Nut had never worn blue lenses before.

They were too bright. Too artificial. Too… noticeable.

Which was exactly why he put them in.

The dorm bathroom mirror reflected someone almost familiar — same sharp jaw, same soft mouth, same tiny mole above his left eye near the bridge of his nose. But the eyes were different. Ocean-bright. Icy. Almost foreign.

He blinked.

They made him look distant. Cooler. Less readable.

Maybe that was the point.

When he stepped into the living room, the members were sprawled across the couch, half-awake after practice. Hong was lying on his stomach, chin propped on his arms, scrolling through his phone.

Hong looked up.

And froze.

There was a pause — small, but heavy.

“You’re wearing lenses,” Hong said flatly.

Nut tried to sound casual. “Yeah. Just wanted to try something new.”

The others barely reacted. One of them mumbled, “They look expensive,” and went back to sleep.

But Hong kept staring.

Nut felt it. The weight of it.

“Well?” Nut asked lightly. “How do they look?”

Hong stood up slowly. Walked closer. Too close.

Up close, the blue was even more unnatural against Nut’s warm skin. Hong reached out — not touching, just hovering near Nut’s face — examining him like something fragile and wrong.

“I don’t like them.”

It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t teasing.

It was honest.

Nut blinked. “Why not? They’re fine.”

“They’re not you.”

The words were quiet. Firm.

Nut laughed a little, trying to brush it off. “It’s just color, Hong.”

“No,” Hong said, softer now. “It’s not.”

His fingers finally touched — not the lenses, not his face — but Nut’s chin. Gently tilting his head toward the window where afternoon light spilled in.

The blue caught the light and looked cold. Sharp. Almost glass-like.

“I like your eyes,” Hong murmured. “The real ones.”

Nut’s throat tightened slightly. “They’re just brown.”

Hong’s lips twitched faintly. “They’re not just brown.”

He leaned closer, so close Nut could feel his breath warm against his cheek.

“They’re warm. When you laugh, they disappear at the corners. When you’re lying, they flick to the left.” A small smile. “When you’re about to cry, they go darker.”

Nut swallowed.

“And when you look at me,” Hong continued, voice dropping almost to a whisper, “they’re soft.”

The room felt smaller.

Nut’s heartbeat stuttered.

“So take them out,” Hong said.

It wasn’t a command.

It was almost… vulnerable.

Nut searched Hong’s face. There wasn’t jealousy there. There wasn’t anger.

There was something much simpler.

Possessiveness.

Not over Nut.

Over the parts of Nut that were real.

“What if I like them?” Nut asked quietly.

Hong’s fingers slid from his chin to his wrist. Warm. Steady.

“I won’t stop you,” he said. “I just… miss your eyes.”

The way he said it — like he was talking about something already lost — made Nut’s chest ache.

Without another word, Nut stepped back.

He went to the bathroom.

The dorm was quiet when he returned a few minutes later.

His eyes were brown again.

Soft. Familiar. Entirely his.

Hong looked up.

And this time, he smiled.

Not wide. Not dramatic.

Just relieved.

“Better?” Nut asked.

Hong stepped forward again, slower now. His hand rose — this time brushing lightly over Nut’s eyelid, thumb grazing the corner where the mole under his left eye rested further out.

“Much,” Hong whispered.

Then, softer still:

“Don’t change the things I fell for.”

Nut didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Because when Hong leaned in, pressing their foreheads together, Nut let his natural eyes close — and for once, he didn’t feel the need to be anyone else.