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Sungho was on the couch editing his midterm, one of the last things he had to do before actually catching a break. He was laying stomach down on his bed, laptop balanced precariously beneath him, ankles crossed in the air, while Jaehyun was at his desk working on his own personal project that he, Taesan, and Woonhak had been planning for weeks now.
It was a calm quiet. Not the awkward kind. The lived-in kind. The type where the only sounds were the faint clicking of keys, the occasional drag of a chair against the floor, and the low hum of the dorm heater trying its best.
Neither of them were talking—they were concentrating on what they were working on.
Jaehyun eventually removed his headphones, stretched his arms above his head until his joints cracked softly, and looked over at Sungho. The boy didn’t have earphones on, but his eyebrows were furrowed so tightly it almost looked painful. His lips were pressed thin, one hand hovering over the trackpad as if hesitating before cutting another scene. He looked like he was color-coding the student-made film he’d been working hard on for the past few days—tiny clips dragged back and forth on the timeline, scenes replayed again and again.
Jaehyun chose not to speak. Didn’t want to disturb the concentrated cat on the bed.
Well, that was until Sungho buried his face into his hands, groaning low and muffled into his palms.
“You okay?” Jaehyun asked quietly, not really expecting an answer. He leaned back against the bed frame instead of his desk, resting his head for a second before reaching for his phone to check his messages.
Sungho sighed again, longer this time. “This script is really heavy. I didn’t even realize until I started editing it myself.”
“What’s it about?”
“Modern day Romeo and Juliet,” Sungho said, voice half-tired, half-amused. “Star-crossed lovers. Except said-Juliet is going through her own things while she tries to be at her best while loving Romeo.”
Jaehyun hummed. “So… tragic but aesthetic?”
Sungho let out a breath that could’ve been a laugh. “Tragic but exhausted.”
He rolled onto his side, staring at the paused frame on his screen. Juliet standing under fluorescent lights, eyes rimmed red, smiling anyway.
“I thought it was romantic when I first read it,” he continued quietly. “But editing it… it feels different. She keeps giving and giving. And she never really stops to think if she’s allowed to not be okay.”
Jaehyun didn’t respond right away. He just watched him.
Sungho reached up to rub at his eyes, pushing his hair back in frustration. “There’s a line in one of my favorite movies,” he said, almost like he was remembering it out loud. “‘We accept the love we think we deserve.’”
Jaehyun blinked. “Perks?”
Sungho nodded slightly. “I used to think that line was just about dating,” he said. “Like, you date someone who treats you badly because you don’t think you deserve better.”
He paused, eyes still fixed on the laptop screen. “But I think it’s bigger than that.”
Jaehyun shifted a little closer, not interrupting.
“I think it’s about everything,” Sungho continued. “About what you let yourself have. About what you think you’re allowed to want.”
His fingers tapped absently against the edge of his laptop. “I think Juliet keeps accepting a kind of love where she has to be the strong one all the time. She never lets herself fall apart. Because maybe she thinks that’s the only version of her that deserves to be loved.”
The room felt quieter now.
Jaehyun rested his chin on his knee, watching the way Sungho’s voice softened when he talked about fictional characters—as if they were real people he wanted to protect.
“And you?” Jaehyun asked gently.
Sungho’s lips twitched faintly. “Me what?”
“Do you accept things you think you deserve?”
Sungho stared at the paused frame for a long moment. The fluorescent lights on his screen flickered slightly as the cursor moved.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. He shifted onto his back, laptop now resting on his chest. “I think… I’m used to accepting pressure.”
Jaehyun stayed quiet.
“If something feels easy,” Sungho went on, “I get suspicious. Like I missed something. Like I didn’t work hard enough for it,” he let out a small, breathy laugh. “If someone’s patient with me, I assume they just haven’t seen the inconvenient parts yet.”
The words didn’t sound dramatic. They sounded observational. Like he’d been carrying them for a while and just now decided to set them down between them.
