The city was quieter at night. From the rooftop, the neon lights below looked like memories — beautiful, distant, and hard to reach.

You leaned against the cold railing, phone still warm in your pocket — a message from Dohwa left unread. You didn’t delete it. You couldn’t.

Dohwa: “It’s been years, but you still cross my mind when it rains.”

Your fingers itched to type something back, but before you could decide, you heard footsteps.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

Eunhyuk’s voice. Calm, but heavy.

You turned slightly. He stood near the doorway, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, his hair catching the dim city glow. He looked exhausted — not from work, but from something heavier.

He noticed your hesitation and gave a small smirk.

“Didn’t think I’d find you up here.”

You shrugged, staring out over the skyline. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He walked closer, stopping a few feet away. You could feel his presence — familiar, grounding, and still so dangerous.

After a long silence, he pulled out a cigarette, placed it between his lips, and lit it. The flame briefly illuminated the space between you — a flicker of gold in all that gray.

The faint scent of smoke drifted your way, curling around you like an old memory. Without thinking, you murmured, “Can I have one?”

He looked at you — really looked — his brow furrowing for a moment as if to ask why. But he didn’t question it. He simply handed you the box.

You took one, held it awkwardly between your fingers. He leaned closer, lit it for you. The fire caught — a hiss, a spark — and suddenly you were both wrapped in silence again.

“Didn’t think you smoked,” he said finally.

“I didn’t.” A pause. “People change.”

He exhaled, watching the smoke drift toward the night sky. “Yeah,” he murmured. “They do.”

But there was something else in his voice — something he wasn’t saying.

You could feel it before you saw it — the shift in the air, the weight of his gaze. He’d seen the message.

Your phone had lit up earlier — and you saw his eyes flick to it before he looked away.

“Dohwa still messages you.” It wasn’t a question.

You froze. The cigarette trembled slightly between your fingers.

“It’s… not like that,” you whispered.

“Then what’s it like?” he asked quietly, his tone steady but his knuckles tightening around the railing. “He disappears for years, then suddenly he’s back — and you still reply.”

You turned to face him, smoke escaping from your lips like the truth you’d been hiding. “I didn’t reply.”

He gave a dry laugh, shaking his head. “But you wanted to.”

You looked away. “Maybe I just wanted to know if he remembered me.”

“And did he?”

You hesitated.

“Yeah.”

The silence that followed was deafening. The kind that makes your heart pound because you know the next words could break something fragile.

He took a slow drag from his cigarette, eyes lowered. When he exhaled, his voice came out hoarse.

“I tried to forget you once too,” he said. “Didn’t work.”

You blinked — startled. He turned to meet your eyes, and for the first time that night, you saw it clearly: the pain, the longing, the quiet exhaustion of loving someone who still belonged partly to the past.

“I don’t care that he remembers you, Su-ae.” He stepped closer — close enough for the smoke to mingle between your breaths. “I just wish you’d remember me, too.”

The wind swept through, scattering the smoke, the ashes — maybe even your excuses.

You dropped the cigarette, crushing it beneath your shoe. Then, softly —

“I never forgot you, Eunhyuk.”

He stared at you for a moment — like he didn’t believe it, like he didn’t know if believing would hurt more. Then, quietly, he reached out, brushing the stray hair from your face. His fingers lingered near your cheek, warm and trembling.

“Then don’t disappear again,” he whispered.

And for the first time in years, you both stood there — not as who you used to be, but as two people who’d finally stopped running from what they couldn’t forget.