ąʑı @azrielai - Tumblr Blog

Dec 13, 2025

treat u better

p. two — ahn keonho

pairing. best friend ! keonho / f ! reader

warnings + info. highschool au, friends to lovers, themes of emotional infidelity (no actual cheating), keonho pining, cortis are all same age bc plot, kissing, lovelyrunner spoilers beware

! must read prior part to understand !

synopsis. keonho was supposed to be your happy, go-lucky, never caring best friend. but... what if he did care? a little too much, to the point where he loses his mind over the fact that your boyfriend doesn’t treat you how he would.

▸ p. one ✦ ▸ p. two ✦

total fic estimated wc. 18-20k part one wc. 6.2k part two wc. 6.1k

▸ feedback & reblogs are highly appreciated ▸ requested by thea!

author's note. can we talk abt how freaking cute keon was in the nz vlog like his copying hyeon's order like ARGHGGH anywho here is part two as promised! i'm sure some of you notice they are relatively shorter than i've written before, but I decided to break it down into more parts because I feel like it fits the storyline more. this does not mean updates will come slower tho, i am keeping myself on a strict schedule!

HAPPY HOLIDAYS GUYS IT MY FAV TIME OF THE YEAR!!!!!!

Keonho’s parents had been in Jeju for almost a week, which meant his entire survival plan depended on the plastic containers of banchan and side dishes his grandma kept dropping off. The woman lived across the city. She deserved a medal. Or a nap.

Your mom had gotten annoyed hearing he’d been “eating like a raccoon,” so she’d packed japchae and a side of fried mandu for him, because apparently she didn’t trust him not to pass out from eating only convenience store gimbap.

You'd dropped it off after whatever the hell you did with Seungwoo and after a single game of Mario Kart with Keonho, you forced yourself out of his house. You had a literal mountain of work waiting for you at home.

He kept saying he was “fine.” But then you walked into his kitchen earlier and saw a stack of convenience store gimbap wrappers that looked like sad little headstones. Would've been funny if it didn't become your problem, too.

It was a couple hours later and he’d texted:

ahn keon-HOE [Fri, May 17, 7:03 PM] yo can u come back i tried reheating that thing u left and i think i broke something

You didn’t even ask what “something” meant. You grabbed your shoes and went, because honestly, you didn’t trust him either.

When you walked in and shut the front door behind you, he wasn't dead, but it seemed like he lost a couple brain cells.

He wasn’t expecting you to actually show up this fast.

One second he was poking the stove like it was a sleeping bear, the next the front door clicked shut and your pimple patch covered self wandered in like you were clocking in for a shift you never agreed to.

Keonho lifted his head from where he’d been practically draped across the counter. The frying pan sat next to him.

“Dude,” you said, halfway between disbelief and a laugh, “why do you look like you fought cookware in self-defense.”

He pointed at the stove. “It started making a noise. Like hissing.”

“It was the burner.”

“No, it was the noodles. They sounded… angry.”

You walked closer, eyeing the pan. “You realize they’re not alive. Like literally not capable of emotion.”

“Yeah, well, they acted like it.” He pushed himself upright, rubbing his eyebrow with the heel of his hand like he’d been through emotional strain. “Also I think the spatula melted.”

You held it up. The tip looked… slightly chewed. And, as he claimed, melted.

“How did you even…” you started.

“In my defense,” he retaliated immediately, raising his hands, “I panicked.”

“You panic a lot.”

“Not like that. That was a different breed of panic. Like final boss panic.”

You tried not to smile. He could tell, because your mouth twitched, and you turned away to set the pan on the stove properly.

The kitchen lights made everything look warm. Not aesthetic warm. More like lived-in warm. A couple stray socks by the hallway, the stupid mint-green dish towel his mom liked, the open rice cooker like a half-asleep pet.

It was like he transformed the usually neat and sleek house his mom worked so hard to maintain into his own little lived in cave.

Keonho leaned his hip against the counter, arms crossing, watching you like he always did when you were fixing something he messed up.

“You know,” he said, casually checking out the setting you put the stove on, “I’m starting to think you’re the only reason I haven’t starved this week."

