Kibum takes the same route to work everyday, his head down and his headphones in his ears, blending in amongst anyone else awake at such an ungodly hour. He watches the dirty, grey pavement moving beneath his expensive shoes absentmindedly, his head in the clouds, but something catches his eye, and he stops. A pair of dirty converse, falling apart and discoloured, tap rhythmically on the ground beside his clean, new boots; and he lets his eyes follow the threadbare blue jeans they’re peeking out from, the hems all muddy and faded, long legs pulled up to the base of an old, battered guitar, long fingers strumming the strings and a dark mop of knotty hair hanging down, obscuring the boys face.

An empty guitar case sits beside him, upright against the wall, as if telling people not to throw him change. He’s sitting in the doorway of an old, closed-down bookstore, seemingly unfazed by the winter chill. He takes his earpiece out – had this boy ever been here before? – and he wishes he’d done it earlier. He was singing, and it sounded like thick, warm honey, if that ever had a sound. A lazy rhythm fell from the strings of his guitar, his rough fingers barely touching the strings. The song was one he’d never heard before, but he wanted to hear more. There was something about the way every word fell from his lips, as if he were seeing into this strangers heart just by hearing his voice.

He hadn’t realised he’d been staring, in fact he hadn’t really realised he’d stopped, but he snapped out of his daze as they boys head lifted, dark brown locks falling back as his chocolate eyes trailed from the floor to his face ever-so-slowly, as he’d done only moments before, before his handsome face broke out into a wide smile, defined cheekbones striking against dark skin. He didn’t stop singing, though. If anything, he was singing louder, his tone less solemn and his eyes looking into Kibum’s. As if he were singing to him.

His body seemed to move on its own, and he found himself sat close to him, his back against the door of the bookstore. The boy was warm against him, even through the thick material of his leather jacket, and he unconsciously moved closer. He let his eyes flutter shut, listening to every syllable spilling from those thick lips, though he couldn’t understand a word, but within seconds they were open again, because he’d stopped singing, his fingers had stopped strumming, and he was staring at Key with a soft, happy smile.

‘I’ve been singing for you all along,’ he said, only loud enough for Key to hear, ‘and you’re the sweetest song I’ve ever sung.’