Work Text:
Saturday nights had slowly become theirs without either of them ever deciding that they should be.
Work had a way of grinding weekdays down to a dull blur of exhaustion, the kind that made anything beyond collapsing on the couch feel like a monumental effort, so the weekends naturally turned into their softest excuse to retreat into each other’s orbits. Sometimes they went out into the city lights, sometimes they stayed hidden away inside, and sometimes Han would show up at Shuaibo's apartment with arms full of groceries, pretending he had only bought "a few things" despite having clearly planned a full, heavy meal.
Tonight was one of those nights.
The small kitchen smelled of garlic and simmered broth, filled with the cozy clutter of a long evening underway. Han had been cooking for the better part of an hour, occasionally nudging Shuaibo out of the way whenever he drifted over to inspect whatever was bubbling on the stove. Shuaibo was entirely useless in front of a cutting board, but he’d appointed himself as official quality control—a role that consisted almost entirely of leaning over Han's shoulder, stealing bits of chopped ingredients before they hit the pan, and claiming he was merely ensuring everything was non-toxic. Han had given up arguing weeks ago. Having Shuaibo’s quiet, lingering presence nearby took the sharp edges off the tedious chore of cooking, and besides, he knew Shuaibo would happily devour whatever was set down in front of him.
By the time they finally settled onto the floor by the couch, the low hum of the television was already filling the room with a show they’d picked on a whim. Neither had looked too closely at the plot, they just know it's a horror movie and the plot seems interesting enough. They had hot bowls in their hands, icy drinks on the low table, a thick blanket pulled over their knees, and nowhere else in the world they needed to be. That was enough.
For a while, the ambient noise of the show was actually good. Then, right on cue, the heavy-handed romance kicked in.
It wasn't even subtle. The main characters had barely escaped a haunted house, narrowly avoiding whatever had been stalking them for the better part of an hour, when the female lead suddenly stopped in the middle of the road and turned to the male lead with a look of unbearable sincerity. Han slowly lowered his fork.
There it was.
He didn't say a word at first, simply watching the scene drag its heavy feet toward an inevitable confession, his face settling into a look of dry, unimpressed exhaustion. Beside him, Shuaibo’s shoulders were already shaking with a quiet smile.
When the male lead opened his mouth, Han let out a long breath and muttered, "Please don't."
The man launched into a long, theatrical declaration of love so wildly out of place that it sounded as if someone had taken every romantic script in history and dropped it into the middle of a horror movie by mistake. By the time he reached the line about how meeting her had given him the courage to face his deepest fears, Han had set his bowl down entirely, staring at the screen with the flat, tired look of a man forced to watch a train derail in slow motion.
Shuaibo's quiet giggles bubbled over into full laughter. Han glanced over at him, and that single look was all it took to tear down his own restraint.
The scene hit rock bottom when the background music abruptly shifted into a painfully tender piano melody.
Neither needed to explain the joke; Han looked at Shuaibo, Shuaibo looked back, and both of them completely snapped. The sudden, helpless laughter spilled into the quiet living room, forcing Han to shove his plate safely onto the coffee table before he dropped it. Shuaibo collapsed sideways, resting his forehead against Han’s shoulder while trying to breathe, which only made Han laugh harder. The whole spectacle was so profoundly ridiculous that after a few seconds, neither of them could even remember what had started it.
When the laughter finally passed and they caught their breath, the television was still glowing soft blue in the dark room. The fictional couple was still standing in the middle of an abandoned road, staring intently into each other's eyes while somewhere in the distance, the unmistakable sound of something growling echoed through the trees.
Han looked back at the screen, rubbing a tired hand over his face. "There's literally a demon chasing them."
Shuaibo let out another breathless laugh. Han reached for the remote and clicked pause, freezing the melodrama in place right before the inevitable kiss could land.
This was an ancient ritual for them. Romantic media had long been their favorite shared punching bag—something completely reliable to tear apart together, no matter how dramatic the screen tried to get. Over years of late nights, they’d built an unspoken language around it, knowing without words which scenes deserved a sharp comment and which were so terrible they were best met with total silence. It was what Han loved most about these quiet evenings with Shuaibo: he never had to explain himself. Sometimes an entire conversation lived inside a single shared look.
Eventually, Han hit play again, letting the eerie ambient sound drift through the room.
Shuaibo shifted a little closer under the shared warmth of the blanket, and Han leaned his weight back against him without a second thought. It was as natural as breathing. Physical affection between them had never felt heavy or complicated, carrying no awkward pauses and requiring no formal label. If one of them felt like resting an arm or leaning in, they just did. If one fell asleep against the other's shoulder mid-movie, the other simply shifted into a softer angle and let him sleep.
On screen, the main characters finally kissed. Han groaned softly; Shuaibo laughed into the quiet of the room. Neither made a move to pull away.
The irony, had either of them cared to step back and look at it, was almost artful. They could spend hours picking apart fictional lovers for being insufferably sappy, all while tucked under the exact same blanket, passing food back and forth, sinking into each other’s physical warmth, and treating the other person’s presence as the most fundamental, ordinary fact of their lives.
But there was nothing dramatic or romantic about it. They were just best friends, anchored tightly in each other's lives. And as far as either was concerned, that ease was precisely why it worked.
The following weekend brought a softer, lazy afternoon and another show.
It was explicitly not supposed to be a romance. Han had double-checked the moment Shuaibo sent over the link.
Not a romance, right?
Shuaibo had sent back a single thumbs-up emoji—a response that, in retrospect, should have immediately raised red flags.
By the time Han realized the female lead had been gazing at the male lead for a suspiciously long beat, they were already four episodes deep into the afternoon.
Han was stretched out along the length of the sofa, his head resting squarely on the softness and warmth of Shuaibo's thigh while his fingers idly scrolled through his phone. Shuaibo’s hand was resting casually in Han’s hair, his fingers threading through the strands in a slow, subconscious rhythm that neither of them could remember starting. It had just become part of the background noise of their weekends.
The show had been a harmless mystery up until now. The first few episodes had given them a suspicious death, an unreliable witness, and enough badly hidden clues to keep both of them entertained.
They'd started predicting the plot almost immediately.
"He's lying," Han said, pointing at the screen with a piece of food.
Shuaibo glanced over. "The detective?"
"The brother."
