Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The classroom air was thick with heat and boredom. 

Dust floated lazily in the strips of sunlight bleeding through the window blinds, settling on old desks etched with forgotten names. The clock ticked slow and tired, dragging every second like it was too heavy to carry. 

Ahn Su-ho sat near the window, his head slumped on one arm, fingers loosely curled around a mechanical pencil he hadn’t used in over fifteen minutes. The teacher’s voice was a distant murmur—monotone, rhythmic, like the lull of a train rolling nowhere. Around him, classmates shifted, whispered, dozed. 

He should’ve been asleep. 

He usually was. 

But something tugged at him. A strange awareness, like the hairs on the back of his neck rising, or the air shifting in a way it shouldn’t. 

He lifted his head just slightly. 

Across the room, seated near the far wall, was Yeon Si-eun. 

He’d always been there—silent, unmoving, just another face in the crowd of uniformed students. Top of the class, rarely spoke. Not cold, not warm. Absent. A ghost in broad daylight. 

But today, Su-ho saw him. 

Si-eun sat with perfect posture, too still, like his body had forgotten how to relax. His eyes were locked on the chalkboard, but they weren’t reading. They weren’t seeing . They were just... waiting. For something. For nothing. His lips were drawn tight, a barely-there crease between his brows. His hands were clenched beneath the desk, though no one else would’ve noticed. 

Su-ho did. 

And then, as if on cue, those eyes flicked toward him. Just once. 

Not startled. Not shy. Just... blank. 

Their gazes met—brief, silent, cold. 

But in that moment, Su-ho felt something jolt low in his chest. Something uncomfortable. Like watching a bird sit perfectly still while smoke rose behind it. 

Before he could look away, the bell rang. 

Chairs scraped, notebooks closed, voices rose into a blur. Si-eun didn’t wait for the noise to settle. He stood in one swift motion, shoved his books into his bag, and walked out of the room like it was burning down behind him. 

Su-ho didn’t move. 

He just watched the space Si-eun left behind. Empty chair. Untouched desk. 

A strange hollowness bloomed in his chest, and he didn’t know why. 

With a weary sigh, he rose from his seat and unhurriedly prepared his backpack. Dragging his feet on the ground, he then headed out of the classroom. 

The hallway was loud. 

Not in volume, but in everything else—shoes squeaking against the floor, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, lockers slamming like gunshots. Students flowed past each other in rivers of motion, laughing, shouting, brushing shoulders without seeing anyone. 

Su-ho stood by the vending machine, hands shoved into his pockets, staring at nothing. He’d meant to grab a drink. He hadn’t moved. 

Somewhere in the crowd, he saw him again. 

Si-eun. 

Just a flash of him—sharp shoulders, stiff posture, that same dark green backpack slung over one shoulder like it weighed more than it should. 

He walked fast, shoulders tense, never looking up. Students shifted around him like water parting around a stone. No one stopped him. No one even saw him. 

But Su-ho did. 

He followed—no, not followed. Just walked in the same direction. At his own pace. Watching. 

Si-eun turned the corner and disappeared down the stairs. 

By the time Su-ho stepped outside, the light had changed. 

The sky was soft gold, and the air had cooled. Students loitered by the front gates, checking their phones, waiting for rides, dragging their feet toward home. The noise had thinned out, fading into the background. 

And there he was again. 

Si-eun stood near the edge of the school grounds, just past the iron gate. Still, like before. Hands at his sides, eyes on the road in front of him, unmoving. He looked like he didn’t belong there—or anywhere. 

Su-ho slowed his steps. 

The late light hit Si-eun's face in slanted shadows, softening him, but it couldn’t erase the weariness carved into his features. There was something hollow about him. Like a building with no lights on inside. 

Then, without warning, Si-eun turned and walked away. 

He was neither fast nor slow. Just determined. Like the road ahead was something he had to face alone. 

Su-ho watched him go. 

He didn’t call out. Didn’t follow. 

Just stood there, listening to the hum of the city rising with the dusk, and wondering why it suddenly felt like something had cracked. 

And why he felt it. 

Su-ho stayed where he was until the sky turned a shade darker. Until Si-eun disappeared completely down the road, swallowed by the slow crawl of cars and the buzzing silence of the city. 

He told himself to go home. 

He didn’t know why he didn’t move. 

The walk home felt longer than usual. 

Not because of the distance, but because of what waited at the end of it. 

Yeon Si-eun moved on autopilot—his hands buried in his blazer pockets, his bag hanging off one shoulder, eyes fixed on the concrete beneath his feet. He counted his steps in threes. He timed his breath to the rhythm of his shoes hitting the pavement. 

Three steps, inhale. Three more, exhale. 

That’s how he made it to the gate. 

His house stood quiet under a sky the color of cooling ash. The porch light buzzed, flickering faintly like it couldn’t decide whether to die or keep trying. There were no sounds from inside—no television, no voices—just that stillness that didn’t feel like peace, but like a warning. 

He opened the front door slowly, hoping it wouldn’t creak. 

It did. 

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The lock clicked like a trigger. 

The air inside was thick with cigarette smoke and something greasy, unwashed. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in slats of dying light that cut across the living room floor. A single slipper lay overturned on the rug. 

His fingers had just started to loosen on his backpack strap when he heard it. “Where the hell have you been?” 

His father’s voice came from the other room. Low. Flat. Coiled tight like a wire ready to snap. 

Si-eun’s throat closed. His whole body stiffened, instinct tightening every muscle into silence. “I was… at school,” he managed, barely above a whisper. “There was a late—” 

“You think I’m stupid?” 

His father appeared in the doorway like a shadow that had always been there. He wasn’t a large man, but he took up space like someone used to controlling it. His shirt was wrinkled, his belt undone. His eyes were bloodshot. Tired. Mean. 

“I’m not lying,” Si-eun said, voice already trembling despite his best efforts. “You can ask the school—” 

The first hit came fast. 

A slap—not enough to knock him down, but enough to make his teeth click together and the taste of blood rise in his mouth. 

His mother stood in the hallway behind him. Silent. Arms folded. Her expression unreadable. She didn’t speak. She didn’t blink. She never did. 

The second blow came harder. A fist, this time. Across the jaw. 

Si-eun stumbled back, his shoulder slamming into the edge of the shoe cabinet. A framed photo tipped over and landed face-down. 

“You think I don’t see through you?” his father snarled. “Wasting our time, our money—walking around like you’re better than us. Like you’re smarter.” 

He didn’t respond. He knew better. 

His cheek throbbed. His ears rang. His vision had gone slightly out of focus—but his hands stayed still, tight at his sides. He didn’t cry. He hadn’t cried in years. 

“Go clean the damn kitchen. And don’t touch a single bite of food. You think this house feeds rats?” 

Si-eun nodded, wordless. 

He turned toward the kitchen, eyes burning not from tears but from the pressure it took to hold them in. 

The room was worse than he remembered. 

The sink overflowed with cloudy water and plates stacked like a sad sculpture of neglect. Half-eaten food lay rotting on the counters. A pot on the stove was crusted with something unidentifiable. The trash bin hadn’t been taken out in days. 

He rolled up his sleeves. 

The cold water hit his skin like pins. He reached into the sink, hands numb, and began scrubbing—methodically, carefully, like it might earn him silence if not forgiveness. 

His fingers moved without thought, dragging a sponge across cracked plates, scraping at dried rice, letting soap sting at the torn skin near his knuckles. 

His eyes, which impassively followed his mechanical movements, rested fleetingly beside him. On the counter just to his left, a kitchen knife lay out—gleaming, clean, untouched. 

He paused. 

The sponge slipped from his fingers and landed in the sink with a soft splash. 

His eyes locked on the knife. 

It wasn’t a conscious thought. It wasn’t even a plan. Just a whisper, low and cold and familiar. 

One cut. Not deep. Just enough to breathe. 

His fingers twitched. 

His arm ached. 

His mind went quiet. 

But he didn’t move. 

Because he was a coward. Because even pain like this was familiar. Because worse than the fear of dying was the fear of not dying fast enough. 

So, he turned back to the sink. 

And kept scrubbing. 

The night didn’t end. It only folded into morning. 

Si-eun hadn’t moved from his bed. He lay on his side, blanket pulled up to his chin, eyes half-open, staring at the wall as grey light filtered in through the curtains. 

His jaw ached. His ribs throbbed dully every time he breathed too deep. His stomach was hollow, a tight, twisted knot that felt less like hunger and more like something collapsing inside him. 

He hadn’t eaten in—What? A day? Two? 

It didn’t matter. 

Outside, he heard footsteps. His father’s. Heavy, steady, sharp. The sound of a lighter flicking. The low cough. The smell of cigarette smoke slipping under the door like a warning. 

He curled tighter beneath the blanket. 

No one came to wake him. No one cared. 

School came and went without him. 

Time passed in fragments—shadows shifting on the walls, the creak of floorboards, the faint hum of a neighbor’s TV seeping through paper-thin walls. His body ached. His mouth was dry. His hands trembled beneath the blanket, but he didn’t let them out. He didn’t want to see them. 

Not yet. 

By late afternoon, the house had gone quiet again. That soft, sharp kind of silence that made you listen harder, not breathe easier. 

Si-eun sat up slowly. 

His legs were stiff. His head throbbed. But his body moved—mechanical, obedient, hollow with habit. He crept down the hallway like a thief in someone else’s house. 

The kitchen was dim. The light outside had turned yellow, cutting long shadows across the counters. Empty bottles lined the floor near the trash. A single chair was tipped slightly back, like someone had left in a hurry or gotten up in a rage. 

The silence pressed in around him. 

He moved to the fridge, quiet, careful, one bare foot at a time. Opened the door just enough to let the cold air bite at his face. Inside there were a half-empty bottle of water, a carton of eggs gone bad, a bowl of rice that might’ve once been warm. 

He reached for the water. 

It was ice-cold against his palm, beads of condensation slipping down onto his wrist. He opened it. Drank greedily. 

The cold hit his stomach like a slap. His eyes watered. He didn’t care. He drank more, faster, his throat tight with relief. 

Then— 

A shadow moved in the doorway. 

“Look at this.” 

The voice froze him in place. 

Deep. Familiar. Coated in that quiet fury that never had to be raised to be deadly. 

He turned. 

His father stood there. Shirt half-buttoned. Eyes bloodshot. Mouth already twisted into a sneer. 

“I told you not to touch anything,” he said. 

The water bottle slipped from Si-eun’s hand. 

The glass hit the tile with a sharp, cracking snap. It shattered in an instant—ice, shards, water flooding across the floor like blood from a wound. 

The silence that followed was worse than the voice. 

Si-eun didn’t move. He couldn’t. 

His father’s eyes narrowed. 

“You think I’m joking?” 

One step forward. 

“You think I won’t—?” 

He didn’t finish the sentence. 

He didn’t have to. 

Si-eun’s legs stiffened. The cold from the spilled water soaked into his socks, creeping up his ankles. 

His father’s eyes scanned the floor, then locked onto him—his soaked clothes, the broken bottle, the way he stood frozen like a cornered animal. 

“Unbelievable,” the man muttered. 

Then, without warning, he stepped forward and struck him. 

The hit landed sharp across Si-eun’s cheek, snapping his head sideways. Before he could recover, another came—faster, harder, less precise. His vision blurred. The room spun for a second. 

He stumbled backward. His heel caught on the puddle. 

And then he fell. 

Hard. 

His hands flew out to catch himself, but they landed wrong. Onto sharp edges. 

There was no scream. No cry. Just the soft clatter of his body hitting the tile, the low splash of water, the faint clink of broken pieces shifting beneath him. 

The pain followed. 

Stinging. Burning. Cold. 

His palms throbbed, but he didn’t look at them. 

Then the kicks started. 

Each one hit different—his ribs, his side, his leg. Not rhythmic, not coordinated. Just erratic, like all the anger in the world had found a target and didn’t care where it landed. 

Si-eun didn’t fight back. Didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t even shield himself. 

He lay there, trembling, soaked, and silent. 

Eventually, it stopped. 

His father stood above him, chest heaving. 

“You’re lucky I don’t do worse,” he spat. “Clean it up. Every piece. And if I see a single scratch left behind, you’ll wish you hadn’t gotten up.” 

Then he turned and walked away, the hallway swallowing him whole. 

Si-eun stayed on the floor. 

His body was shaking, but not from fear anymore. The cold water had soaked through everything. His arms were numb. His face throbbed. He could taste metal in the back of his throat, but he didn’t care. 

He sat up slowly. 

Everything hurt. But it was the kind of hurt he was used to—quiet, familiar, expected. 

He looked down. His hands were red. The cuts stung, little flashes of fire in his palms, but they didn’t feel real. His sleeves stuck to his arms. The water was already tinted—murky and still. 

Among the scattered pieces on the floor, one shard caught his eye. Clean. Sharp. Beautiful, in a cruel way. 

He reached for it. Held it gently. 

Turned it over once, twice. 

It fit perfectly between his fingers. 

For a moment, he simply stared at it. The edge gleamed under the kitchen light. Cold and smooth and dangerous. 

He brought it close to his skin. Not to do anything. Just to feel how cold it was. How real. 

Just to wonder. 

But he didn’t go further. 

His hand dropped back to his lap. The shard clinked onto the floor beside him. 

Instead, he started cleaning. 

