On Passive Terms With You ۶ৎ
Twoshot 11.3k
Author's Note:
Here is the Part 2. If you haven't seen the Part 1 here you go.
Includes:
- cold detached bf
- lowkey relationship
- chill couple
- slow burn
- slice-of-life
- a sprinkle of fluff?
——————₊⊹ — -ˋ୨୧ˊ- — ⊹₊——————
The next day, you're getting ready for school so is Keonho. Oddly enough, you have the same habit of waking up early for school.
Morning light filters through both of their windows—soft, golden, the kind that comes before 7 AM.
You wake up first.
Natural early riser. You never sleeps in unless you're sick.
You stretch quietly under your covers, then sits up and checks the time: 6:45 AM.
No rush.
But routine is strong with you—you like having time to do things right.
First: wash face.
Second: brush teeth.
Third: pick out uniform—the pleated skirt perfectly pressed yesterday by mom (your stylist mother insists on perfection).
Meanwhile…
Across town…
Keonho wakes at exactly 7 o’clock—no alarm needed again. Body clock precision from years of school schedule discipline (he hates being late more than anything).
Keonho gets up the moment his eyes open—no grogginess, no lying in bed scrolling.
He pulls on a fresh uniform: white shirt buttoned neatly (he hates wrinkles), navy blazer, black tie loosened just slightly at the collar like always. His hair is already perfect—just a quick run of fingers through it to fix sleep mess.
Downstairs, house is quiet.
Mom’s out for morning coffee with friends again.
Dad’s in study reviewing business reports.
No breakfast talk. No "good morning" exchange.
Keonho grabs an apple from the fruit bowl and heads straight for door,
sneakers laced up fast.
Car keys? Not today.
He walks to school—always does unless raining hard or he's late.
(And even then… walking)
School bag slung over one shoulder as he steps outside into crisp autumn air.
The walk to school is quiet—just the sound of his sneakers on pavement, the occasional rustle of trees in early morning breeze.
Keonho keeps a steady pace, hands tucked into his blazer pockets. Apple half-eaten by now—he took one last bite before tossing the core into a public trash bin near school gates.
Uniform perfectly worn.
Hair untouched since leaving home (still flawless).
No one has spoken to him yet—not even Minho who usually appears at least five minutes late with messy hair and coffee breath.
He walks through front entrance alone…
through crowded hallway…
and heads straight for classroom 3B—their literature class first period.
No eye contact with anyone as he passes
Just move.
Arrive.
The classroom is already filling—chatter, backpacks being dropped, a few girls giggling by the windows.
Keonho walks in like he owns the space: calm stride, no hurry. Everyone notices him automatically—not because he says anything dramatic or loud—but because he’s there, and that means something.
Minho spots him first from across the room and lifts his chin in greeting—their version of a "hey."
Keonho responds with nothing.
Just nods slightly as he passes Minho's desk on his way to his seat: back row by window. Always.
He sits down quietly.
Places school bag at feet.
Takes out notebook (still untouched since yesterday).
No pen clicking yet.
No phone out—just staring ahead at empty teacher’s desk
Waiting for class to start.
You arrive right on time—your steps light, your uniform immaculate.
Hair neatly tied into a sleek ponytail with a thin black ribbon, some fringe framing your face, makeup minimal but enhancing your natural features.
You walk through the school gates just as Keonho disappears into Classroom 3B down the hall.
No rush in your pace.
But not slow either—you're punctual by nature. A model’s discipline: be early, look perfect, don’t cause attention unless intended.
You head straight for your classroom—Art 2C—which is next door to Literature.
As you passes by 3B…
Keonho doesn't see you.
Too busy sitting stiffly at his desk,
staring blankly ahead like he always does before class starts.
But Minho does notice you walk by through the open classroom door—and nudges Keonho slightly with his elbow.
Keonho barely reacts to Minho’s nudge.
He glances toward the door—just a flicker of his eyes, not turning his head fully—and sees you passing by in your crisp uniform, backpack slung neatly over one shoulder.
You look… polished. Put-together. Like you didn’t just roll out of bed ten minutes ago (unlike half the class who clearly slept in their uniforms).
For half a second—maybe less—your eyes meet through the doorway.
No smile from him.
No wave or call-out.
