he had sent hours ago.

Matthew:

“I’m back safe. I’m well and alive haha.”

“Can we talk tomorrow? There’s… a lot I need to say.”

No reply from Gunwook. 

And honestly, he wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say, it wasn’t clarity, it was guilt. 

The message just sat there, blue light bleeding into the dark, and for some reason, that was what broke him.

His throat tightened until it hurt to breathe. The edges of his vision went watery, the world dissolving into light and blur. 

He tried to hold it in, biting down hard on his trembling lip, but the tears came too fast, too heavy to stop.

He pressed his arm over his mouth to muffle the sound, but small, shaky sobs still slipped through.

He whispered into the dark, over and over.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, like it could undo something, like it could fix him.

But it didn’t.

It only made it clearer.

Gunwook didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve him.

If being close to him meant hurting him, then maybe the kindest thing would be to stop. 

Matthew knew himself too well. To walk away before he could ruin anything else. 

The thought burned, but it felt almost like relief. 

A decision. Something he could do. Something he could control.

He lay there until his body gave in to exhaustion, tears drying cold against his pillow. His chest still ached, but somewhere under it, he’d already decided:

Tomorrow, he’d tell Gunwook they shouldn’t be friends anymore.

--------

Morning came harsh and bright. 

Thin slats of sunlight cut across the dorm floor and against Matthew’s closed eyelids.

Ugh. I feel like utter shit.

He groaned and buried his face deeper into the pillow, trying to block out the light.

His head throbbed dully, the kind of ache that sat behind his eyes and pulsed with every heartbeat. He couldn’t lift his head from the pillow, couldn’t summon the energy to answer Hao’s soft but persistent voice trying to wake him.

His eyelids felt like sandpaper; raw, swollen, dry and puffy from crying through the entire night.

Wow. It’s like I’m back in Canada.

“You guys head to school first, I’ll go in later.” Matthew mumbled, face still buried in the fabric. His voice came out rough and small, muffled enough to hide the wreck he was.

He couldn’t let Hao and Taerae see how bad of a state he was in.

They didn’t question him though. Just understood.

Yesterday had been rough for everyone, knowing what had happened to Gunwook.

But they didn’t know that guilt was eating Matthew alive from the inside.

Hao lingered by the door for a moment. “Don’t be too late, see you in History class later.” he said gently.

Then the door clicked shut, and silence returned.

Matthew finally lifted his head from the pillow, letting out a shaky sign. 

He pushed himself upright, the blanket falling away. His whole body felt heavy, like every bone carried a memory he didn’t want to touch.

He rubbed at his eyes, but it didn’t help; the sting stayed.

Maybe he should just skip school altogether. What was the point of pretending to be fine?

He was too drained to face the day.

Then, his phone buzzed.

Gunwook (History Class):

“hey matthew sorry i forgot to reply lol was too tired yesterday”

“rick and gyub were endlessly nagging at me the whole night”

“see u in hist class ltr!”

“and sure… we could talk”

“wanna talk after school? we could meet at the rooftop :p”

Matthew stared at the message, a mix of relief and shame curling in his heart. 

Part of him wanted to hope again, but another, louder part of him wanted to disappear.

He set the phone down slowly, staring at the faint reflection of his swollen eyes on the screen. The light dimmed, leaving the room still again.

Fuck school today.

He tossed the phone onto the bed, buried his face in the pillow again, and made a decision. 

He wouldn’t go. Not today.

He couldn’t sit through classes pretending he was fine, couldn’t face Hao’s or Taerae’s worried glances, or the way people would whisper about Gunwook.

No classes. No hallways. No cafeteria.

Not even history, their class.

He’d stay here. In his bed. Let the guilt chew through him in peace.

Let the day crawl by until it was time.

Until the rooftop.

Until Gunwook.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe, bracing for what would come next; the guilt, the awkwardness, the words he’d have to say, and the hurt that would follow.

For him. For Gunwook. For both of them.

--------

Ricky and Gyuvin fell into step beside Gunwook as they made their way to class.

“You’re lucky Coach talked to the school board,” Gyuvin said. “Could’ve been a suspension, but he somehow convinced them detention was ‘character building.’”

Gunwook huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well, I’m already full of character.”

