Mondays without work were supposed to be quiet, peaceful, even; but apparently, Haneul and peace had filed for divorce a long time ago. Sejun, Seungyong, and Daeho had all left for work a couple of hours ago, leaving behind the distant echo of car engines and the clink of coffee mugs.
"I'm aware," I replied, taking a sip of coffee. "That's three whole days of being alive and functional."
"I took the day off," he said simply, setting the towel aside. "To make sure you get settled."
Something fluttered in my chest then—something warm and stupid. Haneul rarely explained himself, much less offered up reasons that sounded almost considerate. My heart did this little skip, like it was remembering something from before.
"That's… actually really sweet," I murmured.
He glanced at me, impassive as ever. "It's practical."
And just like that, the flutter died.
Over the next hour, I realized that "practical" was code for he's not letting me touch a single damn thing. When I tried to grab the laundry basket, he appeared beside me without a sound, prying it from my hands before I could blink.
"I can do it," I said, tugging the handle.
He glanced at me, then at the laundry basket I was holding—well, trying to hold before he snatched it earlier. "You were in the hospital three days ago."
"Yeah, for a month," I corrected him. "And I've been discharged for three days, which means I'm fine. Alive. Mobile. Capable of pressing buttons on a machine."
He didn't reply, just crossed his arms, eyes flicking from me to the washer like I was about to wrestle it to death.
"I am not trying to lift heavy things. I'm doing laundry." I shoved another shirt into the machine, determined to be the woman who could do small domestic chores by herself. I dragged the detergent in with a flourish. His quiet made me prickly—he felt too solid, too serious; there was no lightness, no banter, and in the early, raw hours after being told I could go home, I wanted to be teased. I wanted someone to joke about hospital gowns and bad K-pop. I wanted the clumsy, safe versions of the men who left every morning.
Haneul didn't offer jokes. He offered a dry towel and a folded blanket, handed with the same earnestness you'd hand over an umbrella. He moved like someone trying on a role called Caretaker and never quite getting to the punchline.
It would've been endearing if it weren't so maddening.
The washing machine hummed to life, and I turned away, determined to at least win the next round of self-sufficiency.
Haneul was everywhere at once without ever saying anything. He refilled my water glass before I asked, cleared the pan behind my elbow before I dropped it, and then, the most infuriating move, stood in the doorway with his arms crossed and a face like a stone I'd once mistaken for a statue in a museum — handsome, perfectly chiseled, frustratingly unreadable.
"Fine," I said. "You handle laundry. I'll make lunch."
That got his attention. His head turned immediately, eyes narrowing slightly as I marched toward the kitchen.
"Aureal," he said, and that alone told me he disapproved.
"I'm fine," I replied, without looking back. "You're not stopping me from making a few eggs."
Of course, I should've known that meant he'd follow me.
By the time I reached for the frying pan, he was already beside me, standing close enough that I could smell the faint trace of cedar and soap on him. His hand darted out before mine could grip the handle.
"Hey," I protested, twisting around. Haneul had already taken the cutting board, set it down, and begun slicing the vegetables himself with surgical precision.
"You're unbelievable."
"Knife's heavy," he said, not looking up.
"I can handle heavy," I shot back.
He didn't answer. Of course he didn't. His face was a mask of calm concentration, as if chopping carrots required the focus of a monk in meditation. I sighed, leaning against the counter.
The moment I touched the frying pan, his voice came from behind me—quiet, measured. "You're not supposed to strain your wrist yet."
I spun around. "You can't possibly mean to cookfor me too—"
But he already had the spatula in hand.
I could only gape at him, irritation bubbling up alongside a reluctant sort of fondness I refused to name. He didn't even seem smug about it. He just cooked—focused, efficient, not saying a word. He hummed, low in his throat, a sound that could've meant anything—agreement, amusement, or maybe I'm not listening but keep going anyway.
God, he was infuriating. And of course, still stupidly handsome while doing it.
When he moved to carry the pot of water to the stove, I rolled my eyes and went to fetch the plates. I shouldn't have been surprised when he appeared behind me again, wordlessly reaching for the plates before I could.
His lips pressed into the faintest line, but he didn't argue. Instead, he busied himself with stirring the pot. The air between us went quiet, save for the soft simmer of broth and the hum of the refrigerator.
I sighed. "You know, I don't remember you being this overprotective before."
His answer was quiet. "You weren't hurt before."