Piece by piece, he picked up what had broken. The sharp edges bit into his fingers. His sleeves grew damp and sticky. But he didn’t pause. Didn’t flinch. He kept going, as if it were the only thing in the world that made sense. 

As if bleeding quietly in the kitchen was just part of the routine. 

The house had gone still. 

Not peaceful. Never peaceful. Just still. Like something dangerous had finally fallen asleep. 

Si-eun sat on the cold bathroom floor, the flickering light above him casting unsteady shadows across the tiles. His hands trembled as he tore off strips of toilet paper—too thin, too flimsy, but all he had. 

He wrapped them clumsily around his palms, over the shallow cuts and torn skin, the makeshift bandages sticking where blood had already begun to dry. It wasn’t enough to stop the sting, but it covered the worst of it. 

At least for now. 

His fingers fumbled with the last strip, and when it wouldn’t hold, he just pressed his hand over it, silent, still, waiting for the pain to quiet down. 

Trying to make as little noise as possible, he then headed to his room. His feet, naked, gently stepped on the parquet floor, careful not to produce any squeaking. 

His room was dark, but he didn’t reach for the light. He knew it would flicker. He knew it would creak. And he couldn’t risk even that. 

Down the hall, a door clicked shut. 

He waited. 

Ten seconds.  

Thirty.  

A full minute.  

Two. 

No voices. No footsteps. Just the soft hum of pipes in the wall, and the night pressing against the windows. 

He moved. 

Slowly, carefully, as though the walls themselves might wake and warn them. 

He slid open the bottom drawer of his desk—the one that stuck when he pulled too hard—and took out a thin sweater. No socks. No shoes. Just the sweater over his wrinkled pajama top. He pulled the hood up. 

The bruises on his arms ached as he moved. He didn’t look at them. He hadn’t looked in the mirror in days. 

He crossed the room on silent feet, the floor creaking under even his softest steps. He held his breath the entire time. 

The window stuck—it always did—but tonight it gave way with just a faint groan. His breath caught. 

He froze. 

Waited. 

Nothing. 

The night air spilled in, crisp and cold. It bit at his face, and for a moment, he hesitated. 

Not because he doubted himself. 

But because he was afraid of the sound the screen would make. 

He pressed his hand against the frame, pushed just enough, and then— 

Freedom. 

The window opened smoothly, without squeaking or hesitation. He slipped one leg over the windowsill. Then the other. Then he lowered himself onto the narrow ledge and dropped into the grass, knees bending hard, breath catching as the cold hit him like a slap. 

Still no lights on inside. 

Still no sound. 

He turned. 

And walked. 

No phone. No money. No bag. Nothing but his thin sweater, his aching ribs, and the dark. 

He didn’t know where he was going. 

He just knew it was away . 

The city was asleep, but it wasn’t silent. 

There were sounds—distant traffic, the low hum of neon signs that never turned off, the rattle of a loose shutter somewhere in the wind. But nothing human. No warmth in the noise. Just the sound of a world too large for someone like Si-eun. 

He walked without direction, barefoot on cold pavement, every step numb. The sleeves of his hoodie swallowed his hands. The cuffs of his pajama pants dragged in puddles left behind by an earlier drizzle. His breath hung in the air in pale little ghosts, rising and vanishing before he could see where they went. 

He didn’t look around. Didn’t lift his head. He just moved, like if he stopped, he might remember he was supposed to be someone. 

Eventually, his legs gave in and led him to a spot of stillness. 

A bus stop. 

Forgotten, worn, almost swallowed by shadows. One of those places people passed by without thinking. The glass was smudged, scratched with initials. The bench was damp. The overhead light flickered once—weak and unreliable—then went still. 

He sank onto the bench like it was the first soft thing he’d felt in years. 

Folded his legs up to his chest. Pulled the hood tighter. Pressed his face into his arms. 

No one noticed. A man walked past, barely glancing. A car slowed at the red light across the street, then kept going. 

To them, he was just another shadow. 

But someone did notice. 

Not immediately, and not with alarm. Just a pause. 

Footsteps slowed on the sidewalk, soft and steady. 

Su-ho had been walking home, bag slung over one shoulder, his gaze unfocused after a long shift. He liked this part of the night—when the city dulled its edges and let people breathe. But something tugged at his attention as he neared the corner by the old bus stop. 

A figure sat curled on the bench. Small. Hunched. Unmoving. 

He wouldn’t have looked twice if it weren’t for the bare feet. Then the pajama pants. The too-thin hoodie. The way the boy folded in on himself like he was trying to disappear. 

Su-ho’s steps slowed. 

He stared. 

That shape. That stillness. That outline he’d never really looked at but always noticed from across the classroom. 

He stepped closer, each footfall careful, like the pavement might echo too loud. 

“Hey…” he called gently, unsure why his heart had begun to race. 

No reaction. 

Closer now. The light above buzzed weakly as if struggling to help him see. The boy didn’t move, but the angle shifted just enough for Su-ho to catch the edge of his face. 

And there it was. 

Recognition. 

His stomach dropped. 

“…Si-eun?” 

He flinched the second he heard his name. 

His head lifted too fast—the muscles in his neck screaming in protest, his breath catching like it didn’t want to be seen either. For a second, everything blurred. The dark. The streetlights. The figure standing just beyond the halo of flickering light. 

But then his vision cleared—and it was Su-ho. 

Si-eun’s chest squeezed so tight it hurt. 

Of all people… 

Of all the faces that could’ve found him like this. 

He wanted to cry, but his eyes stayed dry, as if even his tears had abandoned him. The air caught somewhere between his throat and lungs, trembling there, too afraid to move. 

His body reacted before he could think. 

He shot to his feet, hood slipping back slightly, revealing the raw, swollen skin along his cheekbone. His legs trembled under his weight, but he still backed away, fast and clumsy. 

Su-ho was still speaking—voice calm, careful—but it might as well have been thunder in his ears. 

Si-eun’s mind was racing. 

He saw.  

He saw me.  

The bruises. The way I’m dressed. My bare feet.  

He knows. He knows something’s wrong.  

His shame burned hotter than the cold ever could. Shame for being seen like this. Shame for being weak enough to be found. Shame for standing in front of someone who was supposed to just be a classmate—not this. 

Not a witness. 

I can’t let him look at me like that.  

He took another shaky step back, as if distance might undo the moment. Might erase the pity in Su-ho’s eyes—or worse, the kindness . 

Because deep down, under the cold, under the bruises and exhaustion, a small part of Si-eun wanted to step forward. Wanted to let himself collapse into that quiet voice. That gentle gaze. That unspoken warmth. 

But he couldn’t. 

He couldn’t let anyone carry this. Especially not someone who hadn’t asked to see it. 

I’ll only become someone else’s burden. Just like I always am.  

So, he turned to run. 

Or tried to. 

But his legs didn’t listen. The cold had sunk too deep. The fear too loud. His knees buckled—and the world tilted. 

The pavement rushed up. His palms barely caught the fall. 

Then, warmth. 

Hands, catching him just in time. 

Su-ho’s arms tightened instinctively around Si-eun’s trembling frame, terrified that if he loosened even a finger, the boy would dissolve into mist—like he had imagined him, conjured him in a moment of sleepless guilt.  

He said his name once, quietly. Then again, more urgently.  

“Si-eun… hey—can you hear me?” 

But the body in his grasp didn’t stir, didn’t respond.  

His breath still ghosted faintly against Su-ho’s wrist, but it was shallow, erratic. Panic flared in Su-ho’s chest, sudden and sharp—like the first drop of rain before a storm. He didn’t know what to do. What could he do?  

His hands were shaking, unfamiliar with this kind of fear. But still, gently, almost reverently, he lowered them both to the ground. The cold concrete pressed against his legs as he sat, crossing them carefully.  

Then, as if handling glass, he guided Si-eun’s head to rest on his lap—his fingers brushing back a few strands of damp hair from the boy’s forehead. His touch was hesitant, featherlight.  

The world felt impossibly quiet around them, tucked into a pocket of darkness at the edge of the street, invisible to the rest of the city. People passed, but no one looked. No one saw the boy lying still in someone else’s lap, bruises blooming down his jaw like cruel petals. No one noticed Su-ho’s fingers hovering uncertainly in the air, not quite knowing where to rest—not on the shoulder, not on the cheek, not on any place that might hurt.  

He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until the cold started to bite at his face. With one hand, he fumbled his phone out of his pocket, calling a taxi with jerky movements, cursing how slow his fingers felt.  

Please come. Fast. Just come.   

He kept his other hand close, a quiet sentinel by Si-eun’s side, the tips of his fingers barely grazing the fabric of the boy’s hoodie, needing the contact even if it meant nothing. Every so often, his eyes would drift back to Si-eun’s face—pale, gaunt, worn out by an unknown battle. He looked like he was sleeping, and that scared Su-ho more than anything else.  

When the taxi finally pulled up, its headlights cutting through the fog of the night, Su-ho exhaled a breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding for minutes.  

Moving slowly, afraid to jostle him, he slid an arm beneath Si-eun’s knees, the other cradling his back. The weight startled him—not because it was heavy, but because it wasn’t. Si-eun felt light. Too light. Like someone who’d been slipping through the cracks for a long, long time.  

And Su-ho, with a chest full of questions and trembling arms, carried him as if he were trying to hold on to every piece that might’ve already fallen apart. 

The taxi driver didn’t say anything when he saw them. Just unlocked the door and glanced away politely, as if sensing the unspoken urgency draped around them both. Su-ho climbed in first, shifting carefully and holding Si-eun against him like something fragile and waterlogged, something that might fall apart if jostled even once.  

He cradled the boy against his chest, one arm curled around his narrow back, the other supporting under his knees. 

As the door shut and the car pulled away from the curb, Su-ho kept his gaze on the bruises. 

They were clearer now, under the dim light bouncing in through the windows. Purple spread across the edge of Si-eun’s jaw like ink dropped into milk. There were shadows beneath his eyes, the kind born not just from sleeplessness, but from something deeper—something that drained you from the inside out. 

Su-ho tried not to look too long, but his eyes kept drifting back. 

The boy in his arms didn’t stir. 

His breath was faint against the side of Su-ho’s neck, warm and uneven. His hands were cold, fingers curled in loosely like he’d been holding on to something in a dream. 

Su-ho rested his cheek lightly against Si-eun’s head, unsure if the contact was for the boy or for himself. He didn’t realize how tight his arms had become until the taxi made a slow turn and Si-eun shifted in his grip. Immediately, he loosened them, heart leaping into his throat. 

“Sorry,” he whispered, though Si-eun didn’t wake. 

What had happened to him? 

He clenched his jaw, stared out the window, watched the city blur past—all those glowing buildings, those shops still open, those people walking home from bars or night shifts or study sessions—and felt suddenly disconnected from all of it. 

None of them had seen him. 

That boy. At that bus stop. 

No one had noticed. 

Just him. 

He looked back down. Si-eun’s lashes twitched once, then stilled. 

Was it a good thing he hadn’t woken up? 

Or would waking up mean safety—consciousness—and a chance to speak? 

His fingers brushed the hem of the boy’s hoodie. So thin. Worn out. There was something heartbreaking in the way Si-eun dressed like someone ready to vanish—like someone who didn’t expect to be seen. 

“You don’t have to disappear,” Su-ho said under his breath, the words forming without permission, barely louder than a thought. “I see you.” 

The taxi turned again. Home wasn’t far now. 

And Su-ho had no idea what he was doing, no plan, no certainty—just a quiet, burning promise inside him. 

He was going to help. He didn’t care how messy it got.  

The cab pulled up quietly in front of the building, its headlights flickering across the worn concrete steps and the small patch of overgrown grass nearby. Su-ho paid the fare with hurried hands, barely waiting for the change. The driver gave him a strange look—not unkind, just curious—but said nothing as Su-ho stepped out into the cold with the sleeping boy still tucked in his arms. 

The night air bit at his cheeks. 

Su-ho adjusted his grip carefully, one arm cradling beneath Si-eun’s knees, the other around his back. He shifted the boy’s head to rest more securely against his shoulder. It was awkward—Si-eun was too long to carry easily, but he was light enough that Su-ho managed. 

Inside, the building was old but clean. The lobby light flickered gently above their heads as he pressed the elevator button. He was the only one awake. The only sound was the low hum of the city still buzzing outside, muffled by the walls. 

As the elevator doors creaked open, Su-ho stepped in and leaned gently against the wall, catching his breath. Si-eun didn’t move. His face remained still, slack with exhaustion, bruises turning darker now that the night was settling deeper over the city. He looked less like a classmate, and more like someone Su-ho had to protect—like something fragile that had washed up in his life and couldn’t be sent back. 

When the elevator dinged at his floor, Su-ho stepped out quietly, careful not to jar the sleeping boy in his arms. His feet padded silently across the hallway, and with the softest click, he unlocked the front door of his apartment and stepped inside. 

Warmth. 

That was the first thing that hit him—not just the heat, but the atmosphere itself. The apartment was small, but it breathed comfort. A worn beige couch with a folded knit blanket draped over the armrest. A small table cluttered with teacups and a single half-finished puzzle. The scent of dried herbs lingered faintly in the air, mingled with something soft—maybe lavender, or the faint memory of dinner. The hallway light was off, but a little lamp in the living room had been left on, casting a warm golden glow across the wooden floorboards. 

