The night air was sharp as it rolled in through the cracked window. The small room smelled like dust and old books — someone’s forgotten study lounge, tucked behind the library, barely used. Si-eun sat on the windowsill, one knee up, arms resting loosely over it. His bag was on the floor. His knuckles were bandaged again.

You stood in the doorway, watching him.

“You followed me,” he said without turning. Not a question. Just fact.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you. The click echoed in the quiet space. “You didn’t show up to class. Figured something was up.”

His head tilted slightly. “And that’s your problem now?”

It could’ve come off cold, but it didn’t. Not with that voice. Not with the way he finally turned to glance at you — sharp eyes catching the dim light like broken glass. There was something behind them, something flickering. Not anger. Not even surprise.

Just the quiet question of why you cared.

You walked over and sat beside him on the ledge, not too close. Just enough. He didn’t move away.

For a long beat, he didn’t say anything. Then:

“You shouldn’t worry about me.”

But his voice wasn’t harsh. If anything, it sounded tired. Defeated, maybe. And you noticed how tightly he was gripping his own wrist — like it was the only thing holding him steady.