Yours, Night Fury

by mw__jh

Summary:

Sohee never expected to fall for the mysterious admirer who kept slipping cheesy love letters into his locker, especially not when he was already nursing an unrequited, hopeless crush on his best friend, Chanyoung.

It was the thirty-sixth letter in the past two months, and it was driving Sohee out of his mind. At this point, he was seriously considering boxing up the entire humiliating collection and dropping it off at the local police station as evidence of sustained harassment.

He squinted at the scrap of cheap, brownish stationery between his fingers. The corners were softened and dog-eared from being crammed and folded and stuffed into his locker every day like clockwork. The handwriting on it was borderline criminal in itself like someone’s arthritic grandpa had scrawled it. Every letter was an exercise in cryptography, with swirling, inconsistent strokes that turned simple words into an ancient coded script.

Honestly, he appreciated the effort. He really did. If only they would put half as much work into actually legible penmanship as he clearly did into composing these ridiculous, over-the-top pick-up lines.

Because God. The pick-up lines. That was the real crime here, and arguably the worst of all.

Sohee liked to think he was immune to that kind of bullshit. He wasn’t Wonbin who had built his entire personality around watching trashy dramas where the male lead proclaimed I love you with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. No, Sohee liked nuance. Subtlety. A hint of actual poetry instead of cringe-inducing drivel that made him want to dissolve into the floor.

But… Here he was.

 

Dear Sohee,

 

If I had to rate you from 1 to 10, I’d give you a 9 because I’m the 1 you’re missing.

 

Yours,

Night Fury

 

He read it again, slower this time, as if that might lessen the blow, and winced so hard it felt like his very soul was trying to eject itself from his body.

Who the fuck call themselves Night Fury ?

He couldn’t even take it seriously. Every single time he saw the name signed at the bottom, all he could picture was that goofy, wide-eyed animated dragon from the movies, grinning like an idiot and wagging its tail. Sure, it was a cute film. He’d watched it. But did he want to think about it in the context of someone romantically stalking him?

Absolutely not.

He let out a gusty sigh that flapped his bangs before leaning back against the cold metal of his locker. With practiced, resigned precision, he folded the letter along the creases that were already soft from so many similar motions. He pretended he was doing it to hide the evidence. That was a lie he’d been telling himself for weeks now.

He slipped it carefully into his satchel alongside battered textbooks and half-crumpled worksheets. He told himself he kept them all as evidence, in case he ever wanted to press charges. Also a lie. He kept them because he couldn’t not keep them. Even the ones that made him want to set his locker ablaze with secondhand embarrassment.

Every single school day, without fail, there’d be a new letter waiting for him. Folded. Tucked in neatly. No name but that ridiculous nickname at the bottom. No clue who it was. No slip-ups. Just that relentless, stubborn dedication.

If he was being honest in the kind of way that made his ears burn, he almost admired it. The consistency. The effort. The absolute, shameless gall. If he hadn’t been the target of this humiliating campaign, he might have even been impressed.

But he wasn’t impressed. He was tired.

He was tired of the mystery, of the way his heart still did this stupid little hop whenever he saw that small folded paper waiting in his locker, even as he forced himself to roll his eyes and mutter insults about it under his breath.

He slammed the locker door shut with a little too much force, the metallic clang rattling in the otherwise quiet hallway and earning a disapproving glare from the girl at the next locker over. He didn’t bother apologizing. He was too busy mentally cursing letter #36 and trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do with it.

“Oi, lover boy.”

Sohee scowled before even turning around. Of course it’s Sungchan.

His best friend draped an arm over his shoulders with the casual possessiveness of a cat claiming its human. The weight was familiar, annoying, and weirdly reassuring all at once.

“What did your secret admirer send you this time?” Sungchan asked, the wicked gleam in his eyes betraying exactly how much he was enjoying this entire ongoing saga.

“Another reason for me to commit homicide,” Sohee muttered darkly, shoving his satchel higher onto his shoulder in a futile attempt at dignity.

Sungchan laughed. But it wasn’t even a normal laugh. It was that godawful cackle that drew stares from everyone within earshot.

“Come on,” Sungchan wheezed, wiping at imaginary tears from the corners of his eyes. “Show me. Let me see the poetry for the ages.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Sohee tried to speed-walk away down the hall but Sungchan stuck to him like glue with his arm refusing to budge. He felt like he was dragging a particularly uncooperative pet.

Eventually Sohee just let out a world-weary sigh, yanked the letter from his pocket, and shoved it at him like it was biohazardous waste.

“Enjoy,” Sohee grumbled.

They were halfway to their Physics class when the shrill late bell just began to ring. Sungchan, of course, ignored it completely. He flipped open the letter with way too much enthusiasm and immediately launched into the world’s most dramatic, theater-kid reading voice:

“If I had to rate you from 1 to 10, I’d give you a 9 because I’m the 1 you’re missing. Oh my God, Sohee! This is the best one yet!”

Sohee seriously contemplated punching him right there in the middle of the hallway.

“Kill me,” he moaned instead, pinching the bridge of his nose so hard it hurt.

“No no no,” Sungchan said, beaming like an idiot. “This is art. Modern literature. We need to preserve it for the future generations.”

“Shut up,” Sohee snapped, snatching it back and folding it so tight it might as well have been a paper shuriken.

They made it to class just before the teacher finally looked up from furiously texting his wife about something almost certainly he did (probably that he’d forgotten to turn the stove off again).

They took their usual seats at the back of the room, right by the window. Sohee’s thankful he was assigned there (not thankful that he sat right behind Sungchan and Wonbin) so he could mess around on their phones and send each other memes when the lecture inevitably got boring.

Sungchan was still snickering under his breath.

“It’s not funny,” Sohee hissed at him.

“It’s extremely funny,” Sungchan corrected, eyes dancing with glee.

Before Sohee could respond, a sudden weight crashed into the empty chair beside Sungchan.

Wonbin had arrived.

He immediately plucked the letter out of Sungchan’s hand like a seagull stealing fries, eyes lighting up with glee.

“Oh-ho,” Wonbin said, voice practically vibrating with excitement. “What’s this? New content?”

Sohee lunged for it but Wonbin twisted away, turning sideways in his chair, holding the letter up and away while reading it in the most painfully gleeful tone imaginable.

“If I had to rate you from 1—oh my fucking God, this man is a genius. I love him. I love him so much. I want him to marry you immediately so I can be best man at the wedding.”

“You’re both the worst,” Sohee groaned, sinking lower into his seat as if the earth might finally take pity on him and swallow him whole.

Sungchan rested his chin on Wonbin’s shoulder, reading over it again like it was the bestselling manhwa of their generation.

“It’s actually romantic, in a weird, unhinged kind of way.”

“Romantic if you have brain damage,” Sohee shot back, voice sharp.

Wonbin barked a laugh so loud it turned heads in the next row. “Come on. He’s consistent! That’s something.”

“Serial killers are consistent too.”

Wonbin passed the letter back with exaggerated care.

“Put it in the archive,” Wonbin said solemnly, like he was assigning a priceless artifact to a museum.

Sohee glared at him, expression flat but tinged with reluctant amusement.

The archive . The box that lived under his bed, wedged beside extra socks and forgotten notebooks, filled with every embarrassing letter Night Fury had ever sent. Because these assholes had convinced him to keep all of them “for science.” Or blackmail. Or, as Wonbin liked to imagine with dreamy certainty, for the day when Sohee and his mystery admirer were old and married and needed something to laugh about together over morning coffee.

Sohee tried not to think about that part too much.

“Maybe he’s just bored,” he muttered, shoving the latest letter deep into his bag with more force than necessary. “Maybe he’s sending these to other people too.”

Wonbin gasped, clutching his chest as if Sohee had stabbed him. “How dare you imply our beloved Night Fury is unfaithful? He’s obviously obsessed with you.”

“Obsessed is not the comfort you think it is,” Sohee pointed out dryly.

Sungchan leaned forward across his desk, grinning. “You should at least appreciate the effort. I mean, every day? That’s dedication. I can barely remember to brush my teeth every day.”

“That’s not helping,” Sohee replied, deadpan.

But, deep down, beneath the sarcasm, he was flattered. Maybe even a little touched. He wasn’t used to being noticed. Not like this. Not in the way Night Fury did. Someone was paying attention to him, every detail, every mood, every expression. It was kind of…terrifying. And kind of nice.

Wonbin leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his head, the picture of smug satisfaction. “Remember his first letter? Oh my God. You practically died over it.”

Sohee’s ears flared hot. “Shut up.”

“Oh no, I’m telling the story,” Wonbin said gleefully, ignoring Sohee’s warning tone. “He came to lunch with it like he’d found the fucking Ark of the Covenant.”

“Wonbin.”

Sungchan snickered behind his palm. “He was so red. Like an apple.”

Sohee slumped in his chair, defeated. Fine. Whatever. He wasn’t going to fight it. The truth was, the first few letters had been…sweet. Cringey, sure. But undeniably sweet.

 

Do you have a Band-Aid? Because I scraped my knee falling for you.

 

-

 

I thought happiness started with an H. Why does mine start with U?

 

-

 

Are you a camera? Because every time I look at you, I smile.

 

-

 

If I had a star for every time you brightened my day, I'd have a galaxy in my hand.

 

He remembered reading those for the first time, how his lips had twitched in spite of himself. He’d smiled. Not just once. And he'd kept them, folding them gently and storing them carefully in that dumb shoebox beneath his bed. He would never admit it out loud, but sometimes they genuinely made his day better.

But then… they escalated, got bolder and more suggestive.

 

How could an angel be this illegally hot?

 

-

 

Damn baby. Stop wearing that shirt. I might jump you.

 

-

 

You’re just so irresistible.

 

Sohee read those one in the bathroom stall, cheeks flaming, heart pounding like he’d committed a felony. He’d glance over his shoulder as if someone might be watching him read it. He’d feel flustered and exposed as if the words were peeling back layers of him he didn’t mean to show.

He remembered the day he wore jeans that hugged his ass a little too well and received a letter that read:

 

I can’t focus on anything when you wear those jeans.

 

He’d nearly died on the spot. He had to sit down and seriously considered burning the pants.

Then, just when he was prepared to throw the whole secret admirer thing into the nearest bonfire, came the softer ones again. The ones that threw him off completely. The ones that somehow knew just how to get under his skin.

 

How was your day? Don’t be too sad about your English test. I know you can pass next time. I’d help you, but I’m too much of a coward to show myself yet.

 

That one… wrecked him.

Because only a few people knew he’d bombed that quiz. It meant his admirer wasn’t just some random guy from another class. It meant they were close. Watching. Listening.

It scared him more than it comforted him.

His friends had their theories. Of course they did. Sungchan and Wonbin once spent an entire afternoon during English class (they all hated that subject lol) listing possible suspects on the back of a napkin between bites of cafeteria noodles.

Suspect #1: That quiet kid from the science club who blushed every time Sohee said hi.

Suspect #2: That obnoxious guy who tried to flirt with him once and got turned down so hard he transferred out of their class.

Suspect #3: Chanyoung.

 

Wonbin had written “Chanyoung” in all caps, underlined it twice, and drawn ten red hearts around it in permanent marker.

Sohee had threatened to stab him with a fork because Chanyoung was not an option.

He was…Chanyoung. Tall. Annoyingly athletic. Part of the multi-awarded school swim team. The kind of guy who could fall into a pool wearing all of his clothes and still look hot climbing out, hair dripping, grin blinding. He was good at everything. Worse, he was charming. Teachers loved him. Moms loved him. He was the golden boy of the neighborhood.

And he was Sohee’s childhood friend. Neighbor. Homework tutor. Banana milk dealer. Occasional pain in the ass.

There was no way it could be him.

Not that Sohee hadn’t wondered. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, tracing the soft fold lines of the latest letter with his thumb. He’d imagined it once or twice. Maybe more than he’d admit. But then he’d remember Chanyoung laughing with the pretty girls from the academy across town, the rumor that he’d dated three girls last semester. Or how he once said, too casually, that he liked girls who smiled at him first.

And Sohee would shut the thought down brutally.

Sometimes there were clues. Little breadcrumbs that refused to let him go. The English quiz. The eerily accurate notes about his mood. The precise timing of the letters, always between second and third period, when he was in homeroom and couldn’t possibly catch anyone near his locker.

He tried to catch them once. He and Wonbin squished into the tiny broom closet next to the second floor lockers for an entire recess period. Wonbin fell asleep halfway through. Sohee nearly dislocated his spine crouching. No one came. No letter appeared that day.

But the next day, tucked neatly in the usual corner of his locker, was a taunting message:

 

I saw you hiding. You’ll never catch me.

 

Wonbin had cackled like a witch and fanned himself with the paper like it was the best gossip he’d ever heard. Sohee wanted to scream.

He tried other methods after that. Bribing Mr. Choi, the school janitor, to keep watch. Asking classmates to look out for anyone hovering near his locker.

All of it was useless.

Mr. Choi just took his allowance money and shrugged. “Letters keep coming, kid. Maybe you got a ghost.”

Sohee had given up after that.

Now, it was just… routine. Part of his day. He’d go to school. Open his locker. Find a note. Read it. Sigh. Curse. Occasionally smile. And carefully tuck it into the box with the others because no matter how much he claimed to hate it, he was used to it now. 

 

*

 

Sohee,

 

Are you tired? Because you’ve been running around in my mind all day.

 

Yours,

Night Fury

 

Sohee’s mouth twisted in the kind of grimace usually reserved for rotting fruit. He read it once, twice, and then pinched the bridge of his nose in slow, exasperated resignation, letting out a sigh that felt like it came from his very soul. He still couldn’t believe the audacity. He hated how he could practically hear the smug little smile behind the words, the absolute gall of whoever Night Fury was to churn out lines this ridiculous every single day without an ounce of shame.

He squinted at the paper, willing it to morph into something less humiliating if he glared hard enough. The handwriting was as bad as ever. He ran his thumb along the edge of the paper, feeling the soft, crinkled texture that had come from being repeatedly shoved into his locker. He could even smell the faint, sharp scent of cheap ballpoint ink. He hated that he recognized it now.

With another deep sigh, he folded it carefully along the old crease lines. He was so used to this routine it was almost muscle memory, and that annoyed him even more. He slipped the note into his pants pocket, trying not to let the corners poke into his thigh.

He was still lost in that cycle of annoyed affection and deep internal screaming when a voice next to his ear made him jump so hard he nearly dropped his satchel.

“What is that?”

He spun around so fast he nearly slammed into Chanyoung’s chest. The other boy loomed over him with his usual relaxed arrogance, all broad shoulders, pointy pretty nose, and irritatingly calm eyes.

Chanyoung was looking at him with that casual curiosity that Sohee both loathed and secretly relied on. His expression was infuriatingly neutral, eyebrows lifted in mild interest as if he hadn’t just scared the life out of him for fun.

“Jesus Christ,” Sohee hissed, shoving the paper deeper into his pocket like it was evidence of a crime. “Please do not do that again.”

Chanyoung didn’t even blink. “You always space out. Not my fault you don’t notice people coming.”

Sohee rolled his eyes dramatically, trying to hide the way his pulse was still hammering in his throat. It would be just like Chanyoung to cause a heart attack and then act like it was Sohee’s own fault.

Of course it was Chanyoung. Who else would loom over him like an overgrown golden retriever who had never been taught about personal space?

He gave Chanyoung a look that he hoped conveyed deep, unending suffering. “Seriously. Announce yourself next time. Wear a bell.”

Chanyoung just huffed a tiny laugh through his nose and didn’t move away an inch. Typical.

They started walking down the hallway together, because that’s what they always did. It wasn’t like they planned it or anything. It had just sort of…happened. 

Chanyoung always seemed to materialize at his side between classes, matching his pace automatically, bumping shoulders occasionally when the hallway got too crowded. He had this habit of steering Sohee slightly away from bustling groups of people with a hand on the shoulder pretending he wasn’t doing it on purpose.

It was maddening but it was also comforting.

“So,” Chanyoung said after a few beats of silence, far too casually. “What was that?”

Sohee’s jaw tightened immediately. He refused to look at him, instead focusing very intently on the ancient, dusty trophy case they were passing, as if it were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

“It’s nothing.”

“Didn’t look like nothing.”

Sohee felt heat crawl up the back of his neck, prickling under the collar of his uniform. He hated that Chanyoung was so good at reading him even when he tried to be as blank as possible.

“It’s just… I think someone is pranking me,” he muttered, voice low and tight.

Chanyoung frowned at that, brows pulling together. He actually stopped walking in the middle of the hall, forcing Sohee to stop too, clogging the flow of students behind them.

“A prank?”

“It’s nothing,” Sohee insisted, sharper now. He hated how small his voice sounded, hated that it wobbled just enough for Chanyoung to notice.

Chanyoung didn’t buy it for even a second.

He crossed his arms over his chest, blocking the hallway traffic entirely.

“Who?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me who.”

Sohee huffed, exasperated, the words spitting out like steam from a kettle. “Why?”

Chanyoung’s eyes narrowed slightly. He didn’t raise his voice, but there was a dangerous softness to his tone that made Sohee’s stomach squirm.

“I’ll beat them up.”

Sohee snorted despite himself, unable to help it. “You can’t just beat up someone for sending me dumb letters.”

“Watch me.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Chanyoung’s mouth curved in the slightest, laziest smile. “And yet you’re still here talking to me.”

Sohee rolled his eyes so hard it actually hurt a little. He shouldered past Chanyoung and kept walking, but of course the other boy fell into step right beside him, matching his stride easily with those stupid long legs.

They didn’t even have the same class next, but Chanyoung always walked him to the door anyway. It had been happening so long neither of them remembered exactly when it started. Sohee had tried to shake him a few times, insisting he wasn’t a child who needed an escort, but Chanyoung would just shrug and say he was “heading that way anyway,” even when it was a blatant lie. Eventually, Sohee had given up fighting it.

It was annoying. It was weird. It was…the best part of his day.

As they approached Sohee’s classroom, Chanyoung slowed just a fraction, brushing a knuckle lightly against Sohee’s arm to get his attention.

“Hey,” he said, voice dropping low enough that the hallway noise faded behind it. “If someone’s bothering you…you know you can tell me, right?”

Sohee truly despised the way his chest clenched at that.

He glanced up at Chanyoung’s face. It was annoyingly earnest, eyes dark and steady, mouth set in that gentle, worried line that made Sohee want to both punch him and maybe kiss him just to shut him up.

Sohee’s voice was softer than he meant it to be when he finally managed, “It’s really nothing.”

Chanyoung searched his face for another long second, like he was trying to read a particularly difficult textbook. Then he sighed and let it go.

“Fine. But I’ll find out anyway.”

Sohee snorted. “Stalker.”

Chanyoung just smirked in that enragingly satisfied way of his.

He watched Sohee walk through the classroom door like he always did.

Sohee didn’t look back.

He didn’t even get two steps into the room before Wonbin’s voice sing-songed across the rows of desks.

“Look who’s back from his romantic walk with Loverboy!”

Sohee groaned, slumping bonelessly into his chair as if the weight of the entire day had finally snapped his spine. He dropped his bag on the floor with a dull thunk, burying his face in his arms in a silent plea for mercy.