He sighed. It would start next week, five afternoons of sitting in an empty classroom, writing reflection sheets he wouldn’t mean. 

A small price to pay, I guess.

“Don’t trip on your own ego again,” Ricky teased, bumping his shoulder.

Gunwook scoffed, letting their jokes roll off him. “I’ll manage.”

Gyuvin grinned. “Yeah, manage to milk that sling for sympathy points. Bet half the school’s already planning to sign your painfully obvious cast.”

Gunwook let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re an idiot.”

“An idiot with two working arms,” Gyuvin shot back, earning a laugh from Ricky. They slapped a quick high-five, the sound echoing slightly in the hall.

“Gyubing, that was a good one.” Ricky grinned.

Even with his arm in a sling, bandages on his face, and bruises darkening his skin, Gunwook moved with the same easy confidence he always had.

Whispers followed him through the hall, but he barely registered them.

The golden delinquent? Let them stare.

Instead, his mind was elsewhere. History class. Matthew.

Ricky and Gyuvin stayed close, joking to keep it light.

“Wook-ah, you walk in like that, people are gonna think you fought a teacher,” Gyuvin said, eyeing the sling.

Ricky snorted. “Yeah, and still somehow passed the quiz he didn’t even study for.”

Gunwook rolled his eyes. “It’s called natural talent.”

“Natural bullshit, you mean,” Gyuvin said, laughing. “Some of us actually study, you know?”

“Couldn’t be me,” Gunwook muttered, smirking.

Ricky shook his head. “He’s gonna graduate off pure luck and charm.”

“Charm’s all I need,” Gunwook said, deadpan, and both of them groaned.

By the time they reached the classroom door, Gyuvin clapped him on the good shoulder. “Try not to fall asleep in there, genius.”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks for walking me to class,” Gunwook muttered, the smile lingering a bit before fading as he turned toward the door.

They left, and he pushed the door open. 

Whispers trailed him as he stepped inside, low murmurs flickering like static.

“Whoa… look at him.”

“Did he get into a fight?”

“I heard he fought with Dongmin sunbaenim and his group…”

“Well, it seems like Gunwook won since nobody saw that bully group coming to school today.”

Some even leaned closer, peering at his bruised face, the bandages and his arm in a sling.

Gunwook didn’t flinch. He kept his eyes forward, scanning the room for Matthew instead.

Hao was seated at his usual desk, alone. 

And Matthew… he wasn’t there.

Oh.

Maybe he was just late. 

Maybe he’d show up any second.

But even as he told himself that, Gunwook couldn’t shake the nervous pit twisting in his stomach. The kind of unease he didn’t usually feel, not even in exams or tournaments.

The signal bell rang, slicing through the hum of whispers.

Mr. Jang called the roll, one name after another. Gunwook’s stomach sank with every absent tick, every desk left empty.

“Matthew?”

“Seok Matthew?”

“Hm. That’s strange…”

There was no hesitant shuffle, no familiar, soft “here” from the back of the room.

Hao’s head lifted slightly at the sound of Matthew’s name. He turned toward the empty seat beside him, brows pinched, before pulling out his phone under the desk.

Zhang Hao:

“Matthew. Mr. Jang is taking attendance already.”

“Where are you?”

“Told you not to be too late.”

“Everything good?”

Gunwook caught the faint light of the screen flicker, Hao typing something, waiting.

But no reply came.

His heart sank.

He pulled out his phone too, fingers hesitating before he started typing.

Gunwook:

“matthew you alright?”

“did you fall sick? why aren’t you in class hahhaa”

2 minutes passed.

10 minutes.

An hour.

No reply.

That was when Gunwook knew. Knew that Matthew wouldn’t show up.

A cold wave of emptiness washed over him. 

He’d told himself not to overthink it, that Matthew just needed time, but the silence said everything.

He had expected a flicker of guilt, a shadow of worry, but nothing could have prepared him for the sinking certainty that Matthew was starting to pull away again. 

He was right. He knew something bad was going to happen.

And it hurt.

A lot.

--------

The wind was sharp that afternoon.

Gunwook leaned against the railing, the familiar rusted metal biting cool against his palms. His hoodie half-zipped over his sling, hair still messy from class, left hand holding a half-empty bottle of Pocari. 

