ʚ Nani ɞ

HUENINGKAI

𝚆: love bombing, emotional whiplash, clingy possessiveness.

TAEHYUN

𝚆: condescension, superiority complex, belittling.

BEOMGYU

𝚆: suggestive and a mention of jerking off, emotional whiplash, verbal cruelty disguised as playfulness.

SOOBIN

𝚆: victim playing, passive-aggressiveness, psychological manipulation.

YEONJUN

𝚆: cursing-verbal aggression, threats of violence (against other men), revenge porn (nudes) threats.

𝙽𝚊𝚗𝚒'𝚜 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚎: who would u dislike having as your ex more? i could probably handle all of their dumbasses except tyun's. i would drown in my tears if someone talked to me like that.

HUENINGKAI

𝚆: love bombing, emotional whiplash, clingy possessiveness.

TAEHYUN

𝚆: condescension, superiority complex, belittling.

BEOMGYU

𝚆: suggestive and a mention of jerking off, emotional whiplash, verbal cruelty disguised as playfulness.

SOOBIN

𝚆: victim playing, passive-aggressiveness, psychological manipulation.

YEONJUN

𝚆: cursing-verbal aggression, threats of violence (against other men), revenge porn (nudes) threats.

𝙽𝚊𝚗𝚒'𝚜 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚎: who would u dislike having as your ex more? i could probably handle all of their dumbasses except tyun's. i would drown in my tears if someone talked to me like that.

HUENINGKAI

𝚆: love bombing, emotional whiplash, clingy possessiveness.

TAEHYUN

𝚆: condescension, superiority complex, belittling.

BEOMGYU

𝚆: suggestive and a mention of jerking off, emotional whiplash, verbal cruelty disguised as playfulness.

SOOBIN

𝚆: victim playing, passive-aggressiveness, psychological manipulation.

YEONJUN

𝚆: cursing-verbal aggression, threats of violence (against other men), revenge porn (nudes) threats.

𝙽𝚊𝚗𝚒'𝚜 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚎: who would u dislike having as your ex more? i could probably handle all of their dumbasses except tyun's. i would drown in my tears if someone talked to me like that.

Tonight, everything had the chance to change.

After a failed heist of the Marauder's Map from the caretaker's office, you were compelled to take an improvised detour — which was the last thing you had hoped for. 

It was supposed to be a perfectly executed infiltration. You had spent the better part of a fortnight mapping the caretaker's patrol schedule down to the minute and accounting for every variable that a poorly lit, dust-choked administrative office could throw at a pair of reasonably competent students. The Map was to be acquired swiftly before anyone even realized something was missing. It should have gone without a hitch.

But then Choi Yeonjun, in all his catastrophic recklessness, knocked over a lamp with the crook of his elbow. 

There was no time to think, let alone breathe. The fast approaching footsteps of the caretaker and his cat reverberated into your bones. You spun on your heel and fixed Yeonjun with one murderous look, one that said you’d personally transfigure his organs the next time you see him, and then darted into the hidden passage behind the filing cabinet. You didn't need to tell him where to go — he knew. The two of you split, vanishing into separate secret tunnels that curved and burrowed beneath the castle like veins.

It was a manoeuvre lifted straight from the oldest pages of tactical withdrawal — splinter the team to fracture pursuit. Force the enemy to divide their attention across two corridors and lose precious seconds making up their minds. 

You ducked beneath low beams, boots scraping against damp, uneven stone, and emerged somewhere near the third-floor Charms corridor. It was dead silent. You took a moment to press your palm flat against the wall, steadying your breath; your free hand curled into a fist at your side. 

You felt the irritation that had been building since the moment of Yeonjun's mishap now fully bloom in your bloodstream. You hated disruptions to your perfectly constructed plans. More so if the plan promised you nothing but the desired result in your desired way. You despised the unpredictability of someone else’s incompetence.

The map should’ve been yours tonight. You could’ve had one of the greatest magical tools in your very hands if Choi fucking Yeonjun didn’t fuck up. 

Hexing him in your mind wasn’t enough. You needed to see him writhe and squirm and regret every breath he took from the moment he decided to knock over that damned lamp. You wouldn’t stop until he begged. Until the arsenal of curses in your vocabulary bled dry.

Tonight, everything had the chance to change.

You didn’t know what it exactly was, but suddenly, you felt uncomfortable inside. If your senses weren’t keen, you would’ve almost missed it. The air in the corridor was uncharacteristically colder, a dip so slight it could’ve been passed off as a draft. Especially during this time of the year considering summer was fast approaching. Your eyes narrowed as you stared ahead.

Every practical thought you possessed told you to turn back. It was not safe to stay outside now, considering the caretaker was well aware someone is breaching the curfew hours. You should have taken the route back to the Slytherin dormitory the moment you reached the junction. You should have doubled back without a second thought. 

Instead, you found yourself walking toward the far end of the corridor. It was as if a vicious voice in your mind telling you to see what you could find in there. You stood in front of the door, now feeling the chill biting into your skin through your robes.

Turn around. Leave. 

Magic tainted the air and the darkness that surrounded you, but it was almost foul. It reeked of something utterly bestial. 

Just before your hand gripped the doorknob, you paused. You stared at it, eyes slightly narrowed and one single thought planted itself in your mind: what was the point of going in? There was no logic to this and definitely no reward waiting on the other side. You didn't even know what was behind that door. If you had the map, perhaps you would’ve had some semblance of direction. Instead, all you had was this knot of frustration curdling in your stomach and a bitter aftertaste crawling up your throat reminding you of your failed heist.

Out of spite, your hand twisted the knob.

Locked.

Your head tilted slightly. There was a strange tension that clung to your palm the moment you touched the brass. Magically sealed.

Colloportus, probably.

Which meant someone was inside. Now that tickled your curiosity. 

"How useless," you muttered under your breath, stepping back half a pace and drawing your wand. "Alohomora."

The enchantment peeled away with a faint metallic creak. The door opened, spilling cold, stale air into the corridor like breath from a tomb. You gripped your wand tighter as you stepped through, the point barely alight and casting only a faint glow that brushed the floor ahead of you.

The door shut softly behind you, muffling the corridor into nothing.

You didn't know what you were expecting. An unused room with dust-slicked furniture, perhaps. Rows of forgotten bookshelves or peeling chalkboards — the hollowed-out remains of a classroom that had stopped serving a purpose sometime in the last century. At worst, a Gryffindor huddled over some misguided prank, ready to bolt at the sight of whoever crossed them. Anything, really. 

Tonight, everything was going to change.

Anything but him.

You could've sworn your heart stopped beating for a moment. The hand holding your wand dropped slowly to your side as your eyes adjusted to the dark — hoping you were seeing things.

A rift in space, like a violent slash torn through the space itself. The air around it warped, sucked inward and shuddered back out as though the room was caught in a perpetual gasp. Blackness spilled out from it in slow drips, thick tendrils that stretched and recoiled and disappeared, only to return seconds later. The edges shimmered faintly like oil catching low light.

And standing before it, back to you, head tilted upward like he was staring into the maw of a god, was —

"Soobin?"