Just quiet recognition: Oh. She's here.
Then he looks away first, returning to staring at nothing on the teacher’s desk like it holds all life's answers.
Minho watches this exchange silently—amused but saying nothing yet.
You keep walking down hallway without pausing either.
At lunch time, you're in the canteen, wearing earphones as you watches a specific kdrama on your phone.
The canteen is loud—students everywhere, chatting, laughing, clattering trays.
You sit alone at a small corner table near the window. Your lunch: neatly packed bento with garlic butter shrimp (your favorite), rice balls shaped like bunnies (mom's doing), and a small container of mango slices on the side.
Earphones in.
Volume up.
Phone propped slightly against your water bottle so you can watch comfortably.
On screen: a dramatic K-drama scene—a couple confessing love under cherry blossoms while soft piano music plays. The kind of moment that makes you sigh quietly to yourself.
You eat slowly between episodes—not rushing through meals or skipping for boys’ attention like some girls do.
Just enjoying your food… and getting lost in romance.
Then here comes Keonho spotting you.
Keonho enters the canteen with his usual detached demeanor—hands in pockets, no lunchbox or tray. He never brings food; either buys something on the spot or eats nothing at all.
He scans the room out of habit—not looking for anyone, just assessing where to sit.
Then he sees you.
Y/N. Alone.
Earphones in.
Watching something on your phone with quiet focus—the soft glow lighting up your face slightly from below.
For a second, Keonho pauses mid-step.
Not because he wants to approach… but because seeing you like this—peaceful, absorbed in your own world—is unfamiliar compared to how most people act around him: loud greetings or stares
Without thinking too hard (because if he does? He might walk away),
he starts walking toward your table
Keonho approaches silently—no sound, no greeting.
He stops right beside your table.
Tall frame casting a shadow over your phone screen for half a second.
You don't notice immediately—too engrossed in the drama scene where the male lead is about to kiss her.
The piano music swells on your earphones.
You're leaning slightly forward, eyes wide with anticipation…
Until you feel presence next to you.
Slowly… you turn your head—and there he is: Keonho. Just standing there like a quiet storm that appeared out of nowhere.
You blink once. Then twice. "Keon?"
Keonho doesn’t answer right away.
He just stares—at your face, at the phone screen where a dramatic K-drama kiss is still playing (you hadn’t paused it), at the half-eaten garlic butter shrimp beside your bento.
No judgment. No reaction to the romance scene.
Just… presence.
Then, finally—after that long pause—he nods once.
A tiny movement. Not friendly, not cold either. Just acknowledging: Yes, I'm here.
He doesn't say anything.
Doesn't ask if he can sit.
But his body language says everything:
I'm staying.
You move to make space for him, allowing him to sit beside you or not.
The space beside you is small—just enough for one person.
You quietly scoots your bento and water bottle to the side, making room. Not too wide, not too obvious… just a clear invitation: You can sit if you want.
No words.
Just action.
Keonho hesitates for half a second—not because he doesn’t want to sit (he does), but because sitting with someone at lunch? That’s social. Intentional.
And Keonho avoids intentional social moments like this unless forced or it's Minho dragging him in.
But then—
He pulls out the chair across from yours (not right next) and sits down.
Not beside you… but facing you across the table.
His movements are calm, quiet—no greeting again.
Just sits there as if nothing unusual is happening.
You're used to it by now. You pick up a shrimp and offers it to him silently, letting him decide whether he take it or not, you don't mind either way.
Keonho looks at the shrimp.
Not in a dramatic way—no wide eyes or surprise. Just a slow, quiet glance from the food to your face and back again.
You're offering him a bite of your lunch.
Something you made (or your mom did). Your favorite dish.
And you're just… holding it out like it's normal.
For someone who rarely shares meals with others—who doesn’t eat off anyone else’s plate or accept homemade food—this is oddly intimate.
A beat passes.
Then, without speaking…
without making eye contact…
he leans forward slightly…
And takes the shrimp from your chopsticks with his own fingers.
No thanks.
No smile.
But he eats it.
Your lips curve up just slightly, your little smile barely noticeable as he accept the shrimp, before you returns to eating your food.
Keonho chews slowly—just once, twice—then swallows.
