The morning light spilled through the windows of the penthouse like a slow confession soft, golden, forgiving. Joon Ha stood by the counter, arranging a bouquet of sunflowers with the precision of someone trying to steady his own heartbeat.
He didn't know why he'd chosen sunflowers, maybe because they turned toward light, no matter how far it drifted. Maybe because he wanted to remember what hope looked like.
When the doorbell rang, he froze for a heartbeat. Then smiled, the kind that wasn't for the cameras, but for her.
Areum stepped in, cheeks flushed from the wind.
"You didn't have to get me flowers," she said, eyes softening.
"I didn't," he replied, handing her the bouquet. "They're for the apartment. You just happen to be my favorite part of it."
She laughed, that quiet, honeyed sound that always made his chest ache.
"Smooth," she teased.
He shrugged, trying to hide the pink creeping up his neck. "I practiced in the mirror."
The air between them was easy, that kind of ease that only comes when silence feels safe.
He led her into the kitchen where ingredients waited, flour, herbs, vegetables, two aprons.
"You cook?" she asked, amused.
"I try," he said, slipping the apron over his head. "Mostly I just hope the smoke alarm doesn't start singing backup."
She laughed again, shaking her head. "Show me, Chef."
They cooked together badly, beautifully. Flour dusted their sleeves, oil splattered the counter, and at one point, he burned a fingertip and she scolded him like a mother.
"Hold still," she said, taking his hand gently, blowing on the small burn.
Something about that moment, her breath, her concern, the way she said nothing after, made his throat tighten.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
He nodded once. "Only when you stop."
Her eyes met his, and for a second, neither of them moved.
After lunch, he disappeared into the studio room for a while. Areum thought he was working, but when he returned, there was a small velvet box in his hand.
"I made something," he said quietly. "It's not perfect, but… it's us."
Inside was a simple necklace, silver and soft gold, the pendant shaped like a tiny sun cradled by a crescent moon.
"I designed it for two," he added, pulling out a matching one from his pocket. "See? Yours has the sun. Mine has the moon."
She stared at it, stunned. "You made this?"
He nodded. "Before music, I studied jewelry design. I used to believe metal could hold feelings longer than people do."
Areum's eyes glistened. "It's beautiful."
He smiled faintly. "You're wearing hope now."
When she clasped it around her neck, he reached out and adjusted it gently. His fingertips brushed her skin, a touch so careful it felt sacred.
That evening, he led her to his piano room.
The lights were dim. Candles flickered along the edges of the grand piano. Scattered rose petals glowed in the amber light. The entire room smelled faintly of vanilla and lilies, like the kind of memory you never want to wake from.
Areum's breath caught. "Joon Ha…"
He smiled, shy but proud. "You said you wanted to hear what peace sounds like."
He sat at the piano, fingers brushing the keys with reverence.
"Dear sky," he murmured softly, "today I looked up again, and it hurt less than yesterday."
She tilted her head. "What's that from?"
He looked at her, really looked. "Something I wrote. Maybe for you. Maybe for me."
And then he began to play.
The melody was slow, tender, fragile. It felt like an apology and a promise folded into one.
Every note shimmered with everything he couldn't say out loud.
She sat beside him, the soft candlelight dancing over their faces. Her fingers hovered above the keys, joining him hesitantly, like two voices learning how to breathe together.
When the song ended, he didn't move. Neither did she.
"Maybe love doesn't arrive like thunder," she whispered. "Maybe it starts with silence that understands you."
He turned to her, heart aching at the way she looked under the candlelight, radiant, unguarded, real.
"If love had a sound," he said, "it would be the way you say my name."
"Joon Ha?" she asked, softly, almost teasing.
He smiled, eyes glistening. "Exactly like that."
They didn't kiss that night.
They didn't need to.
Instead, they sat on the floor with their backs against the piano, watching the candle flames dance.
He reached for her hand, quietly, as if afraid it might disappear. She didn't pull away.
"I could fall in love with you," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
He looked at her, expression unreadable. "Then do it again tomorrow."
She smiled, tears threatening. "And the day after?"
"And the day after that," he said. "Even when it hurts. Especially then."
Later, after she'd fallen asleep on the couch, hair messy, hands curled near her heart, Joon Ha stood by the window, watching the city's lights flicker.
He touched the pendant around his neck, feeling its weight.
For once, the night didn't feel like an ending.
It felt like a pause, a gentle inhale before the world turned again.
And when he whispered her name, it wasn't a plea or a prayer.
It was gratitude.
Because somehow, even with the clock ticking, even with the shadows waiting,
he'd found something beautiful.
And for tonight, that was enough.
"Maybe the world doesn't need to be perfect, it just needs moments like this. Where love is quiet, hope is golden, and everything, for one heartbeat, feels beautiful."