“I keep thinking I need to be impressive to be worth staying for,” Sungho added, eyes tracing invisible lines across the ceiling. “Even in this film… I wrote Juliet like that without realizing.”
Jaehyun shifted again, this time sitting on the edge of the bed. Not touching yet. Just closer.
“You don’t,” he said simply.
Sungho turned his head slightly. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t need to be impressive.”
The heater clicked again in the corner of the room.
Sungho swallowed, eyes returning to the ceiling. “It’s weird,” he murmured. “Because I know that line. I’ve quoted it before. But I don’t think I’ve ever applied it to myself.”
He let out a slow exhale. “Maybe I’ve been accepting things that exhaust me because I think that’s what I’m supposed to handle.”
Jaehyun reached over then, gently nudging Sungho’s ankle with his fingers. Not enough to distract him. Just enough to ground him.
“You’re allowed to handle less,” Jaehyun said.
Sungho’s lips curved faintly at that. “That sounds illegal.”
“It’s not.”
Silence settled again—but softer this time. Not heavy. Just full.
Sungho eventually closed his laptop halfway, letting it rest against his chest. “I think Juliet needs to fail once,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Like… properly fail. And still be loved.”
Jaehyun smiled slightly. “That would be a better ending.”
Sungho turned his head to look at him fully now. There was something unguarded there. Not dramatic. Just open.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It would.”
“Can I watch it?”
Sungho didn’t look at him. His fingers hovered over the trackpad again, instinctively protective. “It’s not colored yet.”
“Does that matter?”
“The color has a huge part in it.”
Jaehyun leaned his elbow against the mattress, chin resting in his palm. “I promise I won’t judge it like a film professor.”
Sungho finally glanced at him, unimpressed. “You’re worse than a film professor.”
“That’s not true. Film professors are mean on purpose. I’m just honest.”
“That’s worse.”
Jaehyun grinned a little at that, but he didn’t push. He watched the way Sungho’s thumb tapped nervously against the laptop’s edge, the way his eyes flickered back to the paused frame like he was debating whether to expose something fragile.
“It’s just rough,” Sungho added, quieter now. “The lighting isn’t balanced yet. The saturation’s off. It’ll change the mood.”
Jaehyun shrugged lightly. “Then I’ll imagine the right mood.”
Sungho studied him for a second, like he was trying to determine if he meant that in a technical way or something else entirely.
“You don’t like showing unfinished things,” Jaehyun said, not accusing. Just stating it.
Sungho let out a breath through his nose. “I don’t like showing things before they make sense.”
“It already makes sense to you.”
“That’s different.”
The heater clicked again. Somewhere down the hallway someone laughed too loudly, then a door shut. The world outside their dorm continued as usual, unaware of the small negotiation happening inside.
Jaehyun reached forward and gently nudged the corner of the laptop. “Let me see it before it’s perfect.”
Sungho hesitated.
“I won’t talk,” Jaehyun added. “I’ll just watch.”
That seemed to soften something.
Sungho shifted up against the headboard, adjusting the laptop between them so the screen faced both of them. He pressed play before he could second-guess himself.
The opening scene flickered to life—cool lighting, handheld camera, Juliet walking through a crowded campus hallway. The raw cut made everything look slightly harsher. The shadows are deeper. The whites too stark.
Sungho winced at a jump cut.
Jaehyun didn’t react.
He watched the way Juliet’s smile faltered when she thought no one was looking. Watched the way she checked her phone and typed something, erased it, typed again. Watched the way Romeo entered the frame, all soft edges and open expressions.
The dialogue felt heavier without color grading. More exposed—when Juliet laughed too brightly in one scene, Jaehyun noticed the split second after—how her shoulders dropped once Romeo turned away.
The clip ended abruptly. Sungho’s hand was already hovering near the keyboard to close it.
“It’s messy,” he muttered.
Jaehyun shook his head slightly. “It’s honest.”