Who is he kidding? Mercy was not forthcoming.

Wonbin and Sungchan immediately converged on him from either side like twin demons scenting fresh blood in the water. They both leaned in until Sohee could feel their breath on his ears, which made him squirm even more.

“Seriously,” Wonbin continued with relish, poking Sohee’s cheek with the eraser end of his pencil. “He has still not confessed yet?”

Sohee swatted the pencil away with a slap that was more tired than violent. “How many times do I have to tell you idiots? Chanyoung is not gay. Okay?”

Wonbin clicked his tongue in mock sympathy, shaking his head in disappointment. “Ah, the blindness of youth.”

Sungchan nodded solemnly in agreement. “Tragic.”

“I hate both of you,” Sohee announced to no one in particular, his voice muffled by his own arms.

But Wonbin ignored him completely, grinning with the delight of someone who lived for this.

“Have you seen the way he looks at you?”

Sohee finally lifted his head just enough to glare daggers in Wonbin’s direction. “He doesn’t look at me any way.”

“Wrong,” Wonbin said with dramatic relish. “He looks at you like you’re a triple-scoop ice cream cone in the desert.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“That’s love.”

Sohee gave up. He let his head drop back down onto his folded arms with a soft thunk, wishing the universe would be so kind as to smother him right then and there.

Sungchan patted his back consolingly, the motion just patronizing enough to make Sohee twitch. “Honestly,” Sungchan said in the sage, pitying tone of a funeral speaker, “sometimes I look at him looking at you and I feel like I’m intruding on something private.”

Sohee made a strangled noise of pure despair.

But Wonbin was far from done. He never was.

“Have you noticed how he literally escorts you to class? Every day?”

“He’s just going that way,” Sohee mumbled into the fabric of his sleeve. His voice came out muffled and defeated.

“He’s not,” Sungchan corrected helpfully, sounding delighted at how easily they were dismantling Sohee’s defense.

Wonbin smirked like the devil himself. “And the banana milk?”

“He likes banana milk too,” Sohee tried weakly, the protest sounding more and more like begging.

“HE BUYS IT FOR YOU.”

Sohee wanted to die. He could feel his ears burning hot enough to fry an egg.

“It’s platonic,” he insisted feebly, even though it sounded unconvincing even to his own ears.

Wonbin snorted so hard he actually choked on his own spit. “Platonic my ass,” he gasped between coughs, slapping Sungchan’s arm as if that would help him breathe.

Sungchan was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, his shoulders shaking helplessly.

“Bro, he’s so in love with you,” Sungchan said, voice cracking under the strain of hilarity.

“No he’s not,” Sohee said, but even he could hear how thin and desperate it sounded.

Wonbin recovered enough to fix Sohee with an evil, triumphant smirk. “Do us all a favor and suck his dick already.”

Sungchan let out an unholy bark of laughter and they high-fived right across Sohee’s slumped back.

Sohee groaned and slammed his forehead into the desk with a thud that rattled his pencils. He let it rest there in defeat, willing the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

What both of those idiots were saying was impossible because he and Chanyoung grew up together.

Sohee had known Chanyoung since elementary school back in Seoul, before everything went to shit and his dad lost his job and they had to move back to Gochang. For a while though, they hadn’t seen each other at all as after Sohee left, Chanyoung hadn’t stayed in Seoul for long either. He ended up moving to America, in new Jersey, to live with his mom for five years before he came back to South Korea. Stuff had happened. Bad stuff, from what little Chanyoung ever admitted. Family drama no one wanted to talk about.

Sohee remembered hearing rumors from old classmates still in the city that Chanyoung’s mom had taken him suddenly. That things were messy with his dad. And then his mom found someone else and then his dad remarried. And then, suddenly, he was back.

It was strange how abrupt it seemed. One day Chanyoung simply materialized in Sohee’s world again after years of being a rumor or an old memory. He only returned to Seoul when they were both in middle school, showing up with the same stupidly perfect nose, that sweet smile, and a suitcase he carried like it weighed nothing at all, even if they both knew it did.

Chanyoung. Perfect, golden, privileged Chanyoung, who everyone expected would just stay in the city with his influential family, basking in their wealth and connections. He had the sort of reputation that made teachers raise their eyebrows when they took attendance, the kind that made classmates whisper behind their hands.

He showed up in Sohee’s sleepy, too-quiet hometown. No announcement. No explanation. He just transferred into Sohee’s class one day, breezed through roll call, and settled in like he’d always belonged there.

He even moved in next door.

Sohee remembered watching from behind his bedroom curtain as Chanyoung’s boxes were unloaded onto the front step. He remembered Chanyoung waving when he spotted him peeking out, like they were already old friends again, even though they hadn’t spoken in years.

If anyone asked why he moved to a rural town and leave his glamorous life in America with his mom or in Seoul with his dad, Chanyoung would just shrug, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I wanted to be independent.”

“I got tired of the city.”

“I needed space.”

As if those words were enough to cover everything.

Sohee knew it was more complicated than that. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew that he was lonely in America because his mom was always at work to make ends meet. He got lonelier when his mom started dating again and he was left to fend for himself after school. That’s also the reason why he had to fly back to South Korea because his father’s family were more affluent and his needs would be taken cared of easily. 

But Seoul was no better. Sohee saw the way Chanyoung’s eyes went flat when people brought up Seoul. He knew Chanyoung didn’t get along with his stepmother. Knew he felt like a spare part in the shiny new family his father was building in their new house in a gated community somewhere near the Han river. 

But they didn’t talk about that much.

Instead, they talked about stupid things.

Movies they’d both half-watched on Netflix of Sohee’s favorite anime that he kept bugging Chanyoung to watch (Chanyoung repeatedly refused because he couldn’t, for the life of him, catch up to 700 episodes of Naruto). Homework Sohee pretended not to need help with. Bad K-dramas they mocked mercilessly while secretly getting invested.

Chanyoung would come over so often that Sohee’s parents weren’t surprise anymore to see him at their door. His mom started setting a place for him automatically at dinner without asking. He was the only one who could make Sohee’s mom laugh when she came home exhausted from the market. He was the only one who could get Sohee’s dad to talk about anything other than the news or politics or complaints about the electric bill. He was the only one who could make Sohee forget, even for a little while, how much he hated English class.

Because that was the other thing. Wednesdays and Saturdays were their days. They didn’t even really plan it. It just became a rule no one said out loud. Sohee taught Chanyoung Math and Science. Chanyoung taught Sohee English.

Sohee hated English. He hated irregular verbs. He hated idioms that made no sense. He hated how words changed meaning without warning. He especially hated the way Chanyoung would grin every time he corrected him, eyes bright with amusement, like it was cute that Sohee was struggling. Like Sohee was something small and important that needed watching.

And now...Now there were letters in his locker that made him laugh when he was in a bad mood. Letters that made him blush so hard he’d hide his face behind his textbook. Letters that sometimes made him want to crawl under his desk and die of secondhand embarrassment. 

Letters that reminded him that someone was watching. Someone who noticed when he was quiet. When he was sad. When he smiled.

Letters that made his heart race in ways he didn’t want to think about.

He unfolded today’s letter one more time under his desk, eyes skimming over the stupid, cheesy line.

 

Are you tired?

 

His mouth twitched despite himself.

He wished whoever it was would just reveal himself already.

He wished he could get it over with.

He wished..he didn’t have to be in love with his best friend.

 

*

 

It was on his seventeenth birthday that Sohee realized he liked boys.

Not just any boy.

He realized he was hopelessly, stupidly, head-over-heels in love with Chanyoung.

He remembered it so vividly he sometimes wondered if it had been deliberately burned into his memory by some cruel god with a sense of humor. Even now, he could still feel the dry, scratchy itch of grass poking his elbows through the thin blanket, the crisp bite of the night wind sweeping across the hill and tugging at his hair, the smell of cool earth mixed with city air, sharp and clean all at once. And over all of it, Chanyoung’s laughter, low and easy, echoing into the emptiness.

He hadn’t expected anything for his birthday that year.

His family wasn’t struggling anymore like a few years back, but they weren’t exactly swimming in money, either. Birthdays were usually simple affairs. Just a cake from the nearby bakery, nothing fancy. His mom would just grill meat for dinner. They don’t have meat often, just for special occasions. It was fine. It was enough. That year though, he asked his mom to not prepare anything because he was going somewhere with Chanyoung.

Chanyoung had texted him the day before to dress warmly because they were going “somewhere”. Sohee already had an inkling Chanyoung prepared something for his birthday. He just didn’t expect it would be that much .

“Where?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Is it a good surprise?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you like me after it or not.”

Sohee had punched him in the arm for that, trying to bury the fact that his face had gone hot at the stupid, easy way those words had left Chanyoung’s mouth.

When they’d gotten to the hill, Sohee had realized he hadn’t even known this place existed.

It wasn’t anything spectacular or famous. Just an unmarked rise outside town limits, an overlook where the city below spilled out in lights. The wind up there was sharper, cutting through layers to nip at his skin, tossing their hair around and rattling the long grass that grew in stubborn, wild tufts across the slope.

And there, spread out over a cheap but clean picnic blanket, was an absolute feast.

“So.” Chanyoung spread his arms with mock pride, grinning like an idiot. “What do you think?”

Sohee blinked, words dying in his mouth.

There was fried chicken from his favorite shop, glossy japchae with the little curls of carrot he liked, spicy tteokbokki glistening with sauce, neatly packed rolls of kimbap. A box of donuts with neon icing. Imported chips Sohee knew Chanyoung hoarded and never shared with anyone. And in the middle of it all sat a cake so pink it was practically glowing.

A birthday cake. Shaped like a unicorn.

An actual fucking unicorn. Pink frosting, candy horn, pastel sprinkles that glittered even in the dim light.

Sohee was speechless.

Chanyoung scratched at the back of his neck, looking off to the side as if embarrassed by his own ridiculousness. “I, uh. Might have gone overboard.”

“What the hell is all this?” Sohee finally managed, voice cracking on the last word.

“I was bored.” Chanyoung shrugged, trying for casual and failing immensely. “I had extra money lying around so I decided to buy food. I couldn’t eat it all by myself so I invited you.”

Sohee just gaped at him, heart doing strange, uncomfortable flips in his chest.

“All my favorites,” he accused, voice going thin.

Chanyoung blinked back, unbothered. “Well, yeah. What’s the point of a picnic if you don’t eat what you like?”

Something cracked open in Sohee’s chest.

He tried to hold it together by going on the offensive.

“A unicorn cake, Chanyoung.”

Chanyoung smirked, eyes glittering with amusement he didn’t bother hiding. “You said once you wanted one. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

Sohee felt heat race up his neck and into his ears.

“That was in elementary.”

“Still counts.”

Sohee gave up arguing then. He could feel the fight go out of him all at once, replaced by something much softer and far more dangerous.

They sat and ate until they were stuffed, the food spread out around them in messy piles like an offering. Chanyoung handed him napkins without asking. Picked out Sohee’s favorite pieces of chicken automatically. Even fished onions out of the japchae with an annoyed little grunt because he knew Sohee hated them.

“Stop it,” Sohee snapped after the fifth time, cheeks burning.

“Stop what?”

“Catering to me.”

“I’m not catering,” Chanyoung lied with that infuriating calm of his. “I’m just…efficient.”

Sohee threw a balled-up napkin at his face.

Chanyoung caught it without blinking and lobbed it back with perfect aim.

They bickered and laughed until their stomachs hurt. They fought over the last piece of tteokbokki so fiercely it rolled onto the blanket, which Sohee immediately declared contaminated. Chanyoung ate it anyway, maintaining eye contact the whole time. Sohee pretended not to laugh so hard he nearly choked.

When it got too cold, Chanyoung didn’t say anything. He just dug a spare hoodie out of his bag and tossed it at Sohee’s head. It smelled like fresh laundry soap and something that was undeniably, stupidly Chanyoung. Sohee buried his nose in the collar under the pretense of keeping warm. He told himself that was all it was.

After they’d eaten enough to make themselves sick, they lay back side by side on the blanket. Their shoulders brushed sometimes when they shifted. Neither of them moved away. Above them, the stars were spread so wide and clear it almost hurt to look at them. The city below seemed impossibly far, the noise and lights reduced to twinkling pinpricks against all that dark.

It was the kind of view Sohee hadn’t even known he wanted.

It wasn’t the city or the stars.

Lying there in the dark, stomach full of his favorite foods, wrapped in Chanyoung’s hoodie, breathing in the cold night air that smelled like wind and grass and city, he couldn’t stop looking at the boy next to him.

Chanyoung’s hair was a mess from the wind. His profile cut clean against the starlight. His eyes sparkled when he turned his head to find another constellation, naming them with a quiet certainty that made Sohee’s chest hurt. His lips curved when he spoke, voice low and warm, so achingly familiar it felt like it had always been there, woven into every memory Sohee had of growing up.

And that was when he knew.

Really knew.

That he was in love with him.

Sohee tried to force himself to look at the sky. He really did. He focused on the endless blackness overhead. The stars seemed scattered with careless generosity, the whole universe laid out for them to see. But it was hopeless. His eyes kept sliding back. Back to the side. Back to him.

At one point, Chanyoung reached out and caught his hand, fingers threading between his like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like it was nothing at all. Like they’d always done this. And maybe they had. Sitting on buses pressed too close. Sharing a cramped bench, knees touching. Casual. Innocent.

But this time Sohee felt it in his chest like a scream. It thundered through his ribs, echoing in the hollow space where he usually kept his composure.

He remembered thinking, don’t kiss him .

Because he wanted to.

So badly.

The wind picked up, cool and sharp, rattling the long grass around them and making the edges of the thin picnic blanket flutter and snap. Chanyoung turned his head slightly, hair tousled by the breeze, that dumb, bright smile on his face that somehow managed to light up even the dim starlight. It wasn’t fair, Sohee thought wildly. It wasn’t fair at all.

Sohee’s fingers twitched helplessly between them, the contact so simple and so devastating. He felt dizzy with it, with the wanting, with how close they were without ever actually closing that last, impossible distance. He thought about leaning in. About turning just enough to see if it would be easy, if Chanyoung would meet him halfway.

He thought about what it would feel like to finally close that space and press his mouth against Chanyoung’s. He thought about Chanyoung’s reaction. About disgust. About confusion. About everything ending right there.

Sohee swallowed it down.

He didn’t move.

He just lay there, body tense and heart thundering, eyes burning with unshed frustration as he stared at the boy he’d grown up with. The boy who knew his favorite foods without asking. The boy who never let him walk home alone, even when he pretended to be annoyed by it. The boy who teased him until he laughed so hard he snorted, then let him fall asleep drooling on his shoulder without comment.

The boy who had never even noticed that he was capable of breaking Sohee’s heart.

“Happy birthday, Sohee.”

Chanyoung’s voice was quiet. Almost shy. It seemed to get lost in the wind for a moment before it reached him.

They were both still lying on their backs, eyes up at the endless sky, pretending it was the only thing they were paying attention to.

Sohee blinked rapidly, trying to chase away the heat he could feel creeping into his cheeks.

“Thanks.”

Chanyoung’s fingers squeezed his once. Warm. Solid. It made Sohee’s breath hitch.

“I hope you can always be my star,” he added, voice catching just a little at the end.

His heart went wild in his chest, slamming against his ribs so hard it hurt. His lungs felt too small. He couldn’t say anything. His throat felt locked shut. He wanted to laugh it off. To call him an idiot. To push his shoulder and make a sarcastic retort so he didn’t have to feel like he was falling without anything to catch him.

But all he could do was squeeze back.

Because he was in love.

Not crush-in-love. Not butterflies-in-the-stomach-in-love. Not schoolgirl giggles and dramatic sighs.

He was wrong, ruinous, disastrous, hopelessly in love with his best friend.

And he couldn’t tell him. He wouldn’t.

Because if Chanyoung knew, it would change everything. And Sohee couldn’t risk that. He couldn’t risk watching Chanyoung pull away, or worse, try to be kind about it. Try to pretend it was okay when it would never be okay.

Instead he just lay there on his back, staring at the endless, indifferent stars he couldn’t even name, breathing in the scent of cold grass and Chanyoung’s cologne still clinging to the borrowed hoodie, trying not to tremble. Trying not to think about how badly he wanted something he could never have.

They didn’t speak for a while after that. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable exactly. But it wasn’t easy either. At some point, Chanyoung yawned, arm brushing against Sohee’s as he rolled onto his side to face him. Sohee kept staring upward, trying to pretend he didn’t notice, that he was too busy counting constellations he couldn’t actually see. But he felt it. The heat of Chanyoung’s gaze on his cheek. The weight of his attention.

He felt the way Chanyoung’s thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles. Just once. Barely there. But enough to set his nerves alight. Enough to make his heart stutter in his chest. Enough to hurt.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Chanyoung said quietly.

Sohee bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper.

“Yeah,” he managed hoarsely, voice cracking around the word. “Me too.”

And that was it.

No declarations. No confessions. No neat, tidy resolution.

Just two boys lying on a too-small blanket on cold, damp grass under a massive, endless sky, too full of cheap food, too aware of each other to breathe properly.

When Chanyoung finally drifted off next to him, face turned up to the stars, mouth parted in an unguarded, peaceful smile, Sohee turned to look at him. Really looked. He let himself trace every line in the pale moonlight. The slope of his nose. The gentle flutter of his lashes. The soft curve of his mouth.

He wanted to lean in. Just once. Just enough to press their lips together, soft and slow, testing. He wanted to see if Chanyoung would wake up. If he would smile. If he would kiss back.

But he just lay there.

Wide awake.

Heart pounding.

Trying to memorize the way Chanyoung looked when he was close enough to touch. Because he knew he’d never let himself have it.

He knew it was wrong.

But Sohee was in love.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

 

*

 

Chanyoung arrived at the Lee residence just as Mrs. Lee was setting the dinner table. She was balancing bowls of steaming soup that filled the small dining area with a warm, savory scent. Sohee heard the creak of the front gate swing open on rusty hinges and the light bang of the screen door snapping against the frame. He blinked in mild surprise as he paused putting an armful of utensils on the table.

It wasn’t that Chanyoung coming over was strange. It’s far from it. He practically lived there half the time. But today was Wednesday. Study Day. The day Chanyoung always walked home with him. The day he would loiter outside Sohee’s classroom door like he had nowhere better to be, no matter how many times Sohee told him to knock it off.

But this afternoon, Chanyoung hadn’t been waiting outside Sohee’s classroom.

Sohee had waited longer than he’d ever admit, phone clenched in his hand, pretending to scroll through meaningless memes while stealing glances back at the thinning crowd of students. Wonbin and Sungchan had hovered beside him, unhelpful as ever, launching gleefully into yet another one of their conspiracies.

“He probably went to buy you a ring,” Wonbin had declared solemnly, eyes shining with fake earnestness. “I’m thinking platinum. He’s got the budget.”

“Shut up,” Sohee had muttered, ears going hot even as he refused to meet their smug, delighted eyes.

