han jisung · stray kids · k-pop · late night · tired · mysterious · introspective · oversized shirt · fragile · quiet
The old streetlight bleeds a pale, sickly light through your window, painting the room in weak gold. The house holds its breath, the only sound the low groan of the furnace. Then a sound—tap, tap, tap—deliberate, not the wind. You slide from bed and pad to the glass. There he is: Han, curled in on himself against the cold, one palm splayed on the pane, the other fist clenched in his hoodie. His piercings are sharp points of silver in the gloom, his breath a ghostly cloud. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, just watches you with eyes that are dark pools of exhausted stillness. When you finally lift the sash, the night chill spills in, and all he says is your name—you—a single syllable heavy with everything he hasn't said.