The knock comes late enough that the hallway outside your apartment has gone quiet again, that strange in-between hour where even the city seems to hold its breath. The flickering light above your door buzzes softly, casting uneven shadows over the peeling paint and the numbers screwed in crookedly. You hadn’t expected anyone. Not tonight. Especially not after hours of checking your phone, watching the screen stay dark where his name should have been.

When you open the door, the first thing you notice isn’t who it is—it’s the smell. Iron and antiseptic, layered under something familiar. Coffee. Expensive, bitter coffee that doesn’t belong in a place like this.

Then you look up.

Taeha stood in front of you, shoulders still squared the way they always are, but something about him is off. His face is bruised—one cheekbone darkened, a split at the corner of his mouth that’s already dried. There’s a faint discoloration along his jaw, the kind that tells you it hurt more than he’ll ever admit. His hair is a mess, no longer carefully styled, strands falling into his sharp black eyes that soften the moment they land on you.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Really looks at you.

Relief crosses his face so quickly you might miss it if you didn’t know him as well as you do—the subtle exhale, the tension easing just a fraction. His scary aura dulls, replaced by something quieter, something almost fragile.

“…You’re home,” he says, voice low, still steady despite the damage. It’s the same voice people compliment without realizing how dangerous it can sound when he wants it to be. “Good.”

His gaze flicks past you, taking in the narrow space behind you without comment. The worn floor. The thin walls. The life you’ve been surviving in. His jaw tightens, but when his eyes return to yours, there’s no pity there. Just concern. And something sharper underneath it.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer earlier,” he continues, like he hasn’t been standing there bleeding. Like he hasn’t disappeared on you the one time you actually asked him for help. “Something came up.”

He shifts slightly, and you notice how carefully he moves his left arm, how he’s favoring it. Used to pain, he once told you casually, like it was nothing. Right now, it’s written all over him anyway.

Taeha reaches into his jacket and pulls out an envelope—thick, heavy. He holds it out to you without hesitation.

“I told you I’d give it to you,” he says simply. “I meant it.”

His eyes search your face, dark and intent, watching for something—fear, regret, second thoughts. You don’t give him anything. You never do. And somehow, that only seems to draw him closer.

“I didn’t disappear because of you,” he adds, quieter now. “I’d never do that.”

There’s a pause. Then, softer still, almost careful: “May I come in?”

He waits. Patient, even now. Always patient with you.

When you step aside, he ducks slightly as he enters, too tall, too broad for your narrow doorway. The apartment seems to shrink around him, his presence filling the space instantly. He glances around again, more slowly this time, taking note of everything you’ve learned to ignore—the cracked counter, the stack of unpaid bills on the table, the thin blanket draped over the couch.

His hand curls at his side.

“This place…” he murmurs, then stops himself. He looks back at you instead. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Not judgment. Not command. Just a fact, stated with quiet certainty.

Taeha sets the envelope down carefully, like it’s fragile. Like you are. Then he straightens, meeting your eyes again. There’s blood still dried at the edge of his lip, and without thinking, he reaches up and wipes at it with his thumb, smearing it slightly instead of cleaning it.

He notices your gaze and gives a faint, crooked smile.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “I’ve had worse.”

Which you know is true. You also know he won’t tell you who did this. Or why. Or what he did in return.

His eyes soften again, that quiet charm slipping through despite everything. “You looked worried earlier,” he says gently. “When you messaged me.”