“You mean my mom,” you shrugged. You flipped the noodles with this smooth wrist motion like you were hosting a cooking show. Just to show off to him that you were a million times better a chef than he was.

“Whatever,” he said, waving a hand and rolling his eyes at your actions. “You're the one dragging it all the way over here.”

You scoffed and pushed the hair out of your face. “You live like seven minutes away.”

“You still came.”

“Because you can’t cook worth anything. You would literally die if my mom didn't send me. I'm just doing god's work, you know.”

You tossed the noodles lightly, and the glossy strands arced up and settled back into the pan with this soft hiss. The steam curled around your face like it was sizing you up and you swatted it out of your face. The whole kitchen smelled like sesame oil, beef, and the tiniest hint of panic he left behind from his earlier meltdown.

You leaned a little closer to inspect them, brow furrowed in concentration. The overhead light caught on your cheekbone, and your expression went into that “locked in mode” he was weirdly familiar with. The kind where you stared at food like you were trying to talk it down from a rooftop.

He watched the way you stirred the japchae. It was like you were undoing a curse he’d accidentally cast. The noodles slid in smooth circles, glistening, the wooden spoon scraping gently against the pan.

“How’d you even reheat it?” you asked without looking up.

“I turned on the burner.”

“And?”

“And then the pan made a noise and the noodles started moving and I freaked out.”

You paused mid-stir, giving him a full, flat stare. “They were boiling.”

“No,” he said, pointing at the pan. “They were plotting.”

You almost dropped the spoon because you were laughing too hard, shoulders shaking. And he just stood there, watching you, pretending he didn’t feel something weird settle in his chest when you did.

You looked over your shoulder, giving him that slow blink that meant you were judging him with your entire soul. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the person who walked in here judging my life choices.”

“You asked me to come back.”

“Yeah,” he replied, shrugging lightly, “because I ran out of survival points.”

You snorted. Actually snorted.

Surprisingly, he didn’t say anything, but his mouth tugged at the corners like he was filing the sound away for later teasing.

He grabbed a cup from the drying rack, the glass still faintly foggy from earlier. He filled it halfway, then downed the whole thing like he’d just crawled out of the desert. His throat bobbed, his hair falling into his eyes a little, and he slammed the cup down with a breathy “uff” like he’d survived something traumatic.

“So,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in the most dramatic way possible, “I probably owe you like three days of meals.”

“Oh no. You owe me way more than that, buddy.” You turned the spoon in the pan, letting the noodles glide across it. “This is a long-term debt.”

You finally looked up from your ministrations and held his eye contact with narrowed eyes, almost like you were scolding him.

He squinted at you. He leaned one hip against the counter like he was ready to negotiate. “Oh? What’s the tab?”

“Hmm. To start with?” You pointed the spoon at him like a teacher calling out a student. “Not melting anything else.”

He made a face. “I can’t promise that.”

“You literally melted plastic. What kind of idiot are you?”

“Again…” He lifted both hands in surrender, shoulders rising in an exaggerated shrug in a chuckle. “Panic.”

You gave him this slow, intensely judgmental blink. “From noodles.”

“Yes,” he affirmed with full conviction. “They were scary as fuuuck.”

You shook your head, stirring again, steam drifting up between you like it was sighing at him too.

He watched you for a second, eyes moving from your hands to the pan to your face like he was trying to decide if you were impressed or disgusted. Probably both.

“Just so we’re clear,” you added, “I’m not babysitting you every time you heat something.”

He pointed at the pan. “Tell that to whatever fucking monster was in there twenty minutes ago.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth tugged up. “Add it to my permanent record.”

You slid the pan off the heat, letting the japchae settle. Keonho reached over like he was going to take credit for helping, but you swatted his hand away before he could even pretend.

“Don’t touch anything,” you warned.

He clasped his hands dramatically behind his back, flashing that huge grin at you. “Fine. I’ll just stand here. Being pretty.”

You rolled your eyes and nudged him with your shoulder as you walked past to grab chopsticks. It wasn’t a big nudge, but it made his stomach flip for a half-second, like he’d missed a stair. He ignored it. Or tried to.