He’d been up there for almost half an hour, sneakers scuffing the concrete, checking his phone every few minutes even though he knew he shouldn’t expect a reply.

He almost left. Almost.

But then the rooftop door creaked open.

He turned immediately.

“Matthew?”

The name left him half in disbelief, half in relief.

All the waiting, all the restless pacing in his chest, everything stopped.

Matthew hesitated in the doorway, the metal handle still clutched in his hand. His eyes were rimmed red, shadows sitting heavy under them. He looked like he hadn’t slept.

Gunwook straightened up, his face lighting instinctively. “Hey! Matthew,” 

“You alright? Didn’t see you at school today. You sick or something?”

He took a step closer, his voice spilling with questions before Matthew could even open his mouth. “You should’ve texted me. I was kinda-”

He caught himself before saying worried.

Matthew managed a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… didn’t feel great.”

Gunwook nodded, studying him. “You look worse than I did last night,” he said, trying to joke. “Didn’t sleep?”

Matthew shrugged. “Something like that.”

Gunwook smiled faintly, but it faltered when Matthew didn’t respond. The silence stretched, filled only by the sound of wind scraping across the rooftop tiles.

“You came,” Gunwook said after a while. “You said you wanted to talk?”

Matthew’s throat tightened. He almost wished he hadn’t come. Seeing Gunwook standing there, still trying to act normal, still caring, it made everything harder.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I… just wanted to see you.”

His voice came out softer than he meant, almost like an apology.

Gunwook’s grin returned, quick and genuine. “Well, here I am. Still alive. Still with one working arm.”

Matthew’s chest ached at that, because even now, Gunwook was trying to make him laugh. Even after everything.

And that was exactly why he couldn’t do this anymore.

Matthew’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. “You shouldn’t joke about that.”

“Huh?” Gunwook blinked, caught off guard. “I mean- hey, I’m fine. It’s not that deep.”

“It is,” Matthew said quietly. His voice cracked on the word. “You got hurt, Gunwook.” 

“Because of me.”

The grin slipped off Gunwook’s face. “Hey, no, that’s not-”

“It is.” Matthew’s voice rose, trembling. “You could’ve-” He stopped himself, pressing his lips together until they turned pale. 

“You could’ve been hurt worse. And you’re still standing here pretending it’s fine, like I didn’t ruin everything.”

“Ru- what are you even talking about?”

Matthew exhaled shakily, eyes fixed on the ground. The guilt clawed up his throat so hard it almost made him sick. “I always make things worse.”

“The rumours, the hate, everything, I’m starting to get used to it actually.” 

“I really tried not to care about them. But, you getting hurt was what made it for me.”

“I know how much basketball means to you. We talked about it, remember?”

“But now… now you can’t play. I might’ve ruined your chances at Nationals. All of it… it’s because of me.”

Gunwook’s brow furrowed. “Matthew, stop. My arm will heal in no time. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why does it feel like I did?”

The words cracked open something between them. Gunwook looked at him like he wanted to argue, to fix it somehow, but Matthew didn’t let him. He couldn’t.

He forced himself to meet Gunwook’s eyes, even though it hurt. “Listen, I came up here because…” He swallowed hard. “Because I think we should stop.”

Gunwook’s heart rate quickened, the sentence hadn’t registered fully. “Stop what?”

“This,” Matthew whispered. “Whatever we’ve been doing. Talking, hanging out-” his breath caught “-pretending like it doesn’t mess everything up.”

For a second, neither of them breathed. The wind howled across the roof, tugging at their sleeves.

Gunwook’s voice came out low, almost disbelieving. “You’re serious.”

Matthew nodded, his hands twisting in his sleeves. “I think it’d be better if we weren’t… friends anymore.”

Gunwook stared at him. His lips parted like he was about to say something, but nothing came out. Just silence.

The kind that hit harder than any shout.

Finally, he said, quietly, “You’re doing this because of yesterday.”

Matthew flinched.

“Matthew,” Gunwook said, voice rougher now. “You don’t get to decide for me what hurts and what doesn’t.”

“I’m trying to do the right thing,” Matthew said, almost pleading.

