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It didn’t happen with fireworks and fate.
No grand beginning, no slow-motion moment out of a movie. Just another practice day—ordinary for a trainee, exhausting, and forgettable to anyone else. The kind of day that blurs into dozens just like it.
But somewhere between the sounds of sneakers against the floor and the sight of the mirrors reflecting fluorescent light, Han looked up and saw him.
No spark, no sudden rush. Just a glance that lingered a second too long.
And somehow, that is enough to change everything.
Han first saw Shuaibo on a random Tuesday, the kind that smelled faintly of sweat and soundproof walls.
The practice room lights were dim, humming softly above their heads. Shuaibo was standing near the mirrors, fixing his hair, when their eyes met for the first time.
Han didn’t even know his name yet, but Shuaibo smiled—just a small, effortless curve of his lips that reached his eyes—and Han thought, ah. Maybe that’s where it starts.
He didn’t plan to keep looking. It just happened. His gaze would drift without meaning to, finding Shuaibo every single time.
Sometimes it was the way his hair fell messily over his forehead, other times the quiet concentration on his face when he danced. Or the way he laughed at something JL or Woongki said, that sound light enough to make the air feel different.
And then there were moments between practice—soft, wordless moments—when the sunlight slid through the blinds, touching Shuaibo’s skin like it was made just for him. Han would catch himself staring and feel his chest tighten, warm and unexplainable.
It didn’t take long for the others to notice.
“Hyung, you’re doing it again,” JL whispered one afternoon, nudging him lightly.
Han blinked. “Doing what?” he asked, pretending to scroll on his phone, even as his eyes flicked up again.
“Looking,” Woongki said from across the room, his grin wide and knowing.
“Lovingly.” Steven added.
Jeongwoo snorted. “At least try to be subtle next time.”
Han didn’t answer. His cheeks felt hot, his heart a little too loud.
Still, when Shuaibo turned and caught his gaze for a brief second, smiling like he already knew—Han thought maybe being caught wasn’t so bad after all.
Shuaibo wasn’t oblivious. He noticed things—the small, almost invisible things Han thought he’d hidden well. The way Han’s eyes lingered a second too long before darting away, the way he’d fidget whenever someone teased him about doing aegyo.
Han always tried to play it cool, but Shuaibo could tell. He knew Han hated doing that kind of thing—the forced cuteness, the exaggerated expressions—but that only made it funnier when Han actually did it once.
For him.
It happened during a break, when the room buzzed with laughter and half-finished snacks. Someone asked Han to do aegyo, and he immediately refused, shaking his head with a scowl that only made everyone laugh harder. But then Shuaibo looked at him, eyes bright and teasing.
“Just once,” he said, smiling.
Han hesitated, sighed, and did it—barely, awkwardly, cheeks pink and voice soft. The room erupted in laughter, but Shuaibo only smiled wider, eyes curving with something gentler.
Later, when Han thought no one was looking, Shuaibo caught his gaze and mouthed a quiet, playful “cute.”
Han froze for half a second—eyes widening, pulse skipping—before snapping his head away so fast it almost looked rehearsed.
He tried to act normal, focused on anything but the warmth creeping up his neck. But the tips of his ears betrayed him, glowing pink, and no matter how hard he bit back a smile, the corners of his lips still curved—soft, shy, and utterly given away.
On Shuaibo’s birthday live, everything felt soft and real. The air was filled with laughter, cake crumbs, and the warmth of too many lights. Halfway through, Shuaibo’s voice trembled as he spoke, tears slipping down his cheeks as he tried to thank everyone between shaky breaths.
Han stood just behind him, quiet, hands tucked into his pockets. He watched the way Shuaibo’s shoulders trembled, the way his smile kept breaking and mending itself again. Something inside Han ached—tender and proud all at once.
When the live ended, the others began cleaning up, the sound of plastic and laughter filling the silence Shuaibo left behind. He was still wiping his eyes when Han moved closer, his steps light, careful.
Before Shuaibo could say anything, Han reached out and brushed away the tears that clung stubbornly to his cheek. His touch was gentle, almost hesitant, but steady. Then, without a word, Han pulled him into a quiet hug—firm enough to say I’m here, soft enough to mean you did well.
The room fell still. The members exchanged glances—small, knowing smiles—but no one said a thing.
And for a fleeting moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of them—Han, steady and warm, and Shuaibo, still trembling slightly in his arms, smiling through the last of his tears.
Days passed, and somewhere between shared laughter and late-night practices, they grew closer. Always beside each other—shoulders brushing, fingers nearly touching, breaths caught in the same rhythm. Almost skin to skin. Almost something more.
And some moments chose to stay.
During one quiet rehearsal, Han sang a line—nae sarang, my love—his voice low, steady, trembling with something he couldn’t quite name. When he looked up, Shuaibo was already watching.
Their eyes met.
For a second, everything else blurred—the sound of instruments, the movement of bodies, even the clock on the wall. It felt like the world had stopped just long enough to let that moment exist, fragile and golden, suspended between them.