It was the kind of home that made you exhale without meaning to. 

Su-ho moved quickly and quietly through the familiar layout, heading toward his bedroom. The door was half open. Inside, the room was neat but lived-in. A stack of books on the desk, a sweater draped over the back of his chair. The bed wasn’t perfectly made, but it was clean—soft gray sheets, one pillow a little flatter than the other. 

He laid Si-eun down carefully, adjusting the pillow beneath his head, the way one might settle a younger sibling. For a moment, he just stood there, looking at him. There was something jarring about seeing another person in his bed—especially this boy, this near-stranger who felt anything but unfamiliar now. 

He reached for the blanket folded at the edge and pulled it gently over Si-eun’s thin frame. Even beneath layers, the boy looked small. Folded in on himself. Like someone still halfway in defense. 

Su-ho sat down at the edge of the bed, slowly. He didn’t touch him, didn’t say anything. Just sat. Listening to the boy’s breathing—soft, shallow, but steady. For a while, he didn’t move at all. 

Somewhere down the hall, his grandmother snored lightly from behind her closed door. 

But here, in this room, it was quiet. And safe. For once, safe . 

Su-ho tried to stay upright, but his body ached in quiet protest. The hours stretched painfully slow, like honey poured in the dark, and the stillness of the apartment pressed down on him like a weight. He sat beside the bed, back hunched slightly, one elbow on his knee, fingers tangled loosely in the fabric of his own shirt. Every so often, his eyes would drift to Si-eun’s face—still, unreadable—and then flick back toward the clock on the wall, as if time itself might offer some clarity. 

But it didn’t. 

The boy hadn’t stirred once since Su-ho had laid him down. His expression didn’t change. His breathing remained shallow, and that scared Su-ho in a way he hadn’t expected. He kept waiting for something—for a twitch of fingers, for a cough, for one eye to flutter open in confusion. But nothing came. 

And Su-ho, caught between instinct and helplessness, stayed where he was. As if his presence alone could keep the boy from slipping away. 

He shifted once, slowly, trying not to make noise, stretching his stiff legs beneath him. His eyelids burned, but he refused to close them. There was this gnawing fear in his chest—unreasonable and overwhelming—that if he so much as blinked for too long, Si-eun would be gone. Not because he’d leave, but because maybe he had never really been there at all. 

Maybe this was all something his mind had fabricated—some half-lucid guilt dream, stitched together by the quiet loneliness that had started to creep into his nights. 

But then the boy shifted in his sleep—just the faintest movement, a breath caught in his throat—and Su-ho’s heart stuttered with it. 

Real. He’s real.  

So, he stayed. And watched. 

The night moved forward in hushed increments. The lamplight cast long shadows across the room. The hum of the fridge in the kitchen faded in and out, the wind outside brushing softly against the windows like it was too tired to howl. 

Eventually, the deep black of night began to bleed into a colder blue—morning stirring at the edges of the horizon. Su-ho’s eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with fatigue, but still open. Still vigilant. The house around him remained hushed, until the gentle creak of a door broke the silence. 

He heard the quiet shuffle of slippers on the floor. 

Then a pause in the doorway. 

His grandmother stood there, blinking in the low light. She had come to check on him, probably expecting him to still be asleep or finishing homework. Instead, her eyes landed on the boy in her grandson’s bed—hurt, asleep, completely unfamiliar—and then drifted to Su-ho sitting motionless beside him, hollow-eyed and hunched forward like a guardian made of exhaustion and worry. 

Her hand hovered near her chest for a moment, clearly startled—but then her features softened. She didn’t say anything. Just looked at him, concern blooming in the lines of her face, searching for something in his expression. 

Su-ho met her gaze, quiet, tired, and raised a single finger to his lips, then pointed gently to Si-eun. 

She nodded immediately, lips pressed into a thin line of understanding. 

With a quiet gesture, Su-ho stood and padded out of the room, glancing once more over his shoulder to be sure the boy hadn’t stirred. His grandmother followed him into the hallway, the soft light from the kitchen spilling across her warm, familiar face. 

In the silence of that moment, she reached for his arm. 

He leaned against the wall, rubbing his face with both hands, words slow to form. 

“He was outside,” Su-ho murmured. “Late. Alone. I... I couldn’t just leave him.” 

His voice cracked slightly—not from sadness, but from sheer fatigue. 

“I think... something’s really wrong. But he hasn’t said anything. He just collapsed.” 

His grandmother looked toward the bedroom door, her gaze shadowed with quiet worry. Then back to her grandson, who looked so young and so old all at once. She gave a small nod, reached up, and rested a palm gently against his cheek. 

“Okay,” she whispered. “We’ll take care of him.” 

That simple. That solid. 

And for the first time in hours—since fear began to crawl into his chest—Su-ho let himself exhale. 

His grandmother gave his arm a final squeeze before padding quietly to the kitchen, leaving Su-ho alone again in the hallway. He stood there for a long moment, shoulders sagged, the weight of the night pressing down all at once now that he wasn’t holding it up for anyone else. His legs ached, and his eyelids pulled heavy over burning eyes. Still, he hesitated. 

He turned toward the bedroom. 

The boy hadn’t moved. 

Su-ho stepped in slowly and sat again at the edge of the mattress. He didn’t touch him—just looked. The blanket had shifted slightly, so he gently pulled it back up to Si-eun’s shoulders, brushing a strand of dark hair out of his face with the back of his fingers. His skin was still cold to the touch. 

“Rest,” Su-ho whispered, voice barely there. “You’re safe.” 

Then finally—with one last glance, one last check that Si-eun was still breathing, still there—he let himself lie down on the floor, the spare blanket his grandma always kept folded at the foot of his bed wrapped around him. The hardwood was unforgiving, but Su-ho didn’t care. The exhaustion caught up to him fast. Sleep pulled at him in waves. 

And this time, he didn’t fight it. 

When Si-eun woke, it was slow—like surfacing from somewhere far, far underwater. The world around him didn’t make sense at first. The air was still. Too still. No shouting. No creaking footsteps. No slamming doors. The silence was loud in a way he wasn’t used to. 

He opened his eyes. 

The ceiling above him wasn’t familiar. It was soft gray, with a faint crack running from the light fixture to the corner. There was a bookshelf nearby. A desk. A neatly folded hoodie draped across the chair. 

His breathing hitched. 

This wasn’t home. 

His body reacted before his mind could. He sat up too fast, wincing as pain laced through his ribs and down his arms. The blanket fell away from his shoulders, and he noticed—slowly—how clean the room was. How warm the air felt. How soft the mattress beneath him was. 

He wasn’t in danger. 

But he didn’t feel safe, either. 

His fingers clenched around the edge of the blanket, and for a second, he just sat there—stiff, shaking, eyes darting around the unfamiliar room like it might bite him. 

Then he heard it. A shift of fabric. A quiet breath. 

His gaze dropped to the floor beside the bed. 

There, curled beneath a thin blanket, lay Su-ho—asleep on the hardwood, one arm flung loosely over his stomach, brow furrowed even in rest. His face was pale, lips slightly parted, hair a little mussed from sleep. 

Si-eun froze. 

All at once, the memories came rushing in—the cold street, the bus stop, Su-ho’s voice calling his name, the warmth of arms around him. The taxi. The apartment. The boy’s voice saying you’re safe before everything faded to black. 

And now, this. 

The sight of Su-ho asleep beside his bed—not just nearby, but on the floor , like a barrier between Si-eun and the rest of the world—did something strange to his chest. 

He looked away quickly, swallowing the tightness in his throat. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. No one was supposed to see him like that. No one was supposed to care. And yet… someone had. 

He stayed.  

Si-eun didn’t cry. He never cried. But the pressure behind his eyes sat heavy, burning. He didn’t understand this feeling. Didn’t know what to do with it. 

So, he just sat there, curled under the blanket, silent—watching Su-ho sleep with the quiet awe of someone who’d never been protected before. 

The afternoon light had shifted across the room, painting long shadows over the walls by the time Su-ho finally stirred with a soft grunt, shifting beneath the blanket as the pale light slipped through the curtains. His eyes blinked open slowly, heavy with the remnants of restless sleep. For a second, he forgot where he was—and then he remembered. The boy. The night. The weight of a body slumped in his arms and the fear that hadn’t left his chest since. 

He sat up sharply, ignoring the stiff ache in his spine from the hard floor. 

His gaze shot to the bed. 

Si-eun was awake. 

He was sitting up against the headboard, legs curled beneath him, the blanket still pooled around his waist. His eyes weren’t on Su-ho, but on the window—or past it, maybe. Somewhere far. He looked… quiet. He wasn’t exactly peaceful, but neither was he terrified. He was just still, lost in something unknown.  

Su-ho didn’t say anything at first. He just looked. Took in the hollow beneath the boy’s eyes, the bruises now fully bloomed into deep violets and yellowing edges. And then his gaze dropped—and he saw it. 

Si-eun’s hands. 

Clumsy, crumpled toilet paper wound tightly around both palms, stained faint pink where the dried cuts had seeped through. The edges were frayed, some parts falling loose, barely holding together. 

For some strange reason, the night before, he had failed to notice that makeshift bandage, sticking to his skin and soaked in now-crusted crimson blood. 

Had he done that himself?  

Su-ho’s chest ached. He shifted, rising to his knees beside the bed without a word. Si-eun noticed him—he flinched, barely, but didn’t pull away. His hands reflexively curled against his chest, as if to hide the worst of it. 

“You’re bleeding,” Su-ho said quietly. His voice was hushed, warm. “Let me see.” 

There was a pause. A beat of hesitation. 

And then, slowly, as if unsure why he was even doing it, Si-eun held his hands out. 

Su-ho reached gently. He didn’t rip or tug—just began to peel the makeshift wrappings back, careful not to touch too much skin. The paper had dried to some of the cuts and pulled slightly, making Si-eun wince, but he didn’t complain. He only looked away, jaw tight. 

Su-ho unwound the last layer of tissue from Si-eun’s hand. The stained paper peeled away, slow and sticky. What was underneath made him freeze—small, jagged cuts, still red and raw in places, with tiny shards of glass still buried near the knuckle. 

He didn’t say anything. 

Just stared for a second too long. 

Si-eun shifted, his hand curling slightly like he wanted to hide it again. 

“It’s not a big deal,” he muttered. Barely a breath. 

Su-ho looked up, meeting his eyes for only a moment before glancing away. 

“Still,” he said softly. “It looks like it hurt.” 

Si-eun didn’t answer. He just stared at the wall behind Su-ho, face blank but tight around the mouth. Like he was bracing for something. 

Su-ho didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to. 

He was about to get up to reach the first aid kit when a gentle knock nipped his thought in the bud. 

They both turned. 

Su-ho’s grandmother stood there, now fully awake and dressed in her soft beige cardigan, her expression tender as her eyes landed on the boy in the bed. Si-eun immediately looked down, as if ashamed to be seen. 

But her smile didn’t waver. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” she said kindly. “Good. You must be starving.” Her tone was bright, but not forced—like she meant it. “I’ll make you something to eat. How about… something warm? Maybe tofu soup?” 

Si-eun blinked. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. 

Something in him stuttered at her words. That voice—kind, maternal—and the mention of food. Real food. Not stolen leftovers. Not crumbs snuck at midnight. Something for him. 

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had offered to cook for him. Or had spoken to him like that. With care. With intention . 

His throat tightened. He nodded, once. Barely. 

The woman smiled wider. “I’ll call you when it’s ready,” she said softly, and disappeared down the hallway, humming a quiet tune under her breath. 

The room was silent again. 

Si-eun looked at his badly injured hands.  

“After we eat something, how about I change your wrappings?” Su-ho's voice was velvety, a graceful whisper that hovered in the space between them.  

Si-eun didn't answer, but after a moment's hesitation, he nodded imperceptibly. 

“If you want, I'll walk you to the bathroom so you can wash your hands. Would you like that?” 

He received an almost invisible movement of his head.  

Su-ho stood up slowly and extended a gentle hand. Open. A quiet offer. 

For a moment, Si-eun didn’t move. 

Then—like his body decided for him—he reached out. His fingers brushed Su-ho’s palm, and the contact startled him more than it should’ve. It wasn’t pressure or pull. Just presence. 

They both walked silently down the corridor until they stood before the ajar door to the bathroom. 

“Take your time,” Su-ho advised him, a half-smile blossoming on his lips. 

Si-eun tentatively entered the room and kept his eyes downcast to avoid his reflection in the mirror.  

The intersecting cuts in his skin were more severe than expected, fragmented and imprecise marks.  

Holding his breath, he passed the wounds under the lukewarm water and a pained hiss threatened to cross his lips. 

He restrained himself from making any noise. 

Su-ho was just outside the door. He couldn't see him, but he sensed his confident and taciturn presence.  

When he closed the water jet, he carefully dabbed his hands and left the room. 

As he had anticipated, Su-ho was leaning against the hallway wall, his gaze low and his dark hair covering his eyes. 

His head lifted as he sensed Si-eun's silent footsteps at his side. 

“Everything all right?” he asked cautiously. He cast a quick glance at his hands, but he couldn't really see the severity of the damage. 

Si-eun looked at Su-ho, his face calm but quietly watching. 

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, finally. 

Su-ho thought for a second, then shrugged. 

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “But I couldn’t walk away.” 

