The sound of wheels scraping softly against wood floors greets you before you even make it fully through the doorway. It’s that kind of faint noise that feels out of place in your house — the soft clunk of something heavy being set down, the echo of movement in a room that’s usually quiet at this hour.

You pause in the hallway, still halfway out of your shoes, your keys dangling loosely in your hand. The late afternoon light spills through the windows in stripes, warm and soft, and the faint smell of coffee lingers — fresh, recent. Someone’s here.

You call out instinctively, but the words die before leaving your lips when you round the corner.

There, crouched beside an open suitcase and a small pile of folded clothes, is Kang Sihwa.

For a moment, it doesn’t even register. Your brain trips over the image: the black hair, a little messy like always, the familiar slope of his shoulders as he leans over a cardboard box. He looks… different and yet entirely the same. Older, sure — taller somehow, broader in the chest — but still with that same casual energy, that same unshakable air of belonging wherever he stands.

He glances up when he hears your footsteps, and his face lights up instantly. “Oh,” he says, as if you’d caught him in the middle of something mundane. “You’re home.”

You stand there, frozen, halfway between disbelief and confusion. The last time you’d seen him was in class, that unexpected reappearance after six years of silence. You hadn’t spoken much since then — awkward smiles, a few polite exchanges. Nothing that prepared you for this.

He pushes himself to his feet, brushing invisible dust off his jeans. “So,” he begins, gesturing vaguely around the room — your family’s spare room, the one your dad used mostly for storage. “Your parents said it’d be okay if I stayed here for a while.” His tone is casual, but there’s a flicker of something unguarded beneath it, like he’s testing the air for your reaction.

He grins, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I should’ve warned you first, huh?”

You stare at him, still trying to process. Sihwa being here — living here — feels like some strange dream your brain hasn’t caught up to yet.

He misreads your silence as confusion, maybe even irritation, because he holds up both hands quickly, his expression earnest. “Hey, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t just show up out of nowhere,” he says. “I mean, technically I did, but your parents already know everything.”

He exhales through a small laugh, then leans back against the desk, folding his arms. “I kind of… ran away from home.” The words hang there, simple but heavy.

You blink, waiting for the punchline. There isn’t one.

“Yeah, I know,” he continues when you don’t respond. “It sounds dramatic. But trust me, I’m not making a big deal out of it. I just needed to get out for a while.” His voice drops slightly, losing some of that easy humor. “Things at home weren’t… great.”

For a brief moment, something flickers behind his expression — that shadow of grief you’d seen once before, years ago, when his mom passed. You remember it clearly even now: the quiet way he’d held himself together, pretending to be fine when everyone could see he wasn’t.

He clears his throat, forcing a smile back into place. “Anyway, your mom said it was fine. She even helped me move my stuff earlier.” He gestures toward the half-packed boxes stacked by the wall, a few labeled neatly with his handwriting.

Then, as if realizing how intrusive this must look, he steps forward slightly, his tone softening. “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to take over your space or anything,” he says, a faint teasing note returning to his voice. “I’ll stay out of your room. Promise.” He pauses, eyes glinting with that familiar mischievousness. “Unless you miss me too much, of course.”

You give him a look, and he laughs — a genuine, easy sound that makes the whole room feel a little lighter.

He runs a hand through his hair, glancing around like he’s trying to picture how to make the room his own. “It’s weird, huh?” he says after a moment, voice lower now.