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The knock came just before midnight.
It wasn’t loud, more of a hesitant tap, like the person on the other side wasn’t sure they should be there. Hyuntak stirred, halfway between dreams and the warm weight of his blanket. The second knock was a little more insistent, and that’s what got him to his feet.
He padded through the hallway quietly, careful not to wake his mother in the next room. She worked early shifts and couldn’t afford another sleepless night. The front door creaked as he unlocked it.
“Baku?”
Humin stood there, hood pulled up, eyes rimmed red like he’d either been crying or fighting sleep. Probably both. His hands were tucked into the sleeves of a worn hoodie, and he looked smaller than usual.
Without a word, Hyuntak stepped aside.
Baku didn’t speak either. He just walked in like he always did on nights like this. Like he belonged there. In a way, he did.
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Ten minutes later, Baku sat at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of hot barley tea. Hyuntak had warmed up some rice and tossed together an omelette with the quiet precision of someone who’d done it more times than he could count. They didn’t talk much, didn’t need to. Humin ate slowly, mechanically, and Hyuntak didn’t ask questions.
The silence was easy. Familiar.
When the dishes were rinsed and the tea was gone, Hyuntak stretched and gestured toward the hallway. “Come on,” he said. “You look like crap.”
“You always say that,” Baku muttered, but he followed anyway.
Hyuntak’s room was small. The bed even smaller. But they’d made it work before—two sets of legs tangled at the foot, shoulders bumping, one blanket tugged back and forth like an unspoken war. Still, it felt safer than anything else Baku had.
They lay down, Baku closest to the wall. It was the same as always, except this time, something in the way he curled up said he was holding more than usual.
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It started around 3AM.
Hyuntak stirred, instinct dragging him from sleep. He didn't open his eyes at first, he didn’t need to. The way the mattress dipped, the soft rustling, the uneven breath beside him, all of it told him Humin was awake. And not just awake. Caught in one of those nights.
He turned his head slightly. “Nightmare?”
No answer. Just a tiny inhale that hitched in the middle, like Baku was trying not to make a sound.
Hyuntak didn’t push. He just shifted closer, voice low and quiet. “You know,” he started, “I saw this video the other day. Some cat literally did a backflip 'cause someone put a cucumber behind it.”
Still silence. He kept going, softer. “It didn’t even touch the cat. Just sitting there. And the cat’s like—'Nope. Demonic vegetable. Gotta bounce.’”
A pause.
Baku didn’t respond, but his breathing slowed a little.
Hyuntak kept his tone light, unfocused.
“Also, I’ve decided crabs must think fish can fly,” he mumbled. “Like imagine you’re just chillin’ at the bottom of the ocean and a whole group of fish just zooms past. Wouldn’t that freak you out?”
He chuckled quietly to himself. “I mean, if humans could just float through the air like that, I’d lose it.”
Baku shifted a little, not pulling away, just… moving closer.
“And I burned ramen again last week,” Hyuntak added, voice softer now, almost sleepy. “Did everything right, even timed the eggs. Then I got distracted watching a mukbang of a guy eating twenty boiled eggs and forgot the pot.”
A breath, warmer this time, against his chest.
He blinked at the ceiling. “Baku, have you ever wondered if ghosts get bored? Like… what if you haunt a house and then realize the owners don’t even believe in ghosts. What do you do then? Just sit in the corner sulking?”
That got the tiniest puff of air against his shirt, maybe a snort. Maybe Baku was trying not to laugh.
Hyuntak smiled to himself, eyes still half-closed. “I dunno. My brain’s fried. I dreamt about fighting a duck with a baseball bat last night.”
At that, Baku let out a quiet breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Then he shifted again, and his hand curled into Hyuntak’s hoodie. A moment later, his face found a spot tucked under Hyuntak’s chin.
Hyuntak didn’t move. Just let his hand rest gently on Humin’s back, thumb tracing slow, lazy circles into the fabric.
“…You’re safe here, okay?” he whispered, barely audible. “Even if I burn the ramen every time.”
Baku didn’t answer. But Hyuntak felt the moment when his body finally went still, like all the panic had been wrung out and sleep had come back in its place.