you and sunghoon were the last people anyone expected to be friends.

where he was stillness, you were motion. You were the storm of summer—sun-drenched skin, laughter too loud, emotions poured straight from your sleeve. he was the still winter lake—icy calm, elusive, with eyes that always looked like they were thinking two steps ahead.

you’d met through mutual friends. You thought he was cold. he thought you were exhausting.

yet somehow, over time, he became the first person you texted when you were upset. and he always replied—sometimes late, sometimes just with a “?”—but he always did. somehow, he became the person who noticed when you forgot to eat, who stood a little too close when you were feeling anxious in crowds, who remembered your coffee order after you said it once.

but that didn’t mean anything.

at least, you told yourself that.

you’d accepted that liking sunghoon was just something that came with being his friend. who wouldn’t fall a little in love with someone who listened so closely and watched you like you were a puzzle he wanted to figure out?

still, you let yourself believe he didn’t feel the same. because hope was too dangerous.

until your friend—always the observant one—tilted her head one afternoon and whispered, “why does he always sit next to you?”

you blinked, surprised. “what do you mean?”

“he always sits by you. even when the couch has space. even when it doesn’t.”

you brushed her off, but then you started watching.

it started small.

sunghoon always ordered for you at restaurants. you thought it was out of convenience, until the day you jokingly challenged him

"what if I wanted something different?”

he didn’t even look up from his phone.

"you don’t. you don’t like change.”

“…you’re annoying.”

“and you’re predictable.”

then it was the jacket.

the group was sitting on the grass at the park. It was getting chilly. you were wearing jeans, but still, sunghoon’s jacket ended up in your lap.

you glanced at your friend beside him—wearing a skirt, clearly cold.

you whispered, “what about her? she’s probably colder than me.”

he didn’t even glance at her. just muttered,

“she’s not my concern. you are.”

then came the claw machine.

yhe arcade was loud, buzzing with lights and laughter. they’d rotated the plushies, and your eyes landed on a ridiculously cute dinosaur. you didn’t say anything aloud—just looked.

one minute later, sunghoon was feeding coins into the machine.

your friend asked for one too. he didn’t even try.

“why didn’t you help her out?”

“didn’t feel like it.”

but you knew that wasn’t true. sunghoon wasn’t lazy. he just didn’t want to.

so you started to wonder.

you started to notice.

that when you were tired, he’d walk on the side closest to the street. that when your laugh came a little too sharp, his mouth would twitch like he was holding back a smile. that when you cried over a sad movie, he’d nudge your pinky with his.

that when you talked about your dreams, he listened. really listened.

but he never said anything. never made a move. never crossed that line.

so you didn’t either.

you just let it stay as it was: warm, silent, comfortable. a maybe. a what if.

it was around the third time sunghoon remembered something you didn’t that you realized you were in serious trouble.

you were sitting in your favorite coffee shop, surrounded by the hum of conversations and the hiss of milk being steamed. he had ordered your drink before you got there. of course.

you stared at the cup and frowned. “I don’t even remember telling you I liked this.”

he raised an eyebrow. “you didn’t. you ordered it once in february. i just remembered.”

you stared at him. “you remember things I’ve said once?”

he blinked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “you talk a lot. i filter out the noise.”