If Sejun was the white cat—sleek, inscrutable, irresistible—then Daeho was a different breed altogether. He emerged from the side almost too late to be dramatic, a broad-shouldered shadow in a fitted tee that outlined muscle like someone had sculpted fabric over intent. For a heartbeat I didn't recognize him; gone were the Joseon swordsman robes and the hard, weathered lines of battle—I was confronted with modern fabric that did him far more justice. The cut of his shirt, the casual roll of his sleeves, the way his jeans hugged him—all of it took whatever stoic warrior memory I had of him and remade it into something that made my breath hitch for entirely new reasons.
Morning came like a sigh through the open windows — pale gold light slipping past the curtains, brushing over the polished wood floors of the hanok. I woke to the faint chirping of birds and the soft hum of domestic noise — the distant sound of someone frying eggs, the creak of floorboards as footsteps moved through the house. It was quiet, but not empty.
And If someone told me a few months ago that I'd end up teaching an ex–Joseon-era nobleman how to prune basil, I'd have laughed them into the next reincarnation. And yet there I was, kneeling in a patch of sunlight in our backyard, sleeves rolled up, hair half-clipped in a messy bun, and Daeho crouched beside me like a soldier waiting for orders.
He eyed the pots curiously. "So this is what has you crawling on the ground before breakfast."
"They're plants, Daeho," I said, brushing my hands free of dirt. "They don't take care of themselves."
He tilted his head. "I was told sunlight and water were enough."
"Oh, so now you're an expert gardener?" I teased.
"Just a man with common sense."
"Then your 'common sense' plants would be dead within a week." I plucked a wilted leaf from one vine and showed it to him. "They need pruning, watching, and feeling. You have to learn what each plant is trying to tell you."
He blinked, expression unreadable. "They… talk?"
"Not with words." I smiled, running a thumb over the stem. "They just… respond. They show you when they're thirsty, when they're happy, when you've given them too much love."
He chuckled softly, a sound that was warmer than the sunlight beginning to reach the garden. "So they're like people."
"Except they're easier to read," I said.
"But they don't talk?"
"They don't lie or hide away either."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The courtyard filled with the distant hum of morning cicadas, the flutter of a bird landing on the fence. Daeho reached toward a nearby vine, fingers brushing a petal so lightly it barely moved.
His movements were careful—too careful, like someone defusing a bomb rather than tending a vine.
"You can touch it, you know," I said, watching him hold a seedling between his fingers as if it might shatter.
"I'm trying not to kill it."
"That's not how plants work. You don't kill them with touch. You kill them by neglect."
The morning air smelled like dew and damp earth, with a sweetness that clung to the back of my tongue. The Butterfly Pea vines were in full bloom, a small miracle considering how haphazardly I'd planted them, their indigo petals catching the light like scattered gems. I loved them—stubborn, radiant, growing out of nowhere. I guess I saw myself in them.
"Don't stab the soil," I said as Daeho jabbed the trowel into the dirt like he was fighting a tiny war. "You're planting it, not avenging someone's honor."
He frowned at the pot in front of him. "It's not responding well to my technique."
"That's because you're terrifying it." I snorted. "You're supposed to loosen the soil, not assault it."
He shot me a look—sharp, dry, but there was a spark of amusement hiding beneath his serious tone. "I was trained to command troops, not root vegetables."
"Yeah, and it shows," I said, taking the trowel from him. "Here, you dig gently. Like you're tucking a baby in."
"Tucking a… baby?" he repeated, as though the concept itself required tactical evaluation.
I laughed. "Okay, maybe not the best analogy. But you get the point."
He watched closely as I pressed the trowel into the pot, turning the soil over with deliberate care. His gaze followed every movement, focused and silent in that Daeho way of his—like the world was a problem he could solve if only he paid enough attention. The sunlight hit his face, glinting off the edges of his jaw, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
There was something deeply unfair about a man who could look that composed while holding a watering can.
He came closer then, crouching beside me with the kind of natural grace that made even sitting down look choreographed. His eyes scanned the pots like he was analyzing a battle formation. "You really think all these will live?"
"They'll thrive," I said. "Plants are like people. Give them light, water, and the right company, and they'll figure it out."
"Right company," he repeated, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "So which of these is the troublemaker?"
I smirked. "You."
He blinked. "Me?"
"Metaphorically speaking." I nudged a smaller pot toward him. "You're the overzealous one who blocks sunlight for everyone else."