And somehow, Si-eun didn’t feel like questioning it. 

The call came softly—a voice drifting down the hallway like a warm current of air. 

“Boys,” Grandma called gently, “the soup’s ready.” 

Si-eun stiffened. 

The words didn’t fully register at first. He stayed still, blanketed in quiet, the scent of something savory only just beginning to filter through the bedroom door. Something rich, faintly garlicky. Warm. 

Food. 

Real food. 

His stomach twisted with a low ache—not just from hunger, but from disbelief. It had been days since he’d eaten properly. Maybe longer. Time felt too broken to measure.  

“You don’t have to,” Su-ho said, reading him like glass and sensing his hesitation. “But it’s okay if you want to.” 

They walked to the kitchen in near silence. 

The light there was golden, cast by the late afternoon sun catching in the windows, softening every edge. The small table had already been set—two bowls, two spoons, a steaming pot in the center. Grandma stood by the stove, humming under her breath as she ladled hot tofu soup into the bowls. 

“Here we are,” she said, turning to them with a smile that somehow made Si-eun’s chest tighten. “Eat while it’s hot.” 

Si-eun hesitated. He stood awkwardly by the table, unsure if he should sit. Unsure if this was really meant for him. 

But then Su-ho sat without ceremony and gestured to the seat across from him. 

So, he sat, too. 

The steam curled up from his bowl—delicate tofu, green onions, a rich broth that smelled like home, though it wasn’t his. The smell alone made his throat tighten. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the spoon. 

Across from him, Su-ho ate quietly, glancing up every now and then, never pushing. Never speaking. 

And then there was Grandma again, placing a small plate of kimchi between them. 

“I hope it’s not too spicy,” she said kindly. “If you don’t like it, just let me know. There’s fruit too, if you’d rather have something light.” 

Si-eun blinked. 

She’s asking what I want?  

His lips parted, but no sound came out. He just nodded. Once. Barely. 

He took a sip of the soup. It was hot—hotter than he expected—and for a second, he thought it might sting. But it didn’t. It settled into his chest slowly, like warmth spreading from the inside out. 

He kept eating. Slow at first. Then a little faster. But never too much. He didn’t want to seem greedy. Didn’t want to draw attention. 

Grandma sat nearby, sipping her tea, talking to Su-ho about something casual—a neighbor’s dog, a plant that wouldn’t bloom. Nothing that asked anything of Si-eun. Nothing that demanded his participation. They just let him exist there. Let him belong. 

And for the first time in a long time, Si-eun didn’t feel like a ghost at the table. 

He didn’t speak. But he ate. And when he glanced up—just for a second—he caught Su-ho watching him. 

Not pitying. Not questioning. But making sure he was okay. 

He didn’t finish everything in the bowl, but he ate more than he expected to. And that, somehow, felt like a victory. 

When he placed the spoon down with trembling fingers, Su-ho’s grandmother stood and reached for his bowl without a word. Her movements were casual, familiar—the way someone moves when they're used to taking care of people. She didn’t ask if he wanted more. She didn’t comment on how little or how much he ate. 

“Why don’t you go get cleaned up?” she said, her voice gentle as she rinsed dishes in the sink. “A warm bath might help with those sore muscles. Su-ho, give him one of your old hoodies. The soft ones, not the ratty things you sleep in.” 

She smiled without looking. 

Su-ho didn’t argue. 

Si-eun stiffened slightly, unsure again, but Su-ho was already standing, already heading toward his bedroom. He paused by the hallway, looking back just once. “C’mon. You’ll feel better.” 

There was no pressure in his voice. Just quiet certainty. 

So, Si-eun followed. 

The bathroom was small but clean—a soft blue towel folded neatly by the sink, a faint smell of soap in the air. Su-ho handed him a stack of clothes: a black hoodie, soft and oversized, and a pair of sweatpants that looked like they’d fall past his ankles. Comfortable. Safe. 

“There’s a fresh toothbrush in the drawer,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Take your time.” 

Then he left, the door closing with a click that sounded softer than it should’ve. 

Si-eun stood there for a while, unmoving, the clothes pressed against his chest. 

The mirror didn’t lie. 

He looked awful. 

His face was pale beneath the bruises, eyes sunken, lips dry. His hair stuck out in uneven pieces, flattened on one side from sleep, tangled on the other. His hands, now naked, looked fragile. Like they didn’t belong to him. 

He turned the faucet on. Hot water roared out like a quiet thunder. 

Steam slowly began to fill the room, curling around the mirror’s edges, fogging the hard lines of his reflection. And when he finally undressed—carefully, slowly—he saw the rest of the damage: the fading purple along his ribs, the mottled yellow over his shoulder, the red scrape across his hipbone from when he’d hit the floor. 

His body was a canvas of silent pain. 

Carefully, he folded his pajamas, with the hem of his pants stained with dirt and water, and his light sweatshirt, dirty and frayed in places. He was undecided where to lay his clothes but eventually agreed to leave them on the edge of the sink. 

He stepped into the water. 

The heat almost hurt at first, shocking against chilled skin. But it didn’t take long for it to ease. To sink into his bones like a lullaby. He curled up in the tub, knees pulled tight to his chest, and let the water hold him—like something safe. Something real. 

He didn’t cry. 

He thought he might. 

But instead, he just sat there. Letting himself be still. 

It was the first time in days—weeks, maybe—that he felt clean. Not just the dirt and dried blood, but the heaviness. The stink of fear. It clung to him, always. But now it felt a little loosened. Not gone. But less tight around his throat. 

When he finally stepped out, his fingers were wrinkled and pale. He dried himself slowly, wincing as the towel brushed his side, and dressed in the clothes Su-ho had given him. 

The hoodie hung off his frame like armor—too big, too soft. The sleeves covered his hands completely. It smelled faintly of detergent and something else. Something familiar he couldn’t name. 

Warmth, maybe. 

The hallway was quiet when he opened the bathroom door, hair damp, skin scrubbed raw. 

The lights were dimmed now—golden pools of warmth stretching across the wooden floors, soft shadows tucked into corners. The kind of quiet that made every sound feel louder than it was. 

Si-eun moved slowly, uncertain, the sleeves of the borrowed hoodie brushing against his fingertips. It felt surreal, walking through someone else’s home with bare feet and clean skin, like he’d accidentally wandered into the wrong life. 

He found Su-ho in the bedroom again, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the bed with his back to the door, scrolling absentmindedly through his phone. There was a glass of water waiting on the nightstand. A folded blanket. And next to it, something that made Si-eun stop: a first-aid kit. 

He lingered in the doorway until Su-ho looked up. 

“Oh, you’re done,” Su-ho said, rising quickly to his feet, brushing imaginary dust off his knees. “Feel better?” 

Si-eun nodded, hesitant. Then, after a beat, he murmured, “Yes.” 

His voice was hoarse. A little too quiet. But Su-ho didn’t push. 

“Come here,” he said instead, gesturing toward the bed. “Let me fix your hands.” 

Si-eun hesitated—his instinct was to refuse. To say no, it’s fine , to say you don’t need to , to say don’t touch me —but he didn’t. 

He sat on the edge of the mattress. 

Su-ho crouched again in front of him, taking one of his arms gently, like it might shatter.  

The cuts weren’t deep. Surface-level. Angry red. The kind that stung more than they bled.  

The antiseptic hurt. Si-eun tensed. But he didn’t pull back. 

Su-ho’s hands were steady—not expert, but gentle. He worked in silence, wrapping each hand with clean gauze, taping it neatly, like it was the most important thing in the world. Like he deserved to be taken care of.  

When he finished, he looked up, and he found Si-eun watching him. 

There was something unreadable in his gaze. Not trust, not yet. But something close. Something that hadn’t been there before. 

“You’re good at this,” Si-eun said softly, surprising even himself. 

Su-ho smiled faintly, without looking up. “Grandma taught me. I used to scrape my hands a lot when I was younger.” 

There was a pause. Long. Heavy. But not uncomfortable. 

Then Si-eun asked—quiet as breath, his voice curling like a question he hadn’t meant to say aloud. “Why did you help me?” 

Su-ho stilled. 

He finished securing the bandage with a final strip of tape, then looked up. Not with pity. Not with answers. Just eyes—dark, focused, sincere. 

“You looked like you needed someone,” he said. 

Si-eun blinked. Swallowed hard. 

“I didn’t want to be seen.” 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t want anyone to know.” 

“I still know.” 

Silence folded around them again. 

Si-eun looked down at his bandaged hands, pale against the dark hoodie. His voice was barely audible now—a crack, a confession. 

“I don’t know how to be around this kind of… kindness.” 

“I don’t expect you to,” Su-ho said. “Just be here. That’s enough.” 

Something twisted in Si-eun’s chest—something not quite pain, not quite comfort. Like an old wound reacting to clean air. 

And still, he didn’t cry. 

But he didn’t run either. 

At least, not right away.  

The evening deepened around them, shadows thickening into the corners of the room as the soft light from the windows began to fade. Outside, the city murmured quietly—cars rolling by on distant roads, the occasional bark of a dog, a world continuing like nothing had happened. 

Inside, everything was still. 

After bandaging his hands, they didn’t talk much. Si-eun seemed quieter. The kind of quiet that comes after holding your breath too long. 

Su-ho didn’t try to fill the silence. He simply got up, moved slowly through the room, pulling out an extra blanket and pillow from the top of his closet like it was routine. 

“You can take the bed again,” he said, already spreading the blanket onto the floor. “I’ll stay down here. It’s not a big deal.” 

Si-eun opened his mouth like he might protest—but the words didn’t come. Instead, his eyes lingered on Su-ho’s movements. The calmness in his hands. The way he didn’t wait for gratitude. 

He looked down at the bed, then back at Su-ho. 

“Are you sure?” 

Su-ho smiled, soft and crooked. “I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.” 

So, Si-eun nodded. Hesitant, but with trust, in the smallest measure. 

He crawled onto the mattress—still made from earlier, the pillow fluffed, the covers still warm with the day’s leftover softness. The oversized hoodie clung to him like armor. His fingers tugged at the sleeves unconsciously as he lay down, curling slightly on his side, facing the wall. 

Su-ho settled on the floor, one arm folded under his head, the other resting lightly across his stomach. His eyes stayed open for a while, glancing toward the figure on the bed every now and then. 

There was something almost sacred about the quiet. The way the room seemed to breathe with both of them in it. 

Su-ho didn’t know when he fell asleep—only that he let himself drift with a sense of fragile peace, like balancing on the edge of something good. 

And for a time… everything held. 

But safety is a strange thing to someone who’s never known it. 

And Si-eun—poor Si-eun—didn’t yet know how to believe it would last. 

The house was silent. 

Too silent. 

He lay there, unmoving, curled on his side beneath the unfamiliar blanket, swallowed by the softness of someone else’s life. Su-ho’s hoodie clung to his frame, heavy with warmth, smelling faintly of laundry detergent and something human. His fingers clutched the hem without realizing it—not for comfort, but for control . Something to hold so he wouldn’t unravel. 

But his thoughts were louder than the silence. 

They spun without mercy, circling and circling—a thousand jagged edges disguised as logic. 

You shouldn’t be here.  

You’ve stayed too long.  

They didn’t ask for this.  

Su-ho hadn’t said a word of complaint. Not once. He’d opened his home. Shared his room. Given him space and soup and quiet care. His grandmother had smiled with her whole face. She’d told him to take a bath, to eat, to rest. 

But kindness, to Si-eun, felt like a debt. One he didn’t know how to repay. 

And what terrified him more was how much he wanted to stay. 

How safe the quiet felt. 

How his bones, for once, didn’t ache from bracing for impact. 

But safety was a borrowed thing. Fragile. Temporary. 

It wasn’t his. 

And eventually—soon—he’d be told to leave. 

He always was. 

So, he’d leave first. 

He told himself it was the right thing to do. That Su-ho had already done too much. That his grandmother shouldn’t have to cook for someone else’s broken son. 

And yet… 

And yet a small, traitorous part of him still thought about them . His parents. His mother’s blank stare. His father’s fists. The door slamming behind him like a gavel. 

Did they even notice I was gone?  

Would they care?  

He didn’t know which answer hurt more—yes, or no. 

But he had to go back. 

Because it was easier to endure pain he understood than to accept kindness he didn’t know how to live inside. 

So, slowly—so carefully—he slid the blanket off and sat up, muscles stiff and sore. Su-ho was on the floor, blanket tangled around one arm, face relaxed in sleep. His breathing was steady, unaware. 

Si-eun stared at him for a moment, a lump rising in his throat like a swallowed sob. 

He didn’t say goodbye. 

Didn’t write a note. 

Didn’t want to leave a mark. 

He rose to his feet, every movement deliberate, silent. He tiptoed past Su-ho’s sleeping form like a shadow retreating from light. The door creaked softly when he opened it, but Su-ho didn’t stir. 

A dim light had been left on in the living room—a single bulb near the kitchen, casting gentle gold over the wooden floor. 

It guided him. 

Out. 

He didn’t stop to think. If he had, he might’ve stayed. Might’ve gone back, curled up again under that too-soft blanket, let himself pretend the world was different. 

But he didn’t let himself hope. 

Barefoot and bruised, wrapped in a hoodie too warm for someone so cold, Si-eun slipped out of the apartment and into the night. 

