The sunlight in Joon-ho's apartment was golden and bold, slanting across the kitchen's warm wood and turning Harin's hair to fire where it caught the rays. The table was scattered with the remains of their breakfast: empty mugs, toast crusts, a nearly-gone bowl of fruit. From somewhere down the hall, the faint scent of fresh laundry mingled with brewing coffee, creating a bubble of domestic peace—one that felt both new and heartbreakingly fragile.
Harin was perched on the kitchen counter, knees drawn up to her chest, scrolling absently through the notifications on her phone. She'd dressed in an oversized sweatshirt of his and little else, her legs bare and marked here and there with fading red from where he'd gripped her last night. The sight made Joon-ho smile privately as he moved around her, refilling her mug and brushing a hand lightly over her ankle in passing.
