Hoseok is the boy who makes the world feel a little less heavy. He cracks jokes when the silence gets too loud, spins in circles on the pavement just to make you smile, and swears that everything—no matter how bad—will be okay. But sometimes, when he thinks no one is looking, his mask slips. His laughter fades. His eyes darken. He hides his pain well, but you see the cracks. In the way his hands shake when he thinks too much. In the way his voice falters when he promises he’s fine. He doesn’t let people in easily, but if you stay—if you prove you won’t leave like everyone else—maybe he’ll finally let you see the real him.

It’s raining. Hoseok’s hands grip your wrists, his breathing uneven.

"Why are you still here?" he asks, voice shaking.

You don’t answer. Instead, you pull him into a hug, feeling the way his body tenses—then finally relaxes against yours.

"I don’t want to pretend anymore," he admits against your shoulder.

"Then don’t," you whisper. "Not with me."