Gunwook shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping before he could stop it. “Then why does it feel like you’re punishing me for it?”

“The past few weeks, getting closer, learning about one another, you wanna throw all that away?”

Matthew’s throat closed. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Gunwook said, voice low. “You always are.”

He turned away before Matthew could see the bitter look on his face.

Something in Matthew cracked. The words hit deeper than he expected, deeper than he could handle.

He wanted to explain, to say no, you don’t get it, to tell him that this was the only way he knew how to protect him, but his throat wouldn’t work. 

Every word tangled up and turned into something ugly.

So instead, he stepped back. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, smaller this time. “I should go. I shouldn’t be here.”

Gunwook frowned. “What? Matthew-”

“Please.” His voice shook. “I just… I can’t do this right now.”

Gunwook took half a step forward, like instinct, like he couldn’t stand the space between them. “Then when? When are you gonna stop running every time something feels real?”

That hit him square in the chest. Matthew froze, staring at him, every breath catching like he’d been punched.

Just once, he let himself look. Really look.

At the bruise fading along Gunwook’s jaw. The cut near his temple. His arm wrapped with white cast, in a sling. The way his eyes still softened, even through the anger.

He looked at him like he was memorizing every bit of him, like this might be the last time he’d get to see Gunwook.

Gunwook exhaled, frustrated, pained. “You keep saying you ruin things, but all you ever do is leave. You don’t even give anyone the chance to prove you wrong.”

Matthew’s lips trembled, but he couldn’t answer. Because he knew Gunwook was right.

And that was exactly why he had to go.

So he did what he always did, he turned away.

The sound of his footsteps echoed against the concrete, uneven, hurried, desperate to escape before he could change his mind.

“Matthew.”

Gunwook’s voice stopped him for half a second.

He didn’t turn around.

“Don’t disappear again,” Gunwook said softly, like a plea. “Please.”

Matthew shut his eyes. His chest hurt so much he could barely breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible, and then he walked away.

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

Behind him, Gunwook stayed rooted in place, the wind tugging at his sleeve, his fingers clenching helplessly around the railing, like maybe if he held on tight enough, Matthew wouldn’t really be gone.

The door clicked shut.

For a while, Gunwook didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t think.

He just stood there, eyes fixed on the empty space Matthew had left behind.

Why did he run? 

The question beat in his chest like a cruel, relentless drum. 

Was it the fight? The blood? Or was it me? Did I scare him off?

I thought we were doing fine.

What was that yesterday?

I thought he opened up.

His chest tightened. He could still feel the sting where the punch had landed, the raw ache under the bandages, proof that he’d fought, that he’d tried to protect someone.

But what good were bruises if the person you fought for looked at you like you were dangerous?

He sank down to the concrete, the rough surface cold beneath him, his injured arm heavy against his side. 

The white cast caught the weak light of sunset, glaring back at him, a stark reminder of all the things he couldn’t fix.

He told himself not to think about it. Not to go there.

But the stillness of the rooftop pressed in, and suddenly he was thirteen again.

A different door.

A different kind of sadness.

His mother’s voice breaking somewhere in the house.

The sound of his own knuckles hitting wood, again and again; eong-ah, please open up.

He blinked hard, trying to shove the memory away, but it clung to him. 

The same helpless feeling in his chest. The same cold dread in his stomach.

He’d promised himself back then he’d never let it happen again, that if someone ever needed him, he’d do something.

And now, looking at the empty space where Matthew had been, all he could think was,

He failed again.

He wanted to call him. 

To say I’m sorry for fighting, or I won’t do that again, or please don’t go, or I’m here. But he didn’t. What if they made it worse? What if they pushed Matthew further away?

The wind stirred his hair. His phone lay useless in his pocket.

--------

Evening had settled over the dorms when Matthew returned, dragging his feet through the door. His shoulders were slumped, eyes shadowed with exhaustion, the weight of the day pressing down on him like a physical thing. 

Hao and Taerae looked up immediately, worry written on their faces.

“Seok Matthew.”

“Where were you? You weren’t at school today,” Hao said sternly, voice carrying just enough concern to make Matthew stiffen.

Matthew didn’t answer right away. He just let his backpack fall to the floor, shoulders slumping as he dragged himself toward the couch. 

