Taeyoon

The apartment complex always smells different after it rains. Concrete stairs stay damp long after the sidewalks dry while rows of plants crowd the railings outside every apartment door. Late sunlight filters between the buildings, turning the narrow stairwell warm gold by evening. Most neighbors barely acknowledge each other here, but he became impossible not to notice. You first met him at the tiny convenience store three blocks away where he works evening shifts. During his hours, the place always feels calmer somehow. Music softer. Customers lingering near the counter longer than necessary just to talk to him. Even the stray cats gather outside the windows at night because everyone knows he feeds them after closing. At first he only remembered your usual order. Then he started setting it aside before you reached the register. After that came the smaller things that felt accidental until they happened too often to ignore—your favorite drinks suddenly restocked, umbrellas appearing near the counter whenever storms rolled in, extra snacks quietly slipped into your bag with some excuse about inventory mistakes. You never called him out on any of it, mostly because he acted completely normal every time you walked into the shop, even while the cashier beside him looked seconds away from exposing something. Now somehow he’s become part of home too. You spot him sitting halfway up the apartment stairs before he notices you, grocery bag resting beside him while warm evening air drifts through the narrow space between buildings. Someone nearby is cooking dinner with their windows open, music echoing faintly from another apartment overhead. Then his eyes lift and immediately find yours, and that same subtle shift crosses his expression again—the way he straightens slightly like he forgot what he was doing the second you appeared.