Han looked away first, his voice faltering as heat rushed up his neck. He tried to steady himself, to pretend he wasn’t flustered—but his heart was already giving him away, beating too fast, too loud.
Across from him, Shuaibo smiled—soft, almost secret—the kind of smile that lingered just long enough to make Han wonder if he’d imagined it, or if it was meant for him alone.
After that, it became a quiet rhythm between them. Whenever Han’s gaze lingered too long, Shuaibo would catch it—never flinching, never teasing too much. He’d just hold Han’s eyes, steady and sure, before letting that small, knowing smile bloom.
And every single time, Han’s heart tripped over itself—warm, dizzy, helplessly out of rhythm. He’d try to play it off, to breathe steady, but the moment Shuaibo smiled his way, everything in Han just… melted. Completely, hopelessly gone.
One evening, when the air felt lighter than usual, they sat side by side, the room wrapped in the soft hum of the city outside.
The others had gone quiet, laughter fading into the distance, leaving just the two of them and the steady sound of their breathing.
Shuaibo turned slightly, close enough that Han could feel the warmth of his shoulder. His voice came out low, almost a whisper.
“Han… do you like me?”
Han froze. For a heartbeat, everything stilled—the air, the light, even the tiny rhythm of his pulse. Then he looked up, meeting Shuaibo’s gaze head-on. His eyes were steady, though his chest felt anything but.
He didn’t deny it.
“Maybe,” he said, his voice soft but certain. “But I think you already know.”
Shuaibo’s lips curved, slow and warm, a smile that reached his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath. “I think I do.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence between them felt fragile, like glass—quiet but full of meaning. Then, before Han could say anything else, Shuaibo leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
It was soft, almost fleeting, but it lingered like sunlight on skin.
Han blinked, wide-eyed, his heart stumbling into a quiet rush of warmth. He could still feel the ghost of the kiss on his skin—real and dizzying.
When he finally looked back, Shuaibo was smiling again, a little shy this time.
A quiet breath of laughter escaped him before he could catch it. His shoulders dipped, the corners of his mouth curving wider with every second he tried to fight it. A faint flush crept up his cheeks, painting his ears a telltale red. When he finally looked up, his eyes were already shining—soft, bright, and full of something he didn’t dare put into words.
After that night, Han couldn’t stop replaying it in his head—the quiet, the question, the kiss.
He’d gone to bed with his heart still racing, the warmth of Shuaibo’s lips on his cheek refusing to fade, even hours later. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that smile again—soft, teasing, a little shy.
Now, in the stillness of morning, Han found himself staring at the ceiling, wondering.
Did it mean something?
Did that small, unexpected kiss mean that Shuaibo liked him too? Or was it just Shuaibo being… Shuaibo—kind, warm, impossibly hard to read?
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the flutter in his chest. But it stayed—the quiet thrill, the gentle ache of not knowing.
And when Shuaibo walked into the room later that day, smiling like nothing had changed, Han realized maybe everything had.
The next day moved slow—soft sunlight through the dorm window, quiet laughter echoing from the kitchen, and Han sitting on the couch pretending to scroll through his phone while Shuaibo hummed nearby.
They hadn’t talked about that night. The question, the kiss—it hung between them like a secret too gentle to break. Han told himself it was fine, that maybe it didn’t mean anything. But every time he looked at Shuaibo, his heart said otherwise.
“Why are you so quiet today?” Shuaibo asked, leaning on the back of the couch, voice light but curious.
Han didn’t look up. “Just tired,” he said, though he wasn’t. He was thinking. Wondering.
Shuaibo tilted his head, studying him for a moment. Then, as if reading his thoughts, he came around and sat beside him—close, like always. Their knees brushed, and Han froze, pretending to focus on his phone again.
“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Shuaibo said softly.
Han blinked. “About what?”
“The kiss,” Shuaibo said simply, a small smile playing on his lips.
Han’s breath caught. He glanced at him, trying to play dumb, but Shuaibo’s eyes were warm and knowing, like he saw right through him.
Before Han could come up with an excuse, Shuaibo continued—his voice gentle, certain.
“In case you’re wondering,” he said, “I don’t kiss people unless I mean it.”
Han stared at him, words slipping away.
Shuaibo smiled again, softer this time. “So yes,” he added quietly, “it means I like you too.”
Han didn’t say anything. He couldn’t—not with his heart beating loud enough to drown out every sound in the room. But the way his lips curved, the way his eyes softened, said everything Shuaibo needed to hear.
When Shuaibo reached over, brushing his hand against Han’s, neither of them pulled away.
And somewhere between the stolen glances and shared smiles, Han realized—it wasn’t just that he loved looking at pretty things.
It was that somewhere along the way, one of those pretty things started looking back.
He thought about the way Shuaibo laughed, the way he tilted his head when he was curious, how his smile could undo a whole day’s worth of tiredness. How one small kiss, one quiet confession, had shifted something deep inside him.
Maybe he didn’t just love looking at pretty things.
Maybe he’d just fallen for one.
And as Shuaibo leaned into him, laughter spilling softly into the quiet, Han decided that if falling ever felt this gentle, he wouldn’t mind falling again.