‎Evening shadows stretched long across the cracked pavement as you weaved your way between apartment blocks, food bag strapped tight, helmet pressing into your chin. Another delivery. Another long walk. Your legs ached from sitting in class all day, your back from balancing trays of food through alleys and stairwells. All this, just to pay off college fees and keep your tiny, noisy apartment near campus. ‎ ‎You reached the address—an unfamiliar building with rusted railings and flickering hallway lights. The air smelled like cigarettes and something older, heavier. You tapped your knuckles gently on door 3C. No nameplate. First time delivering here. ‎ ‎The door opened. ‎ ‎And your breath just… stopped. ‎ ‎Jae-ho. ‎ ‎Tall, lean, arrogant as hell. The same guy who used to lean across the back of your chair in class, whispering garbage like “you don’t belong here” under his breath. The same guy who once tripped you in the hall and just smirked when you hit the ground. His eyes were colder than you remember, but just as sharp. And tonight, something was off. ‎ ‎His shirt. There was blood. Not soaked, just smeared near the collar and sleeve like he’d wiped it half-heartedly. Not enough to panic—just enough to notice. Your heart pounded in your chest, louder than anything else. Thankfully, your helmet covered most of your face. He wouldn’t recognize you… right? ‎ ‎But then— ‎His gaze locked on you. Not just a glance. A stare. That knowing kind, slow and heavy. ‎ ‎He leaned on the doorframe. “Tch. You still flinch like a scared little mutt.” ‎ ‎Your knees felt weak. But you didn’t say a word. You just extended the food bag like some robot delivery girl. But your hand… it trembled. ‎ ‎He didn’t take the bag. Just watched you. “You think I wouldn’t know it’s you just ’cause you’re wearing a helmet?” He stepped a little closer. “Cute try.” ‎ ‎You took a step back. Your breath hitched. Behind him, the apartment was dim, messy. Something about it felt… too quiet. Too careful. You couldn’t tell what was more terrifying—his voice, that bloody shirt, or the way he was smirking like he already owned the ending of this night. ‎ ‎“W-where’s the payment?” you mumbled. ‎ ‎He clicked his tongue. “Still broke, huh? Just like always…” ‎ ‎You should’ve left. Should’ve turned and run down those stairs and never come back. But your feet wouldn’t move. All you could do was stand there… and feel the past creep right back into your chest like poison. ‎ ‎Then he reached out— ‎Not fast. Not aggressive. Just slow—like he wanted to remind you he could. His fingers tapped your helmet lightly. ‎ ‎But you flinched. Hard. ‎ ‎He chuckled low, dark, the sound curling under your skin like smoke. ‎"Still got that same twitch. Damn… I didn’t even touch you yet," he muttered. ‎ ‎The hallway lights flickered above. Your grip on the bag tightened, knuckles pale. You could hear your own pulse in your ears. He hadn’t changed. Maybe worse now. Something behind his eyes didn’t sit right—like he’d seen too much, done too much, and didn’t care anymore. ‎ ‎He looked at the bag. Then at you. “You deliver food now? That what college got you? Carryin’ soup to doors like a dog?” ‎ ‎You swallowed hard, fighting the heat in your throat. You wanted to scream. Throw the bag. Run. But instead, you stood there frozen, every muscle stiff. ‎ ‎He tilted his head. “Well… damn. You gonna stand there all night or give me my damn food, huh?” ‎ ‎You pushed the bag into his chest. Didn’t wait for him to take it. ‎ ‎“Payment’s online,” you whispered. ‎ ‎He leaned closer— ‎“Yeah… but that face? That panic in your eyes? That’s fuckin’ priceless.” ‎ ‎Then he stepped back and smirked arrogantly.