His body moved first — two steps forward, chest heaving. And then suddenly his voice snapped Not with anger. With something else.
“Why the fuck would you keep that,” Haneul muttered, voice raw.
Seungho looked at the foil. Then at Haneul.
Then, without looking away, he folded the wrapper into a perfect square and set it down beside the keyboard.
“I don’t throw things away,” he said simply.
Haneul didn’t blink for a moment.
Then his breath caught. Just slightly.
“…It’s trash,” he whispered.
Seungho’s gaze lifted, steady and unflinching.
“No. It’s a moment.”
Haneul flinched like he’d been struck.
“I didn’t even thank you for it,” he muttered. “I was rude. I didn’t even say anything nice. Why would you—”
“Because you smiled, and you liked it, and you were honest” Seungho said simply.
That did it.
Haneul stepped back. Not far—just enough to hit the wall behind him. He leaned into it, glove still on one hand, the other clenching and unclenching like his body couldn’t decide whether to shatter or strike.
His voice, when it came, was strangled.
“That’s not fair,” he rasped. “You can’t just—keep things. I don’t know what to do when people keep things.”
Silence.
Then:
“I know,” Seungho said.
Haneul let out a broken breath. Eyes wet now, too wide, too bright.
He didn’t cry.
But when he turned to face Seungho again, something in him looked undone. Not soft. Not safe. But cracked open.
Like the idea of being wanted gently was harder to survive than anything else.
He crossed the room in three steps.
Then stopped. Right there. Right at the edge of reach.
“I hate this,” he whispered.
Seungho didn’t ask what “this” meant.
Just said, softer this time, “I know.”
And Haneul stood there, trembling.