“Or,” Sungchan added, tapping his chin like a detective in a crime drama, “he’s late because he’s writing today’s love letter. Maybe he’s your Night Fury.”

Wonbin’s eyes had lit up with unholy glee, the grin spreading across his face. “Holy shit. That’s it. Every time his eyebrow twitches around you? That’s when he thinks of a pickup line.”

“Please,” Sohee had groaned, pressing his palm over his face. “Please stop talking.”

But eventually, his phone had buzzed, Chanyoung’s name glowing on the screen:

 

From: Lee Chanyoung

Go first.

 

No explanation. No apology.

Sohee hadn’t replied. He’d just turned on his heel and left, ignoring the snickering commentary from his friends and the muttered predictions about who’d get to be co-best man at his hypothetical wedding.

So now, seeing Chanyoung in the doorway, hair wind-tousled from the walk, eyes bright and grin easy as always, hit Sohee like a gentle sucker punch he hadn’t braced for.

“Auntie, what did you cook for me tonight?” Chanyoung called out cheerfully, dropping his heavy schoolbag with a careless thud by the door and striding straight for the dining area without waiting for permission.

Mrs. Lee turned from the table, face lighting up in instant welcome. She smoothed her apron over her skirt, lips quirking in affection as she reached up to ruffle his hair (she had to stand on tiptoe to reach).

“I cooked stir-fried vegetables,” she said, trying and failing to sound stern.

Chanyoung let out a theatrical groan so loud the walls practically echoed. “You know I hate vegetables!”

“You should eat more vegetables. You’re a growing child.”

“I’m grown already,” he shot back, full of mock indignation, his gaze sliding slyly to Sohee, who was pointedly carrying over the last stack of bowls to the table. “Sohee should eat more so he can grow taller!”

Sohee’s eyebrow twitched dangerously at that. Without missing a beat, he stepped forward and gave Chanyoung a swift, well-aimed kick to the shin.

“Get out if you don’t want our food! No one’s forcing you here!”

Chanyoung yelped in agony, staggering back a full step with a hand clutched over his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. Then he fixed Sohee with that pout he always used when he wanted something.

Sohee tried so hard not to let his mouth twitch in amusement.

Eventually, Chanyoung dropped the grandstanding and flopped into his usual seat at the table with a huff, elbows planted on the worn wood like the overgrown toddler he absolutely was.

Mrs. Lee just shook her head, giving them both a look that was half fondness, half chagrin.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, reaching out to smooth Sohee’s hair too, because she couldn’t resist the urge to fuss. “Both of you.”

From the living room, Mr. Lee’s voice drifted in, distracted by the low drone of the news channel he was half-listening to. “Ahh Chanyoung you’re here,” he called absently.

“Good evening, Uncle!” Chanyoung shot back immediately, his voice bright and familiar, before leaning back and fixing his gaze on Sohee with the subtlety of a cat staring down a goldfish in a bowl.

Sohee did his best to ignore it, setting the last spoon down onto the table with a little more force than necessary.

It was ridiculous how easily Chanyoung had been absorbed into their family rhythm. How completely natural it felt for him to be there.

Chanyoung was like a second son to Sohee’s parents, whether anyone said it outright or not. He’d been unofficially adopted into every part of their routine ever since he’d moved in next door. Mrs. Lee couldn’t help fussing over him. Mr. Lee had stopped even pretending to be surprised when he turned up for dinner.

Because they all knew about Chanyoung’s parents. Or rather, the absence of them.

Chanyoung only had Mr. Baek who managed everything in that too-big, too-quiet house. It was an impressive place from the outside, with tall gates and manicured hedges. But inside, it was hollow. Empty in a way that made Sohee’s chest ache when he thought about it too long.

Mr. Baek was kind enough to let Chanyoung get away with murder. Fried chicken four days in a row? Sure. Soda instead of water? Whatever you want. Stay out until midnight? No problem.

Sohee remembered the first time he’d ever invited Chanyoung over for dinner. How he had blinked at the spread of simple homemade dishes like they were alien artifacts. How he’d poked at the vegetables suspiciously, then ended up scarfing them down like he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days.

How his mom had just laughed and said, “Come over any time.”

And how Chanyoung had.

Mrs. Lee was scolding him fondly now, ladling rice into his bowl without waiting for him to say please.

“You’re eating everything tonight. No complaints.”

Chanyoung made a show of grimacing. “Even the green stuff?”

“Especially the green stuff.”

Sohee snorted as he slid into his chair across from him.

Chanyoung immediately shot him a death glare.

“Shut up, shortie.”

“Eat your veggies, overgrown toddler.” Sohee flicked a piece of carrot at him with expert chopstick precision.

Mrs. Lee clicked her tongue at them. “Honestly, you two.”

Dinner at the Lee house was never quiet when Chanyoung was there. He had a way of filling up all the empty corners and making even the awkward silences feel deliberate. He teased Mrs. Lee about her cooking in that shameless, affectionate way only he could get away with. He asked Mr. Lee about work with genuine interest, listening with that open, earnest attention that won over every adult within five minutes. And he bantered with Sohee like it was a competitive sport, the only event either of them had ever trained for.

Which, Sohee supposed, in a way, they had.

After the meal, when Mrs. Lee started gathering plates and insisted she didn’t need any help, Sohee didn’t argue. He just grabbed Chanyoung by the sleeve, muttering under his breath for him to move his stupid legs before his mother changed her mind and enlisted them in dishwashing duty.

Chanyoung laughed, letting himself be dragged upstairs without the slightest resistance.

Sohee’s room was small but neatly kept, the pale walls crowded with pinned-up study reminders and a few faded posters of anime he used to watch as a kid. A single narrow bed was pushed up under the window, the duvet carefully smoothed even if everything else in Sohee’s life felt like chaos. His narrow desk was cluttered with textbooks, scuffed notebooks, and the tragic remains of at least five half-dead pens.

Chanyoung didn’t hesitate. He immediately kicked off his socks, dumped himself across the bed like he’d paid rent, and folded his arms behind his head with an infuriating smirk.

Sohee turned to glare at him, one eyebrow arching.

“Get off. You haven’t showered yet.”

“Nah,” Chanyoung said with a smug. “You like my scent.”

It was true but Sohee had to act liked he’s annoyed so he grabbed the nearest eraser and whipped it across the room, bouncing it off Chanyoung’s forehead with a satisfying thwap.

Eventually, he settled into the desk chair with a long, martyred sigh, flipping open his battered English textbook.

Chanyoung rolled over onto his stomach, propped himself up on his elbows, and grinned in that way that always made Sohee feel halfway between wanting to slap him and…other things he didn’t like thinking about.

“Alright,” he announced brightly, clapping his hands once. “Time to educate your dumb ass.”

“Your motivational speeches need work.”

“Shut up. Open to page ninety-eight.”

They fell into their rhythm then, the one they’d honed across dozens of evenings just like this. Chanyoung’s voice steady, coaxing, occasionally irritated. Sohee’s pencil tapping in defiance whenever he didn’t understand something.

Chanyoung was annoyingly good at explaining things when he decided to try. He had that maddening, patient way of making Sohee repeat answers back, over and over, until the words finally stuck.

And Sohee, despite wanting to throttle him, always listened.

Because when Chanyoung explained it, it actually made sense.

Until it didn’t.

Sohee scowled down at the list of irregular verbs Chanyoung had painstakingly written out in his looping script. He tapped the page with the tip of his pencil hard enough to dent it.

“Yeah, I know you just add -ed on verbs to make them past tense,” he grumbled, voice rising with frustration. “But how come ‘preach’ is ‘preached’ but ‘teach’ is ‘taught’? What the fuck?? They’re both -each!!”

He threw the pencil onto the desk with a clatter like it had personally betrayed him.

Chanyoung attempted to keep a straight face. But his mouth twitched, his shoulders shook, and finally he gave up, burying his face in Sohee’s pillow to muffle the hysterical laughter spilling out of him.

“I’m so glad my suffering is entertaining to you,” Sohee said flatly, folding his arms across his chest like a petulant child.

Chanyoung eventually lifted his head, eyes wet from laughter, breathless as he wiped at the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Okay, okay,” he wheezed. “I told you not all words follow the rule. That’s why I made you the list. Memorize the damn list.”

“It’s stupid,” Sohee muttered, glaring at the page like it might combust under his stare. “English is stupid.”

Chanyoung grinned, unfazed.

“You’re stupid.”

Sohee flipped him off without looking up, which only made Chanyoung’s grin widen.

They worked in relative silence for a while after that, the only sounds the soft scratch of pencil against paper, the creak of Sohee’s old chair whenever he shifted, and the muffled clink of dishes being washed downstairs.

It was comfortable. Familiar.

Dangerous.

Because it felt too easy to forget that this wasn’t normal. That not everyone had this. That sometimes, when Chanyoung looked at him for too long, Sohee had to look away before something inside him cracked open.

He was determined not to think about it.

But then, as he flipped a page in his dog-eared textbook, something tumbled free and landed in his lap.

A folded scrap of brownish paper.

It took him a second to recognize the familiar uneven scrawl.

 

Sohee,

 

If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put U and I together.

 

Yours,

Night Fury

 

He remembered the first time he’d read it. How he’d stared at it in complete confusion for a solid five minutes, turning it over in his hands as if expecting instructions to appear on the back. The handwriting had been so bad he’d wondered if it was a prank.

He’d ended up handing it over to Wonbin at lunch. Wonbin had read it once before smacking him in the shoulder with a look of scandalized horror.

“Oh my god,” he’d groaned. “You’re a disgrace to romance.”

“What?” Sohee had demanded, defensive and embarrassed. “I don’t get it.”

Wonbin had pointed to each word slowly, like he was explaining to a kindergartner. “U. And I. As in: you and I together. Like…together together. ”

The moment the meaning clicked, he’d almost choked on his rice.

Later, alone in his room, he’d read it again. And again. Until the edges were soft under his fingertips and the words stopped making him feel like an idiot. Until he had to admit begrudgingly that it was sort of…cute even if the delivery was catastrophically embarrassing.

Now, sitting there with Chanyoung watching him from the bed, he traced the crease in the paper, feeling the familiar softness where it was worn from being folded and unfolded so many times. It was the only letter Night Fury had ever written in English. Something about that made it feel more personal than the others, like whoever it was had tried to impress him… or test him.

Sohee wasn’t sure what that meant.

But he couldn’t deny that every time he read it, something warm fluttered in his chest before he remembered to be annoyed.

He was so caught up in staring at the words, turning them over and over in his head until they blurred, that he didn’t even notice Chanyoung moving. His eyes were tracing the cramped, jagged handwriting as if it might suddenly rearrange itself into something less embarrassing, less raw.

By the time he felt the slight rush of air from Chanyoung’s movement, it was too late.

Chanyoung’s fingers were swift and certain, plucking the letter right out of his hand with the same easy confidence he used to steal fries from Sohee’s lunch tray. He retreated three steps in a single, smooth motion, his socked feet nearly silent against the floor, moving with grace Sohee knew too well.

“Hey!” Sohee’s voice cracked as he lunged after him, heart slamming against his ribs, a cold flush of panic racing through his veins.

Chanyoung didn’t flinch. He just held the paper aloft, his long arm lifted easily out of Sohee’s reach. His face was annoyingly calm, dark eyes unblinking.

“What is this?” he asked, his tone mild in the face of Sohee’s flailing.

“It’s nothing—” Sohee snapped, heat prickling up his neck, crawling across his cheeks.

Chanyoung’s eyebrows lifted, just slightly, but his expression didn’t change. It was that unreadable look he got when he was trying to work something out, and it made Sohee want to scream.

“ Night Fury ? You have a secret admirer?”

Sohee felt the blood rush to his face so quickly he thought he might actually pass out. His mouth opened and closed uselessly as he surged forward, reaching for the letter. But Chanyoung just tilted his wrist, raising it higher.

“Give it back!”

“Who is this person?”

“I don’t know!”

“Then why are you blushing like that?”

“I’m not blushing,” Sohee lied automatically, even as his face burned like an oven. He jumped again, but Chanyoung just kept it teasingly out of reach.

Chanyoung tilted his head slightly, studying him in a way that felt as though he was being peeled open, dissected. His eyes were too steady, too dark, holding Sohee’s gaze when all he wanted was to look away.

“Sohee.” Chanyoung’s voice dropped, the teasing edge gone. It was softer, quieter, serious. “Seriously. Who is this?”

“I told you I don’t know,” Sohee ground out, his voice catching on the last word despite himself. He hated the waver there. Hated how small it sounded. “They’ve been leaving notes in my locker. That’s all.”

For a second, neither of them moved. The silence stretched, heavy and tight, the only sound the low creak of the old floorboards as they shifted their weight.

Chanyoung didn’t look convinced. His eyes stayed locked on Sohee’s, searching for something, his jaw tight. But after another long second, he let out a slow breath and lowered his arm, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

Sohee stopped moving. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, heart still thudding like it was trying to escape.

He was bracing himself to snatch the letter back when Chanyoung surprised him. He didn’t crumple it. Didn’t shove it at him in disgust.

Instead, he stepped forward, slow and deliberate, and pressed it carefully into Sohee’s palm. Their fingers brushed for half a second and Sohee felt it everywhere, like a static shock that sank into his bones.

He sat down hard on the edge of the bed. His legs folding. The letter crackled in his fist, the crumpled edges biting into his skin as he held it like it was the only thing tethering him to the room.

He didn’t look up. He couldn’t.

There was nothing he could hide from Chanyoung. Nothing he hadn’t already spilled across years of bickering but knowing they had each others back no matter what. He’d told him everything else. From the stupid humiliations to the worst moments of his life.

But this.. This was different.

He’d been planning to tell him anyway. Maybe. Eventually. To ask what he thought. To see if maybe Chanyoung could help him figure out if it was a joke, if it was real. Because as much as Wonbin and Sungchan delighted in gossiping about it, they couldn’t keep a straight face for more than five seconds. They didn’t understand. They never really took anything seriously.

But Chanyoung did. Chanyoung always listened.

And lately… Sohee had been thinking about it.

About replying.

About saying yes.

About meeting the person behind the letters.

Because as pathetic as it was, as humiliating as it felt, he was so tired of feeling like his heart was stuck in place.

Since his seventeenth birthday, since that stupid, perfect, painful night on that hill, he’d known.

He was in love with his overgrown best friend and he’d fantasized about telling him. About being brave. About taking his heart out of his chest and handing it over, ugly and messy and hopelessly his.

He’d almost done it, too. So many times. But every time, something stopped him. 

Maybe it was the way Chanyoung talked about girls so easily, so unthinkingly, not realizing how every offhand mention felt like a slap.

Maybe it was the way he avoided Sohee’s eyes when conversations got too serious.

Maybe it was that awful certainty in his gut that no matter what they shared, no matter how many nights they stayed up talking or how many mornings they walked to school shoulder to shoulder, Chanyoung could never see him that way.

Chanyoung was someone Sohee could never reach. He was from a world Sohee only ever saw in newspaper headlines. The kind of family that held fundraisers and wielded influence like a weapon. The kind of family that chose their children’s futures for them before they were even born.

It was too easy to imagine Chanyoung someday standing next to someone beautiful, polished, acceptable. Someone who looked good in a family photo. Someone whose name carried weight. Someone who is not a boy but a girl. Someone nothing like Sohee.

A small nudge at his shoulder startled him, snapping him back to the present. He jerked his head up, blinking.

Chanyoung was sitting beside him now on the narrow bed, close enough that their knees touched. His long fingers drummed lightly against his thigh before going still. There was no judgment in his face. No mocking smirk. Just his presence. Just silence.

The kind that somehow made everything hurt even worse.

“So,” Chanyoung said, his voice casual like they were just picking up a conversation they’d left off earlier. “You have a secret admirer.”

His tone was light, almost teasing, but Sohee could feel the weight behind the words. He kept his eyes on the crumpled letter in his lap, fingers smoothing over the edge of the worn paper as if it might unravel the knot tightening in his chest.

Sohee shrugged, shoulders curling inward in an instinctive attempt to make himself smaller. “I think it’s not that important.”

Chanyoung leaned his head slightly, his gaze steady and unreadable. “It looks important,” he said, not unkindly. “You almost tackled me over it.”

A flush bloomed up Sohee’s neck before he could stop it, burning at the tips of his ears. He ducked his head further, hoping the curtain of his hair would hide the betrayal of his skin. “It’s really not,” he mumbled, though it sounded less convincing than he meant it to.

“But you’re keeping the letters,” Chanyoung pointed out, softer this time. Gentle, like he wasn’t trying to pry, just trying to understand.

Sohee didn’t have a response to that. Not one he could say without unraveling completely.

They fell into silence, the kind that wasn’t empty but thick with all the words that couldn’t be said. The space between them felt fragile.

Chanyoung’s knee brushed against his, the contact light but solid and grounding.

Sohee didn’t pull away.

It made something coil tighter in his chest. This impossible closeness made him want to lean into the warmth, to close the space completely. It also made him want to bolt from the room, slam the door behind him, and run until he couldn’t feel anything at all.

Then Chanyoung spoke again, careful now. “Do you like this… Night Fury?”

Sohee’s stomach dropped. His throat went dry. His eyes stayed glued to the folded paper in his hands, the inked words blurry but memorized by now.

Did he like Night Fury?

The thought caught him off guard even though he’d asked himself the same thing for weeks. Whoever they were, they were sweet. Charming in a clumsy, overconfident kind of way. They wrote like someone trying too hard but also trying sincerely. They’d made him laugh when nothing else could. Made him feel noticed. Seen. Like someone was watching not to mock but to admire. And for a while, that had been enough to make his heart skip.

But… sometimes the lines got too familiar. Too bold. They lingered in ways that made his skin prickle with unease. Compliments that crossed from flattering into something heavier.

And yet, even as he weighed that, his mind drifted back to Chanyoung. To the way Chanyoung looked at him when he explained something slowly, like Sohee was the only one who mattered. To the way his laughter settled in Sohee’s chest like a melody. To the way Chanyoung sat beside him now, calm and quiet, asking questions that could rearrange Sohee’s entire world. But he couldn’t say any of that. Not out loud.

So he picked the only answer that felt safe. “I haven’t met him.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth, either.

Chanyoung didn’t move. His posture didn’t shift, but Sohee could feel the intensity of his gaze. “I’m not asking if you’ve met him,” Chanyoung said. “I’m asking if you like him.”

Sohee’s heart clenched. He couldn’t look up. He knew that if he looked into Chanyoung’s eyes now, he’d see something he wouldn’t be able to ignore. Wouldn’t be able to pretend away later. So he kept his eyes fixed on the letter. And before he could stop himself, before he could think of a better way to hide, he nodded.

It was the first time he’d admitted it out loud to anyone. The first time he’d acknowledged even to himself that this dull ache in his chest was real. That Night Fury, whoever they were, had become more than just a curiosity.

The silence that followed was louder than anything Sohee had ever heard. He felt like he was holding his breath underwater. 

Chanyoung didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Didn’t even flinch. There was no sharp inhale. No soft exhale of disappointment. Just a slow movement of his hand reaching for his phone. His thumb swiped across the screen once, twice. “Alright,” he said at last. “Finish your exercises.”

