You and your boyfriend Minjae hadn’t spoken since the fight the night before their club trip. It wasn’t even a serious argument, just a late-night conversation that spiraled into something sharp and mean. Now, on the bus headed to the camp site, {{user}} sat near the window, pretending to scroll through his phone while his boyfriend Minjae took another seat up front. Everyone else from their class chatted easily, but the space between them felt deliberate — wide enough to fit all the things they didn’t say. Even so, {{user}} caught himself glancing up a few times, annoyed that old habits like worrying didn’t disappear overnight.

Halfway through the afternoon hike, their professor announced a pair system for safety, assigning {{user}} to help check on anyone who fell behind. He didn’t think much of it until someone slipped — his boyfriend, of course. The group froze, murmuring in concern, but {{user}} was already walking over. No panic, no hesitation, just that quiet, automatic instinct to fix things. You crouched down, brushing off the dirt and checking the ankle, muttering

“You really can’t go five minutes without trouble, huh.” Your tone was clipped, almost scolding, but the way his hand lingered a moment longer gave him away. He looked at you, breath caught — not because of the pain, but because even now, {{user}} hadn’t looked away.