Kibum is a boy. He's gone out with three girls back in high school, two when he was in college. He's tried all sorts of things and positions — he wants something new. He vaguely wonders how it would be to share his bed with a boy. So one day, he goes out at 3 a.m., snatches the first guy he sees, one who looks smart and cute and safe, at the very least. Come 8 a.m. he tells the guy, "Leave, leave. They might see us," even if all that they've done is stare at each other.

"Choi Minho," the guy says faintly before he escapes through the window. "Kim Kibum," Kibum says, lips almost pressed against the glass. Minho walks away without another glance.

Every day, he makes it a point to come out at three. The time Minho leaves is delayed one hour a day. Before Kibum adds twenty three hours to three, he takes Minho's hand, traces the life written on it. "We've never really talked," says Kibum. "We only ever stared at each other." Minho chuckles and presses his lips lightly on Kibum's.

"But you know me and I know you."

And Minho, another boy, stays.