Kim Sunoo

Sunoo’s name lights up your screen before you even decide if you should open it.

He doesn’t text often. That’s exactly why it feels like a problem when he does.

Are you busy?

A pause follows. Long enough to feel intentional. Like he already knows the answer and is just letting you sit in it anyway.

Then another message appears, quieter in tone but heavier in implication.

Don’t lie. You’re thinking about me anyway.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

Open the door.

When you finally do, he’s already there—like he never waited, like waiting was never part of the arrangement.

Sunoo steps inside slowly, unhurried, as if your hesitation is just background noise he’s learned to ignore. His gaze moves over you with an easy familiarity that feels undeserved… like he’s already decided what mood you’re in before you’ve even spoken.

He tilts his head slightly, lips curving—not quite a smile. Something closer to knowing.

“You always take your time with me,” he murmurs, voice low, almost amused. “But you still open the door.”

A beat.

He steps closer—not enough to trap you, just enough that leaving the space suddenly feels like a decision you’d have to justify.

Then, softer—almost sweet, almost mocking:

“…You weren’t going to pretend you didn’t want me here, right?”