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Riwoo has never been loved. Well—no, that’s not entirely true. He’s been loved in the way people are supposed to be loved: by family, by friends, by those who are kind enough to remember his birthday and save him a seat at lunch. It’s not like he’s lonely, not really. His life is full of people, noise, and warmth. He laughs easily, brightens when someone talks to him, and never forgets to text back.
But no one has ever fallen in love with him. That’s different. He’s had a boyfriend before, back in high school — a boy who said yes because Riwoo had confessed first, because saying yes was easier than saying no. They went on awkward dates that felt like playing pretend, sharing fries, trading shy smiles that never reached their eyes. When the school year ended, so did they. No drama, no heartbreak. Just an empty, polite ending — thanks for trying, I guess. Sometimes Riwoo wonders if that counts. If that was love, even for a moment. But he doesn’t think so.
Now, when people ask him if he wants a relationship, he says no. He says it with a small shrug, casual and believable. He doesn’t need anyone, he tells them. He’s good on his own. And that’s not a lie — or at least, not the kind that hurts anyone else. But some nights, when he’s brushing his teeth and catches his reflection in the mirror — that’s when it feels like a lie. Because the truth is, Riwoo doesn’t think anyone ever will.
Maybe it’s the way he is — quiet, steady, too self-contained. People love him, yes, but they don’t fall for him. They tell him their secrets, their crushes, their heartbreaks. They trust him, depend on him, adore him even. But no one ever looks at him with that sharp, stunned kind of wonder — the kind that says you’re it for me. And somewhere along the way, he stopped expecting it. He tells himself he doesn’t need it. That love like that is rare, anyway. That it’s better to be the person others lean on than the one who ends up falling apart.
Still… there are moments when the ache catches him off guard. When someone laughs too brightly, when a song lyric hits too close, when he watches people intertwine fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. In those moments, a thought flickers quietly at the back of his mind — a thought he never says aloud.
No one’s ever loved me like that.
And maybe they never will.
Jaehyun
Riwoo doesn’t remember when Jaehyun became the constant in his life. It wasn’t dramatic — no big moment, no cinematic rescue, no instant spark that forged them together. It was slower than that, quieter. A series of tiny things that stitched themselves into something unbreakable. What he does remember is this: Jaehyun has always shown up.
Riwoo sits on the bleachers behind the campus gym, hoodie pulled tight over his head, trying to breathe through the heaviness in his chest. He’s not crying — he doesn’t cry easily. But today has been one of those days where everything feels a little too loud, and he feels a little too small. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going. He just disappeared during lunch, needing space.
Yet ten minutes later, the bleachers creak. Footsteps. A backpack hitting metal. A sigh.
“Thought I’d find you here,” Jaehyun says, breath visible in the cold air. “You always run away to the worst possible spot.”
Riwoo closes his eyes. There’s comfort in that voice — low, calm, like a hand on the back of his neck grounding him.
“I didn’t run away,” Riwoo mutters.
“You absolutely did,” Jaehyun replies, settling beside him.
Riwoo waits for the lecture. Or the teasing. Or the worried interrogation. But Jaehyun doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he takes out a warm steamed bun — still wrapped — and sets it gently on Riwoo’s lap.
“Eat,” he says simply. “You skipped breakfast again.”
Riwoo looks down at it, then at Jaehyun. “How did you even know that?”
Jaehyun just shrugs, like it’s obvious — like of course he would know that. He doesn’t explain. A few minutes pass in comfortable silence. Leaves rustle, wind cuts across the empty field, someone kicks a ball in the distance. Everything feels far away, except the steady presence beside him.
Jaehyun leans back, hands behind his head. “Rough day?” he asks.
Riwoo doesn’t know how to answer. If he explains it, he’ll sound dramatic. If he hides it, Jaehyun will know. So he just nods.
Jaehyun hums thoughtfully. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“…Not really.”
“Then don’t.” Another shrug. “I’ll sit here with you until you’re okay.”
Riwoo huffs out a laugh, soft and disbelieving. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Yeah,” Jaehyun says, finally turning to look at him — and his gaze is steady, unwavering. “I kinda do.”
