JIAH POV
"You can stay here tonight. But only two rooms. You'll have to share one."
The words land slow.
Heavy.
Like they need time to sink their teeth into me properly.
I blink once.
Then again.
Share.
With Enhyeok.
My brain completely blue-screens.
I have to share a fucking room with Yu Enhyeok?
I look at him.
Like really look.
Like maybe I misheard and he's about to laugh and say this is a joke and there's actually a third room hidden behind the fridge or something.
He doesn't.
He just bows politely to the old lady. Deep. Respectful. Calm. Like this is a normal Tuesday night and not my personal nightmare unfolding in real time.
Of course he does.
"Thank you," he says evenly.
She nods, already turning toward the door. "Come inside. It's cold."
She walks in.
Enhyeok turns to me.
"Come on."
That's it.
No discussion. No hesitation. No acknowledgment that we are about to violate every unspoken rule of mutual hatred and personal space.
I just stand there, staring at him like he's grown another head.
What is he doing?
How is he so calm?
How can he just accept this like sharing a room with me isn't some kind of cosmic punishment?
I follow because apparently tonight I've lost all decision-making privileges.
The house is small. Old. Warm in a way that feels earned. The floors creak. The walls smell faintly like soap and smoke and something herbal. The light bulbs are dim, yellow, like they're tired too.
The old lady leads us down a narrow hallway and opens a door.
The room is… tiny.
One blanket. Thin mattress. A small wooden table. A single window with curtains that look older than my parents' marriage.
I stop walking.
That's it.
That's the room.
"I'll bring blankets and clothes," the old lady says cheerfully, like she just assigned us seats in class.
"Clothes?" I repeat before my brain can stop my mouth.
She pauses and looks at me. "Aren't you taking a bath?"
I stare at her.
A bath.
Right.
Of course.
Because tonight wasn't unhinged enough already.
I swallow. "I— I mean—"
"You'll catch cold if you don't," she says firmly. "And your uniform is dirty."
She's not wrong.
I look down at myself. My uniform is a disaster. Dust. Sweat. Probably tears. Definitely trauma.
Oh my god. I have to bathe.
I have to bathe and wash my uniform and somehow survive sharing a room with Enhyeok afterward.
This is hell. This is actually hell.
The old lady returns with clothes. She hands Enhyeok a loose pair of pants and a shirt.
"These are my grandson's," she says fondly. "He used to be tall like you."
Enhyeok nods politely. "Thank you."
Then she turns to me and hands me a floral shirt and shorts.
Bright.
Aggressively floral.
Loud in a way that feels personal.
"You can wear this," she says.
I take it with both hands and bow automatically. "Thank you."
Behind the house," she adds, "there's a pond. You can bathe there."
I freeze.
"…A pond?"
"Yes," she says, confused by my confusion. "The bathroom pipe is broken."
I glance at Enhyeok.
He side-eyes me.
Just once.
That's it.
I shut my mouth immediately and bow again.
"Thank you," I say, like a good, obedient, deeply suffering student.
The wind picks up outside. Stronger now. Cooler. The trees creak like they're gossiping. The sky feels heavy, like rain is deciding whether to ruin us further.
Enhyeok looks at me. "You go first."
I nod.
I walk around the side of the house.
And immediately regret being born.
It's dark.
Not "low light" dark.
Real dark.
The kind where your brain fills in shapes that aren't there and convinces you something is breathing nearby.
The pond is just barely visible. Water reflecting nothing. The wind ripples it softly.
I stop.
My skin prickles.
Every bad thought comes rushing back.
The road. The man. The grab. The dark.
My chest tightens.
"…Enhyeok," I call.
He appears a second later, standing near the house. "What."
My voice comes out smaller than I want. "I'm scared. Can you… come with me?"
He freezes.
"What," he says flatly. "Are you insane?"
"I— just stand there," I say quickly. "I won't— you don't— just—"
"How exactly do you expect me to come with you while you're bathing," he cuts in. "That's not happening."
The logic hits me.
Hard.
I flush. "You can cover your eyes!"
"No."
"I'll scream if something happens!"
"No."
I groan. "You're unbelievable."
"You're the one bathing in a pond," he fires back.
I curse under my breath and turn away before I say something that gets me murdered.
Fine.
I walk to the pond.
Every step feels like a bad idea.
I strip quickly, heart racing, and step into the water.
It's cold.
Like shock-cold.
I suck in a breath and immediately regret everything.
Then—
It's… nice.