When Hao caught a glimpse of his face, the dark circles under his eyes, the pallor, the way he moved like every step was a struggle, he immediately softened.

“Matt…” Hao murmured, letting the question fade into a quiet observation. 

Something was very wrong.

Taerae leaned against the doorway, brows drawn, then took a small step closer. Hao gave him a subtle nod, and the two of them regarded Matthew in silence for a moment.

Finally, Taerae’s voice broke through, low and careful. “Bro… you okay?”

The question undid him. Matthew’s hands trembled; his body slumped against the couch as if the strength had left him all at once. He buried his face in his hands, and before he knew it, he was crying, shoulders shaking, words falling apart between sobs.

“I- I ruined everything,” he choked out, voice cracking. “I told him- I told him we shouldn’t be friends anymore…”

Tears ran freely now, hot and jagged, tracing uneven paths down his cheeks. “I hurt him and it’s all my fault…”

Chapter Text

Matthew’s breath hitched, every inhale shaky and uneven. Everything he’d been holding in all day finally tore its way out.

“I told him we shouldn’t be friends anymore,” he choked, burying his face in his hands. “And he just- he looked at me like I’d hit him. I hurt him. I hurt him so much, and I didn’t even mean to-”

His voice thinned out, breaking on the last word.

Hao didn’t jump in with comfort or questions. He just got up quietly and eased down beside him on the couch. No touching yet, Matthew looked like he might crack open if anyone pushed too fast.

Taerae hovered for a moment, visibly out of his depth, before awkwardly lowering himself onto Matthew’s other side. He didn’t say anything, mostly because he had no idea what to say, but he stayed. 

Matthew curled forward, elbows digging into his knees. “Why do I keep doing this? Why do I always ruin everything good?”

He dragged his hands through his hair, breath coming uneven.

Taerae shot Hao a quick look; the silent, oh shit, he’s spiraling kind of look, then leaned in slightly.

“Matthew,” he murmured, hesitant. “Slow down. Just, breathe for a second.”

But Matthew couldn’t. The panic had momentum now.

“I made him think I didn’t care,” he said, voice cracking wide open. “I made him think I didn’t want him. I saw his face-”

He squeezed his eyes shut, like it could block out the image.

“It was like he didn’t understand. Like I blindsided him.”

“I was just doing what was best for him. I wanted to protect him. I don’t want him to get hurt because of me again.”

“Matt,” Hao said softly.

But the words kept spilling out, faster than he could think.

“He tried so hard,” Matthew whispered. “He still came to see me, he still smiled at me, even when he was hurt, even when he shouldn’t have- he didn’t deserve any of this.”

His breath cut off in a sharp, painful inhale.

“And he looked so disappointed,” he whispered. “I did that. I did that to him.”

The sobs finally broke loose, shaking his whole body. His hands dropped uselessly into his lap as he folded in on himself.

Only then did Hao reach out, his hand settling gently on Matthew’s back, sliding up and down, trying to ease the anxiety. Taerae placed a tentative hand on Matthew’s arm a second later, grounding him from the other side. 

“Matthew,” Hao said again, voice warm in that specific way Matthew only ever heard when things were really bad. “Hey. Listen to me for a second.”

Matthew sniffed hard, fingers twisting into the hem of his shirt. He still didn’t look up.

“You didn’t ruin everything,” Hao said, calm and certain, like the earth could tilt off its axis and he’d still mean it. “You’re hurting. He’s hurting. But that isn’t the same as destroying something.”

Matthew’s voice scraped out, hoarse. “It feels like it.”

“I know,” Hao murmured. “But feelings aren’t facts.”

Taerae leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Can I say something without you freaking out?”

Matthew nodded weakly.

“You’ve been… drowning,” Taerae said carefully. “Ever since yesterday. We knew something was wrong the second we woke up. We know you didn’t sleep. You look like you barely ate.”

Matthew flinched, guilt prickling up his spine, but Taerae kept going.

“And when you’re drowning, you don’t make calm decisions. You grab whatever feels safe. Even if it’s the wrong thing.”

Hao nodded, something knowing flickering through his eyes. “Yeah. Because that’s what you learned to do when things got too big.”

