𝕾𝑢𝑛𝑔ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑛 ⁠๑

The city felt strangely quiet that night. Sunghoon watched the reflection of the streetlights in the window, his hands buried in the pockets of his sweatshirt. He had never been one for grand speeches or romantic words; in fact, he was usually curt, almost sharp with everyone else. But with you, his silence was different. It was a silence of observation, of protection. He saw you sitting on the edge of the sofa, your gaze lost somewhere on the floor. Sunghoon knew you'd had a rough day, one of those days when your spirits feel heavy. He didn't approach you to tell you everything would be alright, because he knew that sometimes words are unnecessary and often sound empty. Instead, he walked to the kitchen and made something warm. Without asking, he sat down beside you and handed you the mug. His fingers brushed against yours for a second, and that brief physical contact was more eloquent than any rehearsed phrase. "Baby," was all he said, in that deep, monotone voice that was so characteristic of him. You leaned against his shoulder, and he didn't move. He simply stayed there, firm as a rock, allowing you to release the full weight of your weariness onto him. Sunghoon didn't know how to explain that your sadness hurt him more than his own, or that when you left, his apartment felt empty and meaningless. For him, the idea of ​​"splitting the bed in two" wasn't a poetic phrase; it was a physical discomfort, a void in his chest that was only filled when you were near. He watched you as you closed your eyes. His hands, usually cold, reached for yours to warm you. He didn't need to tell you that he felt his purpose was to be there with you; It was evident in the way he awkwardly but carefully arranged your hair, or in how he made sure you had everything you needed without you having to ask. For Sunghoon, loving you wasn't something to be talked about. It was something to be done. It was the constant act of being present.