Clean.
The cold seeps into my muscles, washing the tension out slowly. The fear loosens its grip. My head clears. I splash water over my face, scrub my arms, breathe.
I wash my uniform carefully and hang it on a line near the house, praying it dries by morning.
I change into the clothes the granny gave me.
They're soft. Too big. Smell like soap.
I stare at the dark sky and think—
How the fuck am I sharing a room with Enhyeok tonight?
_________________
ENHYEOK POV
The blanket is thin.
Not hotel-thin. Not dorm-thin.
Thin like it's been washed into surrender.
I shake it once.
Dust floats up. I glare at it like that'll help.
There's no bed.
Just floor.
Wood.
Cold pretending to be warm because the heater exists in theory.
I crouch and spread the blanket anyway. It barely covers half the space. Whoever sleeps here must fold themselves into apology shapes.
I don't know how people do this. I don't know why today is suddenly a museum of things I've never done in my life.
Sharing rooms.
Sleeping on floors.
Staying in strangers' houses.
Sharing a room with a girl.
I press my thumb into the edge of the blanket until it hurts.
Why today.
Why now.
Nothing like this ever happens to me. My life is clean lines and predictable outcomes. Doors open when I knock. Beds exist where they're supposed to. Space is mine. Silence is mine.
Tonight is a joke that won't finish laughing.
I fold the blanket again. Still one. Still not enough.
Of course it's one.
I sit back on my heels, jaw tight, staring at the wall like it personally arranged this.
The door creaks.
I don't turn immediately.
I already know it's her.
There's a shift in the air. Damp. Clean. Soap that isn't mine.
I look anyway.
Big shirt. Floral. Too loud. Too soft.
Shorts that look like they lost a fight with laundry.
Bare legs. Cold-pink from the night.
Hair—long, wavy, darker from water—spilled everywhere like it doesn't know how to stay contained.
She freezes when she sees the floor.
"…There's no bed?"
"No."
She looks at the blanket. Then at me. Then back at the blanket.
"Only one?"
"Yes."
Her mouth opens. Closes.
"How are we supposed to sleep with one blanket?"
"You can sleep outside."
She blinks. Once. Twice.
"You're joking. Right."
"No."
She stares at me like she's deciding whether murder is worth the paperwork. Then she walks over and sits down beside me anyway. Too close. The floor creaks under her weight.
The smell hits me.
Soap. Pond water. Night air.
Not perfume. Not sweet. Just… clean.
A drop of water slides from the end of her hair.
Lands on my hand.
I jerk back instinctively. Annoyed. Sharp. Immediate.
She doesn't notice. Or pretends not to.
"This is insane," she mutters.
"And so you are ."
She glares at me. I don't look back.
Another drop falls. Then another.
My skin feels like it's being poked on purpose.
I stand up.
"I'm bathing."
She looks up, startled. "Now?"
"Yes."
I grab the towel and walk out before she can say something stupid like be careful.
Outside, the wind's picked up. The sky feels wrong. Heavy. Charged. Like it's holding its breath.
The water is colder. I step in anyway.
It shocks sense back into me. Clears my head. The irritation doesn't leave, but it sharpens into something usable. I scrub fast. Efficient. No thinking. Just movement.
Thunder rolls somewhere far off.
Of course it does.
When I come back, towel around my neck, hair damp, the room's changed.
She's sitting on her side. Blanket pulled over her legs.
A pillow sits dead center between us like a treaty line.
She looks up. Serious now.
"Don't ever cross the line."
I scoff before I can stop myself.
"Like I want to."
She huffs, offended, then lies down and turns her back to me. All hair and stubborn shoulders.
I sit on my side. Lower myself carefully. The floor presses into places it shouldn't. I stare at the ceiling. Old wood. A crack that looks like a map.
I lie down.
The blanket barely reaches my waist. Whatever.
"…Thank you."
The words land weird. Out of nowhere.
I turn my head slightly. "For what."
"For everything."
Silence stretches.
I hum once. Not agreement. Not denial. Just sound.
Thunder cracks.
Loud. Close.
The room rattles like it didn't sign up for this either.
She flinches hard. Whole body. Sharp inhale she tries to swallow.
I turn my head more this time.
"Don't tell me you're scared of thunder."
She doesn't answer.
Her shoulders are stiff. Too still. Like if she moves, something worse will happen.
Another rumble. Softer. Closer.
I close my eyes.
------------
I'm almost asleep.
Not fully.