"Why?"
"He looked at the photograph for half a second too long."
Shuaibo considered this. "Or he's just bad at acting."
"Same thing."
A few minutes later, Shuaibo leaned forward slightly. "What if the neighbor did it?"
Han looked up at him. "The old lady?"
"She's always watching from the window."
"That's exactly why it can't be her."
"Why?"
"Too obvious."
Shuaibo frowned thoughtfully. "Then the old lady is pretending to be suspicious so we don't suspect the real killer."
Han stared at him.
Shuaibo smiled.
"That's stupid."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"You said the brother was suspicious because he looked at a photograph for half a second too long."
"That was different."
"How?"
Han paused.
"...It just was."
Shuaibo laughed, his fingers absentmindedly combing through Han's hair again.
They kept going anyway.
By the end of the episode, they'd developed an increasingly elaborate theory involving the brother, the neighbor, a missing necklace, and a locked room that Han was convinced had been staged specifically to mislead the police.
"I think the necklace is planted," Han said.
"I think the necklace doesn't exist."
"Then why did they show it?"
"Because the director wants us to think it matters."
Han narrowed his eyes at the screen.
"...I hate that you're making sense."
"I know."
The next episode opened with the detective discovering a photograph hidden behind a loose floorboard.
Han sat up slightly.
"See?"
Shuaibo looked down at him. "See what?"
"The necklace."
"It's a photograph."
"Which proves my point."
"Your point was about the necklace."
"It leads to the necklace."
Shuaibo stared at him for a moment before slowly nodding. "Right."
Han settled back against his thigh, satisfied.
They were four episodes in before the story began taking a strange turn.
The mystery was still there. The clues were still piling up. The suspect list had somehow gotten longer instead of shorter. But somewhere between the detective discovering a new piece of evidence and the female lead quietly joining him in the investigation, the show had apparently decided there was room for something else.
The two of them were suddenly standing in a warm, amber-lit kitchen, gazing at each other with the kind of intense, unspoken weight that signaled a major plot shift.
Han’s hand slowed on his phone.
"Oh, no."
Shuaibo tilted his head down to look at him.
Han pointed a thumb toward the screen. "They're doing it."
Shuaibo looked up, took in the dramatic lighting and the soft, swelling cello music in the background, and immediately let out a slow sigh.
"We've been deceived."
"This is why I don't trust recommendations," Han muttered, though he made no move to sit up, resting comfortably against Shuaibo's knee as he went back to his phone.
Shuaibo chuckled softly, his palm warm as his fingers continued their lazy path through Han’s hair. Neither reached for the remote. They’d already sunk hours into the story, and despite their dramatic complaints, they both knew they were going to sit right here and watch it to the end. They always did.
It wasn't that Han harbored some deep, bitter hatred for romance. That was the story he told himself, at least. It was just that the cinematic version of love felt so fundamentally fake compared to the real world. On television, everything was a grand, sweeping production. People stood in silence staring into each other's eyes for two full minutes instead of speaking like normal human beings. Someone was always running through a downpour; someone was always turning around at an airport; people apparently fell head-over-heels because a stranger held an umbrella or remembered a coffee order.
Han could never buy into it. Real life wasn't bathed in lens flare. Real people didn't hear violin solos when someone smiled across a room, nor did they spend weeks agonising over whether a brushed hand meant their destinies were aligned.
Real connection, to Han, was much quieter. It was knowing which jokes would make someone laugh before you even finished telling them. It was sending a stupid meme in the middle of the workday because you knew exactly who would appreciate it. It was being able to sit together without having to constantly entertain each other, or pick up a conversation after three hours as though it had never been interrupted.
It was familiarity built up over time, so ordinary that you stopped noticing how much you knew about another person. Their usual orders. The things they complained about. The stories they'd already told too many times. The strange little habits they'd probably never realised they had.
That was the kind of connection Han understood. Nothing complicated. Nothing that required him to stop and examine it. People simply spent enough time together, and eventually they learned each other.
At least, that was how Han saw it.
He didn't think much of it when Shuaibo texted him in the middle of the day just to share a stupid meme. He didn't question why he already knew which snacks Shuaibo would pick from a convenience store, or why certain things immediately reminded him of something the other man had said weeks ago.
They'd known each other long enough. Of course he remembered.
These little details had settled into his days so gradually that they didn't feel like decisions anymore. They were simply things Han knew, the same way he knew which seat Shuaibo would take without asking or which part of a story he'd interrupt to correct.
Nothing about it required much thought.
It was just what happened when someone had been around long enough.
On Sunday afternoon, the quiet hum of Han’s apartment was broken only by the click of his keyboard as he stared blankly at an unfinished work email. His phone screen lit up on the desk beside his elbow.
Shuaibo: eat?
Han looked at the brief message, then at the clock in the corner of his monitor, then back to the screen. Technically, he’d eaten breakfast hours ago, though it hardly counted as a real meal.
Han: where
A minute later, the reply popped up:
Shuaibo: you choose
Han caught himself smiling faintly at the screen before he could stop it. He snapped his laptop shut, abandoning the email without a second thought. It was just lunch, he told himself as he grabbed his jacket—nothing out of the ordinary.
By the time they finished eating, however, neither seemed in any particular rush to head home. The original plan had been simple: grab a bite and part ways. Shuaibo had an early shift the next morning, Han had a pile of lingering tasks waiting at his desk, and after spending most of the weekend together, logic dictated they should probably go their separate ways.
Neither brought that up.
Instead, they drifted aimlessly through the brightly lit corridors of the shopping center, letting the gentle crowd push them from one store window to the next. They lingered by a display of bulky headphones, then spent five minutes in silent, serious debate over a bizarre mushroom-shaped lamp. Han declared it an eyesore; Shuaibo immediately pulled out his phone and took a photo of it anyway.
Eventually, as if drawn by some invisible tide, they ended up in the quiet cool of a bookstore. It was a place they always seemed to land whenever they had time to kill. The air inside was still and smelled faintly of paper and coffee. Han gravitated toward the manga and comic displays near the back, while Shuaibo wandered into the fiction aisles, running a finger along the spines and pulling out titles to read the jacket summaries with exaggerated seriousness.
Han crouched down by a lower shelf, his eyes scanning the titles until he found a volume he’d been searching for. "Found it."
