Hao had always been careful. Careful with his words, careful with his actions—careful not to cross a line he wasn’t sure he could come back from.

But Hanbin made it difficult.

Like now, when they were the last two left in the practice room, the air between them thick with something unspoken. Hanbin was sitting on the floor, leaning back on his hands, watching Hao with that easy, knowing smile.

“You’re staring again,” Hanbin said, teasing.

Hao huffed, looking away. “I wasn’t.”

Hanbin chuckled. “You were.”

Silence settled between them, broken only by the quiet hum of music still playing in the background.

Then, softly, Hanbin asked, “Why do you keep holding back?”

Hao’s fingers curled into his hoodie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hanbin sighed, pushing himself up until he was sitting closer—too close. Close enough that Hao could feel his warmth, close enough that he could see the way Hanbin’s eyes softened.

“You do,” Hanbin murmured.

Hao swallowed, his heart hammering. He should move away. He should laugh it off. He should do anything but what he wanted to do.

Instead, he whispered, “And if I stop?”

Hanbin smiled—small, patient. “Then I stop waiting.”

For once, Hao let himself be reckless.

He leaned in, closing the space between them, and when Hanbin met him halfway, it felt like something falling into place.