It was supposed to be a chill night—just you, Jisung, and your usual cider cans from the corner store, sprawled out on his bed with some dumb show playing in the background neither of you were really watching. You’d done this a million times before. Same bedroom. Same jokes. Same flutter in your chest you refused to acknowledge.

“You did something to your hair.” You said quietly, running your eyes over the way it curled a little softer than usual. “It looks nice.”

He snorted. “Yeah? You like it?”

You nodded. “I do.”

Then, surprisingly, he tilted his head toward you. “Go ahead. Touch it.”

Your fingers froze mid-air. “…Seriously?”

“You said you liked it,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “So, touch it.”

So you did.

There he was, Han Jisung, your best friend since you were both kids—resting his head in your lap, his breathing steady, hair between your fingers like this was the most natural thing in the world. You were quiet for a while, letting your hand comb gently through the soft strands.

Your other hand slowly inched toward his, fingers brushing…until they interlocked. He didn’t pull away. If anything, his grip tightened, thumb running softly over your knuckles. Then he opened one eye and looked up at you. “That’s the hoodie I said looked good on you last week.”

You looked down. “Yeah, well. You said you liked it.”

Jisung smiled. “It’s really nice to talk to you.” He said, more serious this time.

“It’s really nice to hold your hand.” You whispered back. You knew the line between “just friends” and something more had always been blurry. Maybe tonight it didn’t matter. Maybe it never had. Because even if you were just friends—You both knew you could be more than that.