He laughed—bright, unguarded, the kind of sound that broke the morning stillness in the best way. "So you're saying I'm the obstacle to plant happiness?"
"I'm saying you're tall and stubborn and too confident in your ability to fix things you don't understand."
He shrugged, unbothered, and reached for the watering can like he'd been doing this all his life. Of course, he tipped it too far and immediately drowned one of the smaller pots.
"Daeho!" I gasped, snatching the can from him. "That's too much! You're going to drown the poor thing."
He looked at the dripping soil, expression mildly offended. "How much water does one plant need, then?"
"Enough to live," I said, exasperated, "not enough to reenact the Great Flood."
He picked up a fallen leaf, turning it in his fingers before setting it aside gently, almost reverently. "You really know a lot about these," he said. "Did you study this kind of thing before?"
"Not officially," I said. "It's just something I liked doing. Plants make sense. People don't."
"You make people sound difficult."
"They are." I dusted off my hands. "You, however, are in a league of your own."
He smirked. "A compliment?"
"An observation."
He didn't argue, but I caught him smiling again.
For a while, we worked in easy silence. I showed him how to transfer the seedlings into larger pots, how to press the soil gently without compacting it, and he followed my instructions with a kind of military precision that was both endearing and hilarious. When I told him to loosen his grip, he frowned as though gentleness was a tactical disadvantage.
At some point, Daeho sat back on his heels and looked around the courtyard. "You really do this often?"
"Every morning, if I can," I said, wiping my hands on my knees. "I like watching them change. It feels like a conversation that never ends."
He smiled faintly. "Then you must be good at listening."
"I'm better with plants than people," I admitted. "Plants don't get defensive when you tell them they're wilting."
He laughed — a quiet, unguarded laugh that made the corners of his eyes crease. "You're not wrong."
The sound of it lingered in the air even after he stopped.
We watered the rest together, him carrying the heavy pail like it weighed nothing, me directing him on which pots needed more. He followed my instructions without complaint, which surprised me; I half expected him to argue or tease. But no — Daeho listened. Carefully, attentively, like every word mattered.
Eventually, his curiosity got the better of him. "What are these called again?" he asked, pointing to a tray of small, green shoots.
"Lemongrass," I said. "For tea. And that one's basil. Don't drown it."
He nodded solemnly. "Noted. No drowning."
For a moment, he went quiet. His gaze drifted toward the vines climbing the trellis, their petals trembling lightly in the breeze. "Peace is strange," he said finally. "You spend your whole life fighting for it, and then when it's here… you don't know what to do with it."
Something in his voice made my chest tighten.
I tried to keep my tone light. "You could start by learning how to water plants properly."
That earned a small laugh, and the heaviness in the air eased. He brushed dirt from his fingers and stood, stretching. "Alright, plant master. What's next on your agenda of peace?"
"Replanting those corner pots," I said, pointing to a stack of empty terracotta. "And maybe getting you to stop calling me 'plant master.'"
"No promises."
Maybe that was the strange thing about Daeho. For someone whose very presence screamed danger — all sharp lines, sculpted strength, and that voice that could command a room — he carried gentleness like second nature.
We worked side by side for a while. I pointed out which plants needed pruning, and he handled the heavy lifting — moving pots, trimming thicker vines, pulling weeds like they were training dummies. The rhythm was quiet, companionable.
"Didn't expect to find you this domestic," I teased, reaching over to swipe dirt off his cheek. "You were a swordsman, right? Your hands are too big for this kind of work."
He looked down at his palms, flexing them slowly as if rediscovering them. "They used to only hold weapons," he said softly. "Feels better to hold something that grows."
My breath caught for a moment, the way he said it — simple, but weighted. I turned back to the vines before my heart could do something embarrassing. "Yeah, well. Don't get too sentimental, General Plantkiller."
He chuckled, standing to stretch. "You should've seen me back then. If someone told me I'd be tending flowers a few centuries later—"
"You'd what? Duel them for the insult?"
"Probably." He grinned, sunlight catching on the edge of his jaw.
I thought about that. About his hands—steady, capable, once meant for battle—now resting in the dirt beside mine. About how the same hands that once ended lives were now helping coax new ones into being.
Maybe we weren't so different, him and I. He had learned to stop fighting. I had learned to stop running. And somehow, here we were—planting roots.
The last rays of sun slipped over the horizon, and the air cooled. He stood first, brushing the soil from his palms, and offered a hand to help me up. I took it, my fingers fitting against his roughened ones.
As we walked back toward the house, he glanced at the little row of pots behind us and said, almost to himself, "I think I understand now."
