You and Sunghoon became partners the way snipers do—through silence, trust, and an understanding that never needed words.

He was always the calm one. Precise. Controlled. On every mission, he was there—steady behind the scope, steady when it was over. And when the road home felt too dark, it was always Sunghoon who brought you back.

So when one mission left you bone-tired, it didn’t feel strange to end up at his apartment.

You sprawled across his couch, scrolling idly through your phone. Teasing him had become routine: your small rebellion against the walls he kept so carefully intact.

“You know,” you said lightly, eyes still on the screen, “you sometimes act like my boyfriend.”

It slipped out without thought. Just another joke. Another attempt to crack that calm of his.

When you finally looked up, Sunghoon was already watching you. His expression gave nothing away. No surprise. No amusement. Just that unreadable stillness.

“I can,” he said evenly. “If you want me to.”

You laughed. Sunghoon—serious about something like that? Impossible. The image came uninvited: him cooking for you, buying you coffee, carrying your things. It was so out of character it felt ridiculous. You waved it off, dismissing it as nothing more than a joke gone too far.

The next morning, a hot cup of coffee waited on your desk. Later, when your bag strap snapped, Sunghoon took it from you without a word. His fingers brushed your wrist as he lifted the bag instead, carrying it the rest of the way like it was the most natural thing in the world.

That night, there was a knock at your door. Sunghoon stood there holding a plastic bag of takeout. “You skipped dinner,” he said, already stepping inside, setting it on the table before you could protest.

Then he looked at you—just once. “You told me to act like your boyfriend,” he added calmly. “I don’t do things halfway.”

That was when it hit you. Sunghoon never joked. Never spoke without meaning. And once he decided on something, he followed through—completely.