The garlic butter shrimp is good. Rich. Warm.
Not something he eats often; his mom never cooks this at home, and convenience store food isn’t the same.
He doesn’t say anything about it.
No “thanks” or “it’s tasty.”
But the fact that he finished eating it without pushing the plate away says enough.
You keep eating quietly beside him—the kdrama still playing on your phone between bites of rice balls and mango slices. The soft romantic music contrasts sharply with canteen noise around them.
Occasionally, you glances up—not checking on Keonho… just naturally looking in his direction as part of being next to someone.
But then quickly back to your show.
Keonho watches you.
Not in a creepy way—just subtly as you focuses on the drama playing on your phone.
Your lips part slightly when you take a bite.
A small frown forms when something sad happens in the scene.
Then that tiny smile again—almost invisible—as they kiss under cherry blossoms.
He doesn’t get it.
Why people cry over fictional couples? Why this is so important?
But… he finds himself watching you more than anything else—the way your lashes flutter, how gently you chews, how peaceful you looks even with noise all around.
No one ever sits quietly with him like this at lunch.
Most would talk or text or make jokes to fill silence…
You just exists. And somehow… that feels right.
The lunch bell rings—sharp and sudden, cutting through the chatter.
You immediately pause your drama.
No dramatic sigh or "just one more minute." You're responsible—always on time for class.
You close the K-drama app, locks your phone, and starts packing up: placing chopsticks neatly in container, sealing bento lid tight (your mom would scold if food got messy), zipping backpack shut.
All movements precise.
Efficient.
Like a well-practiced routine you've done every day since middle school.
Keonho watches this too—the quiet way you tidies up without rushing or being messy like other girls who leave wrappers everywhere.
He doesn’t move yet—still sitting as students start getting up around them.
You stand first, your movements graceful—no rush, but no dawdling either.
You sling your backpack over one shoulder and adjusts the strap slightly. Your earphones are now tucked neatly in a small pouch on the side of your bag.
No lingering.
No checking if Keonho is coming with or going to class too.
You just turn toward the door—ready to leave for Art 2C like you always does.
The canteen empties fast around them. Tables fill with crumbs and abandoned trays as students pour out into hallways for next period.
Keonho finally pushes his chair back slowly…
Stands up quietly…
And follows—not beside you, not close enough to walk with you…
But he walks after.
Keonho keeps a slight distance behind you—two to three steps back, hands in his blazer pockets again.
You don’t walk side by side.
Don’t talk.
Don’t even glance at each other as you move through the crowded hallway.
But it’s not awkward.
It feels… normal for you. Like this is how it always is: him trailing slightly, you leading without realizing he's following.
Students pass between them—laughing groups, couples holding hands, teachers calling out names for club sign-ups.
You turn left toward Art 2C—the classroom door already open with a few early students inside sketching or chatting quietly.
You walk in and finds an empty seat near the window—the one you prefers because of good lighting.
You sit by the window, backpack placed neatly on the floor beside your desk. You takes out a small sketchbook—thin, hardcover with tulip stickers on it—and flips to a fresh page.
No one pays attention. Art class is always relaxed; students work quietly or talk in hushed tones about projects and grades.
Outside, autumn sunlight filters through glass panels—warm golden streaks lighting up your face as you starts sketching something: maybe another flower… or just doodling idly while waiting for teacher.
Your pencil move softly across paper.
Focusing.
Calm.
Behind you—still unnoticed—the classroom door opens again.
Keonho appears silently in doorway.
Keonho steps into Art 2C.
The room is quiet—artistic, soft lighting from windows, a few students sketching or painting quietly. The air smells faintly of watercolors and graphite.
He doesn’t have class here.
Literature ended ten minutes ago—but Keonho always walks past this classroom on his way to next period: Physical Education in the gym across campus.
But today… he slows down as he passes the open door.
And there you are—Y/N—sitting by the window, sketchbook open, pencil moving gently like a heartbeat. Fully absorbed. Peaceful.
No earphones now.
Just you and art.
Without meaning to…
he stops just inside doorway
and watches for a second
Keonho lingers in the doorway—unseen, uninvited.
His tall frame blocks a sliver of light from entering.
But he doesn’t step fully inside. Just… stands there, observing.
