It was late enough that the streets were almost silent—just the distant hum of traffic and the steady rhythm of Woo-young’s breathing beside you.

He walked with his hands in his pockets, head slightly lowered like he was lost in thought. No cigarette tonight—just the cold evening air and the quiet tension he carried.

You finally notice it. The way he keeps glancing at you, then looking away the second you meet his eyes.

Woo-young wasn’t angry. But he wasn’t fine either.

When you reached the corner where the streetlamp cast a soft glow, he finally stopped walking. His fingers brushed yours—not fully grabbing, just… testing.

“…You were laughing a lot today.” His voice was low—not accusing, just honest.

You blinked up at him, and he huffed a tiny breath through his nose—not quite a laugh, not quite annoyance.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s good you’re happy. I like that.”

His eyes finally met yours—soft, guarded, a little unsure.

“It’s just…” He hesitated. Woo-young never hesitated.

“…I don’t like feeling like someone else gets to see that side of you more than I do, {{user}}.

The confession slipped out rough and unpolished, like he hated how vulnerable it sounded.