"Understand what?"
He looked at me, that familiar glint of quiet warmth in his eyes. "That keeping something alive takes more courage than taking a life ever did."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't. I just smiled, my heart strangely full, and said the only thing that felt right.
"Welcome to domesticity, Daeho."
He grinned. "It's growing on me."
He stretched, muscles shifting beneath his shirt, and for a fleeting moment, he looked every bit the warrior he once was—reborn into something softer, freer. The kind of man who could make peace with his hands instead of war.
"Come on," he said, nudging my shoulder. "Let's get you washed up before Seungyong sees this and lectures us about tracking dirt into the house."
"Too late," came Seungyong's dry voice from the veranda. He leaned against the doorframe, one brow arched, holding two towels. "You're cleaning that floor yourselves."
"See?" Daeho said cheerfully, taking the towels. "Prophecy fulfilled."
I squinted at him. "Good morning to you too, Your Highness."
"Is that what this is?" he drawled, one brow lifting. "I was under the impression it was more of an excavation."
Daeho chuckled under his breath, low and unbothered. "You could help, you know."
"I could," Seungyong said smoothly, his voice a perfect blend of silk and scorn, "but watching you two roll around in the dirt is already doing wonders for my mood. I'd hate to interrupt."
He handed the towels to Daeho but made a deliberate point of not looking at me again, as though the mere act of acknowledging my existence for longer than a heartbeat might soil his composure. His tone softened a fraction when he spoke to Daeho. "Still, the work is… passable. You've managed not to kill the plants, which is more than I expected."
"See? Compliments," Daeho said with mock pride, clapping his hands once.
Seungyong's eyes slid back to me briefly, sharp and assessing. "Filthy, but productive, I suppose. That's one way to contribute."
I blinked, caught between offense and amusement. "Wow. Compliment and insult, all in one sentence. You really are a man of many talents."
His brows rose, feigning surprise. "I'm simply stating facts. The floor will be ruined if you don't wash up soon. Dirt doesn't suit you."
"It suits you just fine," I muttered under my breath.
He heard it, of course. His smirk curved just slightly, polite and sharp as glass. "I prefer to remain presentable, unlike some."
"Careful, Your Highness," I said sweetly. "You might stain your tongue with arrogance."
"Only if it touches something unworthy."
Before I could snap back, Daeho stepped between us, amusement flickering in his eyes. "And that's enough courtly banter for one afternoon. I think the plants wilted from secondhand tension."
Seungyong gave a quiet scoff, straightening his cuffs. "I'm not the one raising my voice."
"You never need to," I said. "You weaponize tone."
"You two look like you've wrestled a field and lost," he remarked, his gaze sweeping over Daeho before lingering on me. His tone was lazy, but his eyes—those cold, assessing eyes—were not. "Though I suppose that counts as 'gardening' in your standards, Aureal."
I blinked, half caught between irritation and disbelief. "You say that like I didn't just do half your dinner's ingredients a favor."
He tilted his head, faint amusement curling at the corner of his lips. "I'm sure the vegetables are honored to be manhandled by someone with such—ah, enthusiasm." His words were silk-wrapped barbs, the kind meant to draw blood without leaving a visible wound.
That made Daeho chuckle, which earned him a side-eye from the ex-prince. Seungyong's eyes softened a little when they fell on him—just barely. "At least one of you is taking things seriously," he murmured.
"Oh, I take everything seriously," Daeho said lightly. "Including flower care. Aureal's quite the teacher, though she still refuses to admit I'm better at tying the vines."
I threw him a glare. "You broke two of them."
"I freed them from poor structural design," he countered.
"You snapped them in half!"
Seungyong exhaled through his nose, long-suffering, and turned to leave. "Uncivilized. Both of you."
"Love you too!" Daeho called after him, but he was already gliding down the corridor like a man too noble for gravity.
Daeho tossed me a towel, grinning. "You've impressed the prince. Miracles do happen."
"That was impressed?" I muttered, glaring at the door. "I think he just declared war."
"Don't take it personally," Daeho said with a shrug, tossing me the second towel. "That's just how he charms."
I nearly choked. "Charms? With who, exactly?"
"With everyone he can insult," Daeho said matter-of-factly. "It's how nobles say 'you're tolerable.' You should feel honored."
"Honored, my ass." I scrubbed at my cheek with the towel, trying—and failing—to ignore the faint heat crawling up my neck. "If he keeps that up, I'm going to 'tolerate' him into the nearest pond."
