Thin Walls
773 Words
Ha-Jun barely slept.
Every time he closed his eyes he heard Arnold’s voice again, calm and precise:
The walls in this house are thinner than they look.
By morning he was running on pure spite and two hours of restless dozing. He went downstairs ready for a fight, only to find the kitchen empty and a single mug of black coffee waiting on the island beside a folded note.
Left early for optional extra ice. Car keys on the hook if you want them. – A
Ha-Jun stared at the neat handwriting until his eyes burned.
Coward.
He drank the coffee anyway. It was still good. That somehow made it worse.
---
Practice felt like walking on glass.
Arnold treated him exactly the same as before — cool, professional, occasionally offering a clipped observation about positioning that was always annoyingly correct. No lingering looks. No private comments. Nothing that acknowledged the bomb he had dropped in the kitchen the night before.
It was almost more unsettling than open mockery.
During a water break Do-hyun skated up, helmet tucked under one arm, expression far too knowing.
“You’re weirdly quiet today.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“No. You’re usually quietly angry. Today you’re quietly losing your mind.” Do-hyun squinted at him. “Did something happen at the palace?”
Ha-Jun shot him a look that could have melted ice.
“Drop it.”
Do-hyun raised both hands in surrender, but the grin stayed.
Across the rink Arnold was speaking with Coach Werner, posture perfect, white jersey spotless even after an hour of drills. As if he felt the weight of the stare, he glanced over. Their eyes met for half a second. Arnold’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind it — too fast to read — before he turned back to the coach.
Ha-Jun’s stomach dropped, then tightened with a heat he refused to name.
---
That night the house felt like a trap.
Ha-Jun stayed in his room as long as possible, reviewing game footage on his laptop with the volume low. Every small sound from downstairs registered like a warning. When he finally went to the kitchen for water around eleven, Arnold was already there, leaning against the counter with a glass of his own.
They looked at each other.
The silence stretched.
Arnold spoke first, voice quiet.
“You’re avoiding me.”
“Observant.”
Arnold set his glass down. The soft click sounded too loud.
“I shouldn’t have said what I said last night.”
Ha-Jun let out a short, disbelieving breath.
“Which part? The part where you told me you heard me get off, or the part where you said it like you were commenting on the weather?”
A muscle jumped in Arnold’s jaw. For the first time since Ha-Jun had moved in, the perfect composure cracked just enough to show something hotter underneath.
“Both,” he said. “It was unnecessary.”
“Yeah. It was.”
Another stretch of silence. The air between them felt charged, heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Arnold’s gaze dropped briefly — to Ha-Jun’s mouth, the fading cut on his lip — then lifted again.
“It won’t happen again.”
Ha-Jun should have left it there. He should have taken his water and gone back upstairs. Instead the words came out before he could stop them.
“Which part? You listening, or you telling me about it?”
Arnold went very still.
The kitchen suddenly felt too small. Ha-Jun could hear his own pulse. He could see the exact second Arnold decided to stop retreating.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Kang.”
“I’m not playing.”
Arnold pushed off the counter and took one step closer. Not enough to touch. Enough that Ha-Jun had to tilt his chin up slightly to hold his gaze.
“Then stop looking at me like that,” Arnold said, voice low.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re waiting to see if I’ll break first.”
The words hung between them, raw and irreversible.
Ha-Jun’s throat felt dry. Every smart, cutting reply he usually kept ready had vanished.
Arnold’s eyes searched his face for another long second. Then he stepped back, the control sliding into place again like a door shutting.
“Good night, Kang.”
He walked out of the kitchen without waiting for an answer.
Ha-Jun stayed where he was, water glass forgotten in his hand, pulse still slamming against his ribs.
Upstairs a door closed softly.
Ha-Jun looked down at his own free hand and realized it was trembling.
Shit.
- Writer
