Chapter Text
The apartment is too quiet again, nothing surprising.
Minho sits on his couch. One of his ankles is folded over his knee, while the remote is beside him, untouched for a long time now. The credits of some nature documentary scroll across the screen, slow-motion footage of snow leopards accompanied by orchestral music, but he hasn’t registered a second of it. His eyes are open, but his mind is not in the room.
The cat he doesn’t have curls in the corner of his imagination, tail twitching against the rug he vacuumed three times this week. The job he doesn’t love ticks behind his eyes like an approaching clock.
With a sigh, he turns off the TV, his gesture mechanical. The screen fades to black, but the silence that settles over the room now isn’t helping his mind calm down. The apartment is perfectly spotless. The coffee table is free of fingerprints. Not a single dish is in the sink. There's nothing here to trip over, physically or emotionally.
Minho glances at the time on his phone.
11:45 PM.
Too late to still be awake. Too early to go to sleep without feeling like a failure.
He stands and makes his way toward the kitchen. He decides to have water, as cold as possible. He barely gets halfway before—
Knock knock knock.
He freezes. The sound of three firm raps on the door is unmistakably real.
Minho frowns, blinks once, and waits.
But then: knock knock.
It’s faster this time.
He stares at the door.
He doesn’t know anyone here, not really. Faces pass in the elevator, polite nods at best, but never more than that. Nobody knocks at his door. Not this late. Never.
As he walks to his door, an uneasy feeling starts to appear in his chest, uninvited like most of the negative emotions often controlling him. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask who it is, even if it could bring some explanation to this peculiar situation.
As he's now just beside his door, he keeps the touch on his phone strong, just in case, as if it could bring him some comfort. Then, without understanding why, he unlocks the door and pulls it open, his mind not able to comprehend who it could be.
And it’s him.
Seo Changbin.
From down the hall. The one Minho’s seen a hundred times in passing, always mid-stride with a gym bag slung over his shoulder, hoodie half-zipped. The one who sometimes smiles too easily in the elevator and once held the door open for an old woman with more patience than most people in this city probably have. The one Minho’s never spoken to beyond a stiff nod and mumbled greetings.
Changbin looks like he’s been run over by something he didn’t plan. The smile Minho saw on his face numerous times isn't present.
His black hoodie is one Minho often saw him wear. A detail he didn't even know he registered. His hair is a mess, not in the styled way in which it's on purpose, but more like he’s been dragging his fingers through it for a long time. His eyes are wide and red, like someone who’s already cried and hasn’t decided if he’s done.
“Hi,” he says, his voice cracking just slightly. “Sorry. I know it’s late.”
Minho blinks, still half-rooted in the silence he thought he wanted. “It is.”
Changbin licks his lips. His shoulders hunch a little more. He looks like he’s debating about asking something. “Can you give me a ride?”
Minho doesn’t answer right away.
A ride?
It takes him a second to understand the question. He heard the words but it's so unexpected. The hallway lights seem too bright at this hour, making Changbin’s face lit, letting Minho see the seriousness in it, a sign of how important this moment seems to be for him.
“A ride?” Minho echoes.
Changbin nods. “Yeah. Just to my boyfriend’s place. To break up with him.”
The word lands heavily between them.
Boyfriend.
Minho doesn’t flinch, but something shifts behind his ribs.
“And why me?” he asks calmly.
Changbin swallows hard. “Because I couldn’t ask anyone else.”
“That’s not a real answer.”
“I didn’t feel like driving, but didn’t want to take a cab either,” he says, eyes darting toward the floor. “I didn’t want to explain or ask someone who would try to fix it. You are just there. And you don’t really talk to me. So, I thought…”
He trails off.
Minho raises an eyebrow, surprised at how carefully Changbin thought before knocking on his door. “I guess you thought it would be the best choice to pick your quiet neighbor. I probably seem to be too emotionally repressed to ask you questions while I drive you there. Am I right?”
As if he wasn't expecting Minho to discover the reason behind him asking, Changbin lets out a weak exhale. “Exactly.”
Minho doesn’t know how to react to the honesty at first. He just stares at the man in front of him, unable to decide which words he could say to this lost stranger who still somehow seems familiar to the one he got a glimpse of multiple times.
