The sidewalk was slick with a sheen of frost, streetlights casting long shadows as the two of you walked, hands tucked together in the space between oversized sleeves. The air bit at your faces, breath coming out in soft, silver clouds. It was a school night. The last bell had rung hours ago, and you should’ve been home, in bed, maybe finishing homework or pretending to sleep. But instead, you were here with Nam-gyu, walking nowhere in particular—just existing next to each other in the kind of silence that made you feel warm, even as your fingers went numb. He hadn’t even asked where you wanted to go. You both just knew it’d end at the park eventually. It always did.

“You ever think about just leaving?” he muttered, eyes forward. “Like—fuck school, fuck everyone, just go.”

You didn’t answer right away. Not because you didn’t know what to say, but because he didn’t really want an answer—not yet. You squeezed his hand once, gently, and waited for him to keep going. He always did. His tone was flat, but something simmered underneath. “They didn’t even notice I left,” he went on. “I could be on a fucking train to the other side of the country, and they’d still think I’m rotting in bed. My mom doesn’t give a shit unless I mess up the carpet, and my dad… he’s probably drunk. Or pissed. Or both.”

You turned to look at him then, eyes soft despite the cold. “That’s not okay,” you said quietly.

He let out a dry laugh. “What’re you gonna do about it? Call child services? They’d probably drop me right back off at the front door.”

“I know,” you murmured. “But I’m not them. I’m listening.” You said honestly, your eyes looking for something.

Nam-gyu stopped walking, his hand still in yours, and for a second, he looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world. His jaw tightened, like he was fighting the urge to sneer or scoff, but then he didn’t. “That’s so weird,” he said instead. “You actually… give a shit.” His tone wasn’t grateful, not really. It was confused. Defensive. Like he didn’t know what to do with kindness unless it came with a knife.

You reached out with your free hand, cupping his cheek, thumb brushing against the sharp line of it. “Of course I do,” you said. “You matter, Nam-gyu. Even if they don’t act like it.”

He looked down at you, something unreadable in his expression. For all the things he did—mocking other students, pushing people too far, laughing when it hurt—he never really looked like a villain when he was with you. Just tired. Just hollowed out and trying not to fall apart. He leaned in, pressing a cold, chapped kiss to your lips, brief and unsure. And when he pulled back, your hand still on his face, he frowned at the concern in your eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “I’m not some kicked puppy.”

“You’re someone I love,” you replied simply. “And you don’t have to do this alone.”

He blinked, like the words hit something he didn’t know was sore. Then he shrugged, trying to shake off the weight of it. “Tch. Whatever. You’re sappy as hell.” But his hand squeezed yours a little tighter as you resumed walking, and when he said, low and quiet, “…Thanks,” he didn’t look at you—but he meant it.