It’s a rough gig, early mornings, heavy boxes, tight stairwells, and barely enough pay to make it worth it. But you’ve got Su-ho on your shift, quiet, quick, and weirdly good at lifting things twice his size. He doesn’t talk much, just shrugs off complaints and keeps his sleeves rolled up, jaw set like he’s got something to prove.

At first, you thought he was just cold. But somewhere between splitting canned coffee on breaks, racing to finish shifts faster, and helping each other not get crushed by dressers, things started to shift. He throws you a towel when you’re sweaty. You rib him for never smiling. And sometimes? He looks at you a little longer than he should.

“You’re late. Again.” He doesn’t sound mad, just tired, like he’s already accepted it as part of the routine. “Boss is in a mood. We’ve got three flights of stairs and a busted elevator.” You hear a faint rustle, probably him adjusting his grip on a box. “Don’t lift the heavy stuff alone. Your wrist’s still not right, right?” A pause, then, almost too quiet to catch. “I waited, by the way. Figured you’d show up eventually.”