He should say no, considering how he always does everything he can to put distance between his neighbors and him. He has not meddled with the people here since his arrival in the building. Or people in general. He should apologize and close the door. He should go back to the glass of water he hasn’t poured yet.
Instead, he asks, “How far?”
“Gangseo-gu,” Changbin answers. “It’s like twenty minutes from here.”
Minho considers this. It is absurd. It’s late, almost midnight. He’s in his pajamas. This man is not his friend, and he doesn’t owe him anything. This is not how his life usually goes.
And yet.
Without another word, Minho is already moving. He steps back inside, slips on the jacket hanging nearby, pulls on his shoes, and takes his keys.
His movements are more rushed than usually as he shuts and closes the door behind him. He whispers, as if speaking too loudly would break his newly resolve.
“Let’s go, before I change my mind.”
Changbin exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the second he knocked.
────────────────────
The car makes a soft engine sound through the silence.
Minho’s hands rest carefully on the steering wheel. His eyes are moving between the empty space of road ahead and Changbin beside him, folded into the passenger seat like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible.
Changbin hadn’t even waited for Minho to ask where he should drive, he directly murmured the address, as if he’d been preparing to say the name of the apartment complex and the street in Gangseo-gu for a while.
Now, he says nothing.
His arms are crossed over his chest while his head is turned toward the window. His reflection in the glass stares back at him, being a reminder of how affected he looks right now. He’s not crying, but he seems just held together by the thinnest thread of resolve.
Minho doesn’t speak. He doesn’t know what to say or how to make this situation easier.
The car fills with some noise when Minho decides to turn on his playlist. Faintly, the sound of a piano can be heard.
Changbin shifts, the fabric of his hoodie making a noise against the seat. “We’ve lived in the same building for two years.”
Minho glances at him. “Okay.”
“I didn’t think I’d ever knock on your door.”
“I didn’t think you even knew which door was mine.”
That earns a laugh. “I knew.”
Silence settles again. Minho can feel it pressing against the back of his neck.
Then, like he’s not even sure he wants it heard, Changbin speaks in a low voice.
“He always said he didn’t want to come out.”
Minho doesn’t respond. He just watches the road as he feels something unplaceable settle in his chest.
“He said it like it was a boundary,” Changbin murmurs. “Like, ‘I’m not ready.’ And I said I was okay with it, because you’re supposed to respect that. Especially here, right?”
His voice seems edgier on that last word.
“I always told myself I was doing the right thing. That I was patient and that waiting didn’t mean I mattered less.” He pauses for a second before talking again. “But it did. I didn't tell people I had someone, I stopped taking photos of us, could not even think of mentioning weekends or dinners or anything that might make him feel exposed.”
The memories make his hand clench into a fist in his lap.
“I didn’t think that meant I had to shrink,” he says. “That I had to disappear and be convenient, like love was only real if it stayed hidden.”
Minho doesn’t speak right away. He stops the car when a traffic light turns red.
He could say something practical. Or just nod and stay silent. He could also point out how complicated relationships are, how people have different timelines and fears.
But none of that is what Changbin needs.
“I’m sorry,” Minho says instead.
Changbin turns his head. Not enough to face him fully, but enough to look.
He doesn’t nod or thank him. But his gaze lingers, like he was expecting judgment, and doesn’t know what to do without it.
Minho doesn’t ask the questions that are in his mind: How long were you with him? How did you meet? Did you truly love him?
Instead, he stays silent. He keeps his hands on the wheel and lets the red light change.
They drive on.
────────────────────
The building is older than theirs, and a single flickering security light over the entrance sputters on and off.
Minho pulls up at the curb and shifts the car into park. The engine fades, and an even deeper silence fills the car.
He doesn’t look at Changbin at first, just stares at the building in front of them, trying not to assign meaning to it, as if it was just another apartment complex.
Changbin doesn’t move. He’s keeping his stare ahead, his hands twitching against the fabric of his hoodie, then still, before twitching again.
Minho finally glances at him. He doesn't talk, unsure if words will help or just make things worse.