His name left you before you could stop it, punched out of your chest on a breath of bewildered recognition.

Choi Soobin flinched like you’d hexed him.

He turned sharply, and his eyes found yours — wide and trembling. There was a pale sheen across his forehead and a terror in his expression that had nothing to do with being caught and everything to do with what stood — what moved behind him.

You took a step back without meaning to, wand lifting a fraction higher. Everything was supposed to change tonight but not like this. You were never supposed to find him, let alone come near him.

It had been a year already without exchanging more than what the corridors and shared classes required — brief flickers of coincidental glances, not even nods. It was meant to stay that way until you took your last breath, until you could forget what he’d asked of you with those eyes, what you gave in return without ever saying yes. But here you were, standing just a reach away from him — again.

“Soobin… what are you doing?”

A little over one summer ago, your world unexpectedly collided with Choi Soobin. 

You had always steered clear of situations that never concerned you. It wasn't indifference, but rather a necessity. It was a rule you clung to with a desperation only survival breeds. 

From the moment you were sorted into Slytherin, your name had carried a shadow that wasn't yours to carry. Everyone had already decided who you were before you had a chance to be anyone, and no amount of evidence to the contrary was ever going to change that. 

Even the smallest act of goodwill from you was met with suspicion, as if it were part of a larger scheme. You still remembered second year — offering to help a Hufflepuff with a stack of books and watching them recoil from you like you'd levelled a wand at them. You'd stood there thinking, what would a twelve-year-old possibly do? In group projects, Slytherins were the ones nobody wanted to be paired with. In duels, you were expected to go too far, and so you held back until it was dangerous to do so. 

The unfairness you faced didn’t soften with time. It calcified — hardened into something dense and cold in your chest, a rage so constant it had long since settled inside you like second skin. You learned fast that there was no benefit in trying to prove yourself otherwise. No matter what you did, your actions would always be dissected under the same poisoned lens. Therefore, you began to adapt. 

You put on the mask they gave you and wore it better than anyone had expected you to. If the world was going to be frightened of you either way, you'd at least make sure they had a reason to be scared of. 

You developed a habit to always make sure you’re the one in control. People called it power-hunger and never once considered that power, for you, had never been about wanting more — it was about making sure no one could take what little you already had. In this twisted, prejudiced system that you’ve come to resent so thoroughly, so deeply, you had to make sure you played the game cunningly. 

The only power you craved was the kind that let you live without compromise.

And maybe that was why people like Choi Soobin made no sense to you.

You had always watched him from a distance for years; it had never been out of envy, rather as a way to study the architecture of privilege.

He existed on the opposite end of everything — where people assumed the best instead of the worst. Head Boy. Top of his class. House of blue and bronze. Teachers adored him, students respected him, and nobody ever thought to question why, because people like Soobin didn't require justification. He had never needed to prove he was good; people had simply decided that he was, the same way they had decided things about you, except in his case the decision was golden. The golden standard whose light could not be touched by shadows.

His record gleamed with achievements, badges, merits, and praise. His uniform never bore a crease, his hair always neatly styled, and his dimpled smile which was entirely too charming. It was only natural then, that you saw him as one might look upon an altar, some polished figure placed far above your reach.

He always looked so unbreakable. 

Until that summer of your junior year, when you pushed open an unused storage room on the outskirts of the castle and found him hiding in the dark with tears running down his cheeks. And just like that, everything you thought you knew began to dissipate.

The summer sun flared behind you, casting a wide spill of golden light across the dusty floor — stopping just short of where he sat crumpled in the shadows. That spill of light caught his face, and for the first time in all the years you had watched him, you saw Choi Soobin come entirely apart.

He was on the ground with his knees pulled to his chest, shoulders trembling as though whatever composure he usually clung to had slipped completely from his grasp. His face was flushed and puffy, neat hair gone askew, and those lips — bitten and swollen — looked like he’d tried to hold the sobs in until it hurt.

Your eyes widened mirroring his, and that extremely fragile moment hung between you — your breath caught in your throat and his faltering somewhere in his chest.

The tear tracks glistening on his cheeks ought to have made your stomach twist with empathy. But that sight of him — this pathetic, crumpled version of Choi Soobin — sent a rush through your bloodstream so dizzying and euphoric you almost didn’t recognise it. 

It gave you a thrill you had no right to feel, a bitter sort of satisfaction rooted not in cruelty but in the cruel symmetry of it all. Because right in front of you was Choi Soobin with a crack in his polished shell. How lucky were you to catch it? Alone, and by sheer accident?

A strangled sound left his throat as he stumbled upright, hands fumbling for the wall behind him to steady himself. One arm reached out towards you as though bridging the space might undo what had just occurred.

"Why are you here—no, it doesn’t matter. You—!"

Your heart kicked to your stomach because of what his words meant. He was going to plead. You could see it forming in his panicked eyes as he was reaching out from the shadows, towards you who stood at the threshold in the light. 

It was ironic, almost cruelly so. All this time, you had been the one consigned to the periphery — the one forced into shadows while he basked under everyone’s approval. And now here he was, cornered and desperate in the dark, with you holding the door. That image tipped something in the balance of your thoughts.

"Please," he rasped, voice hoarse and shaky. "Don’t tell anyone. You didn’t see this. Alright? You didn’t see me. Please."

Because even as your mind raced through the possibilities this encounter had suddenly opened, a low, grim voice inside your head reminded you that this was someone breaking. You weren't supposed to feel satisfaction watching it happen. It came with an edge of shame, twisting itself around your ribs. You had never been cruel. That had always been the distinction you held onto, the line between wearing the mask and becoming it. 

But the balance of power had always been something you fought to claim. This was power handed to you freely, through the very act of witnessing, and now that it laid squarely in your hands — you couldn't pretend you didn't want to close your fist around it. 

Choi Soobin had no clue what you might do with this power — and that, more than anything, was what was making him panic. 

He said it again, almost tripping over the repetition, each plea more frantic than the last. And oh, the way your heart picked up with each of his pleas. His tone was splintered with desperation, barely stitched together by what little dignity he had left to himself. He sounded as if the very idea of you walking away with this memory was what terrified him rather than being found in this state by anyone else.

You recoiled at the sensation. As much as that part of you that still remembered the sting of loneliness wanted to offer him mercy, the part that had learned to survive by staying three steps ahead… it could already see the leverage hanging between you.

Golden, rule-bound, Head Boy Soobin, asking for your silence.

If he didn’t want this moment to exist, then you held the power to erase it — or hold it like a noose. You wondered, idly, what it would feel like to have him caught in your palm. What might he give for your silence? What could you make of that control if you truly chose to keep it?

"Why?" you asked, your tone cutting through the tense air. "What’s in it for me?"

Soobin froze, eyes widening — clearly taken aback by the question. His mouth parted, searching — no, scrambling for something, anything to say in return. But after a few seconds, he came up empty and his gaze flickered to the floor. The apparent defeated breath which slipped past his trembling lips ruefully had you claiming your victory. 