Daeho laughed, the sound bright and effortless, echoing against the quiet courtyard. "That, I would pay to see."
The moment he disappeared inside, I dropped my shoulders and blew out a breath. "He's impossible."
"He's consistent," Daeho said, tossing me one of the towels. "And consistency is comforting in its own, unbearable way."
I dabbed at the dirt on my cheek, grimacing. "He acts like I rolled in the mud on purpose."
"Maybe he's jealous," Daeho said offhandedly.
"Of what?"
"Of the fact that you can look like chaos and still make it charming."
I blinked at him, towel halfway to my face. "That was dangerously close to a compliment."
He grinned. "I'm evolving."
I threw the towel at him. He caught it easily, still laughing, and I couldn't help but join in—because somehow, despite the sting of Seungyong's words, it felt oddly normal. Familiar, even.
"He doesn't hate you, you know," Daeho said after a moment.
"Oh, really?" I scoffed. "Because that's exactly what a friendly noble looks like—standing there like he's debating whether I'm fit to breathe the same air."
Daeho chuckled. "He's not used to people like you. You talk back."
I smirked. "So he prefers his company mute and obedient?"
"He prefers order," Daeho corrected. "He lived his whole life surrounded by rules, etiquette, people who bowed when he frowned. You… don't bow."
"I'd rather bite."
"Exactly," he said, smiling to himself. "And that bothers him more than he'll ever admit."
When we finally went inside, the floor gleamed suspiciously clean. Seungyong sat at the low table with a teacup, posture perfect, eyes briefly flicking up to us.
"Better," he said. "Almost presentable."
"Glad to have your royal approval," I muttered.
He took a slow sip, not looking up. "Don't mistake it for approval. Just relief that you haven't turned my dining area into a barnyard."
I grinned, sweet as sugar. "You should try gardening sometime, Your Highness. Might help you grow some humility."
He glanced at me then, and for just a second, there was a flicker of something sharp—almost amused, almost dangerous. "If I wanted to roll in the mud, I'd ask you for lessons."
Daeho choked on his tea. I smacked his back as he laughed uncontrollably, and Seungyong only sipped his drink again, calm as a lake.
I raised my voice as I stepped away. "You're welcome for the garden, Your Highness! Maybe next time I'll plant something more your speed—like thorns!"
It was impossible to tell if he enjoyed riling me up or if that was simply his natural state of being—a prince too refined for the mortal art of banter. Either way, I swore I'd find a way to get under his skin someday.
I was halfway through a triumphant mental list of insults I could fling at Seungyong when a soft, unfamiliar weight bumped against my hip. For a second I thought I'd accidentally leaned into a coat rack. Then I heard the little, disgruntled hum that only Sejun made when he woke up wrong-side-of-bed sleepy, and I realized it was him — hair tousled, eyes half-lidded, one shoulder pressed against mine as if he'd wandered into the world and decided my shoulder was a convenient place to be.
"Morning," a voice mumbled close to my ear, wrapped in sleep. It was blurred around the edges, the way everything is when you pull the covers off and the world hasn't quite remembered how to be awake. I glanced up.
Everything sharp in me — the smugness aimed at Seungyong, the desire to throw him into the nearest pond — softened without permission. Not because he did anything intentional; Sejun simply existed in the space next to me like a warm, breathing bookmark, and for reasons I couldn't fully explain, my focus slid right off Seungyong and onto him.
Of course, I immediately chastised myself for it. I had a chapter to write about how I wasn't the kind of person who melted for sleepy men leaning into me. I was not that person. I was Aureal. I rolled my eyes internally and tried to muster indignation.
"You—" I began, because reflex demanded something biting. Instead, the words came out small. "You're up."
He shrugged against me. The motion was lazy, almost embarrassed. "Been awake for a little while. Smelled… commotion." He glanced past me toward the corridor where Seungyong had retreated. His mouth twitched. "Royalty in the garden. I heard enough to know I didn't want another lecture today."
Daeho, from somewhere deeper in the house, snorted. "You missed a masterclass in etiquette."
Sejun's half-smile was wobbly. "That tracks." He stood slightly straighter then, stretching in a way that reminded me of the cat brushing against his leg. "You look like you got into a fight with the soil and lost." He reached up and rubbed at his temple, fingers ghosting across my shoulder. "Come on. Kitchen. I'm starving."
The command—if it could be called that—was soft and unassuming. It had the practical cadence of someone used to being tended to and wanting to reciprocate in the smallest way he knew how: food.