It hits Riwoo then — the weight of what those words really mean. Jaehyun isn’t here because he feels obligated. He’s not here out of pity or boredom. He’s here because Riwoo matters to him. Because showing up is what Jaehyun does. He nudges Riwoo with his shoulder, gentle.
“You think too much, you know. Get out of your head before you drown in there.”
“That’s rude,” Riwoo says, but it’s mostly a whisper.
“It’s true.”
Riwoo lets out a tired laugh, and Jaehyun smiles — that soft, crooked one that feels like sunrise after a long night. Then he adds, quieter now.
“You don’t have to pretend with me. Not ever.”
Riwoo looks down at the steamed bun, now a little warm against his palms. When he speaks, his voice is small. Honest.
“I… don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before.”
Jaehyun doesn’t shower him with empty comfort or rush to contradict him. He just nods, like he understands more than he says.
“Well,” he murmurs, “get used to it. I’m not going anywhere.”
Riwoo feels something in his chest soften — a knot loosening, a wound unclenching. If he reached out, he knows Jaehyun would hold him without hesitation. If he fell apart, Jaehyun would gather the pieces. Not because he wants anything back, but because that’s simply the way Jaehyun loves. A love that lingers beside you without asking. A love that holds steady when everything else shifts. A love that doesn’t falter, even on the days when Riwoo does.
Riwoo takes a breath that doesn’t ache as much.
“Thanks,” he says.
Jaehyun bumps their knees together. “Always.”
Riwoo looks at him, and a quiet warmth unfurls in his chest — something he can’t quite name. This isn’t romance. It’s something different. Something steady and grounding, just as deep, just as vital. A love that keeps you standing on the days your knees shake. A love that steadies you without ever asking for anything back. And maybe — Riwoo thinks as he unwraps the steamed bun, fingers brushing the still-warm paper — maybe being loved like this is something he does deserve, after all.
Taesan
There are people who love loudly — in shouts, in laughter, in messy affection. Taesan isn’t one of them. His love is quieter. Sharper. The kind that notices before anyone else does. The kind that moves before a thought even forms. The kind that slips into Riwoo’s life so naturally that Riwoo doesn’t realize how much of his day is shaped around Taesan’s silent attention.
They’re all hanging out in the practice room, sprawled on the floor in their usual post dance practice chaos. Jaehyun is complaining about his legs, Sungho is lying face-down like he’s accepted death, Woonhak is scrolling through his phone, Leehan is peeling the label off a water bottle. And Riwoo sits against the wall with a tired smile that no one catches. Except Taesan.
He doesn’t say anything — he never does at first. He just watches. Little details: the way Riwoo’s eyelids flutter slower than usual, the way he rubs his thumb against his palm, the way his shoulders curl inwards like he’s trying not to take up space. His hyung is exhausted.
Riwoo laughs at something Jaehyun says, but it’s softer, thinner. Taesan can tell the difference. He always has. He gets up quietly, stretching his sore limbs, and walks toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Sungho asks lazily.
“Water,” Taesan answers, even though he still has half a bottle left.
Ten minutes later, he’s back — silently pressing a cold sports drink into Riwoo’s hands.
Riwoo startles. “Oh— you didn’t have to—”
“You didn’t drink anything after practice,” Taesan says simply, sitting down beside him like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Your face gets pale when you don’t hydrate.”
Riwoo blinks. “…I didn’t notice.”
“I did.” Taesan shrugs, picking up a stray towel and tossing it aside before it touches Riwoo’s foot. “You forget, so I remember.”
Riwoo looks down at the bottle, twisting the cap. Something warm flickers low in his chest — gratitude. Taesan doesn’t push him to talk. He never does. Instead, he leans back on his hands, legs stretched out in front of him, calm and quiet as ever. The others keep goofing around. Noisy, chaotic. But next to Taesan, the room feels… safe. A pocket of calm.
Riwoo takes a sip, then another. Only then does Taesan speak again — low, almost offhand.
“You didn’t sleep well last night, right?”
