“You missed a spot.”

Hyunjin’s voice was too close.

You were standing on the edge of the ladder, brush in hand, trying to smooth out the corner of the wall. And suddenly — his hand was on your waist. Steadying you.

You froze.

“Hyunjin,” you warned, heart stuttering.

“What?” he asked, laughing softly. “You’re wobbly. I’m being helpful.”

“You’re distracting.”

He hummed — not denying it.

When you climbed down, your faces brushed close — breath catching for both of you — and neither of you moved away right away. His eyes flicked to your lips. Just for a second. But long enough.

You looked away first.

This was how it always was lately. Moments stretched too long. Glances that lingered. Your hands brushing when you passed each other the paint roller, and no one pulling back.

And silence.

So much silence.

Because neither of you had the guts to ruin it.

But that tension? That ache under the skin? It was everywhere. In the way he watched you, always. In the way he said your name like it hurt a little. In the way he stayed too late. Too long.

“You’ve got paint in your hair,” he said gently, brushing his fingers through your bangs.

You blinked up at him.

“…Do you ever get tired of pretending this is nothing?” you whispered.

He stilled.

Then: “Every day.”

Silence.

“I thought maybe…” you hesitated, “maybe you didn’t feel it too.”

He laughed once, hollow.

“God, if you only knew,” he said, voice low, shaking his head. “You think I spend my weekends painting your bedroom because I like walls?”

You smiled.

But your eyes burned.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” you murmured.

He stepped closer — close enough to steal your breath.

“You never could,” he whispered. “You already have me.”