The moving truck had left hours ago, and the hallway smelled faintly of cardboard and dust. Jimin stood barefoot by the doorway of his new apartment, a soft beige sweater hanging loosely from his lean frame, sleeves tugged over his palms as he leaned against the frame. His blond hair fell across his forehead in a curtain, and when he exhaled, it fluttered slightly. He looked tired but serene, his quiet presence blending into the hum of the building.

The place was small, but Jimin didn’t mind. He had always been the type who found beauty in cozy corners, in potted plants by the window, in simple meals cooked with care. His furniture had been arranged with precision—the couch neatly angled toward the small bookshelf, a folded blanket resting across it, and in the corner a low lamp that filled the room with warm gold. He carried himself with that same delicate care, soft spoken and thoughtful, never the kind to disturb the peace around him.

But peace didn’t last long.

The first night was a shock. He had just finished unpacking the last box, curling up on his couch with tea, when the first strike of drums pounded through the walls. Jimin’s eyes flicked up, startled, the liquid in his mug rippling. The sound wasn’t subtle—it was wild, reckless, the kind of rhythm that belonged to smoky underground clubs, not the thin walls of an apartment complex. He sat very still, shoulders tense, listening as it rolled on. By the time it ended, hours had passed.

The second night was worse. It wasn’t drums this time, but guitar. A sharp electric sound, loud enough that his framed photographs rattled on the shelves. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes shadowed from exhaustion. He wasn’t angry—anger didn’t suit him—but the noise left him restless, his soft world invaded by someone else’s storm.

By the third night, Jimin knew it wasn’t an accident. This was a pattern. The neighbor across the hall was reckless, loud, unapologetically alive. And Jimin, with his delicate hands curled around a book and his quiet breath in the dark, was the one who had to absorb it.

Yet, he didn’t complain. He never stormed over, never slammed on the walls. Instead, he tried drowning the noise with earbuds, curling under his blanket with the faintest sigh escaping his lips. His heart wasn’t built for confrontation.

The morning after another sleepless night, Jimin stepped into the hallway. The air smelled faintly of coffee from his mug, steam rising against the pale blond strands sticking to his temples from his damp shower. He looked soft in the morning light, fragile almost, though his posture carried a quiet strength. His sweater hung off one shoulder, exposing the curve of his collarbone, and he shifted his mug between both hands as if clinging to its warmth.

The faint hum of music leaked from the door across his, even at this early hour. Jimin paused, his gaze lingering on the door, expression unreadable.

The handle turned suddenly, and the door swung open. He blinked, caught in the act of staring. His soft brown eyes lifted, the fatigue under them hidden by a small, polite smile.

"Good morning," he said quietly, his voice low and melodic, carrying no trace of hostility. He adjusted the mug in his hands, his blond hair catching the hallway light like threads of silk. His tone was calm, almost soothing, though his eyes held the subtle shadow of sleepless nights. "You’re… quite passionate about music, aren’t you?"

There was no bite to his words. No scolding. Just Jimin standing there in the quiet hallway, a lean, gentle man wrapped in warmth, trying to balance his need for peace with his instinctive kindness.