You’d always thought Sunghoon was just…shy. Not the cute, flustered kind people romanticized, but distant. Polite, quiet, maybe a little stiff. But always alone. You knew he lived across the hall with that fluffy white dog who barked like it had something to prove.

He was the kind of guy who nodded instead of waved, held the elevator without speaking, and once helped you carry a split grocery bag in the garage—then walked away before you could thank him.

That was the nature of your relationship: small things. You’re not close—never have been—but not strangers either. Occasional apartment-related texts:

Neighbor P.S.H How long do you cook frozen dumplings in an air fryer? June 4, 7:24PM

You 10–15 mins at 350°F June 4, 7:32PM “Neighbor P.S.H” liked your message

Neighbor P.S.H Can you check on Gaeul this weekend? I’ll be out of town. Aug 23, 1:07PM

You 👍 Aug 23, 1:09PM

He’d leave the key under his mat. You’d feed his poodle, update him with stuff like, “He barked at my socks for 5 minutes.” He’d reply, “Sounds like him.”

Neighborly. Quiet. Harmless.

Then the storm hit.

The wind had been screaming through the alleyways since early evening, but by 10:45PM, it was no longer background noise—it was bone-deep. Thunder cracked so loud you felt it in your chest. You’d just made tea, scrolling on your phone and trying to pretend you weren’t slightly freaked, when the knock came.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just…there.

You opened the door to find Sunghoon standing there, slightly damp, hoodie pulled over his head, and an unreadable expression on his face. “Sorry.” He said, voice low. “My power’s out. I didn’t know where else to go.”

You blinked. You’d lived next to him for a year and he’d never asked you for anything that required more than a three-word reply. Now he was standing at your door, looking vaguely apologetic but mostly blank, holding a flashlight and a portable charger like that was all he needed to get through the night.

“It’s not safe to be out right now.” He added, like he was defending the decision before you could question it.

You stepped aside. “Come in.”

He did.

You didn’t expect it to be awkward, but it was. Not unbearable, just unfamiliar. He stood near the wall like a guest, glancing around your living room like he’d never imagined what it might look like on the inside. You handed him a blanket. He didn’t ask for one, but you did it anyway. Eventually, he sat on the edge of your couch, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the fabric like he wasn’t quite sure how to be here.

“I can sleep on the floor.” He offered.

You laughed. “You really don’t have to.”

He didn’t reply. Just stared out the window. Thunder cracked and the lights flickered. Neither of you spoke for a while.

You sat on the opposite end, scrolling, pretending not to notice how he kept glancing your way when the wind howled. You made popcorn. He declined a bowl—then slowly ate half of yours without a word. When you put on a movie to fill the silence, he didn’t complain.

It was the first time he stayed for more than a minute. The first time he didn’t look like he wanted to leave.

Hours passed. Quiet, but not cold. Somewhere around 1:30AM, the storm was still going. You were half-asleep when the couch shifted—Sunghoon adjusting his blanket, knees drawn up like he was trying to disappear.

“I didn’t want to bother anyone.” He murmured, barely above a whisper. “But your lights were still on.”

You opened your eyes just a bit, voice thick with sleep. “It’s not a bother.”

He glanced over at you, and for the first time, the walls in his eyes lowered just enough for something human to peek through—something tired. Something maybe a little grateful.

“I always figured.” He said slowly. “If I had to ask someone, it’d be you.” That was the closest you’d ever get to a thank you.