Sohee swallowed, throat tight. He turned back to his textbook. The words blurred together. The pencil in his hand suddenly felt twice as heavy.

Chanyoung’s presence beside him was still there. Unchanged. Still warm. Still solid. Still everything Sohee wanted but couldn’t have.

For the next hour, neither of them spoke.

Sohee pretended to study.

Chanyoung pretended not to glance at him when he thought Sohee wasn’t looking.

And Sohee caught it once. The way Chanyoung’s eyes lingered too long, his jaw clenched tight, his thumb motionless on the glowing screen.

Sohee looked away before he could see more. Bent over the worksheet, he tried to focus. Tried to find comfort in grammar rules and fill-in-the-blanks.

But behind his ribs, his heart was breaking in silence.

 

*

 

Chanyoung postponed every study session they’d planned for the entire week. No warning, no real explanation. Just a text that felt colder than usual.

On Tuesday night, like always, Sohee had sent the usual message, fingers moving automatically as he typed it out with quiet hope:

“We good tomorrow? My place. Bring your notes. I found you another practice test.”

Normally, Chanyoung would respond in seconds. Maybe a string of emojis, maybe an over-the-top dramatic “Ugh I hate you but fine 😩,” or even a “You just want me for my snacks 😒.”

But this time, the reply came hours later, well past midnight, if the timestamp was anything to go by. As if Chanyoung had only remembered the message while half-asleep, thumb barely swiping across the screen:

 

From: Lee Chanyoung

Sorry. Can’t this week. Someone’s coming to stay.

 

That was it. No emoji. No follow-up. No “next week for sure?” or “I’ll make it up to you”.

Sohee had stared at it under his blanket, rereading it until the screen dimmed on its own. His thumb hovered over the reply bubble, then backed away. He didn’t send anything. Didn’t even hit like. He just let the cold message hang there.

The urge to throw his phone at the wall had never felt stronger. 

Of course, by Wednesday, Wonbin and Sungchan had already sniffed out that something was off. Like bloodhounds armed with gossip and zero boundaries.

At lunch, they flanked him at their usual table, their plastic trays clattering down like a tactical move.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Sungchan asked without missing a beat, leaning forward with his chin propped in his palm, eyes glittering with amusement.

“Not my boyfriend,” Sohee muttered, stabbing his rice.

Wonbin made a loud tsking noise. “Your study date’s canceled this week, huh?”

Sohee’s grip on his chopsticks tightened. His eyebrow twitched with restraint.“Shut up.”

Wonbin’s face lit up. “Oh my god, it’s true,” he gasped, nearly bouncing in his seat. “What’s wrong? Did you fight? Did you confess and get rejected? Did he finally realize you’re in love with him?”

Sohee placed his chopsticks down carefully. Slowly. “Fuck off.”

Sungchan snickered, reaching out to toss an arm lazily around Sohee’s shoulder. It was his version of comfort despite him being a menace. “C’mon. Seriously. What did he say?”

Sohee hesitated for a beat, the words bitter on his tongue. “He just… has someone staying over.”

“Who?”

“He didn’t say.”

Ever overdramatic, Wonbin clutched his chest. “Scandalous.”

Sohee resisted the consuming urge to flip the entire table over and walk out. He tried not to think about it after that. 

But every time he walked home from school, every time he passed the gate Chanyoung usually leaned on, it felt like something vital was missing. Like walking with one shoe on. Like an itch behind your eye you couldn’t quite scratch.

On study days, they always walked together. Even if Chanyoung finished class earlier, he’d wait for him, loitering near Sohee’s classroom door, messing with his phone or talking to passing juniors. They’d bicker about what snacks to buy, debate the most efficient route, mock each other’s handwriting. It was just their thing.

But now Chanyoung was… busy. Sohee knew he had a life of his own. Chanyoung’s world didn’t revolve around him. He could have other friends he could hang out with. He had to accept that Chanyoung’s not his property.

Sohee tried to bury himself in glee club practice instead. He stayed late. He ran the steps until the music blurred. Until the mirror fogged. He told himself it helped. He pretended he didn’t check his phone every time it buzzed.It was never Chanyoung.

By Friday evening, something inside him had worn thin.

He was trudging home from practice, gym bag slung heavy over one shoulder, damp hair clinging to his forehead. His limbs were sore but pleasantly numb, the ache dulling the buzz in his head. He rounded the corner to his neighborhood and stopped dead in his tracks. There was a car in front of Chanyoung’s house, one he didn’t recognize. It was sleek white sedan, newer than anything Mr. Baek ever drove. The windows were tinted, the paint gleamed, and the plate was clearly out-of-town. Not from here. 

His eyes drifted to the woman standing beside the trunk. And the breath left his lungs.

She wasn’t just pretty. She was blinding.

Her hair fell in soft, light brown waves, catching the sun and bouncing with every movement as she bent to retrieve a suitcase. Her skin was golden and unblemished and her long sleeve top clung perfectly to her slender frame. A skirt revealed the smooth curve of her thighs as she turned, graceful and effortless.

Sohee just stood there, half-hidden behind a rusted lamppost, watching like a deer caught in headlights.

She laughed at something on her phone, tipping her head back just enough to reveal the elegant curve of her jaw. Her smile was effortless. Bright. Confident.

Sohee swallowed hard.

There was a sudden, humiliating heat crawling up the back of his neck. His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. And then, because fate clearly hated him, she looked up. Her eyes found him and she lit up like she’d been expecting him all along.

“Hi!” she called, voice bright and smooth. She waved, her smile widening.

Sohee blinked. He had not planned for interaction. Not with her. Not when he was sweaty, tired, emotionally wrecked, and wearing a ratty club hoodie with one drawstring missing. Panic surged through him. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

He was unarmed. Unequipped. Completely unprepared.

And all he could think was: She’s the one staying over? With Chanyoung? And he couldn't tell me?

She was speaking English, he realized with dawning horror. The words hit his ears fast and smooth, completely unmanageable.

“Are you a neighbor?” she added, still in English, voice lilting and bright, her smile so easy.

Sohee felt his brain short-circuit in real time.

His English skills were, at best, serviceable for reading, and only because of Chanyoung’s endless drills and flash cards that still gave him nightmares. But speaking? Responding on the spot to someone like her? His mouth felt like it was full of marbles.

He panicked. “I…uh…Hello? Yes. Neighbor. There. My house.” He pointed stupidly at his own house next door, like a five-year-old showing off a crayon drawing.

She brightened even more, which didn’t seem physically possible but somehow happened anyway. “Oh! You live there! It’s nice to meet you! I’m Sophia.”

Sophia. The name landed like a punch.

It was such a pretty name. Too pretty. So annoyingly elegant it sounded like it should come with a perfume ad and violin music.

She was saying other things too, her lips moving in quick but he couldn’t track any of it. It was all a blur of syllables crashing over his head. He caught only scraps: Chanyoung, stay, plenty.

What did that mean? What did plenty mean?

He felt lightheaded. His face was burning. The knot in his stomach twisted tighter until he was sure he might actually puke onto the pavement.

“Sorry,” he blurted out, waving both hands frantically in a ‘no’ gesture like he was signaling air traffic. “No English. No understand English.”

She giggled. 

He wanted to die. Right there. Just drop dead and be scooped into the trash along with the fallen leaves.

And as if the universe decided he wasn’t humiliated enough, the front door of Chanyoung’s house swung open with the squeak of old hinges.

Sohee turned, and then he really wanted to die.

Because Chanyoung stepped outside in nothing but a sleeveless shirt and gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, as casual as if he hadn’t just detonated Sohee’s entire emotional stability. His hair was damp, sticking up in unruly spikes from a shower, droplets glinting at his temple. A thin sheen of sweat glistened at the hollow of his throat.

Sohee’s brain locked up like a broken hard drive.

He snapped his gaze away so fast he almost gave himself whiplash, praying desperately that his eyes hadn’t memorized every exposed inch of skin in that single traitorous glance.

“Hey,” Chanyoung called out, sounding perfectly normal like Sohee’s heart wasn’t trying to claw its way out of his ribs. “Sohee?”

His voice was so casual it stung.

Sohee swallowed hard, trying to drag his gaze back up, forcing his face into something that wasn’t complete horror. “Hi,” he mumbled, voice flat and small.

Chanyoung didn’t seem to notice how stiff he was, or the way his jaw was set so tightly it hurt.

“I see you’ve already met Sophia,” he said, gesturing lazily toward her with the easy familiarity that made Sohee’s stomach lurch.

Sophia beamed at him like a goddess descending from the heavens, waving again with effortless charm.

Sohee felt his heart sink right through the pavement, dropping all the way to the earth’s molten core. He didn’t bother hiding the cold edge in his voice when he asked: “Who is she?”

“She’s a friend from New Jersey,” Chanyoung explained breezily, as if that explained everything. “She’s staying here for a couple of days before she flies to the Philippines.”

Friend. Sohee latched onto the word like it might bite him.

Friend. It sounded like a lie. Or worse, like the truth he didn’t want to hear.

He watched in horror as Chanyoung turned to Sophia and switched seamlessly into English.

Sohee felt every word thud against his eardrums like wet sandbags. He caught maybe three of them, school, neighbor, same, but the rest was a muffled blur. It felt like listening underwater, everything warped and distant.

Sophia laughed, high and delighte. Sohee saw her reach out and brush an imaginary speck of lint off Chanyoung’s shoulder.

It felt like someone had poured ice water down his spine. He realized too late that he was just standing there. Staring. He cleared his throat, the sound catching painfully as he forced his voice out. “I should go,” he managed, already turning on his heel.

Chanyoung blinked at him, looking mildly surprised. “Huh? You’re not staying?”

Sohee tried to laugh but it came out brittle, like cracking glass.

“I can smell dinner from here. My mom’s cooking.”

Chanyoung frowned, confusion flickering across his face. “You sure?”

Sohee didn’t answer.

He just lifted a hand in an awkward, dismissive wave and kept walking, refusing to look back even once. “Enjoy your night,” he muttered, voice low enough that he wasn’t sure anyone heard it.

He didn’t invite Chanyoung over for dinner that night. He didn’t even glance out the window, even when he could hear the distant, cheerful rise and fall of voices over the fence. Instead Sohee sat stiffly at the dining table with his parents, pushing rice around on his plate while his mother tried to make conversation. He pretended to listen, nodding absently, while all the while his ears strained for stray laughter or clipped English words he wouldn’t understand.

Later, alone in bed, he lay stiff and still under his blankets, the ceiling above him a blank, unhelpful expanse.

He replayed it all in excruciating detail.

Her hair, catching the light. Her easy, perfect laugh.

The way she said Chanyoung’s name. The way he looked back at her so comfortable he didn’t have to think.

Sohee felt something tight and ugly twist in his chest, pressing hard until it felt hard to breathe.

He hated it. He hated the jealousy curling hot and shameful in his gut. Hated that he felt replaced before he even knew what he was being replaced as.

He pulled the blanket over his head and buried his face in the pillow, willing himself to stop thinking.

He wished pathetically, desperately that there would be a letter waiting in his locker tomorrow. He wished Night Fury would say something so stupid it would make him laugh. He wished, more than anything, that someone wanted him enough to make him forget the girl with the sunshine smile and perfect hair. He wished he have feelings for Chanyoung this much.

 

*

 

“Still no letters?” Wonbin asked over lunch, his voice pitched in that overly casual way that fooled no one, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement as he watched Sohee sulk.

Sohee didn’t bother to look up from his tray. He slumped lower in his chair, shoulders hunched, prodding halfheartedly at his rice and sad-looking chicken nuggets.

It had been four days. Four painfully long, silent days with nothing. No square of folded paper waiting coyly in his locker. No cryptic insults disguised as cheesy pickup lines. No hearts or awkwardly drawn smileys in that familiar, wobbly scrawl that had somehow become part of his daily routine.

It had never taken this long before.

Usually, even if Night Fury skipped a day, there’d be some ridiculous over-the-top apology the next morning, something so embarrassingly self-satisfied it made Sohee want to scream while also, shamefully, making his heart do stupid things.

 

Sorry, angel. I was too busy thinking about you to write.

 

Just the memory made something in his chest twist, painfully tight and uncomfortable, leaving him no choice but to stab one of his limp nuggets so hard that the cheap plastic fork bent in protest.

Wonbin watched him with sharp eyes, popping a stolen fry into his mouth like he was settling in to watch the best drama on TV. He let the silence stretch out just long enough to make Sohee want to throw something before sighing dramatically.

“Damn,” Wonbin said finally, shaking his head as he chewed, “this is serious. You’re pouting so hard I can see your soul leaving your body.”

Sohee let out a short, humorless snort, refusing to rise to the bait. He kept his eyes glued to the tray as if his rice might offer him salvation if he just stared long enough.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t really want to talk about it.

Except he also kind of did.

Because it wasn’t just Night Fury disappearing without a trace that had him feeling like he was rotting from the inside out.

It was everything lately.

Chanyoung hadn’t walked home with him in days. Not even an offhand wave from a distance. Their study days had been canceled without so much as an actual apology, just a single curt message that still burned in his head.

Every time Sohee even glanced toward Chanyoung’s house on the walk home, there it was: that too-shiny car parked out front like it had every right to be there. Like it belonged.

And Sophia.

He’d seen them together the last night, and the image wouldn’t leave him.

He had stayed late at school on purpose, hoping to avoid running into them when they returned from wherever they had gone. But even with the delay, he still ended up seeing them. Chanyoung had driven himself this time, which was unusual. He rarely used his own car, usually relying on Mr. Baek to drive him if he needed to go anywhere. For three years of high school, he and Sohee had always taken the bus together without fail.

Sohee had watched as Chanyoung carry her tote bag for her, head tilted down as he listened while she chattered away in that smooth, too-easy English. She’d tossed her hair back over her shoulder like a shampoo commercial, and then she’d laughed at something he said—actually laughed, all bright and warm.

And he’d smiled back.

Not that small, reluctant twitch of his lips that he did when Sohee’s English pronunciation was so bad it was funny. Not the barely-there smirk he wore when he was pretending not to laugh at Sohee messing up idioms.

No.

A real smile.

Easy. Effortless. Natural.

Like they’d been doing it for years.

Sohee’s stomach had twisted itself into knots so tight it felt like he might throw up.

He could feel Sungchan’s eyes on him even as the other boy didn’t bother hiding his pilfering, plucking one of the only decent nuggets off Sohee’s tray.

“Seriously though,” Sungchan said around a mouthful. “didn’t you say you didn’t even like this Night Fury guy?”

Sohee’s head snapped up finally, scowl etched deep into his face.

“I never said that.”

Wonbin let out a snort that was so dismissive it might as well have been a laugh. “You absolutely did. Like, a hundred times. ‘He’s a creep,’ ‘His pickup lines are shit,’”

Sohee’s eyes rolled so hard.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t like him. I just…” He trailed off, glaring at his tray like it might help him finish the sentence for him. The words refused to come out cleanly, so he ground them out anyway, low and unhappy. “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

Sungchan stole another nugget with complete shamelessness, popping it in his mouth with an exaggerated crunch.

“Complicated how?”

Sohee’s jaw tightened until it ached.

He hated this. Hated talking about feelings, hated that they were cornering him about it here, in the middle of the noisy cafeteria. But Wonbin and Sungchan both watching him with expectant stares he couldn’t dodge no matter how hard he tried.

And that was the worst part.

Because even though he wanted to tell them to fuck off, to leave it alone, he also didn’t want to sit there in that awful silence pretending he didn’t want to talk at all.

Finally he sighed, voice dropping so low it was almost swallowed by the ambient noise of the cafeteria. He didn’t dare look up at them, eyes trained on the sad mess of rice on his tray.

“I just… I feel lonely, okay? I need his letters more than ever right now.”

The confession hung between them, settling on the table like something fragile and embarrassing that none of them wanted to disturb too quickly.

Wonbin actually stopped chewing, his expression shifting from playful to startled in an instant. Sungchan blinked at him, eyes softening.

“Aw,” Wonbin finally managed, his voice coming out weirdly gentle in a way that didn’t quite suit him. He reached across the table with all the grace of a caveman and patted Sohee’s back, the gesture clumsy but weirdly earnest. “Poor baby.”

Sohee scowled at the contact, squirming uncomfortably as he tried to shrug him off, his ears burning with humiliation. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not,” Wonbin insisted, even as he kept patting him. “You’re so touch-starved it’s tragic. We need to get you a boyfriend immediately.”

Sohee let out a strangled groan and slumped further in his seat, burying half his face in his crossed arms. He was acutely aware of the low hum of conversation and clatter of trays around them, the sound pressing in on him while he wished the cafeteria floor would just open up and swallow him whole.

Sungchan, ever the instigator, was less helpful. He tilted his head with mock sympathy, though his mouth twitched in amusement. “Is this because Chanyoung’s been playing house with that girl? What’s her name? Sophia?”

The sound of her name hit Sohee like a slap, but he didn’t have time to react before Wonbin perked up immediately, eyebrows shooting up with unholy glee.

“Are they fucking?”

Sohee made a strangled, outraged noise and slammed his palm on the table hard enough that it rattled. “Stop.”

Wonbin blinked at him innocently. “I thought I told you to just suck his dick already and save us all the trouble?”

Sungchan burst out cackling at that, leaning in to slap Wonbin’s palm in a triumphant high-five while Sohee groaned.

He stayed like that for a while, breathing hard, willing himself not to do something as pathetic as actually cry in the middle of the lunchroom. His shoulders were stiff and tight, every muscle wound up like a coiled spring ready to snap.

They didn’t push him, for once. They let him sit there, face hidden in his arms, the silence settling around them more kindly than usual. It was probably the nicest thing either of them had ever done.

After what felt like forever, Sohee finally lifted his head. His eyes were glassy, though he refused to let anything spill over, his voice emerging small and muffled. “He hasn’t told me anything.”

Wonbin’s smirk faded a little, his chewing slowing as he blinked at him. “About what?”

Sohee picked at his rice with the tips of his chopsticks, rolling the grains around. “About Sophia. About… what she is to him.”

For once, Sungchan fell completely quiet, his usual snark dying on his tongue.

Sohee sucked in a shaking breath, forcing it back out in a tremble he hoped they didn’t hear. “I don’t know if they’re dating. If she’s just a friend. If she’s someone his parents set him up with. He just… didn’t even tell me she was coming. I only found out when I saw them.”

He didn’t mention the way Chanyoung had waved from the front step like it was no big deal, the easy grin on his face while Sophia stood there smiling like she belonged there. Or the way she’d greeted him in perfect, rapid-fire English that left him frozen and humiliated, unable to string two words together. Or how he’d resorted to pointing at his own house like a lost toddler, voice cracking with “Yes neighbor. There. My house.”

He swallowed hard, throat tight enough it hurt. “I mean, look at her,” he added bitterly, voice going sharp and hollow all at once. “She’s… She’s pretty. Like, ridiculously pretty. And they have history. They were in New Jersey together for years.”

Wonbin snorted, trying for levity even as his eyes stayed serious. “Ew. America.”

