The first morning of senior year dawned in a haze thicker than any she had ever known. Shin Hae-won woke not to sunlight, but to the distant hum of traffic filtered through the thin walls of the small apartment Ji-hoon had rented for her. The bed beside her was empty, and for a moment she felt the familiar pang of loneliness—until she remembered last night, remembered falling asleep in his arms, the protection she'd felt like an armor.
She slipped from the covers quietly and padded into the kitchenette. Ji-hoon was there, leaning against the counter, scrolling his phone, a furrow between his brows. Beside him, steaming coffee in two mismatched mugs. He looked up, offering a small, tired smile. "Morning," he said. His voice was deeper than before, the echo of sleepless worry in every syllable.
She poured herself coffee, hands still shaky. "Did they call?" she asked.
"Mom sent a text," he said, tapping his screen. On his face flickered annoyance and something darker—guilt, perhaps. "She wants me home for brunch."
Hae-won nodded, though she could taste panic on her tongue. They'd both known it would come to this: his parents wouldn't let their son cavort with a "troubled" transfer girl without a fight. But until now, the war had been waged in shadows—whispers at school, threats from afar. Today, the battlefield moved into the open.
He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm going. I'll be back before classes start. I'll drop you off on the way."
Her heart twisted. She wanted to ask him to stay—but couldn't. "Okay," she said, voice barely louder than a whisper.
He cupped her cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear. "Stay here. Lock the door."
She watched him go, shoulders rigid, as he closed the door behind him.
By ten o'clock, the school hall was a gallery of curious faces. The gossip app had exploded overnight with headlines like "Rich Boy's Secret Apartment Exposed!" and "Transfer Girl Living High on Ji-hoon's Dime?" Students crowded around their phones, eyes wide, mouths twisting into scandalized laughs or pitying sneers. Even in the doorway of her first class, Hae-won felt their stares like sharp fingers pressing into her spine.
She slid into her seat next to Mr. Min, her homeroom teacher, who offered her a sympathetic glance before returning to the roll call. Beside her, a girl—Yoo Min-ji—leaned over, lips whispering: "You're getting in way over your head, don't you think?"
Hae-won stared at the desk. She didn't answer.
Throughout the morning, students whispered, some crossing the room to snap photos as she passed, others sabotaging her locker with humiliating notes: "When's the eviction coming?", "Do you cook his dinner yet?", "Gold-digger alert!". Each one twisted the knife of her old fears: that she had no right to exist anywhere except the edges.
At lunchtime, she stayed silent, poking at a simple sandwich Ji-hoon had made her—tuna and lettuce on brown bread. She almost wished for his presence, but she knew better than to expect him here. They'd agreed this breakup charade was necessary.
She finished her sandwich in a few bites and tucked into her bag the crumpled note she found there: "Meet me in the courtyard after classes. We need to talk." No signature. She crumpled it again, heart thudding. Another trap? Another threat?
The afternoon passed in a blur—lectures on calculus, group projects in literature, the drone of Spanish verbs. The courtyard felt like a coliseum when she finally stepped into its pale sunlight. Students were scattered across benches and lawns, but she spotted him immediately: Kang Ji-hoon, leaning against the fountain's edge, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Her legs moved of their own accord. She stopped a few feet away, heart pounding so loud she feared he could hear it. "You called?" she managed.
He held out a folding chair. "Sit."
She obeyed, pressing her hands into her lap. The fountain's water glinted between them like broken glass.
He studied her. For a moment, she thought he might speak gently, but his lips thinned instead. "They called me—my parents."
Her stomach clenched. She looked away.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair again. "My mom outright threatened me. Said if I don't end this, she'll use everything she has—contacts in the press, in the school board—to make your life hell."
Memories rose unbidden: her father's face lit by an angry bulb; classmates whispering, pointing; the social worker's pity as she packed her few belongings to transfer schools. She shook her head. "I knew—this would happen."
He closed his eyes. "I tried to protect you from it."
Her gaze snapped back to him. "Protect me? Or protect yourself?"
His jaw clenched. "Both."
Tears pressed against her lids. "I don't want this for you."
"Don't say that." He reached for her hand. "I would do anything to keep you safe."
She pulled away. "This is my mess, Ji-hoon. I can't drag you into it."
He stood abruptly, chair scraping. She flinched. "You're already in it."
She looked down as he stalked off. Alone in the courtyard, surrounded by a thousand witnesses, she let the tears fall.
When the final bell rang, she waited in the stairwell, backpack heavy on her shoulders. Minutes later, Ji-hoon appeared—his uniform crisp, tie askew, eyes rimmed red. He held a set of keys. "We're going."
Her chest tightened. "Can't."
He pressed the keys into her palm. "Your apartment."
She swallowed. "They'll know where it is."
He stepped closer. "It's not registered to you. They'll never find out." His voice was firm, unyielding. "Come on."
She nodded. Too tired to argue.
They drove in silence to the gated complex. Ji-hoon parked, turned off the engine, and took her face between his hands. "Listen to me: I'm not letting them hurt you. Ever."
She closed her eyes, leaning into his warmth. "I don't know how to be safe."
He kissed her forehead. "I'll teach you."
Inside, he flicked on the lights and shrugged out of his blazer. "I—uh—brought meals from a place near my house." He held up three paper bags. "Lunch, dinner, breakfast."
She managed a small smile. "Thank you."
They ate together on the small table, side by side but not touching. Each bite tasted like something new—a promise, maybe.
Later, as dusk settled, Ji-hoon sat on the edge of her bed. He'd changed into jeans and a hoodie. "I have a plan," he said. "I'm dropping out of school."
Her head snapped up. "What?"
He met her eyes. "My parents won't back down. They'll ruin both of us. But if I leave, they lose leverage."
She shook her head fiercely. "No. You can't."
"I have to." His voice cracked. "I need to do something."
Tears formed in her eyes. "Then let me help."
He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. "I can't drag you into that darkness again."
Her own voice was soft but firm. "You already did."
He opened his eyes, and she saw the weariness there. "If I leave, they'll come after you directly."
She swallowed. "Then I'll fight."
He stared at her—at the resolve in those dark eyes—and for the first time, realized she was no longer the scared, invisible girl. She was his partner in this war.
Night wrapped the apartment in quiet. They sat on the couch, backs against the wall, knees drawn up. Ji-hoon held her hand. Neither spoke, neither moved. The city lights glimmered beyond the window—distant, indifferent stars.
After a long moment, Ji-hoon whispered, "I don't know what comes next."
She pressed her head against his shoulder. "We figure it out together."
And in that fragile promise, they found the only truth left: they were each other's home.