⋆｡‧˚ʚ ୨ৎ ɞ˚‧｡⋆

"it’s late" you said, your voice sounding thin against the steady drone of the rain.

"the schedule says 11:15" he replied without looking up. "it’s 11:23. the schedule doesn't mean anything when it rains. the roads down by the pier always flood first, and the drivers take the long way around. they do it every time, but they never change the ink on the sign"

he finally raised his head, his dark hair damp and clinging slightly to the side of his face. he looked exhausted, the kind of deep, quiet fatigue that comes from waiting for something you aren't even sure is coming anymore. between his fingers, he held a cheap, clear plastic umbrella, the ribs groaning slightly whenever a stronger gust of wind swept down the narrow alleyway. he wasn't holding it over himself; he had it tilted just enough to keep the spray off your sneakers.

you looked away, down the long stretch of gray asphalt. the streetlights were spaced too far apart here, leaving massive pockets of shadow between each pool of yellow light. it felt like standing at the edge of a map that hadn't finished rendering yet.

"you don't have to stay" you murmured, pulling your collar up against the chill. "the bus will get here eventually. or it won't. it doesn't matter."

eunseok didn't move. he just watched a drop of water travel down the curved plastic of the umbrella, pooling at the edge before dropping onto the toe of his shoe. "if i leave, you'll just sit on the curb until your clothes are soaked through. then you'll complain about the damp for three days"

"i don't do that"

"you do it every time" he said, his voice entirely flat, devoid of any real anger but heavy with a familiar, worn-out certainty. "you think if you stay quiet enough, the world will just forget you're standing here and leave you alone. it doesn't work like that."

the honesty of it stung, a sharp little nick against a spot that was already tender. things had been sliding sideways between you two for months—not with loud arguments or dramatic exits, but with a slow, agonizing accumulation of silence. you’d spend hours in the same room without exchanging a single word, the space between your chairs feeling wider than the ocean. you were both waiting for the other to say the thing that would either fix it or end it, but neither of you had the energy to start the fire.

the distant rumble of a heavy engine echoed from around the corner, the twin high beams of the bus cutting through the mist like searchlights. the yellow glare caught the wet pavement, turning everything a sudden, violent gold.

eunseok took his hands out of his pockets. his fingers were red from the cold.

as the bus rumbled to a halt, its brakes squealing a long, agonizing note, the folding doors groaned open. the interior of the bus was bright, sterile, and completely empty. the driver didn't even look down at the two of you, just stared blankly at the wet windshield, the wipers making a heavy creek-creek sound against the glass.

this was the moment where the script usually ended. you would get on, he would walk back to his apartment alone, and the distance would grow another few inches wider by morning.

you took a step toward the rubber-lined step of the bus.

before your foot could clear the curb you felt a sudden firm tug on the fabric of your sleeve.

eunseok hadn't reached for your hand—he never did when things were like this—but his fingers were bunched tightly into the thick nylon of your jacket cuff. his grip was surprisingly heavy, his knuckles pale against the dark material. he didn't pull you backward, but he held the fabric with a quiet, stubborn intensity that made it impossible to take another step forward without dragging his entire weight with you.

you stopped looking down at his hand then up at his face.

he was looking straight at the open door of the bus, his jaw set in a hard, rigid line. the yellow light from the cabin hit the side of his face, showing the slight dampness on his eyelashes and the quiet desperation he usually kept buried under three layers of indifference.

"don't" he said. the word was small, nearly swallowed by the sound of the bus engine, but it was the loudest thing he’d said all night.

"eunseok, the next one doesn't run until five in the morning"

"i know" his grip tightened slightly on your sleeve, wrinkling the fabric. "the diner down the street stays open until two. they have those terrible, greasy hash browns you always order when you're miserable."

you stared at him, the rain continuing to beat its steady, rhythmic pulse against the plastic canopy above your heads. the driver of the bus hit the pneumatic lever, and the doors began to hiss shut, the rubber seals meeting with a dull thud before the vehicle pulled away, its red taillights bleeding into the wet darkness until they were nothing but faint smudges in the fog.