And just like that, the silence closed behind him. 

The night swallowed him whole. 

Barefoot, hoodie-clad, silent as dusk, Si-eun walked the empty street like he was made of smoke. No cars passed. No windows lit. Even the moon seemed to have turned its face away, cloaking everything in that kind of blue-black darkness that made the world feel abandoned. 

Each step stung. The rough pavement bit into the raw pads of his feet, reopening tender cuts, painting faint, invisible trails behind him. But he didn’t look down. He didn’t pause. 

Pain, by now, was a companion. A familiar pressure. Easy to ignore if he just kept moving. 

The closer he got to his house, the heavier his chest became. It felt like something was sitting on his ribcage—not just fear, but shame, guilt, the haunting sense of failure that never seemed to let go. He’d run. He’d tasted something kinder. And now he was crawling back. 

The apartment complex stood like a monolith in the dark, tall and lifeless. No lights on in their window. No sign of movement. It was too late, or too early—the hour where the world blurred. 

Si-eun stood at the foot of the building for a long moment, head tilted back slightly. His breathing came shallow, shaky. His fingers clenched the sleeves of Su-ho’s hoodie like a tether. 

They probably didn’t even notice I was gone.  

But maybe… 

Maybe they did.  

He swallowed. Then again. Then a third time, like it might settle the nausea clawing up his throat. 

The door was unlocked, almost as if it were an invitation to let him in. Or a threat. 

He entered his house. 

Darkness greeted him. 

The familiar scent of home—stale food, cleaning chemicals, something sharp and acidic that always seemed to linger—hit him like a slap. He stepped in anyway. 

The door closed with a gentle thud behind him. 

And for a moment, nothing happened. 

Just silence. 

Heavy, waiting. 

His feet shifted slightly on the cold floor. Blood from his soles stuck briefly, peeled back with each cautious step. 

And then— 

A low, sharp voice pierced the silence. 

“So, you finally came back.” 

His father. 

Still awake. 

Si-eun froze. 

The shape of the man emerged from the living room, half-shadowed, eyes glinting under the single overhead bulb that flickered once, twice, then held. He was still dressed in his undershirt, holding a beer bottle loosely in one hand. 

“Thought you could run?” his voice slurred slightly—but the anger was clean. Sober. “What, you think we wouldn’t notice?” 

Si-eun opened his mouth, but no sound came. 

His father took a step forward. Then another. 

“You think you can just disappear and come back like nothing happened?” His voice rose, sharp and bitter, each word slicing through the air like it had teeth. “You think you’re owed something?” 

Si-eun stepped back—but the door was already behind him. Nowhere to go. 

And his feet hurt . 

But he didn’t cry. 

He didn’t speak. 

Because what was there to say? 

He’d come back. 

He’d chosen this. 

And whatever came next, he told himself he deserved it. 

His father’s shadow grew closer. 

There was no warning. 

No growl. No yell. Just the sharp shatter of glass against skin. 

Something hard and cold slammed into Si-eun’s shoulder—the beer bottle—thrown with more force than thought. The sound echoed, a sickening crack swallowed by the silence that followed. Si-eun gasped, the breath catching in his throat as his back hit the door behind him. The sting was instant, electric, flooding his nerves. 

His knees trembled. But he didn’t fall. Not yet. 

His eyes burned, hot and heavy, but he clenched his jaw. He wouldn’t cry. Not in front of him . Not now. 

Footsteps followed. 

Fast. Heavy. 

Then fists. 

Blunt and brutal. 

His father’s knuckles crashed into the side of his head—once, twice—turning the room into a blur of color and sound. Si-eun’s vision twisted, darkening at the edges, and his body crumpled under the weight of it all. He slid to the floor like a discarded piece of fabric, limbs folding in on themselves, chest rising in short, silent breaths. 

Still, his father wasn’t done. 

A kick to the ribs sent a sharp jolt through his side. Another—lower—made his already wounded hands scrape against the floor. He curled in, instinctively, trying to shield himself, but it only seemed to enrage the man more. 

Then came the bottle again. 

Shattered now. Jagged edges. Glass that glittered like ice as it scraped against the ground beside him, close but not piercing. Not yet. 

He felt it press—once—into his side. 

A warning. 

He didn’t react. 

Didn’t cry out. 

Didn’t beg. 

Because the moment he would make noise, it would get worse. 

Finally, his father exhaled—sharp and ragged—as if even the violence had bored him. “Useless,” he muttered. “Can’t even run away right.” 

The next thing Si-eun registered was the dragging. 

Not hard. Just cold. 

His body scraped across the floor, limp and too quiet, as the man pulled him toward the back of the apartment. Down the hallway. Past the same walls Si-eun had learned to fear. 

His bedroom door opened. 

Then slammed shut. 

Click.  

The lock turned. 

Darkness swallowed him. 

Moonlight slipped through the cracks in thin, silvery streaks, catching on two wooden boards nailed over the window like a warning. 

A cell. 

He was trapped. 

He couldn’t move—not from pain, not from exhaustion. Not from the weight pressing into his chest like a boulder. His breath came in slow, trembling intervals. His hands throbbed. His shoulder was on fire. Something warm trailed down from his temple, sticky and slow. 

But still, he didn’t cry. 

There was no one left to hear him. 

The room was too quiet. 

Su-ho stirred, groggy, the fog of sleep still clinging to the edges of his mind. The blanket pooled around his waist on the floor, cool from the soft air slipping through the slightly cracked window. His body ached from the awkward position he’d fallen asleep in, but something else—something tighter, sharper—was already pulling him fully awake. 

The bed. 

Empty. 

He blinked once. 

Twice. 

And then he sat up fast, the quiet thud of his heartbeat suddenly thunderous in his ears. 

“Si-eun?” 

His voice was low, cautious—like he didn’t want to believe what he already knew. He stepped closer to the bed, like Si-eun might reappear if he looked hard enough 

But the sheets were cold. Folded in on themselves, the pillow dented slightly but otherwise untouched. 

Gone. 

The hoodie he’d lent him was gone too. 

Su-ho’s chest tightened. He turned on his heel, quick, slipping out of the room, calling quietly toward the hallway. 

“Grandma?” 

She emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel, eyes soft but curious. “Hmm?” 

“Did you see him? The boy from last night—Did he leave already?” 

She blinked, surprised. “No, I haven’t heard a thing all day. I thought you both were sleeping.” 

Su-ho’s stomach dropped. 

He walked to the front door, unlocked it, and stepped out just enough to glance down the hallway. Empty. 

Like he’d never been there. 

A strange, cold hush fell over everything—not like silence, but like the aftermath of something missed. 

He closed the door and leaned back against it, fists clenching at his sides. He thought of how pale Si-eun had looked. How light he’d felt. The way he hadn’t spoken much at all. The flicker of something desperate in his eyes that night under the streetlamp. 

He ran.  

Of course he did. 

Su-ho’s thoughts came fast now, tripping over themselves. 

Maybe Si-eun had felt overwhelmed. Maybe the comfort had come too fast—like light after too much darkness. Blinding. Painful. Maybe he’d been ashamed. Maybe he’d felt like he didn’t deserve to stay. Or maybe… 

Maybe he’d gone back. 

To them . 

To the house Su-ho hadn’t seen but could feel , just by the way Si-eun flinched, held himself, drifted into silence like a leaf sinking into water. 

Su-ho’s jaw tightened. He ran a hand through his hair and cursed under his breath. 

Why hadn’t he asked more? Why hadn’t he insisted on knowing where Si-eun lived, or what had happened, or why he’d been out in the cold at all? 

He wanted to believe he’d done the right thing—offering shelter, not pushing too hard, being quiet and kind—but now that choice felt like hesitation. Like a failure. 

I should’ve done more.  

But what now? 

He didn’t know Si-eun’s address. Not his phone number. Barely knew anything about him at all, other than the fact that he’d come into Su-ho’s life like a ghost—and now disappeared just as quietly. 

But Su-ho couldn’t sit still. 

Not now. 

Because the weight in his chest wasn’t just worry—it was dread. Thick and pressing. 

He’d promised, even if he hadn’t said the words out loud. 

You’re safe now.  

And he’d broken it. 

The thought gnawed at Su-ho like a splinter buried beneath skin—subtle, but impossible to ignore. He stood frozen in the hallway for a few more seconds, swallowing the bitter taste of guilt as it rose like bile in his throat. But staying there wouldn’t change anything. Doing nothing wouldn’t bring Si-eun back. 

He inhaled slowly through his nose, bracing himself against the hollow quiet, then moved. 

With haste movements—not frantic, but purposeful—he threw on his uniform. No breakfast. No glance in the mirror. No time. He snatched his bag and swung it over his shoulder in one smooth motion, his feet already carrying him to the door. 

His grandmother peeked out from the kitchen, a worried furrow in her brow. “You’re going?” 

He nodded, already slipping his shoes on. “Yeah. If he comes back—If you see him…” 

“I’ll call you right away.” 

“Thanks, Grandma.” The words came out soft, almost choked, barely audible. He didn’t wait for more. He opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and shut it behind him—like sealing off one part of himself to chase after another. 

He walked fast. Head down, eyes focused on the pavement, mind churning. The city around him blurred into colors and motion, irrelevant and too loud. He didn’t stop. Not even once. Not to check his phone. Not to breathe. 

Hope can be cruel—it’s quiet and warm and looks you in the eyes like it believes something good will happen. Su-ho held onto it tightly as he reached the school gates, heart fluttering with a desperate, fragile belief.  

Maybe he’s there. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe Si-eun is sitting at his desk, just like always.  

He reached the classroom with a few minutes to spare. 

His hands gripped the doorframe. 

The moment his eyes swept across the room, that flicker of hope withered. Quietly. Pathetically. The desk near the wall—the one always neat and lined with perfect precision—sat empty. Cold. As if no one had ever occupied it in the first place. 

Su-ho’s breath hitched. 

He stepped in slowly, dragging his feet to his own desk across the room. When he reached it, he dropped into the seat like all the strength in his legs had vanished. His bag thudded to the floor. 

That was it. That was all it took. 

Everything inside him went quiet. 

A few classmates greeted him absently, some glancing up from their conversations. Their faces showed a passing concern—the kind reserved for someone who’d missed a day or two of class, not for someone who might’ve seen another human being shatter and vanish. 

A teacher made a casual remark about Si-eun’s absence, muttering something about illness, probably just a cold or something minor. 

Su-ho didn’t correct them. 

He didn’t have the energy to explain that there was no cold, no fever, no mother brewing tea or father calling the school to say his son would be absent for a few days. There was just silence, and bruises, and the memory of bones wrapped in trembling skin under a dim streetlight. 

He closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against the desk. The wood was cool. Steady. A small comfort in a day that already felt like it was unraveling around him. 

Maybe Si-eun had gone home. 

Maybe he was locked in that place again. 

Maybe he’d vanished. 

But wherever he was—Su-ho knew one thing for sure. 

He didn’t feel safe anymore. 

Because neither did Si-eun. 

The darkness didn’t shift. 

It clung to the room like a second skin—thick and unmoving, swallowing the corners of the ceiling and creeping down the walls until it settled over Si-eun like a shroud. He had stopped trying to count the hours. Eventually, numbers lost meaning. Days bled into each other like water into ink, each indistinguishable from the last. Hunger gnawed at him like a second heartbeat—quieter now, like it had grown tired of being ignored. 

He lay still, barely curled on his side, the thin blanket twisted uselessly around his legs. His lips were dry. His throat burned. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of mildew and cheap detergent, tinged with the faintest trace of rot from the kitchen beyond the locked door. 

He didn’t cry. Not anymore. 

There was a time when he might have screamed, might have begged to be let out, might have clawed at the door until his fingernails bent back and his lungs burned from shouting. But that time had passed. Silence was safer now. Silence meant they might forget he was there. 

But then—one morning, or maybe it was afternoon—the sound of the lock turning shattered the stillness like a gunshot. The door creaked open. A sliver of light slashed across the floor, and his eyes, unused to brightness, shrank away instinctively. 

A voice followed. Harsh, clipped. 

“Get up.” 

He blinked, slowly. The silhouette in the doorway shifted, familiar in its shape and stance—his father. The man took a step inside, the smell of smoke and alcohol trailing behind him like a cloud. Si-eun pushed himself upright, limbs trembling beneath his own weight. His legs felt like paper—thin and useless—and his bare feet barely found traction on the cold floor. 

“You’re not dying, are you?” His father scoffed. “Guests are coming. You’ll clean the house until it shines. Especially the kitchen. It stinks like shit in there.” 

Si-eun didn’t answer. He couldn’t trust his voice to work, and he knew by now that silence would be enough. 

“And when you’re done,” the man added, his voice dropping into something colder, “I don’t want to see your face for the rest of the day. You’re an eyesore. If they ask, we don’t have a kid.” 

The words landed without force—not because they were gentle, but because Si-eun had heard worse. Felt worse. And now, they barely touched the surface. 

He nodded faintly and stood, swaying for a second as the blood in his head tried to catch up. His hands—still bound in the makeshift bandages Su-ho had wrapped with such careful hands—throbbed dully, and his knees nearly buckled under the weight of his own body. 

He shuffled forward. 

The apartment smelled foul, thicker out here than it had in the sealed quiet of his room. A mixture of spilled beer, smoke, grease, and forgotten food clogged the air. The kitchen was a battlefield of dishes and crusted pots, remnants of meals half-eaten and abandoned, now crawling with flies. 