Sohee didn’t even smile. “She’s nice,” he admitted, voice dropping even lower, barely audible over the cafeteria noise.

Both Wonbin and Sungchan blinked at him, caught off guard by the softness of it.

“She’s really nice. Polite. Always smiling. She says hi when she sees me even though I don’t understand half of what she says. She tries to talk to me even though I can’t respond.”

It would be so much easier if she were mean. Or fake. Or dismissive. But she wasn’t. She was all the things he wasn’t, and that stung worse than anything else.

“She’s the kind of girl his parents would love,” he mumbled, voice cracking like thin ice under too much weight.

Wonbin and Sungchan exchanged a look over the table.

“He missed school for her,” Sohee continued, trying and failing to keep his voice steady. “He didn’t even tell me he was going. Just… one day he was gone. They went to fucking Shanghai together.”

He stabbed his fork into the last cold nugget with far more force than necessary.

“Shanghai,” he repeated, the word tasting like poison. “I haven’t even been to Busan.”

Wonbin didn’t have anything smart to say this time. He just reached out and squeezed Sohee’s shoulder, firm and grounding in the only way he knew how.

Sungchan let out a long, slow exhale, fingers drumming thoughtfully on the table. “Sohee…”

Sohee shook his head, hair falling into his eyes, refusing to look at either of them. “He’s probably gonna marry her,” he whispered, voice breaking completely on the words.

It was the first time he’d dared say it out loud. The thought felt like it physically hurt to give shape to, like it scraped his throat raw on the way out.

Wonbin didn’t tease him. He didn’t say anything at all. He just kept his hand on Sohee’s shoulder, warm and heavy and there.

Sungchan’s eyes softened, losing their usual sharp humor. “You know… he’s an idiot,” he offered finally, voice low.

Sohee snorted wetly, trying and failing to hide how his eyes burned. “So am I.”

Wonbin’s grip tightened, thumb brushing the seam of his shirt, quiet and reassuring.

They sat there like that for a while, the usual roar of the cafeteria fading around them into something dull and distant.

Sohee hated crying so he didn’t. He refused. But his eyes prickled hot and he blinked hard, again and again, willing himself not to let anything spill.

He wished Night Fury would just leave another dumb letter.

One more stupid joke.

One more ridiculous compliment.

Anything.

Because if he had that maybe he wouldn’t feel so impossibly, unbearably hurt.

 

*

 

It appeared on Friday morning, folded carefully into its usual perfect square, his name written in that same familiar cramped script he could recognize even half asleep. For four whole days, Sohee’s locker had been painfully empty. He hadn’t admitted to anyone, not even to himself, how many times he’d checked.

He’d tried to act like it didn’t matter, slamming the locker shut with so much force that the entire row rattled like brittle teeth. He’d stomped away with his head bowed low, ignoring the pointedly sympathetic or nosy looks that Sungchan and Wonbin shot him. He’d told himself over and over that it was stupid to expect anything at all. That it was better this way. That Night Fury ghosting him was some cosmic punishment for letting himself get so damn attached to anonymous words on paper.

But the truth was that every single day without a letter had felt like losing a tiny piece of something he hadn’t even realized he needed.

That morning, he stood frozen in front of his locker longer than he meant to, staring at the familiar square of paper, his fingers tightening around it before he even dared to open it. Around him the school hallway was a frenzy, the low roar of voices, the squeak of rubber soles on old linoleum, the dull slam of doors closing too hard, someone screeching a greeting two doors down. It all faded into a dull, static roar in his ears.

His heart was beating too hard.

He unfolded the letter slowly, carefully, as if it might crumble to dust if he was too rough. And then he read.

 

My dearest Sohee,

 

I’m sorry I haven’t written anything these past few days. I’ve been busy with some personal things, and I wish I could explain everything to you. Maybe one day, when I’m brave enough to tell you who I am.

Did you miss me? I really missed leaving you these notes and imagining you reading them. I noticed you seemed a little down lately. Is everything okay? I’ve seen you hiding your face during lunch. I don’t like seeing you sad. You don’t deserve to feel that way. I hope whatever’s bothering you passes soon.

I miss hearing your laugh with your friends. I miss seeing how your whole expression softens when you’re happy. And I keep thinking about those little beauty marks on your face that form a constellation. I know you probably don’t even notice them, but I do. I think they’re beautiful.

I really think I’m in love with you, Sohee. I don’t think I can hide that anymore.

 

Yours,

Night Fury

 

He read it once, twice, a third time. By the fourth reading, the words blurred at the edges, swimming in his vision. He felt pinned in place, like his feet had taken root in the scuffed linoleum.

I really think I am in love with you.

Those words sat too big in his chest, pressing at his ribs like they wanted to force their way out. It was like having something lodged in his throat that he couldn’t cough up or swallow down.

No one had ever said that to him before.

Not like that.

Not even close.

He felt a laugh bubbling up inside him, but it wasn’t the good kind. It was thin and sharp and wet at the edges, the hysterical sort that trembled in the space between crying and laughing without ever making up its mind.

I keep thinking about those little beauty marks on your face that form a constellation.

His fingers twitched, and he reached up automatically to press a self-conscious fingertip against his left cheek where those moles lined up like Cassiopeia. How could they even notice something like that? 

Sohee swallowed hard, throat feeling raw. His head felt too light, almost dizzy, like there wasn’t quite enough oxygen making it to his brain.

He finally managed to slam his locker shut. It was only the shriek of Wonbin’s voice somewhere down the hall that snapped him out of it, pulling him back to reality. “Sohee! Oi! Why are you late? Sungchan’s hoarding your damn bread roll!”

He startled visibly, jerking like someone had shocked him, and hastily shoved the letter deep into his bag, cramming it between his books like it might burn him if he held it too long.

Even as he walked away, he felt like he was glowing from the inside out. Like the words were branded onto his skin in neon letters that everyone could read.

Someone is in love with me.

He hated how much that thought made his stomach flip over itself, twisting with something unbearably warm and unbearably vulnerable all at once.

They met up in the cafeteria, the usual corner table already half-filled with members of the dance club who were halfway through their trays and mid-discussion about choreography. The familiar hum of voices, the clatter of metal trays against plastic, and the occasional shriek of laughter from a nearby table filled the room.

Sungchan didn’t miss a beat. The moment Sohee sat down, he tossed a warm bread roll at his chest with just enough force to make it bounce off his blazer and land messily in his tray.

“Took you long enough,” he said, eyebrows raised in mock annoyance. “We were gonna start eating without you.”

Wonbin, of course, leaned in dramatically across the table, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial sing-song. “Or maybe someone got another letter.”

Sohee’s ears burned at the implication, the heat creeping up his neck before he could stop it. He ducked his head and tore into the bread like it had personally offended him.

“Shut up,” he muttered, chewing fast, like stuffing his mouth might prevent any further interrogation.

But of course, they wouldn’t let it go.

“You did, didn’t you?” Wonbin pressed, eyes gleaming like a kid with a secret. “Oh my god. He wrote you again.”

Sohee tried to keep his face neutral, cool, unaffected but it was already too late.

“No,” he lied, voice far too quick, far too flat.

Sungchan let out a loud snort. “Liar. Your face is literally red. Dude, you’re the worst at lying.”

Wonbin, never one to miss an opportunity, practically crawled halfway across the table. “What did he say this time? Another ‘Did it hurt when you fell from heaven’?”

Sohee didn’t answer.

Because every time he even thought about the letter, about that line, his throat went tight and his brain scrambled to keep up.

I really think I’m in love with you.

It was still looping in his head like a song he couldn’t get rid of, every repetition making his chest feel hotter, tighter. He could hear the pulse in his ears louder than the cafeteria noise.

He’d spent so many nights wondering who Night Fury really was, trying to picture the face behind the letters, the voice behind the words. Imagining the reveal like a movie scene. A hidden smile. A whispered name. Some ridiculous but sweet gesture.

Was it someone he saw every day? Someone who had been watching him closely enough to notice things even his friends didn’t?

He remembered the part about him hiding his face during lunch. The way Night Fury had picked up on that detail, the way he always noticed the smallest things.

Sohee dragged a hand over his mouth, suddenly self-conscious, scrubbing at his lips.

Wonbin finally sighed with great theatricality, slumping back into his seat.

“Fine. Don’t tell us,” he said with exaggerated disappointment. “But you’d better not get all shy and throw it away. I want that in the archive.”

Sungchan gave Sohee a smug little smirk. “Yeah, for the museum exhibit on your tragic love life.”

Sohee rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. They were assholes. Loud, nosy, absolutely relentless assholes, but they were his beloved assholes.

He spent the rest of lunch picking half-heartedly at his food, not tasting anything, trying not to think too much. Trying to pretend like the letter hadn’t completely scrambled his brain.

But it was impossible.

He found himself sneaking glances at it again in the middle of class, carefully sliding it out from between the pages of his textbook, using the bulk of the book to shield it from view.

His heart beat faster every time his eyes landed on the same lines.

I keep thinking about those little beauty marks on your face that form a constellation.

I don’t want to see you sad.

I really think I am in love with you.

The words hit differently when he read them alone, quiet, surrounded by classmates who had no idea he was falling apart in his seat. 

It was terrifying.

It was exhilarating.

It was…good.

When the final bell rang and students rushed out in a flurry of chatter and shuffling chairs, Sohee stayed in his seat, unmoving. His hands were still, his head bowed, the letter gripped tightly between his fingers. His heart was hammering against his ribs, too fast, too loud. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then pressed the letter to his lips before slipping it back into his bag and zipping it shut.

When he got home, he went straight to his room, kicked the door shut behind him, and dropped his bag on the bed. The letter tumbled out and landed gently on the comforter.

He picked it up carefully.

He read it again.

And again.

His chest ached because part of him wanted to scream with giddy disbelief. Someone loves him. Someone had seen him, written to him, cared enough to notice the little things.

But the other part of him, the quieter, more bitter part, couldn’t help feeling like the letter was mocking him.

Because he didn’t want just someone.

He wanted Chanyoung.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, letter in hand, and stared at the words. He traced the ink with a tentative fingertip, wondering what it would feel like if he could believe this was from Chanyoung.

He imagined it, just for a second, that it was his handwriting, his voice. That it was Chanyoung who had said all these things. That it was Chanyoung who loved him like this.

It was torture.

But he couldn’t stop.

When his mom called him down for dinner, he tucked the letter back into the box under his bed with the others. He closed the lid with reverence, like sealing away shards of glass.

That night, long after the lights were off and the house had gone quiet, Sohee lay awake in the dark. He listened to the soft hum of the refrigerator downstairs, the far-off drone of passing cars, the creak of the hallway floorboards as his parents got ready for bed.

He turned the words over and over in his mind like they were sacred.

I really think I am in love with you.

He pressed his fingers lightly to his cheeks where his moles were.

He let himself smile.

Just once.

Just for himself.

And then, with the letter still echoing in his thoughts, he closed his eyes.

 

*

 

Chanyoung returned to school the following week, though Sohee had known he was back even before he actually saw him. He knew because there had been noise in the house next door again, sound carried so easily through the thin walls and open windows in the early autumn air. Sophia’s bright, clear laughter drifted over the yard, mixing with Chanyoung’s lower, warm tone in a way that made Sohee feel sick to his stomach. He knew because Wonbin, ever helpful in the worst ways, had messaged him that morning before school to say he’d seen Chanyoung’s hummer parked in front of the bakery downtown.

But mostly, Sohee knew because of the little plastic bag that had been waiting for him on the kitchen counter.

He’d woken up on Saturday morning bleary-eyed and resentful after a restless night, hair sticking out in every direction and still wearing the same wrinkled shirt from the day before. He trudged into the kitchen to find his mother humming softly to herself as she moved between the stove and the sink, the smell of warm rice and fried egg thick in the air.

She turned when she heard him come in, her smile a little too bright to be natural.

“Oh, you’re awake,” she said with a careful cheerfulness, casting a meaningful glance toward the counter. “That’s for you. Chanyoung dropped it off last night.”

Sohee’s chest went cold.

He remembered the doorbell ringing the previous evening. He remembered his mother calling up the stairs for him once, twice. He’d ignored it. Had rolled over in bed, burying his face in the pillow, forcing his eyes shut and telling himself he hadn’t heard a thing.

But now there it was: proof that pretending hadn’t made it go away.

A small, crinkled shopping bag with a glossy logo.

He moved toward it on stiff legs, peering inside without touching anything at first like it might bite him. There were chocolates in shiny gold foil that glinted mockingly under the kitchen light. A little tin of dragonfruit tea with “Shanghai” printed in looping, elegant calligraphy. And resting on top was a sleek black keychain shaped like a dragon, the metal polished enough to catch his warped reflection.

His fingers finally closed around the bag’s handle, clenching until the thin plastic dug into his skin.

He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath.

His mother watched him from beside the stove, her movements slowing, her expression shifting from forced brightness to something gentler, sadder.

“He said they’re souvenirs,” she offered softly after a moment. “That he picked them for you.”

Sohee didn’t answer. He just kept staring at the contents, heart thudding too hard, a heavy, aching pulse that seemed to echo through his whole chest.

Without a word, he finally turned and walked out of the kitchen, the bag crinkling in his fist. He took it to his room and put it in the back of his closet behind a stack of old school binders. He didn’t even open the chocolates.

When Sunday passed without so much as a single text from Chanyoung, not even a casual question about homework or a dumb meme at 2am, Sohee told himself he felt vindicated.

But really, he just felt sick.

They hadn’t actually fought. That was the worst part. There hadn’t been a screaming match or harsh words or slammed doors. They’d just… stopped checking up on each other. Stopped talking altogether.

Sohee told himself it was fine. That it was better this way. That it was what he wanted.

But then Monday came.

And Chanyoung was there.

When Sohee opened his front door to leave for school, the morning still a washed-out gray with the promise of autumn rain in the air, he nearly turned right back around and locked himself inside.

Because there they were, standing in the driveway next door.

Chanyoung and Sophia.

They were hugging.

All of Sophia’s expensive-looking suitcases were lined up beside her shiny car with its yawning open trunk. She was laughing at something, her voice ringing clear and bright in the still morning air. Chanyoung had one arm slung over her shoulders with an ease that made Sohee’s stomach twist painfully. He was smiling in that relaxed, half-lidded way he only did when he was genuinely happy, the way Sohee hadn’t seen in days.

They looked so comfortable. So natural. Like she belonged there in that little space beside him.

Maybe they were saying goodbye. Maybe she was leaving. Maybe that should have made Sohee happy.

But all he felt was the dull, leaden throb of something bruised and ugly in his chest that told him he’d been right to keep his distance.

He didn’t want to see Chanyoung’s face.

Didn’t want to see how gently he held her.

Didn’t want to see the way she beamed up at him like he was the only person in the world.

So Sohee did the only thing he could think of. He shoved his earphones in so hard they made his ears ache, cranked the volume until the bass rattled his brain, and walked right past them.

He didn’t say hello.

He didn’t even glance their way.

He kept his eyes pinned to the cracked pavement, willing himself not to look up. Not to look back. Not even once.

As he walked, his thoughts turned mean and desperate, spiraling out in ugly directions he couldn’t stop.

Maybe they’re dating. Maybe they slept in the same bed the entire trip. Maybe he kissed her goodbye this morning. Maybe he likes her.

He hated himself for thinking it.

But he couldn’t make it stop.

When he finally reached the bus stop, he let out a ragged sigh of relief, convinced for a moment he’d managed to outrun it all.

But the relief died in his throat when he felt a presence at his back. He turned slightly, eyes narrowing and nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized who it was.

Chanyoung.

Not in his fancy car.

Not with Sophia.

Just standing there.

Chanyoung’s hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles like he hadn’t even bothered brushing it before rushing out. He was breathing harder than usual, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven huffs that suggested he’d actually run to catch up. There was color high on his cheekbones, not the healthy flush of exercise but something rawer, angrier. His eyes were dark, locked onto Sohee with an intensity that felt like it was stripping him bare.

“Don’t think I don’t know you’re avoiding me,” Chanyoung said, voice low and rough. Without warning, Chanyoung reached out and caught the cord of Sohee’s earphones between two fingers. He tugged sharply, yanking one free so the thumping music cut off in a harsh, abrupt silence.

Sohee’s hand shot up instinctively, catching the dangling bud before it fell to the ground. He scowled at Chanyoung, fingers tightening around the cord like he might strangle him with it.

“I’m not avoiding you,” he lied immediately, voice too sharp, too defensive, sounding petulant even to his own ears.

Chanyoung snorted, an ugly, humorless sound that made Sohee flinch.

“Then look at me.”

Sohee’s jaw tightened until it hurt. He turned deliberately, chin lifting with stubborn pride, eyes fixed on some cracked patch of pavement like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Why are you even here?” he bit out, his voice spitting with venom he didn’t quite mean. “Shouldn’t you be in your stupid car? Go back to your filthy rich way. You don’t belong here.”

It came out meaner than he intended, his words like glass shards thrown without aim.

He heard Chanyoung suck in a sharp breath behind him, the sound slicing the thick air between them.

But when Sohee risked a quick glance back over his shoulder, Chanyoung’s face was completely unreadable. His eyes were dark, mouth pressed in a flat, grim line, no trace of that teasing smile or cocky swagger.

He didn’t say anything.

Sohee ripped his gaze away, jamming his earphones back in with shaking hands. He turned his back completely and forced himself to breathe, each inhale and exhale burning in his chest.

The bus arrived with a hiss of brakes and groan of doors, swallowing the silence between them. They both got on.

It was packed, bodies pressing in on all sides, the smell of old upholstery and too many students layered over everything. Sohee pushed himself as far forward as he could, gripping the overhead bar with so much force his knuckles whitened. He stared resolutely at the scratched plastic of the bus driver’s partition.

But he could feel Chanyoung behind him.

Could feel the weight of his stare boring into the back of his head the entire ride.

When they got off near the school gates, the crowd spilled out onto the cracked sidewalk in a jumble of noise and elbows. Sohee was already striding away, desperate for distance, when he heard Chanyoung’s voice behind him.

“Let me walk you to class.”

Sohee spun around so fast he almost cracked his forehead into Chanyoung’s. “Don’t you dare.”

Chanyoung’s jaw worked, muscles bunching as he clenched his teeth. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I swear to god, Chanyoung, if you don’t leave me alone right now I’ll never talk to you again.”

That did it.

Chanyoung actually froze.

For a heartbeat, Sohee thought he saw something crack in his eyes. But then Chanyoung’s face shuttered, going completely blank. He turned on his heel and walked away without another word, his long strides swallowing the distance between them in seconds.

Sohee stood there trembling, watching him go until the crowd swallowed him up.

He didn’t go to class right away.

Instead, he ducked into the empty stairwell next to the science lab, pressing his palm over his mouth to muffle the harsh sound of his own breathing. His chest hurt, tight and hot, like he’d just punched himself in the ribs from the inside. He could feel the tremor in his fingers even as he squeezed them into fists.

By the time he finally managed to pull himself together enough to walk into the cafeteria for lunch, Sungchan and Wonbin were already there, lounging at their usual spot with their trays half-finished.

They both looked up when they saw his face.

