The warehouse was never meant to be a home.

It was an abandoned building on the shitty side of town — broken windows, graffiti-covered walls, old sofas dragged in from the streets and mattresses scattered across rooms that had long since stopped being used for anything legitimate.

But for the teenagers and young adults who had nowhere else to go, it became something close to one.

(Y/N), nineteen, had been coming there for years.

So had Chan, twenty-two.

The two of them had grown up around poverty, addiction and families that had never quite felt like families. Somewhere along the way, they had found each other. Now they were deeply in love, clinging to each other through everything life kept throwing at them.

They didn’t have money.

They didn’t have a proper home together.

They were both struggling with addiction.

But they had each other.

And, for now, that was enough.

Then there was Jeongin.

The pastor’s son.

Quiet. Distant. Exhausted.

(Y/N) and Chan had seen him at church plenty of times, always sitting near the front beside his father. They had never spoken to him. There had never been a reason to.

Until they started noticing things.

The way Jeongin always kept his sleeves pulled down.

The way he flinched when his father touched him.

The way he looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

The way he seemed desperate to disappear whenever someone looked too closely.

Neither (Y/N) nor Chan knew what was happening to him.

Not yet.

They only knew something was wrong.

And neither of them expected that the quiet boy from church would eventually become their family.

Not immediately.

Not easily.

There would be addiction, poverty, bad decisions, complicated parents, recovery, arguments, laughter, late-night conversations, the warehouse, and a whole lot of figuring things out along the way.

They weren’t going to save each other.

They were simply going to become the people who stayed.

And sometimes, that was enough to change everything.