He watched you plate the japchae. The steam curled up like it was stretching its arms.

“Okay,” you said, handing him his bowl, “don’t drop this, child.”

“I’m not like a... toddler.”

He absolutely was. But you didn’t say it. You just gave him that look again, amused and a little exasperated, and he felt that weird flicker in his chest again.

Nothing crazy. Just enough to make him blink twice.

He shoved it away. Back into the part of his brain labeled “you're weird, stop it.”

“Alright,” he said, tapping his chopsticks against the bowl, “eat with me so I don’t accidentally burn something again.”

“You can burn food while eating?”

“Have you met me?”

You burst out laughing, leaning your head back for a second, and the sound bounced around his empty house like it was filling all the corners.

It was so comfortable. So easy and familiar. Like he was just swimming in a pool of nostalgia and domesticity.

For a second, he forgot all about your dweeb of a boyfriend who didn't know how to even speak to your properly. He had to stop himself again.

He didn’t overthink anything. Not yet.

But he did notice the way your sock-clad foot nudged his under the table when you sat down. Not purposeful. Just because you always sat too close without even realizing.

He noticed the way your hoodie sleeve brushed his arm when you reached for the gochujang.

He noticed the way you blew on his noodles before giving it to him without looking at him, and how it alerted that same shift in him from before.

How you always kept his needs in mind along with yours. Like you needed to take care of him before yourself.

None of it was weird yet. None of it changed anything.

He twirled noodles with chopsticks like he was performing heart surgery. “See,” he bellowed, swallowing, “I would’ve figured this shit out eventually.”

“Yeah sure,” you deadpanned. “Right after the smoke alarms did.”

He flicked a noodle at you. You gasped. He grinned. The same dumb rhythm you two always fell into without even trying.

The speakers on the counter hummed lightly with some random playlist he’d thrown on. The warm lighting making everything look a little softer, like this wasn’t technically just you babysitting him so he didn’t starve.

By the time the bowls were almost empty, he leaned back in his chair with a dramatic stretch, patting his stomach.

You left the table, slipping down the hall. He could hear the faucet turn on, cabinets opening, a little cough you never bothered to hide. He looked at your empty seat, your bowl, the way your napkin sat folded without you even thinking about it. And something stupid and warm flickered in his chest before he shoved it down.

When you walked back in, you weren’t casual about it. You burst in like you’d discovered a universal truth.

“Oh my god.” You stopped halfway between the hall and the table. “Keon.”

He froze mid-drink. “What. Why do you look like you just went through PTSD.”

You crossed your arms, nearly vibrating. “I know what we’re doing tonight.”

He blinked. Once. Twice. “Should I be scared.”

“Yes.” You grabbed your phone from the table like you were holding evidence. “Because you’re not gonna let me leave anyway, since you’re so freaking lonely. Like. Tragic incel level lonely.”

“The fuck, don't call me that. I’m not lonely,” he said immediately, offended. “I’m... independent.”

“You texted me to come reheat noodles.”

“That was a survival emergency.”

“Mhm.” You slid back into your chair for a second, leaning forward on your elbows. “Anyway. Plans for your amazing Friday night with me have been decided.”

He tilted his head. “Okay… then what are we doing.”

You grinned like you were about to change his life. “Lovely Runner.”

His entire soul deflated. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No, no, no—”

“Episode eight,” you said, popping your phone onto the table. “I’m educating you.”

“You watch one drama and suddenly you’re some kind of a movie producer.”

“Sit down and accept your fate, boy.”

He stared at you across the table, chopsticks paused mid-air. He watched you plop onto the couch, grabbing the blanket, settling in like you’d lived here forever.

And even though he acted like he was being forced into emotional distress, he followed you without hesitation.

Because it was you.

Keonho’s living room looked exactly like what happens when a teenage boy is left home alone for a week. The blinds were half-crooked from him pulling on them too hard. A hoodie was thrown over the arm of the couch. A pair of socks sat abandoned near the coffee table like he stepped out of them mid-thought.

The lights were dim except for the warm lamp in the corner, which made the room feel smaller and softer than it really was.

