I woke up with my jaw clenched.
Not because of a nightmare or even a bad dream, just that nameless heaviness that seeps in through the cracks of morning. My head felt full of sand. My body, lead. The light that trickled through the blinds was too bright, too yellow, as if the sun had the nerve to be cheerful when I wasn't.
My feet dragged across the floorboards as I made my way downstairs. The house was quiet—no clinking of mugs from Sejun, no low hum of Seungyong's voice, no faint rustle of Haneul moving about like a ghost. Just me and the hollow thud of my own steps.
The house was still and quiet in that early Saturday hush that blanketed everything with a sense of truce. Morning light filtered through the kitchen blinds in golden stripes, catching dust motes in their lazy drift. The kettle was still cooling from when I'd boiled water for butterfly pea tea I hadn't bothered drinking, and a shopping list sat crumpled on the counter like a tiny monument to domestic obligation.
The kitchen tiles were cold. The kind of cold that makes you question why you didn't put on socks. I opened the fridge, hoping for something—anything—that could pass for breakfast without effort. I stared at it longer than necessary, waiting for food to magically appear like some domestic miracle. It didn't.
I stood there for too long, letting the chill settle into my skin. Grocery run, I thought. I'd have to do a grocery run. The phrase alone felt exhausting.
I didn't want to go. But we were out of everything—rice, eggs, garlic, detergent. Even the emergency ramen stash had dwindled down to a sad, mismatched pair. Someone had finished the last of the milk and returned the carton to the fridge like a crime scene. That was what finally pushed me over the edge.
I was halfway through sliding my keys into one of the pockets of my pants when I heard movement; bare feet padding on the hallway tile, a door creaking open, then the soft murmur of someone muttering under their breath. I turned just in time to see Daeho emerge from the living room, shirt rumpled, hair tousled in that effortless mess some people tried to style into place. He blinked at me blearily.
"You're up early," he said around a yawn. "Either something's wrong or you've been replaced by a shapeshifter with a knack for the domestic."
"Grocery store," I said simply, pushing the grocery list into one of my cargo pockets. "We're out of everything."
Daeho blinked at me, then squinted at the clock like it might explain the concept of consequences to him. "This early?"
I had half a mind to tell him I'd just go later, maybe after coffee, maybe after my mood stopped making everything feel like walking through water. But Daeho, in that maddening way of his, didn't even give the heaviness in my expression a chance to take root.
"Before it gets crowded."
"Wait for me. I'll come." he said, already turning back toward his room. "Give me five minutes. I promise I'll be safer and more family friendly than Seungyong trying to parallel park."
Against my better judgment, I waited, opening up a bottle of mango juice I had found with my name on it beside my vanity.
Ten minutes later, we were in his car. The sky outside was a pale, washed-out blue, the kind that made you feel small under its emptiness. The air had that faint bite that hinted autumn was trying to push summer out the door. Daeho walked with his usual unhurried stride, the quiet rhythm of his steps matching the steady way he spoke when he did speak. He'd parked the car close, and when he held the passenger door open for me, it was without ceremony—just an easy, habitual gesture, as if this was the only way the world should work.
It smelled like fabric softener and something faintly citrusy. Daeho drove with one hand on the wheel, sunglasses perched on his nose like he actually needed them, window cracked open to let the breeze in. The city hadn't woken up yet, not fully. It felt like the world belonged to us for a little while.
He didn't talk much. Just hummed something under his breath, fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel in rhythm. I didn't mind the silence. It was companionable, not awkward. Something about his presence had that effect, like it took more effort to resist him than to just lean into the ease he carried with him.
"Didn't peg you for a morning person," I said eventually, watching the sleepy streets roll past.
"I used to get up at the crack of dawn, back in my time." Daeho grinned. "Early morning training."
I rolled my eyes, but it was half-hearted. "You didn't have to come."
"I know, I just figured you shouldn't have to do it alone." he said, and there was no teasing in his voice this time. "You don't have to act like the only responsible adult all the time. I was the eldest child too, so us birds of the same feather should flock together."
That quieted me more than anything.
It wasn't the words. It was the way he said them; genuinely, without any angle or expectation. Just one person offering to carry a bit of the weight. I didn't know how to respond to that, so I didn't. Instead, I watched the trees pass by outside and let the silence between us settle into something easy.
