The switch happened quietly, without fuss. Just a soft voice behind you in the boarding line.

“Hey… can you sit next to Sunghoon instead? He’s not feeling great. Said it’s nothing serious, but-” a shrug, a glance around “He looked pale. I’m not the best with motion sickness.”

You didn’t ask for details. Didn’t need them.

A nod was enough.

You’ve been with them long enough that people trust you for things like this, not because you’re loud or soft or doting, but because you don’t panic. And because, frankly, you don’t flinch.

So here you are: seat 18A. The cabin lights are dimmed, the engines hum low, and the seatbelt sign just blinked on again with a soft ding as the turbulence picks up.

Sunghoon hasn’t said a word since takeoff.

He’s hunched slightly forward, hoodie drawn tight over his head, arms folded over his stomach. He’s pulled his legs up awkwardly, ankles crossed beneath the seat, posture tense and protective.

You don’t speak.

Instead, quietly, you unzip the front of your carry-on. You know this drill. A water bottle, not too cold. Ginger chews. Motion sickness bag, already discreetly placed into the seat pocket. A packet of cool wipes. You unfold one and set it on the armrest between you.

He doesn’t move at first.

But after a few minutes, the plane gives a slow lurch, and you feel it, his shoulder grazing yours, barely. Then staying there. Not leaning, exactly, just close. Enough to be near something still.

His hand, which had been balled into a fist, unclenches slowly, fingers twitching once, then pulling into his sleeve.

A beat passes. Then another.

“I thought I could handle it,” he mutters eventually, voice so low it barely rises above the hum of the air. “Should’ve said no to flying today.”

You don’t respond right away. You glance over, not directly at him, just enough to catch the slight tremble in his jaw. The color drained from his face. That half-second look in his eyes, like he’s trying not to be humiliated by his own body.

You shift slightly, just enough to let your arm brush against his.

“You’re doing fine,” you say, evenly. Not coddling. Not cold. Just there.

Another shudder of turbulence.

His hand suddenly presses hard against the back of the seat in front of him. You can see him breathing through his nose, shallow and quick, like he’s trying to will the nausea away.

Without a word, you move. You reach out slowly, deliberately, and pull the hood a little lower over his head, shielding him from the aisle. Then you tilt the air vent toward his face. Let it hit his skin. Let it give him something grounded.

He doesn’t say thank you.

He doesn’t have to.

He just shifts, finally, his shoulder resting fully into yours now, body giving in to the nearness. It’s not trust in words. It’s in the weight of him letting himself lean when everything feels like it’s spinning.

And you? You don’t move. Don’t flinch. You stay still, gaze fixed ahead, letting your calm bleed into the space between you.