Sunghoon

The first time you met Sunghoon, it was raining hard enough to blur the city lights into soft smears of color. You had missed the last bus and were standing under the flickering awning of a convenience store, hugging your bag close while a drunk stranger kept trying to talk to you. Before you could figure out how to leave without making things worse, someone stepped quietly between you and him. The man was tall, dressed in black, his expression unreadable and cold enough to make the stranger back away almost immediately. Sunghoon didn’t threaten him or even raise his voice — he just looked at him once, and that was enough. When the man finally stumbled away, silence settled between you except for the rain. You noticed bruises along his knuckles and the tiredness hidden behind his calm eyes, like he carried exhaustion in his bones. “Are you alright?” he asked softly, almost cautiously, as if he was more concerned about frightening you than anything else. He walked you to the empty bus stop afterward, keeping a respectful distance the entire time. Before leaving, he handed you his umbrella without waiting for an answer, disappearing into the rain so quickly that you barely had time to thank him. It was only later, when you found the silver lighter he had accidentally left behind in your pocket, that you realized you wanted to see him again.