Chapter Text
THE GIRL ACROSS from Sieun hasn’t touched her drink. Her fingers only keep circling the straw, faster and faster, the way people do when they’re trying not to look embarrassed.
“So… you’re rejecting me for him,” she says finally, pressing her lips into a thin line. “And he couldn’t even come here himself?”
Sieun keeps his voice level. “He didn’t want to lead you on any longer. I thought it’d be kinder if I explained.”
“Right. Kind.” Her chair scrapes loudly as she stands. “Tell Suho he’s a jerk.”
She leaves before Sieun can respond, the bell on the café door chiming in that sharp, irritated way people leave when they want to make a point.
Sieun stays still for a moment, staring at the still-steaming Americano she abandoned. He exhales, grabs his bag, and his phone lights up on the table.
SUHO:
Where r u
I’m in the classroom w snacks for u
Another message pops up immediately.
SUHO:
and before u get mad they're not bribes
they’re just.
snacks
Sieun can already picture it — Suho sitting on his chair backwards, legs spread around it, bag thrown on Sieun’s desk instead of his own, the “bribes” placed in a neat line as if Suho actually tried to look apologetic.
He types back a short, On my way., then heads out the café door.
Ahn Suho has always been a walking catastrophe when it comes to romance. Which means Yeon Sieun has always been the one cleaning after him.
It’s funny, in a pathetic way. People see Sieun and think “perfect.” Top of the class. Untouched record. Quiet, unshakeable composure. The kind of person parents want their kids to sit beside in class because he “Sets a good example.” The person teachers trust to settle disputes because “Sieun can handle it.”
If someone’s crying in a hallway — call Sieun.
If someone needs tutoring — ask Sieun.
If Suho has once again accidentally attracted someone and doesn’t know how to reject her — absolutely, definitely, unavoidably Sieun.
But really… where did this fucked up shit started?
Suho getting tangled in someone else’s feelings, and Sieun being the one to quietly, efficiently untangle them. Sometimes he wonders if there was ever a moment, just one, when Suho solved his own problems without looking at him afterward like he was waiting for a rescue.
There was the stalker who kept leaving notes on Suho’s bike?
Sieun still remembers that afternoon. Suho staring helplessly at the pink envelope stuck under his bike handle, a shaky “Oppa, I watched you walk home yesterday” written inside. Suho had panicked, pacing in circles; Sieun had simply stepped forward.
He found the girl behind the science building the next day, clutching another envelope.
“Following him home is harassment,” Sieun told her softly but firmly, meeting her wide eyes without flinching. “No matter how much you think you like him.”
She stammered excuses. Sieun didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. She never left another note.
Sieun handled that.
The obsessive ex who camped outside their building?
It was raining that night—light rain drizzle clinging to her hair as she stood by the gate, insisting Suho “owed her a second chance.” Suho had been frozen beside Sieun, guilt and discomfort twisting his face.
Sieun handed Suho an umbrella, stepped forward, and met her anger with calm.
“Waiting outside someone’s home isn’t romantic,” he said. “It’s dangerous. For both of you.”
She cursed him out, voice cracking. Sieun didn’t flinch then either.
He just repeated, “Go home,” until she listened.
Handled.
The delusional girl who claimed she and Suho “slept together once”?
That one had spread like wildfire—whispers in hallways, sharp looks from other girls, snickers from boys who loved any excuse to drag Suho into drama.
Sieun pulled her aside behind the gym. No audience. No theatrics. Just fact.
“You and Suho were in a public study room with CCTV,” he began, tone flat. “I already checked with the guard. Nothing happened. Stop lying about him.”
Her face had gone pale, anger evaporating into humiliation.
Handled and corrected.
And those were just the loudest ones. There were quieter moments too, the ones nobody knew except him.
Helping Suho draft polite rejections because Suho’s thumbs froze every time he tried to type them himself. Standing behind Suho when girls cornered him in the hallways, because Suho always looked relieved the second he appeared. Intercepting confessions left in Suho’s locker before Suho even saw them, because he knew the emotional crash that would happen afterwards.
What were the other times Sieun helped him? There were too many to count, too many small disasters he cleaned up before they ever became visible. Too many moments where he stepped between Suho and the world without even thinking.
