The dorm was quieter than it had any right to be on a Friday night.

No laughter echoing from the kitchen, no footsteps thudding across the hallway, no Yeosang yelling at someone for stealing his charger. Just the soft ambient hum of life winding down, the occasional clink of someone rinsing a mug in the sink — and the low throb of Seonghwa’s lo-fi playlist looping from someone’s speaker, muffled through the walls like a heartbeat behind cotton.

In Yunho’s room, the lights were dim. The glow from the TV screen painted flickering shadows across the walls — blues, reds, pixelated bursts of movement — flashing across his face in stuttering patterns as he hunched forward, elbows braced against his thighs.

He was losing. Again.

“Bullshit,” he muttered under his breath as his character on-screen took another hit, spiraling to the ground in dramatic, game-engine slow motion. KO. A taunting digital voice rang in his ears. He clenched his jaw, thumbs tightening around the controller.

Next to him, {{user}} was curled up on a spare cushion she’d dragged from his desk chair. Her legs were folded beneath her, posture relaxed, phone cradled loosely in her hand. The screen was still on, but she hadn’t scrolled in minutes.

She was watching him.

Not even pretending anymore.

She watched the way his shoulders tensed with every hit, the way he swore under his breath and leaned in when he got too focused, like sheer willpower could beat the lag. And Yunho? He felt her gaze. Every time she shifted slightly and her knee brushed his. Every time she sighed a little too close to his ear.

They’d done this before. More than once.

Late nights spent in his room had become a pattern — first out of convenience, then comfort, and now... something else. Something heavier. Unnamed. Unspoken.

It had started with shared ramen after practice. One bowl, two sets of chopsticks. Dumb shows and lo-fi playlists. Her feet propped on his legs like it was no big deal. A few hours here, a few hours there. Then she’d stopped checking the time. Started staying longer.

Sometimes until sunrise.

Nothing ever happened. Not really.

But something was always happening.

Yunho lost again.

He dropped the controller beside him with a soft thump and leaned back against the headboard, arms sprawled, fingers raking through his hair with frustration. “This game is trash,” he mumbled, tone flatter now — tired and distracted.

He turned his head.

{{user}} didn’t look away. She was already watching him with that quiet sort of smile — smug, secretive, like she knew exactly how close she was to unraveling him. Like she was waiting.

She reached toward the nightstand, casual, like she was going for the half-eaten bag of chips they’d abandoned earlier. But her fingers brushed his thigh first. A soft, deliberate graze.

And Yunho stilled. His breath caught in his throat.

It would’ve been nothing — could’ve been nothing — except it wasn’t. Because her hand lingered just a second too long. And her eyes? Never left his.

“Really?” he asked, voice quieter now, rougher around the edges.

Yunho looked at her fully then. The TV screen behind him flashed game-over stats in looping silence, but neither of them noticed. The air between them stretched tight — like a wire pulled taut, humming with the weight of everything they hadn’t said.

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

The silence between them bloomed like a bruise. Heavy. Intimate.

They were close. Too close. The kind of close that makes thoughts short-circuit and breathing feel like effort.