By the time I remembered how to blink, Haneul was already halfway up the stairs.
The ghost of his kiss lingered just above my brow, warm and soft and horrifyingly casual. It took exactly four seconds after Haneul vanished up the stairs for my brain to catch up with the present tense.
One. Seungyong blinked slowly, still perched with his limbs angled like a bored villain who hadn't yet decided if he was part of the scene or the punchline.
Two. Sejun exhaled with a whistle that made his arm behind me shift against the couch. The air suddenly felt warm—no, hot—like my skin had committed to spontaneous combustion.
Three. Daeho, still heavy across my lap, murmured, "...did Haneul just flirt?" Like the concept broke a law of physics and he couldn't decide if he should clap or report it.
Four. Seungyong stood up with all the casual threat of a guillotine being wheeled into a party. Smoothly. Without drama, without blinking. Just rose like he was called by some divine cue only he could hear and turned to me with the gravity of a monarch addressing a particularly stupid court jester.
Then, with the grace and subtlety of a tax auditor, he announced, "We're out of popcorn."
"That's a lie," Daeho mumbled from my lap, not bothering to open his eyes. "I bought a BUNCH of packs last weekend."
"I meant popped popcorn," Seungyong amended smoothly, though a corner of his mouth twitched, the closest thing he had to telling on himself. "Aureal, come make some."
"I can make it," Sejun said, all too quickly, adjusting the towel still hanging from his shoulders. His voice was syrupy-soft, but it carried weight and territorial warning bells. "I know how she likes it."
"Aureal's popcorn," Seungyong elaborated, "tastes like it was seasoned by someone who has several grudges simmering on low heat. It's perfectly salted with passive aggression. Yours," he glanced at Sejun, "tastes like you're trying to heal a broken family."
My eyes narrowed. "You're saying the popcorn tastes better when I make it. Because I'm… emotionally unstable?"
Seungyong gave a slow, sage-like nod. "Cheese powder. And just a hint of generational trauma."
Daeho snorted, somehow misunderstanding. "She can't have spicy, idiot. You wanna kill her?"
"She has hyperacidity," Sejun added helpfully. "You try feeding her something spicy and I'll kill you."
"I'm not asking for spice," Seungyong said, faux offended. "I'm asking for salt and drama. Entirely different seasonings."
"Why me?" I asked, suspicion crawling into my tone.
"Because your popcorn tastes like repressed rage and unmet expectations," Seungyong said, completely straight-faced. "And I find that deeply comforting."
Daeho shrugged. "I like Sejun's popcorn."
"Me too." I mumbled.
Seungyong ignored him completely and zeroed in on me.
Seungyong wasn't looking at anyone but me. His arms were folded, but the tips of his ears were faintly pink. His expression? Masked. His usual resting bitch face — sharp angles and arched brows and the faint threat of sarcasm. But something was off. He wasn't joking. Not really.
He didn't want popcorn. He wanted something else. Something quieter. A moment. Privacy. Whatever counted for intimacy when you were Seungyong and couldn't admit to emotions without lighting them on fire first.
Fine.
I gave an exaggerated sigh and started easing out from under Daeho's head. "Move, your majesty."
"Nooo," he groaned, clinging to my thigh. "You're warm and soft and emotionally grounding."
"You're heavy and stubborn and cutting off my leg's blood circulation."
Sejun gave me a once-over. "Don't let him bully you."
"I'm not," I replied.
I was, but also, I wasn't. Seungyong had that look again. The one that said: I have something to say, but will die before I say it like a normal human being. And maybe I was curious. Or reckless.
Daeho tried to say something, probably to defend my dignity, but I brushed him off and stood. Mostly because I hated the idea of anyone assuming I was afraid of Seungyong, which I wasn't.
Obviously.
Behind me, I heard Sejun sigh. "If she doesn't come back in five minutes, I'm calling the fire department."
"I'm calling a therapist," Daeho added. "Seungyong needs help."
And Seungyong, as always, was himself; complete with the the sharp cheekbones, the narrowed eyes, the cruel little smile he wore like armor. But the tip of one ear was flushed pink. His hands, resting against the counter, flexed with a kind of restless energy. And beneath all that bite and banter, there was something quieter — like a dog baring its teeth not because it wanted to bite, but because it didn't know how to be soft.
"Are you trying to flirt with me," I asked, "or conduct a psychological experiment?"
"Can't it be both?"