Riwoo turns sharply. “How do you—?”
“You laughed weird today.”
“Weird?”
“Yeah.” Taesan nods once, as if that explains everything. “You do this thing where your mouth smiles but your eyes don't, and you only do that when you’re tired or trying not to think too much.”
Riwoo stares. “That’s… oddly specific.”
Taesan shrugs again, but his ears turn the faintest shade of pink. “I pay attention.”
Riwoo doesn’t know what to do with that. He’s used to taking care of himself, of people letting him handle things alone. Being the older one, the responsible one.
“You should go home early today,” Taesan adds quietly. “I’ll tell Sungho you have plans.”
Riwoo huffs a soft laugh. “You’re going to lie for me?”
“It’s not lying.” Taesan’s voice is firm. Protective. “It’s taking care of you.”
Riwoo’s breath stumbles for a second. The words hit him somewhere vulnerable. Before he can gather himself, Taesan moves — reaching out to tighten the cap on Riwoo’s drink because Riwoo didn’t twist it fully. Then he adjusts the hood of Riwoo’s sweatshirt where it’s fallen awkwardly against his neck.
“…Why are you like this?” he whispers, soft.
Taesan looks up, eyes steady.
“Because you’re my hyung,” he says. “And I don’t want you to carry everything alone.”
The words land with quiet force. Riwoo swallows.
“I’m supposed to take care of you.”
“You do too, hyung.” Taesan says immediately.
Then he stands, brushing off his sweatpants. “Come on. I’ll walk you to the bus stop.”
Riwoo blinks. “You don’t need to—”
“But I want to.” Taesan offers him a hand, palm open, steady. “Let me.”
Riwoo realizes then what Taesan’s love looks like — quiet, steady, never spoken aloud, never shouted in grand gestures. It’s in the way he notices the small things, the way he steps forward without hesitation, the way he shields and protects without waiting for permission. In choosing Riwoo, again and again, quietly, instinctively.
Riwoo takes his hand. Let’s Taesan pull him up. And as they leave the noisy room behind, Riwoo feels the weight he’s been carrying all day ease just a little.
Being the older one doesn’t mean he has to be the strongest. Not when Taesan sees everything he tries to hide. And maybe, Riwoo thinks as Taesan keeps a pace that matches his, protective and close— maybe being cared for like this is something he was allowed to want all along.
Sungho
Riwoo has shared a lot of spaces with a lot of people, but none have felt like this. None have felt like home. Sungho isn’t loud or dramatic; he doesn’t fill the room with gestures or words. He just… exists beside Riwoo, in a way that makes the world feel softer, slower, steadier. Sungho’s love is quiet, the kind that grows from friendship and mutual understanding, built from years of easy routines and the small ways he notices Riwoo.
Their apartment isn’t big. Two bedrooms barely bigger than closets, a narrow hallway that always creaks, a kitchen counter where one wrong elbow sends everything crashing, a tiny bathroom that somehow manages to feel cramped and cozy at the same time, and a living room that technically fits a couch only because Sungho insisted on squeezing it through the door at a ridiculous angle. Riwoo loves it anyway. He loves it because it’s theirs — the little home he shares with Sungho. And because the quiet here isn’t empty. It’s peaceful.
Riwoo pushes open the door after a long day, stepping inside with a sigh that melts straight from his bones. He doesn’t call out, doesn’t announce himself. He doesn’t need to. Sungho is already there, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back against the couch, headphones around his neck, laptop open but clearly ignored. A soft lamp glows beside him, throwing warm golden light across the room. He looks up when Riwoo enters, acknowledging him with a calm little blink.
“Hey,” Sungho says.
Riwoo drops his bag by the door. “Hey.”
Sungho pats the floor next to him. Riwoo takes it as an invitation and lowers himself beside him, legs stretching out until his feet bump Sungho’s knee. Sungho doesn’t move away. Riwoo leans his head back against the couch and shuts his eyes. The apartment hums around them: the soft whir of the fridge, the faint traffic downstairs, the gentle tap of Sungho’s foot against the wooden floor in a slow rhythm. Riwoo exhales, letting the quiet settle around him. This silence isn’t the same as being alone — it’s warm, shared, alive. After a moment, Sungho nudges his arm with a cold can.