But you should have known better than to think you could seize up a Ravenclaw like him so easily.

You watched the change wash over him like it was a spell. He straightened up fully, the trembling in his frame gradually overridden by something colder and more composed as if remembering the role he was supposed to play. There it was again — that mask, pulled neatly back into place. Only this time, you knew precisely how thin it was, and exactly where it cracked. 

"Forget it," he bit out, though his voice cracked slightly around the syllables, betraying the rush with which he reclaimed control. "Just go. If you've got what you wanted, then go on—walk out. It won’t matter either way, will it?"

You blinked once, your brows twitching in a surprise that bled gradually into caution. There was a particular quality to the way he said it, an edge that felt as though it had been honed under pressure. It was meant to cut.

With two long strides, his frame came close enough but still maintained a safe distance. He towered above you in height, his shoulder sat well above yours, and  you took in the way that if you had stood a little more close to him — his lips would have easily brushed your forehead if he so much as leaned in. Your chin stayed leveled regardless. Your feet didn’t budge.

"No one's going to believe you anyway."

But the meaning behind the words struck harder than you anticipated. You’d heard that before too many times, from too many people, in too many forms. The implication that your voice carried less validity by virtue simply because of the house you’d been sorted into. It was like he’d plucked it directly from the mouth of every person who'd instinctively blamed the emerald green and silvers for bruised egos.

He meant it as a bluff, a wall of indifference to hide the very real fear he’d shown before. You understood the mechanics of it perfectly. That didn't stop the words from scraping across old wounds, and the sting made your fingers twitch.

The breath that snagged in your throat left as a scoff. You've played this game far too many times to lose your footing over borrowed cruelty. You let that fact show in the slow curl of your mouth as you held his gaze, allowing your expression to settle into the particular brand of composure that tended to unnerve people more than open hostility ever could.

"Are you sure about that, Head Boy?" His title left your lips like a mock coronation stripped bare. "Because not long ago, you looked frightened out of your skin over what I might do—after seeing you like this. Doesn't seem like such a throwaway moment now, does it?"

You stepped forward slowly, one foot after another, until barely an arm's length remained between you. Soobin didn’t move but his throat bobbed with a swallow, and your gaze stayed level with his without flinching. 

"If you’re confident," you said, voice low and laced with the barest edge of challenge, "then say it again. Tell me to leave, to walk out of here bearing witness to your pitiful state, trusting that blind hope of yours that I'll just let it all vanish." You let the pause breathe. "Go on, Soobin. Tell me."

There were too many thoughts flickering behind those tired eyes, which was a contrast to how motionless he stood. Every inch of his tall frame was taut with conflict. Lethargically, he dragged a hand across his face; fingers pressed hard into his brow, then down over the curve of his cheek. The exhaustion didn’t leave with them.

"What do you want?" he asked, finally.

This was him giving in — not to you personally, but to the situation, which was almost more satisfying. Because now you get to decide the terms of how this arrangement will proceed. You took a genuine moment to consider what you actually wanted out of this.

You held no personal vendetta against him nor do you want to hurt him. You never wanted to hurt him in the first place, only sought to solidify the leverage he himself presented in front of you. Having the Head Boy tethered to you, even by circumstance, might one day tip the scales in your favour. And right now, with the evening already thoroughly derailed, you were not above playing the long game. 

Your gaze dropped briefly to the scuffed floor beneath your shoes, your expression settling into mild, almost disinterested contemplation while your mind moved through the possibilities at full speed. After a few moments, the faintest semblance of a smile appeared on your lips.

"Hmm. I’ll think about it." — A side tilt of your head as your eyes narrowed with mirth. "Until then, our hands are manacled."

Your smile had barely faded, the echo of your words still hanging in the air —

"Until then, our hands are manacled."

— when you made the turn, prepared to let him go, to leave the silence to do whatever it needed to do with him. You had no intention of dragging it further, no desire to bruise what dignity he still had left to himself — but only to mark the moment and walk away with the upper hand. But before your foot could land into a full stride, his fingers closed around your wrist.

They weren't rough, but they held with enough insistence to stop you dead. Your head turned sharply. He was looking at you but there were no traces of that frantic panic from earlier. In its place was a kind of stillness that unsettled you. The flush had drained entirely from his face, leaving behind a pallor that did not suit him at all, and his breath came shallower than it should have for someone simply standing still. 

"I don’t like to be in anyone’s debt." There was nothing weak about what he said. “So whatever it is you want—name it. Just say it, and you’ll have it. Then we’ll be done.”

You blinked at him, momentarily caught off-guard by the vehemence still left in his voice after everything. You weren't sure what surprised you more — that he still had it in him to bark terms at you, or that he genuinely believed this was a transaction that could be finalised and forgotten on the spot. Your eyes flicked to the point of contact between you — your hand, small in his — and you gave it the faintest twist, more a signal than a struggle.

"Let go," you muttered.

He did, marginally, and before you could wrench your hand back fully — your gaze caught on a detail that hadn’t been there seconds ago. A stark red line had begun its descent from his nose toward the curve of his lip. You blinked once, processing it.

"Soo—"

His name broke apart in your mouth as his eyes lost their focus all at once and his jaw slackened. His frame swayed alarmingly, head tilting forward but he looked at you mustering all of his might one last time.

“Please,” he managed to breathlessly croak out. 

The grip around your wrist, which had already gone loose tightened just once, a brief flare of strength as if trying to hold onto something, anything. In a heartbeat, his knees buckled and the full weight of him collapsed forward.

Soobin woke with a start, lungs dragging in air that felt stale and far too cold against his damp skin. His chest heaved once before he shot up onto his elbows, eyes darting around with a vague urgency because he couldn’t really piece together where he was. The dimness of the room pressed in on him, shadows stretching long across the stone floor, and it was only when he caught sight of the small rectangular window near the ceiling — its glass tinged with the bruised hues of dusk — that it clicked into place. 

He was still in the storage room. The sun had gone down. How long had he been unconscious this time? 

He shifted slightly and registered, with some confusion, that something soft had been folded beneath his head. It was a robe, folded neatly like a makeshift pillow. His own robe had been draped over him and had since slipped down onto his lap when he sat up. His brows pulled together, and he was still working out what to make of it when a voice reached him from across the room and made him flinch.

"You're up?"

His gaze snapped over. You were sitting against the opposite wall with your legs stretched out in front of you. There was nothing pointed about your tone, nor any warmth either. At a loss, Soobin turned his head to take in the room again, but the movement sent a sharp throb blooming behind his temples and he winced. 

"Don't move around too much," you said, already uncrossing your arms and pushing yourself to your feet. "You passed out from exhaustion." 

You crossed the room in even strides and crouched down beside him — not close enough to crowd him, but near enough that he could make out the faint sheen at your collarbone, likely from the stress of the situation rather than the season itself. You held his glasses out toward him, extended in one hand. His eyes tracked the motion before narrowing. 

"Why are you still here?" he asked, his voice roughened by wear. He took the glasses back warily. 

