(Jihwa POV)
The knock came while the rain was hitting the window in soft, uneven taps.
I was rinsing a mug in the sink when I heard it — not loud, not hurried — just slow and deliberate.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
I looked up.
Dohyun had already stopped moving.
His shoulders stiffened, breath caught halfway in his chest—
like someone had reached inside him and pulled.
He didn't look at me.
He stared at the door.
"…It's him," he whispered.
My heart sank.
Another knock.
This time, almost playful.
Knock….knock…knock..
"Open the door, Dohyun~"
A man's voice. Smooth. Controlled.
The kind of voice that smiled while stepping on your neck.
Dohyun walked to the door, but his hands were shaking.
I came closer. "You don't have to—"
"I do."
His voice was flat, empty in a way that scared me.
He opened the door.
The uncle stood there, raincoat dry despite the storm.
Umbrella hooked lazily over one shoulder.
Eyes calm, mouth curled in a pleasant expression that felt like the air before a building collapses.
"Been a while," he said lightly.
Dohyun didn't answer.
The uncle's gaze slid past him—met mine—
and lingered.
"So this is the one you're living with now."
His tone sounded like he was inspecting furniture.
I stepped forward just slightly, enough to show I wasn't hiding.
He smiled wider.
"Oh. A beta. How quaint."
Dohyun's jaw clenched.
"Say what you came to say and leave."
The uncle exhaled softly, as if bored.
"Hwan cried for you last night," he said.
Dohyun froze.
"He asked why you never visit," the uncle continued. "Such an innocent question. So endearing."
His voice lowered.
"Imagine how his face will change when I tell him the truth."
Silence.
Complete.
Crushing.
Dohyun's voice came out strangled, raw.
"You wouldn't."
"Oh, wouldn't I?"
The uncle tilted his head.
"I only need a little something in return."
Money.
Power.
"My son sees you as some kind of hero," he murmured. "He thinks you're pure, kind, good."
His smile sharpened.
"Shame to ruin that."
Dohyun's breath was shaking now, chest rising too fast.
I stepped forward — not touching him — just there.
"What do you want," I said.
The uncle's eyes flicked to me again.
A slow, satisfied smile.
"There it is," he whispered. "The desperation."
He took out a folded envelope and placed it on the table just inside the doorway.
"Twenty thousand. Monthly."
He said it like discussing weather.
"If I receive it, Hwan remains blissfully ignorant."
Dohyun shook his head, voice breaking.
"I don't have that kind of money—"
"Oh, I know."
The uncle's smile widened.
"That's what makes this interesting."
He stepped back into the hallway.
"I'll give you a week," he said.
"And then I'll tell him."
He tapped the doorframe gently.
Tok.
Then he walked away.
The storm outside didn't sound like rain anymore.
It sounded like drowning.
The door clicked shut.
And Dohyun…
He didn't cry.
Didn't shout.
He just slid down the door and sat on the floor, staring at nothing.
I knelt in front of him slowly.
"Dohyun," I whispered.
His voice was small.
Tiny.
"I don't care what happens to me," he said.
"But Hwan—"
His voice cracked.
"He can't know. He can't hate me."
I reached out — not to pull him together.
Just to be there while he fell apart.
Not crying.
Not speaking.
Just … gone somewhere inside himself.
I didn't try to talk.
I had learned something about pain—
the worst kind makes silence feel safer than words.
So I stood, walked to the kitchen, and began pulling things out from cabinets.
A cutting board.
A pan.
Rice.
Eggs.
Not because he needed food.
But because he needed something consistent.
Something real.
Something here.
The soft scrape of the rice against the pot filled the small kitchen.
The water hissed when it started to boil.
I cracked an egg.
Whisked it gently.
Every sound was small.
Soft.
Ordinary.
And in that ordinariness, there was a kind of mercy.
Behind me, I heard him breathe.
Shaky. Uneven.
Like someone learning how lungs work again.
I didn't turn.
I just kept moving slowly, gently.
Oil warmed in the pan.
The scent rose—simple, warm.
A reminder of mornings.
Of normal.
I set a cup of warm water in front of him first.
Not tea—just water.
Easy.
Human.
His fingers moved on instinct before his mind did.
They brushed the cup.
Held it.
He didn't drink, but he held it like it was an anchor.
I sat on the floor beside him.
Close, but not touching.
The rice cooker clicked softly.
The omelet finished cooking.
I plated it—with care, not precision.
Care was more real.
"Eat when you can," I said quietly.
He blinked slowly, like he was waking from a long, heavy sleep.
His voice came out rough, paper-thin.
"…Jihwa."
"Yes."
His fingers tightened around the cup.
"Don't leave."
My chest tightened—not with sadness, but with something tender and breaking open.
"I'm not going anywhere," I said.
And I meant it so completely the air between us warmed.
He exhaled—just one breath—but it sounded like relief and grief tangled together.
The storm outside began to ease.
Inside, the silence stayed.
But it wasn't empty anymore.
It was shared.
Dohyun had moved to the couch.
Not lying down—just sitting.
Arms wrapped around his own ribs like he was holding himself together from the inside.
I sat beside him.
Not touching—just close enough that he could if he needed to.
He stared at the floor for a long time.
So long I thought maybe he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open.
Then—
His breath hitched.
Just once.
Barely a sound.
But I heard it.
Then another.
Shallow. Unsteady.
He lifted his hand as if he meant to wipe his face—
but it stopped halfway.
Because it was shaking.
"…I thought," he whispered, voice breaking in half, "I thought I was done with him. I thought I escaped. It was only from Hyok not uncle."
His words were thin.
Transparent.
Like they'd shatter if I touched them.
"But he still…"
His fingers curled into his shirt.
"…he still holds parts of me I can't take back."
He bowed forward, forehead pressing to his knees.
And finally—
the sobs came.
Quiet at first.
Then sharper.
Then like something cracked open.
His shoulders shook—small tremors turned violent—
and he tried, gosh he tried, to hold it in.
To be silent.
To not bother anyone with the sound of his pain.
But that was the cruelest part.
Even breaking, he was still trying to be small.
I moved then.
I didn't hug him all at once.
I slid my arms around him slowly, gently, giving him time to pull away if he needed to.
He didn't.
He collapsed into me like someone who had been running for years and finally ran out of road.
His fists gripped the back of my shirt.
His face buried into my shoulder.
And he cried—quiet, broken, desperate.
"I didn't leave him," he choked out.
"They sold me. I didn't leave him. I didn't want to go. I didn't—"
His voice dissolved again.
He was shaking so hard I held him tighter, steadying him, grounding him.
"I know," I whispered.
I didn't say It wasn't your fault.
Not yet.
He wasn't ready to hear that.
He needed something real.
So I said:
"I know you didn't leave him."
His breath stuttered.
He clung harder.
His voice came out small.
Child-small.
"I don't want him to hate me."
I pressed my forehead to his hair.
My voice steady.
Warm.
Solid.
"He won't," I said.
"Because you're someone worth loving, Dohyun."
He inhaled sharply like the words hurt and healed him all at once.
We didn't move for a long time.
The storm outside was gone.
Inside, the quiet was soft.
Lived in.
Shared.
And for the first time since the knock—
Dohyun slept.
Not peaceful.
But not alone.
I stayed awake.
Watching the window.
Listening.
Guarding.
Because if the world wanted to break him again—
It would have to go through me this time.