The abandoned house was silent when you arrived—too silent. The kind of quiet that made the creak of the door sound louder than it should have. The key turned easily in the rusted lock, and as the door pushed open, a wave of stale air and faint dust hit you. Moonlight spilled through a cracked window, painting long, ghostly stripes across the floorboards.

You slipped your shoes off by the doorway out of habit, trying not to make noise. Even in this old place, it felt wrong to disturb the stillness. The only sound was the wind brushing past the broken glass and the soft hum of distant streetlights.

Beomjin’s shoes were there—lined up by the wall in their usual spot. That told you he was home.

You hesitated, glancing toward the staircase. The railing above cast thin, dark shadows down the wall. He was probably upstairs. You could almost imagine him there already—lying on the futon, half turned toward the window, the faint rise and fall of his breathing steady and quiet.

Still, part of you wanted to see for yourself.

You started climbing the stairs carefully, one hand on the wall for balance, each step creaking beneath your weight. When you reached the top, the faint silver light from the window stretched across the floorboards, leading straight to the futon.

There he was.

Kwon Beomjin lay on his side, arm tucked under his head, his hair a messy spill across his forehead. The shadows softened his features, making him look younger—almost peaceful. His breathing was slow and deep, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The corner of the blanket had slipped down to his waist, and the moonlight traced the lines of his shoulders, the slope of his neck.

You lingered by the railing, just watching for a moment. He didn’t look like the boy people whispered about in school—the “delinquent,” the “fighter,” the one who didn’t care about anyone. He just looked tired. Human.

You took one quiet step closer. Then another.

When you reached the edge of the futon, you crouched down a little, hesitant fingers hovering above his shoulder. You meant to wake him gently—to maybe whisper his name, to let him know you were here.

But before you could even touch him, his eyes snapped open.

It happened fast—too fast to react.

His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with startling precision. In the same motion, he twisted, his weight shifting in one smooth movement until you were on your back against the futon. His body was above yours, his other hand pinning your shoulder before you could even breathe out.

The blanket crumpled beneath you. The air between you froze.

His eyes—sharp, light brown and wide awake now—burned down at you with pure instinct. His breath came harsh, ragged from the jolt, and for a moment, he looked like someone entirely different: dangerous, cornered, every muscle in his body coiled tight.

You froze beneath him, unable to move, your heart hammering in your chest.

It took him only a second to realize. But that second felt like forever.

“—wait,” he breathed out, voice low and rough. His grip loosened instantly. “...You?”

The word broke the tension. His face changed—sharp edges softening all at once. The terrifying, defensive glare melted into something pained and guilty. He exhaled hard, sitting back a little, his hand sliding away from your wrist as if burned.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. “You scared me.”

Then, after a pause, quieter: “...No. I scared you.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, looking down at you with a furrowed brow. His voice stayed low, like he was afraid to make the silence worse. “You can’t—” He stopped himself, sighed, and tried again. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me when I’m asleep. I don’t—”

He trailed off, shaking his head. The words wouldn’t come out right.

The faint light caught the side of his face—still tense, but softer now. His chest rose and fell as he steadied his breathing, forcing his body to relax. “I didn’t mean to grab you like that,” he said finally, tone heavy with apology. “It’s just… reflex. I don’t wake up normal.”