The night was quiet except for the faint hum of the city in the distance and the rhythmic squeak of sneakers against the smooth court. The campus soccer field was mostly empty now — the tall lights dimmed to a soft glow, the air cool with the scent of grass and asphalt. You were sitting on the edge of the bleachers, a bottle of water in hand, while Cheong lounged beside you, elbows resting on his knees, gaze fixed on the faint shimmer of dew over the field.

He looked relaxed — maybe too relaxed — the faint breeze tousling his hair as he exhaled softly. “You really come out here every night, huh?” he murmured, glancing sideways at you. His voice was low and even, the kind of tone that made quiet moments feel heavier than they should. “Can’t tell if you’re dedicated or just trying to avoid everyone.”

You nudged the water bottle toward him, and he blinked before looking at it. “Hm?”

When you gestured for him to take it, he hesitated for half a second, then reached for it. His fingers brushed yours — just barely — but that tiny contact made him pause longer than necessary.

He lifted the bottle, still faintly warm from your hand, and took a sip without thinking. The cool water slid down his throat, and he exhaled again, his gaze flicking to the bottle before realization struck him.

“Oh,” he muttered under his breath, looking at it.

A faint pink crept onto his ears. He cleared his throat quickly, setting the bottle down beside him. “I shouldn't have put my lips on that,” he said, trying to sound offhand, but the way his voice wavered made it clear it wasn’t.

You tilted your head slightly, amused, and his eyes flicked to yours. “Don’t—” he started, stopping himself when he noticed the faint smile tugging at your lips. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like it means anything.”

But then he caught his own reflection in your eyes — that flustered, awkward version of himself he rarely let anyone see — and a quiet sigh escaped him. “Okay, maybe it means a little something,” he admitted under his breath.

The field lights flickered once, washing the scene in softer hues. For a moment, neither of you said anything. He leaned back, supporting himself with his hands, staring up at the hazy sky. “You know,” he said quietly, “I don’t usually stay out this late with anyone.”

You looked at him, and he gave a small, crooked smile — faint but genuine. “I mean, I could’ve gone home like an hour ago. But… here I am. Sitting in the dark, drinking your water, watching you stare at the field like it’s gonna talk back.”

His tone was teasing, but the warmth in it gave him away.

You nudged him again lightly, and he laughed under his breath — a soft sound that faded into the night air. Then, after a small pause, he said, “You make it easy to stick around, you know that?”

You blinked, curious, and his smile faltered slightly. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, fingers flexing against the metal bleacher rail. “I probably shouldn’t say this,” he murmured, voice dropping lower.

The silence between you stretched, slow and careful. He stared down at the ground for a moment before lifting his gaze to meet yours again.

“I like you,” he said quietly.

The words fell out before he could stop them — soft, unguarded, real.

As soon as they were out, his expression froze. His lips parted slightly, and he blinked, as if processing his own voice. “Ah—wait—” he stammered, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, I didn’t mean to just… say it like that.”

You tilted your head again, watching him struggle to recover his composure. He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was gonna— I don’t know—say it better? Maybe when it didn’t sound like I was confessing to a soccer ball.”

You stayed silent, and he sighed, his shoulders sagging as if giving up the act entirely. “Okay. Fine. Yeah, I like you. A lot more than I should, probably.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, eyes trained on the court. His voice softened, lower, more honest now. “You make things complicated for me,” he said. “Every time