03

It starts in the kitchen.

Which is unfortunate, because the kitchen is small. And there are only so many places to stand before proximity becomes a problem.

You're hyperaware of it—the space (limited), the air (too warm), him (entirely too close). But it's fine. You're fine. You're just making tea, and he's just existing, leaning against the counter like this is his apartment instead of your brother's. Like he belongs here. Like his presence isn't making it impossible for you to function like a normal person.

(He's not even doing anything. Which somehow makes it worse.)

"I didn't know you liked green tea." His voice is easy, just conversational. Not a trap. Probably.

You don't look at him. Can't. "Yeah. I mean—I do. It's good. Antioxidants and stuff."

Brilliant. Truly stunning commentary.

Hoseok just hums, and you hear the soft clink of his rings against his glass as he lifts it to his lips. He's drinking water, which seems unfair. Water is neutral. Water doesn't require decisions. Meanwhile, you're standing here, internally debating whether you're taking too long to steep this tea, if leaving the bag in too long will make you seem weird, if—

"Relax, Chip."

The words are casual. Just a little offhanded throwaway of a comment. But it lands like a dropped match, tiny but catastrophic.

You blink. Slowly. "What?"

Hoseok sets his glass down with a soft thud and turns to you fully, eyebrows lifted in lazy amusement. "You're overthinking your tea."

He says it like it's obvious. Like it's a thing people do—casually observe someone else's entire internal meltdown and name it out loud.

Which, to be fair, is exactly what he's doing.

Your ears feel hot. "I am not."

"You are."

He's enjoying this. You can tell. It's in the corner of his mouth, the hint of a smile he's barely holding back. Not mean—just knowing.

And then it clicks. The name.

Chip.

"Wait," you say, narrowing your eyes. "Did you just call me—"

His grin sharpens, eyes flashing with something teasing, but infuriatingly innocent. "Yeah," he says, like it's no big deal. "Chip. Short for chipmunk."

You stare at him. Your brain scrambles for a response and comes up with absolutely nothing.

He keeps going, undeterred. "You do this thing when you're overthinking—" He gestures vaguely at your face, at you. "Your cheeks puff up. Just a little."

Absolutely not. That does not happen.

Except—you know exactly what he's talking about.

Which means he's noticed.

You turn back to your tea, because looking at him feels impossible. "That's not a real thing."

"It is."

"It's not."

"It is," he says again, softer this time. Almost amused.

You risk a glance at him. He's watching you, expression easy, mouth still curled slightly at the edges.

It's not a big deal.

It's just a nickname.

But you can feel it settling somewhere deep in your chest, warm and unwelcome, curling into the spaces he's already managed to take up.

Chip.

You should tell him not to call you that.

You should absolutely, definitively tell him not to call you that.

But you don't.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything.

That he's just being himself—casual, playful, thoughtless in the way people like him can afford to be. That it's just a nickname, not a calculated attack on your sanity.

And yet.

Yet.

You feel it every time he says it after that.

The first time, it's two days later. He and your brother are in the living room, a game on in the background, when you walk by with your laptop. You aren't even stopping—just passing through—when he glances up and says it like it's always been your name.

"Where you off to, Chip?"

The sound of it makes you trip over your own feet. Embarrassingly. You don't even answer, just keep walking, face burning, fully aware of the way he watches you go.

Then it happens again.

And again.

Sometimes it's subtle, slipped in like an afterthought. "Hey, Chip, toss me that." "You always this quiet, Chip?"

Other times it's deliberate. Measured. Like he's testing the weight of it, like he's waiting to see if you'll react.

You don't.

You refuse.

(Which only seems to encourage him.)

And then one night, it's just the two of you. Your brother's in the shower, music spilling under the bathroom door, and you're curled up on the couch, trying very hard to ignore the fact that Hoseok is sitting way too close for comfort.

His arm is slung over the back of the couch, loose and easy, and every so often, when you shift, your shoulder brushes against his.

(You should move. You should absolutely move.)

Instead, you stay where you are and pretend to be very, very interested in the show playing on the screen.

Hoseok shifts. You feel the weight of his attention before you see it.

"You don't like it?"

You blink. "What?"

"The nickname." His voice is low, smooth, barely above the sound of the TV. "You never say anything about it."

You don't know what to do with that. Don't know what to do with him, watching you like he's reading something written just under your skin.

"It's fine," you say, and it's not convincing.

His lips twitch, but his voice stays neutral. "You sure?"

You nod, too quickly.

There's a beat of silence. You can hear the shower running down the hall, the TV filling the air with white noise.

And then—so soft you almost don't catch it—

"Good."

It lingers in the space between you, something light, something easy. But you feel it settle somewhere deeper. Somewhere dangerous.

Because now, you know for certain.

He's not going to stop.

And that's the problem. It's a problem. Because Hoseok is nice.

He's just nice.

He's warm and charming in a way that isn't practiced—it just is. The kind of person who remembers how you take your coffee after hearing it once, who laughs with his whole chest, who makes people feel like they belong.

He's good at things, too. Competent in that effortless way that makes it infuriatingly easy to admire him. You've seen him fix things around your brother's apartment without being asked, roll up his sleeves and lean under the sink like it's nothing, like he was built for it.

(Not that you were watching. Not that you noticed the way the muscles in his forearms shift when he grips a wrench.)

The point is—this is just how he is. With everyone.

So it's fine.

Everything is fine.

Or at least, it would be, if he'd stop saying things.

