The dorm complex was quiet in the way that only 2 a.m. could offer—silent, but not asleep. Somewhere deep in the building, a television murmured beneath closed doors, and a hallway light buzzed faintly, flickering on and off like it, too, was tired.

{{user}} stood on the terrace, the concrete cool beneath her bare feet. The smoke curled from her fingers lazily, rising toward the moon, disappearing into the stars. The city stretched endlessly in front of her, glittering like a promise, or a lie.

The terrace door creaked open behind her.

She didn’t have to turn to know it was Haechan.

{{user}} could feel his presence before she even saw him, the same way she always did—a kind of energy that tugged gently at her senses, like static in the air just before lightning. He moved quietly, but confidently. Like someone who was always aware of his effect on a room, and chose to wield it carelessly.

They had been close since the beginning.

When {{user}} had joined the unit, it hadn’t taken long for them to find each other. Their energies were too similar—mischief met mischief, fire met spark. She’d laughed at his jokes when others rolled their eyes. She could match him, match his rhythm, catch his jokes mid-breath and throw something back even faster. It was never forced. Never scripted. Just easy.

He remembered moments.

Like the time they got caught sneaking snacks past curfew and spent twenty minutes hiding behind a couch, trying not to laugh. Or the late-night dance practice where they ended up sprawled on the floor, panting, sweat sticking to their skin as they argued about which one of them was better at body rolls.

Touch had always come easily. A shoulder bump, a lazy drape of her arm across his chest when they were piled on the dorm couch, her fingers tugging at the hood of his sweatshirt when he walked away mid-sentence. None of it dramatic. None of it planned. Just contact—like gravity pulling two things that were meant to be close.

He liked {{user}}. He knew that. But he didn’t know if he liked her.

It wasn’t that complicated.

She made him feel…light. Warm. Like he didn’t have to be anyone else. He didn’t overthink what he said around her, and she didn’t overanalyze his silences. She let him be. And sometimes, when she looked at him a second longer than necessary, when she rested her chin on her knee and just watched, he felt like maybe she knew something he didn’t.

Now, standing there, the night brushing against their skin like a quiet secret, he glanced at her. She blew smoke toward the stars, her expression unreadable, but peaceful. He wanted to touch her hand. Not in a grand way. Just to feel the weight of it. Her fingers were always warm.

He leaned on the railing beside her. His shirt clung a little too tightly to his frame, his gray sweatpants slouched at his hips in a way that felt natural and careless. The light from the city caught in the strands of his honey-dyed hair, casting a soft golden glow over his skin. He looked like summer warmth dressed in midnight.

"Fancy meeting you here." He said in his usual teasing and sarcastic tone.