"Seungyong."
He blinked. His expression flickered for half a second — like static — before settling back into that same infuriating grin. "I was going to ask how you're doing. After… earlier."
"Earlier?"
He gestured vaguely. "The eyebrow incident."
"I'm fine," I lied, putting on a small smile as I pulled out a bag of popcorn kernels.
"You're lying."
"And you're projecting."
I poured the kernels into the pot with oil and clicked it on. The soft whirr began, low and rising, the smell of heat already blooming in the machine's belly.
He hovered beside me. Too close. Close enough that I felt the warmth of his body, the faint electric hum of something unsaid crackling between us like a powerline just out of reach. And still — still — he said nothing of value.
"Do you always lure women into kitchens under the pretense of snack production?" I asked, tossing him a sidelong glance.
Seungyong didn't flinch. "Only the ones I think might actually poison me."
"Oh?"
"It's a trust thing."
I added a dash of cheese powder to the bowl and gave it a shake. "And what is it exactly you think I'd poison you for?"
Seungyong's voice lowered, just a notch. "Anything, everything, or just for fun."
There was a stillness between us — not uncomfortable, but charged. Like something had been almost spoken, but the words curled back at the last second, scared of their own shapes.
I handed him the bowl.
He looked down at it. "You didn't spit in it, did you?"
"No," I hummed. "just a few dashes of poison."
"Still tastes like resentment," the corner of his mouth twitched up as he chuckled, popping a piece in his mouth. "Perfect."
I looked at him. Really looked. Seungyong stood at the counter like a villain caught mid-scheme, elbow resting too casually on the edge, fingers tapping against the bowl.
"Hey," he said, softer now. "For what it's worth… if you ever do want to talk about it… I'm not the best listener. Or even a good one. But I have an excellent resting face for absorbing trauma."
I blinked. That was… surprisingly sincere. And ruined immediately by his follow-up: "And if you cry, I won't make it weird."
"You absolutely would make it weird."
"I'd only rank it as mildly weird."
I pulled my wrist free, not unkindly. "Come on, before Daeho eats the couch."
He followed me back into the living room, popcorn bowl in hand, smug like he'd gotten away with something. Like this — this awkward little kitchen detour — had gone according to plan.
When we returned, the lights had dimmed slightly. Haneul had returned to the couch with a new sketchbook, sat back at the far end, half-curled in his corner with a throw blanket draped over his shoulder like a cape, while Daeho was back to laying sideways on the couch with his legs on Haneul's lap again. Sejun was the only one who looked remotely concerned that we'd taken so long.
His eyes flicked from me to Seungyong, to the suspiciously full bowl in Seungyong's hands. Seungyong, very deliberately, did not look at me. "I assisted. She executed."
Daeho's head popped up from my spot on the couch—still warm, judging by the way he sighed dramatically when I reclaimed it. "I knew it," he said. "You just wanted alone time. Didn't even burn it on purpose this time, huh?"
I set the bowl on the coffee table and flopped back into my seat. Daeho wasted no time in draping his head across my lap again like some kind of oversized, affectionate retriever who'd once served in a war.
Sejun tilted his head at Seungyong. "You were gone for ten minutes. It doesn't take ten minutes to make popcorn."
Daeho perked up. "Wait—was it cheese? Or salted?"
"Cheese," I muttered.
"Perfect," he said, already fishing in the bowl like he had rights. "She makes the best kind when she's mad."
Seungyong made a small noise in his throat, like he wanted to deny that but couldn't. His hand scooped up some popcorn then hovered near my face but didn't commit. Coward. "She wasn't mad."
I turned my head sharply. "What?"
"You weren't mad," he repeated, but slower, like he was trying not to step on his own words. "Just… generally disappointed by my existence."
Sejun snorted into his soda. Daeho just grinned. "You're actually bad at this, huh?"
Seungyong narrowed his eyes. "At what."
"Flirting," Sejun and Daeho said in unison, Sejun's voice more curious, Daeho's deeply amused.
"I wasn't flirting."
Sejun rested his chin in his hand. "I mean, if you like her, you could just say that."
Seungyong made a sound like a cat cornered in a room full of toddlers. "I never said—"
"I don't care," I cut in, loud. "Let's just watch the movie before I genuinely kill someone with the popcorn bowl."
Daeho patted my thigh. "See? Now she's mad. Balance restored."