Sungchan let out a low whistle, eyebrows shooting up.

“Damn. You look like you want to commit murder.”

Sohee didn’t even bother responding. He just dropped his tray onto the table with a noisy clatter that made the forks jump.

Wonbin leaned forward with all the subtlety of a gossiping auntie, eyes narrowing in delight.

“Trouble in rich-boy paradise?”

Sohee didn’t answer. He focused on stabbing his rice over and over with his chopsticks, breaking the clumps into mush.

Sungchan followed his line of sight across the noisy room. Chanyoung was there with the rest of the swimmingl team, sprawled across chairs like they owned the place. But he wasn’t laughing with them, wasn’t shoving his teammates playfully or cracking jokes. He was sitting rigidly straight, arms crossed, jaw tight.

And he was staring.

Directly at Sohee.

If looks could kill, Sohee would have been a red stain on the cheap linoleum.

“Angry golden retriever guy won’t stop glaring at you,” Wonbin observed helpfully, voice as cheerful as ever. “What the fuck is his problem?”

Sohee didn’t look up. He didn’t want to see it. “For god’s sake, Wonbin. Just call him Chanyoung.”

He could feel the weight of Chanyoung’s stare like a hand pressing against his throat, making it hard to swallow. He refused to lift his head. Because if he did, if their eyes met, he knew he might actually cry.

Instead, he shoved his hand into his bag and pulled out the letter he’d gotten that morning.

Short. Simple.

But somehow exactly what he needed.

 

My dearest Sohee,

 

Good morning. I hope to see you smile today. Even just once. I noticed you haven’t been smiling much lately. I wish I know what’s bothering you. Care to tell me? I hope you’re okay. I don’t want you to be sad. Even if you’re far away from me, I feel blessed just to see you every day.

 

Yours,

Night Fury

 

Sohee’s throat closed up painfully.

He pressed the letter flat against the table with trembling fingers, smoothing the worn fold carefully.

He didn’t even notice the silence that had fallen over their corner of the cafeteria until Sungchan cleared his throat.

“What are you doing?”

Sohee blinked and glanced up, face hot.

Wonbin was watching him with an annoyingly smug look that made Sohee want to throw his entire tray at him.

“I’m writing back,” Sohee muttered, voice low and determined.

He grabbed a napkin from his tray and smoothed it flat on the table.

“On a napkin?” Sungchan asked incredulously, voice cracking like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“It’s what I have,” Sohee snapped back, clicking his pen decisively and starting to write.

The napkin was cheap and thin, threatening to tear under the pressure of his pen. But he didn’t care.

Wonbin was cackling now, loud enough to make people at the next table glance over.

“Holy shit. He’s actually doing it. He’s writing back to Night Fury.”

Sohee didn’t even bother looking up. His tongue was caught between his teeth in concentration as he carefully formed each letter, ignoring the way the paper wrinkled and bunched.

“I just hope,” Wonbin added helpfully, “that the name is accurate. You know. Describing his—”

“Shut up, Wonbin,” Sohee hissed, face blazing red.

“How will you send it to him?” Sungchan asked. He had a point.

“I’ll just slip into the crack of my locker. If he sees it when he drops the next letter, good. If he doesn’t, then we’re not meant to to talk.”

He wrote slowly, carefully. Words he’d been holding in for weeks.

He didn’t know who Night Fury was.

But they noticed him. They cared.

They wanted him to smile.

And right now, especially right now, it’s all Sohe needed.

 

*

 

To: Night Fury

 

Your letters are really sweet. Thank you for writing them. I hope we can meet soon so I can say that properly. I’ll try to write on nicer paper next time. I have to go to class now. Bye!

 

Sohee

 

*

 

Dear Sohee,

 

I was honestly surprised you wrote back. Are you sure you really want to meet me? I’d really love to finally see you in person, but I’m scared I might not be what you’re expecting. I don’t want to disappoint you. Still, knowing you enjoyed my letters makes me really happy. It actually gives me hope.

 

Yours,

Night Fury

*

It wasn’t even a surprise anymore to find Chanyoung in their living room. If Sohee was being honest with himself, it had stopped surprising him years ago. Chanyoung had inserted himself into the Lee household so thoroughly that he came and went like he owned a key, kicking off his shoes at the door without asking, wandering into the kitchen to open cabinets and rummage in the fridge even if no one was home. He didn’t ask permission anymore. He never had to. Sohee’s parents treated him like a second son, doting on him, praising his grades, scolding him gently for skipping meals. And Chanyoung had always acted like he deserved it.

But lately it felt like Chanyoung’s constant presence was just a reminder of everything Sohee had lost. Of how much distance had sprouted between them like stubborn weeds, choking out whatever easy friendship they used to share.

When Sohee pushed the door open that evening, backpack heavy on one shoulder, weighed down with textbooks and loose-leaf notes scrawled in three different colors he’d half-decipher later, the first thing he heard was the TV. Baseball commentary blared from the living room, his father’s voice layered over it in excited narration, playing armchair announcer for every pitch and swing. And threaded through that background noise was a lower, smoother laugh he recognized instantly: Chanyoung’s.

Sohee didn’t even glance over as he stepped inside. He hunched his shoulders, head ducked so his hair fell into his eyes, and mumbled a quick, automatic greeting to his parents that barely qualified as words. He did his best not to see the way Chanyoung’s gaze swung toward him the moment he walked in, sharp and assessing, ready to pounce on any acknowledgment.

“You’re late again. You’re coming home late these days,” his mother called over her shoulder, voice mild but carrying enough warning to make Sohee wince. She was already halfway into the kitchen, checking the simmering pots and clattering dishes. “Come down quickly. Dinner is almost ready.”

Sohee didn’t lift his head. “Okay,” he muttered, the words dry in his mouth, and turned immediately for the stairs, taking them two at a time even though his legs felt like lead. His heart was beating far too hard for something so stupid and small.

He didn’t respond when Chanyoung’s voice drifted lazily after him.

“Hey. Sohee.”

He shut himself in his room with a quiet click of the door, letting his bag fall off his shoulder and thump onto the floor. He pressed his back to the door for a moment, breathing out slowly, trying to steady himself. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching on tangles he hadn’t bothered to brush out.

He hadn’t planned on being that late.

But he’d lingered at the library after school, pretending to study long after his group had packed up and left. He read the same page over and over, the words blurring until they meant nothing, watching the slanted light from the windows fade to dull gray as the sun set behind the buildings.

It wasn’t that he liked being in the library.

It was just that he couldn’t stand the idea of running into Chanyoung at the bus stop again.

Sohee wasn’t stupid. He’d noticed. He’d seen Chanyoung waiting, leaning casual against the pole of the shed. He was trying to corner him.

Trying to talk.

Trying to fix whatever this was.

And Sohee couldn’t let him.

So he’d stayed behind in the library instead, forcing himself to join a study group of near-strangers, nodding along at their endless exam prep plans, pretending to care while they quizzed him on verb conjugations until he wanted to scream. Because at least there, he wouldn’t see Chanyoung’s stupid, determined face waiting for him.

In his room, he pressed a hand flat over his chest as if he could physically hold himself together, fingers curling in the soft cotton of his shirt, pressing hard enough to hurt.

He stayed there until his mother’s voice drifted up again, sharper this time with the kind of tone that brokered no argument.

“Dinner’s ready!”

Sohee exhaled slowly, pushing away from the door.

He took the stairs one at a time, each step feeling heavier than the last. When he reached the bottom, he paused for half a second before stepping into the light of the dining room.

They were all already there.

His father sat at the head of the table, glasses sliding down his nose, brow furrowed in concentration as he ladled soup into his bowl. His mother bustled around, laying out an extra set of utensils.

And there was Chanyoung, in his usual seat.

He looked perfectly at home. He was leaning back slightly, one long arm draped lazily along the back of the chair. When he saw Sohee, his brown eyes brightened immediately, gaze locking onto him with unsettling focus.

Sohee didn’t return it.

He just walked to his own chair, pulled it in close with a loud scrape that made his mother flinch, and sat down hard.

He kept his head down.

Kept his eyes on his rice.

Refused to see the way Chanyoung was still watching him, patient, waiting for something Sohee didn’t have it in him to give.

Dinner was quiet. Or at least, he was quiet. Chanyoung wasn’t. He was leaning forward, talking animatedly to Sohee’s parents about Shanghai, voice warm and confident, describing the food in such detail Sohee could almost smell it, painting pictures of the skyline with words, describing the crowds and neon lights of the markets like he was giving them a private tour.

Sohee’s mother was eating it up, resting her elbows on the table like a kid, eyes bright with genuine curiosity as she peppered him with questions. His father nodded along solemnly between bites, like he was committing everything to memory for some future trip they both knew they’d never actually take.

Sohee didn’t say anything. He just kept his eyes on his bowl, shoving rice into his mouth one slow bite at a time, counting the chews so he wouldn’t have to listen too closely. But of course he listened anyway. He couldn’t not listen. Chanyoung’s voice was too familiar, too steady and warm, curling in his ears and making something heavy twist in his stomach.

And then Chanyoung seemed to catch himself halfway through describing some rooftop bar.

“…and then we met up with some old friends. Stayed with them for a couple of nights…”

There was a small hitch in his voice. His eyes flicked sideways, just for a heartbeat.

Sohee refused to look up.

He stabbed at his rice like it had personally wronged him. It sounded too much like Chanyoung was trying to make a point. Trying to clarify that they hadn’t been alone the whole time. Trying to prove something without saying it outright. Or maybe that was just Sohee’s own bitterness filling in the blanks.

Of course his parents adored it. They loved hearing about places they’d never see, leaning in like he was a celebrity travel guide. They would have had to save for years just to afford a single week abroad. But Chanyoung? Chanyoung just went. Just hopped on a plane. Just lived this whole other life Sohee couldn’t even imagine.

When Sohee finally scraped the last grain of rice from his bowl, he stood up so quickly that the legs of his chair shrieked against the floor, making everyone flinch.

“Thank you for the food,” he muttered stiffly, bowing his head toward his mother.

She blinked in surprise. “You’re done already?”

“Got homework.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He turned and fled up the stairs, heart hammering in his ribs like he’d sprinted a mile.

He heard Chanyoung’s voice follow him, low and unhappy.

“Hey. Sohee.”

He didn’t answer.

He let the door swing shut behind him with a solid click. He dropped onto his bed like his legs had given out, curling forward until his elbows rested on his knees and his hands tangled in his hair.

He couldn’t stand Chanyoung acting like nothing was different. Acting like they hadn’t stopped talking. Like Chanyoung hadn’t gone away and told him nothing about it.

He sat in silence for a long time, not moving, not even turning on music to fill the quiet. Just listening to the muted clatter of dishes in the kitchen downstairs, the murmur of voices through thin walls.

After nearly an hour, there was a knock on his door.

“Sohee. Trash.” His mother’s voice was pointed, brooking no argument.

He sighed, pushing himself upright with a groan. “Okay.”

He tugged his dark green hoodie on over his t-shirt, yanking the hood up even though it wasn’t cold, like armor he could hide behind. He stomped downstairs without meeting anyone’s eyes, snatched the trash bag from the kitchen, and jammed his feet into his battered house slippers.

Outside, the air was cool, the ground still damp from yesterday’s rain, smelling faintly of wet soil and fallen leaves. He forced himself to stomp down the steps with purpose, determined to dump the bag and get back inside before—

He froze halfway down.

Chanyoung was sitting on the edge of the pavement, knees drawn up, arms draped over them loosely. He wasn’t even trying to act casual. He was just…there. Waiting. His head was tipped forward, eyes fixed on the dirt and scattered leaves in front of his shoes.

He was still in his school clothes, a blue button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, khaki jeans a little scuffed at the knees. The collar was rumpled, hair sticking up at the back like he’d run a hand through it too many times. He looked unfairly, stupidly handsome.

The door creaked behind Sohee, and Chanyoung’s head snapped up immediately. His eyes locked onto him, dark and intent, voice low.

“I thought you wouldn’t come out.” He pushed himself to his feet in one fluid movement, brushing dirt from his jeans.

Sohee’s scowl deepened. “Go home.”

He stalked to the trash bin and slammed the lid open with more force than necessary, chucking the bag inside like it had personally insulted him.

Chanyoung didn’t move.

“Please,” he said, voice softer now, rough around the edges. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

Sohee shoved his hands deep into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, fingers clenching so tight they ached. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

It was the first time Chanyoung had actually sworn at him in weeks. The word snapped through the quiet yard like a slap.

Chanyoung’s voice broke a little, getting rougher. “It’s been two weeks, Sohee. Two weeks of you ignoring me. Blocking my calls. Avoiding the bus stop like I’m a serial killer. I don’t even know what I did.”

Sohee jerked his head away, refusing to look at him, his throat tight enough he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“Is it Sophia?” Chanyoung pressed.

“No.” It was such an obvious lie he couldn’t even say it with conviction.

“Then what is it?”

He didn’t answer.

He could feel all the words he couldn’t say pressing like thorns in his chest.

I don’t like you touching her.

I don’t like you smiling at her.

I don’t like that you left me behind.

I don’t like that you make me want you.

Chanyoung took a slow step forward, voice hoarse.

“You started acting weird the moment she got here. So just tell me. Please. I can’t fix it if you won’t even tell me.”

Sohee’s eyes squeezed shut. His voice shook when he forced it out. “Just…don’t mind me.”

Chanyoung made a harsh, frustrated sound in his throat. “That’s not good enough.”

But Sohee was already backing away, hoodie sleeves bunched in his fists.

“Don’t mind me,” he repeated, voice cracking for real this time.

He turned and bolted up the steps, yanking the door open so hard it slammed against the wall with a rattling bang.

He didn’t look back. Because if he did, he knew he’d say it.

All of it.

I don’t want you to be with her.

I want you to look at me.

I want you to choose me.

But he couldn’t. Because they weren’t lovers. Because Chanyoung didn’t owe him anything. Because Chanyoung couldn’t even know.

He slammed the gate close and pressed his forehead to it, the cool metal grounding him as he tried to control his breathing, fighting back the hot sting in his eyes.

Outside, he heard footsteps. Slow. Heavy.

He knew Chanyoung was leaving.

And he hated himself for wanting to run after him anyway.

 

*

 

To: Night Fury

 

I read your letter a lot of times before I even tried writing back. It’s… a little overwhelming. I’m not used to someone saying those things to me. I don’t really know how love is supposed to work. I don’t think anyone’s ever really told me they’re in love with me before.

I keep wondering… how did you know? How can you tell? Sometimes I feel like I don’t understand anything about it.

I want to be honest with you since you’ve been so open with me. There is someone I really like right now. It’s complicated. I’m not even sure he’d want me if he knew. I don’t know how he’d react. Part of me is scared to find out.

If we ever met, and I told you that… would you hate me? Or be mad? I don’t want to lie to you. I think you deserve to know the truth.

I’m sorry if this is disappointing. I don’t want to hurt you. But your letters… they make me feel less alone. They make me smile even on really bad days. I guess what I’m trying to say is, even if I don’t know what to do about all of this yet… I’m really grateful you’re here.

 

Sohee

*

 

My dearest Sohee,

 

When I first started leaving you these letters, I knew I was risking getting hurt. I tried to be ready for it. After all, who would trust someone who can’t even say things to your face? Someone who hides behind a paper like a coward. I always wondered if you’d see me and think, “This guy’s a creep.” Maybe even call me a stalker. Honestly? I wouldn’t have blamed you.

I thought you’d just throw the letters away. That was the picture I had in my head the first time I slipped one into your locker. You finding it, crumpling it up, leaving it in the trash like it was nothing. I braced myself for it.

But you didn’t.

You kept them. Even when you pretended they were dumb or acted embarrassed. And now… we’re actually talking like this. If you’d told me back then that you’d ever write back to me even just once I wouldn’t have believed it.

I want you to know, I didn’t do any of this because I expected you to like me back. I just wanted to make you smile. Even if it was for someone you couldn’t see. Even if you never found out who I am.

Do you want to know when I realized I loved you? It wasn’t anything big. Just a particular moment that got stuck in my head. I heard you tell Wonbin that one of my dumb pickup lines was actually funny. You laughed, even though you tried not to. You covered your mouth like you were embarrassed. And right then I thought I want to be the person who gets to see you laugh like that every single day. I want to be the reason you smile.

You don’t know this, but you have this way of lighting up the whole space around you when you’re happy. It makes everything better. It makes me better, even if you don’t realize it.

You said there’s someone you like. I want to be honest with you too. Hearing that… yeah, it stings. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel jealous. But I don’t think I have the right to be angry about it. You’re not mine. You’re your own person, and you get to love whoever you want.

But I have to ask. Does he hurt you? Because if he does, if he makes you feel small, or sad, or not enough, I don’t think I could just sit back. I’m not that noble. I’d fight for you. I wouldn’t let anyone make you think you don’t deserve to be loved exactly the way you are.

I want you to know that loving someone always means risking something. Every single letter I gave you was me taking a risk. Telling you these things now is a risk. But you’re worth it. Even if it doesn’t go the way I want. Even if it ends with you choosing someone else.

Because at the end of the day, I just want you to be happy. Even if it’s not with me. But if you’d let me… I’d want the chance to try.

 

Yours,

Night Fury

*

 

“So. Secret admirer upgraded to pen pal now?” Wonbin’s voice sliced through the squeak of sneakers on the polished gym floor, startling Sohee enough that his pen jerked messily across the paper. He shot Wonbin an unimpressed glare, quickly bending back over his notebook to hide what he’d been writing. The two of them were perched on the hard wooden bleachers waiting for class to start while the teachers fussed with the scoreboard.

Sohee hunched his shoulders and scowled at the words he’d managed to scribble before being interrupted. “He’s the only person I know who I can talk to with sense,” he muttered without looking up. Wonbin immediately clutched both hands to his chest, gasping as though he’d been mortally wounded. “All along I thought I was your most sensible friend! I’m so offended, Lee Sohee!”

“Yeah, you’re not. Whatever.” Sohee dismissed him with a sharp flick of his wrist, refusing to meet his eyes. If he did, Wonbin would see the flush rising at his throat, embarrassment creeping up his neck. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to admit that he was scrawling on the back of his math notes because he didn’t even have proper stationery for a reply. He didn’t want to explain that he’d been agonizing over the words for days, rewriting sentences until the page looked like a war zone.

And he definitely didn’t want to admit it actually felt good to have someone who listened, even if it was only through ink and crumpled paper. Night Fury felt safe. It was stupid and childish, but it was safe.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t sit up in the bleachers forever pretending he was invisible. The whistle blew sharp across the gym, the teacher’s voice booming over the din, calling everyone to line up. Sohee snapped his notebook shut and shoved it deep in his bag, dragging himself off the bench.

He hated gym class. It wasn’t just that he was bad at it. He was legendary in his ineptitude. It was the humiliation of being seen failing so spectacularly, of being pitied or, worse, openly mocked. The smirks from athletic classmates, the fake-sympathetic offers to “help” him shoot a basket like he was a charity case.