“Sparkling water,” he says.
Riwoo cracks one eye open. “Since when do we have these?”
“Bought them earlier.” Sungho shrugs. “You like the peach ones.”
Riwoo’s heart folds in on itself a little. He takes the can.
“Thanks.”
Sungho doesn’t reply. They sit like that for a long while — doing nothing, yet somehow doing everything they need. Sungho eventually shifts, letting his shoulder brush against Riwoo’s. It’s familiarity. Comfort. The way two people can exist in the same quiet without ever colliding. Riwoo takes a sip of his drink. The peach flavor is soft, crisp. He feels his entire body unclench.
“You ate, right?” Sungho asks, eyes still on his laptop screen.
“Mhm,” Riwoo lies.
The corner of Sungho’s mouth twitches. “So you didn’t.”
Riwoo huffs. “How do you always know?”
“You are a terrible liar.”
“That’s— okay, maybe.”
Sungho nudges Riwoo’s leg. “I made soup. It’s on the stove.” After a brief pause, he adds, “…not that I was waiting for you or anything.”
Riwoo laughs softly. “You absolutely were.”
Sungho turns his head the other way, pretending to watch something on his screen. “Shut up.”
But he’s smiling. Riwoo sees it. A comfortable heaviness settles in Riwoo’s chest. The kind of weight that means you’re safe enough to stop pretending. He stands slowly.
“I’ll heat it up.”
When Riwoo returns with two bowls, Sungho has already slid the coffee table closer, clearing space without a word. He accepts his bowl quietly, knees folded neatly under him as they both eat. Nothing interrupts the quiet except the clink of spoons and the occasional shared glance.
Riwoo wipes his mouth, looking at the room: their mismatched cushions, the extra blankets Sungho drags out during cold nights. The tiny plant Riwoo keeps forgetting to water that somehow survives because Sungho secretly does it for him. This place… it feels like belonging.
“Sungho,” Riwoo says softly.
Sungho looks up, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Hm?”
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
Riwoo gestures vaguely at the air between them. “This.”
Sungho tilts his head. “We’re just sitting.”
“Exactly.”
Sungho stares at him for a moment, eyes gentle under the warm lamplight. Then he simply leans a little closer, shoulders brushing. No words are needed — the small closeness feels like an embrace. Their bowls empty slowly, the night stretching out soft and calm around them.
This is their love — quiet, steady, unassuming. A home built from shared silences, soft lamplight, the rhythm of occupying the same space without needing to speak. Riwoo thinks he might stay here on the floor a little longer, letting the moment linger, because he doesn’t need words to measure how much it means. Sungho already knows. He always does.
Leehan
Riwoo had learned, over the years, that tenderness didn’t always come from grand gestures. Sometimes it came in the shape of someone remembering how you like your tea. Sometimes it came in the shape of someone noticing you before you noticed yourself. And sometimes… it came in the shape of a scarf.
The morning cold bit through campus, sharp enough to flush cheeks and make breath cloud in the air. Riwoo didn’t mind the cold, not really — he actually liked winter — but today he’d left the apartment in a rush, half-awake, definitely underdressed. His thin jacket was no match for the wind slicing between buildings.
He was halfway to class when he heard the quiet patter of footsteps behind him.
“Hyung!”
Riwoo turned, recognizing the deep voice instantly. Leehan stood a few steps away, a scarf wrapped neatly around his own neck, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes warm as ever.
“You forgot something,” Leehan said simply.
Riwoo blinked. “What? I didn’t—”
Before he could finish, Leehan closed the distance and looped something around his neck: a thick, soft scarf in a sky blue that somehow perfectly suited him. The scarf carried the faint scent of clean laundry and winter air — and a trace of Leehan himself, soft and muted.
“W–wait, this is yours,” Riwoo stammered, fingers brushing the fabric.
Leehan shook his head. “No. Mine is this one.”
