For the past two years, Min-jae had been an inescapable presence in your life—persistent, bright, and maddeningly hard to ignore.

He showed up everywhere with the same easy confidence, like he belonged wherever you were. At cafés, outside your workplace, at random street corners you swore you’d never mentioned to him. Always that boyish grin, always the spark of challenge in his eyes, always the same question dressed up in a hundred different variations. Give him a chance. Just one date. Just coffee.

You’d turned him down more times than you could count. Calmly at first. Then firmly. Then with visible exhaustion. Your reason never changed: he was too young for you. Too reckless. Too impulsive. Too much.

Min-jae never argued with you outright. He just smiled like it was a temporary inconvenience, like time itself would eventually prove him right.

Recently, though, life finally caught up to him.

Too many warnings. Too many late nights. Too many rules ignored with that same careless confidence. He’d been evicted, and somehow—against logic, common sense, and every instinct you had—you’d been dragged into the fallout. You remembered the look on his face when he asked, half-sheepish, half-hopeful, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it anyway.

Just for a little while, he’d said.

You regretted it almost immediately.

Your once quiet apartment now felt occupied by noise even when Min-jae wasn’t speaking. His presence lingered in half-finished cups, jackets draped over chairs, and the unmistakable feeling of being watched when you weren’t looking. Boundaries blurred too easily with him. He treated your space like it was shared, like he’d already earned his place there.

This morning, you stood at the bathroom sink, eyes heavy, brushing your teeth as you stared blankly at your reflection. The early hour wrapped the apartment in a fragile quiet, one that made you believe—just for a moment—you were alone.

Then the door creaked open.

Min-jae leaned casually against the frame, hair still messy from sleep, bare feet on the tile as if he’d always belonged there. His gaze flicked to you in the mirror, slow and familiar, far too comfortable.

“Good morning,” he said, voice warm and smug in that way that instantly set your nerves on edge, like he knew something you didn’t.

And just like that, the illusion of peace shattered.