Because then, it happens at dinner.

And the reason for Hoseok being here is simple.

He's always here for dinner.

Not every night, but often enough that it's routine. That your parents barely bat an eye when they see him at the table, that your mom still sets an extra plate for him when she cooks, that your dad asks about his job like he's part of the family.

Because he might as well be.

He and Caleb have been friends since his first year of university—long enough for Hoseok to be comfortable in this house, for your parents to know his favorite foods, for you to be so used to him being around that you shouldn't be affected by it anymore.

(And yet. And yet.)

Dinner is normal.

It's just the five of you at the table, passing dishes around, the smell of takeout filling the air. The conversation is easy, punctuated by laughter, by the scrape of chopsticks against plastic containers.

It's nice. It's comfortable.

Or at least—it should be.

Except your eyes keep tracking him. They always do. The way he sits—too at ease, too familiar. The way his sleeves are pushed up just enough to be distracting. The way his fingers grip his chopsticks, loose and confident, movements fluid and practiced.

(It's stupid. It's stupid that you're noticing these things.)

Your dad is asking Hoseok something about work, and you force yourself to focus, desperate to ground yourself in the conversation instead of spiraling into a pit of your own making.

"How are you managing, with the residency?"

"It's been busy," Hoseok says, setting his chopsticks down neatly. "But good. No complaints."

Your mom tuts. "You work too much."

Hoseok just smiles, warm and self-effacing. "It's not so bad."

Your dad nods approvingly. "That's a good mindset. A little hard work never hurt anyone."

"And at least someone in this house is doing it," Caleb says, nudging you lightly under the table.

You roll your eyes. "I work plenty."

"Studying doesn't count," Caleb argues, because he loves to be annoying.

"It literally does."

Your mom sighs, long-suffering. "Can we have one meal where you two don't bicker?"

You sit back in your chair, focusing very hard on your plate, on not looking at the person sitting just to your right. The conversation flickers and tumbles around you, but you don't register much of it.

And then—

"You should use your mouth more, Chip."

The table goes quiet.

Your heart stops.

Your stomach plummets.

Your entire soul leaves your body, hovering somewhere above the dinner table, watching this play out like a nightmare in slow motion.

Because—because—

He didn't mean it like that. He can't have meant it like that. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

Your dad is right there. Your mom is right there.

Hoseok is just sitting there, utterly relaxed, a picture of perfect innocence.

You're the only one who reacts.

And that's the problem.

Your brother—oblivious, as always—just scoffs. "I keep telling her that."

The world tilts.

Your face burns.

Because Caleb just agreed. Like this is a normal conversation. Like this is fine.

And maybe it is fine.

Maybe you just missed something again—some context, some crucial piece of information that would make this make sense.

You frantically rewind the last few minutes, trying to figure out how this could possibly be about—

"She eats too fast," Caleb continues, like he's talking about the weather. "I've been saying it for years."

Your entire body deflates.

Oh.

Oh.

It's nothing.

It's just about chewing. About how you're always the first to finish your plate, about how your brother has been calling you out for it since you were kids.

You were imagining it.

Your hands are clammy. Your heartbeat is still a mess. But you take a slow breath, trying to pull yourself back together.

You force a weak, strangled sort of laugh. "Right. That."

Hoseok hums, tilting his head slightly. "I wouldn't say that."

He taps his chopsticks against his lower lip, slow and thoughtful, as if genuinely weighing his next words. Then, with the kind of mild, absentminded curiosity that should not be dangerous but absolutely is, he continues—

"Oral muscles are surprisingly adaptable. With the right conditioning, they can handle prolonged exertion without fatigue."

Your brain short-circuits.

Absolutely not.

You're suddenly hyper-aware of everything—the weight of his voice, the way the words land, the way your lungs forget how to function. You try—desperately—to convince yourself that he means nothing by it, that this is just a fun little fact, the kind of thing anyone might say in casual conversation.

(Except no one says things like that in casual conversation.)

Your parents don't react. Your brother doesn't even blink. They just keep eating like this is normal, like this is fine.

You, meanwhile, are staring at your plate, trying not to choke on air.

And just as you're about to die from sheer mortification, he adds—

"For instance, brass players develop impressive endurance. Hours of embouchure control, you know?"

Embouchure control.

You think you might be having an out-of-body experience.

Because he's not even looking at you. He's just sitting there—calm, innocent, like he's just making an offhand comment about music, like he's not actively ruining your life.

It's fine. It's nothing. It's science.

(Except it's not.)

You need to leave.

You shove your chair back, your hands shaking. "I'm—gonna grab some water."

Hoseok watches you go. You feel it.

At the sink, you grip the counter, staring hard at the faucet as you fill your glass.

It's fine.

It's nothing.

You're imagining things.

It's Hoseok being Hoseok—friendly, completely unaware of the way his words get tangled in your head, twisted into shapes they were never meant to take.

You gulp down half the glass, hoping it might cool the heat rising under your skin.

Behind you, the conversation moves on. Your dad is talking about a trip, your mom is mentioning something about the neighbors.

Everything is fine.

But when you turn back, Hoseok is still watching you.

Not in a way anyone else would notice—not in a way your brother does, too focused on his food, or in a way your parents would think twice about—but in a way that you notice.

In a way that makes something low in your stomach twist, tight and uncertain.

And then, like he knows, like he can read the exact trajectory of your thoughts, Hoseok smiles.

Soft. Innocent.

Like he didn't do anything at all.