Something about the way he said it—flat but sincere—made my chest tighten. I shook it off, focusing on the sizzling batter instead. "Still. You don't have to hover. I'm perfectly fine now."
"Mm." That was all he said: A noncommittal mm.
I wanted to strangle him with the dish towel.
I turned away, pretending to be absorbed in the sizzling sound of oil. "For someone who barely talks, you're annoyingly persistent."
He didn't reply, of course he didn't.
I turned away with a huff, rolling my eyes as I whisked the eggs a little too forcefully. What did I ever see in him before? Sure, he was tall, good-looking in that quiet, cold kind of way — but beyond that? He barely spoke. His idea of communication was a nod or a grunt.
Maybe my younger self had a thing for mysterious men with emotional constipation.
I found myself increasingly irritated by the lack of words, by the way everything he did was silent and therefore, in my annoyed imagination, deliberately ambiguous. For a second, as I stacked imperfect pancakes on a plate he'd already set down, I wondered once more—what had I seen in him? Not his face, not his careful jaw and the way the morning light sometimes made his cheekbones look like maps. Not the quiet reserve. What else was there? If you took away the hands that folded my towels and the brow that furrowed slightly when I reached for something heavy, what remained?
I was thinking that thought when I missed the step.
I had slipped — wet porcelain against damp fingers — and before I could even gasp, an arm caught me around the waist. The plate clattered safely onto the counter, and I found myself pulled back against the solid wall of his chest.
My breath hitched.
He didn't say anything; he didn't need to. His hand lingered just above my hip, steady and firm, as if to make sure I'd really caught my balance.
I turned slightly, looking up. His eyes met mine — calm, dark, and frustratingly gentle.
For a moment, everything else in the kitchen blurred — the sound of sizzling oil, the faint hum of the laundry machine, the morning light pooling through the window. All I could hear was my heartbeat, quick and traitorous.
He released me slowly, his voice low when he said, "Be careful."
And just like that, I remembered.
This was how it always was with him — not loud declarations or grand gestures, but these quiet, instinctive acts that spoke louder than words ever could.
My irritation melted, replaced with a flutter I hadn't felt in years.
"...Thanks," I murmured, turning back to the stove, hoping he didn't notice the flush on my cheeks.
But from the corner of my eye, I caught the faintest curve of his lips — almost a smile.
And suddenly, I remembered exactly what I saw in him back then. It wasn't just his looks, it was this; The way he spoke without saying anything at all. The moment passed, but my chest didn't calm. He stepped back, resuming his place by the counter as if nothing happened, while I stood there gripping the sink, pretending to be busy washing lettuce that didn't need that much washing.
I watched him plate the food with that same silent focus that had been my irritation all morning. He arranged the omelette, folded it like a secret, sprinkled green onions with decisive, efficient movements. When he pushed the plate toward me, our fingers brushed — just a fraction of contact — and something in me unclenched.
"Sit." The single word landed between us, not unkind, not indulgent. More like an instruction from someone who believed in the efficiency of caring. He slid my chair closer to the table and nudged me into it with a thumb by my elbow.
He took the chair across from me and sat. He was there — close enough that I could see the fine line of his cheekbone, the hollow of his throat when he swallowed. He ate with the same quiet deliberation he applied to everything. We didn't need to fill the room with chatter. The apartment hummed, the city kept its distance, and his presence was a simple, steady thing I could rely on.
Between mouthfuls, I caught myself remembering the small mercies from before: the way he lent me his jacket when I complained about the cold, the way he paused mid-conversation to tuck a stray hair behind my ear, the way his silence had always left room for things that were better said with action. He had never been charming in the obvious way — he was a man who said nothing and meant everything.
There was no dramatic kiss, no confessional flood. There never was with Haneul —There never would be. His love lived in the tiny domesticities: the way he refolded the blanket just so, the way he set timers for my pills, the way he carried the laundry like it was a fragile promise. I wanted to scold him, to pin him down about why he hovered and why he refused to be sentimental in speech. Instead I let my head rest a second against his shoulder, a motion so ordinary it felt risky.
"You still look good, at least." I whispered, because in the end that was the only kind of flattery he seemed to accept. He didn't answer. He only pressed a hand to my hair, gentle and final, like a period at the end of an argument.
