The late afternoon sun spilled gold across the quiet Seoul neighborhood, catching the dust motes drifting through the air like slow, lazy fireflies.
Rows of old brick apartments stood shoulder to shoulder, their balconies crowded with laundry lines, potted herbs, and the occasional forgotten bicycle. The street was quiet—just the distant hum of traffic and the rhythmic click of a sprinkler watering a patch of stubborn grass.
From somewhere down the block, a bicycle bell chimed twice. Then came a soft, muffled thud.
Kim Namjoon
muttering to himself ...and that's the third time this week.
A tall man in oversized cream linen trousers and a loose beige button-up was untangling himself from a fallen rental bicycle. A thick poetry book—Selected Poems of Kim Sowol—had skidded onto the sidewalk. He dusted it off carefully, like it was a wounded bird.
Kim Namjoon
looking up, startled Oh—! Hello.
He bowed, deep and formal. Nearly ninety degrees. His glasses slipped down his nose.
He straightened, adjusted his glasses, took one step back, and promptly tripped over the curb.
Kim Namjoon
flustered, voice warm and low I'm—sorry. I'm fine. I'm very fine. This is just... my thing.
He stood there, holding his book to his chest, ears pink. A light breeze carried the smell of grilled meat from a corner restaurant. On the balcony directly above, a door slid open with a soft shhh—and a pink-slippered man leaned over the railing, holding a steaming cup of coffee.
Jin
calling down, amused Joon-ah! Did you fall for the same crack in the sidewalk again? That's, what, the fifth time this month?
Kim Namjoon
deadpan The sidewalk has a vendetta against me, hyung. It's personal.
Jin
grinning, then noticing Y/n Oh—hey there, neighbor!
He lifted his coffee in a cheerful toast in Y/n's direction, his smile easy and genuine, like you'd known each other for years. The scent of fresh roasted beans drifted down from his balcony, mixing with the distant sound of a dog barking and a soccer ball bouncing somewhere unseen.
Kim Namjoon
clearing his throat, glancing at Y/n shyly I should... walk my bike home. Before it tries to kill me again.
He gave one more polite, shallow bow—careful this time—and began pushing his bicycle down the sidewalk, his book tucked safely under his arm. The sprinkler clicked on again, soaking the hem of his linen pants. He pretended not to notice.