You're not posing or performing for anyone. You're just drawing—your brow slightly furrowed in concentration, lips parted ever so slightly as you focuses on each line.
The sketch taking shape: delicate petals? A flower stem?
Not finished yet—but it looks soft. Feminine. Like you.
No one else notices him.
The teacher is at their desk grading papers quietly.
Two other students chat softly about an upcoming painting assignment.
It's calm.
Quietly beautiful—a scene that feels too private for someone like Keonho to be watching.
Keonho stays frozen in the doorway for a long moment—maybe ten seconds, maybe twenty.
No one says anything to him.
No teacher greets him.
Art isn't his subject, and he's not enrolled here… so his presence is odd but not disruptive.
He could keep walking.
That’s what he should do—he has PE next period, and Coach hates tardiness.
But…
His eyes stay locked on you—the way your dark brown hair falls over one shoulder as you leans slightly toward the light, how your hand moves with quiet precision across paper.
Something about it pulls at him—not romantically (he doesn’t feel things like that easily)—but curiosity.
A quiet want to know: What is she drawing?
Without thinking…
without announcing himself…
Keonho takes a slow step forward
You're sketching the cat you met from yesterday.
The sketch is soft—pencil strokes gentle, not sharp.
It’s the stray cat from last night: small, gray fur with white paws. You captured its quiet essence—the round eyes full of cautious curiosity, the tiny folded ears, even a little whisker curl on one side.
You drew it sitting—not begging or running—but just existing like it did when Keonho first saw it nudge his shoe.
A peaceful moment frozen in your art.
No dramatic background.
Just simple shading around the cat to show fur texture and light source coming from above—like sunlight filtering through alley walls.
You add delicate eyelashes now… then starts lightly shading under its chin where shadow would fall.
Completely unaware that someone is standing behind you.
Keonho takes another step—quieter this time, sneaker barely making sound on the classroom floor.
He’s close now.
Close enough to see details in your sketchbook: the careful shading, how you added tiny whisker hairs with precision.
And then it clicks.
That cat.
The one from yesterday evening—the stray that approached him first… before you pet it…
Now here it is. Drawn by you. With love and patience he can feel, even if he doesn’t understand art well.
His expression doesn't change—but something shifts internally.
A quiet surprise? Appreciation? Not jealousy or annoyance… just a soft realization:
You remembered.
Not some grand moment or date…
but a random street cat encounter.
And you drew it.
Keonho stares at the sketch.
Not judging. Not smirking or thinking it's childish—he doesn’t see that.
He sees you—the way you remembers small, gentle things.
How something as simple as a stray cat meant enough for you to draw it with this much care.
No one ever pays attention to little moments like that.
But you do.
A beat passes… then another…
Without announcing himself—without clearing his throat or saying "hello"—Keonho slowly leans down and looks over your shoulder, peering directly at the sketchbook in your hands.
His face is inches from yours now.
Close enough that if you turned even slightly… your cheeks might brush.
You feel the warmth first—close, sudden.
You turn your head slowly… and there he is.
Keonho.
Right behind you.
Way too close for a normal interaction.
Your faces are mere inches apart—so near that you can see the faint smudge of eyeliner on his upper lid (rare for him to wear makeup), smell the light trace of his cologne mixed with morning air.
For a second, neither speaks.
Your eyes widen just slightly—not in fear or anger, but surprise.
He never gets this close.
No greeting.
No explanation why he’s here in Art class.
Just… him, standing over your sketchbook like it's something sacred.
The silence between them stretches—thin, fragile.
You don't pull away.
Doesn’t scold him for being so close.
You just… looks at him—those brown eyes soft, searching his face like you're trying to read what he wants.
Keonho says nothing either.
But his gaze drops immediately from your eyes to the sketchbook—the cat drawing still open in front of you.
He studies it again up close: the delicate shading around its paws, how you even added tiny freckles on its nose (details most people wouldn't notice).
Something about this moment feels…
intimate? Not romantic—but emotionally charged in a quiet way.
Two people who rarely talk directly… side by side, your art between you.
Keonho’s eyes linger on the cat sketch.
He doesn’t reach out to touch it.
Doesn’t point or say, "That's the one from yesterday."
But his expression—cold by default—softens just a fraction. Like something in him recognizes this moment… and your attention to detail.
