Nut can't stop looking at Hong's eyes. They're not just beautiful. They're a problem.

Nut first sees them in the middle of history class.

Hong turns his head, just slightly, to ask the teacher something — and for a second, the light hits his face just right, and Nut goes still.

The lenses are subtle. Not neon, not showy. Just soft and icy, like some faded ocean memory. A cool kind of blue that doesn’t belong here, in this sweaty classroom with flickering lights and dusty fans.

For a moment, Nut swears he stops breathing.

And then Hong turns back around like nothing happened.

After that, it becomes a problem.

Not a serious problem. Not the kind you talk to someone about. But the kind that eats away at the edges of your thoughts.

Nut starts to notice the way Hong blinks slowly when he’s thinking. The way his lashes rest lightly on the blue. The way the lenses catch light differently depending on the hour — stormy at dawn, nearly silver at sunset, sharp and cold under the white fluorescents of the cafeteria.

They shouldn’t look that good on him. It’s unfair.

One time, Nut walks straight into a doorframe because Hong was looking out the window and he forgot where he was.

Another time, during a group project, Nut just… stops mid-sentence because Hong looks up at him too quickly. His voice dies in his throat.

“Are you okay?” Hong asks, eyes narrowing.

No. Not at all.

It rains again the following week.

Nut’s already on the rooftop, pretending he has a reason to be there. He doesn’t. He’s just hoping.

And then the door creaks. And there he is.

Hong, hair damp, rain clinging to the strands like silver. His lenses are fogged slightly, but even that looks beautiful. Like the sky got caught in his eyes and never found its way out.

Nut stares. Doesn’t mean to. But he does.

Hong steps closer.

“You’re acting weird lately,” he says softly.

“I know.”

“You keep looking at me.”

“I know.”

There’s a pause. Rain taps gently on the rooftop around them.

“Is it the lenses?” Hong asks.

Nut flinches. Looks away.

“Yeah,” he says. “But it’s not just that.”

Hong waits.

Nut breathes.

“It’s what they do to you,” he admits. “They make you look like you’re not real. Like you’re from some other place. Like if I touched you, my hand would go right through.”

Hong’s quiet for a long time. Then he blinks slowly — once, twice.

And takes the lenses off.

Revealing his real eyes underneath: soft brown, still beautiful, but suddenly human. Bare.

“Better?” he asks.

Nut shakes his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I liked the version of you that made me feel like I was losing my mind.”

A slow smile curves Hong’s lips. “Then come here.”

And Nut does.

Steps forward like he’s falling into water.

Hong slides the lenses back into his shirt pocket, and Nut touches his face — first the temple, then the cheekbone, then finally, gently, he leans in.

And for the first time, their foreheads touch.

And it feels real.

Even without the blue.

Later, Nut will find the lenses on Hong’s desk. He’ll turn them over in his palm, fascinated again, wondering how something so small could shift the shape of his whole world.

But for now, it’s just the rain.

And Hong, blinking at him with eyes that don’t need lenses at all to keep Nut completely undone.

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