You sat cross-legged on the couch, your empty bowl resting on the table beside his. The warm soy-sweet smell of your mom’s japchae still lingered in the air. The smell tempted you but, god you were full. The leftover dishes were pushed off to the side, forgotten once the drama came on.

Keonho was stretched out at the other end, one leg folded under him, the other hanging off the couch in a manspread. His hair was still a little messy from running his hands through it while cooking earlier.

When he sat down, his thigh bumped yours, and that tiny contact had been enough to make him shift… but the movement was slow, almost like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to move or not.

But he did. Just a couple seconds too late.

The TV glowed across both of you. Episode 8 of Lovely Runner paused right on Sunjae’s face, eyes red and tired under the neon lights.

Keonho dragged a hand down his face. “You’re really making me rewatch this?” he muttered, sinking deeper into the cushions.

“You didn’t watch it properly the first time,” you said, lifting the remote. “You were texting during literally every heartbreaking scene.”

He held up two fingers. “False. I paused texting during—at minimum—two dramatic moments.”

You shot him a look so judgmental it could’ve been turned into a warning label and hit play.

For a while, the room fell into a peaceful kind of quiet. The drama’s nighttime street noises filled the speakers, lights reflecting off rain-wet pavement onscreen. The soundtrack crept in too, Byeon Wooseok's serene voice and that slow piano Lovely Runner the whole country was addicted to.

You sneaked a glance over at him.

He had one arm tucked behind his head now, the other draped across his stomach. His wavy bangs fell unevenly, brushing the tops of his lashes whenever he blinked. His eyes tracked the screen, sharp—even focused, even when he pretended not to care.

Halfway through the episode, he pulled out his phone and unlocked it. His thumb hovered over the screen. App. Home screen. TikTok. Switch. Lock. Unlock. Lock.

In conclusion: he wasn’t actually using it.

His knee bounced. His eyes kept flicking to you, then to the TV, then away again like he didn’t want to get caught watching too closely.

Five minutes. Ten minutes passed.

The plot was getting stupidly interesting. But stupid. In his humble opinion.

Then he let out a short, frustrated breath, tossed his phone onto his stomach, and said:

“Okay. I don’t get why Sol doesn’t just tell him she loves him.”

You blinked, cup halfway to your mouth. “…Keon.”

“No, seriously.” He sat up a little, leaning toward you and motioning toward the TV. “She’s literally jumping through timelines like she’s on a treadmill she can’t get off. The guy dies every two episodes. She loves him. He loves her. Why not just... say it?”

“You’re missing the point,” you dismissed.

He rolled his head toward you, eyebrows raised. “Am I? Because from where I’m sitting, the math is easy.”

You grabbed a spare throw blanket and tossed it at his chest.

His fast reflexes tried to shield himself but it hit him nonetheless

“You don’t get pining.”

Keonho picked up the blanket slowly, shaking his head. He let it fall across his lap. “Explain it then.”

You leaned forward a little, elbows resting on your knees toward your chest as Sunjae appeared onscreen again, looking as beautiful as ever, by the way. You already knew what was coming in this episode. You’d been waiting for it. Your whole body leaned into it without meaning to.

“Okay, listen,” you started, pointing at the TV like you were presenting a case in court. “She literally tried telling him. And they were happy for a little bit. But he still died.”

Your voice had that tone you get when you’re talking about a fictional character like they’re a friend who just refuses to make good choices. You didn’t notice how animated you got, but Keonho did. He always noticed when you cared so deeply about something.

“This isn’t just, like… haha, toxic relationship drama,” you went on, pushing your hair behind your ear. “She’s watching him die over and over. Like no matter what she does, the universe keeps taking him away from her. So obviously, she’s gonna think maybe being with her is the reason. Or the trigger. Or whatever.”

Keonho didn’t interrupt. He barely blinked. His face wasn’t blank, just… somewhere else.

You kept talking. Completely unaware that you’d captured him without even trying.

“Obviously you can see why she would give up,” you surmised. “Not on him. But on being selfish. Because that’s what it is. If she kept loving him and knowing he would die, that’s selfish.”

