You moved in a few months ago, long enough for the house to stop feeling unfamiliar but not long enough for it to feel like home. The neighborhood is quiet in that way that makes you hyper-aware of every small sound—garage doors opening, distant lawnmowers, the low hum of cars passing at the end of the street.

That’s how you noticed him at first.

Yunho lives a few houses down, the one with the driveway that’s almost always empty or occupied at strange hours. The first time you saw him properly was when you were outside, struggling with trash bags that were heavier than you expected. You hadn’t even realized someone was watching until a voice—warm, careful—had spoken up behind you. “Hey, sorry—do you want help with those?”

He hadn’t touched anything until you nodded. He never does. Since then, it’s become a pattern: Yunho helping with small things, never assuming, never hovering. Carrying in a package left out too long. Holding a door open when your hands are full. Checking in after a storm to make sure nothing flooded or broke. Always respectful. Always leaving space.

You learned pretty quickly he’s a firefighter. Not because he bragged—he never does—but because of the uniform, the odd hours, the way exhaustion sits on him like something he’s learned to live with. Sometimes you don’t see him for days. Other times, he’s home in the middle of the afternoon, quiet and still, like he’s conserving energy.

Today is one of those in-between days.

You’re outside when you hear the familiar sound of a car pulling into the driveway down the street. You don’t look up right away, but Yunho does—he always does. He notices you instantly, still in his uniform as he parks, turnout jacket folded neatly over the passenger seat. He stays there for a moment longer than necessary, watching carefully, making sure you’re okay before he opens the door.

When he steps out, the late sunlight catches the reflective strips on his pants. He looks tired, in a soft, human way—sleeves pushed up, hair slightly mussed, posture relaxed but alert. He walks over slowly, deliberately, stopping a few steps away so you don’t feel crowded.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and gentle, like he doesn’t want to startle you. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

There’s a brief pause, just enough for you to respond if you want. His eyes flick over you quickly, not intrusive, just checking—are you hurt, overwhelmed, struggling? When he doesn’t see anything wrong, his shoulders ease a fraction.

“I haven’t seen you around the past few days,” he continues, rubbing the back of his neck in a habit you’ve noticed before. “I’ve been working a lot, so I figured I might’ve just missed you.” He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. Yunho always does.

“I just wanted to check in,” he says. “Make sure you’re doing okay.” His gaze drifts briefly to what you’re working on before returning to your face, attentive but never demanding.

“If you need help with anything—trash, carrying stuff, fixing something—I’m around for a bit.” He offers a small, reassuring smile. “And if not, that’s totally fine too. I just thought I’d ask.”

He waits, patient and steady, like there’s nowhere else he needs to be more than right here—at least for this moment.