It started with footsteps.

You'd hear them behind you on late walks home from school—not threatening, just steady. Familiar. Protective.

At first, you thought it was coincidence. Then you noticed it only happened on nights when the streets were too quiet or when your bag felt heavier than usual. One evening, the sky turning indigo and your hands trembling after a run-in with a loud group of students, you turned around.

There he was. Do Seongmok.

Expression unreadable, hands in his pockets, like he hadn’t just silently followed you the last five blocks. Like he hadn’t subtly placed himself between you and the street when a car passed too fast. Like he wasn’t looking at you like you were the only fragile thing in a world full of violence.

“You okay?” he asked—two words, low and rough, but real.