Outside, the city worked and the guys were at work and my phone buzzed with a cascade of check-ins. Inside, in the small, Sunday-ish Monday of our kitchen, Haneul and I fell into the comfortable choreography of people who had shared space for too long to pretend it was new. He spoke little. He moved much. I rolled my eyes at him and then, stupidly, almost like an apology, I rested my palm on his forearm. He didn't flinch. He looked down at me, unreadable, and for the first time that day, I believed I was exactly where I needed to be — slightly fussed over, slightly annoyed, and entirely, inexplicably, very alive.
Then something clattered to the floor.
The sound made both of us freeze.
"I didn't drop anything," I said too fast, which probably made it sound like I had. I looked toward the counter anyway, but the culprit wasn't mine. The breeze that swept through the open kitchen window answered for me, tugging at the curtains like a restless ghost. "See? Wind."
His brows twitched — barely, but enough for me to know he didn't quite believe me yet. Then another gust swept through the kitchen, rattling the utensils on the rack and proving my innocence.
"See?" I said, gesturing at the dancing curtains. "The wind did it."
"Wind's picking up," he muttered, his voice even, as if narrating an observation rather than a concern.
"Yeah, but at least it's bringing in cold air," I replied, trying to sound upbeat. "Better than the sticky heat earlier."
Haneul's answer was a quiet hum—his default communication setting—and then he resumed cleaning up the kitchen, silently wiping the counters while I rinsed the last of the bowls. His presence filled the space without needing words, the quiet comfort of someone who didn't believe in leaving a task half-done.
By the time I finished drying my hands, I noticed the rain outside had changed tones. What used to be a gentle pattering had turned into something heavier—rapid, insistent. The sound against the roof and windows grew rhythmic and loud, like dozens of impatient fingers drumming all at once.
"Wow," I murmured, peering toward the window. "That escalated fast."
Haneul was already moving toward the hallway, silent and steady, like a soldier on a domestic mission. "Stay here," he said, in that quiet tone of his that somehow carried authority without needing volume. I watched him disappear into the other rooms, the creak of windows shutting following him one by one. The wind picked up again, pushing against the panes, howling in the gaps like an offended ghost.
Left alone, I took a moment to glance toward the living room. My phone charger light glowed faintly, which reminded me—if the storm got worse, a power outage wasn't far behind. I jogged over, careful not to slip on the tiles, and double-checked that my phone was plugged in and charging.
My survival instincts weren't particularly sophisticated, but I knew one universal truth, which was that storms and snacks go hand in hand. So, I decided to do what any reasonable adult would do in a storm: make popcorn.
Not just one bag, but two. Because I wasn't about to be caught unprepared in the dark with nothing to stress-eat. I pulled the bags from the cupboard, slid one into the microwave, and punched in the time with the air of a woman preparing for survival.
When Haneul came back, his shirt slightly rumpled from bending to secure latches, he paused at the doorway. His brows knit faintly as he took in the smell of butter and salt. "You're cooking popcorn?" he asked, tone halfway between disbelief and disapproval.
"Microwaving," I corrected, flashing him a grin. "Totally different, and yes; cravings hit. Also, who knows when the power's gonna cut out? I'm planning ahead."
He exhaled through his nose — that quiet, patient sigh that meant he was two seconds away from calling me ridiculous but couldn't be bothered. "It's just heavy rain," he said. "It'll pass in a few hours."
And as if the heavens had been personally offended by his confidence, the universe chose that exact moment to strike.
In the darkness, there was a beat of silence so perfect I could almost hear his ego deflating.
"...You were saying?" I asked sweetly.
He let out a long sigh, the kind that sounded halfway between resignation and the ghost of a laugh. Somewhere in the dark, I heard him mutter, "Spiteful weather." I could feel the unimpressed look he was giving me through the darkness. The only illumination came from the pale lightning that briefly flickered outside, casting everything in a blue-white flash.
"Well," I said, fishing around the counter for my phone to use as a flashlight, "at least I have popcorn."
The beam of my phone cut through the dark, catching his face in partial light — calm, stoic, maybe a little exasperated. The shadows framed him in a way that made my chest tighten unexpectedly. It wasn't fair how he could look so composed even when the world outside sounded like an orchestra of chaos.
"Do we have candles?" I asked, mostly to fill the silence.
"Hallway cabinet," he replied, moving past me toward it.
I followed him, the light bouncing between us, and for a fleeting moment, it felt almost cinematic — two people in the middle of a storm, one quietly capable, the other stubbornly dramatic, both pretending this wasn't the most absurdly domestic scene we'd shared since I came home.
When he returned with a couple of candles and a lighter, I placed them on the counter while he lit them one by one. The flickering glow softened his face, and for a second, I forgot about the rain entirely.
