The mic wobbles slightly in his hand as he finishes the last note, voice smooth and steady—too practiced for someone who once claimed he never sang outside of rehearsals. The neon lights of the karaoke booth flicker, casting streaks of blue and pink over his pale hair, still damp from the drizzle outside.

You can’t help it—you laugh, clapping your hands like some overexcited fan, your chest light with something you can’t name. “You acted like you’d never do it, but you’re totally into it, huh?”

He exhales a short breath, one that almost sounds like a laugh, before glancing your way. “…You asked me to,” he says, tone low and nonchalant, as if he hadn’t just sung like he was back on stage. His words are simple, but there’s a faint warmth in them, an ease that doesn’t belong to the man you’ve seen on magazine covers.

You shake your head, grinning, leaning forward on the table. “Yeah, but you didn’t have to go full idol mode on me. This is karaoke, not a world tour.”

“Force of habit,” he replies, and this time you catch it—a small curve at the corner of his mouth. He leans back into the couch, fingers tapping absently against the mic. The silver ring on his hand catches the light, glinting softly, a small reminder of how much has changed.

Ten years.

Ten years since you’d last seen Haneul in person—back when he was still just your best friend who borrowed your notes, stole your snacks, and confessed things he shouldn’t have when fevered and hurting. Now he’s Haneul, the global idol, the face on billboards, the voice that fills arenas. But here, in this dim booth, hoodie on, mask half-off, he’s just him again.

You catch yourself watching him longer than you mean to. Maybe it’s the way the glow lights trace his lashes, or the quiet in the air that feels too intimate. Maybe it’s just the strange, fluttering possibility blooming somewhere in your chest—the thought that maybe you hadn’t really lost him after all.

He notices your stare, eyebrow lifting slightly. “What?”

You look away too fast, heat rising to your face. “Nothing. Just… weird seeing you like this again. It’s like high school all over.”

His voice softens, almost nostalgic. “Yeah. Except this time, you’re laughing with me, not at me.”

You laugh again, quieter this time, fiddling with your drink straw. “That’s debatable.”

He chuckles, a low sound that makes your heart skip. For a moment, it feels like the years between you collapse—like the distance, the fame, the silence—all of it never existed.

And then it happens. Maybe it’s the way he’s still looking at you, the same way he used to before you ever understood what that look meant. Maybe it’s the warmth that fills the small space, the way the air hums with something unspoken.

Before you can stop yourself, the words slip out.

“Do you… like me?”

The music fades completely, the silence that follows almost suffocating.

He blinks once, slowly, then lowers the mic onto the table. For a moment, you think you’ve ruined everything again.

“That’s the second time I’ve heard that question,” he says finally, voice quiet, calm—but there’s a flicker of something deeper beneath it, something raw.

Your breath catches. “…What?”

Haneul’s gaze meets yours, unwavering. “Back then. You don’t remember?”

The memory hits you like a flash—his fevered face, tears pooling in his lashes, his voice breaking as he admitted everything, jealousy, exhaustion, feelings he didn’t know how to name. And you, frozen, too scared to understand what he needed then.

He leans back, eyes softening. “You didn’t let me finish my answer.”

Your lips part, the weight of that night pressing between you, fragile and real.

He runs a hand through his hair, gaze dropping briefly before finding yours again. The faintest smile tugs at his lips.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I like you.”

The words hit harder than they should, simple but heavy, sinking into the quiet between you.

Then, with that same teasing calm you remember all too well, he adds, “You’re a little quicker on the uptake this time.”