You rolled your eyes with a sardonic tilt to your brow. "Surely you weren't expecting me to lug you up to the Hospital Wing, were you?" The dry slant in your voice was pointed, and your eyes flicked once to the considerable length of his frame, making your meaning perfectly clear without another word. 

He had the decency to look mildly abashed. 

"I nicked a few healing potions," you added, producing a small vial from your pocket and turning it over between your fingers. "Didn't use a Reviving Spell because you looked too comfortable knocked out cold." 

Soobin blinked at you, his frown deepening as he shook his head faintly, strands of hair falling across his forehead with the motion. "No, that's not what I meant. I meant—" he faltered, eyes narrowing with more focus this time, "—why didn't you leave?" 

You stilled, the potion vial cooling against your palm. You looked at him squarely then, and a soft sigh pushed out from your chest. Truth to be told, the answer was pretty simple but, at the same time, was too tangled to unpack in full. Your gaze fell away for a moment, tracing the dull lines of the stone floor, before you offered the vial to him.

"Why were you crying?"

The question came out low but not tentative as you already knew the answer, had pieced it together from the moment you'd walked through the door. You were simply daring him to put it into words himself. 

He didn't take the vial. He didn't answer either. His eyes dropped instead to his fists, now limp against his lap, and he stared at them for a stretched moment before murmuring, "I thought I said I don't like to be in anyone's debt." 

A short laugh left you, soft and lacking any real bite, though it made him glance up with mild surprise. It was clear then that he hadn’t expected that reaction. You, on the other hand, were beginning to see him with a great deal more accuracy with every passing minute.

The perfect version of Choi Soobin in your mind had long since shattered. And now, watching him frown down at his own hands with a grievance he couldn't quite direct anywhere, you could finally admit that he was no different from you in the ways that mattered.

You gave the vial a small shake and dropped it into his lap, where he fumbled to catch it.

"You won't be in my debt," you said, and got to your feet without waiting to see whether he drank it or not. 

Soobin's fingers tightened around the vial, his knuckles paling slightly as his eyes lifted to follow you. The guardedness in his expression was no longer openly confrontational but present nonetheless. 

"For what?" he asked, the rasp still clinging to the edge of his voice. "For your silence? Or the fact that you helped me?" 

You paused mid-step, then turned just enough to glance down at him. The rigidity hadn’t left his posture, and you could see the way he was still watching you like he expected the other shoe to drop. How recognisable that looked to the way you’d spent your life. It almost felt like staring at a mirror.

You couldn't fault him for it. 

"You’re still on guard," you observed without accusing. You turned your gaze back to the opposite wall as you spoke. "Can’t blame you. I’d be, too."

Soobin chose not to say anything. He didn’t know what he could even say to that. Everything you said and did sat at odds with everything you were supposed to be. 

"You asked what was in it for you. So how do I—why should I—trust that you’re not just doing all this because it benefits you somehow?"

An almost excellent argument. Your attention drifted to the dim slit of the window, where the last strips of daylight were thinning out against the castle wall. You took that moment to choose your words.

"You've every right to be cautious," you murmured, confessing it more to yourself than him, "I might've wanted a transaction earlier. I'd be stupid not to. But I'm not heartless. I couldn't walk out and leave you there, knowing full well I could help." 

The doubt hadn't left his face entirely, though it had receded. Perhaps that was why the next words came out of you as readily as they did. 

"I'm not what they make me out to be," you said. "Most times, I'm not even close. And you of all people should know what that's like, shouldn't you?" 

His brows drew together at that, the crease between them deepening by a fraction. You knew he caught the implication.

"People see what they want, right? They call you perfect because it suits them. Just like they look at me and see trouble. A Slytherin must be scheming. I’m used to being doubted. But you—" Your voice softened just a notch, “you get doubted for the opposite. No room to slip up because you’re the one everyone bets on."

"You don’t know anything about me," he muttered,  gaze dropping away from yours.

"I could say the same," you replied without hesitation. "Besides, I’ve seen plenty already."

You watched the storm gather behind his eyes again, but it wasn’t the same as before. There was less bite in it, more weariness. With a sigh, you stepped closer and crouched beside him again, plucking the vial from where it had sat unopened in his hand. 

"Drink it," you said, holding it up in front of him. "You're still half out of it, and it's getting late. They're probably already wondering where you are." 

He took it with a reluctance that was more reflex than genuine resistance, tipping it back and swallowing, his throat working through the bitter draught. You waited, arms draped loosely across your knees. When he lowered the vial and drew the back of his hand across his mouth, you didn’t bother sugar-coating the next question.

"Why don't you want people to see you like this?" 

He didn’t look at you, just stared down at his hands. With the way the silence was persisting, you figured you wouldn’t be getting any more answers out of him. So you were prepared to leave it at that, that is until, he softly spoke.

"My worth only matters if I come out on top."

Your head tilted, just slightly. The pieces had been falling into place from the moment you found him, but now they were slotting in too perfectly. You matched his silence afterwards. 

There wasn’t much point in keeping him leashed by some hollow agreement. He was just as misjudged as you were.

"Look, I know trust isn't a word people use around Slytherins," you said, and there was no apology in it, “I’m not asking for that. But if it's fairness you want, then here's my offer—you agree to help me out when I ask, and in return, I keep this between us. That’s it. Just an even trade."

You watched him closely as he processed it. He was looking for the catch, which was reasonable. Maybe you should’ve been more idealistic and more kind-hearted, but that wasn’t how you’d learnt to survive. Still, you hoped he'd say yes — but not only for the practical advantage of it. Because a yes would mean he'd begun to see past the emblem stitched onto your robes.

Even then, deep down, you knew better than to let your guard down. In your world, trust was a currency far more dangerous than gold, and if he ever turned on you, you’d have to do what you always did: survive.

“Alright.”

Soobin couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept properly. His days began far too early, long before the rest of the castle had stirred, trudging into duties that he never had the heart to refuse. The badge pinned to his robes caught the sunlight just right, glinting with every step, as though reminding him of what was expected. He ticked every box, filled every space that others left behind. It was never sufficient to simply do well; he had to do more. He had to be more.

By the time evening fell, he had already run himself to the bone. His nights were riddled with broken naps, eyes shut only to be wrenched back open by the persistent tug of responsibility. More often than not he caught the sunrise from the dormitory window — bleary, still in yesterday's uniform, blanket kicked to the floor at some point in the small hours. And yet every morning, he would rise and reapply the polished version of himself that the world had come to rely on. He’d pull that mask on with both hands — the one that made people proud, made them believe he had it entirely under control, that covered the parts of him nobody had ever thought to ask about. 

He hadn’t even realised, until recently, just how long he’d been wearing it. It had grown into his face like a second skin. 

He told himself that the pursuit of excellence was a personal ambition, chosen freely, belonging entirely to him. But if he peeled back the layers and looked the truth in the eye, he knew it wasn’t that simple. Since childhood, affection and approval had come tethered to achievement. A strong grade earned warmth. A trophy earned applause. An honour badge earned a hand on the shoulder and a look that said, there he is, exactly as expected. 

