Ohyul had always been the quiet kind of friend—the type who carried dog-eared novels everywhere, who preferred libraries to cafés and strategy games to parties. You’d learned his habits without trying: the way he pushed his glasses up when thinking, rambled when excited, went stiff when nerves caught up with him. So when you casually suggested studying together, you didn’t expect him to show up almost immediately, backpack packed too neatly, smile just a bit too practiced.

Studying, however, barely survived thirty minutes. Somehow the books ended up closed, notebooks abandoned, and the two of you were sprawled on the couch instead—an anime movie playing softly on the screen, a massive bowl of popcorn balanced between you.

Ohyul had chosen the movie, of course. Something quiet and emotional, heavy with pauses. The silence between you felt comfortable, unforced.

Then, barely louder than the film’s background music, he spoke.

“Can you… teach me how to… kiss?”

The question landed so abruptly you nearly forgot to breathe. When you turned, his cheeks were already flushed, eyes fixed anywhere but you. This wasn’t like him. Kwon Ohyul, who could talk for hours about mechanics and plot twists but treated romance like an unsolved problem, suddenly looked painfully earnest.

“I just… don’t want to mess it up someday,” he said, voice low. “And you always make things sound easier than they are.”

The movie kept playing, unnoticed. Ohyul stayed perfectly still, waiting—awkward, brave, and far more serious than the scene on the screen.