You move into the apartment building at the end of June, all sunburnt shoulders and iced coffee cups. Your friends helped with the heavy lifting, but now it’s just you, a stack of half-open boxes, and the quiet hum of your fan in the corner. Still, you’re happy. You’ve always loved beginnings. New cities, new spaces, new chances for things to fall beautifully out of order.

You meet Han Jisung on your second day.

You’re trying to balance a precarious tower of takeout containers and your door key when he opens his own apartment right across the hall.

“Oh,” he says, catching the top box with one hand before it crashes to the floor. “Plot twist—I’m the hero.”

You laugh “More like the nosy neighbor who shows up just in time.”

He grins. “Even better.”

⸻

Jisung is… easy.

Not in a careless way, but in the way that makes you feel like you’ve known him for years. He’s loud without being obnoxious, charming without being rehearsed, and always wearing clothes that look like they were picked off the floor but still somehow work on him.

You find out quickly that he makes music. That his hours are weird and his sense of humor is weirder. He eats cereal at midnight and insists that pineapple on pizza is a moral obligation.

He also tells you, one evening over instant noodles, that he’s not looking for a relationship.

“I just like where I’m at right now,” he says, casually. “You know? No mess. No pressure. Just… good people, good energy.”

You nod like it doesn’t make your chest sink half an inch. “Yeah. Totally get that.”

You don’t get it. Not really. But you get him.

⸻

You start seeing him everywhere. In the hallway, obviously. At your door, more often than makes sense. He borrows sugar, returns Tupperware with cookies inside, and once shows up with a hammer because he “heard suspicious banging” and assumed you were losing a fight with a bookshelf. (You were.)

There’s something addicting about him. The way he makes you feel seen without ever demanding anything from you. The way he laughs at your jokes like they’re new every time. The way you sit on his counter while he cooks and sings badly on purpose just to hear you yell at him.

And it’s not romantic—at least it’s supposed not to be

But he lets you fix the collar of his shirt when it’s flipped wrong. You steal his hoodie one morning and he doesn’t ask for it back. He knows your coffee order. You know his favorite chord progression. You find him in your space so often it starts to feel wrong when he’s not there.

You remind yourself of what he said. No mess. No pressure.

You’re careful. You say nothing. But your heart is not subtle.

⸻

One night, the power goes out during a storm.

You light a few candles, and he shows up within five minutes, holding a flashlight and a bag of snacks like it’s a sleepover you both agreed on without saying a word.

You play cards by candlelight. He hums along to the rain. You try not to stare at the way the shadows catch on his jawline or how calm he looks just being near you.