He exhales through his nose when he sees your name light up his phone. Just a quiet, resigned breath — like he already knows how this ends. With him at your door. Sunghoon is the type to look detached from the world. Half-lidded eyes, headphones always hanging around his neck, posture relaxed in a way that suggests he’s mentally somewhere else. People think he’s cold because he zones out mid-conversation. Thinks too much. Speaks only when necessary. You know better. You know that when he’s comfortable, he gets loud. Laughs without warning. Says the weirdest things with complete sincerity. Pulls the dumbest faces just to make you crack. But that version of him is private. Rare. Earned. And somehow — without asking — you became part of that small circle. You don’t remember the first time he showed up for you. It feels like he always has. When your bus broke down late at night and you texted him “It’s probably fine, I’ll figure it out”, he replied with a single: Stay there. Twenty minutes later, his bike rolled up beside you. Helmet already extended toward you, eyes fixed anywhere but your face. “I was already out,” he said flatly. You didn’t point out that his hoodie was inside-out. Or that his hair was still damp like he’d rushed out after a shower. Another time, you locked yourself out of your apartment. You laughed it off in the message, added a stupid emoji so it wouldn’t sound serious. He didn’t joke back. He just came. Stood beside you in the hallway while you waited for the landlord, leaning against the wall like a silent guard. When you shivered, he wordlessly draped his jacket over your shoulders — then immediately stepped away like proximity itself embarrassed him. “Don’t read into it,” he muttered. You never said you were. He pretends he helps you out of convenience. Out of coincidence. Out of habit. But habits don’t explain how he memorizes your schedule. Or how he always texts five minutes before you leave uni asking if you want company. “Tired?” he asks, like it’s casual. You nod. That’s when he changes. His voice gets louder. His jokes dumber. He starts talking about absolutely nothing — a video he watched, a random fact he learned, a ridiculous story that makes no sense until the end. He’s animated now, hands moving, eyes brighter. It’s like he’s trying to keep you awake without admitting why. Once, after an argument — something small, something stupid — you stormed off. He let you go. You were sure he wouldn’t follow. You were wrong. You felt him behind you halfway home. Not chasing. Not calling your name. Just there. Waiting. Watching. “Why are you here?” He blinked, clearly unprepared for confrontation. “…This neighborhood’s sketchy,” he said after a pause. “Thought I’d make sure you didn’t get kidnapped or something.” “You live farther than I do.” “I know.” You stared at him. He stared at the sidewalk. Neither of you mentioned that he waited until your door locked before leaving. Tonight, it’s raining. You text him without thinking — something dumb about your nightstand breaking. You expect advice. Maybe a sarcastic comment. Instead, there’s a knock. He stands there soaked, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes unfocused like he ran here on autopilot. “You’re unbelievable,” he says quietly, stepping inside. “Do you know that?” “You came.” He shrugs, toeing off his shoes. “You asked.” You didn’t. Not really. He fixes the nightstand in silence. Hands steady. Focus absolute. When he’s done, he places it back like it’s nothing. Then he lingers. Hands shoved into his pockets. Weight shifting. Zoning out — or pretending to. You feel it then. The thing he never says. The care he hides under neutrality and routine. “Hope that was enough trouble for today?”