It didn’t take long for the boy to understand: his value was conditional and was tied directly to success. To survive was to adapt — he became whatever was needed of him. The alternative had always felt too much like a risk he couldn't calculate the cost of. Every morning he told himself again and again and again — this is for me. But behind the mask and skin, Soobin was already rotting.

The real him — the tired, fallible boy that existed beneath the accolades had long been buried beneath a veneer of perfection polished so thoroughly that even he struggled to remember what lived underneath. It wasn't that he wanted to deceive anyone, but the thought of the image slipping, even by a fraction, left a cold dread crouched at the base of his skull. 

If he stopped running, if he faltered even once, would he still matter? Would the respect hold? Each day they asked more of him — more excellence, more responsibility, more poise and each day Soobin gave it, all of it, right down to the last reserve. He kept giving until he had nothing left, and still, the asking never ceased.

No one had ever managed to break through the mask he wore and all the rotten parts of him had been left untouched. Until you appeared with a sledgehammer and hit it square on his face, cracking the mask in one go.

You, who were supposed to be a stranger.

Soobin hadn't known what to make of you. He knew your name, of course — you had walked the same corridors for years, sat in the same examination halls, existed within the same world but it had never collided. He had always been far too consumed with the ideology of perfecting himself to stop and consider the people around him. You, on the other hand, seemed untouched by that particular strain of madness. 

He assumed you preferred your own company, someone who kept to the shadows by choice. He’d never paused to wonder what you might be like beyond the stories told in between whispers and beyond the lines he’d drawn in his head. Now, in the wake of a single moment that had slipped past control, you were there, woven into the edges of every thought. You had seen a part of him that he hadn’t even let himself look at for too long. And Soobin, for all his cleverness, didn’t know how to untangle that without losing hold of the rest.

“Soobin?”

The voice cut clean through his thoughts and pulled him back into the corridor with an abruptness that left him momentarily disoriented. He turned toward the Ravenclaw prefect standing beside him with an expectant look. Oh, right. They were in the middle of an inspection. 

A lost artefact, supposedly one of the older enchanted trinkets tucked away for display, had gone missing over the weekend. Somehow it had turned into a full-blown investigation. The item didn't hold any real threat or value; if anything, Soobin thought the whole affair had been blown grossly out of proportion. He cleared his throat, mustering a faint smile.

“Sorry—what were you saying?”

The prefect's arms were folded, his brow deeply creased. “I said we ought to check the dungeons next. The Slytherin prefects have been acting shifty ever since we mentioned rounding up their lot for questioning." A groan followed, the boy's voice dropping into a drawl that he clearly imagined made him sound authoritative. “Honestly, I've seen them slinking about corridors they've no business being in. Always somewhere they shouldn't be. Isn't it obvious who we ought to start with?" 

Soobin listened, the words floating past him like smoke leaving behind only irritation. It had been three days since that afternoon in the storage room — three days of your voice turning itself over in the back of his mind with a persistence that sleep might have dulled if he had been getting it.

"I'm not what they make me out to be. You of all people should know what that's like."  —  And he did. Merlin help him, he did.

“No,” he said, voice clipped but not raised, the change in tone made the prefect blink. “Leave the Slytherins out of it. Unless you've got solid proof, there's no cause to single them out." He raised an eyebrow, the last trace of his smile gone entirely. “You told me the last magic trace showed the artefact was by the lake, didn't you? Then if you're so eager, go dive in and see what you find.”

The prefect’s face coloured with disbelief. He opened his mouth to object, but Soobin cut him off before a single word could leave his lips.

“You’re dismissed.”

The prefect faltered, then turned on his heel and stalked off down the corridor. Soobin watched him go without feeling particularly bad about it. Then his eyes drifted to the window at the far end of the hall where the sky outside sat heavy and grey.

Three days, and this was what his mind had become in the aftermath — an utter disarray because of you.

To clear his mind, Soobin had taken to sorting potions in the classroom long before any of the junior students were due to arrive. The room was still and faintly lit by muted sunlight through narrow windows, and for a short while the silence had granted him the illusion of peace. He moved through the rows of labelled vials and rattling jars, meticulously aligning each one according to the Professor's usual arrangement, hoping the orderliness would somehow impose itself upon the growing disorder in his mind.

Anything to stop his mind from drifting back to that moment. Anything to stop thinking about you. Of course, as if summoned by thought alone, the door creaked open. He froze mid-reach, heart lurching with a recognition that some part of him had known it would be you. 

You paused in the doorway with an unreadable look — though you masked your surprise more effectively than he did. Glancing around at the empty classroom, you ambled in and let a few vials drop onto the nearest table.

"You following me now?" Your tone was dry but teasing, looking at him with a faint quirk of your brow. 

Soobin's throat had gone inexplicably arid. He feigned a scoff and turned back to the shelf. "Don't flatter yourself." 

You smirked, then leaned back against one of the desks. "Word is, someone's lost a trinket and now the castle's having a meltdown over it." 

He casted a slow side-glance toward you. He watched your face more than he listened to your words, wondering if you, too, had already been on the receiving end of those narrow-eyed stares and baseless suspicions like the rest of your house? He wouldn’t put it past them. Slytherin had always made for convenient scapegoats. He didn’t know if anyone had singled you out yet, and he wouldn’t ask — but the thought made his chest tighten regardless.

"I'm looking into it," he said at last, his hands fiddling with a cork that needed no adjustment whatsoever. "I'm doing what I can to stop people jumping to conclusions. But—well—I mean, I just hope—"

You snorted and raised a hand, cutting him off without needing to raise your voice by a single degree. "Don't pity us. Told you we’re used to it by now. Frankly, it's getting funny—watching them scurry around like rats thinking they’ve uncovered something worthwhile.” You reached into your robes and produced another small vial, turning it over between your fingers before tossing it lightly onto the desk beside him. “But I will say this—you’re wasting your time rounding us up."

He watched you cross the room with an unhurried gait before you stopped where he stood, taking in his handiwork of the shelves. "One of your prefect lackeys cornered me yesterday, asked if I’d been out past curfew. Couldn’t lie—of course I had. Have you seen our dorm? Feels like a cupboard on the best of days. Sometimes I need air, that’s all."

His eyes widened, caught off guard by how easily you admitted to rule-breaking. You laughed at the expression he wore.

"Lucky I was out, though. I had such a magnificent view of the Great Lake. You might want to check with the Gryffindor Quidditch lot."

He blinked, processing your words. "Are you sure you saw—"

You shrugged, brushing past him with a careless grace. "Up to you, Head Boy. Whether you believe me or not, that’s your decision."

Before stepping out, you gave him a languid wave over your shoulder. Just like that you were gone, leaving him standing there amidst the shelves and sunlight and questions.

There was no logic in doubting you when everything you’d done until now pointed away from manipulation. Besides, you had every reason not to help him. So why did you hand him information that benefitted him and cost you nothing to withhold? 

Perhaps it was a means of keeping suspicion away from your house, now that you had him at a disadvantage. Or were you truly doing it because you simply could?

The more you occupied his thoughts, the less sense you made.

