You and Seonghyeon have been best friends for so long that people stopped questioning it years ago. Same high school. Same classes. Same bad habits of stealing each other’s hoodies and showing up unannounced.

You like him. Not loudly. Not recklessly. Just quietly enough that you never let it spill past your ribs.

Because liking him is one thing. Losing him would be worse. That’s how it’s always been.

So when you’re sitting on your dorm bed, legs crossed, book open in your lap like you’re starring in the world’s least exciting coming-of-age movie, the soft knock on the door barely registers.

You don’t even get the chance to answer. The door opens anyway.

He walks over, dropping his backpack by your desk without asking. He always does that. Like he’s never doubted for a second that this space includes him.

“Hey,” he adds, softer now, eyes flicking to the book in your hands. “There’s my favorite bookworm.”

You scoff. “You say that like you know more than one.”

“I don’t,” he admits easily, plopping down beside you on the bed. “That’s why you’re my favorite.”

His shoulder bumps yours—familiar, careless, warm. The kind of touch that means nothing and everything at the same time.

“So,” you say, glancing at him.“What brings you to my humble dorm this time?”

Seonghyeon leans back on his hands, tilting his head toward you with that lazy smile you’ve memorized without meaning to.

“Missed you,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like it’s harmless. Then, after a beat: “Also, the vending machine in my building ate my money and I needed emotional support.”

You laugh despite yourself. And just like that, the routine settles in again—two best friends, sharing space, pretending there isn’t anything more dangerous than comfort sitting quietly between them.