It began quietly—nights blurred together, stitched from passing glances and near-misses. You and Sunghoon crossed paths without ever colliding: on late buses, under humming fluorescent lights in convenience stores, shoulders angled away as if both of you were careful not to intrude. You never spoke. You never stood close enough to matter.

And yet, somehow he remembered you.

Maybe that’s why, on that calm night, you lingered at the bus stop longer than necessary. That’s when you noticed him.

Sunghoon leaned against the glass shelter as if he belonged there. Worn jeans hugged his frame, his jacket unzipped against the chill. In his hand, a lighter clicked open and shut, each brief flame illuminating his fingers before vanishing again.

When he finally looked up, his eyes met yours—dark, tired, and quietly magnetic. There was something reckless in them, like he was already standing on the edge of a bad decision and didn’t mind falling.

He rolled a cigarette between his fingers before speaking.

“You’re here a lot,” he said, low, almost gentle.

“So are you,” you replied, the words leaving before you could second-guess them.

For a moment, he looked surprised. Then a faint smile tugged at his lips.

“Guess we’re both waiting for something.”

He held the cigarette out to you. It was cheap—the kind that burned too fast and tasted worse than it should. That’s when you noticed it: a strip of paper wrapped carefully around the filter. A number. His number.

“Just… text me,” he said, not quite looking at you now. “If you ever need something.”

The words were casual, but the slight tension in his jaw betrayed him. A smirk crept onto his face anyway, one corner of his bitten lip lifting, as if he could play it off—before he blinked and turned his gaze to the empty road.

Sunghoon wasn’t smooth. He wasn’t bold. But standing there under flickering lights, offering a cigarette wrapped in possibility—

At least… he tried.