𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐃𝐄; boysnextdoor

salvation ; taesan

The fluorescent lights of the convenience store buzzed faintly, casting a cold glow on the rows of neatly stacked shelves. Y/N stood behind the counter, chin propped on her hand, absently watching the clock tick toward midnight. The store was quiet, save for the occasional hum of the freezer or the shuffle of feet from the rare customer. It was a routine she had grown used to—silent nights filled with the company of herself and the convenience store's lifeless hum.

But then came Taesan.

He stumbled in, his hoodie half-zipped, hair disheveled as though the night had dragged him through every street in the city. Y/N's eyes flicked to him briefly, recognizing his face from previous visits. He was a regular now, always making his way to the back of the store, where the bottles of cheap soju lined the shelves.

Taesan wasn't like the other customers. He didn't offer polite smiles or make casual conversation. Instead, he moved as if the world had carved the life out of him, each step weighed down by something invisible. Tonight was no different. He dragged his feet to the usual spot, grabbed a bottle without a second thought, and walked to the counter.

"Just this," he mumbled, placing the bottle in front of her. His voice was hoarse, like someone who had spent the night screaming or crying—or maybe both.

Y/N rang it up silently, sliding the receipt across the counter. As always, there were no pleasantries exchanged, no eye contact. But as he reached for the bottle, something stopped her—a sudden urge to say something, anything to break the monotony of their exchanges.

"Rough day?" she asked, her voice softer than she intended.

Taesan froze for a moment, his hand hovering over the bottle. His eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with exhaustion, flicked up to meet hers. He looked surprised, almost as if he had forgotten how to hold a conversation.

"Something like that," he muttered, grabbing the bottle and walking out before she could respond.

It was a small moment, fleeting and insignificant, but it lingered with Y/N long after he left. She found herself wondering about him—about the man who seemed to carry his pain like a second skin.

Taesan didn't know why her voice had stuck with him. It wasn't like it was the first time someone had tried to make small talk with him. But there was something different about her—something steady and unyielding in the way she had looked at him. For the first time in years, he felt seen, and it scared him more than he cared to admit.

He tried to shake it off, drowning himself in the comfort of the bottle he had bought. But it didn't work. The alcohol tasted bitter, and the buzz he had once relied on to drown his thoughts felt weaker. He hated it.

So, the next night, he went back. And the night after that.

At first, it was the same routine—grab the bottle, mumble a few words, and leave. But each time, Y/N's presence chipped away at the walls he had built around himself. She would ask him how he was, make casual comments about the weather, or even recommend snacks he might like. It was nothing special, yet it felt like everything to Taesan.