You were gesturing your hands everywhere and practically visualizing the scenarios before you. The dim light from the lamp caught the edge of your cheekbone, the slope of your nose. You didn’t look at him while you talked, which gave him room to stare.

And he did.

He stared like he was trying to understand how your brain worked. How you saw love. How you saw pain. How you talked about sacrifice like it was normal.

“Right,” you added, glancing at him finally. “Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

But he didn’t answer. Not right away.

His expression wasn’t blank. His eyes weren’t really here. Like you’d said something that dragged his mind somewhere else. He didn’t say anything.

You watched him, the way his fingers fussed with the loose threads of the throw blanket you’d practically tackled him under. It felt like his mind had drifted somewhere you couldn’t follow.

You narrowed your eyes at his lack of reply. “Are you even listening?”

He blinked like he’d been caught drifting.

“I am,” he murmured. “I’m just…”

He stopped.

Honestly, it was a little insulting, seeing as you were explaining the depth of the plot so passionately and he was just... zoning out. Like he always seemed to be recently.

You rolled your eyes, annoyed. “You always zone out when I’m explaining the good parts. Like, I swear—”

“It’s not on purpose,” he muttered.

You scoffed. “Liar.”

“It’s not,” he insisted, eyes flicking to yours then away, like the truth was harder to hold. “I’m trying to follow what you mean.”

“You’re doing a terrible job,” you said.

He huffed a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time.

You exhaled and sat back, pressing pause on the remote. The room sank into a quieter kind of stillness. Onscreen, the characters froze mid-motion. The soundtrack kept playing, soft piano filling the background.

You tried again. Maybe he needed to hear it slower. He had the mind of a ten year old anyway.

“It’s not suffering on purpose,” you said. “It’s loving someone so much you’re willing to… step away if it keeps them safe. Or happy. Or alive.”

Your voice softened without you trying. The idea weighed more when said out loud. You could feel the space around you shift.

Keonho’s fingers tightened on the blanket. He stared at it like it held an answer he didn’t know how to find.

“…why would someone do that?” he asked—timidly, almost. You noticed his voice dipping lower.

The tone of his voice made you pause.

It wasn’t sarcastic. Or confused. Or annoyed, like when you usually talked about romantic movies.

It was small and tentative. Like he was asking you something he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to.

You swallowed.

“Because if being with them hurts them,” you said, “then loving them means not choosing yourself first.”

He turned the blanket over in his hands. Then again. Then slowly flattened it on his thigh, smoothing it. It looked like he needed something repetitive to ground him.

“I feel like that's backwards,” he murmured.

“It’s not,” you scoffed. “It’s love.”

Like it was just that. Love. To let someone go. To let someone b e happy without you.

He looked up then. Really looked. His eyes held yours longer than they ever had before. The shift was so slow you didn’t notice it until it was already happening.

“So you’re telling me love is stupid? Like, literally one-sided.”

“Sometimes,” you whispered. He didn't realize how hard this subject hit you.

The heater came on down the hallway, a low hum. The only other sound was the faint piano still drifting from the TV.

Neither of you spoke.

Something in the air seemed to dawn on both of you that you weren't necessarily discussing just Sunjae and Sol anymore.

Keonho’s thumb traced that same loose thread over and over. His breathing was a little slower. His shoulders were less slouched than before, like something in him had gone alert without his permission. He had this slow, searching look like he was trying to line up something inside his chest.

He looked up. Almost hesitant to look you in the eye.

Then, with barely any warning, he asked:

“…is that how you are?”

You froze. “What?” your voice came out embarrassingly soft.

He didn’t fake a shrug this time. No smirk. No dumb diss to hide behind.

“You’d like someone so much,” he concluded, eyes on the blanket. “But you wouldn’t tell them.” A beat. “Even if it hurts to keep it in.”

Your chest tightened. The air felt heavier. So much hotter than it was in the May heat.

"Do you feel like that's the right thing to do?" He cleared his throat and leaned back. "If it were you, I mean."

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

He still didn’t look at you, but his jaw was tight. His grip on the blanket stilled completely.