Daeho drove with one hand on the wheel, humming a tune under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a trot song from the 80s. He looked absurdly at ease, like he'd been born for this exact moment: modern-day errand duty in a black T-shirt that did unspeakable things for his shoulders.
I tried not to stare. I failed spectacularly.
"You keep looking at me like that," he said, eyes on the road, "and I might get shy."
"I'm just making sure you don't crash," I lied.
He chuckled. "Right. Because I'm the one with a record of vehicle-related near-death experiences."
"Excuse me, I was hit by a truck once. Not driving it."
"Still counts."
It was easy, talking to him. Maybe too easy. With Seungyong, conversations were barbed. With Sejun, dangerously flirtatious. With Haneul, quiet but heavy with meaning. But with Daeho… it was like skipping stones over still water — no expectation, no pressure. Just warmth.
The grocery store lot was only half full when we pulled in. He parked easily, without fuss, and was out of the car before I even unbuckled. Inside, the store was lit with harsh fluorescents that clashed with the slow hum of a Saturday morning. The grocery store loomed with its too-bright facade, the automatic doors opening in a loud, mechanical sigh. I braced myself for the fluorescent lighting, the piped-in pop music, the cart with one squeaky wheel that I was surely doomed to get.
"This place smells like abundance," he whispered reverently.
"It smells like detergent and capitalism," I replied.
But he was already wandering toward the fruit display.
I had barely turned my back to grab a cart when I heard him exclaim, "They have grapes that taste like cotton candy!"
I found him holding a plastic box up like a rare artifact, eyes wide with wonder. "Aureal, the fruit here has evolved."
"They've just been genetically modified."
"That sounds like evolution to me."
We started in produce, where the air was cooler and smelled faintly of damp earth. The apples gleamed like they'd been polished for a photo shoot, and the lettuce heads still had beads of water clinging to their edges. I reached for a bag of spinach, only to have him pluck it from the display and drop it into the cart before I'd even asked.
I hesitated near the aisles, scanning the list, calculating the order of items, the quickest way to navigate without doubling back. I always shopped like it was a mission. Fast, efficient, no distractions. It became a quiet rhythm; me glancing at something, him grabbing it before I had to stretch or fumble. Bananas, cucumbers, a carton of blueberries. He reached for things on the high shelves without me asking, his height making it effortless. Every time he did it, there was no trace of condescension, no flourish, just the plain, solid help of someone who noticed what you needed and took care of it.
Daeho didn't ask questions. He pushed the cart with one hand and gestured with the other like he was giving a tour.
"Ah, behold! The great dairy plains. Legend says the butter here was churned by celestial cows."
"Stop talking," I muttered, gently dropping a carton of eggs into the cart.
He kept narrating anyway, voice low and dramatic. "And here we arrive at the Kingdom of Grains, where rice reigns supreme and quinoa is a rebellious duke."
I tried not to laugh. I really did. But he made it impossible.
He helped without being told. Reached the paper towels on the top shelf without being asked. Held open the freezer doors while I examined frozen dumplings. Lifted the heavy bag of rice and made sure the detergent cap was screwed on tight before he placed it beside the produce.
I didn't realize how much attention we were drawing until I caught the giggles. A small group of college girls near the instant ramen section kept glancing in our direction. At first, I thought maybe I had something on my shirt. Then I realized they were staring at him.
To be fair, Daeho in a plain white shirt and sweatpants was still unfairly attractive. He was the type of man who could look like an influencer in a produce section. And he was utterly oblivious to it.
One of the girls nudged another, whispering something that made the whole group laugh. Daeho turned at the sound and smiled politely—innocently—which made them squeal like he'd proposed marriage.
I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my past lives.
"Fan club forming behind you," I muttered.
He looked over, then back at me. "Oh. Do I know them?"
"No, Daeho. They're just breathing in your direction."
He frowned slightly, puzzled. "That seems inefficient. Why not just come say hello?"
"Because some people have shame," I said.
He blinked, clearly processing that. "I see." Then, with genuine curiosity: "Do I not?"
"No," I said flatly. "You have… radiant confidence. It's annoying."
He grinned. "Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"It sounded like one."