"Popcorn?" I offered, holding it out like a peace treaty.
He hesitated for a second, then took a handful, his fingers brushing mine in the dimness — a fleeting contact, but enough to send a tiny jolt through me.
The house was swallowed by the storm, thunder rolling like laughter overhead. We stood there, lit only by the gray-blue glow bleeding through the curtains, the scent of rain and butter hanging between us.
"You really thought ahead," he said dryly.
"I always do," I said, smiling to myself. "I'm practically psychic."
A flash of lightning filled the kitchen for a split second — his face illuminated, calm and steady against the chaos outside. For that instant, with the world flashing white around him and his gaze fixed on me, I felt my heart do that ridiculous little flutter it hadn't done in years.
"See?" I said lightly. "Popcorn and candlelight. Romantic, isn't it?"
He shot me a look that said, Don't push it, but there was the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth — so brief I could have imagined it.
Outside, the storm roared. Inside, the two of us sat in the warm flicker of candlelight, surrounded by the faint scent of buttered popcorn and rain, and I found myself thinking that maybe — just maybe — power outages weren't so bad after all.
The house felt smaller under the gray hush of the storm, and in that kind of quiet, even the smallest sound — the rustle of Haneul setting the popcorn bag aside, the faint clink of his glass — felt like it belonged to something intimate.
When the thunder cracked again, closer this time, Haneul looked toward the darkened hallway. "You should rest," he said simply.
"Rest?" I repeated, disbelieving. "I'm not exactly about to fall asleep to a live weather concert outside."
He ignored the jab. "You just got discharged three days ago," he reminded me, in that patient tone that was somehow more frustrating than scolding would've been. "You should be in bed."
"I've been in bed for three weeks, Haneul," I said, sighing dramatically. "If I lie down any longer, I might start growing moss."
He gave me a look — the kind that said he heard me but was going to do what he wanted anyway — and gestured for me to follow him out of the kitchen.
I trailed behind him, carrying the popcorn bag like a sulking child being sent to time-out. The storm moaned against the windows, the air cool and damp with the scent of rain-soaked earth. When we reached my room, he held the door open and nodded toward the bed.
"Sit," he said.
"I can walk, you know," I muttered.
"I know," he replied, and before I could protest further, he placed a steady hand on my shoulder and gently pushed me down onto the mattress. The gesture wasn't rough — it was careful, deliberate — but it made me feel small in a way that made my chest warm and my pride ache all at once.
I looked up at him, trying for nonchalance and failing. "You're really going to tuck me in? Should I call you Nurse Haneul now?"
"You know," I began, in what I hoped was a casual voice, "since you took the day off to take care of me, maybe you should stay with me. You know—just so you can make sure I don't, uh, trip or something in the dark."
That earned me a faint glance. "You're fine."
"I could slip again," I pressed, crossing my arms. "Statistically, people who've slipped once are more likely to slip again."
He stared at me, unblinking, as though evaluating if this line of logic warranted a response. It did not.
I tried again. "The storm's loud. You can stay here until it quiets down."
"Your room's not soundproof."
"That's— that's not the point."
His eyes met mine briefly, unreadable.
"So," I continued, tone light, "you should stay here too. Keep me company. You know—" I gestured vaguely toward the storm outside, "—for moral support."
"Rest," he repeated, like I hadn't just suggested something entirely reasonable and not at all flirtatious.
I crossed my arms tighter. "You could at least pretend I said something interesting."
"I heard you."
He exhaled, half amusement and half exasperation, and before I could mount another defense, he placed one hand gently on my shoulder and turned me toward the bed. The motion was firm but careful — the same way you'd handle something fragile but stubborn. I felt the warmth of his palm through the fabric of my shirt, and it sent an annoying, traitorous flutter through my stomach.
He sat me down, then tugged the blanket over my lap as if I were a restless child he'd finally coaxed into bed.
"There," he said, straightening up. "Stay."
I blinked at him. "Stay? You stay."
But he was already turning toward the door.
"Wait— Haneul!"
And then he left.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me staring at the painted wood, popcorn taste still on my tongue, my pride taking mortal damage. I blinked, once, twice, waiting for the comedic twist where he'd pop back in and say, "Just kidding, move over." But no. Silence.
The audacity.
What was the point of looking like that, moving like that, if he was just going to walk away every single time? I mean, sure, he was the kind of guy who looked like he could melt glass with a stare, but emotionally? A glacier. A polite, good-looking, emotionally unavailable glacier.