Your pulse sped up. And the room felt like it shifted by a fraction of an inch.

Why... did it feel like there was something underlying this conversation? Why was he so sensitive about it? Taking it personal like anything of the sort had ever happened to him.

You chuckled inside at the thought. Who would ever not be able tell when Ahn Keonho liked them? You're sure it would be the most obvious thing in the world. He was obvious about everything he did. The rambunctious way he walked, his big cheesy grin, and even the way he drags his feet.

You waited for him to crack a joke. To laugh it off. To say literally anything that would break the weight sitting between you.

But he didn’t.

Keonho stayed exactly where he was, staring at the blanket like it was safer than looking at you. His knee was bouncing, just barely, like his body was betraying whatever he was trying to keep steady.

You shifted a little, tugging your own legs closer to your chest. The room felt smaller than it had before. Closer. Like the walls were leaning in. Waiting and listening on your next words.

“I mean…” you finally said, “I think sometimes people just… keep things to themselves because it feels easier. Or safer.”

His licked his lips and shifted on his side.

“Easier?” he mumbled. “Doesn’t look easy.”

You exhaled a slow breath. “I didn’t say it was smart.”

That earned the tiniest sound from him. Not a laugh, not even close. More like a breath where a laugh would’ve been if he wasn’t so tangled up right now.

The TV screen glowed in front of you both, paused on Sol’s face mid-confession. The moment frozen in time. Her expression full of everything she never said until it was almost too late.

You caught him looking at it. Not with confusion this time. Something closer to recognition.

Almost like he understood it now. Almost like he saw himself in it.

His eyes tracked back down to his hands. The blanket. His fingers curled into it, slow and tight, like he needed something to hold onto before the next thing slipped out.

And when he spoke again, his voice was lower than before. Rougher.

“So… if someone likes someone,” he said, choosing each word like it might cut him, “and they keep it to themselves… is that… what you’d do?”

What did that even mean? Sol's face began to pixelate in your brain because of how long you stared at her face, trying to comprehend where this was coming from and how to respond.

You didn't answer, and that silence must’ve been loud enough to make something flicker across his face. Something quick. Barely-there. But real.

He swallowed, then leaned back as if he could outrun whatever he’d just said.

“Right,” he speculated under his breath. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

You felt your stomach twist. You wanted to say something. Literally anything. But your voice wasn’t cooperating.

He just breathed out slowly, eyes dropping to his hands, thumbs rubbing over the hem of the blanket like he was trying to smooth out a crease that wasn’t there.

The TV washed both of you in blue light, but the room felt warmer than before. The air between you wasn’t tense exactly… more like stretched thin.

You shifted on the couch. You tried to shake it off.

“Anyway,” you said lightly, flicking your wrist at the screen, “you’re taking this way too seriously. It’s just a drama. I thought you hated them anyway. Calm down.”

His face contorted into something of repulse. His brows pinched a little. It had this quiet, thoughtful line forming between them. “I’m not taking it seriously,” he murmured. “Just… thinking.”

“About a fake couple, as you would say?”

“No.” Almost immediate. “Something else.”

Your heartbeat stumbled. You didn’t ask what. You didn’t want to know the answer.

It was probably another thing with a girl he wasn't telling you about.

So you cleared your throat and grabbed your favorite pillow again, like that would magically dissolve whatever the hell this was turning into.

He kept watching you though. Not intensely. Just… long enough for you to feel it under your skin.

You needed out. A verbal emergency exit.

“Anyway,” you perked up, forcing brightness into your tone, “you were the one confused about Sol's pining, remember? You asked. I answered. End of lesson.”

He huffed a tiny laugh through his nose. Yet his eyes were sharp. “Sure.”

He looked like he was gearing up to say something else, something that would drag you right back into that too-serious quicksand.

You weren’t letting that happen.

You reached for the remote and hit play again. “Let’s just watch. You’re the one who wanted to keep going.”

The episode picked up, Sunjae driving Sol home.

You locked on the TV like your life depended on it. As if you hadn't watched this show over 6 times now and recite the scenes word for word.

He finally leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head, long legs spreading all over and across you.

