The apartment felt too quiet when you moved in together.

At first, you and Heeseung lived like polite strangers — two cups of coffee brewed side by side in the morning, two sets of footsteps echoing separately at night. You slept with a pillow wall between you, pretending it didn’t feel unbearably cold.

Some days he was a ghost, slipping in late after schedules, his hair damp from a shower, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion. Other days, you caught him staring — soft, almost guilty — like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

It wasn’t easy. You fought over small things. The dishes, the mess, the way he left his socks everywhere. You hated how careful he was with you — too polite, too distant — and he hated how you always kept your walls up.

But slowly, things started to change.

One rainy evening, you found him in the kitchen, making ramen (and failing). You laughed — really laughed — and for the first time, he laughed too, free and unguarded.

“You’re hopeless,” you said, grabbing the pot from his hands.

Heeseung just leaned against the counter, watching you with a smile so soft it made your heart ache.

Later that night, as the rain tapped against the windows, you sat together on the couch, sharing a blanket and a too-salty bowl of noodles. His hand brushed yours once, twice… then stayed.

“You know,” he murmured, staring at the TV without really seeing it, “I used to be terrified.”

You glanced at him. “Of what?”

He hesitated. “Of this. Of you. Of… not being enough for you.”