Shuaibo peered over the top of the adjacent display. "Is it good?"
"No idea."
"Then why do you look so pleased?"
"Because I found it."
Shuaibo let out a soft snort, satisfied with the logic, and went back to his browsing. For a long time, they simply occupied the same aisle in easy silence. Han flipped through his book, reading a few pages here and there, while Shuaibo drifted back and forth, occasionally holding up a cover with a dramatic expression just to gauge Han’s reaction.
A few minutes later, Shuaibo reappeared at Han’s side, holding a brightly colored romance comic.
Han took one look at the soft pastel art on the cover and set his own book down. "Absolutely not."
Shuaibo's eyes crinkled at the corners. "You haven't even opened it."
"I don't need to."
"How do you know?"
"Look at the cover," Han said, pointing at the two main characters standing under a blooming cherry blossom tree, their faces framed inches apart. "There’s going to be a misunderstanding by chapter two."
Shuaibo flipped the book over to check the back. "The synopsis says they start fake-dating to impress their friends."
Han let out a slow, dramatic sigh. "Of course they do." He took the book from Shuaibo’s hands, skimming the back cover with a skeptical frown. "How long until they realize they're actually in love?"
"Probably chapter three."
"Chapter three? That's generous."
"Maybe chapter two," Shuaibo conceded.
Han handed it back with a shake of his head. "Too efficient."
Shuaibo laughed softly and slid the book back onto the shelf.
They moved deeper into the store until Han found a series he’d been wanting to try. Without bothering to look for a chair, he dropped down right there on the carpeted floor, resting his back against the shelf to read the first few pages. A moment later, Shuaibo sank down beside him, settling into the narrow space with his knees drawn up and his phone in his hands.
They didn't talk much after that. The silence between them felt thick and warm, the kind that only comes from knowing someone so well that conversation feels optional. Every now and then, Han would hold his book sideways to show Shuaibo a panel, or Shuaibo would nudge Han’s knee to show him a video on his screen.
After a while, Han felt a sudden, soft weight land against his left shoulder.
Shuaibo had dozed off. His head had tipped sideways, resting heavily against Han’s shoulder, his phone slipping loose in his relaxed grip. A few soft blond curls had fallen forward across his temple, shadowing his face in the quiet light of the aisle.
Han froze for a second, looking down at him.
He didn't move. He didn't shift away or wake him up; there was no reason to. Shuaibo looked comfortable, so Han simply held his comic open with one hand, adjusting his posture just enough to give Shuaibo a better angle to rest, and let the quiet afternoon drift on around them.
When Shuaibo finally stirred minutes later, he blinked heavily against the light before sitting up with a small groan. "Did I fall asleep?"
"Yeah."
"How long?"
"Five minutes, maybe."
Shuaibo rubbed his eyes, his voice thick with sleep. "Are you done checking?"
Han held up the volume. "Almost."
Shuaibo gave a lazy nod, then casually leaned his shoulder right back against Han’s side, relaxing into his warmth as if he hadn't just woken up. Han didn't think twice about it. They had nowhere else to be, so they stayed right there on the floor until the store started to dim its lights.
At the checkout counter, Han was the only one holding anything to buy. Shuaibo stood beside him with his hands tucked into his pockets, eyeing the comic tucked under Han’s arm.
“You're really buying it?”
“I've been looking for it for weeks.”
“So you had to sit there and read it first?”
“Obviously.” Han said simply.
Shuaibo nodded, accepting the logic without argument. While Han paid, Shuaibo’s attention drifted to a display of wooden bookmarks near the register. He picked one up, turned it over in his hands for a long moment, then set it back down. Han watched him out of the corner of his eye but said nothing.
Five minutes later, as they walked out into the cool evening air of the plaza, Shuaibo pulled a small paper bag from his pocket and held up the very same bookmark.
Han gave him a look. "You bought it?"
"Apparently."
"You stared at it for ten minutes like it was a life decision."
"It was a difficult decision."
"It’s a piece of carved wood."
"It's a good piece of carved wood," Shuaibo corrected, though a small, fond smile betrayed him.
They kept walking through the darkening streets, neither bringing up the fact that it was well past the time they should have headed home. The sky had turned a deep purple above the city buildings, the ambient glow of streetlights reflecting on the damp pavement. They ended up at a neon-lit arcade near the station, mostly because Shuaibo had spotted a claw machine through the window. Han watched him fail spectacularly twice before taking over, only to do marginally worse, wasting a handful of coins on a game neither of them actually cared about winning.
By the time they finally left, Shuaibo was proudly carrying an absurdly misshapen plush toy he’d managed to snag, while Han carried his comic and two cold drinks from a nearby stall.
Instead of heading straight for the train, they sat down on a low stone ledge outside a corner convenience store, sharing a bag of salty snacks as the evening traffic hummed past.
Han leaned his head back against the brick wall, closing his eyes. "Do you ever feel like weekends disappear in five minutes?"
Shuaibo looked over at him, his thumb tracing the plush toy in his lap. "Always."
"Work tomorrow."
"Don't ruin the mood."
Han let out a quiet, tired laugh.
The silence that settled between them wasn't heavy. They were both exhausted, the long week catching up to them, but sitting side-by-side in the evening air felt lighter than being alone. They didn't need to perform or entertain each other; just existing in the same space was enough.
Shuaibo reached into the snack bag resting between their knees and grabbed another bite.
Han opened one eye. "You've eaten most of those."
"They're yours?" Shuaibo asked innocently.
"You said you weren't hungry when we were in the store."
“I did?” Shuaibo pointed at himself, looking genuinely scandalized by the allegation.
Han rolled his eyes, but he quietly nudged the bag closer to Shuaibo's side. Shuaibo grinned, slipping another snack into his mouth, and then, as if it were the most natural movement in the world, leaned his head sideways until it rested against Han's shoulder.
Han barely registered the shift. It was familiar, safe, and entirely normal. He continued skimming the back cover of his comic under the glow of the store’s sign while Shuaibo rested beside him, the ambient hum of the city washing over them.
After a while, Shuaibo's voice came, soft and slightly muffled against Han’s jacket.
"Next weekend?"
Han glanced down at the top of his head. "As always."
Shuaibo nodded, closing his eyes, entirely content.
