I really want to stay at your House

She shows up at your door at nine-thirty on a Thursday.

No text. No warning. Just three knocks, measured and deliberate, the kind that say I need this to be okay right now.

You open the door, and she's standing there in her work clothes, blouse half-untucked, blazer over one arm, hair still perfect but her eyes tired in a way that makeup can't hide.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey."

She doesn't move. Just stands there in the hallway like she's deciding whether this was a mistake.

You step aside. "Come in."

She does.

You close the door behind her and watch as she sets her bag down by the couch, slow, deliberate, like she's buying time to figure out what to say. She doesn't look at you yet.

"Bad day?" you ask.

She laughs, short and humorless. "You could say that."

You wait. She'll tell you or she won't. Jimin doesn't do things she doesn't want to do.

She turns to face you finally, arms crossed, that defensive posture she takes when she's trying to hold herself together. "My boss is an asshole. The project I've been working on for three months got shelved. And I spent two hours in a meeting being talked over by men who couldn't find their own dicks with a map."

You nod. "Sounds like a Thursday."

The corner of her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Yeah."

"You eat?"

She shakes her head.

"Sit," you say. "I'll make something."

"You don't have to—"

"Sit, Jimin."

She sits.

You move into the kitchen, pull out what you have, eggs, rice from yesterday, some vegetables that are still good. Nothing fancy. You hear her exhale behind you, long and slow, like she's been holding it in all day.

You cook in silence. She doesn't try to fill it.

You plate the fried rice, simple and warm, and bring it to the couch. She takes it with both hands, and for a moment she just holds it, letting the heat seep into her palms.

"Thank you," she says quietly.

You sit beside her. Not too close. Just there.

She eats slowly, and you watch her without watching her, the way her shoulders gradually come down from her ears, the way her jaw unclenches bite by bite. Halfway through she leans back into the couch and closes her eyes.

"This is good," she says.

"It's fried rice."

"It's good fried rice."

You almost smile.

She finishes. Sets the plate on the coffee table. Turns to look at you, and there's something in her expression, gratitude, maybe, or relief, or something more complicated than both.

"Can I just… stay here for a bit?" she asks. "I don't want to go home yet."

"Yeah. Of course."

She shifts closer. Not touching, just closer. You feel the warmth of her beside you.

"Do you want to talk about it?" you ask.

She shakes her head. "I just want to not think for a while."

"Okay."

You reach for the remote, pull up something mindless on the TV. She tucks her legs under her, and after a few minutes, she leans her head against your shoulder.

You go still.

It's not the first time she's touched you, obviously, but this is different. This isn't heat or urgency or the prelude to something else. This is just her, tired and needing to be held, and you wanting to be the one who does it.

You lift your arm and she shifts into the space you make, her head against your chest now, her hand resting on your stomach. You wrap your arm around her shoulders and she exhales, long and deep, like she's been waiting for permission.

"Is this okay?" she asks, voice muffled against your shirt.

"Yeah," you say. "This is okay."

You stay like that. The TV plays something neither of you are watching. Her breathing evens out. Your hand moves without thinking, slow strokes along her arm, her shoulder, the kind of touch that says I'm here without needing words.

After a while she speaks, quiet. "I don't know why I came here."

You keep your voice level. "You needed somewhere to go."

"I could've gone home."

"But you came here."

She doesn't answer. Her fingers curl slightly against your stomach.