Today was basketball again. Sohee felt his stomach twist. He briefly considered faking a stomachache, but one glance at Sungchan’s flat, warning glare earlier had shut that down. Apparently he needed to pass P.E. to graduate, and he was already on thin ice after last week’s near-fail.

As if things weren’t bad enough, the two gym teachers had decided to combine classes “for socializing.” Sohee’s heart sank as the other class filed in, sneakers squeaking, laughter too loud in the big space. He did his best to keep his head down, pretending to retie his shoelaces even though they were perfectly secure.

But of course he saw him immediately. Tall and broad-shouldered, hair a little messy from hurrying over, leaning in to say something to his friends that had them cracking up. Sohee’s mouth went dry. He snapped his gaze to the floor, fingers tightening.

It got worse when Chanyoung actually walked over. But not to him. He went straight to Wonbin and Sungchan, greeting them with that easy grin, slapping Sungchan’s shoulder and ruffling Wonbin’s hair. They both burst out laughing at something he said, their heads tipping toward him, entirely at ease.

Sohee held his breath, every muscle in his body tensed for the moment when Chanyoung would glance over at him. Waiting for anything. But Chanyoung didn’t even flick an eye in his direction. He just turned, still laughing, and jogged back to warm up with his teammates.

Something in Sohee’s chest twisted sharply, painfully. He wanted to punch himself for how pathetic he was being. He forced himself to look away, stomping over to the edge of the court to claim his usual spot at the sidelines. Arms crossed tight over his chest, he refused to even pretend he was going to play.

He told himself it was fine. He liked it better this way, not having to embarrass himself in front of everyone. He didn’t want to run up and down the court like an idiot with everyone watching. But even as he thought it, he watched. He watched Chanyoung. 

Chanyoung played with confidence that made Sohee’s teeth grind. He wasn’t polished or neat about it. He was all sharp elbows and knees, unpredictable and sloppy, but it somehow worked for him. He laughed when he missed a shot, clapped his teammates on the back even when they fumbled. 

Halfway through the period, the ball went wild, bouncing across the glossy floor toward where Sohee stood. His heart thudded painfully as it rolled to a stop at his feet. Chanyoung lunged after it, sneakers squealing slightly on the wood as he braced one hand on the floor to steady himself.

He ended up right in front of Sohee.

For a single, breathless moment, Sohee hoped he’d glance up, meet his eyes, maybe smirk, maybe say something stupid. Anything. But Chanyoung didn’t look at him at all. He just grabbed the ball, pushed himself upright, and jogged back onto the court without a single word.

Sohee felt his face go hot enough to burn. He bit down on the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted copper, eyes stinging with frustration he refused to let fall.

When class finally ended, Sohee didn’t even bother pretending to stretch like the others. The moment the whistle blew and the game wrapped up, he snatched up his bag and stomped toward the door without looking back. He could feel the sweat still cooling on his skin, a thin sheen clinging to his neck and the back of his knees. His limbs ached, but not from effort. From restraint.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Chanyoung. The taller boy was laughing at something a teammate said. Chanyoung waved at Wonbin and Sungchan, exchanged a few more words with the group, and didn’t even glance in Sohee’s direction.

Not even once.

Sohee felt something cold and sour flood his stomach. It twisted deep, turning everything heavy. He didn’t wait around for his friends, didn’t linger at the lockers or pretend to tie his shoes. He pushed through the gym doors and headed down the hallway alone, his footsteps loud and angry against the tile. His bag dug into his shoulder. His skin felt too tight in places. His throat itched with words he didn’t have the courage to say.

By the time he reached the school gate, he was walking fast enough to be a blur. Halfway home, he heard their voices behind him. Wonbin’s shout first, then Sungchan calling his name. They had jogged to catch up, and Wonbin was the one who reached him first, grabbing his elbow and forcing him to stop.

“Sohee! Hey. What’s with you?”

“Nothing,” he snapped, jerking his arm away hard enough to nearly lose his balance.

“Who are you kidding?”

Sungchan was still catching his breath as he straightened up. “Seriously. You were glaring holes in Chanyoung’s back the whole time.”

Something ugly flared in Sohee’s chest. Hot. Bitter. He clenched his fists at his sides. “He’s a prick.”

Wonbin blinked in surprise. “That’s new. Didn’t you call him ‘the sun’ last month?”

A strangled, frustrated sound tore out of Sohee before he could stop it. His voice rose, cracked. “We’re not friends anymore.”

Wonbin raised both eyebrows in mock surprise. “Oh. It’s like that now.”

Sohee didn’t answer. He turned on his heel and stormed off again, not caring if they followed. He didn’t want to explain it. Couldn’t even if he tried. His thoughts were loud and jumbled, crashing into each other so fast he couldn’t hold on to a single one. But they followed anyway. Of course they did.

They ended up at the arcade two blocks from school. Sohee yanked open the door with so much force the bell above it jangled offbeat. Lights blinked. Machines whirred. Synthetic music blasted from all sides. It was chaotic. Crowded. Just what he needed.

“Fuck studying English,” he growled as he marched past the claw machines. “I need to hit something or I’ll explode.”

Wonbin and Sungchan exchanged one of their infamous silent looks, some unspoken conversation passing between them in a single breath, but they didn’t argue. They followed him in without a word.

Sohee stomped straight to the Whack-a-Croc machine, shoved a token into the slot so hard it clattered, and snatched up the foam mallet with both hands. The game buzzed to life. Plastic crocodile heads began to pop out of their holes.

He didn’t hesitate.

“He’s a prick!”

WHACK.

“I hate him!”

WHACK. WHACK.

“I HATE HIM!!!”

WHAM. WHAM. WHAM.

Other kids turned to look. The bored teenager behind the prize counter barely raised an eyebrow, too used to students having meltdowns to care. But Wonbin and Sungchan watched quietly, arms crossed, expressions unreadable.

“You told him to not mind you,” Wonbin observed, picking up tickets as they spilled out of the machine, “and now that he doesn’t, you’re mad at him. You’re worse than a girl.”

The hammer froze mid-air. Sohee turned toward him, eyes narrowed, murder glinting just behind the surface.

“Shut your muth, Wonbin.”

Unfazed, Wonbin kept gathering the strips of paper tickets like they were sacred scrolls. “I’m just saying,” he said cheerfully. “You’re sending some real mixed signals here.”

Sungchan shifted his weight against the skeeball machine, arms folded. “Just tell him how you feel already.”

Sohee stood motionless, the hammer dropping from his hand to swing on its cord. He took a breath, but it came out shaky. “It’s not that easy,” he said softly.

Sungchan’s voice lowered, no longer teasing. “I know. But it’s not supposed to be easy. It’s just supposed to be honest.”

Wonbin let out a long sigh and draped his arm around Sungchan’s arms, leaning in to nuzzle his neck with dramatic affection. “I told him the second I saw him that I was in love. Never regretted it.”

Sungchan rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away. Wonbin pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Sohee watched them, chest aching. He turned back to the machine. The crocodile heads stared at him, mouths wide, eyes frozen. They looked less like reptiles now and more like something else. A dragon maybe.

Night Fury.

He stared at the plastic grin on one of the crocodile’s faces and felt his heart twist in his chest. He didn’t want to admit it, but Night Fury ’s words echoed again in his mind. Loving someone means taking risks.

He wasn’t ready.

Not for that kind of risk.

Not when everything felt so unsteady beneath his feet.

His voice was low when he finally spoke, barely audible over the buzz of machines and the blare of video game music.

“Maybe…” He swallowed, forced himself to say it again. “Maybe it would be easier if I just…was with someone I know actually likes me.”

Wonbin’s expression sobered instantly. His playful smile faded. He looked to Sungchan, but neither of them said anything. For a moment, it was just the sound of the arcade pulsing around them.

But within that noise, Sohee felt a silence settle between them. He bit his lip and turned away from their gaze, blinking fast. His vision blurred slightly, and he blamed the lights.

 

*

 

To: Night Fury

 

I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I know you said love is about taking risks… so I’m going to try. This feels like a risk for me, but maybe it’s the right time now.

I want to meet you. I think I’m finally ready. I don’t know what to expect or what you’ll think when you see me, but I want to try anyway.

I’ll be at the glee club practice room tomorrow. You probably already know what time our practice usually ends. I’ll stay behind afterward so you can find me more easily. Please come. I’ll wait for you. Even if I’m really nervous, I want to do this.

See you.

 

Sohee

 

*

 

The last of the glee club members spilled out the door at exactly five. They left in a noisy swarm, laughing and shoving each other, backpacks bouncing against shoulders. A few paused at the door to wave back at Sohee, their grins careless and bright.

“You sure you don’t want company?” one of them called, pausing just long enough to smirk.

“Practice, remember?” he replied, forcing a tight smile that felt stiff on his face.

“Ugh, you’re too dedicated,” someone else teased as they shoved past, laughter fading down the hall.

He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated show, waving them out until the door swung closed and the metal latch clicked shut.

Silence followed immediately, swallowing the big, echoing room. It felt heavy despite the wide-open space. Almost suffocating.

Well, not complete silence. His phone sat plugged into the battered portable speaker on the floor beside him, pumping out a glossy pop song with mechanical beats that bounced off the walls in cheap, shallow echoes. The sound felt out of place in the emptiness, hollow and staged, something meant for crowds rather than a single kid slouching on the polished wood.

He didn’t move to dance. Not yet.

He was supposed to. That was the story he’d given them. That he needed extra time to catch up on steps he was behind on. That he was too serious to go home just yet. But he hadn’t even managed to get on his feet.

He sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor, facing the huge mirror that stretched from wall to wall. His own reflection slumped back at him. His hair was falling messily into his eyes, his arms resting limply on his knees, legs sprawled in an undignified tangle. He looked smaller than usual.

He let out a long sigh and dropped his chin to his chest, letting the music fill his ears rather than his thoughts. The beat pounded on, manufactured and empty, no comfort in the forced cheer of the melody.

His fingers closed tighter around the letter he had been reading for the fifth, maybe sixth time. The paper had gone soft at the edges already, worn from too many nervous foldings and unfoldings. He smoothed it out on his knee and read it again anyway.

 

My dearest Sohee

 

Thank you for wanting to meet me. I’m really grateful. But I’m scared I’ll disappoint you. I want you to know I’ve been worried about your English grade, too. You work so hard. I don’t want you to feel like you’re failing.

 

Yours,

Night Fury

 

Sohee let out a quiet, humorless laugh that scraped his throat on the way up.

“Too late for that,” he muttered, voice sounding strange in the big room.

He picked at the corner of the paper with restless fingers, folding and unfolding it into the same creases over and over until the edges curled. This person had such an infuriating way of writing things that made him feel exposed, seen in places he didn’t want anyone looking. It was confusing. Unsettling.

They could be anyone. Anyone in his class. Anyone at school. Someone shy and quiet he’d never noticed. Someone older with too much time on their hands. A stranger with no reason to pay this much attention to someone like him.

He’d spent too many late nights thinking about it, turning over every possibility in his head. Imagining it in detail, then trying to erase the images before they rooted too deep. In some private, shameful corner of himself, he’d started to hope it might be someone he could actually want back. Someone safe. Someone who wouldn’t make him feel like this was some doomed, humiliating one-sided joke.

Someone who wasn’t Chanyoung.

Because that was the entire point of agreeing to this meeting. To stop this stupid, endless crush from eating him alive. To prove he could move on. That he didn’t need Chanyoung.

He swallowed hard, staring at the smooth, polished floor until the pattern of wood grain blurred in his vision. The music switched to another song without him even registering what it was.

He read the letter again, slower this time, as if the words would rearrange themselves into something less raw.

When the second song ended, the speaker went quiet, leaving only the faint buzz of the old wiring in the walls. And that was when the door creaked on its old metal hinges, the sound too loud in the hush of the studio.

His whole body tensed. He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. His fingers crumpled the letter before he remembered to smooth it quickly. His breath hitched. His heart was thudding so hard he could hear it in his ears.

This was it.

He’s here.

Night Fury.

He swallowed and lifted his eyes, trying to force them steady.

And his stomach dropped.

It was Chanyoung.

Sohee went utterly still. He felt frozen, as though someone had flipped a switch and drained all the heat from his limbs. His mouth went dry. His brain felt blank and heavy at once.

He didn’t even know what expression was on his face.

Chanyoung closed the door quietly behind him, cutting off the sounds of the empty hallway, shutting them in together in that huge, echoing space.

He watched Chanyoung take slow, deliberate steps forward, the sound of sneakers squeaking faintly on the room cutting through the silence. For a moment that felt painfully long, Sohee tried to tell himself it was a coincidence. Maybe Chanyoung had just come because he’s tired of waiting for him at the bus stop. Or he was done playing this game with him and he wants to talk to him once and for all. Anything would have been better than what was actually happening.

But Chanyoung didn’t say anything reassuring or convenient.

“What are you doing here?” Sohee demanded, the words tumbling out too sharp, his voice cracking in a way that betrayed everything he wanted to hide. He snatched up his phone and stabbed at the screen until the cheerful pop music died in an abrupt, awkward silence. He didn’t get up. Didn’t even try. His knees felt locked, too heavy to lift, refusing to cooperate.

Chanyoung didn’t answer immediately. He simply closed the distance, moving with that stubborn calm that made Sohee grit his teeth. He lowered himself onto the polished floor without breaking eye contact, settling cross-legged directly across from him in perfect mirrored posture.

Sohee hated it. He hated how natural it felt for Chanyoung to sit there, how this friendship had become over the years, how it dug under his ribs and scraped at his heart.

His glare deepened as Chanyoung unzipped his bag. He watched every movement, dread pooling thick in his gut when he realized what Chanyoung was pulling out.

The torn pieces of paper from his math notebook.

All of them.

His letters.

Even from a distance, Sohee could see the familiar crumpled edges, the lines of hasty, cramped writing, the humiliating little hearts he’d drawn on one when he hadn’t been able to help himself. His breath hitched. He felt cold all over, the kind of cold that started in his stomach and crawled up his spine.

“How did you get those?” he demanded. He meant it to sound firm, but it came out cracked and thin, barely holding together. He wanted to lunge forward and snatch them out of Chanyoung’s hands, but his legs refused to budge.

Chanyoung didn’t look triumphant. He didn’t even look amused. Instead, there was something in his expression that made Sohee feel worse, a half-smile that trembled at the corners of his mouth, sad and resigned all at once.

“You’re really stupid,” Chanyoung said quietly.

“Excuse me?”

Chanyoung’s fingers tightened on the letters, the paper crinkling softly. His gaze didn’t waver.

“Obviously,” he said in that same low, steady voice, “I’m Night Fury.”

Silence swallowed the room whole.

Sohee blinked. The words hit him but refused to sink in. They floated somewhere above his head, refusing to make any sense. His ears rang with the rush of blood. His throat worked uselessly.

“No.” His voice shook so badly he hated hearing it. His heart thundered painfully against his ribs. “Stop it.”

Chanyoung didn’t flinch. He stayed exactly where he was, letters resting heavy in his hands, eyes fixed on Sohee with an intensity that burned.

“Where did you get those letters?” Sohee’s voice rose in panic, volume cracking in the big empty room. His hands curled into fists so tight his nails dug into his palms, little crescents of pain grounding him.

“Where’s the real Night Fury? Stop playing games. This isn’t funny!”

“I told you,” Chanyoung said, voice flat but shaking just enough to betray him. “It’s me. It’s always been me.”

“YOU CAN’T BE IN LOVE WITH ME. STOP LYING!” 

The words ripped out of him in an ugly scream that bounced off the high walls and crashed back over them. His voice broke at the end, cracking on the last syllable. He felt heat flood his face, stinging at his eyes. He blinked furiously, refusing to let tears spill.

Chanyoung didn’t move. He just watched, careful and quiet, the hurt clear on his face but held in check, as if he was terrified that one wrong move would make everything worse.

Sohee’s chest heaved with each breath. His head pounded with the rush of his own pulse. He felt exposed, humiliated, every thought and fear laid bare in the ugly echo of his shout.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

He had come here to meet someone new. Someone who felt safe. Someone he could want without this ache in his bones. Someone who wouldn’t peel him open with every glance and leave him raw and unguarded.

Chanyoung shifted slightly closer on the floor.

“Sohee,” he said gently.

“Don’t.”

Sohee scrambled back, palms scraping painfully on the floor. His voice cracked again.

“Don’t say my name like that. Don’t—just don’t.”

He heard the desperation in his own voice and hated it. Hated that it made him sound small. Hated that Chanyoung was here at all. Hated that he had ever wanted this.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he demanded, voice high and shaking. “Why this? Why all the letters? Why make me—”

He choked on the words. “Why make me hope?”

Chanyoung’s face twisted, pain flickering openly across his features. He looked as though he was trying to stop himself from lunging forward to close the distance.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he said finally, voice breaking on the words. He swallowed hard before continuing. “I didn’t know how to say it without scaring you. Without ruining everything. I just wanted you to know how I felt without you… without you running away from me.”

Sohee let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. It rattled in his chest and hurt his throat. “Great job. Really nailed it.”

Chanyoung winced at that, shoulders hunching. Slowly, carefully, he set the stack of letters down on the floor between them as if they might break if he wasn’t gentle enough. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice so quiet it barely carried.

And for the first time, Sohee believed he meant it.

But that didn’t make it easier.

It only twisted the truth tighter in his chest, pressing sharp edges into his ribs.

Because he did want this.

Because Chanyoung was the last person he wanted this to be and the only person he had ever wanted at all.

Because there was no safe choice anymore.

He buried his face in his hands, fingers pressing hard against his eyes until colors burst behind them in the dark. His voice scraped out low and rough.

“Fuck you,” he mumbled into his palms.

It wasn’t said with heat or fury. 

Chanyoung didn’t move. He didn’t crowd closer or try to pull Sohee’s hands away from his face. Instead, his voice came soft and careful, threading through the silence of the studio. “I really am in love with you, Sohee. Even if you don’t want to hear it.”

Sohee sat there, shuddering, fighting to keep his breathing even, trying and failing to drag the pieces of himself back inside. His chest ached with the struggle, with the humiliating truth that his heart was sitting there between them, open for Chanyoung to see.

For a long moment there was only the rough, uneven sound of their breathing, filling the too-big room with its static. Overhead, the fluorescent lights hummed in their tired, colorless glow, making everything feel uncomfortably bright and brutally real.

Sohee’s heart pounded like a fist against his ribs. His arms hung useless at his sides, his fingers numb and slack against the floor. He could not seem to remember how to move or speak or even inhale without feeling that painful catch in his chest.

Chanyoung’s gaze was intent enough that it felt invasive, prying into every corner of Sohee he had tried so hard to hide. It made him want to curl in on himself, to vanish into the floorboards rather than let Chanyoung see what this was doing to him.

When Chanyoung finally moved, it was abrupt enough to make Sohee flinch. He pushed himself to his feet in one smooth motion, sneakers squeaking sharply on the polished wood. His shadow fell over Sohee, heavy and suffocating.

Chanyoung’s hand reached down, finding Sohee’s elbow with a firm, anchoring grip that sent heat surging up his arm. It wasn’t painful, but it was solid enough that Sohee could feel every inch of it. He considered jerking away, but he didn’t.

