Keeho had always said he liked that you were open with him—the random rants, the clingy hugs, the way you’d cling to his arm even when he was busy scrolling through something else. So when you heard him talking to Intak that night, laughing about how you were “overly clingy” something inside you went quiet. He didn’t sound mean, but the word hit harder than he probably meant it to.

So you stopped. No more late-night voice notes about your day, no more crawling into his lap when he got home, no more surprise visits to the studio with takeout. You answered his texts politely, smiled when you saw him, and let silence fill the spaces where you used to talk too much.

Keeho noticed fast. The first few days, he thought you were just tired. But when you barely looked at him during dinner, when your “goodnight” sounded like something you’d say to a stranger, it started eating at him.

That’s why he was at your apartment door past midnight, eyes tired, voice soft. “Did I do something?”

You shrugged, pretending to focus on your phone. “No, just trying to give you space.”

He stepped closer, hands trembling slightly. “Space? I never asked for that.”

You looked up at him then, eyes distant. “You kinda did.”

It took him a moment to remember. The conversation with Intak. His heart dropped. He crossed the room, pulling you into his chest even when you didn’t hug back. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he whispered against your hair. “You’re not clingy. You’re just…you. And I like you like that. I need you like that.”