Matthew froze.

“You run,” Hao said gently. “You shut down. You disappear before anyone can hurt you. That isn’t you being cold or cruel. That’s you surviving what you grew up with.”

“You spent years being told it wasn’t safe to be yourself,” Hao continued softly. “Of course your instinct is to pull away when things feel… real.”

Matthew blinked hard, vision blurring. He didn’t deny it. He couldn’t.

It was what had kept him alive: keeping quiet, shrinking small, getting out before anyone could push him out.

It was how he’d ghosted Nicholas.

How he’d survived his parents. 

And now it was the thing hurting him the most.

“But Gunwook doesn’t know that part of you,” Hao said quietly. “All he sees is you leaving.”

Matthew’s mouth trembled. “And it hurt him.”

“Yeah,” Hao admitted softly. “It did. But that doesn’t make you a bad person. It just means there’s history he hasn’t heard yet.”

He let the silence settle for a moment before adding:

“But it’s not the end.”

Matthew blinked as another tear rolled down, slow.

Taerae shifted closer. “I think Gunwook really cares about you. Like… scary amounts.”

“Taerae,” Hao muttered.

“What? I’m right. He kept asking about you all day. Seriously. Almost every hour. ‘Did Matthew text?’ ‘Is he in class?’ ‘Did he say anything to you guys?’.”

Matthew’s breath stuttered, something tender and aching swelling in his chest.

“And that’s the thing,” Taerae continued, softer now. “If he didn’t care about you, he wouldn’t have checked his phone every five minutes. He wouldn’t have kept coming back to us like we magically knew where you were.”

He nudged Matthew’s knee. “He wanted to find you.”

Matthew’s breath shivered.

“He went,” he whispered. “He waited for me.”

Hao frowned gently. “Waited where?”

Matthew swallowed. “The rooftop. I… told him last night to meet me there today.”

Taerae and Hao exchanged a small, stunned look, but neither pushed further.

Taerae spoke first. “Then he went because you asked him to. Because it was you.”

Matthew shook his head helplessly. “And I told him we shouldn’t be friends.”

Hao squeezed his shoulder. “Matt… you were scared.”

“I am scared,” Matthew whispered.

For the first time, he looked up; eyes swollen, expression lost.

Hao met his gaze and held it. “Then let us help you. Let him help you. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Matthew’s chest tightened painfully. Another tear slipped free.

“I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You don’t need to fix anything tonight,” Hao said. “Just breathe. Let yourself exist without assuming the worst.”

Taerae nodded. “And maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, whenever, when you’re not running on zero sleep and emotional fumes, you can talk to him again.”

Matthew’s voice wavered. “What if he doesn’t want to talk to me?”

Hao didn’t hesitate. “Right now, he thinks you don’t want him.”

He let that sink in.

Then he added; gentle, certain, devastating:

“You do want him. Don’t you?”

Matthew didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

His face folded in on itself, and the tears came again, soft and shaking.

Hao nodded, like that confirmed everything.

Matthew wasn’t ruining anything.

He was just terrified of wanting something that much.

--------

Evening had already draped itself over the dorms by the time Gunwook walked through the door. Every step felt heavier than the last. His arm ached, his jaw throbbed, but worse than that was the pit twisting in his stomach, the one Matthew had left behind on the rooftop.

Ricky and Gyuvin were already in the dorms when he pushed the door open. Ricky was sprawled on his bed, headphones hanging around his neck, scrolling on his phone. Gyuvin sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a notebook like it had any answers to the way Gunwook felt.

“Finally,” Ricky said, tossing the headphones onto the bedside table. “Did you wrestle a bear on the way here?”

Gunwook grunted, forcing a small laugh. “Something like that.”

Gyuvin glanced up, eyes narrowing. “Man, you look like shit. That’s… not normal.”

Gunwook ignored him, dropping his bag near the door and loosening his hoodie. His fingers brushed the sling, remembering the rooftop, remembering Matthew. He shoved the memory down.

Ricky leaned forward. “Did Matthew…?”

Gunwook’s head shot up. “Did Matthew what?”

Ricky raised his hands defensively. “Nothing, nothing! I just- he hasn’t been around today, and you’re all… tense, trying to look for him. Chill, man.”