"I'm not your servant," I snapped, because old habits die slow and because Seungyong's tone had lodged in my ribs. But the retort fell flat against Sejun's drowsy, very human stare. He looked at me with the gentle, uncalculated patience of someone who'd just come back from somewhere dark and didn't want to make waves on his first morning home.
"You don't have to be." he said quietly, his voice illegally deeper from sleep. He shuffled toward the kitchen with slow, decisive steps, and before I could formulate a proper retort, he had brought me along with him.
I let him, because my feet had already decided for me. The kitchen smelled faintly of last night's tea and the clean, green note of the herbs we'd trimmed earlier. Light fell across the counter in long, lazy bars, revealing a little constellation of flour dust and a single, polished knife. Sejun moved with the economy of someone who'd cooked for himself a few times too many: purposeful, unceremonious, without the theatricality Seungyong seemed to wear like armor.
"So, you're awake late," I said, because conversation felt necessary to fill the sudden domestic space between us. My voice sounded smaller than it should have.
He shrugged, opening a cupboard and rustling plates. "I fell asleep late," he said. "but someone played the world's most dramatic horn inside the house." He glanced toward the corridor like a man who'd heard Seungyong's voice through a sympathetic seam in the floor. "Took me a while to stop dreaming about battles, but it turns out my body prefers the kind with chopsticks."
I snorted, despite myself. "You and your metaphors." I dried my hands and tried to place him in the correct emotional category: friend, roommate, neutral presence. Not romantic. Definitely not Haneul. Clear boundaries. Important to keep. I said all that in my head like a pep talk and then, predictably, let my curiosity slip out instead of anything strategic. "What are you making, commander-in-chief of the stove?"
"Rice's on, eggs next," he hummed, uncapping a pepper jar and pausing to taste a crumb of seasoning from his finger, earnest as a child.
We fell into a rhythm that felt older than the tension from earlier: the steady thud of the knife, the soft hiss of oil hitting the pan, the occasional clink of ceramic. Sejun hummed tunelessly as he cracked eggs with a practised flick; I chopped with brisk, competent strokes. A shaft of sunlight warmed my wrist, and for all the way my mind refused to romanticize, there was a ridiculous, grounding pleasure in simply preparing food with someone whose presence required no performance.
"I heard you earlier," Sejun said after a while, not prying but not entirely ignoring the ghosts of the courtyard. He stirred the eggs, careful hands avoiding over-agitation. "Prince sounded like a cat sharpened its claws on his dignity. Maybe he needs more pancakes in his life." He chuckled and offered me a half-smile like an invitation to camaraderie. "We could make extra. Share them. De-weaponize the morning."
That idea was absurd and oddly practical. Feeding a prince pancakes as an emotional disarmament strategy — it was either brilliant or ridiculous, maybe both. I tossed a second flip in the pan and watched the batter bloom into a golden disc. The kitchen filled with the small, domestic music of breakfast — sizzling, the dependable whistle of the kettle, the scrape of a wooden spoon. Outside, voices rose and fell, but in here the world was reduced to routine and warmth.
I worked because it was an action that didn't require explanation. When plates were stacked and the kettle had done its thing, he slid one across to me and sat down on the low bench, hair falling over his forehead in that soft yet unruly way that refused to be noble.
"You okay now?" he asked, soft and without pretense.
I tasted the pancake, salty-sweet and perfect in the blunt, domestic way small victories often are. "Better," I said, and meant it. "Thanks."
He shrugged, as if that explained everything. "Good. Because if anyone else starts a battle before noon, I'm arming them with more pancakes."
I laughed then, the sound bright and a little unmoored, and realized the morning had shifted in a way I hadn't expected. Seungyong and his polished barbs were still out there, and I still wanted to needle the prince until he laughed or scowled or both.
I was halfway through finishing my pancake when a hand appeared in my periphery, steady and sure, offering me a glass filled with a blue-violet drink that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. The faint floral scent of it—honey and something earthy—was unmistakable. Butterfly pea. Sweetened, too.
Without thinking, I took it. "Oh, thank you—" I started, then took a sip, the sweetness blooming over my tongue. The chill of it chased away the warmth of the kitchen, and for a second, I thought maybe Sejun had decided to outdo himself with presentation.
Then I looked up and nearly choked.
Haneul stood there, fresh from the shower, the soft cotton of his white shirt clinging faintly to his shoulders where the last of the water had kissed his skin. His hair was still damp, strands falling across his forehead and glistening faintly under the kitchen light. The scent of soap — clean, grounding, just a touch of cedar — drifted through the air, mingling with the aroma of breakfast.
