The silence between them stretches, but it’s the kind that feels comfortable, not awkward. The kind that lives between people who have shared enough late nights and early mornings to speak with pauses instead of words.

Nut goes back to scrolling on his phone, the glow lighting up his features. Hong watches him for another quiet moment, then lets his eyes drift to the window.

Outside, the sky has started to shift — pastel purples bleeding into dusky golds. The wind carries a strange scent, sharp and metallic, but Hong doesn’t flinch. He knows what it means. Knows what waits beyond the trees once the light dies.

But right now, Nut is here. Laughing at something on his phone. Alive.

Hong presses his palms to the floor to steady himself. Beneath his skin, something stirs — instinct, old and cold like steel hidden beneath velvet. The part of him that doesn’t belong in this living room, in this softness. The part of him that knows how to kill with silence and precision, with blades made of silver and breath held like a prayer.

Hong:
(quietly)

I wish I could keep you like this. Safe. Always.

Nut:
(humming, not fully hearing)
Hm? You say something?

Hong:
(shakes his head, smiling)
Nah. Just thinking out loud.

Nut tosses his phone onto the cushion beside him and finally looks down at Hong again, eyebrows raised.

Nut:

That’s dangerous. You think too much when it’s quiet.

Hong:
(smiling back, but eyes a little distant)
Only when I have something to lose.

Nut:

What do you have to lose?

Hong:

Have you ever thought about falling in love with your best friend?

The room holds its breath.

Nut doesn’t move. Neither does Hong.

The words still hang in the air — quiet, but undeniable. A shift has occurred, not loud or sharp, but deep. Like a change in the current beneath still water.

Nut’s expression is frozen somewhere between surprise and confusion, like his mind is trying to catch up to what he just heard. The phone sits forgotten on the couch beside him. All he can see now is Hong — standing there, barely moving, as if he’s not sure what comes next either.

Hong’s gaze has dropped, eyes no longer meeting Nut’s. There’s a tension in the way he holds himself — shoulders a touch too straight, hands loose at his sides like he’s trying to stop them from trembling. He’s bracing for something, though he doesn’t know what: a reaction, a laugh, a silence that cuts instead of holds.

But the silence that follows isn't cruel. It’s full. Dense with things unspoken.

The golden light from the window catches on the side of Nut’s face, painting him in something soft and warm. Hong sees it — how perfect he looks in that moment, unaware of the way he’s always been the center of Hong’s gravity.

Neither of them speaks. And yet, everything has already been said.

The breeze stirs the curtains, casting shifting shadows across the room. A distant bird calls.

The world goes on, but inside that small, quiet space, time has stilled.

They remain like that — two boys, a breath apart from something fragile and real, suspended in a silence that neither dares to break.