The spring festival feels too bright.

Lights are strung across the quad, glowing softly as the sky darkens, music drifting through the air like tonight is supposed to be easy. Everyone else moves freely—laughing, bumping into each other, celebrating something.

You’re behind the booth with Hongjoong, and nothing about this feels light.

He looks exactly the same as he always does. Calm. Put together. Like the last three days never happened. Like hearing his name called as valedictorian didn’t hollow something out of your chest and leave it there, aching. His sleeves are rolled up, movements precise as he organizes tickets and cash, nodding at students who greet him like he’s untouchable.

The it boy. The winner.

Every congratulation aimed his way lands like a bruise. He accepts them with a small smile—polite, effortless, undeservedly normal. No gloating. No hesitation. Just… fine.

You, on the other hand, feel frayed. Too aware of everything. Of him. Of how close he is. Of how quiet you’ve been.

He notices.

He always does.

When the rush slows, Hongjoong leans back against the table, posture relaxed to the point of being infuriating. His eyes flick to you—not lingering, but sharp.

“You’ve been quiet.”

Two words. Observational. Not unkind.

A breeze lifts the banner overhead. He reaches up to fix it, then settles back into place, closer now in the narrow space behind the booth.

“How’m I supposed to operate,” he adds, tone dry, eyes forward, “without you being annoying?”

There it is. Familiar. Almost fond, if you let yourself read into it.

He passes you a strip of tickets, fingers brushing yours in passing—brief, unintentional, or maybe not. He doesn’t look down.

Just waits.