I shoved a handful of popcorn in my mouth to stop myself from laughing. It didn't work. The stupid salt-dusted kernels hit the back of my throat and I choked slightly, which only made Daeho fuss and Sejun hover like I was about to need CPR.
"Oh, come on," I laughed, plucking a handful of popcorn from the bowl. "If this is what flirting looks like, I'd hate to see what a romantic gesture entails. Probably a passive-aggressive haiku."
"Speak for yourself," Daeho said, licking cheese powder off his fingers. "I'm winning this 'who's closest to Aureal' contest by a mile."
I laughed, shaking my head. "Long game? You're still fumbling at the starting line."
Seungyong just smirked. And I swore that beneath all that smug villainy and half-baked charm, his eyes lingered. Only for a second, like he wanted to say something else but couldn't figure out the script.
I didn't know what to do with that. Maybe I didn't want to know.
So I turned back to the movie, let the screen wash over me, and tried to pretend the heat in my chest came from the cheese powder, not the way Seungyong's gaze made me feel seen, and not entirely safe.
The television droned softly in the background, the flickering images casting lazy shadows across the room. The popcorn bowl rested between us, half-empty, forgotten for the moment. Seungyong was sulking somewhere in his chair, probably plotting his next awkward move. Daeho was busy stealing the last cheesy kernels without shame.
Sejun slid onto the armrest next to me like he belonged there, as if the space had been waiting for him all along. His presence wasn't loud or demanding. It was the opposite: calm, steady, a soft weight beside me. Without a word, he leaned his head lightly against mine. The contact was so delicate, so fleeting, I almost thought I'd imagined it. But it lingered, warm and steady, like a slow heartbeat beneath the rush of everything else.
The steady weight of him pressed softly into the chaos inside me, a balm for the restless storm that had been churning beneath my ribs. The noise of the room faded around the edges, the words and laughter blurring into a gentle background hum.
I didn't pull away.
Instead, I leaned in ever so slightly, letting myself be held—not just by him, but by the quiet safety that his presence promised. Not out of weakness, but because I wanted to. Because that slight connection grounded me better than any speech could. There were no words exchanged, no declarations or demands, just a shared stillness that settled between us like a secret. The room still buzzed around me, but I was no longer lost in it. I was here.
Maybe this was what grounding felt like; Not a cure, not a fix, but a pause. A moment to catch my breath before the world pulled me back under.
────── ⋆⋅⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⋅⋆ ──────
The next morning crept into the kitchen in shades of pale blue, the kind of light that makes the world feel hushed, unfinished. The air still held the faint scent of coffee grounds from earlier, though no one else was around yet.
Except him.
Haneul stood by the counter, pouring hot water into a mug, steam curling upward in slow spirals. His hair was still mussed from sleep, falling into his eyes, though he didn't seem to notice. He glanced at me when I walked in—brief, unreadable—and then returned to the kettle, as if my arrival had simply slotted into his morning without disrupting it.
I took a step closer, under the pretense of reaching for the sugar jar by his elbow. Our sleeves brushed—light, fleeting. My pulse jumped, waiting for… something.
Nothing came.
He didn't look at me. Didn't pause. Just stirred his coffee, slow and steady, like the contact hadn't even registered. Or maybe it had, and he was just choosing not to acknowledge it.
I told myself not to think about last night. About the way the air had thickened between us, warm enough to almost be touchable. The brush of his fingers against my temple, the way he'd leaned in, so close I could feel the faint heat of his breath before his lips touched—just there, above my eyebrow. Not a kiss in the way that would have been undeniable. But not nothing, either. About the strange, delicate thread I'd felt strung between us, invisible but impossibly taut. But the moment I saw him there, quiet in the soft light, the memory pressed itself forward, stubborn as breath.
I'd replayed it so many times in my head while lying in the dark, trying to decide which side of the line it belonged to. Was it the kind of gesture people made without thinking? Or had it been deliberate, the kind of thing you felt first in your chest before it made its way to your hands, your mouth?
I wanted to ask. Not directly, not in words that could be laughed off—just in some roundabout way that would let me watch his face, see if he flinched at the memory like I still did.
I leaned back against the counter, holding my mug without drinking from it, and watched him from the corner of my eye. I searched for some flicker in his expression, some telltale sign that the thread had been real, that it had stretched into this morning and hadn't simply unraveled in the night.
But there was nothing to find.
"You're up early," I said instead, opening the fridge like I needed something from inside it.
