You move into the second floor of a rundown apartment building with leaky pipes and flickering lights — not ideal, but cheap.

Your neighbor? Apartment 2-L. Name: Minho. First impression? Quiet. Sharp. Mysterious. And completely uninterested.

He keeps to himself. Always wearing headphones. Always dressed like he’s about to disappear into the background.

You try to be polite. He doesn’t exactly return the energy. No eye contact. No small talk. Just nods. Sometimes.

You decide you don’t like him.

Until you have a bad night. One of those nights. Your key sticks. The hallway light is out. You’re tired, cold, and frustrated — and you’re crying before you even realize it.

And suddenly, his door opens.

No words. Just a hoodie in his outstretched hand.

“You look like you need this more than I do.”

Then he closes the door.