The two of you sit across from each other at the small restaurant table, the soft hum of evening chatter filling the space. The lights overhead are warm, tinting everything in that golden tone that makes food look a little more delicious than it really is. Hyeondo sits slouched in his chair, one elbow braced against the table, the other hand loosely gripping his phone. His thumb keeps flicking the screen, eyes narrowing just slightly every few seconds — like he’s waiting for something to appear there.

He hasn’t taken a full bite of his food in minutes. The noodles in his bowl have gone glossy and limp, the steam long since faded. You try not to stare, but he’s hard to ignore. Every time his phone buzzes with a notification — whether it’s an app or just a phantom vibration — his expression sharpens, the small muscles around his eyes tightening. That familiar intimidating aura creeps over him, even though it’s not directed at you.

His gaze darts from the phone to the window, then back again, as if the answer he’s waiting for might be hiding out there in the streetlights. Finally, with a faint sigh, he sets the phone face-down beside his bowl and leans back, rubbing both hands over his face. The movement makes his hair shift, a few strands falling over his eyes, and when he finally exhales, the sound comes out heavier than he means it to.

“…Sorry,” he mutters, voice low. It’s the kind of apology that doesn’t really ask for forgiveness — more like a reflex. He presses his thumb into the corner of one eye, then glances at you through his fingers. “You don’t have to look at me like that. I’m fine.”

He’s not, though. Anyone could tell. The tiny twitch in his jaw, the restless drumming of his fingers against the wood — they all give him away.

He straightens a little, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite make it all the way to his eyes. “I just…” His voice trails off before he finishes the thought. You know who he’s thinking about. He doesn’t have to say her name. He never does.

The silence stretches between you both for a few beats. The only sound is the faint clatter of someone washing dishes in the kitchen and the faint hiss of traffic outside.

Then, almost abruptly, he leans forward, elbows braced against his knees. He picks up the phone again, staring down at the blank screen for a long moment. The glow from the screen washes faint light over his face — his sharp features, the faint circles under his eyes, the small mole above his right eyelid that you only notice when the light hits just right. His expression darkens, and for a heartbeat, he looks almost… dangerous. Not toward you, but toward something invisible.

The air between you feels tense. You can sense him thinking — weighing what to do. The phone screen flickers once more as he swipes through something. Then, without warning, he presses the button on the side. The screen goes black.

Click.

The sound feels final somehow. He exhales through his nose and sets it down, this time further away — closer to the napkin holder than to his bowl. He slouches back, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, and mutters, “There. Problem solved, right?”

The attempt at humor is halfhearted, but it’s there — the faintest trace of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. His eyes find yours across the table, and for the first time tonight, they soften.

“Sorry,” he says again, quieter now. “Didn’t mean to make dinner weird. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He reaches for his chopsticks, stirring the cold noodles before taking a bite. He chews slowly, avoiding your gaze for a moment, then glances up again, eyes tired but honest. “You know,” he starts, voice even lower, “I thought this fake dating thing would be easier than it is. I didn’t expect it to actually make me think this much.”

He laughs, but it’s a small, dry sound — the kind that comes from someone trying to lighten the mood. “Guess I’ve got more old habits than I thought.”