His answer came quiet, even. "Couldn't sleep."
I nodded, pretending to accept that. The water in my glass felt heavier now, harder to hold. I wanted to push, to risk asking why not, to see if his answer might circle back to me, to that small, impossibly gentle touch on my eyebrow.
But he was already taking his first sip of coffee, eyes lowered, mouth hidden by the rim of the mug.
The moment was slipping. I could feel it.
I drank from my glass again, more for something to do than out of thirst, and tried to catch his gaze one more time. He didn't look up. The faint line of steam between us curled and faded, like a thread burning away to nothing.
It's always like this.
One night I'm almost certain, the next morning I'm left with only the echo of something I can't prove existed. Chasing shadows in daylight, reaching for what vanishes the moment I try to touch it.
He took a sip of his coffee, set the mug down, and said, "You should eat something." Just like that—like there'd never been anything between us but the table.
And maybe there hadn't; maybe it's only ever been me, maybe the kiss hadn't meant anything, maybe I'd made it into something it wasn't because I wanted it to be.
And just like that, the night before folded up on itself. He walked away, and I stood there with a half-full glass of water, wondering if I'd been chasing something that didn't exist, or if I'd just let it escape again, or if I'd been foolish to think there was anything to hold on to at all.
I stood at the counter, glass of water in my hands, staring at nothing. My thoughts circled like a dog chasing its tail—Haneul's face under the soft morning light, the press of lips to my brow, the silence afterward that I still couldn't read.
"Lord," I prayed silently, leaning into the counter, "I'm going to need a distraction. Any distraction. Something to make me stop replaying this before I start inventing meanings that aren't there."
And as if the heavens had been listening, the front door opened.
God works fast, I thought, and honestly, I'd be sending up a hymn later.
The creak of hinges, then the dull thud of it shutting. Footsteps—heavier, more grounded than Haneul's—moved across the floorboards.
And then he appeared in the doorway, sunlight itself apparently deciding it would rather walk in on two legs. His skin was flushed from the cold, hair damp with sweat from the run, a fitted black T-shirt clinging in all the right places, with shoulders broad enough to rest the troubles of a small country on, arms carved like they'd been planned ahead of time. And God, that chest— mmm, delicious on the eyes. I could stare at that sleeper build without getting bored.
I actually glanced at the ceiling—Lord, You didn't have to go this hard, but you did, so thank you. Truly, sincerely, from the depths of my unworthy heart.
"Morning, moonbeam," Daeho said, grinning like he hadn't just casually averted a minor crisis in my brain.
He crossed to the sink in a few easy strides, and I told myself I wasn't staring—just… appreciating. The cut of his waist under that shirt, the ripple in his forearm as he reached for a glass, the way his shoulders moved like they'd been sculpted by a divine committee. Even Seungyong would have been staring by now, no shame in it.
"Morning," I replied, far too casual for someone suddenly feeling like God had just delivered a very fine distraction in a very fine package. "How was the run?"
"Good. Took the ridge loop. You'd have loved it, the sun was coming up over the village."
I smirked into my glass. "You forget who you're talking to. I'd have smoked you before we even hit the first incline."
That got his head turning toward me, eyes bright. "Oh? Big talk for someone who hides from morning cardio."
"I didn't say I currently do it," I corrected. "But high school? Track and field. I won most of the races I ever entered. Still got the medals somewhere."
"So, you were the girl nobody could catch." He tilted his head, smirking. "But I bet I could've caught you."
"Bet you couldn't." I let the words hang, then let my gaze drag—slow, deliberate—over his broad shoulders, down the taper of his torso, back up to his face. "Although… looking at you now… I might've let you."
He froze mid-drink, then lowered his glass with a laugh that was far too pleased. "Dangerous talk, moonbeam. I run every morning," he replied, stepping a little closer, just enough for me to catch the faint scent of sweat and cold air on his skin. "Could start knocking on your door at dawn."
"Oh, the horror."
He chuckled, deep and low, before reaching past me for the cupboard. The brush of his arm grazed my side—a deliberate accident. "You've got a dangerous way with words."
"And you," I smirked lightly, "have a dangerous way of answering prayers."
He ruffled my hair in passing, like I was both precious and indestructible, then left for the hall. I caught myself watching the flex of his back, the way the shirt moved with him, and thought—again—God really outdid himself here.
If this is divine intervention,I might have to start going to church again.