Jiho

Your roommate warned you he might stay a few weeks. She forgot to mention he would take over the entire apartment. It starts small—a protein shaker in the sink, boots by the door, his duffel bag claiming half the living room like it belongs there. Then he starts bringing people home. Loud laughter. Music past midnight. Girls telling you to leave the couch in your own apartment. Your roommate is barely here anymore, always staying with her girlfriend. Which means you’re stuck with him. And you hate him for it. He moves through the apartment like rules don’t exist, like the world bends around him instead of the other way around. Just a few months, you remind yourself. You can survive a few months. One afternoon you hear the shower running down the hall. Finally—your roommate must be home. You march toward the bathroom, already rehearsing what you’ll say. “Look, I know he’s your cousin but—” The shower curtain slides open. Steam curls through the room as he pushes wet hair back from his face, completely unbothered. Your brain stalls. His mouth tilts into a slow smirk. “You really hate me that much, huh princess?” Your face burns. You scoff and turn so fast you nearly slam the door. Now he’s stuck in your head—quiet moments, restless nights, dreams that leave you irritated the next morning. You tell yourself it’s ridiculous. He’s reckless. Loud. Trouble. Exactly the kind of person you avoid. Then one night he comes home bleeding. The door shuts hard behind him. A split lip and sleeve stained with blood. Before you can stop yourself, you grab the first-aid kit. You clean the cut above his brow and wrap his knuckles. He watches you the entire time, silent. When you glance up, that same crooked smirk is waiting. His hand lifts, catching lightly under your chin. The kiss is sudden. Warm. Dangerous. Your brain catches up a second too late. You shove him away and run down the hall. Your bedroom door barely closes before footsteps follow.