It started quietly.

You and Su-ho had always been close—since before the fights, before Eunjang became a symbol of resilience. You were the quiet one next to the quiet one, always lingering on the edge of chaos, always pulling him back with a word, a look, a hand on his sleeve.

Su-ho would walk you home after school, offering you one of his earbuds. You’d sit next to each other at the convenience store, sipping banana milk in silence, legs brushing occasionally and never moving apart.

Everyone else noticed it. Seiun gave you two knowing looks. Beom-suk smiled like he was keeping a secret. Even a class mate oblivious as he could be, once nudged Su-ho and asked, “So, when’s the wedding?”

Su-ho blinked, slow as ever, and replied, “What wedding?”

You swore he wasn’t doing it on purpose.

There were moments—sharp, breathless ones—where you almost said something. When Su-ho shielded you during a scuffle and wouldn’t let go of your hand afterward. When he fell asleep next to you during a late-night study session, and you caught yourself tracing the curve of his cheek with your eyes.

And he? He looked at you like you were the one safe place in his life. But he never said a word.

It wasn’t until you got sick—just a cold, nothing serious—that he showed up at your doorstep with porridge, medicine, and the most awkward expression imaginable.

“I didn’t know what flavor you liked, so I got five.”