#finally here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

His room smells.

Like fresh laundry, ink and graphite. It suits him. It is him. It’s also you now. You smell like him. Like the beautiful and calming scent of parchment paper, like the faint smell of dust that still clings to you after you both ran into his house after the rain. And you also smell like his cologne. A very minimalistic smell, wood, musk, soft.

He hates cologne.

But you love it.

… and he loves you.

Looking around you, you notice everything’s neat. His pens are straightened, notes are stacked in perfect order and his books are arranged neater than you could ever accomplish. A small lamp casting honey-gold light casts across his desk. He sits here, back hunched, pen sliding across the paper as his eyes flick between equations you would never be able to solve.

You’re sprawled in his bed like you’ve always belonged there—lying on your stomach, textbook open and chin propped up on your hands. Your legs sway lazily in the air, heels softly tapping against each other as if your body can’t sit still. Maybe you shouldn’t have drank that coffee earlier. The sheets beneath you are warm, clean and best of all; smells like him.

You cast your eyes to the back of his head, eyeing the soft black strands that glide across his skull, and faintly curl just under the top of his neck. You could stare at him for hours—you really could. One, because he’s really fucking pretty, and two… you’re bored of your goddamn mind. Date night with Sieun is always the highlight of your week, there’s no doubt. But… but it could be… more? You can’t find the right words.

Sighing, you sit upright, brushing down your skirt as you flick your hair over your shoulder. Casting your eyes down, you grin at the sheet of paper lying on his bed. It’s incomplete—obviously, there’s nothing more to expect from you, but you shove it in your bag anyway. You can just steal the answers from Suho anyway—maybe not him, since he lacks more brain cells than you do.

Whatever, you’ll figure it out.

Hopping off his bed, he barely bats you an eye, too used to your hyper movements, and you circle around him, glancing down at his paper with an unwavering eye. You move from his left side, to his right, and then you move back to his left side again. Are you doing too much? Maybe you’re doing too much. Settling on the left-side of his desk, you watch with hawk eyes as he zooms through the equations like he’s writing out the alphabet.

Wow, your boyfriend is so cool.

A soft exhale leaves his lips as he looks up at you, his doe eyes that sparkle brighter than every star combined, those eyes that could bring any one to their knees, his eyes that speak more words than anyone else ever could. He doesn’t need to speak for you to know what he’s asking. Years of you pining over him has already taught you what you need to know.

“I’m bored.” You pout, fiddling with your fingers as you avoid eye contact.

His pen stills for the briefest second. He doesn’t sigh—he never sighs at you, but his thumb presses lightly against his pen, like he’s trying to gather his thoughts.

“You’re bored,” he says quietly, not in an angry tone, not in a mocking tone. Just a statement.

You nod, leaning your hip against his desk. “Yes, professor. This your cue to entertain me.”

That earns you the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth—the Sieun equivalent of a laugh, and you almost melt at the sight. You made him smile. You. Made. Him. Smile. He places his pen down, aligning it perfectly parallel with his notebook, then finally looks at you.

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” you say, dragging out the vowels dramatically. “Everythingggg.”

He tilts his head a little, eyes flicking up at you. “Everything? That’s a lot.”

You grin, learn down so your face is closer to his. “You’re a genius. Solve this equation.”

He blinks at you. “What equation?”

“How to make your girlfriend not bored,’ you whisper, nose scrunched.

He pauses for a second, and so do you. Then, in the softest voice you ever head, he speaks. “I like when you’re here even if you’re bored.”

The words hit you like a slow wave. You try not to beam but you fail miserably, because he looks so calm saying it, like he’s been thinking it forever.

You drop your chin on his shoulder, standing beside him, the scent of his soft cologne and laundry detergent warm against your face. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you mumble. “Otherwise I’d start climbing the walls.”

His pen scratches against the paper again, but this time, his knee bumps yours under the table, like a quiet, subtle nudge.

“I can take a break,” he says, as if it’s nothing. “If you want to go out.”

You heart skips. He never suggests that.

“Like…a date?”

He finally glances as you, and you catch the ghost of a smile. “If that’s what you call it.”

You explode with glee, rambling on with happiness as you begin speaking about where you want to go, how the night is perfect for a date like this, how the air will smell like petrichor, how the stalls in the town centre will be open so you can eat whatever you want. And Sieun… he just watches.