And that was it. No elaborate plans, no grand promises. They’d figure out the details when the time came, just like they always did.
The following week slipped past in a blur of mundane routines. Work was as demanding as ever, leaving Han with plenty to complain about, while Shuaibo sent occasional photos of bizarre sights from his daily commute. Their messages throughout the week bounced between scattered plans and completely unnecessary commentary, maintaining the easy, constant contact that had defined their lives for years.
By Friday evening, Han was lying flat on his couch with one arm thrown over his eyes, seriously considering spending the entire weekend in bed. Then his phone buzzed on his chest.
Shuaibo: movie tomorrow?
Han stared at the screen. He had a pile of laundry waiting in the corner and had spent all week looking forward to doing absolutely nothing, but the thought of a quiet Saturday alone suddenly felt far less appealing.
Han: what movie
Shuaibo: don't know yet
Han couldn't help a small smile.
Han: then why did you ask
A few seconds ticked by before the reply flashed:
Shuaibo: because you're free
Han stared at the simple answer, letting out a quiet laugh. It was absurdly straightforward, yet it was more than enough reason.
Han: fine
The next afternoon, Han showed up at Shuaibo's door carrying a warm bag of takeout. He hadn't originally intended to buy anything, but passing a restaurant on the way over had reminded him of a dish Shuaibo liked, and ordering an extra portion had been an automatic instinct.
The moment Shuaibo opened the door, his eyes immediately dropped to the paper bag in Han's hand.
“Is that food?”
Han barely made it past him before Shuaibo leaned closer, already trying to peek inside. “Wait. What did you get?”
“Nothing for you.”
“Liar.” Shuaibo followed him into the apartment, practically hovering as Han set the containers on the kitchen counter. He spotted a familiar box.
“Garlic noodles?” Shuaibo's face lit up. “You got garlic noodles.”
“Apparently.”
“For me?”
Han gave him a look. “For the apartment. Obviously the noodles are going to eat themselves.”
“You're so thoughtful.”
“Don't make it weird.”
“I didn't say anything.”
Shuaibo laughed and reached for a container, only for Han to swat his hand away. "Wait until I set everything out."
"I'm helping."
"You're sampling," Han said, though he handed over a pair of chopsticks anyway.
They settled into their standard living room setup—food spread across the low table, icy drinks within arm's reach, and the television glowing in front of them. After twenty minutes of indecisive scrolling, Shuaibo paused on a title neither of them recognized. The thumbnail displayed a man and a woman standing suspiciously close under heavy artificial lighting.
Han frowned immediately. "Absolutely not."
"It's an action thriller," Shuaibo argued, pressing play before Han could protest further. "Look at the explosion in the background."
"They're going to fall in love by the third act," Han predicted, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. "I know how these work."
For the first thirty minutes, the movie actually proved Han wrong. Car chases and dramatic shootouts filled the screen, completely void of any romantic subplot. Han relaxed, taking a sip of his drink and giving Shuaibo a satisfied nod.
Then came the scene where the lead character remembered the exact way his partner took her coffee.
Han slowly lowered his cup, staring at the television in disbelief. "No."
Shuaibo was already wheezing with quiet laughter beside him. "It's just coffee!"
"It's never just coffee!" Han covered his face with one hand. "Why is it always food or drinks? It's so unoriginal."
"Because remembering what someone likes is romantic," Shuaibo pointed out, his shoulder pressing comfortably against Han’s as he leaned back.
"It's basic observational skills," Han grumbled, though he didn't pull away from the contact.
As the movie went on, the plot actually picked up enough to hold their attention. The forced romantic tension remained cheesy, but the action kept them engaged, and gradually the living room settled into the warm, quiet atmosphere that always accompanied their weekends. By the time the end credits began to roll, the food had gone cold, the snacks were empty, and the room was bathed in the dim light of the evening.
Shuaibo let the credits play, leaning his head back against the sofa cushions with a lazy stretch. Han was scrolling through his phone, only half-paying attention, when Shuaibo suddenly let out a soft snort.
Han looked up. "What?"
"Nothing," Shuaibo said, a quiet smile playing on his lips. "Just thinking about that coffee scene."
"It was terrible."
"It wasn't that bad."
"It was completely unrealistic," Han maintained, turning back to his phone.
Yet, the thought lingered. Han had been bringing Shuaibo food for years. He knew his coffee order, his favorite snacks, the exact dishes he preferred from three different takeaway places, and which ingredients to shoo him away from in the kitchen. He had never considered any of it a grand gesture, it was just something he did because he knew Shuaibo, the same way Shuaibo always picked up the specific drinks Han liked without asking.
It wasn't special. It was just them.
Han set his phone down and stood up, gathering the empty food containers from the table. "We should clean this up."
Shuaibo groaned dramatically, but he pushed himself up off the couch to follow Han into the kitchen. They worked in quiet sync—Han rinsing the dishes while Shuaibo dried them and put them away, their movements seamlessly attuned to each other after years of shared spaces.
It struck Han, briefly, how effortless it all was. They didn't need elaborate entertainment or continuous conversation. Even the silences between them felt complete—not empty, just shared.
When they returned to the living room, Shuaibo immediately pulled the blanket over both of them as they sat back down. Han shifted closer without thinking, letting the heavy fabric cover his legs as Shuaibo picked another show.
Halfway through the episode, Shuaibo’s head gradually drifted down to rest against Han’s shoulder. He wasn't sleeping, just comfortably anchored. Han glanced down at the soft blonde curls resting near his collarbone, then looked back at the screen.
Nothing about the moment felt unusual. It was just another Saturday night, another shared blanket, another quiet evening in a long string of them.
By the time the next weekend rolled around, the effortless ease of their routine encountered a subtle shift.
It started on Friday evening with a text from Shuaibo proposing something a little different: a "nice" dinner out at a proper restaurant rather than their usual takeout and couch setup. Han had agreed immediately, thinking nothing of it, but as Saturday afternoon turned into evening, the casual nature of the plan completely dissolved.