He didn’t speak. He didn’t flinch. 

Instead, he bent down—slowly, carefully—and began scrubbing. 

The sponge slipped a few times against the metal sink, his bandaged fingers raw and clumsy. Soapy water stung the cuts underneath, and each scrub sent tiny shocks up his arms. But he didn’t pause. If he stopped, he might fall. If he fell, he might not get back up. 

Behind him, the sound of laughter erupted—his parents, on the couch, chatting, drinking, like nothing had happened. Like there wasn’t a boy scrubbing blood and grime from their floor with fingers that had once trembled in another boy’s hands. 

They didn’t glance at him. They didn’t need to. 

He was a shadow in their home. Nothing more.  

The days that followed unfolded like faded photocopies—smudged at the edges, dull and pale, lacking anything close to vibrance. Su-ho moved through them with the precision of habit, but none of it truly touched him. School was a blur of static noise and half-hearted attendance. Teachers droned. Classmates laughed. He sat in his usual seat, his back straight, hands still, and eyes flicking every now and then to the desk that remained stubbornly empty. Si-eun’s desk. 

There was no news. No sign. His grandmother hadn’t texted. No one had seen anything. 

And the quiet stretched. 

He still did what he was supposed to do—woke up on time, ate the breakfast left on the kitchen counter, scribbled half-bored notes during class. After school, he walked home or headed to his part-time job, nodding politely to regular customers, smiling with tired eyes. The routine held him in place, like thread through fabric—if he let go of it, he wasn’t sure what would unravel first. 

But the memory of Si-eun never left. 

It pressed against him in the still moments—when the bell rang, and he turned instinctively to look. When he passed a bookstore and wondered if Si-eun had ever gone in. When he washed his hands and saw the faint ghost of bandages on his fingertips, and thought of the boy curled in his bed, too light, too quiet. 

He hated the helplessness the most. The fact that he didn’t even know where Si-eun lived. That all he could do was hope —and Su-ho wasn’t the kind of person who trusted hope. It felt too much like waiting for a miracle he didn’t believe in. 

The sun was warm that day—early afternoon, golden light brushing his cheeks as he made his way home. He wasn’t in a rush. He walked slowly, as if trying to delay returning to a place where Si-eun wasn’t. 

It was only when his footstep faltered near the curb that he noticed something. Or rather, someone. 

A figure—slumped at the edge of the sidewalk, partially shielded by the shadows cast by the building above. Still. Too still. 

At first, Su-ho’s breath caught in confusion. His gaze sharpened. 

The mop of hair, too familiar. The angle of the limbs, the worn, oversized hoodie— his hoodie—sagging off thin shoulders. His eyes widened, throat closing with a sudden jolt of fear as his feet moved before his mind caught up. 

“Si-eun—?” 

The name fell from his lips, broken and breathless. 

He knelt down beside him, careful but fast, scanning the boy’s face—bruises darker than before, lips cracked, cheeks pale. And so still. No twitch. No flinch. Just quiet. 

His heart thundered, dread flooding him like ice water. 

No. Not again. Not this again. 

The weight of Si-eun's limp form in his arms felt like the world had collapsed into this fragile, trembling body. His heart raced, each beat a frantic drum urging him to move faster, to do more. He hadn't thought, hadn't planned—he'd just acted, driven by a surge of protectiveness and fear. 

His apartment door clicked shut behind them, the sound hollow in the quiet. He guided Si-eun to the couch, his hands shaking as he helped him sit. The boy's head lolled to one side, eyes closed, face pale and bruised. The sight twisted something deep inside Su-ho. 

“Stay here,” he murmured, more to himself than to Si-eun. He rushed to the bathroom, grabbing the first-aid kit his grandmother kept stocked. His mind raced with questions he couldn't answer—how had this happened? Why hadn't he noticed sooner? But there was no time for answers now. 

Returning to the living room, he knelt beside Si-eun, gently lifting his chin to inspect the damage. Bruises marred his face, dark and angry, a stark contrast against his pale skin. His lips were cracked, and there was a faint tremor in his breathing. 

Su-ho's breath hitched. He hadn't realized how much he'd been holding in until now. The sight of Si-eun so vulnerable, so hurt, broke something inside him. 

He set to work, his movements careful and deliberate. He cleaned the cuts and abrasions, applying antiseptic with a tenderness that surprised him. Each touch was an apology, a promise to do better, to protect him. 

Si-eun flinched at the sting of the antiseptic, but didn't pull away. His eyes fluttered open briefly, meeting Su-ho's gaze with a mixture of confusion and gratitude. Su-ho smiled softly, trying to reassure him, though his own heart was heavy with guilt. 

"You're safe now," he whispered, though he wasn't sure if he was convincing Si-eun or himself. 

The silence between them was thick with unspoken words. Su-ho finished tending to the last of the bruises, his fingers lingering on Si-eun's skin longer than necessary. He wanted to say something, anything, to bridge the gap between them, but the words caught in his throat. 

Instead, he sat beside him, close but not touching, offering the comfort of his presence. They sat in the quiet, the weight of the world pressing down on them both, but for the first time in what felt like forever, Su-ho allowed himself to hope. 

Su-ho sat still, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tight between them. The living room light cast a muted halo around the couch where Si-eun now rested—curled slightly into himself, his cheek pressed against the armrest, breaths shallow but even. Su-ho watched him in silence, his gaze tracing every shadow bruised into that too-pale skin, every line that shouldn’t exist on a seventeen-year-old boy’s face. 

The hoodie—the same one Su-ho had lent him—hung off him like fabric draped over bones. And now, closer, Su-ho could see what he hadn’t before. From the collar of the sweatshirt to near the elbow, a dark vermilion stain spread between the fibers of the garment. With the other boy unconscious, he didn't feel like letting his hands wander to areas outside his comfort zone.  

Sucking in his breath, he focused his gaze on Si-eun and waited. 

That was how he noticed the slight flicker of his eyelashes. 

Si-eun’s eyes were open and they were staring at him. Confused. 

“It’s just me,” Su-ho said gently. “You’re safe. You’re here.” 

Si-eun blinked. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. His eyes flicked from the abandoned kit on the coffee table in front of them to Su-ho's worried face—and the moment of clarity in his expression shattered into embarrassment. 

He tried to hide, to mask his vulnerabilities. But it was hard to avoid the other boy's expressive gaze. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Su-ho said. “It’s just me.” 

Si-eun didn’t say anything. He just looked away, eyes trained on the ceiling like he might vanish if he focused hard enough. 

“We should stop meeting like this, don't you think?” Su-ho whispered, a feeble attempt to lighten the mood. 

Contrary to his expectations, Si-eun's eyes were flashed with a faint glow, a kind of lightheartedness. His lips didn't stretch into a smile, but his eyes spoke for themselves. 

Su-ho inevitably found himself chuckling. 

“I should’ve come after you sooner,” Su-ho whispered, after the moment of lightness of dispersed. He wasn’t sure Si-eun was even listening. “I should’ve done something. Anything.” 

The boy didn’t answer, but his shoulders relaxed, just barely. 

Si-eun finally whispered, voice rough and paper-thin, “Thank you.” 

Su-ho looked up. Their eyes met. 

And for a moment, neither of them needed to say anything else. 

They stayed like that for a long time. The room had settled into a hush so complete; the only sound was the quiet ticking of the old wall clock and the occasional creak from the building’s bones. Su-ho didn’t move. He didn’t want to break the stillness, didn’t want to push. Si-eun’s hands rested in his lap, delicate as porcelain. Safe, for now. 

Su-ho sat beside the couch, arms draped loosely over his knees, gaze drifting between the boy and the window, where sunlight filtered through the curtains in soft, lazy ribbons. It felt like time was holding its breath. 

Then Si-eun shifted. A slow, hesitant motion. His fingers curled just slightly in the bandages, then loosened again. 

“I don’t know why you’re doing all this,” he murmured. His voice was scratchy and low, like it hadn’t been used in days. “I barely know you.” 

Su-ho’s heart ached, but he didn’t answer. He knew better than to make it about himself. 

“I just…” Si-eun hesitated. “I thought maybe—If I could explain, it would make it… less unfair.” 

He didn’t look at Su-ho. His eyes were on the coffee table—or through it—fixed on some far-off memory. 

“My parents,” he said quietly. “They… They’re not good people. I’ve known that for a long time, but I kept thinking maybe they’d change. Maybe I was the problem. If I just did everything right. If I got the best grades. If I didn’t speak too loudly. If I didn’t eat too much.” 

His voice cracked. 

“I started believing it was my fault. That I deserved it.” 

Su-ho wanted to say something—anything—but nothing in his mouth felt worthy enough to interrupt. 

“And the nights are the worst,” Si-eun continued, his voice barely a whisper now. “When I’m alone in my room, after… after everything, I just lie there. I stare at the ceiling, and I think… if I disappeared, maybe the world would breathe easier.” 

There was a pause. A fragile, trembling silence. 

Then, slowly, Si-eun turned his head. His eyes found Su-ho’s—hesitant, like it hurt to meet someone else’s gaze. 

And then it happened. 

Tears. 

Not loud. Not sudden. Just slow, helpless, shattering. 

One tear, then another. Tracks cutting through bruises. His lips parted, a breath hitching, and he looked away quickly, ashamed—like crying was something he should’ve outgrown. 

But Su-ho didn’t flinch. He didn’t move away. 

He just reached out. Gently. Placed his hand over Si-eun’s. 

And held it. 

Si-eun cried in silence, shoulders trembling, lips pressed tight together. It wasn’t the kind of crying that asked for comfort. It was the kind that came from somewhere so deep, it had forgotten how to make noise. 

But Su-ho stayed. He didn’t speak. He didn’t try to fix it. 

He just held his hand and let him cry. 

Because sometimes, that was the only thing to do. 

They stayed like that for a while, suspended in a hush that felt somehow sacred. 

Si-eun’s fingers had gripped Su-ho’s tighter when the tears began, but now they’d gone slack again—not pulled away, just resting there, like he wasn’t ready to let go entirely. His head was bowed, shadowed by the shaggy fall of his hair, and though the tears had stopped flowing, their traces remained—damp cheeks, reddened eyes, the slight twitch in his jaw as he worked to suppress whatever still ached in his chest. 

He kept trying to hide his face, to tilt it away from Su-ho’s gaze, but Su-ho never looked away. He didn’t stare—he simply stayed. Steady. A quiet, warm presence in the hush of the room, his hand still loosely wrapped around Si-eun’s. 

Neither of them spoke for a long time. But the silence wasn’t empty. 

It was healing. 

Eventually, when Si-eun’s breath evened out and the storm seemed to pass—at least for now—Su-ho let his thumb gently brush the back of Si-eun’s hand, then slowly stood up. His knees cracked slightly from sitting for so long, but he barely noticed. 

His eyes moved over Si-eun’s frame, not out of judgment, but concern. The hoodie he’d lent him hung loosely around his shoulders—but it was no longer the comforting kind of oversized. It was torn and streaked with dried blood on the sleeve and shoulder, the fabric clinging to where the blood had soaked through. Su-ho’s chest tightened. 

He thought perhaps he would leave it to his grandmother to check his shoulder. Not because he didn't want to, but because he was afraid of crossing a line, of going too far. 

“Let’s get you into something clean, yeah?” Su-ho asked gently. 

Si-eun blinked up at him, startled by the sound of his voice—as if he’d forgotten Su-ho could speak. He didn’t say anything in return, but he didn’t resist either. His hands were shaking again, but not violently, and Su-ho moved slowly, not to startle him. 

“I’ll bring you something. You can change in here if you want. Or the bathroom, whatever’s easier.” 

He left the room briefly and returned with a plain t-shirt and soft sweatpants, clothes that looked clean and warm—too big on Si-eun, but comfortable enough. He placed them gently on the edge of the couch and didn’t push. 

“And… when you’re ready, I want to show you something,” Su-ho added, softer now, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his lips. 

Si-eun looked at him for a second—really looked at him. His eyes were still raw, rimmed in red, and his face blotchy, but in his gaze there was a flicker of something else. Not quite trust. Not yet. But maybe a beginning. 

He didn’t ask what Su-ho wanted to show him. He didn’t need to. Just the promise of something—anything—outside the bruises and silence felt like enough. 

Su-ho nodded once, like a silent agreement had just passed between them, and turned to give him space. 

He didn’t close the door all the way as he stepped into the hall. 

He just left it ajar—like a promise. 

Si-eun changed slowly, his movements careful, deliberate. Each shift of fabric against bruised skin was a quiet sting, and though he hissed softly once or twice, he made no complaint. The t-shirt Su-ho had given him was soft and worn-in, smelling faintly of fabric softener and something sweet—maybe detergent, maybe Su-ho himself. It felt foreign. It felt safe. 

When he stepped out into the hallway, the light from a nearby window hit the edge of his sleeve, revealing the bruises that marred his forearm. Some darkened into purple-blue pools beneath the skin; others were yellowing at the edges, in the process of fading but still far from gone.  

Su-ho waited with his usual calm, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, gaze lifted from the floor only when he heard the door creak open. He gave a small nod and gestured toward the stairwell. 

“Come on. I wanna show you something.” 

Si-eun followed without a word. 