"Unbelievable," I muttered under my breath, kicking at the edge of my blanket. "He practically babysits me all day, then abandons me in the middle of a thunderstorm."
I flopped backward onto the bed, limbs sprawled in melodramatic defeat. The rain thudded hard against the roof, punctuating my misery. "Honestly, who does that? Who tucks someone in and leaves? Is this man allergic to intimacy? Should I get him emotional antihistamines or something?"
My ceiling fan stared back, unhelpfully still because, well, no power.
I sank deeper into the sheets, pouting. My mind spiraled the way it always did when I felt too much and had nowhere to put it. Was I that easy to ignore? Did I suddenly become that boring post-hospital responsibility? He'd been hovering all day, fussing like a shadow with a to-do list — but the one time I asked him to actually stay, he vanished like a ghost clocking out of overtime.
I turned on my side, glaring at the faint strip of light under the door. "Honestly, who plops someone down and just leaves? He could've at least pretended to think about it."
The more I thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed. My brain staged the whole thing again: me being subtle, him being infuriatingly oblivious, me sitting here like an idiot. I groaned into my pillow. "I swear, I don't know what I ever saw in that emotionally constipated—"
I was just about to drag myself up to go fetch a glass of water — because apparently even that I had to do alone now — when the doorknob rattled.
I froze mid-sit, heart lurching, half thinking the wind had managed to open the door by itself. But then it swung open, and there he was — Haneul, framed by the dim glow of a flashlight balanced against his shoulder.
He was carrying two bottles of water in one hand and his laptop tucked under the other arm.
I blinked. "You— what—?"
He set the bottles down on my bedside table like it was the most obvious thing in the world, then placed the laptop at the foot of the bed. "Power bank's charged," he said, as if explaining an equation. "Movie should last until the storm settles."
For a moment, I could only stare. "Wait," I said slowly. "You left… to get drinks and entertainment?"
That did me in. Whatever irritation I'd been nursing fizzled out instantly, replaced by a wave of something warm and annoyingly soft that made me feel like my ribs were too small.
"You—" I started, then stopped, because I couldn't decide between you jerk and you sweetheart. "You could've said that instead of leaving me like some abandoned pet."
"I told you to rest," he said, deadpan.
"Yeah, well," I said, sitting up straighter, "next time lead with 'I'm coming back with snacks and Netflix,' maybe?"
He ignored that, of course, instead adjusting the flashlight on my nightstand so it cast a soft glow across the room. The light reflected faintly off his hair, damp from earlier, and something about the casualness of it — the way he moved like he'd done this a hundred times before — made my throat feel weirdly tight.
"So…" I said, trying to sound casual, "what are we watching?"
"Whatever's downloaded," he said simply, opening the laptop and setting it between us.
He adjusted the brightness of the screen until the two of us were sitting in a gentle pool of bluish light, the rain outside still hammering at the windows. I hugged my knees and tried not to stare too obviously. The quiet between us felt different now — not awkward, just steady. Outside, thunder rolled again, but this time, it didn't sound so distant.
He passed me the bottle of water, and I took it carefully. Our fingers brushed — brief, warm contact that somehow sent every nerve I owned into chaos.
"Thank you," I murmured.
He nodded, eyes still on the screen as the movie started to play. "Don't fall asleep mid-way," he said.
"Can't make promises," I said, smiling despite myself.
The screen flickered to life, washing the room in dim color. The sound of the movie blended with the rain and the occasional rumble of thunder, the whole scene strangely peaceful — almost cinematic.
And as I leaned slightly against the headboard, stealing glances at him while pretending to focus on the movie, I couldn't help thinking that maybe — just maybe — he knew exactly what he was doing.
Because somehow, sitting there in the dark, with the storm raging and the two of us sharing popcorn from the same bowl, all that earlier sulking seemed silly. My sour mood had done a full, dizzying 180 — replaced by a quiet, fluttering warmth I didn't want to name yet.
When I opened my eyes again, the first thing I heard was the rain. It was still hammering, still relentless — a steady hiss against the window that made everything else sound muffled and soft. The light had shifted; it wasn't the pale, silvery tone of afternoon anymore, but the warm, amber hue of early evening sneaking past the curtains.
I blinked blearily and stretched, groaning as my arm flopped against the empty side of the bed. My fingers met cool sheets. No warmth. No Haneul.