Han stood in front of his open closet, staring blankly at his clothes with an uncharacteristic, growing sense of panic. Normally, getting ready to see Shuaibo took five minutes—a worn hoodie, comfortable pants, and whatever shoes were closest to the door. But today, every shirt he pulled from the hanger felt either too lazy or too deliberate. He tried on a dark button-up, tossed it onto the bed, pulled on a casual knit sweater, frowned at his reflection in the mirror, and immediately pulled it back off over his head. By the time he finally settled on a clean, structured jacket over a buttoned shirt, his bed was buried under a pile of rejected tops, leaving him leaning over his bathroom sink to carefully tame his hair for far longer than he would ever admit.
Across town, Shuaibo was experiencing a full-scale crisis of his own.
His bedroom looked like a storm had passed through it. Three different shirts were discarded across his chair, and he was currently standing under the bright vanity lights of his bathroom, meticulously working on his appearance. He spent twenty minutes on his blond curls alone, using a touch of product to get every lock to sit in soft, effortless-looking waves that took an embarrassing amount of effort to achieve. Next came his makeup—a delicate, practiced routine he usually reserved for special occasions. He carefully evened out his complexion with a light layer of foundation, blended a subtle touch of warmth onto his cheeks, and enhanced his eyes with soft, warm tones that made his dark irises stand out under the lights. He capped it off with a dab of lip tint and a spritz of subtle cologne, stepping back to inspect his reflection.
It’s just dinner with Han, he told himself, smoothing down the lapel of his tailored jacket. I'm not dressing up for him. I just feel like looking good.
When they finally met outside the restaurant—a cozy, dimly lit place with warm wooden accent tables and soft amber lighting—the mutual, painstaking effort was instantly apparent.
Han took in Shuaibo's perfectly styled curls, the subtle, glowing perfection of his makeup, and his sharp outfit, raising an eyebrow despite the sudden flutter in his chest. "Who are you trying to impress?"
Shuaibo scoffed, though a faint flush rose under the delicate layer of blush on his cheeks. "No one. I just have self-respect. Look at you, wearing something with actual buttons."
"It's a nice place," Han replied dryly, gesturing for them to head inside. "I didn't want them turning us away at the door."
The host led them to a quiet booth near the back. It didn't escape Han's notice that nearly every other table in the room was occupied by couples holding hands over candlelight. In any other context, the atmosphere would have been glaringly romantic, but as they slid into opposite sides of the booth, Han tried to anchor himself to the familiar rhythm of their friendship.
Except, sitting across from Shuaibo under the warm glow of the table lamp, Han found his focus drifting in ways it never had before. He noticed the way the ambient light highlighted the delicate blending of Shuaibo's eye makeup, catching the warm amber undertones in his eyes, the quiet, melodic sound of his laughter when the waiter stumbled over a description of the specials, and the subtle scent of his cologne drifting across the table.
"You're staring," Shuaibo noted, looking up from his menu with a teasing smirk.
"I'm trying to decide if you're actually going to eat what you order, or if I'm going to end up finishing half your plate like usual," Han countered smoothly.
Shuaibo made a dramatic face. "I am a growing adult. I eat my own food."
"Right. That’s why I had to finish your noodles last week."
"That was strategic sharing," Shuaibo insisted, pointing his fork at Han. "There’s a difference."
Han laughed, the lighthearted banter easing the sudden, unexplainable tension in his chest. Dinner proceeded as effortlessly as always, filled with their usual exchange of work gossip, light teasing, and shared plates. Yet beneath it all, an undeniable, electric awareness lingered between them—a silent acknowledgment that something about tonight felt richer, warmer, and far more deliberate.
After settling the bill, they stepped back out into the cool night air. Neither wanted the evening to end just yet, so they drifted down the sidewalk, eventually finding a small, late-night dessert shop with outdoor seating under string lights.
They ordered a single sweet dish to share, sitting close together at a narrow metal table. Mid-conversation, Shuaibo said something that made Han laugh, and as Shuaibo smiled back, Han noticed a tiny speck of whipped cream near the corner of his lip.
Without thinking—driven purely by years of unthinking proximity—Han reached across the small table and gently wiped it away with the pad of his thumb.
The laughter between them vanished instantly.
Shuaibo froze, his breath catching softly in his throat as the tip of Han's thumb made contact with his skin. Han’s hand lingered near Shuaibo's jaw for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, his thumb brushing over the soft, carefully blended makeup Shuaibo had spent twenty minutes perfecting—a detail Han hadn't missed since the moment they met outside. The air between them grew thick, charged with a sudden, pulse-quickening quiet that neither the street noise nor the distant hum of traffic could break.
Shuaibo looked at him, his dark eyes wide and searching under the soft string lights.
Han swallowed, his heart hammering against his ribs in a cadence that had nothing to do with friendship. Taking in the styled hair, the subtle perfume, and the faint makeup Shuaibo had put on just for tonight, Han couldn't laugh it off. He couldn't make a sarcastic joke, and he certainly couldn't hide behind the word routine anymore.
Han slowly pulled his hand back, his thumb carrying the faint warmth of Shuaibo's skin, but his gaze remained locked on Shuaibo's eyes. Neither of them moved for a long moment, the silence stretching out until the gentle hum of the street traffic seemed to fade entirely into the background.
Shuaibo was the first to let out a quiet, trembling breath, blinking as if waking up from a trance. He reached up, his fingers brushing his own cheek where Han’s thumb had been just seconds before, his pulse visibly quickening at his collarbone. "We should..." Shuaibo cleared his throat, his voice lacking its usual playful, sharp edge. "We should probably start walking toward the station. It's getting late."
"Yeah," Han said, his voice lower than usual, carrying a subtle rasp. "Yeah, let's go."
They cleared the table and stepped away from the warm glow of the dessert shop, falling into step side-by-side along the quiet sidewalk. Usually, their walks to the train were filled with mindless chatter—complaining about the cool night air, debating what to watch next weekend, or making fun of something odd they’d passed on the street.
Tonight, the silence between them was heavy, filled with an unspoken weight that neither dared to voice.
As they walked down the dimly lit avenue toward the station entrance, the crowd on the sidewalk naturally thinned. With every few steps, their hands brushed against each other in the space between them. Normally, it was something neither would have noticed; they were used to bumping shoulders, leaning in, and sharing physical space without a second thought. But tonight, every slight contact sent a sharp, unmistakable electric current straight up Han’s arm.
Neither of them spoke about it. Neither acknowledged the way Han’s throat felt dry, or the way Shuaibo kept his eyes fixed strictly on the pavement ahead, his cheeks still carrying a faint, warm flush under the streetlights.