The stairwell echoed faintly with their footfalls—a quiet rhythm of movement, neither fast nor slow. Just steady. Just there. 

They reached the rooftop one floor up, Su-ho pushing open the metal door with the strength of familiarity. A soft creak gave way to light—warm, golden, and endless. 

The rooftop stretched wide and open, bordered with low brick walls and lined with long-forgotten planters, most of them filled with green life spilling over the edges. Some were herbs, others small blooming flowers that leaned eagerly toward the sun. A wooden bench sat under the shade of a pale awning, and a few ceramic pots—hand-painted, maybe by Su-ho’s grandma—decorated the corners, their colors slightly faded from sun exposure but still cheerful in their quiet resilience. 

The sun was high in the sky, casting everything in a soft amber hue. The warmth of it hit their skin like a balm, not hot, but comforting—the kind of heat that softened muscles and lifted shoulders without asking for anything in return. 

A faint breeze stirred through the leaves, rustling the plants with a whisper too soft to understand. The city noise below was muffled, distant, like it belonged to another world. 

“This is my favorite place,” Su-ho said after a moment. His voice was soft, like he didn’t want to disturb the peace the rooftop had already claimed. “When everything gets too loud, I come up here. It’s quiet. Warm. I can breathe.” 

He turned to Si-eun then, his eyes careful but open. 

“You don’t have to come up here with me if you don’t want to. But if things ever get too heavy, if you need somewhere that isn’t… all that,” he gestured vaguely, “you can come here. I won’t follow you. I won’t ask anything. It’s yours.” 

The words hung between them like a thread—not pulling, not pushing. Just there. 

Si-eun looked around. The light. The stillness. The life in small leaves and growing things. It didn’t look like much. 

But for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like he was suffocating. 

His fingers tightened slightly at his sides, brushing the fabric of the borrowed shirt like he was making sure it—and he—were still real. 

A place just for him. A place where he could be, without being looked at. Without being hurt. Without being needed. 

His lips parted like they held a word—but none arrived. Instead, he slowly approached the bench and took a seat, letting the sun warm his face. His lashes fluttered, eyes closing against the light. 

He didn’t cry. Not this time. 

But he didn’t run either. 

The silence between them wasn't heavy, it breathed. The golden haze of sunlight bathed the rooftop, softening the bruises, the edges, even the air around them. Somewhere down below, a car horn echoed faintly, but it felt worlds away. 

Si-eun sat with his arms folded tightly around his knees, gaze distant. He didn’t speak. Su-ho sat nearby, giving him that quiet space without pulling away entirely, offering his presence like a thread. Something to hold onto, if needed. 

The rooftop door creaked open. 

Both boys turned slowly. Su-ho straightened instinctively, while Si-eun’s body tensed like a shadow preparing to flee. Until he recognized the figure. 

Grandma. 

Her eyes widened slightly, more from surprise than concern. She hadn’t expected to see both of them here, but the gentle smile that bloomed across her face said otherwise. She stepped forward, the afternoon light catching in her silver hair and warming the soft wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. 

“Oh,” she said softly, not wanting to break the quiet. “So this is where you’ve hidden yourselves.” 

Su-ho relaxed, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Si-eun didn’t move. His eyes flicked to the ground, unsure if he should apologize, if he’d somehow overstepped by simply existing in this space that wasn’t his. 

Grandma glanced between them with the perceptiveness of someone who’s seen too much to need words. “I was thinking of making some soup,” she said, tilting her head. “Would you two like something to eat?” 

Si-eun opened his mouth, then closed it. There was a strange tightness in his throat, like emotion caught between his ribs. He hadn’t even thought of food. Not really. Hunger had long since become a background noise, easy to ignore. And yet the idea of something warm, made gently and with care, nearly knocked the breath from him. 

He didn’t respond. 

Su-ho saw the hesitation in his eyes and, without looking away, said simply, “Yes. We’d love that.” 

His voice was calm, sure. Kind. 

Grandma gave them both a nod, her smile still soft, still understanding. “It’ll be ready in a few minutes,” she said, then added, “Don’t stay out too long, it’ll get cold.” 

She turned and left, the door closing behind her with a whisper. 

Si-eun still hadn’t moved. 

Su-ho didn’t push. He just stayed there beside him, gaze resting on the horizon, where the sun hovered just above the line of distant rooftops, casting everything in amber and gold. 

A quiet moment that for once didn’t feel borrowed. 

They stayed side by side, in silence, with the golden glow coloring their epidermis. They didn't spend too much time in their bubble of peace, even though Si-eun had eased into that tranquility 

When they finally descended from the rooftop, the sun had dipped a little lower, softening the world into amber. The apartment smelled different now, alive with steam and spices and something savory, something comforting. 

Si-eun paused at the entrance to the kitchen, unsure. The smell pulled at something deep in his chest, but his body didn’t move. His feet, still tender and bruised, stayed just on the edge of the light. 

Su-ho noticed, of course. With a gentle nudge of his elbow, he coaxed Si-eun forward, as if to say, it’s okay now. There was no force in the gesture, just steady presence—one more silent reminder that this was a space he was allowed to occupy. 

Grandma was setting the table with practiced hands, placing down two bowls, two pairs of chopsticks, and a pot of soup that shimmered with warmth. Her eyes twinkled when she saw them. “Just in time.” 

The soup wasn’t fancy. It didn’t have to be. A soft broth with bits of tofu and vegetables, the kind of meal that wasn’t meant to impress but to hold someone together. The kind of food that felt like home, even for someone who’d never had one. 

Su-ho slid into his usual seat, and after a slight pause, Si-eun followed, sitting gingerly, his body still aching, his movements careful. His fingers hovered over the chopsticks, unsure, until Grandma pushed a small bowl of rice toward him and said, “Eat slowly, okay? It’s still hot.” 

He nodded once, eyes lowered. The first spoonful trembled in his hand. When he tasted it—just a sip—his lips parted, a tiny sound caught in his throat. He blinked. The warmth filled the hollow spaces inside him, sliding down to rest in his chest. He hadn’t realized just how cold he’d been. 

Neither Su-ho nor his grandmother spoke as he ate. They just let him move at his own pace, the only sounds in the room the quiet clink of chopsticks and the gentle hum of the kettle on the stove. 

Halfway through the meal, Si-eun stopped. His eyes were glassy. His fingers had gone still. There was no dramatic outburst, no sob. Just silence—and a tear that fell, soft and steady, into his bowl. 

Grandma, ever gentle, rose and simply placed a napkin beside him. No questions. No alarm. 

Su-ho said nothing. Just sat close enough to remind him that he wasn’t alone. 

They finished the meal slowly, quietly. And by the time the bowls were empty, and the steam had faded, something had shifted. The silence between them no longer felt fragile—it felt steady. 

Like a thread. 

Like the beginning of something that didn’t need to be named just yet. 

Just held. 

Later that evening, the apartment had settled into silence again. 

The sky outside had slipped into navy blue, the last embers of sunlight tucked beneath the skyline.  

Before retiring to her room, Grandma had carefully cleaned Si-eun's shoulder wound. 

At first, he hesitated—stiffening slightly under her gaze—but the quiet warmth in her eyes, and the softness of her smile, eventually made him yield. 

It hurt. More than he expected. A few shards of glass were still embedded beneath the skin, and when she removed them, pain flared sharp and hot. 

Blood welled up again from the reopened cuts, and the ointment she applied afterward stung and chilled all at once. But he didn’t flinch. Not a sound passed his lips. 

Now, wrapped in clean clothes, the deep ache in his shoulder muted by the careful bandaging, he felt... still. Serene, almost. 

Not healed. But held. 

Su-ho now sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, flipping absentmindedly through a textbook, though his eyes hadn’t registered a single line. He glanced up. 

Si-eun sat on the bed again, his back resting lightly against the wall, his arms drawn in close. His hair was still damp from a gentle rinse in the bathroom, and his skin, though marked by bruises and bandages, no longer looked as ghostly pale. 

He was wearing his pajamas, the one that had accompanied him on his escape a few nights earlier. Su-ho's grandmother had washed it carefully and mended the seams. Si-eun had been grateful, so much so that he murmured a shy word of thanks as he sank his fingers into the thin fabric of his old sweatshirt.  

It wasn’t comfort yet, but it was something close. Something new. 

They hadn’t spoken much after dinner. And maybe that was okay. The silence between them had changed. It didn’t press against their chests or twist in their stomachs. It just… existed. Like two people breathing quietly in the same space. 

Su-ho closed the textbook. “Do you need anything?” His voice was soft, almost too quiet for the room. “Water? Tea?” 

Si-eun shook his head. “No, thank you.” 

He said it politely, almost too politely. His tone carried that automatic stiffness that didn’t quite belong to someone his age. But the words came easily this time—his voice a little steadier, a little warmer. 

Su-ho gave a nod and leaned back on his hands, glancing toward the window. The city lights flickered like distant stars, blinking through the hazy glass. 

Si-eun shifted slightly on the mattress. He looked down at his fingers, at the faint pink traces on his knuckles, the fading edge of a bruise crawling beneath his sleeve. Then he spoke—not loud, but clearly, his voice barely brushing the silence. 

“I used to wonder what it would feel like... to eat dinner and not feel sick afterward.” 

Su-ho turned to him slowly. 

“I mean…” Si-eun rubbed a finger over the inside of his wrist. “To sit at a table and not feel like I have to finish quickly and leave before something happens. To just... be there.” 

A pause. He stared down at his lap. “Your grandma’s food… I didn’t know soup could feel like that.” 

The corner of Su-ho’s mouth tilted upward, just slightly. “She says it tastes better when you’re safe.” 

Si-eun exhaled through his nose. Almost a laugh. Almost. 

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. 

Su-ho blinked. “For what?” 

“For… coming here. For staying. For needing this much.” 

The words spilled out like something he’d rehearsed a thousand times in his head but never said aloud. 

“I don’t want to be a problem,” he whispered. “You’ve already done enough. You don’t even know me.” 

Su-ho scooted a little closer. “Maybe I didn’t. But I do now. A little.” 

He paused, thoughtful. 

“And you’re not a problem.” 

Si-eun’s eyes flicked toward him, uncertain. Su-ho held his gaze. 

“You shouldn’t have helped me. Now you’re stuck with someone who doesn’t know how to be okay.” It was only a mumble, but the power of those words rumbled powerfully in the recesses of Su-ho's heart. 

He lowered his head and shook it lightly. Not arrogantly, but only as a gesture of denial. Then he raised it again until his eyes met Si-eun's tired ones. “Then I’ll wait until you remember. What okay feels like.” 

There was no response, not that one was needed. 

“You’re tired. You’ve been alone too long. That’s not your fault. And needing something—anything—doesn’t make you a burden. It makes you human.” 

Si-eun blinked. The silence stretched, not heavy, but full. And when he looked away, it wasn’t out of shame—it was because something had lodged in his throat. Something sharp and warm. 

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to. 

Su-ho moved back to his spot on the floor, dragging a folded blanket over his shoulders. “Get some rest,” he murmured, eyes already growing heavy. “You’re safe here.” 

The light in the hallway dimmed as the door eased closed. 

His fingers didn’t curl into fists this time. His shoulders didn’t flinch when the door clicked shut. And when he pulled the blanket over his chest, he believed Su-ho. 

At least a little. 

The smell of rice and roasted barley tea drifted through the quiet apartment, warm and earthy. Sunlight slipped through the curtains in soft golden strips, pooling across the wooden floor like scattered thread. Somewhere in the kitchen, a spoon clinked softly against a ceramic bowl. It was early, but not painfully so—just enough for the world to still feel hushed and slow. 

Su-ho rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm as he shuffled toward the table, hair sticking up in gentle chaos. Si-eun was already sitting quietly, dressed in the same clean clothes from yesterday, his frame a little more solid than before but still wrapped in quiet caution. He held a steaming mug in both hands, fingers curled protectively around it like it was something precious. 

Su-ho’s grandmother stood by the stove, her back turned to the boys as she flipped a final piece of rolled egg onto a small dish. She turned with a bright, motherly smile. “Eat while it’s warm.” 

She placed the last of the breakfast on the table—bowls of rice, soft egg, kimchi, miso soup—and sat across from them. The table wasn’t big, but the way they sat around it made the space feel full. Comfortable. 

They ate in near-silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was peaceful. Si-eun chewed slowly, like he was relearning the rhythm of a meal. His shoulders weren’t as tense, and his gaze not so fixed to the table. Every now and then, his eyes would flicker toward Su-ho and then away, like checking to make sure this was still real. That he was still allowed to be here. 

When they were nearly finished, Su-ho looked up and said, gently, “You should stay home today.” 

Si-eun’s chopsticks paused in mid-air. “What?” 

“You need rest,” Su-ho said. “You’re still healing.” 

Su-ho’s grandmother nodded in agreement, sipping her tea. “We won’t be gone long. I just need to go to the market. You can stay, take it slow.” 

Si-eun’s eyes shifted between them, a flicker of resistance sparking behind them. 

“I… I don’t want to fall behind in class,” he murmured, almost like he was trying to convince himself. “School’s… it’s quiet there. It helps.” 

Su-ho leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “That’s valid. But your body needs a quiet space too. Not just your mind.” 