You slowly turn back toward your sketchbook, still feeling his presence beside you. Without speaking…
You lift your pencil again.
And quietly adds one last tiny stroke—a single white whisker on the cat’s cheek.
No fanfare.
Just finishing what you started.
The classroom remains hushed around them—the teacher grading papers, other students working—but no one interrupts or questions why Keonho is there.
Keonho watches you finish the whisker.
The tiny addition changes nothing about the sketch—objectively, it’s still just a cat.
But subjectively? It feels complete now. Like you didn’t miss anything.
You lower your pencil, satisfied. You stares at it for a second… then gently closes the sketchbook and places it beside your backpack.
No dramatic moment.
No turning to face him or speaking first.
Just quiet acceptance that he was there—and maybe an unspoken question: What are you doing here?
But you don't ask aloud.
Keonho finally breaks the silence.
Not with words—but with action.
He reaches out, slowly… and picks up your sketchbook.
It’s not aggressive. Not demanding. Just calm, deliberate—like he has permission to look at it properly now that you closed it.
He flips it open again to the cat drawing page.
Studies every line more carefully this time—the shading under its belly, how you drew its ears slightly lowered (maybe from shyness?)
No comment.
No praise.
But his eyes show something rare: quiet interest
You watch him quietly—curious but not nervous.
You don't stop him or ask what he thinks.
Keonho keeps flipping pages.
Not aggressively—just turning one by one, slow and methodical. Each page reveals more of your art: tulips in watercolor, a half-finished landscape with mountains, a few fashion sketches (probably for modeling reference), and another stray cat drawing—different from the first.
They’re all soft.
Gentle.
Full of detail that shows you cares about what you draws—not just copying something… but seeing beauty in quiet things.
The sketchbook is well-used—the corners slightly bent from frequent opening, edges smoothed by time.
He doesn’t say “wow” or “you’re good.”
But he pauses on each new drawing… lingers slightly longer on the ones with more emotion
After a few quiet moments, Keonho reaches the last page.
It’s not a finished sketch—just rough pencil outlines.
A silhouette of him.
Not detailed. Not romantic or dramatic. Just… his profile: sharp jawline, dark hair falling slightly over his forehead, the shape of his eyes.
You must’ve been sketching him from memory.
Or maybe you'd seen him in class and started it without realizing.
Keonho freezes.
For once…
he is speechless.
No smirk.
No sarcasm.
Just pure stillness—as if he can’t process that you drew him, even this vaguely.
Keonho stares at the sketch.
Not with anger. Not embarrassment.
But something deeper—surprise, mixed with a quiet, unfamiliar weight.
He hadn’t known you'd been looking at him enough to draw his face.
Hadn’t noticed you glancing his way in class or during breaks…
And yet here it is: a simple pencil outline—but him.
The shape of his features captured by your hand.
You suddenly feel self-conscious.
Your breath hitches slightly—you hadn't planned for him to see that page.
That was supposed to be private… maybe even erased later.
You reach out slowly—not grabbing the sketchbook, but hovering your hand like you want it back.
Keonho doesn't move.
He holds the sketchbook firmly—not aggressively, but with quiet possession. Like he's protecting something fragile.
Your hand hover in the air—hesitant, uncertain.
You don't demand it back.
Doesn’t say “Give that to me.”
Just waits… for his reaction.
The classroom is still peaceful around them—the teacher now speaking softly to a student about their painting project, others quietly working.
But here?
Between Keonho and Y/N?
The silence feels heavier than before. Charged. Full of unspoken things
Your voice is soft—barely above a whisper.
Fragile, like you're offering something precious and isn't sure if it'll be accepted.
"Do you want it...?"
You don't specify what—but you both know.
The sketch of him.
Your eyes are downcast now, not meeting his gaze.
Not because you regret drawing him… but because vulnerability scares you—especially with Keonho, who never reacts the way normal people do.
It feels too intimate to ask: Do you like that I drew your face?
So instead: "Want it?"— meaning the page, maybe even a copy.
Keonho finally looks up from the sketchbook.
His expression is unreadable—still calm, still composed. But his eyes… they’re different now. Softer than usual, like something in them shifted when he saw his face on paper.