Gyuvin sighed, closing the notebook. “Yeah, relaxing isn’t exactly your brand today.”

Gunwook rubbed at his temple, letting out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

They fell into silence for a moment. Ricky finally broke it. “You know you can tell us if something’s up, right?”

Gunwook’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t ready. The guilt from the fight, the fear from earlier, the way Matthew had looked at him, it was all still too raw.

He grabbed a soda from the table, twisting the cap off just to have something to do. The hiss sounded louder than it should. He took a long drink, letting the cold settle him for a second.

Gyuvin watched him carefully. “You’re not just tired.”

Gunwook laughed under his breath, humorless. “I’m fine. Really.”

Ricky rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because that’s so believable.”

“Seriously,” Gyuvin said softly. “Talk to us.”

Gunwook opened his mouth to deflect, like always, but the words just… wouldn’t form. He’d been holding himself together all day, pretending in class, pretending on the rooftop. 

Now, with them staring at him like they actually saw him, lying felt impossible.

He slumped onto his bed, letting the weight of everything press down. “I think I… lost him,” he muttered.

Ricky froze. “Lost who?”

Gunwook didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. They both knew.

Gyuvin sat beside him, putting a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Then we’ll help you find a way to fix it. Don’t shut yourself in, alright?”

Gunwook closed his eyes, letting out a shaky breath. The fight, the rooftop, Matthew’s words, they all collided in his chest. 

He tried to breathe, tried not to think about Matthew’s face on the rooftop.

He pulled out his phone and carefully slid the note from behind the case. The first note with the chibi drawing Matthew gave him.

He froze, fingers brushing it almost hesitantly, like it might break if he touched it too hard.

He didn’t say anything.

Gyuvin noticed how his shoulders sagged, and Ricky saw the way he stared at it like it hurt.

For the first time all day, Gunwook let himself feel it, the pain of missing someone he didn’t want to lose.

--------

A new week has started.

Gunwook hadn’t seen Matthew once. It was obvious Matthew was skipping school. Empty classrooms, unanswered messages, and the quiet halls made it clear.

Every day after school, he spent hours in detention, a consequence of the fight he’d gotten into, a reminder of everything spinning out of control. 

He kept his head down, tapping his pen against the desk like it owed him money, and halfheartedly scribbled reflections about how fighting was bad.

Monday: Violence is bad. Physical aggression is bad. Bad. He muttered under his breath, “Wow, genius, Park. Maybe if I write it 800 more times it’ll actually stick.” He paused, staring at the words, and then muttered, “Stupid… all this for one stupid fight.” 

Tuesday: He circled words like anger management and conflict resolution like he actually believed them. 

Wednesday: Gunwook wrote about the psychology of violence and immediately crossed it out. “Too fancy. Too… smart. I’m dumb, not Freud,” he muttered. He had attempted to doodle a chibi version of Matthew holding a choco pie, ended up looking like a potato with legs. “Perfect,” he grumbled. “Totally captures my life.”

Thursday: Back to writing tedious reflections, mostly crossing things out and sighing, muttering, Fighting bad. I bad. Matthew probably hates me. Choco pie good.

Friday: He sketched another chibi, then almost, almost, leaned over to show it to the teacher, thinking maybe it would lighten the mood. He froze. “Nope. Too much. Forget it.” He shoved it back into his notebook, cheeks burning.

The clock ticked loud enough to make his head throb. He shoved the paper aside when the bell finally rang, slinging it into his bag. Another day down. Another day without Matthew. Another week without Matthew.

--------

Matthew didn’t remember deciding not to go to school.

He just… didn’t go.

Monday started with him sitting on the edge of his bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, staring at the floor until the sunlight shifted across it. 

By the time he realized he was still in the same position, first period had ended. Then second. Then he gave up entirely.

The rest of the week wasn’t much different.

His dorm stayed dim. The curtains stayed closed. His phone stayed facedown on the nightstand because he was afraid of what he’d see and equally afraid of what he wouldn’t.

Sometimes Taerae poked his head in with food. Sometimes Hao sat beside him quietly, scrolling on his phone so Matthew didn’t have to feel alone. 

