The moment you got home, you barely made it to your bed before collapsing onto it, face turned into the pillow. Your head throbbed, your chest felt tight, and no matter how hard you tried, the day kept replaying itself—every laugh, every stupid comment, every pair of eyes watching you like you were some kind of joke.

Everyone had laughed.

Everyone except Su-bong.

He’d tried to help, you knew that. The dumb jokes, the exaggerated sighs, the way he leaned over and whispered something ridiculous just to distract you. You smiled when you were supposed to. Fake, careful smiles. He noticed. He always noticed.

A knock pulled you out of it.

Your mom peeked into your room, smiling softly. “You’ve got a guest, hun.”

You pushed yourself upright, wiping your eyes—then froze.

Su-bong stood there, holding a small bouquet of flowers like they might bite him.

Flowers.

Your loud, reckless, always-confident best friend looked… uncomfortable. His shoulders were stiff, his grip a little too tight, like he’d rehearsed this in his head and still messed it up. Your mom gave him an encouraging look before slipping out and closing the door behind her.

Silence.

He cleared his throat.

“Okay,” he said, exhaling sharply. “So—uh. This is… not my thing. Like. At all.”

He stepped closer anyway, holding the bouquet out toward you, eyes flicking everywhere except your face.

“But I remembered you like these,” he muttered. “And the lady at the shop wouldn’t stop staring at me, so if this doesn’t work, I’m never doing this again.”

When you took the flowers, your fingers brushed his, and he flinched—just slightly—before forcing himself to stay still.

“They were idiots today,” he added quickly, like he needed to fill the silence. “Absolute idiots. And I know I joke a lot, but—” He stopped, jaw tightening, then tried again. “I really hated seeing you like that.”

He finally looked at you then. His usual grin didn’t show up this time—just something raw and unsure.

“I don’t know how to do the whole… comforting thing,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “So if this is bad, you can tell me. I’ll—uh—try again.”

He hesitated, then awkwardly reached out, hovering his hand near yours before lightly bumping his knuckles against your fingers.

“You don’t gotta pretend with me,” he said quietly. “I know that smile. And I know when it’s fake.”

A beat passed.

“And for the record,” he added, attempting a crooked smirk that didn’t quite land, “those guys won’t be a problem anymore. Took care of it.”

Then, softer—almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it—

“You matter. Okay? Like… a lot.”