Sungho stilled.
“It feels like she’s trying really hard,” Jaehyun continued. “Like she doesn’t want to be the difficult one.”
Sungho’s throat moved subtly as he swallowed. “Yeah.”
Jaehyun glanced at him then, not the screen. “You’re good at noticing those things.”
Sungho’s gaze remained fixed forward. “It’s not that hard to notice.”
“It is if you don’t look for it.”
Silence again. Sungho replayed a short section without meaning to—the part where Juliet pauses before entering a room full of people, inhaling deeply like she’s preparing for impact.
“I almost cut that scene,” he admitted. “It felt too slow.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
Sungho let the clip run a few more seconds before pausing it. The room was dim except for the glow of the laptop, casting soft light across both their faces. “You didn’t say anything about the color,” he said after a while.
Jaehyun shrugged. “I forgot.”
Sungho finally turned to look at him fully. “You forgot?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Jaehyun met his eyes without hesitation. “Because I was watching her.”
There was no dramatic music, no swelling realization. Just that simple sentence hanging between them.
Sungho closed the laptop slowly this time, not abruptly. His hands rested on top of it instead of pulling away. “You really don’t mind seeing things before they’re done?” he asked.
Jaehyun’s expression softened. “I think unfinished things are interesting.”
Sungho’s lips curved faintly. “That’s a weird thing to say.”
“Maybe.”
Jaehyun nudged his knee lightly. “You don’t always have to wait until it’s polished.”
Sungho looked down at the closed laptop on his lap, then back up at Jaehyun. There was something thoughtful in his expression now. Less defensive. “I guess,” he said slowly, “I’m used to fixing things before anyone sees them.”
“I know.”
That wasn’t said teasingly. It was said like Jaehyun had been paying attention for a long time.
The quiet returned, but it felt different now. Warmer. Less guarded.
Sungho leaned back against the headboard again, shoulders finally relaxing just a little. “I’ll color it tomorrow,” he murmured.
Jaehyun smiled faintly. “I’ll watch it again.”
Sungho didn’t argue this time.
The quiet that followed wasn’t strained. It wasn’t heavy with unsaid things. It was the kind that felt earned—like they had both worked long enough to deserve it. The laptop was closed now, the desk lamp dimmed, the hallway outside reduced to faint footsteps and distant plumbing. Jaehyun stayed where he was on the bed, not scrolling, not fidgeting, just existing in the same space as Sungho without needing to fill it.
He watched him instead.
Watched the way Sungho’s face softened when he wasn’t concentrating. Watched the crease between his brows slowly disappear. There was something unfair about how gentle he looked when he wasn’t trying to be anything. Jaehyun had always thought that about him—that Sungho’s softness existed in spite of how hard he tried to appear composed. Even the way he curled slightly into himself when he lay down, like he was minimizing the space he took up, made Jaehyun’s chest tighten.
Sungho didn’t notice the way he was being looked at. He rarely did. He had this quiet habit of shrinking first—of straightening his shoulders in public, lowering his voice, carefully calibrating how he moved around Jaehyun when others were around. As if loving someone like this had to be trimmed at the edges to look acceptable. As if there were still parts of himself he was negotiating with. He never said it outright, but Jaehyun could see it in the way Sungho hesitated before touching him in certain places, in certain lights. Like he was still unlearning the idea that this was something that needed to be hidden.
“Hey… you wanna watch something?” Jaehyun asked, breaking the silence gently.
Sungho turned his head, brows lifting in mild suspicion. “You? You want to watch a movie?” he asked, crossing his arms, looking at Jaehyun straight in the eye.
“Yeah, I mean— don’t you watch those to rest or gain ideas?”
Sungho studied him for a second longer, like he was trying to detect a joke. “Since when do you volunteer to sit still for two hours?”
Jaehyun shrugged lightly. “Since my brain feels fried.”
A beat.
“And since I like watching you watch things,” he added, quieter.