That fake sleep where your body gives up but your head's still pacing.
The floor is hard in a way that feels personal now. My shoulder aches. The blanket keeps slipping like it's allergic to me. I stare at the dark and count nothing.
Then—
A sound.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Wrong.
I open my eyes.
Listen.
There it is again.
Breath.
Hitched.
Cut short.
A sob.
Small. Like it's been folded in half and shoved behind teeth.
I turn my head.
Her side of the room is darker. She's curled in on herself, facing away. One hand pressed to her mouth. Shoulders barely moving, like she's afraid motion itself will give her away.
Of course.
Of course she's crying.
Today was a mess. Anyone with a pulse would crack eventually. Road. Stranger. Fear. That idiot she chased for a year turning out to be In a relationship.
Yeah. That'll do it.
Thunder explodes outside.
The sound is brutal. No warning. The room flashes white for a split second, like the sky lost its temper.
She flinches hard.
Her knees jerk up. Her breath breaks completely this time.
She doesn't scream.
Doesn't make a scene.
Just curls tighter. Like if she becomes small enough, the noise won't find her.
Another sob slips out. Muffled. Angry at itself.
I exhale through my nose.
Annoyed.
Tired.
Still awake.
The storm doesn't care.
Thunder cracks again, closer. Louder. The walls shake like they're reconsidering their life choices.
She jerks again. This time it's sharp enough that the blanket rustles.
I speak before I think.
"Jiah."
Her whole body locks.
Dead still. Like I just said her name in a room full of people.
Silence stretches. The kind that buzzes.
"…You're awake," she whispers.
"Unfortunately."
She swallows. I can hear it. Then nothing.
The storm growls outside, low and waiting.
I stare at the ceiling for half a second. Then at the pillow line. Then at her back.
"Give me your hand."
She doesn't move.
"…What?"
"Give it."
"For what."
I close my eyes. Open them again.
"I'm not explaining. Fucking give it to me."
Another beat.
Slowly, like she expects it to bite her, her hand reaches back. She doesn't turn. Doesn't look. Just extends it over the invisible line she drew earlier like it's a border crossing.
I grab it.
Firm. Not gentle. Not soft.
Her hand is cold. Still damp at the wrist. Fingers tense, like she's bracing for something worse.
I place our hands right on the line. Exactly there. No further.
"Sleep," I say. Flat. Final. "Don't cry thinking about a fucking loser."
She goes completely still.
"I didn't cry," she mutters.
I snort. "Save the tears for next midterm."
There's a pause.
Then—
A sound.
Short. Sharp. Real.
A laugh.
She clamps her mouth shut immediately like she betrayed herself.
I blink.
Didn't expect that.
I wasn't joking. Not even a little. It just came out. Facts usually do.
Her fingers twitch once in my grip. Then relax. Just a fraction.
Thunder rolls again. Still loud. Still ugly. But she doesn't flinch this time.
Good.
I don't look at her. Don't say anything else. I just keep my hand there, heavy enough to remind her I exist. That the line is still the line. That nothing weird is happening.
This isn't comfort.
It's containment.
I close my eyes.
The storm keeps screaming outside. Wind slams into the walls. Rain starts hitting the roof like it's personal.
Her breathing evens out slowly. Still shaky. But quieter.
I don't move.
I don't think.
I just hope—briefly, irritably—that I don't wake up to more drama.
-------------
Birds.
That's what drags me back.
Not an alarm.
Not light.
Birds chirping like nothing catastrophic happened last night.
It takes a second to register sound as sound. My head feels thick. Heavy. Like sleep grabbed me by the throat and didn't let go cleanly.
My body hurts.
Everywhere.
Shoulder. Hip. Neck.
The floor didn't forget me.
Something is pressing down on my chest.
Warm.
Solid.
I don't move.
I breathe once. Slow. Controlled.
This isn't my bed.
That hits next.
The smell's wrong. Not detergent. Not my soap. The ceiling's too low. The air's too alive. There's wood under me instead of a mattress that actually respects the human spine.
Right.
Last night.
The house.
The storm.
The single blanket.
I blink.
Then I feel it again.
The weight.
My eyes open fully.
And reality punches me straight in the face.
She's there.
Right there.
Jiah is asleep on me.
Not near me.
Not beside me.
On me.
Her head is tucked into my chest like it belongs there. One arm slung across my stomach, fingers fisted into my shirt.
Her leg is thrown halfway over mine, knee warm against my thigh like gravity personally betrayed me.
What the hell.