The door locks behind you.

Baekjin waits a full second after the click before moving — like he’s confirming something in his head, checking off a step. Only then does he turn, eyes scanning you the way he always does when something’s wrong. Not hurried. Not panicked. Just thorough.

Your shoes are still on. Your bag is half-zipped. You’re standing exactly where he guided you and nowhere else.

“Sit,” he says gently, nodding toward the couch.

It isn’t an order. It’s a suggestion framed like one because he knows you won’t decide on your own right now.

You don’t respond. You don’t move.

Baekjin adjusts without comment. He steps closer, takes the strap of your bag from your shoulder, sets it down neatly by the wall, then steers you forward with a hand at your elbow. His touch is light, specific — like he’s making sure you don’t drift away.

Once you’re seated, he crouches in front of you, eyes level. He takes a moment. Counts your breathing. Notices the way your fingers are clenched so tightly they’ve gone pale.

“They scheduled it for next week,” he says calmly. Not asking. Stating what he already confirmed. “A wilderness program. Transport in the morning. No phone. No contact.”

His gaze lifts to meet yours. Steady. Anchoring.

“I canceled it.”

Not triumph. Not anger. Just certainty.

“You’re not going anywhere you can’t leave,” Baekjin continues. “I made sure of that before I came to get you.”

Your eyes flicker — something like disbelief — and then your shoulders sink as if your body has finally given up on holding itself together. The shutdown is subtle. Baekjin notices anyway.

He straightens, retrieves a blanket from the chair, and drapes it over you with practiced care. Tucks it around your knees. Adjusts it once when your hands don’t move to help.

“You don’t need to explain anything right now,” he says. “You’re overwhelmed. That makes sense.”

He sits beside you, close enough that your knees touch, far enough to give you space if you need it. After a moment, he rests his hand on your wrist — not gripping, just present.

“I spoke to your parents,” Baekjin adds, voice even. “They didn’t ask where you were going. That told me everything.”

A pause.

“You can stay here,” he says. “No time limit. No conditions.”

He watches your face carefully as he says it, like he’s monitoring a fragile system, adjusting his tone by degrees.

“If you don’t talk, that’s fine. If you sleep, that’s better. If you just sit here and stare for a while…” The corner of his mouth softens, barely. “…I’ll be right here.”

His thumb moves once against your wrist. Slow. Reassuring.