The apartment smelled like jasmine and old books.
Mirae stood barefoot in the kitchen, her hair still damp from the shower, wearing one of Eun-woo's oversized shirts. The sleeves swallowed her hands, and she didn't bother rolling them up. She liked the way it made her feel, small, safe, claimed.
Eun-woo was at the stove, humming softly, flipping pancakes with the kind of focus that made her smile.
"You hum when you're nervous," she said, leaning against the counter.
He glanced over, grinning. "I hum when I'm happy."
She tilted her head, teasing. "You're happy?"
He nodded, flipping the pancake with practiced ease. "You're here. That's enough."
Mirae's chest warmed. She walked over and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. He froze for a moment, then relaxed, leaning into her touch. His body was warm, real, grounding.
"I used to think love was supposed to be loud," she whispered against his back. "Fireworks. Grand gestures. But this… this is the kind I want."
He turned, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His eyes softened. "The quiet kind?"
"The kind that feels like home."
He kissed her then slow, deliberate, reverent. The kind of kiss that rewrote every scar in silence. She melted into it, hands clutching his shirt as if he might vanish if she let go. For the first time in weeks, her heartbeat didn't sound like panic. It sounded like peace.
When they pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers. "You make me want to be better," he murmured.
"You already are," she whispered.
He smiled faintly, eyes dark and tender. "No. I'm just trying harder when you're near."
They ate breakfast on the balcony, legs tangled, laughter soft. The sunlight pooled between them like honey. Below, the city churned in noise and chaos, but up here, it was suspended time.
Mirae leaned her head against his shoulder. "Do you ever think it's strange? How something this beautiful can exist while the world keeps burning down there?"
Eun-woo smiled sadly. "Maybe that's why it matters. Beauty is rebellion when everything else is falling apart."
She laughed quietly. "You sound like a poet."
He shrugged. "Maybe love turns us all into poets."
A pause. Then she whispered, almost to herself, "If this is what love feels like, I hope it never ends."
He didn't reply. But his hand tightened around hers, as if he knew better than to promise forever in a world that broke everything it touched.
Elsewhere, in the quiet ruins of a penthouse
Joon-ha hadn't left in three days.
The curtains were drawn. The air was heavy with the stale scent of rain and unspoken thoughts. The piano stood untouched, keys like teeth waiting to bite. His sketchbook lay open on the floor, filled with frantic lines, faceless portraits, and lyrics that never found rhythm.
He sat slouched on the couch, eyes blank, watching the muted TV flicker like a dying heartbeat. His phone vibrated once, twice, then went still.
Then the door opened.
Areum stepped in without knocking. She didn't ask for permission, she never had to. Some habits were ghosts that refused to leave.
He looked up, hollow-eyed. "Why are you here?"
"I wanted to see you," she said simply.
"I don't want to be seen."
She stepped closer, cautious, as though he might shatter under her gaze. "You're not okay."
He laughed short, bitter, almost cruel. "And you think you can fix that?"
"I'm not here to fix you."
"Then what?" His voice sharpened, cutting through the silence. "To use me again? To turn me into your weapon?"
She flinched. "That's not fair."
"No," he said, standing abruptly. "What's not fair is that I loved you. And you loved the idea of me."
Her breath hitched. "I loved you," she whispered.
He shook his head, eyes glassy with exhaustion and disbelief. "You loved what I could do for you. You loved the leverage I gave you."
Areum said nothing. Silence stretched between them, heavy, suffocating, truthful.
"I'm not angry," he continued, voice quieter now. "I'm just… tired. Tired of being someone else's weapon. My father's. The fans'. You."
She took a step back, the weight of his words pressing into her ribs.
"I'm sorry," she said softly.
He looked at her for a long time, and the sadness in his eyes was almost holy. "I know," he said finally. "But sorry doesn't make me real again."
She wanted to reach out, to touch his hand, to pull him back into the warmth they once shared, but he was already gone, even as he stood in front of her.
"I'll leave," she said, voice trembling. "But I need you to know… I never stopped loving you. Even when I had to use you."
He didn't move. Didn't breathe.
"Then why does it still feel like betrayal?" he murmured.
Her throat tightened. "Because maybe it was both."
She turned and walked out. The door clicked shut, soft but final, like the last note of a song neither could finish.
That night, Areum sat in her apartment, the city lights flickering against her reflection. Her laptop screen glowed pale blue, pages of data and images filling the silence like ghosts whispering truth.
She typed quickly, fingers steady despite her shaking heart. Files. Names. Timestamps. Van. Ledger. Ji-woo.
The subject line read: KM-D-11A, Kang Industries.
She attached the evidence: the photo from Choi, the license plate, the connection between the shipments and Ji-woo's last day alive.
But before she hit send, she hesitated.
Her gaze drifted to another open tab, Joon-ha's latest music video. She clicked play.
His voice filled the room, raw and broken, the lyrics like a confession trapped in melody.
"You can't unlove someone.
You just learn to love them differently."
She closed the tab slowly, whispering, "You shouldn't have loved me."
Then she opened a new draft email, this one addressed to an investigative journalist at The Seoul Ledger.
Subject: The Kang Heir's Silence Isn't Innocent.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then she began to type.
"He's not just the son of President Kang.
He's the artist who knew.
The man who saw the files.
The boy who loved Ji-woo's sister.
And he stayed silent. Until now."
Her pulse thudded in her throat as she pressed Send.
She whispered to the empty room, "I'm sorry, Joon-ha. But I need the world to see you, even if it breaks you."
Because in this war, truth needed a face.
And his was the only one the world would listen to.
Across the city, Joon-ha sat at his piano.
The rain had returned, whispering against the glass.
He stared at the keys, his reflection fractured across their surface. His fingers hovered, trembling.
But he couldn't play.
Not tonight.
The sketchbook lay beside him, open to the same page.
I am real. I am real. I am real.
He pressed his palms against his eyes, shaking, and let out a sound that wasn't quite a sob, wasn't quite a breath.
He didn't blame her.
Not really.
He just wished he'd been strong enough to be more than a weapon.
The clock ticked softly in the background, mechanical, merciless.
Outside, thunder rolled like a warning.
And in the brief flash of lightning, his phone lit up, news alerts, messages, headlines spinning in chaos:
KANG HEIR UNDER INVESTIGATION.
LEAKED FILES LINK ARTIST TO CORPORATE COVER-UP.
"THE BOY WHO LOVED THE DEAD REPORTER'S SISTER."
He stared at the screen, blank.
Then, quietly, he whispered,
"So this is how you save me."
He closed his eyes, and for the first time in a long while, he smiled, a small, tragic curve of surrender.
"Maybe love was never meant to save us.
Maybe it was only meant to ruin us beautifully."
Outside, the rain fell harder, carrying the city's secrets down every glass pane and gutter.
And somewhere, Areum watched the same storm from her window, her hands trembling over a message she would never send:
"If I could choose again, I'd still find you in the wreckage."
Because in this world, love wasn't about forever.
It was about who remembered whom after the silence.
And as the thunder faded, both whispered the same words into the night
words the other would never hear:
"Even if this is the end… I'd still choose you."