He tugged lightly at his own scarf — same design, same knit, just in a warm chestnut-brown. A perfect match.
“You… bought matching ones?” Riwoo asked, breath puffing in the cold.
Leehan looked down for a moment, shy but unashamed. “I saw them last week. I liked them. Then I thought… it would suit you. And… I don’t know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It made me feel happy, thinking of giving it to you.”
Riwoo didn’t know what to say. The scarf was warm — but the gesture was warmer. They walked together toward the campus building. Riwoo kept adjusting the scarf, trying not to smile too obviously. Leehan noticed anyway, because Leehan always noticed.
“Is it too tight?” the younger asked softly.
“No, no… it’s perfect.” Riwoo hesitated. “Why do you always catch me like this?”
“Like what?” Leehan tilted his head.
“Cold. Or tired. Or forgetting things.” He wrinkled his nose. “Do I look that helpless?”
Leehan chuckled, a tiny, bell-like laugh. “You don’t look helpless, hyung. I just…” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “I pay attention.”
He stepped forward, hands gentle as he fixed the slightly crooked fold of Riwoo’s shirt collar. Riwoo stayed very still — partly because he was startled, partly because Leehan’s fingers were warm, and partly because… no one had ever done things like this for him.
“There,” Leehan murmured, smoothing the fabric with a final touch. “Better.”
Riwoo swallowed. “You always do these little things…”
Leehan offered a tiny smile. “They’re not little to me.”
Later that afternoon, after their separate classes, Riwoo returned to his apartment. The heater hummed softly, filling the quiet with a cozy warmth. Riwoo unwrapped the scarf and stared at it in his hands, running his fingers over the fabric. He wasn’t used to being remembered in such quiet, persistent ways — noticed, thought of, held in someone else’s attention. He sank onto the couch, the scarf still resting in his lap, when his phone buzzed.
[Leehan] is it warm enough?
Riwoo couldn’t help the smile blooming across his face.
[Riwoo] yes,, thank you again really
[Leehan] good!!! i was worried you’d catch a cold :(
[Leehan] alsoooo… don’t lose it! its my favorite color on you <3
Riwoo’s breath caught in his chest. He looked at the scarf again — the quiet blue, soft and comforting — and for the first time in a long time, something inside him felt seen. Cherished. He realized that Leehan’s love was never loud. It lived in moments, in small details, in the quiet choice of a scarf bought simply because it reminded him of someone he couldn’t bear to see shivering in the cold. Everyday tenderness, woven into the mundane — the kind of love Riwoo had never learned to expect, but perhaps always needed. He pressed the scarf gently to his chest and let himself feel it — the quiet warmth seeping in, stitch by stitch.
Woonhak
If someone asked Riwoo when it happened — when Woonhak stopped being just a friend and became family — he wouldn’t know what to say. Because Woonhak has this way of squeezing into people’s lives without forcing anything. He just shows up, bright and loud and unfiltered, until suddenly you can’t imagine a day without him.
Riwoo is sitting on a park bench near campus, flipping through notes he’s not really reading. His eyelids feel heavy, his brain foggy, and the weak winter sunlight brushes his skin with that soft, deceptive warmth that makes drowsiness creep in. Then—
“HYUUUUUUUUNG!!!”
A blur launches itself at him. Riwoo doesn’t even have time to react before Woonhak drops onto the bench beside him, panting like he ran the entire way.
“Riwoo-hyung!” Woonhak beams, full sun. “I found you!”
Riwoo blinks. “Were you looking for me?”
“Obviously!” Woonhak digs in his backpack and pulls out a small convenience store bag. “You didn’t answer the group chat, so I thought maybe you were hiding. And hyung, you suck at hiding.”
Riwoo laughs under his breath. “I wasn’t hiding…”
“You were thinking too hard,” Woonhak corrects, nudging his elbow. “Same thing.”
Then, without asking, he opens the bag and takes out a small box of Riwoo’s favorite snacks — the ones Riwoo only buys when he’s in a good mood, which hasn’t been often lately.
Riwoo stares. “Woonhak… did you buy these for me?”
