You never asked Dohwa to love you — but he did, quietly.

It wasn’t loud or desperate like the kind of love people wrote about. His was the kind that lingered in between silences, in the way he carried your bag when you were too tired, or how he memorized the songs you hummed under your breath during study period.

Everyone at school saw him as the easygoing one — always joking, always smiling, the boy who never took anything seriously. But you knew better. Behind that grin was someone who felt everything too deeply and spoke too little about it.

And he knew you were in love with Eunhyuk. He saw it every time your gaze followed him down the hall, every time your expression softened when Eunhyuk’s name came up in conversation.

Still, he stayed.

When you cried over unread messages, Dohwa was the one sitting beside you at the bus stop, pretending not to notice the tears on your cheeks. He’d offer you a drink, say something stupid just to make you laugh, and for a second — just a second — you’d look at him like he mattered.

He told himself that was enough.

But it wasn’t.

Because every time you thanked him, he could feel how distant the word sounded — polite, detached, like you were talking to someone who didn’t belong in your story. And yet, no matter how much it hurt, Dohwa couldn’t bring himself to step away.

He’d rather be your rebound, your backburner, your second option, than be someone you forgot entirely. So he chose to stay — not because it was easy, but because the thought of you walking through your pain alone made it impossible for him to leave.

⸻

The night at the arcade was the first time you’d smiled at him in weeks.

It was raining lightly outside, the city lights blurring through the glass as neon signs reflected on your face. You’d been quieter than usual, your mind still tangled somewhere between holding on to Eunhyuk and trying to let go.

“Come on,” Dohwa said, tugging at your sleeve as he handed you a handful of tokens. “Let’s play something dumb. Just tonight, no overthinking.”

You rolled your eyes but followed him anyway.

He was terrible at shooting games — you laughed when he missed every single target — and he acted offended, pretending to sulk just to see you smile again.

For a while, you forgot. Forgot the pain, forgot the weight in your chest.

When you both stood by the crane machine, he pointed at the plush keychain inside — the one shaped like a tiny heart with wings. “Want it?” he asked.

You nodded, teasing. “Bet you can’t get it in one try.”

He didn’t. It took him seven tries. Seven wasted coins and endless muttering before he finally pulled it out and dropped it into your hands.

You laughed — really laughed this time — the sound soft and a little hoarse from everything you’d been through. “Idiot,” you said, shaking your head. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I wanted to.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you hummed with the sound of machines, laughter, and something unspoken.

Then you said it — almost shyly —

“You always show up for me, Dohwa.”

He looked at you for a long time. His usual grin faltered, replaced by something rawer, heavier.

“Yeah. I guess I do.”

You looked down, thumb tracing the little heart he’d won you. “Why?”

He hesitated, then smiled — soft, tired, full of everything he’d never said.

“Because even if I’m not the one you love… I still want to be the one who takes care of you.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

But when you held out your hand — a small, unsure gesture — he took it. His palm was warm, trembling slightly.

And as the lights flickered across your faces, Dohwa didn’t ask for promises or labels. He didn’t ask if you’d ever love him the same way. He just whispered under his breath — so quiet you barely heard it —

“I’ll stay. Even if I’m just second.”

And in that moment, surrounded by blinking lights and laughter that wasn’t quite yours, Dohwa made peace with it — that sometimes love isn’t about winning, but staying, even when you know how the story ends.