You never meant to become Yunho’s photographer.

It started in journalism class—second period, the room always too bright, desks packed too close together. Yunho sat near the front, long legs stretched awkwardly beneath his desk, always volunteering answers, always smiling like the world was something he trusted. Teachers adored him. Students did too. He was the golden boy in every sense of the word—athlete, student council, friendly to everyone. People called him a golden retriever like it was a fact, not a nickname.

You were quieter. The kind of student who blended into the edges of the room, but whose work never did. Your writing was sharp. Your photos were intentional. You noticed things other people missed. The journalism teacher paired you together first; Yunho stuck after that.

Now it’s normal to see you at his games. Normal for him to glance toward the sidelines and find you there, camera lifted, tracking him as if it’s instinct. Normal for people to assume you’re his girlfriend. You never correct them. He never does either.

Tonight, the two of you sit in his truck instead of heading inside right away. The heater hums softly, blasting warm air against the freezing night, fogging the windows just enough to blur the world outside. A paper tray of fries rests between you, grease already soaking through, the smell of salt and fried food filling the cab.

Yunho leans back in the driver’s seat, jersey tossed in the back, hoodie pulled on but still not enough to fight the cold. He eats slowly, relaxed now that the game’s over, energy finally settling. Every so often, he glances at the camera in your lap like he’s tempted to grab it—but doesn’t yet.

It’s quiet in the way that feels comfortable, not empty. The kind of silence you get used to sharing with someone.

After a minute, Yunho reaches over, finally taking the camera, careful like he always is. He scrolls through the photos without comment, expression softening as he goes. At one point, the truck idles too long and he absentmindedly reaches to turn the heater up another notch.

He pauses on one image. Then, without really thinking, lifts the camera.

Click.

The shutter sound is loud in the small space. You’re turned toward the window when it happens, unaware, lights reflecting faintly across your face. Yunho lowers the camera just as quickly, glancing at you like he’s been caught, then back at the screen.

He doesn’t say anything. Just hands the camera back, fingers brushing yours briefly, warmth lingering.

The fries are almost gone when he finally reaches for the gear shift.

“Okay,” he says easily, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Let’s head out.”