"Oh— uh— good morning," I said too quickly, my voice tripping over itself on the first syllable. I nearly set the glass down but hesitated halfway, suddenly aware of the faint smudge of blue at the rim where my lips had touched it.
Haneul gave a single nod, his expression as unreadable as ever, but his gaze flicked briefly to my hand holding the glass before moving up to meet my eyes. "Morning," he said softly. Then, without pause, he reached out and patted my head — just once, gentle but grounding.
The gesture sent an embarrassingly disproportionate warmth through me, and I tried very hard not to look like someone who'd just been patted by an apparition made of sunlight and contradictions.
"Thanks," I mumbled, trying to sound casual, as though my pulse wasn't racing for reasons I refused to dissect.
He gave Sejun a nod, the kind that carried quiet gratitude. "Pancakes smell good," he said, and without another word, he crossed to the low table, every step composed, unhurried.
Sejun grinned, flipping another pancake onto a plate. "Go ahead, hyung. They're fresh."
His steps were quiet, almost soundless, and the faint scent of soap — something cool and clean, like mint and rain — lingered in his wake. My brain was still recalibrating from the sensory overload of damp hair, undone shirt, and casual proximity when a familiar, silken voice slid into the air like a knife sheathed in charm.
"Not so fast," Seungyong drawled from the dining table, where he sat like a painting that had opinions. He didn't look up from his tea until Haneul had already pulled out a chair. "Dry your hair properly before you sit. We've no need for someone catching a cold because he refuses to respect the laws of basic hygiene."
"Although," he drawled, "I imagine our dear Aureal doesn't mind the sight quite as much. Freshly showered, tousled hair, that air of modesty—very aesthetically pleasing. However," he added, tone laced with mock solemnity, "it would be far less pleasing if Haneul caught a cold. Tragic, even."
"Excuse me?" I spluttered. "What—why—how is that even relevant to breakfast?"
"Everything is relevant to breakfast when one of the diners looks like an advertisement for self-restraint," Seungyong replied smoothly, eyes gleaming with unholy satisfaction. He turned his attention back to Haneul, who looked utterly unbothered by the entire exchange.
"Dry," Seungyong said, flicking a hand toward the towel again. "Properly, this time. I won't have damp footprints through my house."
"Yes, Your Highness," Haneul said evenly, voice so composed it made Seungyong's smirk tighten just a little. He complied without complaint, towel ruffling through his hair until it looked even softer, even messier.
And somehow, impossibly, that made things worse.
Sejun, to his credit, made a valiant effort not to laugh. The sound still escaped him in a strangled snort as he busied himself with stacking plates.
Daeho chose that exact moment to wander in from the courtyard, carrying a small basket of herbs. "Did I miss something?" he asked, setting it on the counter.
"Only Seungyong's attempt at comedy," I muttered, glaring at the ex-prince, who only looked mildly satisfied with himself.
"I wasn't attempting anything," he said smoothly, as though my indignation were the most natural background noise in the world. "Merely making an observation."
Haneul, for his part, remained unbothered. He finished towel-drying his hair and set the fabric neatly on the counter before glancing at Seungyong, his voice even. "You worry too much."
"I'm surrounded by fools who don't worry enough," Seungyong replied, sitting gracefully at the table as though he hadn't just set the entire room on fire.
Haneul joined him without another word, plate in hand. The sunlight caught in his still-damp hair as he sat, his posture loose and easy.
I, on the other hand, was still frozen near the counter, feeling absurdly aware of the fact that I'd just been publicly accused—half-jokingly, but still—of admiring the man now quietly eating pancakes like some ethereal being of domestic calm.
Sejun leaned over, whispering just low enough for only me to hear. "You okay there? You've been holding your breath for a minute."
I scowled at him, grabbing my plate as a distraction. "I'm fine."
"Sure you are," he said, amusement bright in his tone.
I plopped down across from Haneul, trying to reclaim a shred of composure. He caught my eye briefly and gave me a faint, knowing smile—one of those small, devastatingly gentle ones that made the room seem quieter.
The morning settled again, soft and domestic — sunlight catching the faint blue of the butterfly pea drink, the hiss of oil still faint in the pan, the quiet clink of chopsticks and laughter layered over Seungyong's polished sarcasm.
And somehow, despite my still-burning cheeks, the house felt alive — not just with noise, but with something warmer, something that felt, for the first time in a while, a little like home.