But for now, he had to take a risk — one rooted in instinct. By mid-afternoon, he had assembled his prefects and approached the Gryffindor Quidditch team. What followed sent a ripple through the castle by sundown: sure enough, buried beneath spare brooms and scattered playbooks, tucked into a leather duffle bearing the team's crest, the artefact was found. 

The case, to the astonishment of a great many people, was closed within hours. 

In the Great Hall, beneath the enchanted ceiling deepening into evening stars, Soobin had been summoned to the front of the room and praised. His name rang out across all four tables, followed by applause and murmured admiration. He bowed his head politely and accepted the accolades but it felt hollow for the truth sitting heavily in his chest — the success wasn’t his.

It all felt wrong because it wasn’t his doing.

As his eyes swept over the Slytherin table, he found you with your chin propped on your palm, your expression as unreadable as ever. But you were watching him. He held your gaze and felt his shoulders drop with the breath leaving him. If his eyes could speak, he hoped they’d managed to say the words he couldn’t voice aloud here.

You did this.

You smiled faintly, a small twitch of your lips before you looked away.

The applause went on but Soobin could no longer hear it properly over the ringing in his ears. Praise meant nothing when it was built on someone else’s truth. If the system failed to acknowledge how to recognise the likes of you, someone had to.

He wasn't about to forget what he owed you. And he wasn't about to pretend otherwise, even if only to himself. 

For as long as you could remember, sleep had never come easily to you. It was a fickle guest at best, arriving on its own terms and departed the same way. There were stretches of nights where you spent endless hours staring at the ceiling of your dormitory, thoughts circling like vultures over carrion and refusing to give you peace. On the worst of those nights, when the insomnia bit harder than you could handle, you would find yourself wandering beneath the stars, seeking calm in the open air and high arches of the Astronomy Tower. 

Draped in shadows and moonlight, the tower had always felt like another world entirely. Up there, it was just you and the sky, the stretch of it so vast it made your problems feel smaller, if only for a little while. It had long since become your refuge, a haven away from the noise, both external and internal.

You knew the patrol schedule of the prefects by heart. It didn't take much to memorize the patterns of their rounds and adjust your movements accordingly, seamlessly gliding between the gaps they left behind. It was a routine that had served you well for years because you earned and protected it with vigilance. So when you reached the floor just beneath the tower that night, bleary-eyed from another restless stretch and wrapped in your usual cloak of solitude, it came as a rude jolt to realise your calculations had, for once, failed you. 

The faint scuff of approaching footsteps from around the bend told you someone else was near, and your brain kicked into high alert, racing to concoct a plausible diversion or escape plan that might buy you time. You were just beginning to run through your options when a hand closed firmly around your arm.

Before you could so much as draw a breath, you were pulled sideways into a narrow alcove swallowed by shadows. Your back met cold stone, and another hand pressed over your mouth blocking any chance to produce a sound worth suppressing. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Every nerve in your body had gone rigid with alarm, and for one suspended, disorienting moment you could see nothing in the dark at all. 

Then your vision adjusted, and you saw Soobin. 

He was pressed close, his frame angled between yours and the faint light filtering in from the corridor. So close that you could make out the warning in his expression before he raised one finger slowly to his lips. His eyes held yours with an intensity that was not unkind but brooked absolutely no argument. 

You stared back, stunned into silence. After a long beat, his hand withdrew from your mouth and he stepped back by a fraction, creating a margin of space between you that the alcove barely accommodated. The sudden lack of contact made the air feel colder somehow, and you drew in a sharp breath as if recovering from a plunge underwater.

From where you stood within the narrow recess of the alcove, you listened to him speak with another prefect. Despite the levelness threaded through each reply he offered, there remained a faint impatience beneath it whenever she attempted to prolong the exchange. He told her he had already checked the passage adjoining the western staircase, that Peeves had apparently overturned a suit of armour two floors below and distracted half the prefect patrol for nearly twenty minutes. By the time he assured her he would finish the remaining rounds himself, the girl sounded appeased enough to descend the staircase without another word. 

The echo of her footsteps gradually faded into the lower corridors until silence reclaimed the floor once more.

You remained where you were for another moment regardless, and only after you felt certain the coast was clear did you finally turn your attention toward him. He stood near the stone archway leading toward the upper staircase, shoulder resting against the pillar beside it while his arms remained folded loosely across his chest. Though the dim torchlight left portions of his expression obscured, you still caught the rueful way in which he looked at you.

“Had a feeling you’d turn up here tonight,” he said, lowering his voice now that the corridor belonged only to the two of you.

You eyed him warily, tone dry as ever. "So you are following me."

To your surprise, the accusation only drew a warm laugh from him, and you found yourself momentarily thrown. Because up until then you had only seen fragments of him yet this laughter belonged to none of those versions entirely. The corners of his eyes had drawn together faintly in a way that made him appear younger than he usually allowed himself to be. His dimple surfaced fully this time, and though you’d never admit it aloud, your eyes remained on them a moment too long.

He tipped his head toward the staircase. “Come along.”

You hesitated for a heartbeat before following him up the remaining flight. When you reached the top, he had already stepped aside to allow you through the stone archway first. The Astronomy Tower opened before you in a vast stretch of moonlit stone and open sky, the wind brushing past your robes while the stars scattered overhead in endless clusters that seemed brighter from this height than anywhere else within the castle grounds. Oh, how much you loved this.

"I was wondering," he said eventually, glancing sidelong at you, "if you wanted to seal our transaction."

That earned your full attention at once. You regarded him with narrowed eyes. "Oh? What do you propose?"

He looked out at the sky as he spoke, as though the words came easier when he wasn't delivering them directly. “Top floors fall under my patrol rounds,” he explained. “I usually leave the tower until last, which means hardly anyone comes up here after curfew unless I bring them myself. You could use it whenever you please.”

You tilted your head, assessing him, because generosity rarely arrived without hidden motives attached to it. He seemed to notice the caution settle across your face because a faint awkwardness entered his expression before he continued.

“It’s meant as thanks,” he admitted, voice lowering further while his eyes drifted briefly toward the floor between you. “And an apology as well. For the way I spoke to you that day in the storage room. For the assumptions I made.” His mouth pressed briefly into a thin line before he glanced back toward you again. “If being up here gives you a bit of peace, then maybe it’ll bring me some too. Knowing I could give you something in return."

You scoffed — startled, if you were being honest with yourself. As always, you reached for the oldest armour in your arsenal: deflection.

“You do realise,” you replied, folding your arms loosely while turning toward the night sky again in hopes the movement might conceal the faint disarray creeping beneath your composure, “that I didn’t do anything grand for you, right?”

Soobin did not appear remotely surprised by your response. If anything, he looked rather resigned, offering a soft nod that seemed more of a confirmation to himself than a reply meant for you. 

“Yep. Had a feeling you’d say that,” he murmured, then he held out a hand like he was proposing a treaty. "Truce?"