“Yeah.” Woonhak hands him the box and grins again. “You looked tired yesterday. And the day before. And the day—”
“Okay, okay, I get it.”
Woonhak giggles, bumping Riwoo’s shoulder with far too much enthusiasm for a simple nudge. “Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m really not—”
Woonhak tears the box open himself, plucks one of the snacks out, and holds it up to Riwoo’s mouth.
Riwoo looks at him, incredulous. “Are you… feeding me?”
“Yes,” Woonhak says. “Now eat it so I don’t feel stupid.”
Riwoo snorts, but he bites it anyway. The flavor melts on his tongue, sweet and comforting. Woonhak brightens like Riwoo just passed some sort of test.
“There,” he says. “Better.”
Riwoo shakes his head, but he smiles too — small, helpless. He wonders sometimes how someone can carry so much light. Woonhak talks about his day in fast bursts — getting scolded by a professor, a dog he saw on his walk, how Taesan stole his fries at lunch. He gesticulates wildly, hair bouncing, voice bursting with life. Riwoo listens, warmth blooming in slow circles inside his chest. He doesn’t realize how much he’s relaxed until Woonhak suddenly goes quiet, turning to look at him more closely.
“Hyung,” he says softly. “You’re not okay, right?”
Riwoo blinks. “What?”
“You were alone, with that thinking-a-lot face… and your shoulders were doing that thing.”
“…What thing?”
“The sad turtle thing.”
Riwoo chokes. “The WHAT?”
“This.” Woonhak hunches his shoulders dramatically, making his neck disappear. “Sad turtle!”
Riwoo bursts into laughter, loud and sudden, the kind that shakes out all the tension tangled inside him. Woonhak beams proudly like he’s achieved his mission. But then his smile softens.
“Hyung,” he says again, quieter this time. “You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong. But… you know you can, right?”
Riwoo looks down at his hands. “I don’t want to bother you.”
“You’re not bothering me.” Woonhak hooks their pinkies together without warning. “You’re my hyung.”
Something in Riwoo’s chest stutters. Woonhak’s voice is sincere — painfully, beautifully sincere.
“Hyung,” he continues, swinging their linked fingers gently. “You’re like… home to me. You know? I feel safe with you. So you can feel safe with me too.”
Riwoo’s breath trembles as he swallows hard. Sometimes he forgets that it’s okay to be supported, to let someone hold him instead of always holding others. But Woonhak — bright, loyal, and chaotic in all the ways that matter — is always there to remind him.
He squeezes Woonhak’s pinky back. “Thank you.”
Woonhak grins, brilliant as ever. “Good! Now let’s go home. Sungho-hyung said he’s making us dinner.”
“So… you’re inviting me to my own apartment?”
“Yes.” Woonhak nods decisively. “It’s family dinner.”
Riwoo’s chest tightens. Family. Found family. The kind that chooses you, again and again, without hesitation. Woonhak swings his arm around Riwoo’s shoulders as they start walking, leaning nearly all his weight on him like an overexcited puppy.
“You’re stuck with us forever, hyung,” he declares proudly.
Riwoo laughs, nudging him back. “I guess I am.”
“Good,” Woonhak says, eyes shining. “Because we love you.”
Riwoo stops walking. The world tilts just a little at those words — simple, unfiltered, freely given. He looks at Woonhak: his dongsaeng, his family, his joy. “…I love you too,” Riwoo whispers, soft and steady.
Woonhak beams, a grin bright enough to light the entire campus. When he hooks his arm more securely around Riwoo’s shoulders and pulls him along, Riwoo moves easily, warmed, grounded, unafraid. He isn’t alone. He has a family — not by blood, but chosen. And Woonhak is the little brother he never expected, but always needed.
The apartment smelled like garlic and soy sauce and something faintly burnt, which probably came from the pot Jaehyun had briefly been allowed to stir before Sungho banished him to the couch. The table was small, a little wobbly on one leg, covered with mismatched bowls and cheap chopsticks — the kind of setup only broke college students could romantically call “homey.” But tonight, it felt full. Full in a way Riwoo hadn’t realized he’d been missing.
