Until the final whistle

Under the same roof

Ha-Jun dropped his duffel on the guest room floor harder than necessary.

The room was stupidly nice. Wide bed with white sheets that looked like they’d never seen a wrinkle. A desk by the window with a sleek monitor already set up. En-suite bathroom that was bigger than his entire dorm room back in Seoul. Everything smelled clean and expensive in a way that made his skin itch.

Of course the golden boy lives like this. While the rest of us were fighting over broken showers and snoring roommates.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. The bruise on his cheek throbbed. His split lip still stung every time he forgot and licked it.

Downstairs he could hear quiet movement — a cabinet closing, water running, the soft clink of a glass. Arnold wasn’t making much noise, but the awareness that he was there, moving around in his own perfect house, sat under Ha-Jun’s skin like a splinter.

Two weeks. Maybe less if the dorms free up. Just keep your head down, use the bed, use the shower, and stay the hell out of his way.

A soft knock sounded at the open door.

Arnold stood in the hallway, still in that clean white jersey, holding a small ice pack wrapped in a thin towel. His expression was the same unreadable calm from the lobby.

“For your face,” he said, holding it out.

Ha-Jun stared at the ice pack like it might bite him.

Is he serious right now? Playing host after looking through me all day?

He took it without a word. Their fingers didn’t touch.

Arnold’s gaze lingered on the bruise for half a second longer than necessary.

“Dinner is at seven if you want any. I don’t cook complicated. There’s also food in the fridge if you prefer to eat alone.”

“I’ll eat alone.”

Arnold gave a short nod, as if he’d expected exactly that answer, and turned to leave.

Ha-Jun waited until his footsteps faded down the stairs before muttering under his breath.

“Of course you don’t cook complicated. You probably have people for that.”

He pressed the ice pack to his cheek and hissed at the cold. The house was too quiet. No teammates yelling. No hallway traffic. Just the low hum of whatever expensive heating system rich people used and the occasional sound of Arnold moving around below.

This is going to drive me insane.

---

At 7:10 Ha-Jun’s stomach finally won.

He went downstairs barefoot, hoodie on, ice pack abandoned on the desk. The kitchen was all clean lines and soft under-cabinet lighting. Arnold sat at the island with a plate of grilled chicken, rice, and steamed vegetables, eating with the same precise manners he did everything else. A second plate sat across from him, untouched, covered with a clean cloth.

Ha-Jun stopped in the doorway.

Arnold didn’t look up from his food.

“I made extra. In case.”

In case. Like he’s doing me a favor by existing in the same air as me.

Ha-Jun walked to the fridge instead, pulled out a bottle of water, and leaned against the counter. He could feel Arnold’s presence like static.

After a long minute Arnold spoke again, voice even.

“The car leaves at 6:15. If you’re not ready I go without you. There’s a second set of keys on the hook by the door if you prefer the bus.”

“I’ll take the bus.”

“Fine.”

Silence stretched. The only sound was the quiet scrape of Arnold’s fork.

Ha-Jun’s eyes drifted over the kitchen — the high-end coffee machine, the spotless counters, the view of a dark garden through the glass doors. Everything about the place screamed money without trying too hard. The kind of quiet wealth that never had to announce itself.

Must be nice. Waking up here every day. Never worrying if the scholarship will get pulled. Never sleeping in a room with five other guys because the foster home was overcrowded.

He twisted the cap off the water bottle harder than necessary.

Arnold finally glanced up. Those blue eyes were cooler up close, sharper.

“You’re staring.”

“Just wondering how much a place like this costs a month.”

Arnold’s expression didn’t change.

“I don’t pay rent. It belongs to the family.”

Of course it did.

Ha-Jun let out a short, humorless breath and pushed off the counter.

“Figures.”

He turned to leave. Behind him, Arnold’s voice stopped him at the doorway.

“Kang.”

Ha-Jun looked back over his shoulder.

Arnold was still seated, posture perfect, but something tighter sat around his mouth now.

“I didn’t ask for a roommate. And I don’t particularly want one. But while you’re here, try not to break anything. Including the quiet.”

The words landed soft and cutting at the same time.

Ha-Jun held his gaze for a long second, something hot and mean curling in his chest.

“Don’t worry, Von Stein. I’ll try not to contaminate your perfect little museum.”

He took the stairs two at a time, water bottle cold in his hand, pulse loud in his ears.

In the guest room he locked the door, dropped onto the bed, and stared at the ceiling.

This is going to be hell.

And the worst part — the part that made him want to put his fist through the perfect white wall — was that a small, traitorous piece of him had noticed how good Arnold looked even while being a condescending asshole.

Ha-Jun dragged a hand over his face and groaned into the quiet room.

I’m so f****d.