After the third time their knuckles grazed, Shuaibo didn't pull his hand away.
Instead, his fingers slowed, twitching slightly against Han's palm. Han’s breath hitched in his chest. Without letting himself overthink it—without giving his rational mind a chance to analyze the sudden, racing speed of his heart—Han shifted his hand and let his fingers slide between Shuaibo's.
Shuaibo froze for a fraction of a second, his footstep faltering slightly on the pavement, before his hand relaxed into the hold, his fingers lacing tightly with Han's.
Neither of them said a single word out loud. They kept their eyes trained straight ahead on the glowing neon sign of the subway station entrance a block away, pretending to be completely absorbed in the walk. But internally, every nerve ending was hyper-focused on the firm, warm grip between their palms.
The heat of Shuaibo's hand grounded Han in a way that felt entirely new and terrifyingly disorienting. There was no blanket to hide under, no terrible romance trope on a screen to make fun of, and no easy excuse about accidental proximity. Yet, neither was ready to break the spell by vocalizing what was happening.
When they reached the top of the station stairs, the cool draft from the underground platform rushed up to meet them. They finally stopped walking, turning to face each other under the bright fluorescent lights of the ticket gates.
Shuaibo looked up, his hair slightly windblown from the walk, his dark eyes wide and glossy under the overhead lights. His hand remained held tightly in Han’s, neither making the slightest move to let go, even as commuters brushed past them.
Internally, Han's mind was reeling, completely stripped of its usual sarcastic commentary. He took in the soft curve of Shuaibo's jaw, the lingering scent of his perfume, and the quiet hesitation in his posture.
"Text me when you get on your train?" Han asked softly, keeping his voice carefully even, though his grip tightened just a fraction.
Shuaibo swallowed, looking down at their joined hands before looking back up into Han's eyes. A soft, unguarded look crossed his features—one he didn't try to hide, even if he couldn't bring himself to name it.
"Yeah," Shuaibo whispered, his thumb brushing over the back of Han's knuckles once before he slowly, reluctantly let his hand slip away. "I will."
Shuaibo turned and walked toward his platform, turning back just once before heading down the stairs. Han stood by the gate, watching until Shuaibo disappeared into the crowd, his own hand still warm from the touch.
The train ride home was a quiet haze.
Han sat near the doors of his carriage, staring at his own reflection in the dark glass as the underground tunnels rushed past. His right hand felt strange—still holding onto the lingering ghost of warmth, his knuckles sensitive to the cool subway draft. He kept reviewing the night in a rapid, relentless loop: the way Shuaibo had looked in the amber lighting of the booth, the soft texture of his skin when Han’s thumb had brushed away the cream, and the heavy, undeniable silence that had fallen over them as their fingers laced together on the walk to the station.
For years, Han had built a quiet pride on how simple his life was. He didn't do dramatic epiphanies or romantic tension. He didn't analyze looks across a room. He had always believed that real connection was just habit—a steady, predictable comfort that required no overthinking.
Sitting in the subway car, watching the station lights flash by, he had to admit that his heart was hammering against his ribs in a way that felt entirely unpredictable.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, sharp and sudden. Han pulled it out instantly.
Shuaibo: on the train
Han stared at the three words. It was the same text Shuaibo sent every single time they parted ways at the station. It was part of their routine. But tonight, Han’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, his chest tightening with a sudden, unfamiliar hesitation.
Han: good. sit down if you can, you're wearing those ridiculous shoes
A few seconds passed. Three dots appeared, vanished, and appeared again.
Shuaibo: they look good and you know it
Han let out a low, quiet breath, a faint smile breaking through his serious expression.
Han: sure. text me when you're at your door
Shuaibo: okay
Han leaned his head back against the window frame, clutching his phone in his palm. Nothing had been said out loud, no declarations had been made, and yet everything felt shifted on its axis. The easy structure of their friendship was still there, but beneath it lay a new, charged current—a quiet, unspoken secret that both of them were now carefully carrying home in the dark.
Across town, Shuaibo leaned against the pole of his own train car, his phone pressed against his chest.
His heart was still racing. He looked down at his right hand, flexing his fingers slightly as if he could still feel the firm, protective grip of Han’s palm wrapped around his.
He had spent the entire evening convincing himself that dressing up was just for fun, that the perfume was just something nice he felt like wearing, and that sitting across from Han in a romantic restaurant was just two friends enjoying a better meal than usual. He had spent twenty minutes in front of his bathroom mirror carefully blending his makeup, telling his reflection that it didn't mean anything.
But when Han’s thumb had touched his cheek, every excuse he’d built up over the last month had completely collapsed. And when Han had taken his hand on the sidewalk—so naturally, without a single word of hesitation—Shuaibo had known, with terrifying clarity, that they were way past the point of going back.
He touched his own cheek where the makeup had been brushed away, biting his lower lip as a soft, helpless smile spread across his face in the reflection of the train window.
The next weekend, they ended up watching another action movie. Neither of them had particularly cared about the genre. Han had suggested it after rejecting three other options, and Shuaibo had agreed mostly because the poster had an explosion on it. Apparently, that was enough of a recommendation.
They ordered food, turned the lights down, and settled onto the couch with the blanket already waiting between them.
For a moment, neither of them seemed quite sure where to sit.
That was new.
The hesitation was brief enough that either of them could have pretended it hadn't happened. Shuaibo took one end of the couch, Han the other, leaving a perfectly reasonable amount of space between them.
It lasted maybe twenty minutes.
Gradually, without either of them acknowledging it, Shuaibo shifted closer. Han adjusted the blanket. Their knees bumped once, then again, and neither bothered moving away the second time.
It should have felt ordinary. They had spent countless evenings like this before.
Han pulled the blanket a little higher over both of them and kept his eyes on the screen.
It was easier than talking about what had happened the last time they'd gone out.
The movie was ridiculous in exactly the way they had hoped it would be. Cars exploded for reasons that didn't seem physically possible, people survived things that should have killed them several times over, and the protagonist had apparently never encountered a door that couldn't be dramatically kicked open. Han laughed through most of it, occasionally making some quiet observation that made Shuaibo laugh harder. Eventually they stopped trying to predict the plot and simply watched whatever happened next.