“Alright, creep,” Sungho teased, one eyebrow lifting as he shifted onto his side to face him properly. “What do you wanna watch?”
“The Tree of Life,” Jaehyun said, almost proud of himself. “I heard someone mentioning it in one of the lectures.”
Sungho blinked. “Wow. You actually mentioned a movie that isn’t on my watchlist.”
“I deleted Letterboxd because I ran out of storage, Sungho-ya.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
Jaehyun nudged his shin lightly with his foot. “You’re so mean for someone who color-grades sad women for fun.”
Sungho tried not to smile at that. Failed, a little. “It’s not for fun.”
“Mm. Sure.”
He reached for the laptop again, flipping it open. The screen lit up between them, blue light catching in his eyes. Jaehyun watched the reflection settle there—the way films always seemed to sit gently on Sungho’s face, like he was made to absorb them.
“You know it’s long, right?” Sungho said. “And slow.”
“I survived your three-hour director’s cut of that Icelandic black-and-white thing.”
“That was cinema.”
“That was snow and silence.”
Sungho rolled his eyes, but he was already typing the title into the search bar.
Jaehyun leaned back against the headboard beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed naturally. Not hesitant. Not performative. Just there.
For a second, before the movie started, the room fell quiet again.
Sungho’s thumb hovered over the trackpad.
There were moments like this—small, ordinary—that unsettled him more than anything dramatic ever could. The ease of it. The way Jaehyun didn’t hesitate to sit this close. The way he didn’t look around first. The way his knee pressed against Sungho’s like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Sungho had spent so long editing himself in public—lowering the volume of his laughter, pulling his hand away a fraction too soon, telling himself that subtle was safer. That loving quietly was more acceptable. He’d convinced himself he was just being careful. That it was maturity.
But sitting here, with Jaehyun’s shoulder warm against his own, he realized how much of that caution had been fear dressed up as reason.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Sungho asked suddenly, eyes still on the screen.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m about to cry at a tree.”
Jaehyun smiled faintly. “You might.”
Sungho huffed, but he didn’t move away.
The film’s opening scene began to play, soft and atmospheric. The room dimmed further as the only light became the shifting glow of the screen.
Jaehyun rested his head back, eyes flickering between the movie and Sungho’s profile. He didn’t comment on the way Sungho unconsciously leaned closer when something visually striking appeared. Didn’t comment on the way his breathing slowed as he settled into watching.
He just stayed.
And for once, Sungho let himself stay too.
The movie ended without announcing it. No dramatic swell, no loud credits—just the screen dimming slowly into names scrolling against black. The room stayed quiet long after the final note faded. The only light came from the laptop resting between them, soft and blue, catching along the edge of Sungho’s jaw.
Neither of them moved to close it.
Jaehyun could feel the warmth of Sungho’s shoulder pressed against his own, steady and familiar. The kind of closeness that didn’t demand acknowledgment. He didn’t ask what he thought right away. He just let the silence settle properly, let the air shift back into being theirs instead of the film’s.
Sungho exhaled first.
“It’s strange,” he murmured, eyes still fixed on the credits. “How some movies don’t really explain themselves. They just… sit with you.”
Jaehyun hummed softly. “You like that.”
“I do.” A small pause. “I don’t think I’m very good at it, though.”
“At what?”
“Sitting with things.”
The credits continued to scroll. Sungho reached forward eventually and closed the laptop, but he didn’t pull away. The room grew darker without the screen, the desk lamp casting a faint amber glow across the walls. Outside, someone laughed distantly, then a door shut. The world kept moving.
“I think I rush it,” Sungho said after a while, his voice quieter now. “When something hurts. Or feels too big. I try to understand it immediately. Fix it immediately. Like if I can label it fast enough, it’ll stop being uncomfortable.”
Jaehyun didn’t interrupt.
