(no) Strings Attached

This Time Gently

San's shoulders stiffen. "I'm not pretending."

"Aren't you?" Wooyoung's eyes flash. "You don't know these streets. You don't know me here. You just want to."

That hits. Deep. San's quiet a moment before saying, "I want to because it's where you are."

He says it simply. No flourish. No expectation Wooyoung looks away, jaw tight. Then—

"We should get back. Before the tofu leaks." He starts walking. San follows. This time, the silence doesn't ache. It lingers. But it lingers together.

Wooyoung's jaw is tight. San doesn't press, but he doesn't fall back either — keeps pace, half a step behind, steady like a tide that never really leaves.

"I'm not pretending," San says, again, voice calm but not soft. "I know I don't belong here. Not yet. But I want to."

Wooyoung exhales hard through his nose, like it costs him not to say something worse.

"You think wanting's enough?"

"No," San answers, immediate. "But it's where I'm starting."

Wooyoung looks at him then — sideways, wary — like he's trying to catch San slipping. But there's nothing performative in him. Just that quiet, maddening steadiness.

"You know they'll all talk, right?" Wooyoung mutters. "They'll see us and assume."

"Let them."

The words come easy. Sure. And when Wooyoung looks again, San's not smirking. He's not even smiling. He just means it.

"Let them assume what?"

San shrugs, gaze forward, unreadable in a way that's new.

"That I'm yours. That I want to be."

Wooyoung stops walking. The street is quiet. The sea is somewhere just past the hill, murmuring under the sound of market radios and gulls. And San — San doesn't backpedal.

He steps closer, just slightly, just enough that Wooyoung would feel it if he turned. "You don't have to say anything," San murmurs. "You don't have to believe me yet. But I'm not just here for closure."

A pause. His voice lowers. "I'm here because I still want you."

The silence that follows is heavy, but not sharp. Not anymore.

Then Wooyoung shifts, tension crawling across his shoulders. "We should go."

"Okay." San doesn't argue. Doesn't flinch. He just keeps walking beside him, quiet and constant — like gravity.

They don't talk after that.

Not for a while.

But San stays close. Not crowding, not looming — just there. Every time Wooyoung's pace shifts, San shifts with him. When Wooyoung avoids a crack in the sidewalk, San does too. When Wooyoung's hand brushes too close to his, San doesn't pull away.

He never tries to take it. Just stays near enough that the air between them crackles with what-ifs.

"You're really not going to stop, are you?" Wooyoung mutters eventually, like it's been gnawing at him.

San doesn't answer right away. Then—quiet, even— "No."

It's not defiant. Not even smug. Just... true. And something about the simplicity of it makes Wooyoung's chest twist. "I'm not giving you anything easy," he warns. "Not a pass. Not a shortcut."

"I'm not asking for one."

The market fades behind them. The sea breeze picks up, tugging at Wooyoung's hoodie. San's hand rises—like he's going to fix the way the wind is pulling at it. But he stops himself. Lets it fall back to his side. Wooyoung sees it.