Your question lingers in the air.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he slowly turns the sketchbook around and shows you—opening it to that page again so you can see what he's seeing: your drawing of him.
Then… after a long pause…
He nods.
Once. Firmly.
Not dramatically or emotionally—just a single nod that says: Yes.
Keonho doesn’t say anything else.
But the nod is enough—clear, decisive.
Yes, I want it.
Not just a polite “sure,” not dismissing your art… but actually wanting to keep the sketch.
Without another word, he gently tears out the page—the one with his profile—and carefully folds it in half. Then again. Until it's a small rectangle that fits neatly into his blazer pocket
You watch every movement.
Youe heart beats slightly faster—you hadn't expected him to take it.
And yet… seeing him protectively put your drawing away like something important? That means more than any compliment ever could.
Now it feels like a gift from you.
And that’s exactly what it is.
Not a grand gesture.
No confession, no romantic words exchanged.
But the folded sketch in Keonho’s pocket? That’s yours—a piece of your art, your quiet attention to him… given without demand.
A gift.
Simple as that.
For someone who rarely receives anything from others—especially something so personal and thoughtful—you just handed him proof: I see you. I noticed your face. I remembered it well enough to draw
Keonho doesn’t acknowledge it aloud.
Doesn't smile or thank you.
But he touches his blazer pocket once with two fingers—as if checking the paper is still there.
Then finally… he looks at you properly for the first time since walking into class.
You lock eyes with his.
No one looks away.
Your brown eyes—wide, soft, full of quiet emotion—hold Keonho’s steady gaze.
He doesn’t blink first.
But for once… he isn't cold or distant in that stare.
Something passes between you.
Not words.
Not a smile.
Just understanding—a silent exchange of what just happened: you sketching him without telling anyone… him seeing it… keeping it.
And now this moment—their first real eye contact since lunch, since the cat drawing, since he surprised you by appearing in Art class.
The classroom around you fades slightly—the teacher speaking softly to another student about brush techniques becomes background noise.
The silence between you stretches—longer than usual.
Not awkward. Not heavy.
Tender, somehow.
Keonho doesn’t say anything, but his expression… it’s different.
Softer around the edges—the way his eyes don’t look quite as detached anymore
You feel it too: this quiet intimacy forming without either of them saying a word
No one interrupts.
No teacher calls on you or him.
The clock ticks toward the end of period—maybe ten minutes left before dismissal.
And for those few seconds…
you just *stay* like that:
looking at each other,
no pressure to speak,
no expectation to perform.
Keonho finally blinks.
It’s a small movement—barely noticeable—but it breaks the intensity of the eye contact.
Not because he wants to look away… but because something in him shifts and he doesn’t know how to process it.
Without speaking, without warning…
He leans down slightly—
And presses a quick kiss to your forehead
A soft, brief touch.
No romance. No drama.
Just an instinctive gesture that feels right in this quiet moment.
The kiss lasts less than a second.
A fleeting brush of his lips on your forehead—so gentle, so unexpected—that you freezes completely.
Your breath catches.
Eyes widen slightly.
Heart? Thumping like it's trying to escape your chest.
Then he leaves the room like nothing happened, though his red ears give it away, leaving you stunned because Keonho never initiated affection like this.
His ears red.
Not from anger or embarrassment in front of others…
but from affection. From doing something soft for once—and not hating it.
He steps out into the hallway without looking back.
You don't move.
Not for several seconds.
Your forehead still tingles—where his lips touched, warm and fleeting.
That tiny kiss… it wasn't dramatic or passionate like in kdramas.
It was quiet. Private. Meaningful.
Keonho—the boy who never hugs, never holds hands first, rarely says "I love you," the guy who avoids affection at all costs…
Just kissed you on the forehead.
Without a word.
Without explanation.
Like it was natural.
The classroom keeps moving around you—students turning pages, pencils scratching paper—but you're frozen in that moment.
Your fingers slowly rise to touch the spot on your forehead… as if checking if it really happened.
The teacher’s voice finally breaks through your daze.
"Alright, class—wrap up your projects. We have five minutes before dismissal."
Students begin packing up: sketchbooks zipped, paints capped, chairs pushed in.
You slowly move.
Your hands are a little unsteady as you slips your art supplies into your backpack—the sketchbook going in gently on top.