“Can you…” Changbin starts, then stops. His voice is louder when he tries again. “Can you wait?”
Minho turns to look at him fully. And what he sees isn’t just someone upset, it’s someone bracing, like walking into that building is the final step of something that started long before he knocked on Minho’s door.
His first instinct is to say no. It’s late and this isn’t his problem. This is a stranger. Or a neighbor, at best.
But Changbin doesn’t beg, his gaze is not even on him. He keeps his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the windshield.
Minho's refusal catches behind his teeth.
“Yes,” he says finally, voice softer than he means it to be, glancing back toward the building. “I’ll wait.”
Changbin doesn’t thank him. He just nods once and breathes out.
The quiet of the night is interrupted by a sharp sound when he shuts the door behind him.
Minho watches him walk towards the building. His figure passes for a moment in the harsh light under the flickering lamp before the building swallows him. A single glass door swings open, then closes. Then, nothing.
He turns his playlist off.
Then, he exhales and sinks back into his seat. He doesn’t turn on the radio. Instead, he taps his phone screen just for something to do, flickering through apps.
Eventually, even the phone feels hollow. He drops it into the cupholder and stares up at the building, but there's still no movement.
Minho crosses his arms and uncrosses them again. This is ridiculous. He doesn’t know this guy, nor his birthday or what he even does for work. They’ve passed each other in the hallway a hundred times without so much as a full sentence.
And yet here he is, parked outside some stranger’s relationship in the middle of the night, as a placeholder for whatever or whoever Changbin didn’t have.
Minho tells himself he’s just being decent. Offering a ride, staying a while. It’s nothing.
But it isn’t nothing.
He thinks of how Changbin looked in the hallway, like someone whose walls had cracked from the inside, trying to act normal. He thinks of the way he’d said, “He always said he didn’t want to come out,” not with resentment, just tiredness, like he’d been asked to carry someone else’s shame and fold himself small enough to fit inside it.
That part stuck. Minho’s chest feels strange just thinking about it.
He stares up at the windows. He has no idea what floor the boyfriend lives on. Or what they’re saying to each other, if they’re saying anything at all.
Minho closes his eyes for a moment and just breathes.
There’s a thin line between caring and getting involved. He’s not sure which side of it he’s on right now, but he’s here.
He’s still here. So, he waits.
And somehow, waiting doesn’t feel like a waste. It feels like witnessing something Changbin needed to do without being alone.
────────────────────
The passenger door opens without warning.
Changbin slides into the seat like the air outside had been holding him up, and now that he’s back inside, gravity is heavier.
His hair is even messier than before. His eyes are swollen, just a little. It's enough to betray the tears he probably didn’t want to shed in front of anyone but still let out.
Minho glances over.
Changbin says nothing. He pulls the seatbelt across his chest with one hand and clicks it into place after several tries, his other hand staying curled into a tight fist, pressing against his thigh like he’s trying to ground himself through touch.
Minho’s voice isn’t loud when he talks. “Are you okay?”
It’s a stupid question. He knows it. They both do.
Changbin lets out a sound, part breath, part humorless laugh that catches halfway in his throat. “No,” he says, eyes fixed somewhere near the dashboard. “But thanks for asking.”
Minho nods, eyes flicking back in front of him. He doesn’t press, he never does.
The silence returns, and it feels heavier.
After a long stretch of stillness, Changbin speaks again. “Can we drive a little?”
Minho doesn’t answer. He just shifts the car into gear, pulling away, until the building disappears behind them.
He drives toward nowhere in particular, just somewhere not here.
Changbin slouches in his seat, turning his face toward the window.
“Do you often drive around like this?” he asks after a few minutes, voice muffled against the window.
Minho hums. “Only when strangers ask me to.”
That gets a laugh from Changbin. “I feel like I should apologize to you. Or explain.”
“You don’t have to,” Minho says. And then, after a pause, he talks again. “But you can.”
They stop at a red light, and Changbin leans his head back against the seat before talking.
“It wasn’t always bad,” he says. “At first, it felt careful. He was quiet, and I didn’t mind that.”
Minho keeps his eyes forward.