For a brief, foolish moment, I patted around like he might've just rolled to the other side or collapsed in a corner, laptop open, reading something as he always did. But the bed was empty—too empty. The popcorn bowl was gone, the water glass missing, and when I turned my head toward the nightstand, even the little trash bin beside it had been tidied.
He'd cleaned up. He'd left. The other side of the bed was empty.
No Haneul.
No laptop.
No popcorn.
Not even the water bottle he'd handed me earlier.
It looked like a cleanup crew had been through here. The trash bin was neatly packed — popcorn wrappers gone, my empty bottle vanished, even the stray tissues I'd left on the nightstand were folded over and discarded.
Now, not only was I mildly inconvenienced by the grogginess of a nap I hadn't planned, but also greatly offended. Betrayed, even.
I sat up slowly, hair mussed, blanket sliding off my shoulders, and stared at the uninhabited room with mounting offense.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," I muttered under my breath.
No note, no message, not even a whisper of his existence left behind. Just like that — poof. Vanished.
I rubbed my eyes, stretched, then flopped dramatically back down onto the bed with a groan. "Of course. Typical Haneul. Swoops in all knight-in-shining-laptop when it's storming, makes me popcorn, watches a movie, and then ghosts before I even wake up. Incredible. The audacity. The nerve."
The rain tapped on in agreement, like the universe was humoring me.
I lay there for another minute, sulking in silence, before my stomach grumbled in protest. Right. Dinner time.
"Fine," I muttered, dragging myself upright and wrapping my cardigan around me. "I'll just go hydrate myself since someone decided to abandon me without refilling my water."
The floor was cool beneath my feet as I made my way out of my room and down the hallway. The storm had turned the world outside a deep blue-gray, and the house glowed in contrast, warm light spilling from the open space below. The smell of something savory wafted through the air — garlic, soy, and the faint crisp of something frying.
When I reached the top of the stairs, the first thing I saw was Daeho.
As always, impossibly sunny, even with the downpour roaring behind the windows. He was leaning by the railing, phone in one hand, humming along to some upbeat song playing faintly from the living room speaker. When his eyes caught mine, his grin brightened instantly.
Of course he noticed me first. The man had the attention span of a golden retriever and the enthusiasm to match.
"Good afternoon, sleeping beauty," he greeted, leaning casually against the railing with that sunbeam grin of his — which was frankly an insult in this kind of weather. The guy was practically photosynthesizing on positive vibes alone.
"Evening," I corrected, rubbing my eyes. "And I wasn't sleeping beauty. I was just… resting aggressively."
"Uh-huh," Daeho said, clearly amused. "You looked dead to the world when I peeked in earlier."
"You peeked in?"
He shrugged, unbothered. "To make sure you were breathing. Haneul said you fell asleep mid-movie."
I narrowed my eyes. "And then he abandoned me."
Before I could speak further, a familiar grunt interrupted from behind me. Seungyong was trudging past, expression stormier than the weather outside. His hair was damp, shirt slightly crumpled, and he had that perpetual air of "I hate everything, including being perceived."
"Evening," I greeted as he brushed past me on his way upstairs.
He didn't reply — just sneezed so violently I flinched.
"Bless you," I called automatically.
No response. He was already halfway up the stairs.
From the kitchen came the clatter of utensils and the rhythmic sound of chopping. I padded over quietly, not bothering to announce myself.
Haneul stood at the counter, back to me, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he sliced something with precision that could put a surgeon to shame. Sejun was beside him, stirring a pot with one hand while adjusting the stove with the other. The domesticity of it hit me — the soft kitchen lights, the smell of soy sauce and ginger, the sound of rain behind glass.
Sejun turned first, catching sight of me leaning against the doorway.
"Well, look who's alive," he said warmly. His voice was light but fond, the corners of his mouth lifting as he crossed the short distance between us.
Before I could retort, his hand brushed gently through my hair, ruffling it lightly before smoothing it back down. "Dinner's ready," he said, tone soft. "You woke up at the perfect time."
My stomach growled again, louder this time, and Daeho laughed from the living room.
"Guess that's my cue," I muttered, finally stepping in.
The kitchen light glowed warmly around us, cutting through the gray stormlight outside. Despite my earlier offense, the smell of dinner, the sound of quiet conversation, and the sight of all of them together made something in me ease.
Still, I couldn't help the tiny spark of annoyance that lingered as I sat down. He could've stayed, I thought, stealing one more look at Haneul.
But maybe—just maybe—I'd forgive him after I'd eaten.