(no) Strings Attached

This Time Gently

And hates how much it hits him. "Don't start acting like you know me again," he snaps, out of nowhere. San tilts his head. Calm. Unbothered.

"You act like I don't already."

Wooyoung stops in his tracks. San stops too, one step behind—close enough to be felt, not touched. "You say that," Wooyoung says lowly, "like I'm still yours."

There's a heartbeat of silence. "I never stopped thinking that." That one doesn't land soft.

Wooyoung scoffs, shakes his head, turns around like he's ready to storm off again. But San's voice follows—gentle, solid, that same maddening quiet,

"You're not an old flame, Wooyoung. You're the only one that ever felt real." Wooyoung swears under his breath. "God, you're exhausting."

"Then rest," San says simply. "I'll keep walking." He means it. Every syllable.

And even though Wooyoung rolls his eyes and storms the last hundred meters back home, he doesn't tell him to stop. He doesn't tell him to leave. And that says more than anything else could.

Inside, the house smells like simmering radish broth. The heater clicks gently in the background. San toes off his shoes without being told this time, like he belongs.

Wooyoung notices. Says nothing. But he watches.

His mother waves San into the kitchen again like he's her long-lost favorite. "Sit, sit! I saved you the good side dish. The anchovies you liked."

"I—liked?" San echoes, glancing at Wooyoung.

His mom waves a hand. "You said it was nostalgic. That means you liked it."

San just smiles, grateful. "It really was. Thank you."

He helps set the table. Quiet. Unassuming. Every time Wooyoung reaches for something, San's hand is already there — passing the dish, lifting the lid, unfolding the napkin.

Not a show. Just instinct. It's... irritating. Or at least it should be.

But Wooyoung doesn't complain.

He sits down across from San. Doesn't talk. Doesn't thank him. But when his mother leaves the room for a moment, he picks up a slice of pan-fried tofu from the shared plate, places it on San's rice, and says, flatly,

"You never remember to take the side dishes you like first." San looks up. Blinks. Then he smiles. Not wide. Not smug. Just soft. Grateful.

"Thank you."

Wooyoung shrugs, avoiding his eyes. "Don't make a big deal out of it."

"I won't," San promises. And he doesn't. He eats. Quietly. Carefully. Like the moment matters too much to touch.

Later, while Wooyoung is rinsing the last of the rice bowls, San moves beside him at the sink. Doesn't speak. Just reaches for a towel and starts drying the dishes.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." The silence stretches between them, warm with steam and the clink of ceramic. Then, barely audible over the sound of water, Wooyoung says, "You're still annoying."

San grins. "Good. Means I'm doing something right."

And just—just—for a second, Wooyoung almost smiles.

The lights are off, not later than half an hour after the awkward chore.

Only the hallway glow spills in — dim, golden, enough to cast soft shadows on the futons laid side by side.