“There’s this line from another movie I like,” Sungho continued, almost absentmindedly. “Mr. Perlman says we rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster… that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty.”
He let out a faint breath that could’ve been a laugh, though it didn’t quite reach.
“I think I do that.”
The confession didn’t feel dramatic. It felt observational. Like he had stumbled onto it while tracing the edges of his own thoughts.
“Every time something lingers,” he went on, “I cut it down. If I get too attached, I scale it back. If I’m hurt, I minimize it. If I care too much, I pretend I don’t. It’s easier to amputate than to sit there and feel it.”
The words hung gently between them.
“I don’t know how to let something stay unfinished,” Sungho admitted, softer. “Even with myself.”
Jaehyun shifted slightly, not enough to break the stillness, just enough for their hands to brush where they rested on the mattress. He didn’t reach fully. Just let the contact exist.
“You don’t have to fix it tonight,” he said quietly.
Sungho’s eyes stayed forward, but his shoulders eased just a little.
“I know,” he replied after a moment. “I just… don’t want to wake up one day and realize I’ve edited out too much.”
The room was quiet again, but not empty. The kind of quiet that felt like it was holding something gently instead of swallowing it whole.
Jaehyun’s fingers turned slightly, palm resting more firmly against the back of Sungho’s hand.
“You haven’t,” he said, steady and certain.
Sungho didn’t answer right away. He just let his hand remain there, not pulling back this time, not adjusting it to something more neutral. He let the contact stay.
For once, he didn’t try to trim the moment down into something easier to carry.
Both their phones buzzed at the same time, the vibrations loud in the softened room. The spell broke just slightly. Jaehyun glanced down at his screen and saw Taesan’s name flashing across the notification banner—most likely another paragraph-long complaint about something Leehan did that made his heart flutter and short-circuit simultaneously.
Sungho didn’t check his.
He was suddenly too aware of the warmth along his side, of the way their hands were still resting against each other. The quiet had shifted from comfortable to intimate without warning, and intimacy, for Sungho, always came with a reflex.
He cleared his throat lightly and withdrew his hand first, subtle but deliberate.
“Wanna go to Riwoo’s and have dinner there?” he asked, tone almost casual, like the idea had just occurred to him and not like it was a small escape hatch.
Jaehyun paused. Of course.
He was used to this part. The almost. The way Sungho would lean in unconsciously and then retreat the moment he noticed it happening. It wasn’t rejection. It was instinct. A muscle memory built from years of bracing.
Jaehyun didn’t call it out. “Yeah, sure,” he said simply.
Sungho nodded once, already reaching for his phone now as if to text ahead. The glow lit up his face again, giving him something to look at that wasn’t Jaehyun. There was a faint tension in the air—not heavy, just delicate. Like glass that hadn’t shattered but had been tapped.
Jaehyun stood first, stretching his arms above his head. “He’s probably cooking something terrible,” he added lightly. “We should save him.”
Sungho huffed a quiet laugh, grateful for the shift. “He thinks adding more garlic fixes everything.”
“Sometimes it does.”
Sungho slid off the bed, grabbing his hoodie from the back of the chair. He moved efficiently—wallet, phone, keys—anything to keep his hands occupied.
Jaehyun watched him for a second longer than necessary. There was always this flicker in Sungho right after moments like that. A tightening. Like he had stepped too close to something unnamed and had to correct his position.
Jaehyun didn’t resent it; he just wished Sungho didn’t look like he needed to apologize for being near him.
“You good?” Jaehyun asked gently.
Sungho glanced up, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. “Yeah. Why?”
“Nothing.” A beat. “Just making sure.”
Sungho’s shoulders loosened just slightly. “I’m good,” he repeated, quieter this time.
They headed toward the door together, brushing shoulders again in the narrow space. This time, Sungho didn’t immediately step away.
It wasn’t a grand victory. It wasn’t a breakthrough, but he let the contact stay for half a second longer before reaching for the doorknob.
And for now, that was enough.