“But then months went by. And I started to feel like I didn’t exist outside his apartment. He wouldn’t touch me in public, wouldn’t talk to me if anyone else was around. He said he wasn’t ready but just needed time.”
He exhales. “So, I waited. That’s what we're supposed to do. Give people space and respect boundaries.”
The light turns green. Minho drives on.
“I’m not ashamed,” Changbin says. “I came out in college. I told everyone I care about it, you know? My mom hugged me and told me she'll always love me while my father cried a little, but it was because he was afraid of the hate I would get. My sister rolled her eyes and said she knew before I did. They always make sure to show me their support.”
Minho glances over.
“It’s not me who’s the problem,” Changbin finishes.
“No,” Minho agrees. “It’s not.”
Changbin huffs a laugh. “Korea might say otherwise.”
“That’s true,” Minho murmurs. “But Korea doesn’t live your life.”
There’s something like appreciation in Changbin’s eyes as he hears his words, and he shifts in his seat again.
Then, just as naturally, he keeps talking. “What do you do? For work?”
Minho’s eyebrows lift. “You’re asking now?”
“Why not?” Changbin shrugs at him. “It feels like we rushed, skipped the small talk and jumped straight to the trauma part. We might as well circle back.”
Minho lets out a laugh. “Fair enough. I work at an office, in the logistics and finance department, for a distribution firm.”
Changbin blinks. “That’s very vague.”
“It’s also very boring.”
“Do you hate it?”
Minho hesitates. “I don't hate it. I don’t love it either. It just feels like something I’m good at, not something I care about.”
Changbin nods. “Do you at least get to leave on time?”
“Usually.” Minho side-eyes him. “What about you?”
“I’m a gym trainer,” Changbin replies, dragging a hand through his hair. “I specialize in rehab and strength conditioning. I worked with some amateur fighters before switching to regular clients.”
Minho’s mouth twitches. “That explains the arms.”
Changbin glances over. “You’ve been looking at my arms?”
Minho looks back at the road. “It’s hard not to.”
That earns a surprised huff from Changbin, like the thought had never crossed his mind.
“Are you dating anyone?” Changbin asks after a few more turns.
Minho shakes his head. “No. Hasn’t been anyone for a while.”
“How long’s a while?”
“A few years.”
Changbin turns to look at him. “It must’ve been serious.”
Minho nods once. “Yes, it was serious with her.”
“What happened?”
“We...” He hesitates. “We just stopped making each other better.”
“Was she the one who ended it?”
Minho’s jaw tenses before he answers. “I think we both knew. I just said it first.”
Another pause.
They drive on in silence.
And then, almost too quietly to hear, Changbin murmurs something.
“At least you don’t have to be scared the world will hate you just for loving someone.”
It lands hard.
Minho doesn’t react visibly. But his hand tightens on the steering wheel.
Changbin doesn’t notice. He goes quiet again, head leaned against the glass.
────────────────────
The car pulls slowly into the parking lot of their building.
Minho eases to a stop in his usual row, not too close to the building, and not too far from the street.
He parks the car and cuts the engine.
They look ahead. In front of them, ten floors of concrete and security lights casting long shadows across the brick.
Sitting against the seats, neither of them moves first.
Changbin suddenly leans forward, looking up at the windows like he’s discovering them for the first time.
Then, he turns to face Minho.
“Thanks,” he says. “For all of this. The ride, waiting for me, and letting me talk. Sorry if I made it weird.”
Minho looks at him.
“You did,” he says.
Changbin’s mouth opens, clearly caught off guard.
“I didn't mind,” Minho adds after a beat.
The corners of Changbin’s mouth twitch upward.
“Good night,” he murmurs.
The door clicks open when he steps out and shuts the door behind him, not looking back.
Changbin walks slowly toward the building. He doesn’t rush and reaches for the glass door to enter. He opens it, but it doesn’t quite shut it all the way, and the door stays ajar.
Minho watches him disappear inside.
He sits for a moment longer. Everything smells faintly like vanilla, which is unusual.
Eventually, he opens the door. The air brushes cold against his skin as he's walking toward the building with measured steps.
The door’s still ajar when he gets there.