They didn’t push. They didn’t ask. They just existed around him until he remembered how to breathe again.

He barely ate. Barely slept. Mostly he just curled up under his blanket, mind looping the rooftop moment over and over, Gunwook’s expression, the way he flinched when Matthew said the words.

We shouldn’t be friends.

Every time he heard himself say it, he felt sick.

By Wednesday, his phone was still untouched.

By Friday night, avoiding it felt like cowardice.

Matthew swallowed hard and finally picked it up. The screen lit up, brighter than the room, almost painful.

Notifications stacked on top of each other. Mostly group chat stuff, some assignments, some from his homeroom teacher.

And then-

Monday:

Gunwook (History Class):

10:32 a.m.

“are you okay?”

“i swear, it’s not your fault”

“pls talk to me”

4:12 p.m.

“i’m stuck in detention for that fight.”

“i keep thinking abt that night. pls just tell me you're okay.”

He swallowed, throat tight. He wasn’t okay. And Gunwook was still blaming himself.

Tuesday:

Gunwook (History Class):

9:12 a.m.

“you're not in school again.”

“pls tell me you're okay.”

4:32 p.m.

“these reflections are so stupid omg.”

“writing ‘violence is bad’ like a kindergarten kid.”

“can’t focus. are you eating your meals?”

Wednesday:

Gunwook (History Class):

4:50 p.m.

“if you don’t want to talk to me, it’s fine.” 

“just… let me know you're safe.”

“my hand hurts from writing all this shit.”

“i almost drew you a chocopie chibi but it looked like a potato.”

“delete that last msg. pretend i didn’t say it.”

Thursday:

Gunwook (History Class):

3:46 a.m.

“matthew, please.”

“i'm scared”

5:02 p.m.

“today’s reflection was ‘ways to handle conflict.’ i wrote ‘don’t be an idiot.’”

“teacher didn’t like that.”

“i miss you.”

“nvm.”

Friday (today):

Gunwook (History Class):

4:03 p.m.

“detention again.”

“thankfully today’s the last day of detention haha”

“this week sucks.”

10:21 p.m.

“i don’t know what to do if you keep disappearing.”

“i checked the rooftop again. you weren’t there.”

“just… say something. anything.”

Matthew’s throat closed.

He pressed the phone to his chest like it could anchor him, keep the messages from slipping through the cracks forming inside him. Relief flickered. So did guilt. So did something else warm and crushing.

But the thing that hit him the hardest was that Gunwook hadn’t given up. Not even a little.

Matthew stared at the last message, the rooftop one, and whispered into the empty room:

“I’m so stupid.”

His fingers hovered over the screen for the first time all week, trembling.

Not ready to reply.

But ready to want to.

--------

It was already dark by the time Gunwook got back to the dorms. He’d come back straight from the rooftop, still hoping that Matthew might show up, but of course he didn't. Ricky and Gyuvin were already asleep. His detention papers were crumpled in his bag, his whole body drained in that bone-deep way only worry could do.

He showered, changed, sat on his bed.

Didn’t even bother pretending to do homework.

He just kept his phone in his hand.

12:42 a.m.

Nothing.

His thumb hovered over their old chat again, the one filled with messages Matthew hadn’t seen, or hadn’t wanted to see.

He typed something.

Deleted it.

Typed something else.

Deleted that too.

He exhaled shakily and leaned back against the wall, bringing his knees up.

Then-

Gunwook jolted upright so fast he almost dropped his phone.

Seen.

And right under it,

A small, trembling spark of life:

typing…

Gunwook froze.

He couldn’t breathe.

The three dots pulsed once.

Paused.

Came back.

typing…

His heart was beating everywhere; his throat, his hands, even his ears. He swallowed hard, gripping the phone like it could disappear any second.

The dots blinked out.

He stared.

Came back again.

typing…

“Matthew…” he whispered into the empty room, not even realizing he said it out loud.

The typing stopped.

Started.

Stopped again.

Like Matthew didn’t know how to say what he needed to say.

Like he was scared too.

Gunwook pressed a hand over his mouth.

A week of silence.

And now, Matthew was trying.

For the first time in days, something loosened in Gunwook’s chest, painful and warm at the same time.

He whispered into the quiet:

“Please… just stay.”