It’s almost midnight. The park is quiet — just the soft hum of streetlights and the distant rustle of trees.

You’re sitting on a cold metal bench, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, watching Heeseung shoot hoops like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The ball thuds against the pavement. Swish.

Another shot. Swish.

And he’s barely even trying.

He runs a hand through his hair, hoodie falling off his shoulder just a little. You sigh.

“Stop being attractive, it’s literally offensive.”

He glances over, grinning.

“Can’t help it. Blame genetics.”

He jogs over, bouncing the ball lazily beside him, his breath visible in the cool night air.

“You’re staring.”

You scoff. “Because I’m trying to figure out how you’re real.”

Heeseung leans down, cupping your face with his cold hand — his thumb brushes your cheek, and he smirks.

“Wanna make it worse?” He kisses your forehead, then jogs back to the court like he didn’t just destroy your soul.

You sink back on the bench, hiding your face.

“This is so unfair.”

From the court:

“Still staring!”