Halfway through, the main character got injured. It wasn't particularly serious. There was a small cut on his forehead and some blood on his shirt, but the movie treated it like a life-altering event. His partner immediately rushed toward him, touching his face with both hands and staring at him as though he'd just returned from the dead. Han made a face. Shuaibo laughed. Neither said anything. The scene continued for another few seconds before the injured character suddenly smiled.
Han reached for the remote. "Don't." Shuaibo caught his wrist. Han looked at him. Shuaibo was still laughing, his hand loosely around Han's wrist as he tried to stop him from pausing the movie. "Let it play." Han looked at the screen, then back at him. "Why?" "Because I want to see how stupid this gets." Han let the remote drop onto the couch. "Fine." Shuaibo released his wrist. The contact lasted only a moment longer than necessary.
The movie kept playing. Neither of them was watching it anymore. Han couldn't remember the last thing that had happened on screen. Something about a car chase, probably. There had been shouting, then an explosion, then another explosion, and normally that would have been enough to keep him entertained. Right now, though, all of it felt like background noise. Shuaibo was still beside him, closer than usual. Not dramatically closer; if anything, the distance between them was so small that it would have been ridiculous to call attention to it. Their shoulders were touching, their legs were pressed together beneath the blanket, and Shuaibo's head was still resting against him. It should have felt normal. It had felt normal for years. Except Han couldn't stop thinking about the way Shuaibo had looked at him a few minutes ago.
He glanced down again. Bad idea. Shuaibo was already looking at him. Han froze. For a moment, neither of them moved. It wasn't the first time they'd looked at each other like this. They'd spent years staring at each other while talking, laughing, arguing, watching movies, eating. There was nothing inherently strange about it. But something about this felt different. Han couldn't explain why.
Shuaibo's eyes flicked briefly toward his mouth. Han noticed. His stomach dropped. Shuaibo seemed to realize what he'd done at almost the exact same moment. His gaze immediately returned to Han's eyes, and for one strange second they simply stared at each other. Then Shuaibo shifted, just slightly. Han did too. Their faces ended up closer. Much closer. Han stopped breathing. Shuaibo stopped too. Neither of them seemed to know what they were doing anymore.
The movie exploded loudly in the background. Neither reacted. Han's eyes dropped again. This time, he didn't pretend he hadn't. Shuaibo noticed. Of course he noticed. His expression changed almost imperceptibly, something between surprise and uncertainty. And then Han realized what was about to happen. He pulled back. Not dramatically, just enough to put some space between them. Shuaibo immediately looked away.
The movie continued. Neither spoke. Han stared straight ahead, suddenly fascinated by the completely incomprehensible action sequence on the television. His heart was beating much too fast. What the hell was that? He didn't know. He didn't want to know. Actually, he very much wanted to know, which was the problem. Beside him, Shuaibo shifted beneath the blanket. Han could feel the movement without looking. A few minutes passed, then ten. Neither of them mentioned it.
Eventually, Shuaibo stood up. "I'm getting water." "Okay." His voice sounded normal. Han hoped his own did too. He listened to Shuaibo walk into the kitchen. The moment he disappeared from view, Han dropped his head into his hands. What the fuck. He'd almost kissed his best friend. Not accidentally, not as a joke, not because they were messing around. He had looked at Shuaibo's mouth and actually thought about kissing him. That was—no. Han rubbed his face. Absolutely not. He wasn't doing this. This was exactly the kind of thing they had spent years laughing about: friends suddenly looking at each other differently, realizing they'd been secretly in love all along, dramatic music playing while they stared into each other's eyes.
He lifted his head.
Shuaibo returned with his drink. Their eyes met. Han immediately looked away, and Shuaibo did the same. And somehow, that was worse, because now they both knew. Neither of them said anything for the rest of the movie.
When it finally ended, Han stood almost immediately. "I should go." Shuaibo nodded. "Yeah." They walked to the door. Normally, there would have been some lingering conversation—one of them would complain about the movie, or they'd make plans for the next weekend, or Han would steal something from the kitchen on his way out. Tonight, neither seemed capable of doing any of that. Han put his shoes on while Shuaibo stood nearby. "Goodnight." "Goodnight."
Han opened the door. He took one step out, then stopped and turned around. Shuaibo was looking at him. For half a second, neither moved. Han almost said something—he didn't know what—so he just smiled awkwardly. "See you." "See you." Han left, and the door closed behind him. He stood in the hallway for a moment, staring at absolutely nothing, then quietly muttered to himself, "Fuck." Inside the apartment, Shuaibo leaned back against the closed door and covered his face with both hands. "Fuck." Neither of them had kissed. That should have made things easier. It didn't.
For the first few days after that night, they were both very good at pretending nothing had happened. At least over text. In person was another matter. Han noticed it the moment Shuaibo opened the door the following Saturday. Usually, he would walk straight in, complain about something, drop whatever he was carrying somewhere it wasn't supposed to be, and make himself comfortable without waiting to be invited. This time, he paused for half a second in the doorway. Shuaibo did too. Their eyes met, and then, almost simultaneously, they both looked away. Han stepped inside.
"Hey."
"Hey."
That was it.
Nothing had changed, if they convince themselves hard enough.
They ordered food and put something on television, settling onto the couch without much thought about where either of them sat. They were back to their usual places, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed whenever either of them shifted.
For the first few minutes, neither said much. Han kept his attention on the screen, though he was vaguely aware of Shuaibo beside him, occasionally reaching for the snacks or adjusting the blanket.
At some point, Shuaibo's hand landed beside Han's on the blanket.
Neither of them moved.
A moment later, Shuaibo casually pulled the blanket higher over both of them, and Han let him.
They watched half the movie like that, both pretending to be completely invested while neither of them seemed capable of following the plot. Han kept catching himself looking at Shuaibo whenever the room got dark during a scene, immediately turning back toward the television every time. At some point, Shuaibo laughed quietly at something on screen. Han looked at him and smiled without thinking. Shuaibo turned at the same time, and their eyes met. This time, neither looked away immediately. Han's smile faded, and Shuaibo's did too.
The both of them looked down. Their hands were resting on the couch between them, close enough that their fingers almost touched. Neither moved. Then Shuaibo's little finger brushed against Han's. It was barely there. Han could have moved, but he didn't. Their fingers touched again. This time, Han turned his hand slightly. Their hands settled together—not quite holding, just resting against each other. It felt strangely reassuring. Neither of them looked at the other while the movie played on.
