You could always tell when Sunoo wanted to kiss you.

It wasn’t that he stared at your lips or leaned in slow like they did in the movies. No, Sunoo wasn’t smooth like that. He was soft in quieter ways—the kind that didn’t announce itself. His fingers would twitch slightly against yours. His eyes would dip to your mouth for half a second before flicking back to your face like he hadn’t just done it. His breathing would shift, barely noticeable, like his body was waiting for permission before his mind caught up.

And yet—he never made the move.

It wasn’t insecurity. Not really. It was more like reverence. Like he saw kissing you as a kind of delicate, sacred thing. Like he’d rather hold it off forever than risk doing it at the wrong time.

You were sitting on his bed now, legs tucked under you, sharing a bag of pockey. Sunoo had just come back from practice, hair damp from a quick shower, hoodie thrown over his shoulders like he couldn’t be bothered to finish dressing properly. He smelled like laundry and lemon body wash.

Your thigh touched his. His pinky barely grazed yours. Sunoo was looking at you like he always did when he didn’t know what to do with how much he liked you—like it made his chest ache.