You touch your forehead one last time… then exhales softly.
No smile yet.
Not giggling or blushing dramatically like other girls might if their cold boyfriend kissed them out of nowhere…
But something warm spreads through your chest—a quiet joy that feels fragile and precious.
Like you just received a secret gift from the universe.
Class ends, you're at your locker.
The hallway is noisy with the rush of students leaving—lockers slamming, laughter echoing, backpacks thumping against lockers as kids cram books inside.
You stand quietly at your locker.
Your dark brown hair falls over one shoulder as you turns the combination lock slowly.
You're not rushing.
Not texting.
Just organizing: placing notebooks neatly side by side, slipping a few loose papers into a folder.
Around you, groups chat loudly about after-school plans: hanging out at cafes or convenience stores… basketball practice… group projects due tomorrow.
But you don't join any conversations.
You're still in that soft haze from earlier—the kiss replaying in your mind.
Keonho appears at the end of the hallway.
He walks with his usual calm stride—hands in his pockets, blazer slightly unzipped, dark hair neatly falling over his forehead.
No hurry. No one around him.
But as he gets closer to your locker…
his steps slow down—almost imperceptibly.
It's not obvious unless you're really looking.
But Keonho is checking—making sure you're there before he fully approaches.
Minho and their other friends are already gone ahead—they’d teased him earlier for leaving class early again (he never sticks around for dismissal).
Now it’s just him… and you.
You sense his presence and turns to look at him.
The moment you turn, your eyes lock onto Keonho.
He’s standing a few feet away—close enough to be intentional, far enough not to seem too eager.
Hands still in his pockets. Posture relaxed but attentive.
No smirk.
No greeting.
Just that quiet stare—the kind he gives when he's assessing something… or someone.
But there's no coldness in it this time.
Not indifference.
Something softer lingers beneath the surface—maybe the ghost of that forehead kiss still on his mind too.
Around them, students continue moving: some saying goodbye loudly at lockers, others rushing toward exits.
"...Shall we go home together?" You suggest tentatively, gauging his reaction.
Keonho doesn’t answer right away.
He just looks at you—studying the way you asked, how quiet and careful your voice was. Like you weren't sure if he’d say yes.
Most couples would’ve assumed they’d walk home together after class ended.
But you? You asks first—gives him space to refuse or ignore.
For a second, Keonho considers saying nothing.
Walking past like usual.
Going his own way without explanation.
That’s what he usually does.
But then…
he remembers the sketch in his pocket.
The kiss on your forehead. The softness from earlier that felt too real to undo now
Without a word, Keonho nods.
Then he steps forward—closing the distance between them—and gently takes your backpack from your hand before you can protest.
It’s not dramatic.
No sweeping gesture or grand romantic act.
But he is carrying it for you now—sliding the strap over his shoulder and adjusting it so it sits comfortably beside his own bag
A small thing.
But huge in meaning: I’m walking with you. I’m doing this intentionally.
He doesn’t say “Let’s go” or hold out his arm like a gentleman would…
Just turns slightly toward the exit door—and waits for you to fall into step beside him
You walk side by side—no space between them, but not touching either.
You matches his pace easily.
Keonho isn’t fast, not slow—just walks with that natural rhythm of someone who doesn’t rush for anyone.
The school grounds are quieting down now: the last few students leaving campus, teachers heading to their cars or faculty rooms.
Sunlight slants through the trees in golden streaks—the late afternoon sky soft pink and blue above you.
Neither speaks.
But it’s comfortable silence—not awkward or empty. Just… peaceful. Like you're used to being near each other without needing constant conversation.
The two of you walk in quiet harmony through the school gates, then down the sidewalk leading to your neighborhood.
No one passes by—just occasional cars driving slowly along the residential street.
Keonho’s long fingers occasionally brush against yours as they swing slightly with each step… but he doesn’t pull away or adjust his posture.
If anything, it feels natural for him to be this close—shoulder almost touching yours now and then.
You pass a small convenience store—your usual spot if you ever grabbed snacks after school. A few kids from another class are hanging out by the entrance, laughing loudly.
But Keonho doesn't slow down.
Doesn't glance at them.
He just keeps walking forward—as if you're all that exists right now.