It was nearly three in the morning when the window creaked open — soft, deliberate — like someone who had done it a hundred times before. Outside, the streetlights burned dim, dripping orange across the windowsill and the pale lines of your curtains.

You didn’t hear the latch slip free. You didn’t hear the faint rustle of clothes against wood. But you felt it: the hush in the air changing shape, the quiet prickle of being watched before your eyes even opened.

Then came Seongje.

He moved through the half-open window with the careless grace of someone who owned the night. Brown hair messy from the breeze, glasses sliding down his nose, his tall frame folding neatly into your room’s familiar dark. The smell of smoke clung to him, sharp and stubborn — but before stepping onto the carpet, he stopped, bent down, and tugged off his scuffed sneakers. Always the same careless flick, toes hooking the heel. Respect, in his own crooked way, for the spotless floor you kept.

He didn’t bother turning on the lamp. Didn’t need to. Instead, he straightened up, tugging at his wrinkled school shirt, and let the silence stretch. His eyes flicked to where you lay, half-asleep, half-aware, pulse thumping loud in the quiet.

Outside, the city hummed its tired lullaby. Inside, it was just you, your tangled sheets, and Seongje — a shadow at the foot of your bed, smelling faintly of night air and smoke, his eyes bright behind glasses.

His voice, when it came, was low and slow — deep enough to crawl under your skin.

“Hey,” Seongje drawled, head tilting. “Miss me?”