“HYUNG, MAKE THEM STOP!” Woonhak wailed, arms flailing dramatically as Jaehyun held his hood hostage, tugging it back each time the younger tried to escape.
“I’m not even doing anything,” Jaehyun said, deadpan, tugging again just to prove himself a liar.
“Taesan is worse!” Woonhak cried, turning on the second culprit.
“I’m just observing,” Taesan said, already reaching out to poke Woonhak’s cheek. “For scientific reasons.”
“What science?! WHAT SCIENCE??”
Riwoo couldn’t help it — he laughed, loud, the sound bubbling out of him before he could contain it. Sungho, meanwhile, was attempting to serve the soup with the focus of someone diffusing a bomb. He poured, hand steady…until Jaehyun made a joke about how Woonhak’s brain cell was on holiday. Sungho snorted, the ladle jerked and the soup splashed onto the table.
“YA!” he yelled through laughter. “Look what you made me do!”
“That was your shaky hand!” Jaehyun shouted back.
“It was the joke!”
“Bad jokes are dangerous,” Taesan added solemnly.
Woonhak stood on his chair, indignant, pointing at all three of them. “I’m SURROUNDED by traitors!”
Leehan, calm in the middle of chaos, leaned over and stole one of Taesan’s dumplings with the swift precision of a seasoned thief.
“Did you just—HEY—!” Taesan turned, betrayed. “THAT WAS MINE.”
Leehan only shrugged, chewing. “I was hungry.”
Riwoo watched them — these five ridiculous boys — arguing, laughing, interrupting each other, their voices tripping over one another in a mess that somehow made perfect sense. He observed Sungho wipe soup with a towel, still laughing too hard to aim properly. Watched Jaehyun slouch in his chair, grinning in a way that made it feel like he’d been holding it in for weeks. Taesan poke Woonhak in the side again, sending the younger into a fit of offended shrieks. And Leehan quietly slid the last dumpling—the one Riwoo liked the most—onto his plate without saying a word.
Something in Riwoo’s chest loosened, slowly, achingly. He let his mind wander to the kind of love that books and movies promised. The kind no one had ever offered him, the kind he might never know. Maybe he wasn’t meant to be wanted that way. Even now, surrounded by warmth and laughter, a part of him still whispered:
No one’s ever fallen in love with you.
No one might ever do it.
A small, delicate truth. But when he lifted his gaze and saw Jaehyun grinning wide, Woonhak clutching his chest in mock heartbreak, Sungho pointing the ladle like a scolding mother, Taesan leaning back with his easy-smile eyes crinkled, Leehan nudging Riwoo’s knee under the table with quiet affection— The bitterness softened. Because even if no one ever loved him romantically… Even if that chapter never came… He wasn’t unloved. Not even close.
The room was loud, chaotic, and messy — every sound, every movement, every shout and laugh wrapped around him like a kind of love that had nothing to do with romance. Protective love. Comforting love. Brotherly love. Everyday, gentle love. All of it belonged to him. His to hold, his to lean on, his to give back.
Maybe he’d never know what it felt like to be adored in that firework, heart-racing, world-tilting way. But here, in this cramped apartment, at this cluttered table with these five silly, precious boys— He felt loved.
“Hyung,” Woonhak said suddenly, snapping him back. “Hyung, Taesan stole my dumpling. Say something!”
“Actually, I stole it,” Leehan corrected from beside him.
“That makes it WORSE!”
Riwoo laughed, wiping a tear he hadn’t realized had escaped.
“Come here, Woonhak-ah,” he said, opening his arms.
Woonhak dove into the hug like a child, Jaehyun complaining that he was left out, Taesan joining the pile a second later, Sungho yelling about the soup again, Leehan leaning quietly against Riwoo’s side — soft, warm, steady. And Riwoo let himself sink into the moment. Into them. Into a love that wasn’t romantic, yet was real in every way that counted. Perhaps romance would come one day. Perhaps not. But tonight — this night — he was full. And that was enough. More than enough.