“I’m in love with you,” Chanyoung said. His voice dropped low, rough and shaking with honesty that cut Sohee to the bone. “That’s not a lie. Don’t you dare say it’s a lie.”

Sohee blinked rapidly, eyes blurring until he had to sniff, breath hitching in the process. He hated the feeling of wet lashes against his cheeks.

Chanyoung didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did and decided it didn’t matter. He stepped in closer, eating up what little space remained between them until they were breathing the same stale, warm air.

Sohee caught the scent of citrus, that stupid expensive cologne that Chanyoung always wore like it was his signature. It made something tight and desperate twist in Sohee’s gut.

“I was scared,” Chanyoung confessed. His voice cracked on the words, his eyes shining with something unspoken. “So I sent you those letters. Because I didn’t know how else to tell you.”

A broken sound ripped from Sohee’s chest. It might have been a laugh or a sob. He honestly couldn’t tell anymore. His vision blurred further as moisture pooled stubbornly in his eyes.

Both of them were idiots. That was the brutal truth. Painfully, miserably stupid.

Chanyoung’s fingers didn’t leave his elbow. Instead, he tugged, gentle and coaxing, encouraging Sohee to lean forward without forcing him. Sohee didn’t resist. His body felt too heavy to fight anymore.

Chanyoung’s shoulders slumped a fraction, relief bleeding out of him in an exhale. He released Sohee’s elbow only to catch his hand instead. His grip was warm, slightly rough from calluses.

But Sohee didn’t squeeze back. He held himself stiff, his fingers curled but not tightening.

Chanyoung’s mouth twitched, his lips pressing together as if he was about to deliver some smug remark. But instead of teasing, his expression softened, gaze falling to their joined hands.

“It wasn’t my handwriting,” he admitted, voice lowering to something that felt too intimate for the echoing studio.

Sohee blinked, confusion slicing through the haze of his emotions. He stared at Chanyoung with wide, wary eyes, the tears clinging stubbornly to his lashes.

Chanyoung let out a rough, humorless laugh. “Because I knew you’d recognize it. Your weird little brain would have caught it instantly.”

Sohee scowled at that, his mouth opening in automatic protest.

But he closed it just as quickly.

Because it was true.

Of course it was true.

Chanyoung’s fingers tightened around his in a brief, grounding squeeze. “So I asked Mr. Baek to write them for me.”

The words startled an actual noise out of Sohee, something halfway between a cough and a choke. His mouth fell open. “Mr. Baek?” he croaked, voice breaking embarrassingly on the name.

Chanyoung winced, looking every bit the sheepish child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “Yeah.”

Sohee made an inhuman strangled sound, his eyes going impossibly round. “You had your butler write your pick-up lines?”

Chanyoung’s face went red, his ears visibly coloring as he sputtered. “It’s not like I dictated all of them!” he snapped defensively. “He just...helped. I gave him ideas!”

Sohee wanted the floor to open and swallow him whole. He wanted to disappear. He could picture Mr. Baek’s dignified, polite voice solemnly reading lines meant to be sexy or charming, and the mental image was so excruciatingly embarrassing he made another strangled, wounded noise and covered his face with his free hand.

Chanyoung gave his hand a gentle shake, rattling their joined grip to pull Sohee back to the moment. “Hey. Focus.”

Sohee peeked through his fingers, scowl deepening even though the heat in his cheeks betrayed him.

Chanyoung’s mouth curved into something close to a smirk, but his eyes stayed warm, fixed on Sohee with an unguarded affection that made it hard to hold the glare.

He continued, voice dropping into something softer, calmer, but no less honest. “I also paid Mr. Choi to deliver them.”

Sohee dropped his hand completely, too stunned to hide behind it any longer. His jaw fell open. “Mr. Choi?”

Chanyoung nodded solemnly, giving the tiniest, self-deprecating shrug. “He was already watching the halls. He was perfect.”

Sohee felt his brain short-circuit under the weight of it all. The absurdity. The painful sincerity. The ridiculous, humiliating sweetness of it. And he hated that some buried part of him wanted nothing more than to laugh and cry and hold on for dear life all at once.

That explained so much. It made sense now, all the odd details that had haunted him for weeks. Why Mr. Choi had always been so vague whenever Sohee tried to ambush his secret admirer. Why no one ever seemed to see anything, no suspicious shadows slipping notes into his locker, no giggling conspirators to corner and interrogate. It had all been so perfectly, stupidly arranged.

Sohee pressed his lips together so tightly they hurt, trying to contain the hysterical laugh that threatened to claw its way out of his throat. He did not know if he wanted to scream at Chanyoung until his voice gave out, break down in miserable, ugly sobs, or just collapse onto the practice room floor and fall asleep for a year.

But through the buzzing in his head and the heat behind his eyes, there was something worse than the anger, worse even than the bone-deep humiliation of being so thoroughly outmaneuvered. There was this fragile, traitorous happiness that refused to die.

Because Chanyoung was there. Not running away, not smirking like it was a joke, not pretending it did not matter. He was there, breathing hard, clutching Sohee’s hand so tightly their fingers hurt.

And his eyes were saying everything he could not.

Chanyoung watched him carefully, his gaze flicking across Sohee’s face, studying every twitch and tremble. When Sohee did not speak, did not jerk his hand away, Chanyoung shifted closer on the polished floor until their knees bumped.

“I’m sorry,” Chanyoung said quietly, voice hoarse with sincerity. “For all of it. For making you guess. For making you doubt. I just...didn’t know how else to tell you.”

Sohee’s heart lurched painfully against his ribs. His eyes stung, vision blurring for half a breath before he blinked it back. He forced himself to look up.

“I’m sorry about not telling you about Sophia.” Chanyoung kissed the back of his hand. “She’s a family friend and I couldn’t say no to Dad when he said she’s coming over and arranged our trip to Shanghai. We’re like siblings. That’s all.”

Chanyoung’s brows were drawn together, the crease between them deep with worry. His mouth was unsteady, trembling at the corners as he fought to keep it from falling apart completely. He looked so raw, so goddamn open that it made something in Sohee’s chest twist violently.

He hated him so much for this.

For making him feel all of it.

For being the only one he had ever really wanted.

Chanyoung cleared his throat, the sound rough, trying to collect himself. His shoulders lifted in a useless, restless motion before settling again. He looked almost frightened until he felt Sohee’s fingers twitch in his grasp, just enough to squeeze back.

Relief flashed through his face so bright and unguarded that Sohee nearly choked on it.

“You’re an idiot,” Sohee whispered, voice so tight it cracked in the middle.

Chanyoung’s lips curved into a crooked, lopsided smile, one corner lifting higher than the other. “Yeah. Your idiot.”

Sohee let out a wet, sputtering noise that might have been a snort or a sob. He scowled, blinking too fast. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Chanyoung’s fingers flexed around his, holding tight in that warm, anchoring grip. “You’re allowed to be mad,” he said softly. “I get it. Be mad. Scream at me if you want. Just...don’t push me away.”

Sohee blinked again, harder this time, his eyes stinging stubbornly. His throat worked around words that refused to form. He sniffed, trying to make it quiet and failing spectacularly.

“I hate you,” he muttered, voice cracking outright.

Chanyoung’s smile spread slow and bright across his face, softening all the tense lines. It made Sohee ache to look at it. “I love you too.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“There’s nothing I like about you. You’re despicable—”

But he did not get to finish.

Chanyoung leaned in, closing the last breath of space between them and pressing their mouths together in a fast, clumsy kiss. Their noses bumped hard enough that Sohee squeaked in surprise, jerking back reflexively. His back nearly slammed into the giant mirror behind him, the cold glass biting through his shirt.

He stared at Chanyoung with wide, startled eyes, chest heaving.

Chanyoung’s mouth was wet and a little swollen already. He blinked at Sohee, startled himself, before a laugh broke out, low and breathless and a little wild around the edges.

“Sorry,” he whispered, not sounding sorry in the slightest.

Sohee felt heat explode in his cheeks. He clenched his jaw, face burning so hot it felt feverish. He wanted to yell at him, to shove him back onto his stupid smug ass.

But before he could gather the strength to do either, Chanyoung’s hands came up to cradle his face. Thumbs brushed along his flaming cheeks, cupping him so gently it made something in his chest crack right down the middle.

And then he kissed him again.

This time slower.

This time like he actually meant it.

Sohee made a muffled noise of protest that dissolved almost immediately. His fingers clenched uselessly in the front of Chanyoung’s uniform shirt. He felt the heat of Chanyoung’s mouth, the way his lips moved with unsteady insistence, the soft brush of breath as they parted just enough to draw air between them.

He felt the press of Chanyoung’s fingers sliding into his hair, combing through it in slow, grounding strokes. He felt everything, too much, not enough, exactly what he wanted all at once.

A small, embarrassing whimper broke in his throat.

Chanyoung answered with a low, guttural sound, pulling him in closer, deepening the kiss in slow increments that made Sohee’s head spin.

When they finally broke apart, they were both panting, lips red and damp, breathing each other’s air.

Sohee’s hair stuck up in a mess where Chanyoung’s fingers had mussed it. Chanyoung’s mouth looked ruined and perfect, shiny in the cold fluorescent light.

For a second neither of them said anything. They just tried to catch their breath.

Then Chanyoung ducked his head and pressed a gentler kiss to Sohee’s temple, warm lips lingering.

“I meant it,” he whispered against his skin.

Sohee shuddered, fingers curling tighter in the fabric at Chanyoung’s chest.

He didn’t push him away.

He didn’t even try.

“Say it again,” he mumbled into Chanyoung’s collar, voice cracking with exhaustion and want.

Chanyoung pulled back just enough to look at him. He smiled, wide and unashamed, eyes bright even in the washed-out studio light.

“I love you.”

Sohee swallowed around the knot in his throat.

“Idiot.”

Chanyoung’s grin widened.

“Your idiot.”

This time Sohee didn’t argue at all.

He just let Chanyoung kiss him again.

 

*

 

The box under Sohee’s bed had become a monument to his own humiliation. He had not planned for it to get so out of control. In the beginning, it had been one letter, nothing more. It had arrived folded with almost obsessive precision, the writing weirdly formal in its attempt at politeness even while saying something so outrageously cheesy that Sohee had to bury his face in his pillow to muffle his groan.

He could still remember how hot his face felt as he read it for the first time, the tips of his ears burning with secondhand embarrassment at every line. The worst part was he had not thrown it away. He had told himself he would. He had even tossed it toward the trash once, but his fingers had closed around it again before it could fall in.

One letter turned into two. Two into five. Then ten. By the time he realized what was happening, there were so many he could not keep track of them without squinting at the dates scribbled crookedly in the corners.

He had told himself over and over that he would get rid of them. That it was ridiculous to keep them, that he was giving Chanyoung far too much power over him. But every time he grabbed the box, something in his chest twisted hard enough to stop him.

Just last week he had tried to do it for real. He had yanked the box from under his bed with unnecessary force, sneezing when a cloud of dust billowed out. He dragged over a trash bag and sat there on the floor, cross-legged, glaring at the stupid cardboard box like it had insulted his entire bloodline.

He had meant it. He was ready.

Until he picked up the very first letter.

 

Sohee,

 

Heaven must be mourning now because they lost an angel when you came down to earth.

 

Yours, 

Night Fury

 

He could feel his teeth grinding together even reading it again. It was so cheesy it could curdle milk. He had mocked it endlessly in his head, cursed it to hell and back, but his fingers still brushed over the letters where the ink had skipped and wobbled. He could see the way the pen strokes trembled, not confident or smooth. It made him soften even when he hated himself for it.

He remembered reading it in bed that first time, his lamp throwing shadows on the ceiling, his face hidden in the pillow so his mother wouldn’t see how red he was. He remembered the dumb, grudging smile that tugged at his lips even as he cursed under his breath.

He couldn’t do it.

He put it back.

And then he put all of them back, one by one, smoothing the torn edges, refolding the ones that had gotten bent. He stacked them carefully, rearranging them by number, the same way he’d done every single time he pretended this was the last time he’d keep them.

He told himself he was pathetic.

That they did not mean anything anymore.

He knew who wrote them now.

He did not need the evidence.

But he could not let them go.

They were proof of something he was too much of a coward to say out loud.

That was where Chanyoung found him.

Of course.

Of course he did not bother knocking.

The door swung open with a squeak of hinges, and there he was, leaning against the frame, arms folded, eyebrows cocked in that supremely punchable way.

“Still keeping them?”

His voice held a smugness that made Sohee want to throw something at his head.

Sohee refused to look up. He shoved the letter in his hand back into the box with unnecessary force and scowled at the floor.

“Shut up.”

Chanyoung laughed, but it was annoyingly soft, the sound of it spreading warmth through Sohee’s chest no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

He pushed himself off the doorframe and sauntered over, slippers muffled on the worn floorboards. He didn’t even hesitate before crouching right in front of Sohee, knees cracking slightly as he settled.

Without asking, he reached in and plucked out one of the older letters, turning it in his fingers with a slow, infuriating thoroughness.

Sohee could see the way the corner was crumpled from when he’d crammed it into his locker in a panic one morning, cheeks burning so hot he’d felt faint.

“I can’t believe you fell for me because of these.”

“I didn’t,” Sohee shot back immediately, voice cold as he kept his eyes locked on the floor.

Chanyoung’s smile only grew, that unbearably knowing tilt to his mouth that said he saw right through every lie Sohee tried to tell.

They fell silent.

The late afternoon sun was pouring through the blinds, casting broken bars of light and shadow across Chanyoung’s face. It caught on his hair, highlighting strands he had missed when combing it, the uneven mess that always made Sohee want to smooth it down even as he scolded him for not owning a brush. His skin had a faint flush to it, maybe from running to get here, maybe from the embarrassment of being caught with all these letters, old and silly and painfully real.

He did not look perfect.

He had a spot on his jaw he kept worrying at with his fingers, a faint scab that refused to heal because he would not leave it alone. His posture was terrible, his knees sticking out at weird angles. His uniform shirt was half-untucked and wrinkled.

And Sohee’s heart clenched so painfully he could barely breathe.

Because it was him.

Because he was here.

Because even in the mess of it all, in the mortifying evidence of how badly Sohee had fallen for him, Chanyoung had come anyway.

Because he made him feel safe in a way no one else ever had.

After a moment, Chanyoung set the letter back in the box with surprising care, his fingers brushing the edges as if it were fragile. He rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward slightly, his gaze softer now as it searched Sohee’s face for something unspoken.

“I’m not making you keep them, you know.”

Sohee scowled at that, his eyes narrowing with irritation he did not quite feel.

“I know that.”

Chanyoung’s lips twitched, amusement lurking behind his steady expression.

“You could burn them.”

Sohee flinched at the suggestion, the word hitting him in the chest in a way he was not prepared for.

“Why would I—”

Chanyoung’s mouth curved in that infuriating, knowing smirk.

“Exactly.”

Sohee wanted to hate him. He really did.

“Shut up,” he mumbled again, but this time his voice lacked bite. It fell softer, trailing off in resignation.

Chanyoung’s laugh rumbled low, warmth filling the small space between them.

“Not even gonna deny it properly now?”

Sohee refused to answer, biting down on any retort. Instead, he reached into the box again and pulled out another letter, pretending to smooth it even though it was perfectly fine. His eyes fell on the familiar lines that had once made his skin crawl with secondhand embarrassment.

 

If I had a star for every time you brightened my day, I'd have a galaxy in my hand.

 

He grimaced, holding it up between two fingers as if it were contaminated. “This one was the worst.”

Chanyoung leaned in closer to read it over his shoulder, his hair falling forward in an unruly wave that brushed his cheek. He made an exaggeratedly pained sound.

“Hey! That was poetic.”

“It was embarrassing,” Sohee shot back, his tone matter-of-fact and merciless.

Chanyoung’s eyes gleamed with mischief, but there was something softer behind it.

“You liked it.”

Sohee threw the letter back in the box with a frustrated flick of his wrist.

“You wish.”

Sohee pretended not to notice when Chanyoung’s hand inched closer. When fingers brushed his, hesitant at first before curling carefully between them.

“Why’d you keep them?” Chanyoung’s voice had lost its teasing edge. It was quiet now, careful, his thumb brushing over Sohee’s knuckles in a soothing rhythm.

Sohee didn’t answer immediately. His throat felt tight, words lodging stubbornly there. He stared at their joined hands, at the way Chanyoung’s larger fingers enveloped his own with a warmth he had missed more than he wanted to admit.

He swallowed hard, eyes burning.

“They’re…mine,” he managed eventually, the word cracking slightly in the middle.

Chanyoung hummed, thoughtful, patient as always in the ways that really mattered. “Yours?”

Sohee’s voice dropped to a whisper he barely recognized. “They’re the first thing that was just mine.”

He had not planned to say that. The truth of it stunned him even as it left his mouth.

Chanyoung didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk or roll his eyes. Instead he squeezed Sohee’s hand, fingers pressing tight. “You’re stupid,” Chanyoung muttered, voice rougher than before.

Sohee sniffed, glaring halfheartedly.

“So are you.”

Eventually, Chanyoung tugged gently at his hand, trying to pull him forward.

Sohee resisted at first, his voice cracking under the weight of too many feelings. “Don’t—”

But Chanyoung didn’t let go. He leaned in and pressed their foreheads together, the contact grounding and electric all at once.

Sohee tried to keep his glare going, but it fell apart spectacularly under the weight of Chanyoung’s expression.

“I’m still sorry,” Chanyoung murmured, voice pitched so low it felt like a secret. “For being an idiot. For making you think I didn’t want you. For…” He waved vaguely at the scattered letters, a wry tilt to his mouth. “All of this.”

Sohee rolled his eyes but didn’t move away. “You’re an idiot.”

Chanyoung’s mouth quirked in that way that always made Sohee want to hit him and kiss him all at once. “Your idiot?”

Sohee scowled harder, lips twitching in spite of himself. “Don’t push it.”

But he didn’t say no.

And Chanyoung must have heard the real answer in the silence because he closed the space between them and kissed him.

Slow. Careful. Thorough.

He tasted of orange soda and something reckless and honest.

Sohee let himself be kissed, let himself lean in, let the tension bleed out of his shoulders until he felt dizzy with it.

When they finally broke apart, breath mingling in the scant space between them, Chanyoung pressed their foreheads together again and exhaled shakily.

“Do you want me to go?”

Sohee didn’t answer immediately. His eyes swept over the letters lying scattered around them, the way the last light of day turned the paper edges gold. He let out a sigh that deflated his whole chest.

He shifted closer until his head rested on Chanyoung’s shoulder, the smell of him familiar and calming. “Stay,” he mumbled.

Chanyoung’s arm came around him immediately, pulling him in tight. “Yeah,” he breathed, every letter of the word shaking with relief. “Okay.”

For the first time in a long while, Sohee didn’t feel like he had to hide.

And the box stayed under his bed, full of dumb, embarrassing, important letters. He knew he would keep them forever, even if Chanyoung never let him live it down, because they were proof that someone had loved him enough to write them.

And he had been brave enough to read them.

And to answer back.

And that was how they got here.