That’s him. The buffer, being the shield, was the one who softened Suho’s edges so nobody took advantage of them.
There has been a running joke in their group (all thanks to Baku) that Sieun can fix absolutely everything, not knowing it except his own love life. The sad part? it’s true.
BY THE TIME he reaches the classroom, Suho’s sprawled over Sieun’s desk like a Labrador who’s been waiting too long. His head snaps up when the door slides open.
“There you are!” Suho brightens. “I got you the honey butter chips you like. And that drink that tastes like sadness but you swear it’s good for your brain.”
Sieun lifts a brow. “Black coffee isn’t sadness.”
“It is when you drink it.” Suho pushes the snacks toward him. “Anyway, enjoy your bribes.”
“I thought you said they weren’t bribes.”
Suho grins like he forgot. “Right. They’re just… emotional support snacks.”
They settle into their usual positions — Suho dragging his chair closer until their elbows almost touch, Sieun opening his notebook and pretending Suho isn’t leaning in too close, breathing too loud, existing too comfortably beside him.
It’s like this every day—Suho always at his side, not by chance but by habit, as if being together was as natural as breathing. They move in step without even noticing, comfortable in the small silences between them. As if it was cued, their friends file in minutes later.
Baku stops in the doorway, takes one look at the two of them practically sharing air, and groans dramatically.
“Oh my god, again? Can you two sit like normal humans?” He points accusingly. “Sieun, he’s hogging you again. You’re unbelievable, Suho.”
“We always sit like this,” Suho says without shame, nudging Sieun’s arm just because he can.
“That’s the problem!” Baku throws his hands up. “Are you guys married in your past life? Is that it? Did we interrupt your lifetime vow or something?”
Hyuntak snorts. Juntae hides a laugh behind his hand.
Sieun only shakes his head and flips a page. “You’re loud this morning, Baku.”
“I’m loud because you enable him!” Baku says, pointing again. “The rest of us want Sieun-time too, you know!”
Suho lifts his chin proudly. “Well, he likes sitting with me.”
Sieun doesn’t deny it. He never does. He only lowers his gaze and presses the tip of his pen harder to the page—slow, controlled strokes turning rigid. Ink thickens in one corner of the margin. His jaw ticks once, barely noticeable unless someone is looking for it. He hopes no one is.
Baku’s tantrums fade into the background noise. Suho shifts beside him, chair scraping just slightly as he leans closer—too close, always close—and Sieun forces himself to pretend he’s unaffected.
But the peace doesn’t last even ten seconds. Suho’s phone buzzes. Once. Then again. His eyes flick down, and the casual grin he always wears collapses into a tight frown.
“Oh no,” he mutters. “Not her again.”
Here we go. Sieun closes his eyes, counts to three.
“What happened now?” he asks, even though he already knows he will regret doing so.
Suho turns the screen toward him — a long paragraph from a girl insisting they “had a moment last week,” that she “felt something real,” and that she “knows he’s only being shy.”
“Suho,” Sieun says flatly, “when exactly did this ‘moment’ happen?”
“I don’t know!” Suho throws his hands up. “I literally just held the door for her—”
“Of course you did.” Sieun rubs his temple. “And of course she misread it.”
Suho shifts restlessly, the way he always does when he wants Sieun to solve something for him but feels guilty asking. “Can you maybe… help me? Just—just text her? You’re better at this.”
Sieun exhales slowly. Third time this month, fifth if he counts the almost-confessions. Suho still doesn’t get why it hurts.
He forces his voice steady. “Fine. Forward the messages.”
Suho beams, relieved. “Thanks, Sieun. This is why I love you so much.”
You don’t, Sieun thinks quietly.
He takes Suho’s phone and starts typing the gentle, polite rejection Suho can never bring himself to write.
His heartbeat is slow, heavy, too familiar. Fixing Suho’s problems again. Fixing something that has nothing to do with him. Fixing something he wished, just once, was his to keep.
He returns the phone without letting the flicker of disappointment reach his face. Years of practice make the mask effortless. His face stays neutral, untouched. It’s wasted effort.
Suho never notices the things Sieun tries so hard to hide. He never does.