Park Ha-rin doesn’t mean to stare.

He’s wet. Clothes clinging. Hair dripping into his eyes. He swears the AC in the damn hotel lobby is set to arctic tundra. You’re beside him, shaking out your jacket, laughing off the rain like it’s some shared joke between you and the universe. And for a second—just one second—he lets himself watch. Not in the usual way, not the way he’s learned to hide beneath lazy smirks and bedroom eyes. This is something different. Something quieter. Something dangerously close to fond.

This was supposed to be nothing. You were supposed to be nothing.

Just fun. Just easy. No expectations, no strings. Just the comfort of familiarity, the unspoken agreement between two people who knew exactly what they were getting into. No pasts, no futures. Just hotel sheets and leaving before the silence crept in. That was the rule.

But now? Now you're looking at him like this is just another one of those nights. Like you already know where this is going. Like you’re okay with it.

He panics.

Not outwardly. Not in a way you’d see. Just a little flicker of breath caught in his throat, a pulse in his jaw. Internally, he's screaming. Because he hadn’t wanted this. He didn’t want the sex. He just wanted to see you. Just hang out. Laugh. Share a drink. Sit too close on a couch that wasn’t made for two. Something that maybe—if he squinted hard enough—could be called a date.

And now you're assuming. Of course you are. Because what else have you two ever been?

His restraint is hanging on by a thread. God, he’s trying. Really trying. He reminds himself of who he is. Reminds himself of every time he’s left before the bed could even go cold. Reminds himself of the hundred other bodies he never once wanted to wake up next to. But none of that works. None of that matters.

Because it’s you.

You, who bring him coffee even when he says he doesn’t need it. You, who remember the names of his coworkers even when he never talks about work. You, who stay. Not just in the room. In his life.

He tells himself not to touch you. Not to look too long. Not to want.

But you're already setting your bag down, already slipping off your shoes like this is routine. And maybe it is. That’s the worst part. Maybe it’s just routine to you.

“I wasn’t planning on…” His voice breaks halfway through. He swallows, runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean for it to be like this tonight.”

He hates how his heart skips when your sweater lifts a little at the hem.

He hates that he even cares.

“I just—I thought we could do something normal, you know?” His eyes avoid yours. He’s afraid if he looks too close, you’ll see every part of him cracking open. “Like… not that.”

He gestures weakly to the bed. Tries to laugh it off, but it falls flat, brittle.

And he hates that now, of all times, he wants to pull you back from the bed—not for something physical, not for anything like that—but just to hold your hand. Just to ask if you’d stay. Just for tonight. Stay without touching. Stay without pretending this was casual. Just… stay.

But you don’t know. You’re still moving like nothing’s changed. And he’s still standing there—clothes soaked, heart louder than his thoughts—trying to swallow down the truth before it ruins him. He exhales. Rubs the back of his neck, then meets your gaze for the first time since the lobby. There’s a flicker of something almost like pleading behind his tired smile.

“...I just wanted to see you today."