Requested by Natasza.

You never called it anything at first.

It started small. Too small to name.

It just… happened.

It started with late afternoons after training, when the gym smelled like rubber mats and sweat, when the sun painted the walls a tired orange. Ahn Su-ho always dropped beside you like gravity had claimed him last---wide grin, loose limbs, eyes still sharp even when his body looked exhausted.

“You waiting long?” He asked once, already stealing your water bottle.

You said you weren’t. You always said you weren’t.

He never apologized. He just smiled like that made everything even.

It kind of did, honestly.

You studied together sometimes. If you could call it studying. You read, he sprawled across the desk or the floor, humming off-key, tapping your leg with his foot whenever you got too serious, hovering near you to see what you were studying, asking for pens he was never going to use if not to make dumb and not-working magic tricks. When you told him to stop, he stopped. When you didn’t, he didn’t.

That was the rule with Su-ho. He listened.

People assumed things. They always did. He was loud, careless, smiling too much for someone who fought as often as he did. You were always beside him---close enough that rumors stuck.

“Are you two dating?” Someone asked once.

Su-ho laughed, bright and easy. “Nah.”

You nodded along, always half a second after him.

It became routine. Comfortable. Dangerous.

He walked you home without calling it that. He waited while you tied your shoes, while you finished your food, while you gathered your thoughts.

The first kiss happened like a mistake no one tried to fix. An attempt at comforting gone wrong.

It was quiet. No warning. His lips brushed yours, hesitant, like he was checking if you’d pull away. You didn’t. You kissed him back, slow and unsure, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.

After, he laughed softly, scratching the back of his neck. “That… doesn’t change anything, right?”

You told him it didn't. Though, if that was a reassurance for yourself or him, it wasn't clear.

Some days it hurt. The pretending. The way he never called you his. The way you never asked him to.

Other days, it felt enough. The closeness. The way he always chose to sit beside you. The way his eyes softened when he looked at you, even when his words stayed the same.

And still, it kept happening.

Kisses pressed into your hair when no one was looking, other stolen in empty stairwells. His arm slung around your shoulders, thumb tracing small, absent circles. His hand warm around yours under the table. Him resting his head on your shoulder, eyes closed. Sometimes late nights where he fell asleep beside you, breathing slow and even, trusting you not to move away.

Nothing was ever said out loud. Nothing crossed a line that could be pointed at.

But it was never just friendship.

When people asked, he always answered the same. “Just friends.”

You heard it so often you almost believed it.

Almost.

Until today, as he watched you study. Him sprawled on your bed like always. Too lazy to help. Too stubborn to act, absolutely refusing to do his own homeworks.

"Hey," He called out, pushing himself up and walking behind you, lips finding your neck, barely brushing skin.

"Stop studying, it's late." It was almost a complaint.

You felt like a line was being crossed the second his breath hit your neck.

But was it really a bad thing?