If you stopped anyone on Yeonhwa Street and asked what made the neighborhood special, you'd get ten different answers, each said with more confidence than the last. Mrs. Han, who monitored the entire block from her second-floor balcony, would insist it was the gossip. "Information travels faster here than the city buses," she'd say. Mr. Jang from the convenience store would complain about the kids who took snacks on credit and pretended selective amnesia when it was time to pay. And little Joo-hwan, Ha Yoon's twelve-year-old brother would swear the stray cats owned the place and everyone else was just a tenant.
But for seventeen-year-old Ha Yoon, none of that defined Yeonhwa Street.
For her, it was simply home.
A loud home, a slightly disorganized home, a place that smelled like fish stew on Sundays and fabric softener on Wednesdays. A place where the walls were too thin to hide arguments and the laughter traveled through the alley like music. She understood its flaws the way you understand your own, without resentment, without idealization just acceptance.
That morning, the sun hung low over the rooftops like it hadn't slept well either. The sky had that blue-gray tint Yeonhwa Street often wore at the start of summer, half awake, half indifferent. Ha Yoon was still fighting her pillow when her mother's voice cut through the apartment.
"Ha Yoon! You're late again!"
The kind of shout that didn't need volume to be effective, it carried authority, exhaustion, and love all in one breath.
Ha Yoon groaned and forced herself upright.
Another school day. Another attempt to outrun the clock.
Her uniform shirt was still slightly damp; she'd hung it in front of the window to dry overnight, and the morning breeze hadn't done its job. She shoved herself into it anyway, grabbed her backpack which felt heavier than usual and burst out of the apartment with a hair tie between her teeth.
She stumbled into the street while trying to tame her hair into something that resembled a ponytail. She hadn't even finished tying it when a quiet voice rose behind her.
"Your bag's open."
She froze and turned.
Min Seon-woo stood a few steps away, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, gaze pointed at the zipper she'd forgotten. He was the boy behind her building, the one who always managed to appear exactly when she least wanted witnesses. But he wasn't a nuisance; if anything, he had a strange talent for catching her without judgment.
"Oh thanks," she muttered. She zipped the bag quickly. "You're early today."
"I'm always early," he said simply.
He spoke like someone rationing words, careful with what he spent. Not cold just deliberate. The type who observed first and spoke when he had something worth saying. People like that always piqued her attention, maybe because she came from a family where talking over each other was practically a sport.
They started walking toward the bus stop together.
Neither asked.
Neither needed to.
Yeonhwa Street was still waking up: shutters clattering open, brooms dragging across pavement, the old men dragging their plastic chairs out to claim their usual spot under the tree. A couple of kids walked ahead of them, eyes still half-closed, bags bouncing against their sides.
Ha Yoon noticed something she'd missed earlier.
"Is that… your umbrella?"
Seon-woo looked down at the faded blue umbrella in his hand. The fabric was patched with mismatched stitches that didn't match the original design at all.
"You fixed it?" she asked.
"You dropped it yesterday," he said. "The handle snapped."
Her eyebrows shot up.
She hadn't even realized she'd lost it.
"You stitched the top?"
He nodded.
But the stitches were neat, too neat for someone who claimed he hated arts and crafts.
"Thanks," she said softly.
A tiny shift in his expression, barely there, told her he'd heard more in her voice than just gratitude.
Their bus screeched to a halt. They boarded and found their usual seats, she by the window, he on the aisle, leaving that familiar, respectful space between them. It wasn't awkward. It was just… them. Quiet, steady, predictable. A kind of calm she never admitted she needed.
The city slid by outside the window, blurred by the motion. Inside, silence pressed between them, but it felt intentional comfortable.
When they reached school, the courtyard had already exploded into the usual morning chaos. A group of girls shrieked when Jung Hae-min, the soccer team's all-star, jogged past. He tossed them a smile, knowing exactly what it would do.
Then his gaze landed on her.
"Ha Yoon!" he called.
She blinked in confusion. "You… know my name?"
"Of course I do," he replied easily. "We share a classroom."
Beside her, Seon-woo paused not long enough to be noticeable to anyone but her, but long enough that she felt the air shift. He gave Hae-min a polite nod before walking off toward the science building.
Ha Yoon watched him go, feeling that strange little pull in her chest again.
She never understood why it happened.
It was too subtle to name, too early to recognize.
By late afternoon, the weather changed without warning.
Rain clouds muscled in, turning the sky heavy and sour. Students groaned, no one had brought umbrellas. The air smelled like wet metal and upcoming trouble, she noticed details like that, always had.
A stray raindrop hit her nose the moment she stepped outside.
"Perfect," she muttered. "Absolutely perfect."
A shadow lengthened beside her.
Seon-woo held the patched umbrella over her.
"You'll get soaked," he said.
"And you won't?" she shot back.
"I don't mind."
But she knew people's tells, even at seventeen.
His voice was too soft for that to be a casual statement.
His hair had already begun to dampen at the ends; raindrops clung to his lashes. He angled the umbrella slightly not centered, but tilted toward her, covering her more than himself.
Something fluttered sharply in her chest.
Annoyingly noticeable.
Impossible to ignore.
They walked side by side in silence, sharing the small circle of shelter the old blue umbrella could offer. The pavement glistened, and Mrs. Han's mint plants filled the air with their clean, sharp smell.
When they reached her building, she hesitated at the steps.
"Do you… want the umbrella back?"
"You keep it," he said.
"But you fixed it—"
"You'll lose it again."
She gasped in offense, then laughed unexpected, genuine.
He looked almost startled by the sound.
For a brief moment, the rain softened, and something between them did too. Something not yet defined but not entirely innocent either.
"Thank you, Seon-woo," she said quietly.
He met her eyes, really met them for the first time she could remember.
"Go inside," he murmured. "You'll get sick."
She climbed the stairs, turning once.
He was still there.
Hands in pockets.
Rain soaking his shoulders.
Watching.
Making sure she got in safely.
A warmth rose in her chest, something new but familiar enough to be dangerous.
She had no name for it then.
No language for what she felt.
Not yet.
But years later, when she looked back at this day, she would know with absolute clarity,
This is where it began.
The quiet, steady kind of love that doesn't rush or shout.
The kind that feels like coming home long before you realize you were lost.
My new novel "velvet domination" is available
And also please check out my completed novel called "when the sky forgets the dawn".
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