We moved through the store in tandem, wordlessly falling into rhythm. I grabbed rice, and he lifted the ten-kilo sack without a word, setting it in the cart with ease. I reached for cooking oil on a high shelf, and before I could even stretch on tiptoe, his arm was already there, reaching above me, grabbing the bottle like it weighed nothing.
There was no smugness, no flex. Just a simple offer of help.
He made jokes, of course. About cereal mascots, off-brand frozen pizzas, the suspiciously cheap bakery bread. But nothing mean. Just enough to keep the air from getting heavy. Just enough to make me forget that I usually hated shopping with people.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as I reached for a pack of tomatoes, nearly dropping them when he plucked them from my hands and started checking each one with the seriousness of a soldier inspecting weaponry.
I didn't know whether to laugh or roll my eyes. "You look like my mom at the market."
He tossed it lightly into the cart. "And look where that got her—raising a daughter who eats flowers."
"Excuse me, butterfly pea flowers are healthy!"
He chuckled, a sound so warm it made my chest ache in a way I wasn't prepared to name. There was something grounding about him—something that slowed the chaos of my thoughts without trying to.
When we reached the snack aisle, his restraint crumbled. The tall, stoic, ex-Joseon-swordsman sunshine man was apparently powerless before the modern miracle that was potato chips.
"I'll just get one," he said.
He got five.
At some point, I found myself handing him items instead of just putting them in the cart myself. Eggs. Garlic. A bottle of sesame oil. He took each one with careful hands, setting them in with absurd gentleness like they were fragile treasures instead of groceries. That warmth. That ease. That instinct to step in, not because he thought I couldn't handle it, but because he wanted to make it easier.
I didn't know what to do with that. Instances in my life where it felt like I had someone beside me, someone who was just there to help, without needing anything in return, were rare. I had forgotten what it felt like to do something purely out of the goodness of your heart.
And yet for some reason, instead of feeling less burdened, the weight on my shoulders felt heavier than ever.
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We ended up with more than I planned.
We paid, bagged everything with an almost frightening degree of coordination, and he loaded the trunk in record time.
By the time we pulled into the driveway, the sun had climbed high enough to bleach the edges of everything in gold. The grocery bags rustled in the trunk, shifting with every bump and turn, but Daeho didn't seem to mind. He hummed again, tuneless and unhurried, as if the whole morning had gone exactly as he'd planned.
He parked in his usual crooked way and hopped out before I could say anything. He was already hauling bags onto his arms, looping handles around his wrists with practiced ease. I followed, grabbing the lighter ones, resisting the urge to tell him to stop carrying everything like a show-off. Daeho kicked off his shoes and padded into the kitchen, unloading the bags like it was muscle memory. He whistled under his breath, reaching instinctively for the cupboard where the rice went. When he caught me watching him, he grinned like a puppy who'd fetched a stick just to impress.
I barely knew him, I had probably only scratched the surface. But I just know, I have this feeling, that tells me he's such a good person. Better than me. It almost made me nauseous. Knowing I was a worse person than this man, with blood red eyes, despite knowing he must have done some sin to sell his soul to the devil, he made something in me feel... something.
I pushed whatever feelings were threatening to cloud my mind down my throat as I focused on packing away the groceries.
It was mindless work, putting things away. Rice into the bin, garlic into the mesh bag, cans stacked like bricks. There was comfort in it. No expectations, no pressure, just motion.
I closed the fridge door with a soft thud and headed upstairs to my room. I needed some time alone. Hurriedly, I was turning to the hallway when I almost collided with someone coming around the corner.
Haneul.
Still barefoot, a towel draped around his neck, skin dewy with leftover heat from the shower. His hair was wet and darker than usual, strands curling softly against his temples, brushing the nape of his neck. He'd changed into an old shirt and gray sweats that hung low on his hips, unbothered, like the concept of presentation never quite applied to him. He didn't notice me at first, till he did.
I didn't speak at first. Neither did he.
He just stood there, blinking slowly, as though he hadn't expected to find anyone in his orbit so soon after stepping out of the sanctuary of steam and water.
Haneul had this strange gravity. Like an inward-pulling abyss that didn't demand attention but somehow gathered it anyway. He looked at people the way one might look at a painting they didn't want to interpret aloud. Just taking it in. Holding it. Letting the silence breathe between the brushstrokes. He had never been one for picking at words when silences would do. Instead, he stepped aside to let me pass, a quiet invitation, a subtle retreat.