Eventually, Shuaibo's fingers curled around Han's. Han's heart jumped. He looked over. Shuaibo was still staring at the television, but his face had gone noticeably pink. Han couldn't help smiling; he squeezed his hand once. Shuaibo finally looked at him. There was something almost helpless in his expression, like he had no idea what they were doing either. Han didn't know what to do with that look, so he stayed there.
Their hands remained together for the rest of the movie. When the credits rolled, neither immediately let go. The room was quiet. Han looked down at their hands, then at Shuaibo. Shuaibo was already looking at him. This time, neither of them needed to pretend they hadn't noticed. Shuaibo shifted closer, and Han did too. They stopped before their faces got too close—not because either of them wanted to stop, but because suddenly, the possibility of actually doing something about it made Han nervous. He let out a quiet laugh. Shuaibo smiled. Neither spoke; they didn't need to.
After a moment, Shuaibo leaned back, but he didn't let go of Han's hand. Han stayed beside him. The uncertainty was still there, and so was the awkwardness.
And when Han eventually left that night, Shuaibo walked him to the door like always. Except this time, before Han stepped outside, their hands separated slowly. Neither of them said goodbye right away. Han looked at him, and Shuaibo looked back. For one second, it felt like they might finally stop hesitating. They didn't. Han smiled instead. "See you next week." Shuaibo smiled back. "Yeah." The door closed. Han stood outside for a moment, letting out a quiet, breathless laugh. Ridiculous. The whole thing was completely ridiculous, but he couldn't bring himself to mind anymore.
The following Saturday arrived almost embarrassingly quickly. Han had spent the entire week telling himself he wasn't thinking about it. He wasn't waiting for the weekend. He wasn't wondering whether Shuaibo would sit beside him again, or whether their hands would find each other like they had the previous time. He definitely wasn't remembering the way Shuaibo had looked at him before he'd left, or the small smile he'd given him when they'd said goodbye. Those were all perfectly ordinary things to forget about, and Han was very good at forgetting about things when he wanted to. Unfortunately, his brain had apparently decided that this particular subject was worth revisiting every few hours.
So when Saturday finally came, Han found himself standing in front of his closet for far too long. He picked out an outfit, changed it, and changed it back, then stood there staring at himself with the growing realization that he was doing exactly what he'd done before their dinner, except this time he knew why. He wanted to look good for Shuaibo. The thought made his ears feel warm. "Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself, grabbing his jacket before he could change his mind again.
When he arrived, Shuaibo opened the door almost immediately. He looked just as nervous as Han felt, although neither of them acknowledged it. His hair was styled, but not excessively so, and he was wearing something simple that nevertheless made Han's eyes linger for a second too long. Shuaibo noticed. Han noticed him noticing, and suddenly both of them were smiling for absolutely no reason.
"Hi."
"Hi."
That was enough to make them both laugh.
The awkwardness eased after that, though it never completely disappeared. They ate, watched half of a movie, abandoned it when neither could remember what was happening, and eventually ended up talking about random things while sitting on the couch. It felt almost exactly like every other weekend they'd spent together, except there was now something quietly sitting between them that neither wanted to disturb.
When Han reached for a snack, his hand brushed against Shuaibo's. Neither pulled away. Their fingers stayed touching for a second, then two. Shuaibo glanced down, and Han did too. This time, there was no nervous retreat. Shuaibo slowly turned his hand over, palm facing up. Han looked at him. The invitation was so small that it almost made his chest ache. He placed his hand in Shuaibo's, and their fingers intertwined. Neither of them said anything. They simply sat there holding hands while the television played something neither of them was watching anymore. Han could feel his own heartbeat in his fingertips, and he wondered if Shuaibo could feel it too. Every few seconds, one of them would glance at the other, only to look away again with a smile that neither could quite hide.
Eventually, Shuaibo shifted closer. Han's stomach flipped. He looked at him, and Shuaibo looked back. There was that same pause again—the one that had happened twice now, the one where they got close enough that Han could feel his nerves kicking in and suddenly became painfully aware of every little thing. Except this time, neither of them stopped. Shuaibo leaned in slowly, and Han met him halfway. Their lips touched. For a second, neither moved. It was soft, almost shy, and so brief that when they pulled apart, Han immediately wondered if they'd actually kissed or merely thought about doing it at the same time.
Then Shuaibo smiled, and Han smiled too. Neither of them laughed. That was what made it different.
Han's fingers tightened slightly around his. Shuaibo looked down at their joined hands before looking back at him, and there was something so openly nervous in his expression that Han couldn't help feeling nervous himself. He leaned closer again. This time, the kiss lasted longer. Still gentle, still tentative, but no longer uncertain. Han's hand came up to Shuaibo's cheek, almost hesitantly, his thumb brushing lightly along his skin. Shuaibo's fingers curled into the fabric of Han's sleeve, holding onto him as though he needed something solid to keep himself from getting too overwhelmed by the fact that this was actually happening.
When they separated, they stayed close enough that their foreheads nearly touched. Han let out a quiet breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
"So..." Shuaibo smiled.
"So."
Han looked at him for a moment. Then, because apparently some part of him still couldn't resist making fun of the situation, he whispered, "We really became the people we used to make fun of." Shuaibo's smile widened. "I know."
"That's terrible."
"Very."
Han laughed softly, and this time Shuaibo laughed with him. There was no embarrassment in it anymore, just the strange relief of finally being allowed to acknowledge something that had been quietly growing between them for longer than either had realized.
Han looked at him. "Can I kiss you again?" Shuaibo's face went pink, and he nodded. Han smiled before leaning in. The third kiss was the easiest. Maybe because they weren't wondering anymore. Maybe because there was nothing left to figure out tonight. When they finally pulled apart, Shuaibo rested his forehead against Han's, and Han found himself smiling so much his cheeks hurt.
The movie had long since ended. The food had gone cold. Neither of them cared. They stayed there together, still holding hands, occasionally exchanging shy little smiles as though they couldn't quite believe they'd finally done it. And somehow, after spending so much time laughing at romance for being ridiculous, Han had to admit something he would probably never say out loud: maybe it wasn't so ridiculous after all.