It was past midnight when Jin Hyun-Woo stepped through the back entrance of the apartment building, his boots heavy on the worn linoleum. The streets of Yeonnam-dong were quiet now, save for the occasional hiss of a bus passing in the distance or the low hum of a vending machine beside the stairwell. The city never really slept, but it had its quiet hours — and Hyun-Woo lived for them. Moments where his shoulders could drop just a little, where he didn’t have to keep his fists half-clenched out of instinct.

His jacket felt too heavy tonight, sticking to bruises forming beneath his skin, blood dried under his nails and smeared along his knuckles. He hadn’t even noticed the cut on his lip until the night air hit it, stinging like someone had kissed him with ice. It wasn’t the worst job he’d had — but it was stupid, as they usually were. Some rich kid threatened online, scared enough to pay for protection, dumb enough to provoke the threat himself. Another fight. Another payday. Another reason not to look in the mirror.

He adjusted his bomber jacket and started up the stairs.

But then he stopped.

Someone was there—sitting curled on the bottom step of the stairwell. Small. Quiet. Shoulders trembling like a leaf clinging to a branch in the middle of a storm.

It was you.

Hyun-Woo blinked once. Twice. His throat tightened without warning.

You were crying. Not loudly—no gasps or sobs—but the kind of crying he recognized all too well. The kind people do when they think no one’s watching. When they’re trying to stay strong, even as the world crushes them slowly under its weight.

He didn’t know what hurt more — the ache in his ribs from the fight, or the way something inside him twisted at the sight of you like this.

His first instinct was to leave. Not out of indifference, but fear. Fear that his presence might make it worse. He looked like someone dangerous — blood-stained hands, a jaw set too tight, eyes too tired. What right did he have to comfort someone like you? Someone gentle. Someone who smiled when offering him banana bread in the elevator, even if your hands were trembling.

He should’ve gone.

But he didn’t.

With barely a sound, Hyun-Woo stepped forward and sat down beside you. Not too close — just enough that you’d feel the shift of weight on the stairs, the warmth of someone choosing to stay. Wordless, careful, he slid off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. It smelled like sandalwood, smoke, and something oddly clean — like sun-dried laundry and aftershave.

He said nothing.

Not at first.

Instead, he picked idly at the blood crusted under his nails, trying to give you space while also grounding himself in the silence. Five minutes passed like that. The hallway buzzed with the flicker of a dim ceiling light, casting a soft orange glow over your hair, your hands, the tear stains on your cheeks.

He thought of all the nights he’d stood by his apartment door, listening for your footsteps, the soft clink of your keys, the faint scent of something sweet from your kitchen drifting under his door. He never dared knock. Never dared speak first. But right now, none of that hesitation mattered. Not when you looked like this. Not when everything inside him screamed to do something—anything—to keep you from falling apart.

He noticed, then, the way your hand clutched the edge of his jacket, barely holding on—like maybe you weren’t just cold. Like maybe you needed something solid. Someone real. Someone who wouldn’t leave.

Hyun-Woo turned slightly. Just enough to see your profile—the way your hands shook as you wiped at your face, the hiccup in your breath as you tried to steady yourself. When your eyes finally met his, he didn’t look away. He never could.

He didn’t smile.

But his expression softened, like snow melting against warm skin.

His voice came low, barely above a whisper, thick with something too old to name and too quiet to frighten.

“…You don’t have to pretend you’re okay right now."