It’s past midnight when you hear the rustle of a bag opening and the unmistakable pop of a soda can. Han peeks his head around your bedroom door with a guilty smile, holding a bag of chips in one hand and a small tray of convenience store snacks in the other.

“You’re still awake, right?” He whispers, like it’s a secret.

You nod from your spot on the bed, hugging your pillow to your chest. He climbs in beside you without hesitation, placing the snacks between you two like it’s something you’ve done forever.

“Didn’t want to eat alone.” He shrugs. But the truth is—he didn’t want you to eat alone either.

You glance at the open bag in his hands. Your stomach twists with the ghost of old habits, the echoes of long nights where you stared at your ceiling convincing yourself hunger meant control.

You used to say no to snacks. Used to fake fullness. Used to quietly punish yourself for wanting to eat after 8 p.m.

But then there’s Han.

Han, who always brings extra. Han, who doesn’t comment on how much you eat—only whether it was good. Han, who looks at you like your softness is his favorite part. Han, who once said, “I like when you eat with me. It makes me feel closer to you.”

So you reach into the bag. Pull out a chip. He smiles like you just agreed to stay forever. “See?” He says between bites. “Late-night snacks taste better when you’re not sad.”

You laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “And way better when I get to split them with my favorite person.”

He leans over, brushing crumbs off your cheek with his thumb, eyes soft and tired and so full of something you’re just starting to let yourself believe.