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Dusk hung low over the basketball court—wide enough to hold several bodies pushing themselves to the limit, sharpening their skills for one shared goal: the upcoming tournament. The air was warm, thick with the scent of rubber soles, sweat, and the steady echo of a ball hitting the floor, over and over, like a slow heartbeat.
Geonwoo moved easily at the center of the court. His body traced lines instinctively, cutting from one side to the other with clean control. He received a pass, dribbled once, then released the ball from beyond the three-point line. It arced briefly before dropping cleanly through the hoop. A few cheers followed, along with a satisfied nod from the coach.
Soon after, the whistle blew for a break. Geonwoo and his teammates walked toward the sidelines, heavy breaths rising and falling from their chests. A few people were already handing out drinks, passing bottles one by one so no one would dehydrate.
From the stands, Sangwon watched—though watching felt like the wrong word. He barely registered anyone else. Out of everyone on the court, his eyes always found Geonwoo: the way he moved, the way he stood, the way he breathed.
Sangwon let out a quiet breath, as if gathering courage, before finally making his way down toward the court.
He was braver today than usual. He might have been surprised by it himself.
He tapped the shoulder of the person handing out drinks and asked for one bottle. “For him,” Sangwon said simply, nodding toward Geonwoo. After thanking them, he walked closer.
Geonwoo didn’t notice Sangwon at first. He looked exhausted, hair damp with sweat, like every bit of energy had been wrung out of him.
“Geonwoo,” Sangwon called casually. “I brought you a drink. From the people handing them out. Here—drink. Special delivery, straight from my hands.”
He laughed softly, then added, “If you don’t drink it by the count of three, I’ll give it to—”
Geonwoo grabbed the bottle before he could finish. The movement was quick, almost instinctive. Sangwon laughed at that. Geonwoo shot him a look that tried—and failed—to be annoyed. It was all too familiar to be taken seriously.
Sangwon sat down beside him. He didn’t ask anything, didn’t comment on the practice. He just stayed. Geonwoo must be exhausted, he thought. Better to let him rest before practice started again.
Not long after, Leo approached and sat down on Sangwon’s other side—just a little closer than necessary.
“Hey, Sangwon. Long time no see,” Leo said lightly. “I grabbed an extra drink earlier. Want it?”
Leo reached for Sangwon’s hand, offering the bottle. Sangwon hesitated. He’d never been good at refusing people. In the end, he took it and drank. The cold was refreshing, soothing his throat.
Leo smiled, satisfied.
Geonwoo, who had been silent the entire time, glanced over briefly before turning his head away. Something warm and unsettling stirred in his chest. Jealousy? No. That was ridiculous. It was just a bottle of water. Nothing more.
He took a deep breath and forced his focus elsewhere.
Sangwon wasn’t the only one watching practice that day. More people gathered, murmurs spreading, smiles exchanged. Some began to notice the small interactions between Leo and Sangwon. They looked good together, some thought. There was chemistry, others said.
Sangwon heard it all and could only offer a small, shy smile. He wasn’t good at pushing back against assumptions. But deep down, there was a different name he wanted beside his own.
Not Leo.
Geonwoo.
The whistle blew again. Break over. The players were called back to the court. Leo waved at Sangwon, who returned the gesture with a small smile. Geonwoo had already walked ahead, as if he didn’t want to linger on the sidelines any longer.
Sangwon watched his back. Geonwoo seemed quieter than before. Maybe he was just tired, Sangwon thought, deciding not to dwell on it.
Practice resumed.
Geonwoo took control of the ball again. The sound of his dribble was steady, sharp. He drove into the paint, took a long step, and finished with a smooth layup. The ball went in cleanly.
Sangwon held his breath without realizing it.
Geonwoo caught another pass and attempted a mid-range shot. It bounced off the rim. He didn’t stop—grabbed the rebound, jumped again, tried once more. This time, it went in.
Sweat slid down his temples. His breathing grew heavier. But his eyes burned brighter, the more his body wore down.
Out of everyone there, Sangwon only saw Geonwoo. The noise faded. The crowd blurred. All that remained were Geonwoo’s movements, the rise and fall of his shoulders, the focus that never wavered.
For a brief moment, Geonwoo glanced toward the stands.
Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
Geonwoo smirked barely there before turning back to the game. He couldn’t afford to lose focus. Sangwon smiled, his chest feeling full from that fleeting look alone.
The long whistle finally blew. Practice was over.
Geonwoo collapsed onto the floor, his body heavy, shirt soaked through. He glanced toward the stands, searching for one familiar figure. Sangwon was already running down toward him.
Without thinking, Sangwon hugged him. Geonwoo startled, then quickly pulled away, worried his sweat might bother him. Sangwon froze when Geonwoo casually pulled his shirt off to change. He immediately turned around, heat rushing to his face.
Geonwoo laughed quietly behind him.
After changing, Geonwoo called out. Sangwon turned back just as he tugged Geonwoo closer and lifted his phone. Click.
One photo—Geonwoo exhausted, Sangwon smiling.
Geonwoo wrapped an arm around Sangwon’s waist, tighter this time. Like he didn’t want to let go just yet.
Moments later, Geonwoo grabbed Sangwon’s phone and took off running around the court. Sangwon chased after him, laughing. Geonwoo eventually stopped, breathless, and held out his hand. Sangwon took it, pulling him back up.
The sky had fully darkened by the time they left the court. The lights flickered on one by one, casting long shadows across the now-quiet floor. Geonwoo still held Sangwon’s hand—not loose, not tight. Just enough to make it clear the grip was intentional.
They walked in silence for a few steps.
“Someone asked you to go home with them earlier,” Geonwoo said suddenly, his tone flat.
Sangwon blinked. “Huh?”
“Leo,” Geonwoo added. “I saw.”
Oh.
Sangwon smiled softly. “Just small talk.”
Geonwoo nodded. His grip tightened just slightly—barely noticeable.
“Good,” he murmured.
Their steps fell back into rhythm. Too calm.
“A lot of people were watching you today,” Geonwoo continued. “You seem popular.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Sangwon laughed quietly.
Geonwoo turned to him then, wearing a smile that was hard to read, not teasing, not gentle. Something in between.
“It’s not,” he said softly. “I just… I know you didn’t go anywhere.”
Sangwon paused.
“Yeah,” he replied lightly. “I stayed right there.”
Geonwoo nodded, like that was the answer he’d been waiting for. He didn’t release Sangwon’s hand until they were fully past the court gates. Only then did his fingers loosen—slowly. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to.
Sangwon looked down at their separated hands, then up at Geonwoo’s face.
There was a small smile there. Calm. Satisfied.
And only then did Sangwon realize, he hadn’t once wanted to look anywhere else all evening.
People could guess whatever they wanted. Pair his name with anyone they chose.
But as long as Geonwoo kept looking back at him like that, as if making sure Sangwon was still where he belonged—there was nothing to correct.
Some things didn’t need to be said.
They just needed to be kept.