Si-eun didn’t answer right away. He looked down at his bandaged hands, at the sleeve slightly pulled up to reveal a fading bruise, and at the bowl of rice he’d nearly finished. 

He wanted to go. To be where routine dulled his thoughts and where expectations were written clearly in ink and paper. But he could also still feel the phantom ache in his bones, the sting in his shoulder, the weight of exhaustion sinking into every step. 

So finally, he gave a small nod. “Okay.” 

Su-ho offered a soft smile, like a sunrise in the corner of his lips. “Good. I’ll leave you some snacks before I go.” 

His grandmother stood, her movements graceful. “And I’ll leave some tea, if you want. You’ll have the house to yourself for a few hours, dear. Just rest.” 

Si-eun looked at her—really looked this time—and for a moment, something in his expression wavered. Like a wall easing, just a fraction. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly. 

She smiled in return, ruffling his hair as she passed. “No need to thank us, sweetheart. Just heal.” 

Soon after, the house shifted into its morning rhythm. The sound of clothes rustling, drawers opening and shutting, Su-ho getting ready for school. When he emerged from his room, backpack slung over his shoulder, he met Si-eun at the doorway with a small wave and a final glance. 

“I’ll be back by lunch,” he said. “If you need anything, just text me, okay?” 

Si-eun nodded, standing there barefoot on the wooden floor, the soft sleeves of the clean shirt pulled over his wrists. He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave Su-ho—quiet, serious, filled with something difficult and soft—was enough. 

And then Su-ho was gone. 

Si-eun stood alone in the stillness of the apartment. For a moment, he didn’t move. Just stood there, listening to the silence around him. 

A silence that didn’t hurt. 

A silence that asked nothing of him. 

He turned slowly, walking through the space as if learning the texture of a dream. The morning sun cast long golden shadows across the floor, the furniture basked in quiet light, and the air smelled faintly of rice, and clean cotton. 

He was alone, but for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t lonely. 

The apartment was quiet in a way that didn’t press down on him. It wasn’t the silence of dread or the kind that crept like cold fingers through the walls of his own home. This quiet was gentle—like a held breath, a warm hand on his shoulder, a lullaby with no melody. 

Si-eun wandered aimlessly at first, his footsteps feather-light on the wooden floor. The soft cotton of his borrowed clothes brushed against his skin, clean and unfamiliar. Every so often he’d glance toward the front door, half-expecting a voice to bark his name, for this peace to rupture like a dream. But no one came. No one raised their voice. No one followed. 

He paused by the window. Pale morning light filtered in through a curtain left half-open, washing the living room in soft gold and dust-speckled air. Outside, life moved on at its usual pace—cars passing, a woman walking her dog, a pair of children chasing each other down the sidewalk with reckless laughter. So far removed from his own world that it felt like watching another life entirely. 

A part of him still waited for the floor to collapse. 

He sat down slowly on the edge of the couch, letting his sore legs fold beneath him. For a long moment, he simply… sat. His fingers grazed the hem of his shirt. His gaze drifted to a corner of the room where a potted plant leaned toward the light, vibrant and alive. The apartment smelled faintly of sugar and dust and something warm—like something had recently been baked, or maybe just loved. 

The contrast stung more than it soothed. 

His hands curled slightly into the fabric of his pants. His thoughts came slow and scattered, like pages torn from different books. 

Why was it so easy here?  

Why didn’t it feel like a cage?  

He shouldn’t be here. He knew that. This wasn’t his home. This comfort didn’t belong to him. It belonged to people like Su-ho—people who had warm places to return to, people who didn’t have to count the seconds between footsteps, didn’t flinch at laughter, didn’t wonder if the next meal would come with bruises. 

And yet… here he was. Breathing without fear. Blinking slowly in sunlight that didn’t feel like a threat. 

He leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes just for a moment. 

In the quiet of that space, his thoughts no longer screamed. They whispered. Echoes of things he hadn’t let himself feel until now. 

He stayed with me all night.  

He didn’t ask anything from me.  

He said it could be my safe place.  

Si-eun exhaled, a shaky breath that fluttered through his lips like the release of something held too tightly for too long. He didn’t know how to live in this kind of quiet. This stillness without fear. It made his bones ache in a different way. 

But it didn’t hurt. 

And somehow… that was worse. 

His eyes opened again, landing on a framed photo resting on a nearby shelf. It was slightly crooked, the edge of the frame chipped. Inside it, Su-ho, younger, grinning beside an older woman with a warm, open face and silver hair pulled back in a neat bun. His grandmother. 

They looked happy. 

Not like a performance. Not like the strained smiles Si-eun knew from school photos. But something real. 

A pang twisted in his chest. Not envy. Not quite. But something adjacent to grief—grief for what he never had, for what he only now realized was possible. 

He looked down at his bandaged hands. They still ached. His body still bore every reminder of where he came from, of what was waiting on the other side of kindness. 

But he was still here. 

And the sun was still warm. 

Maybe that was enough, for now. 

He didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. Or next week. Or even later that afternoon. 

But in this moment, in the middle of a quiet room that smelled like comfort and sunlight and something close to hope—he was okay. 

Just… okay. 

And for someone like him, that was everything. 

The silence that filled the apartment wasn’t hollow like the one in his own home. It didn’t press against his ribs like a warning, didn’t echo like the calm before the storm. Here, it was a silence made of soft things—steam rising from a kettle, the distant tick of a wall clock, the faint rustling of curtains moving in the morning breeze. 

Si-eun slowly slid off the sofa to sit on the floor by the low table, his knees tucked against his chest, the oversized shirt Su-ho had lent him draping over his thin frame. The quiet wasn’t crushing. It was almost soothing, even though it unsettled him in a different way. He wasn’t used to this kind of peace. It didn’t demand anything from him, didn’t scream or shatter or pull him apart. It just... existed. And he existed in it. 

He rose eventually, barefoot and slow, more out of instinct than decision. His feet carried him around the apartment, careful not to disturb anything. He wasn't snooping—he wouldn’t dare. But his gaze lingered on the small details that made this place feel lived in, warm. The flower-patterned mugs on the shelf. The pair of slippers at the door, one slightly more worn than the other. A calendar on the wall with little hearts drawn around a few dates. One in particular: “Su-ho’s exam—fighting!!” in a soft, curvy handwriting. 

Something tender curled in his chest. Was this what care looked like? This simple, ordinary affection that left no bruises, that didn’t twist itself into threats? 

He paused at the corner of the small living room, where a short, wide drawer sat half-open beneath a stack of schoolbooks. Inside, barely visible, lay a sketchbook—its cover frayed, its edges curled. He hesitated. Then knelt, brushing his fingers lightly against the surface, not opening it. Just feeling the texture of it. Just allowing himself the moment. A part of him wondered if Su-ho had drawn anything in it. Another part didn’t want to know—not yet. It felt sacred somehow. 

Returning to the table, he found a note stuck to the thermos: “There’s chestnut tea inside. It’ll warm your heart. —Grandma”.  

His throat tightened. 

He poured himself a cup. The warmth of it crept into his palms, up his arms, and settled beneath his skin. Sweet and earthy. Familiar in a way he couldn’t explain. He sipped, slowly. And the tears didn’t come this time, though they hovered in the back of his eyes like a distant memory. 

He sat there for a long time, cupping the mug in both hands, the steam fogging the edge of his vision. For the first time in so long, he didn’t brace for impact. Didn’t flinch at every creak of the floor or muffled sound beyond the door. The weight in his chest was still there—but it shifted. 

And in the hush of that morning, wrapped in unfamiliar comfort and wearing someone else’s warmth, Si-eun allowed himself to wonder.  

What if this didn’t have to end?  

Classes passed more gently that day. 

For the first time in what felt like weeks, Su-ho wasn’t fidgeting in his seat, wasn’t half-listening with a leg bouncing beneath the desk. There was a sense of calm in his chest, quiet but steady—almost like his body finally trusted the hours to move forward without fear clawing at the corners of his mind. 

Si-eun was safe. That was all he needed to believe to make the day bearable. 

When the final bell rang, Su-ho packed his things with unusual care, pausing to check his phone. No messages, no missed calls from his grandma. Which meant no panic. No news was good news—for now. 

He slipped out of school with his usual ease, the strap of his bag over one shoulder, but instead of heading straight home, he made a small detour to a neighborhood bakery. The bags of sweet red bean pastries, still warm in his hands, made his chest feel light. Maybe Si-eun wouldn’t eat more than a bite. Maybe he’d just stare at the treats in silence with that unreadable look in his eyes. Still, Su-ho wanted to try. Wanted to offer something kind and simple, something with no strings attached. 

His steps quickened on the way home, not out of worry, but out of quiet anticipation. It felt strange, wanting to see someone so badly. Wanting to sit in the same room, even if they didn’t speak. Wanting to exist next to someone and let them know they didn’t have to be alone. 

But the moment Su-ho opened the front door, that gentle feeling slipped through his fingers like mist. 

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. 

“Si-eun?” he called softly, slipping off his shoes. No reply. 

His heart gave a hesitant thump, the kind that signaled something wasn’t right. He checked the living room first, expecting to find the boy curled up near the table or sitting by the window. But the cushions were untouched. 

He turned the corner into the bedroom. Empty. 

A flicker of panic stirred. He knocked gently on the bathroom door. “Hey. You in there?” 

Silence. 

The air inside the apartment felt heavier suddenly. The smile he hadn’t realized he’d been wearing fell, replaced with something bitter and aching at the edges. No… he wouldn’t just leave. Not again. Not without saying anything.  

He stood still for a second, the pastry bag in his hand now crumpling in his grip. His mind darted to every possible scenario, the worst ones taking root before he could stop them. Had he been too relaxed? Had he misread everything? Was he foolish to believe that kindness alone could hold someone steady? 

Then, a thought crossed his mind—quiet and unsure, but persistent. 

The rooftop. 

Without a word, Su-ho turned on his heel and made for the stairwell, taking two steps at a time. His lungs felt tight, each breath thick with anxious possibility. And yet, despite the pounding in his chest, a thread of hope held on. 

He pushed the door open gently, the late afternoon sun immediately wrapping around him in gold and warmth. 

And there—tucked against the far corner by the potted rosemary, the light casting a halo over the worn sleeves of a hoodie that was probably his—was Si-eun. 

Still there. Not gone. 

Su-ho exhaled. 

And this time, it didn’t feel like he was losing something. 

The rooftop door clicked shut behind him, a sound swallowed by the breeze that danced lazily between the buildings. 

Su-ho stepped forward, quiet as the fading light. Si-eun hadn’t noticed him yet—his back was turned, his small frame curled in on itself near the rusted edge of the rooftop wall, right beside the rosemary pot whose leaves quivered under the breeze. From here, he looked like a shadow sewn into the concrete. Still. Faint. Like he might vanish altogether if the wind blew too hard. 

Su-ho swallowed, shifted the paper bags in his hands, and then said softly, “I was worried.” 

Si-eun flinched. 

His head turned, just slightly. Eyes wide, lips parting as if to say something—but nothing came out. He blinked up at Su-ho, his face washed in the soft amber of the late afternoon sun, painting every bruise in quiet detail. His shoulder sagged slightly at the sight of him, something unnamable shifting in his expression. 

“I… I didn’t think you’d—” 

“Of course I’d come,” Su-ho interrupted gently. “Where else would I go?” 

There was a pause. And then another. 

Su-ho stepped forward slowly and settled down next to him, leaving only a small space between them—enough to breathe, but not enough to feel alone. He placed the bags between them with care, like he was offering something more than just food. Inside were sweet red bean pastries and two canned peach teas, still a little warm from the sun. 

They didn’t reach for them. Not yet. 

They sat on the rooftop in the hush of late afternoon. The wind slipped through the cracks in the walls, brushing against their skin like a whisper that didn’t quite know what to say. 

Su-ho didn’t speak. He hadn’t spoken in a while. 

Si-eun sat a few feet away from him, legs pulled to his chest, chin resting against his knees. The sleeves of the hoodie he wore—Su-ho’s hoodie—fell past his hands. He kept pulling them tighter, curling into the fabric like it could make him smaller, quieter. Invisible. 

The sky stretched wide above them, pale blue melting into orange. Somewhere far away, someone laughed. The sound drifted up and faded just as quickly, like it didn’t belong in this quiet place. 

Su-ho glanced at him. Not for the first time. 

He didn’t look broken, not exactly. Just… distant. Like something was floating just behind his eyes, too heavy to name. His lips were chapped. His cheekbone was darkening into another bruise. His posture was rigid, like he hadn’t yet realized he didn’t have to brace for impact anymore. 

Su-ho opened his mouth. Then closed it again. 

He wanted to ask, “Why did you come back?”  

Back to him. Back to this. 

But the question felt like a stone between his teeth, too sharp, too raw. He knew the answer already, didn’t he? 

Because Si-eun hadn’t wanted to die. 

Not really. 

He just hadn’t wanted to hurt anymore. 

So, Su-ho didn’t ask. 

Instead, he leaned back on his hands, eyes flickering toward the sky as if it held some kind of explanation. 

“I’ll stay,” he murmured instead. Not loud, not even really meant to be heard. “As long as you need.” 

Si-eun didn’t respond. 

But after a long pause, he stretched his legs out in front of him. And when he tilted his head slightly, letting it rest against the wall, Su-ho noticed. 

He was still here. 

And for now, maybe that was enough.