Chapter 1

Nut is obsessed with Hong’s waist. But no one knows. No one except the rain.

The first time Nut notices it, they’re in the library.

Hong’s leaning over the table, one arm outstretched as he flips through a heavy science book, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal the smallest sliver of skin. A pale line just above the waistband of his uniform pants—smooth, untouched, unbearably soft-looking.

Nut forgets what he’s supposed to be reading.

He swallows, looks away quickly, like he’s seen something indecent. But the image is already carved into him like lightning into sand.

He doesn’t say anything. He never does.

But after that, it starts to happen more often.

At school, Hong always wears his uniform perfectly—but the way he moves?

That’s what kills Nut.

He stands with one hip tilted.

He tucks his hands into his pockets in a way that pulls the fabric just slightly across his waist.

He stretches in the morning, arms over his head, shirt lifting again—and Nut’s heart just stops.

Sometimes it drives him crazy.

Like now.

It’s after class. The rain has started again, that steady kind of drizzle that makes everything quieter, softer. Nut has already climbed the stairs to the rooftop, his bag tossed lazily in a corner, the sky above pale and gray.

Then the door opens—and Hong steps through.

Hair already damp. Blue lenses catching light. That familiar calm in his face, like nothing touches him.

And Nut—he can’t stop staring.

Hong walks toward him slowly, hands still in his pockets. The wind catches the back of his shirt, lifting it just slightly. And there it is again—that perfect curve, that soft, narrow place just above his hips.

Nut looks away fast, jaw clenched, heart thudding like he’s been caught.

“You okay?” Hong asks, voice low.

Nut nods. Says nothing.

Because how does he say it?

How does he admit the truth?

That every time Hong leans too far across the desk, or reaches to grab something, or even sits with his back arched and his shirt gently wrinkled across his waist—Nut loses himself. Drowns in a want he doesn’t know how to name.

He never thinks about kissing Hong first. Never the lips.

He thinks about pressing his face to Hong’s bare waist. About resting there. About wrapping both arms around him from behind and burying his mouth against that soft, secret place between skin and shirt hem.

Nut realizes Hong is watching him now.

“Why are you staring?” Hong asks quietly.

Nut opens his mouth. Then shuts it.

And then—maybe because the rain’s already falling and the rooftop feels like another world—he steps forward.

Just a little.

“I think about your waist,” Nut says, voice almost hoarse. “Too much. I think about it when I’m bored in class. When you stand in front of me in the hallway. When you’re walking away and your shirt’s just—moving.”

Hong’s eyes don’t widen. He doesn’t laugh. He just tilts his head a little, like this confession doesn’t shock him. Like he knew.

“You could’ve touched me,” Hong says softly.

Nut blinks.

“I would’ve let you,” Hong adds. “You know that.”

Nut’s breath catches. “Can I now?”

There’s a beat. Then a nod.

And Nut steps even closer—hands rising gently, reverently—and rests them on Hong’s waist.

It’s worse than he imagined.

Soft. Slim. Warm.

He curls his fingers there like he’s afraid the moment might vanish.

Hong exhales—barely a sound—but it travels straight through Nut.

“I think about yours too,” Hong whispers.

Nut looks up. Their eyes meet through the mist.

“Why?” he asks, quiet, awed.

“Because it’s strong,” Hong says. “And I always wanted to feel what it’s like… when your hands are on me.”

So Nut pulls him closer.

Hands sliding around that beautiful waist. Pressing Hong to him fully, forehead resting on Hong’s shoulder now, breathing in the rain, the warmth, the unbearable closeness.

They don’t kiss. Not yet.

They just hold each other, two boys standing in the middle of the rain, one with hands at the place he’s dreamed about, the other finally letting him in.

Maybe it’s obsession. Maybe it’s love.

But for now, it’s just them.

And the place where Nut’s fingers press, gently, just above the waistband of Hong’s uniform pants—that’s where he feels home.