Your gaze dropped to his outstretched hand while the cold night air swept through the tower and stirred the sleeves of his robes around his wrists. There remained a ridiculous sincerity to the gesture that had you studying it as though it were a foreign object. Rather than humouring him immediately, you folded your arms across your chest instead which was part self-protection, part calculated provocation. 

“And access to the Restricted Section whenever I fancy it,” you bargained smoothly. “You’ll cover for me.”

One of his brows arched, and though he managed to preserve most of his composure, there was the faintest flicker of exasperation in his eyes. It could’ve even been reluctant amusement at your audacity. 

“You do realise that I’m not actually allowed in there either,” he replied, the protest lacking any real conviction.

“Yes, but you’ll be let off the hook far more easily than I would, wouldn’t you?” You only shrugged, unbothered. “I may as well take advantage of that.” 

A long sigh escaped him then, and he brought one hand toward his forehead before rubbing briefly at his temple. The sight pulled the faintest twitch from the corner of your mouth because there was a peculiar satisfaction in watching Choi Soobin gradually realise you intended to exhaust every ounce of patience he possessed.

“I think that balances our arrangement rather nicely. I’m being so terribly generous by keeping your secret, after all. Surely you can manage this much for me in return. Unless—” Your head tilted slightly afterward, letting the smirk curl lazily across your lips. “Your saintliness is repulsed by my sins?”

The sound that left him then came dangerously close to a snort despite the visible effort he made to suppress it, his head dipping briefly while one hand covered part of his mouth for a moment. He turned away from you entirely and crossed toward the far side of the tower where a worn satchel had been abandoned beside the wall. 

You initially expected parchment or patrol schedules to emerge from within, because despite everything you had witnessed, part of you still remained convinced that Choi Soobin belonged too perfectly within the image Hogwarts had built around him to truly step beyond its rules in any meaningful way. That assumption dissolved the instant he withdrew a thick leather-bound book whose worn spine and tarnished silver embossing bore the tell-tale signs of having been plucked from the shelves no student was meant to touch. 

Restricted Section.

Your brows lifted at once before you could stop yourself.

Soobin glanced back over his shoulder then, catching the exact moment your expression changed. The satisfaction that crossed his face afterwards appeared far too pleased for your liking.

When he held it out to you, instead of taking it you fixed him with a deadpan look. “You don’t have permission to enter the Restricted Section, you say?” you asked slowly as the implication sank in.

Because it was obvious now — to get that book, he would have had to slip past more than one barrier, and likely break more than a few rules. The smile on his lips told you he hadn’t borrowed it under anyone’s good graces. He’d gone in himself, without approval and permission. There was a flicker of pride in the way he stepped closer, extending the book again, as though this too were part of the truce. 

“As you can see, I’m not terribly committed to sainthood,” he said with a soft laugh bordering on irony, keeping the book away when you showed no signs of taking it. “You already knew that, didn’t you?” 

You were still looking at him with a subtle incredulous look. “Feels like I’ve been hexed.” 

Then came the grin again, lopsided and strangely genuine in a way that didn’t suit the polished Head Boy the rest of the school had come to revere. “We’re sharing sins now.” 

You looked down at his hand when he held it out again. The very hands that had been manacled to yours by shared sins as though the pair of you had sealed some farcical pact made in jest. Who could have predicted that those same hands would soon find themselves bound in matters far graver and knotted into secrets far more treacherous? 

You allowed your hand to turn beneath his in acceptance of the truce he had offered earlier. 

That was where it began, though neither of you possessed enough foresight then to recognise the significance hidden inside what appeared, at first glance, to be little more than a mutually beneficial arrangement. What first emerged from necessity settled gradually into habit, and habit carried the pair of you toward a routine so natural in its development that neither of you seemed to notice how deeply it had embedded itself into your evenings until the pattern already existed too thoroughly to break apart without leaving absence behind.

It surprised you, in truth, how quickly it formed.

The corridors would be vacant by the time you arrived, just as he had said, and you no longer had to pause at intersections to check whether another prefect remained nearby, nor did you continue moving with the same guarded caution that had marked your first visits there. Sooner or later he would arrive after patrol exactly where you expected him to be, carrying whichever book had occupied his attention that particular night.  

There would rarely be much conversation at first. 

Most nights passed in that strange parallel silence, with the only sound being the occasional turning of a page. He studied a lot, not just schoolwork, but obscure texts filled with complicated spellwork, fragmented theories on ancient magic, and handwritten annotations crammed tightly between margins yellowed from age. At times he tested incantations beneath his breath while tracing slow movements through the air with his wand. Other times, he simply fell asleep.

You would watch, faintly incredulous, as his posture would slacken and his chin drop slowly to his chest. There were nights he barely lasted twenty minutes before nodding off, and you had to wonder if he really lacked that much awareness or if he was just that used to trusting no one would disturb him.

Or worse, if he thought you would be kind enough to rouse him when it was time to leave.

He’d be disappointed if he thought you’d be that nice. You weren’t his minder. Yet inevitably your annoyance drove you toward him anyway. Sometimes you nudged the toe of his shoe with your own until he stirred awake sluggishly, and sometimes your fingers landed briefly against his shoulder while you muttered a curt, "It’s time."

Each time, he obeyed with surprising docility for somebody so relentlessly rigid when conscious. 

The days rolled into weeks. There were times when the stillness gave way to words without preamble. One such night found you with your back resting against the cold surface of a column, head tilted back to peer up at the invisible sky beyond the high windows. Nearby, Soobin lay sprawled on his back with his arms folded over his midriff. The silence between you transformed into something so harmless now that when he spoke, it didn't feel jarring.

"Mind if I talk?" he asked — not so much as seeking permission as gauging whether your presence was receptive to it tonight.

You offered no verbal reply, only glanced down at him for the briefest moment before looking skyward again. By now he knew you well enough to read that as a yes. 

"I don’t reckon I’ve slept properly in weeks," he admitted after several moments had passed. He didn’t expect an answer, or perhaps didn’t even want one. “Every time I close my eyes, I start thinking about all the things I haven’t finished yet. There’s always another essay to polish, another text to memorise, another meeting to attend, and if I fall behind even once—it feels like I’m squandering the whole bloody point of it, whatever 'it' is meant to be.”

You could have answered that one honestly. Your own nights had not been restful in years, and insomnia had a way of making you feel oddly territorial about the subject — but you held your tongue and let him continue. He clearly needed the space to do so more than you needed to fill it. Soobin spoke more freely during the moments when he believed he was not being interrupted out of pity. 

“I don’t even know what I’m chasing any longer. What exactly am I doing any of this for?” he continued, one hand lifting to cover his eyes briefly before falling back against his chest again. “I think most people believe I enjoy it. The badges, the praise, all that rubbish. I suppose I’ve never given them much reason to think otherwise. That’s probably my own fault.” 

The shadows beneath his eyes appeared darker from this angle. There was an exhaustion in the way his fingers flexed against his shirt that made your chest tighten with an emotion foreign to you. 

Perhaps nobody had ever bothered asking him whether he was tired. 