But I didn't move.
Something in me hesitated. The part of me that had grown used to stillness. The part that had braced against chaos but was still learning how to be soft when no one demanded it.
His eyes met mine again, calm and steady.
"Did it help?" he asked.
The question caught me off guard.
I tilted my head. "Help what?"
He shrugged. Not out of dismissal, but like he didn't want to burden the question with too much weight. I didn't answer right away. I didn't know how. There were too many truths swimming beneath the surface, too many shifting shapes that didn't know how to be named.
His eyes weren't invasive, they weren't hungry, and they weren't even curious in the way most people were. It wasn't just that he looked at me, it was the way he looked through; like I wasn't just a body in space. Like he could feel the emotional scar tissue layered beneath my ribs. Like he could smell the locked box inside me and knew it didn't come with a key.
I hated it more than I could articulate, more than I wanted to admit. But the silence between us wasn't neutral. It pressed in with invisible fingers, curling around the base of my spine, squeezing something tender in the back of my throat.
I hated it; not him, but this feeling. He never asked, never intruded; he never needed to. I unraveled anyway.
His eyes flicked across my face—not darting, not searching, just watching. Noticing. Like he was cataloguing the details I tried to tuck away: the way my mouth tightened, the small ridge of tension between my brows, the stiffness in my hands.
I knew that look, I'd known versions of it my whole life. The first time it showed up, I was young, and someone said I had "an old soul in a sad face." As if that was something beautiful. As if being weighed down was poetic. No, it just meant that I was a disappointment. They wanted a bright, positive, adorable child. As if I would apologize for not meeting their expectations.
Another time, I was fourteen, and a boy told me I was "interesting." That he wanted to "understand" me. I'd laughed, because I didn't know what he really meant. He didn't want to understand; he wanted to be entertained. He wanted to dig around and see what pieces he could pull out, like I was a collection of trauma-themed trading cards.
Then came the people who treated me like an essay they had to decode. "You're so guarded," they'd say. "You should open up." As if I were a locked diary and their job was to pick the clasp. As if my silence was an invitation instead of a boundary.
I had learned early on how people loved the idea of depth, as long as they could skim the surface of it. They didn't want the whole story. They wanted the aesthetic of pain. They wanted bruises that looked good in poetry, not wounds that took too long to explain.
And now here was Haneul, doing none of those things, and yet I still felt bare and vulnerable. I hated it.
He didn't speak, didn't tilt his head or ask if I was okay, but he looked at me like I was a painting he already understood; one he didn't need to finish, because the unfinished parts were intentional.
"Don't look at me like that," I muttered. The words weren't sharp. Just tired.
He didn't answer. He didn't apologize either. Of course he didn't. Because Haneul never meant to make me feel this way. That was the worst part. It wasn't performative. He wasn't trying to open me up. He wasn't dragging a key across my ribs and asking me to confess. He just existed in a way that forced open doors I'd long since dead-bolted.
I crossed my arms, barely realizing I'd done it. Like I needed a shield between my skin and his gaze. But it was too late.
I wanted to say something cutting. Something sarcastic and distant. But my tongue felt heavy. My chest felt tight in a way that didn't come from anger. Something older. Something that ached like pressure behind the eyes.
A single step forward. That's all he did. Not even close enough to reach me. But it felt like standing too close to the edge of something.
There was no accusation in his eyes. No sympathy either. Just… knowing. That quiet, terrifying knowing.
"I'm not a story," I said. My voice sounded wrong; too thin, too defensive. "I'm not some broken narrative you get to piece together with your eyes. Don't look at me like that."
Still no answer. No refutation. No agreement.
Because I wasn't sure if I was talking to him anymore. Or to everyone else who'd ever tried to unmake me for their curiosity.
He blinked once, slow. Then, quietly, like a whisper between floors of an old house, he said, "I know."
He knew it wasn't about him. That it never had been. That my fear didn't come from what he said or did, but from the weight of being seen too clearly.
But I didn't realize that yet at the time. No, I was paranoid and fearful back then, too much to see. Perhaps I could have been able to make out the expression on his face if I had tried hard enough, if I had looked past the painful memories and focused on what was in front of me.
Maybe I would have been able to see him just like he saw me, much earlier than when I did.