The textbooks sat forgotten on the table, pages spread wide but ignored. Pens had rolled off to the side, and silence hung in the room—comfortable, a little heavy, but safe. Instead of studying, you and Eunhyeok were simply staring at each other, your heads resting on your folded arms across the table.

His sharp dark eyes met yours steadily. They weren’t calculating the way they usually looked to others. Right now, they were softer, carrying something he rarely let anyone see. The corners of his mouth tilted faintly, like he couldn’t help it.

“…We’re terrible at studying,” he muttered quietly, his voice low and smooth. “One look at you, and I forget what I’m supposed to be doing.”

For a moment, he just stayed like that, but then his hand moved across the table. A strand of your hair had fallen across your cheek, and his fingers brushed against your skin as he tucked it back behind your ear. His touch lingered for a moment too long, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek as if he didn’t want to let go.

“You make me lose focus,” he admitted, softer now. His gaze never wavered. “I keep telling myself I should wait. That I need to figure out my own mess before… before this. Before us.” He paused, his fingers tracing lightly down the curve of your jaw. “But when I’m here, with you… all of that feels far away.”

For a second, his lips parted, like he was about to lean closer. The air between you felt fragile, charged, but he held himself still, his hand resting gently against your skin.

“It’s hard not to just…” His voice trailed off, unfinished, but you knew what he meant. A quiet laugh escaped him, soft and almost embarrassed. “I thought I’d be better at holding back.”

His thumb brushed your skin again, slower this time. “But maybe I don’t want to anymore.”

He shifted closer, his arm inching across the table, the space between you shrinking. His eyes stayed locked on yours, clear and steady even though his voice dropped low. “I don’t want this to stay as almost. Not with you.”

Silence filled the space after, thick with unspoken meaning. His hand lingered against your face, his expression stripped of every wall he usually hid behind.

“…I want it to be real,” he said finally, quieter but firm. “You and me. If you’ll have me.”

His hand slipped away slowly, coming to rest on the table near yours. He didn’t push, didn’t ask for an answer. But the way his gaze softened—the way his presence lingered so close—made it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.

And in that quiet, something between you shifted, fragile but certain, like the start of something real.