Watches with that soft, unreadable look of his—like the world could fall apart around him and he still wouldn’t look away from you.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The morning sun spills through the classroom windows, striping the floor in beautiful gold. You’re halfway through a rant about how you witnessed Suho nearly get run over by another delivery guy this morning, and Sieun’s just walking beside you, letting the sound of your voice hum through his ears. Not saying a word, just listening.

You’ve been attached to his side since you met him at the gate—backpack swinging, mouth moving, hand occasionally brushing his sleeve. He never says anything about it. Never shrugs you off. Never tells you to move away. It’s like your place beside him is a quiet rule of nature.

Suho’s a few steps on your other side, gesturing wildly as he keeps up with your energy. “I swear that delivery guy had a death wish. Why I ought to—”

You gasp, pointing dramatically. “He almost flattened you! We could’ve been mourning right now Suho!”

The three of you turn down the hall toward the cafeteria. And it’s filled to the brim—students everywhere, acting like they’ve been starved since the French Revolution, trays clattering, voices bouncing off the walls. You—of course, chatter the whole way, talking about your horror grades, a new drama you’re obsessed with and how Suho’s hair looks like it’s been cut around using a bowl. Sieun doesn’t contribute much, but he’s listening. Always listening.

When you laugh too loudly, his eye flick toward you. When you wave your hands mid-story and nearly hit someone with your bag, his hand reaches up, gently tugging the strap away from possible disaster without even thinking. He doesn’t okay at you when he does it. He doesn’t need to. Because when your world revolves around reading books, visiting the museum, binge-watching The Vampire Diaries for the 67th time and moaning about how stupid Matt is, his world revolves around you.

You’re mid conversation about absolutely nothing when the lunch trays slide down the metal counter. You’re too busy arguing with Suho about who’d survive longer in an apocalypse to notice Sieun take both your trays.

He doesn’t ask. Just question fills one with your usual—rice, soup, the chicken you like. He adds an extra egg roll without comment. When you reach for the tongs, he’s already placing the tray in your hands.

You blink. “Oh. You got mine?”

He gives a small nod. “You’d drop it.”

‘Would not—”

“You would,” he says softly, eyes already on the next tray. His tray.

Suho snorts. “She totally would.”

You gasp. “You’re supposed to be on my side.

As you grumble about threatening Suho with a delivery bike, you three take a seat at the table.

And at the table, it’s the same thing—you and Suho talking and talking and talking about random things; class gossip, new snacks, whether penguins have knees, while Sieun quietly cuts the pieces of your chicken smaller, slides your drink closer, moves your tray away from the edge.

He doesn’t do it dramatically, doesn’t do it to be known or make a show of it. It’s all subconscious—little, automatic gestures that shows he’s always paying attention, even when you think he isn’t.

When you steal a bite off his plate, he doesn’t even blink. Just pushes the rest toward you without lifting his head.

Suho groans. “Why does she get special treatment? You’d deck me if I tried that.”

Sieun speaks, voice calm and final.

“She’s not you.”

You’re still talking when the school day’s over—about plans after school, about how the math test is basically designed to ruin your life—and he’s still quiet. Occasionally, he hums in acknowledgment, or answers with a single word that somehow fits perfectly.

When you lean too far back on the bench, he steadies the back of your chair with his foot. When you forget your pencil case, it’s already in his hand before you even realise it’s missing.

You never notice how much he does—not really. But he does it all because he likes the noise you bring. The brightness. The mess. He likes that your world spills into his without asking for permission. The exact same way you entered his heart after months of mutual pining.

And when you turn to him, grinning, “Hey, are you even listening?”

He looks up from his notebook, meeting your eyes. “Always.”

You blink, thrown off by the softness in his tone and Suho shivers like he’s witnessed the worst thing in his life. “Okay gross. Get a room.”

Flipping Suho off, you continue your ramble, not noticing that, no matter the situation, he’ll always be with you. Whether he’s listening or just looking. Your questions don’t stop. ‘What do you think clouds taste like?’, ‘Would I still look cute with no eyebrows’ (to which Suho replies ‘you don’t look cute either way’), ‘If I was cloned, who would you pick?’.

And when you ask the final question (finally), “If I fell from the Eiffel Tower, would any of you catch me.”

Suho replies, “Hypothetically, if you were standing at the top and I happened to be right below you, considering factors such as the weather…”

You scoff at his words, shaking your head and his apparent stupidity, and when you turn to look at your boyfriend, really look, you realise something.

He’s not saying a word, but somehow, in the space between his touch and his silence, he’s telling you he’d catch you a thousand times over—every time, without ever looking up.