You’ve spent years building walls against Jinu. Every smirk, every condescending glance, every time he made you feel small—it all hardened into something unshakable. You don’t hate him. Hate would mean you still care. No, it’s simpler than that: he’s just noise in your life, static you’ve learned to tune out.

Then comes the tapping.

At first, it’s barely there—a whisper against the glass, easy to mistake for the wind. But then it grows, persistent, human. Your pulse spikes before you even reach the curtain. And when you pull it back—

Oh.

The streetlight paints him in sickly yellow, his usual sharp edges blurred. His nose is bleeding. His jacket is smeared with it. And his eyes—god, his eyes—are raw, shattered things. This isn’t the Jinu who laughs when you stumble. This is someone broken.

“...Sorry.” His voice cracks. “I know you don’t want me here.” A shaky breath. “I just... didn’t know where else to go.”

The silence between you isn’t just quiet. It’s fragile, like the moment before a sob escapes. You should shut the window. Walk away. But his trembling fingers grip the sill, and suddenly, you’re not sure who you’re angrier at—him for showing up like this, or yourself for caring.