Unexpected Arrangement

It started with a message — again.

Kim Ho [19:43]: “Hyung, serious favour. Can noona stay over for a few days? Her temp housing fell through.”

I stared at the screen, rereading it twice. It wasn’t the kind of thing I could easily say no to. And maybe I didn’t want to. But it still felt like something delicate was being nudged forward — not rushed, just gently tilted in a new direction.

Kim Ho [19:44]: “Just until she finds a place. Her job’s near you. I owe you big time.”

Me [19:46]: “Okay. Just let her know she can use the spare room.”

The reply came fast: a flurry of grateful emojis. Then silence.

When Seo Yoon arrived an hour later, it was raining. She stood at the door with a small suitcase, her coat damp and hair slightly tousled. She looked tired — not disheveled, just the kind of tired that accumulates behind your eyes when plans collapse.

“I’m sorry for the trouble,” she said softly, brushing water off her sleeves.

“You’re not trouble,” I said, stepping aside. “Come in. It’s warmer inside.”

She slipped off her shoes without a word and wheeled the suitcase quietly into the entryway. The familiarity of her presence, though faint, hit differently this time. There was no coffee on the table. No laptop hum. Just two people who had agreed — in their own quiet ways — to share space.

“You’re okay with this?” she asked once we’d settled into the kitchen. “I wasn’t sure if Kim Ho was pushing it.”

“He’s dramatic,” I replied. “You’re not exactly a stranger anymore.”

She smiled a little at that. “Still. Thank you.”

I nodded toward the spare room. “It’s clean. There are fresh sheets. You can move things around if you need to.”

Seo Yoon gave a small bow, more out of habit than formality. “I won’t be in the way.”

She moved into the room with practiced efficiency. Within minutes, her things were neatly stacked by the desk: a small makeup pouch, a few books, a laptop charger coiled precisely. She didn’t take up space; she barely left a trace. Like she’d learned to live quietly wherever she landed.

After a while, I knocked gently on her doorframe. “Hey — just a few things so we don’t bump heads.”

She turned, attentive. “Of course.”

“Bathroom’s all yours in the mornings. I usually shower at night anyway. Kitchen’s open game. Just label anything if it’s yours. Laundry’s Sunday or Wednesday, depending on who forgets.”

She nodded along. “Got it. And… I’ll keep to my side of the fridge. I don’t eat much.”

“No need to tiptoe,” I said, watching how she folded her hands in front of her. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you,” she said again — her third or fourth since arriving.

That was the first thing I noticed. The way she kept saying ‘thank you’ for everything — like she was trying to earn her place, even in the smallest acts. It wasn’t performative. Just… cautious. As if she’d been told too many times that she took up too much space.

It made me want to reassure her — though I didn’t quite know how.

That evening, we both pretended to focus on our own things — her reading in her room, me half-watching a variety show in the living room. But at some point, she drifted in and sat on the edge of the couch, just within my peripheral vision.

“What’s this show about?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” I admitted. “I just like the way they scream.”

She laughed, the sound soft and unexpected. We watched the rest of the episode together without saying much, but I noticed she didn’t go back to her room right away.

Later, I offered her extra blankets. Our hands brushed. She didn’t pull away.

And that night, lying in bed, I could hear the faint creak of the floor as she moved, the click of her light switch, the soft sigh of her settling into unfamiliar sheets.

The apartment had never felt this alive. Or this quiet.

I told myself again — it was temporary. Just a few days.

But lying there, I found myself tracing the sounds of her presence like contours on a map I didn’t realize I was memorizing — the muted shuffle of her slippers, the soft thud of a cupboard closing, the way the air shifted when she moved from one room to another. I didn’t need to see her to know she was there. My apartment, once a predictable silence, now breathed differently.

It wasn’t just company. It was her. The way she occupied space without asking, without demanding. Like she’d always known how to vanish into the corners of a room, but was only now letting herself take up a little more air.

I was aware of her in ways I couldn’t explain — not romantically, not yet. Just… aware. Sharply, irrationally. And that awareness tugged at the edges of my thoughts even when I tried to ignore it.

I reminded myself: she’s Kim Ho’s sister. The one person I should never, ever see this way.

Nothing should change.

But something already had.

But a part of me already knew: nothing would quite be the same again.