Chapter Text
>Chan<
The air pressed down—thick, damp, unmoving. Chan had cracked open the window hours ago, hoping for the illusion of relief, but all it did was invite the heat inside, where it curled and clung as if it meant to stay. The fan in the corner rattled in protest, wheezing through each rotation like an old man refusing to retire.
The glow of his laptop cast pale light over his face, catching the fine lines etched there by exhaustion and restraint. When the screen dimmed from lack of use, Chan brushed his fingers over the trackpad to wake it up again, though he'd written no more than three sentences of his sermon in the last two hours.
His eyes drifted, unfocused, until they landed on the clock at the upper right corner of the screen.
2:14 AM
That explained the headache. The heaviness behind his eyes. The way his thoughts felt as if they were moving through molasses.
He considered bed—considered the ritual of lying down and pretending sleep might come—but dismissed it just as quickly. There was no point in punishing himself by staring at the ceiling until dawn.
He found himself at the sink instead, filling a glass with water while the microwave hummed behind him. A plastic tray of mini burgers rotated lazily inside. Dinner. Or breakfast. The difference blurred at this hour.
Chan lifted the glass—and froze.
Movement, just beyond the reach of the back porch light.
Something shifting near the tree line bordering his yard.
Too tall to be an animal. Too unsteady to belong.
Not something—someone.
He set the glass down and was halfway to the door before he had fully registered his decision.
The rain had begun a while ago—not a downpour, just persistent, a steady mist that soaked through fabric faster than expected. It only added to the oppressive warmth, turning the air slick and uncomfortable.
Chan paused at the top of the steps, eyes fixed on the figure moving across the grass.
A young man. Barely keeping his balance. Shoes dragging. One hand braced against his thigh like it hurt to move. He took a few more steps before his knees gave out—not violently. Not dramatically. Almost…deliberately. As if he'd decided the ground would be sufficient.
After that, Chan didn't hesitate. He jogged across the yard, rain darkening his shirt and heart thudding too loudly in his chest.
"Hey," he called, dropping to a crouch beside him, ignoring the wet grass soaking through his jeans. "Can you hear me?"
Up close, the young man looked worse than Chan expected—and somehow…better. Drenched in sweat and rain. Shirt clinging to his frame. Elbows scraped raw. A smear of blood near his temple, dried enough to suggest it wasn't totally fresh.
But his eyes—sharp, dark, and very much awake—flicked up to meet Chan's.
There it was. Not fear. Not confusion. Amusement?
The young man huffed a quiet laugh, like he'd been caught doing something mildly embarrassing rather than collapsing in a stranger's yard.
"Yeah," his voice was rough but steady. "I hear you."
Chan blinked, thrown off by the ease in the man's tone. "Are you hurt?"
"A little." A pause. Then, almost thoughtful: "Probably looks worse than it is."
Chan reached out instinctively, then stopped himself just short of contact. "Do you know where you are?"
The young man lifted his head, eyes flicking past Chan toward the house behind him. The porch light. The open door.
"Your yard." It wasn't a question. It was a bland statement lined with just the merest hint of mirth.
Something cold and electric slid down Chan's spine. He told himself it was nothing—just fatigue. Just nerves.
"And before that?" He pressed gently.
The younger shrugged, rainwater dripping from his hair. "Walking."
"That's it?"
Another soft laugh. This one quieter. Closer.
"I might've taken a wrong turn."
The smile that followed wasn't hollow. Wasn't desperate. But rather—curious.
Chan swallowed. He'd spent years listening to what people didn't say. But this man—he wasn't hiding behind silence; he was choosing it.
"Come on," Chan said at last, nodding toward the house. "Let's get you inside."
The young man studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Sure," he shifted, tone still easy but unable to hide a slight grimace when he did so. "Couldn't hurt."
Chan offered the man a hand, and—to his surprise—he took it, allowing Chan to take his arm and help him up the steps.
Inside the house was dim and quiet, lit only by a few lamps that cast everything in a soft, golden glow. Sparse furniture. Too many books. Too little evidence of a life lived outside its walls.
Chan offered the young man a towel, then some dry clothes, and watched him make his way down the hall without bothering to ask where the bathroom was—moving through the space as if he'd already decided it was allowed.
"What's your name?" Chan asked when he returned.
A pause.
"Jeongin."
Just that. Chan didn't push.
Instead—despite the heat—he made tea. Habit, maybe. Or instinct. Either way, Jeongin accepted the mug, wrapping his hands around it as if he were testing the warmth rather than needing it.
Rain intensified against the now closed windows. Steady. Loud.
"You always do this?" Jeongin asked casually.
Chan glanced up from his place on the chair across from Jeongin on the couch. "Do what?"
"Let strangers in." A faint smile tugged at Jeongin's lips. "You're not worried I might be dangerous?"
The question landed between them, sharp and quiet.
Chan held his gaze. "Should I be?"
Jeongin hummed, considering. Then he shrugged. "Probably not." He took a sip of his tea.
Chan tried again. "Is there someone I can call for you?"
"No."
A beat.
"Should I call someone?"
Jeongin looked at him over the rim of his mug, eyes unreadable. "No."
Chan nodded. He told himself it was enough. That should've been the end of it.
But Jeongin didn't move. Didn't ask to leave. Didn't look like he was in a hurry to go anywhere at all.
So, Chan sat across from him, sermon forgotten, watching steam curl between them and wondering when the storm had shifted from outside the house to somewhere much closer.
He must have fallen asleep at some point because the next thing he knew, it was morning and the couch was empty. the towel neatly folded. Mug washed and set on the drying rack.
And Chan—Chan found himself standing at the window longer than necessary, eyes drifting toward the tree line, a strange, unwelcome thought looping through his mind:
Will he come back?