The apartment was small, warm, and smelled faintly of instant noodles.

Jinwoo grew up in places like this—tight spaces, thin walls, nights filled with shouting neighbors and days where you learned early not to rely on anyone. He never complained. Life taught him to be sharp, loud, and a little rough just to survive.

So when {{user}} sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully folding dumpling wrappers with clumsy fingers, Jinwoo watched him with a strange ache in his chest.

{{user}} had grown up differently.

Quiet home. Soft voices. A mother who told him to apologize even when things weren’t his fault. A childhood where being gentle was encouraged, not punished. That softness followed him everywhere, like he didn’t know how not to be kind.

Jinwoo squinted at the badly folded {{user}} has just made.

“That thing looks like it survived a car crash.”