A few minutes passed. Maybe five. Maybe ten. Long enough that the moment probably should’ve faded… but it didn’t.

It lingered, sticky as honey, sitting in the back of both your minds.

And that was exactly when he reached for the nearest conversational escape hatch.

“So, uh…” He scratched at the side of his neck, eyes fixed on literally anything except you. “how's Seungwuss, anyway?”

You rolled your eyes at the childhood nickname your boyfriend had coined over the years. Your body had relaxed after whatever that previous conversation was, but tightened up again after him asking about Seungwoo.

"I thought I said to stop calling him that. That was years ago. You're so immature."

You didn't see, but Keonho smirked to himself at your reaction.

“He’s fine,” you informed with a quick little nod. Too quick. “Busy.”

Your whole body stiffened. Not dramatically. Just enough for him to pick up on.

The second that word left your mouth, you filled the space with noise. You reached for the remote, clicked the volume up a notch even though the characters on screen were barely whispering. You leaned forward like you were so invested in whatever scene was happening.

Keonho didn’t buy it.

“Busy,” he repeated, lower, softer. He wasn’t calling you out. He was… studying. Not like he was trying to catch you lying, but like he was trying to catch something delicate before it slipped off a table.

“Yeah,” you said, tapping the remote against your knee. “School, work, life… you know. Stuff.”

He didn’t interrupt you. Didn’t call you out. He just watched you stutter over yourself.

You were rambling. You never rambled. Especially not about him.

Keonho’s eyes slid to you.

You didn’t look back.

You reached for your drink instead, taking a sip you didn’t need, pretending the scene on TV was suddenly fresh to your mind. Your shoulders lifted in a whatever gesture. “We’re… good."

Keonho shifted, shoulders rolling back as he settled deeper into the couch, blanket still half-wrapped around his waist. His eyes stayed on you, not judging, not teasing, just quietly reading you like you were a page he suddenly realized might be important.

“That right,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t agreement either. It was more like a probe. A poke on your cheek.

“Mhm.” You raised the remote again even though there was nothing left to adjust. The show flickered across your face, colors changing every second, but your expression didn’t match a single frame.

“Honestly,” you justified, poking his blanketed shin with your foot as if that explained everything, “it’s nothing crazy. We’re both busy, it’s chill.”

He raised his eyebrows. It started to get on your nerves, honestly. When had you guys even talked about things like this? You had your own gender friends for that.

"It’s whatever,” you added, voice dropping without your permission. “It’s nothing serious.”

His breathing slowed the tiniest bit. “That so?” he asked.

You swallowed. Hard. “Yeah. Totally.”

A text banner lit up your phone on the cushion beside you, in-between him and you. You didn’t move.

Not even a glance.

Keonho’s eyes darted down to it. Noticed the name. Noticed the time. Noticed how you didn’t slide your hand toward it at all.

The screen went dark. Then buzzed again. Twice.

You stared ahead like you were glued to the TV, but your jaw had that faint tension to it that he always caught when you were trying too hard.

“You’re not gonna check that?” he asked, casual on the surface, but there was an edge under it. A quiet one.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” You waved it off, eyes locked on the screen. “Probably something stupid from Yoonchae or whatever.”

He didn’t look away from you this time.

Your voice sounded normal. Your face looked normal. But your hand had gone still where it rested near your phone.

And Keonho noticed that too.

You were usually glued to your phone. Always checking something. Always responding within seconds. Always keeping track of everyone.

Tonight? You hadn’t touched it in… how long? An hour? Probably more?

On cue, the phone buzzed.

You didn’t even flinch.

Keonho’s eyes dropped to it. Then back to you. Then back to it.

Another buzz.

You kept watching the TV like a soldier refusing to break character.

His jaw ticked once. Just a small movement. But it was enough to tell you he’d clocked it completely.

If you had a boyfriend worth mentioning… you’d be checking your phone.

So why weren’t you? Why did it look like you were avoiding it?

Keonho didn’t ask again. He didn’t have to.

Because for the first time all night… he wasn’t confused.

He was suspicious.

#ahn keonho #cortis fic #cortis #lovhyeons

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