Running to You | Park Han + JL + Steven | Haneulz + Stejay AU

Chapter 53: Rotations

They didn't speak. Not at first. The city passed by in silhouettes, quiet and breathless. A few early buses. One jogger. Rows of shuttered shops and laundromats that still wore the night like a blanket.

Then Han spoke, voice low and perfectly neutral. "Steven walks you home."

JL stiffened slightly, eyes still on the window.

"I noticed," Han added.

"You say that like it's a problem."

Han kept his eyes on the road. "I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

Han didn't deny it. Just flicked the turn signal, merging onto a quieter road.

JL exhaled. "You don't have to do this, you know."

"I know."

"Then why are you here every morning?"

This time, Han looked at him. Not long. But enough that it felt like stepping off something tall.

"Because I want to be."

JL looked away again, swallowing.

Silence followed. It wasn't awkward. It was just dense. The kind that fills every available space without ever explaining itself.

At a stoplight, Han tapped the steering wheel once, lightly. "You don't have to explain yourself. You don't owe anyone that."

JL blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I know what it's like," Han said. "Having people watch you. Wondering who you're choosing. Wondering if you even can choose."

He pulled into the lot beside the stadium and killed the engine. They sat in the stillness.

Then Han added, quieter this time: "I'm not asking you to choose. I'm just not going to pretend I'm not here."

JL didn't answer. Couldn't, maybe.

But when they got out and started walking toward the track, Han slowed beside him -- just enough that their footsteps matched.

* * * 

By midmorning, the track had warmed up enough to shimmer.

Steam rose in soft curls off the synthetic surface, the kind of ghostlight that made everyone look a little cinematic -- sweat-slicked, sunlit, and worn down in the best way. Coach Yang barked instructions from the bleachers, stopwatch dangling around his neck like a threat.

JL was adjusting his laces when Woongki plopped down beside him on the edge of the track like a frog sunbathing on a lily pad.

"I'm raising the stakes," Woongki said solemnly, shielding his eyes from the sun. "New betting pool: who's gonna break JL's heart second."

"Second?" JL deadpanned. "I'm flattered."

"Steven's too good to be true. Han's a hot villain with gold-medal cheekbones. Something's gonna give. When it does, I will be holding a whiteboard and a bell."

"You need to be stopped," JL muttered.

"I need popcorn," Woongki replied.

Across the field, Steven was setting up hurdles for solo drills. Kyungho passed behind him, water bottle in hand, and slowed just slightly when he saw Woongki holding court. His gaze lingered -- not long. But long enough.

Near the bleachers, Shuaibo and Chih En sat side by side like matching commas in a long sentence, the kind that didn't need to end any time soon. The sun was dipping into that golden-hour state -- lavender light caught in the mesh netting of the track fences, sweat glinting on the backs of running bodies, laughter echoing like wind chimes from the high jump mats. But where they sat, it was quieter. Like the edge of something sacred.

Chih En's face remained as unreadable as always -- his mouth neutral, eyes sharp, breath even. But he was watching everything. Steven's powerful drive around the bend. Han's controlled strides like he was calculating vectors. JL's sprint -- bright and ragged, like the boy was always just barely outrunning a ghost.

"He's fast," Chih En said eventually, voice so soft it barely pushed through the stillness.

Shuaibo looked over, cracking his neck. "JL?"

Chih En nodded once, like the thought had been marinating a while.

"He runs like something's chasing him," Shuaibo muttered. "Like he's late to his own life."

But Chih En didn't answer right away. He was still watching. Still dissecting the field with that eerie kind of calm that made him seem older than he was. His watching was something else -- calm, clinical, and complete. Like his mind was running calculations behind his eyes. Or maybe poems. It was hard to tell with him. Then he said, "He's not the one I admire most on this team."

Shuaibo raised a brow. "Oh yeah? Who's your favorite, Robot?"

Chih En didn't smile, but something about his voice changed... less analytical now. More honest.

"I admire the one who lost everything and came here anyway," he said simply. "Who got back up with nothing. Who fights like he still has something to prove, even after the world told him he had nothing left."

There was no teasing in it. No irony. Just truth. He was looking straight at Shuaibo now, the full force of his gaze directed at only one person. When Chih En switched his focus on to you like this, you couldn't look away. 

Shuaibo blinked. His throat worked once. "You're sure you're talking about me?"

"I don't say things I'm not sure of," Chih En replied, looking back at the field again. "And even if I wasn't, you'd know. You're the one person on this team who doesn't pretend they're not bleeding."

Shuaibo leaned forward slowly, elbows to knees, like the weight of that had pushed something out of him. Like the heat was pooling in his chest now, not the air.

Then, smirking faintly, he nudged Chih En's foot with his own. "You realize this is probably the most you've said all month."

Chih En didn't turn. But he said, without missing a beat, "I don't talk this much with everyone."

The silence that followed was anything but empty.

And then, as if the universe refused to let anything too serious linger for long, Woongki's voice cracked the air like a fireworks shell:

"Steven's got biceps and dimples, Han's got the emotional range of a locked vault, and JL's got more longing than a K-drama finale -- WHICH ONE OF THEM WILL MAKE IT OUT OF THIS LOVE TRIANGLE ALIVE?!"

Shuaibo burst into a laugh that startled even himself. He leaned back on the bench, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand. "Every time I think I'm overheating, he says something worse."

Chih En, as usual, didn't laugh. But he did lift his water bottle to his mouth with his usual mechanical grace.

And then, with zero warning, he said, "If this were a court drama, Han would be the crown prince. Steven, the beloved general."

Shuaibo blinked, turning toward him. "And JL?"

Chih En looked at him, expression unreadable.

"The consort that might bring down the dynasty."

Shuaibo's smile curled slowly, almost reluctant. "Messy."

Chih En didn't blink. "Messy isn't always a bad thing."

Shuaibo turned to him, eyes searching the edge of his profile, waiting for a smirk or deflection -- something to soften the impact of his words, make them a joke or a quip. 

But Chih En didn't look away. He just looked back at Shuaibo, unflinching and calm.