You lowered your eyes toward your lap instead as your thumb found the edge of a loose thread at your knee. You rolled it between your fingers, more to occupy your hands than from any real interest in mending it, because if you looked at him for too long while he spoke in that worn-down voice of his — you suspected you might begin to get attached to him in ways that would become inconvenient later. 

It would have been simpler if he had truly been arrogant; simpler if all that brilliance of his came attached to cruelty or vanity. But Soobin wasn’t held together by pride. He was held by the sheer pressure of never being allowed to fall behind. He lived in a world of ‘musts’ and ‘shoulds,’ where stepping out of line meant becoming irrelevant entirely. 

And you — well, you suspected as much weeks ago. Merlin, you’d known from the moment you found him in that cramped storage room, folded in on himself with tears slipping down his face like he was trying to shed everything that made him human. The memory sat unpleasantly beneath your ribs because you realised how long he must have been carrying all of this alone. 

"If I stop, it’ll look like I’ve given up. But if I keep going like this, I’ll fall apart." There was a note of distance in his voice now, like he was repeating something someone else had once said to him, or perhaps something he’d told himself so often it had begun to lose all meaning. 

So you picked the option where no one notices. You didn’t say it out loud, but the thought crossed your mind anyway. You glanced at him though all you could really look at were his hands. One brushed a loose string on his sleeve, then curled into a fist. They were restless. He hadn’t looked your way once.

“You’re not very good at taking your own side,” you said eventually. Your voice wasn’t cruel. 

That earned a short breath of laughter from him, though there was little humour in it. His head rolled slightly against the floor until he could glance towards you properly for the first time since the conversation began.

“I haven’t the faintest clue how,” he admitted. “I think I was only ever taught how to win. No one ever mentioned what to do if I decided to lose on purpose, or if I just lost.”

You drew your knees closer towards yourself before resting your cheek lightly against your forearm. The two of you were looking at each other; your eyes sharp in the shadows. 

"That sounds like a miserable way to live."

He remained silent, then softly, "It is."

No words were shared for several minutes afterwards.

You sat with everything he said, not sure whether to add anything, or whether adding anything would cheapen it. There was an intimacy to honesty that you had always disliked. It felt like he took a part of his heart out and forced you to hold the bleeding piece. And now it sat in your hands, raw and uncomfortable, a truth so vulnerable you didn’t know if you had the right to hold it. Your hands were now tainted. 

“I’ve had people telling me all the time that they admire me,” he added eventually, and this time the laugh that slipped from him sounded hollow enough to make your fingers still against your knee. “They say I can come to them whenever I need help, that they’d always be there if matters went wrong, but I keep wondering whether any of that’s actually true. Do I truly have anyone I can rely on?” 

“Is that why you were crying that day?” you asked carefully. 

A faint smile touched his mouth at the memory. “Had nowhere else to go,” he admitted. “So I hid myself away until I couldn’t hold it in any longer.” 

“Oh.” You didn’t know what else to say.

His titles and image walked into rooms before he did. His perfection gave people something to admire, but it never gave them a reason to look closer. He was lonely. Far lonelier than you’d guessed.

Then he rolled onto his side to face you properly, one arm folding beneath his head whilst the other rested across the floor between you. That smile remained, but it didn’t touch his eyes. 

“What about you?” he asked.

Your brows drew together slightly. “What about me?”

“Why do you always seek control?”

“To survive,” you answered plainly.

Soobin had begun understanding you in fragments over these past weeks; through your tendency of detachment, through the cynicism honed by years of distrust, through every moment where your instinct had been to strike first before anyone else had the chance to wound you. Ever since that time inside the storage room, you began appearing in his periphery in ways you hadn’t been before, cropping up in spaces he’d never registered you in, though now, he wondered how he could’ve possibly missed you.

His gaze became trained on the people around you — he observed the way others spoke to you, the glances exchanged in corridors, the narrowed eyes in classrooms and he noted the subtleties most others overlooked. The treatment wasn’t always cruel, but it was pointed, and it was frequent. Soobin, who had lived much of his life under the soft glow of admiration and expectation, found it easy to see the difference. And in those differences, he understood you better than he expected to.

And you, despite every attempt to remain detached from him, had begun noticing him everywhere too. It wasn't just in this shared nightly hour you had, but in your own time, when you caught yourself glancing up in the corridors to find him already there, or letting your gaze pause just a fraction too long when he passed by your table in the Great Hall. Even during classes where you had no reason whatsoever to think about Choi Soobin, your attention betrayed you whenever his voice carried from the opposite end of the room. 

He seemed more present now than before, more noticeable, though you weren’t sure whether it was him changing or you. Your eyes knew to find him, and perhaps his had done the same.

You didn’t quite know how to feel about it all. The change wasn’t entirely uncomfortable but it made you wary. That was a more simple way to put it. You, who had learnt better than to give in to soft comforts, couldn’t help but question it. After years of distrust, of guarding yourself against shallow kindness and false smiles, how could you begin to allow anyone in? 

For Soobin, the change carried an entirely different sort of confusion. It felt like breathing for the first time in too long. It confused him, yes, left him reeling in the early days, but it also peeled back that internal tautness he never quite realised he lived with. You with all your blunt remarks and unreadable silences had given him a kind of space he didn’t know he needed. You never praised him for his marks. You never looked impressed by his titles. If anything, you dismissed them half the time. Yet you also never demanded more from him than honesty, and there was a frightening relief in being looked at without expectation wrapped around his throat. 

You were always being watched before you were known.

And he was always being looked at, but never really seen.

You mirrored one another in temperament, in guardedness, in how you both wore your defence mechanisms like second skin. He understood you kept your heart barricaded not because there was nothing within. It had been built because you had been given far too many reasons to lock it away until you had perhaps forgotten what it had originally been protecting.

Yet, there it was, beating still.

He thought, perhaps selfishly, that if you'd let him then he could be someone you could rely on — just as he had slowly come to rely on you.

“Thank you for listening to me.” — He meant every syllable. 

Your eyes darted towards him at once, though by then he had already turned away. Flat on his back again, his face tilted towards the terrace and eyes closed like he chose to retreat from the moment. A sense of discomfort bloomed somewhere under your sternum. 

Gratitude had never sat comfortably in your hands. You knew how to deal with ridicule, suspicion, even cruelty. Those were territories you understood. Honest tenderness left you fumbling for footing. 

“I should go back.” You pushed yourself upright rather abruptly, brushing stray dust from your robes in motions that lacked their usual composure. “It’s getting late. Goodnight, Soobin.”

He opened his eyes then, watching you for a second too long before giving a small nod. “Goodnight.” 

He didn’t question why you suddenly looked incapable of remaining still beside him another minute longer. Perhaps he understood already. Perhaps he simply chose not to force the matter open. 

You descended the spiral staircase with one hand pressed to the stone wall to keep balance, not that it mattered — it was your breath that threatened to slip whilst your thoughts churned noisily. You didn’t know what this meant or what tonight would become, or if it would become anything at all — but as you slipped into the darkness, one thing had been made clear. Whatever had passed between you tonight, it was not the sort of thing that vanished come morning.

Whether you spoke of it again or not, you’d both remember.