There's something about Sunday silence that makes guilt echo louder than it should.
The sun spilled through the curtains in soft patches of gold, casting a quiet glow over the disarray of my room. A sweater half-draped over the chair. A discarded hair tie on the nightstand. The blankets tangled around my legs like I'd fought them in my sleep, which maybe I had. My limbs felt heavy, my chest hollow in a way that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with how I'd left things the night before.
I stared up at the ceiling for a while, heart dull and ticking like a clock wound too tight.
Then came the knock.
Three brisk raps. Familiar. Not sharp like Seungyong's, not tentative like Sejun's. It was the knock of someone who meant to wake you whether or not you wanted to be woken. The kind that didn't ask permission.
Daeho.
"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty," came his voice, muffled but unmistakably cheery. "Breakfast downstairs. Chef Sejun's orders."
I blinked up at the ceiling. My throat ached, not from crying—I hadn't cried, not last night—but from holding everything in like a dam threatening to crack. A breath slipped from between my lips, dry and soundless.
"Don't make me come in there with a megaphone," Daeho added.
"I'm up," I croaked, dragging myself upright. "You're lucky I don't keep a knife under my pillow."
"Noted," he hummed in that amused tone of voice, before I heard his footsteps retreat down the hallway.
I swung my legs off the bed and sat on the edge, letting my toes find the cold floor. My body felt slow, like it was trying to catch up to itself. The night before clung to my skin like smoke, like the aftertaste of something I couldn't quite spit out.
I couldn't look at him. Not yet.
I stood, grabbing a pullover sweater over my sleep shirt, letting the hem graze past my shorts. I was halfway to the door when I noticed it. A glass bottle on the vanity. Dewy with condensation, the faint scent of sweetness clinging to it like a memory. Mango juice.
I paused. No note. No fuss. Just the bottle, placed carefully beside my hairbrush, as if someone knew I wouldn't eat much. Knew I'd wake up dehydrated and too numb to notice. Still, I picked it up. Cold against my palm. I cracked the lid open and took a sip.
Holding the bottle in both hands, I padded into the hallway, my steps barely making any sound as socks glided through the tiles.
The kitchen came into view, sun-drenched and strangely domestic. Sejun was at the stove, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled into a half-tied bun that looked half-accidental and wholly intentional. He was plating something onto a large wooden board, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration like a cartoon character. French toast, thick-cut and golden, dusted with cinnamon sugar and garnished with fresh berries. A small pot of syrup bubbled on the side. Looked like those kinds of meals you'd thirst over after watching them being prepped on Instagram reels.
Seungyong looked up from the couch, where he sat cross-legged with a blanket over his lap and a book open in his hand. His hair was damp, like he'd just gotten out of the shower. He gave me a brief once-over before his gaze landed on the mango juice still in my hand.
Daeho was leaning against the fridge, one arm slung casually over the top. His hair was uncombed in a charming way, pajama pants hanging low on his hips, plain white shirt wrinkled like he'd slept in it, which he probably had. He looked like the poster child for chaotic good.
"I saved you the middle piece," he said, pushing a plate toward me once Sejun set it down. "You know, the one that soaks up the most syrup."
"Is that supposed to be a kindness or a sugar trap?"
"A bit of both," Daeho grinned. "I'm trying to fatten you up so you can't escape us."
A corner of my mouth tugged upward, almost against my will. "Haah, as if you can fatten me up with my metabolism."
Then I felt it. Eyes on me.
From across the table, where he sat with one knee propped and a sketchbook open like a shield.
Haneul.
He wasn't drawing. He was just... there. Silent. Still. But I could feel the weight of him like a pressure behind my ribs.
I didn't look up. Didn't give him the chance to catch my gaze.
Avoiding Haneul hadn't been premeditated. It just… happened. A visceral retreat, the moment my mind rewound the words he'd said, that low, sincere voice of his trying to promise he'd accept me no matter what. Trying to hold something tender that I'd spent years pretending didn't exist in me.
Instead, I picked up my fork and busied myself with the toast. The syrup was warm, the bread soft with a perfect crunch at the edges. Sejun really was disgustingly talented at everything he touched.
Seungyong flipped a page in his book with a little too much care. "Didn't think you'd be up so early," he said, like he was throwing a rock into still water.
I shrugged. "Daeho's voice doesn't really give you a choice."
"Hey," Daeho whined. "I woke you up lovingly."
"You threatened me with a megaphone."
"Which I would've used with love."
Across the table, Haneul hadn't moved. His pencil rested on the page, unmoving. His head was tilted down, dark hair falling just enough to shadow his eyes. But I could feel the tension coiled in him, subtle but sharp, like a held breath that never left the lungs.
I focused on the toast.
Seungyong said nothing. Just flicked his gaze from Haneul to me and back again, something unreadable settling in the pit of his brow.
"Alright," Sejun said suddenly, clapping his hands. "Who wants seconds?"
Daeho raised his hand like a kid in school. "Me! And maybe coffee, if you're feeling generous."
Sejun sighed like a long-suffering housewife. "Do I look like your personal barista?"
"Yes," Seungyong replied without looking up. "But with better legs."
Sejun laughed, and the sound cut through the air like sunlight. "Fine. But only because I want to test the new beans."
Haneul's pencil scratched faintly against the sketchbook now, barely audible. I didn't glance over. I refused to.
Seungyong stirred in his seat, and when I risked a glance, I saw the small arch of his brow. His eyes flicked toward Haneul and back to me. Subtle. Surgical.
I bit into another piece of toast.
Let them notice. Let them guess. As long as no one asked out loud, I could pretend it wasn't real.
Haneul still hadn't spoken. Still hadn't looked up. But I could feel the gravity of him from where I sat. Could feel the pull of everything unspoken between us, humming like static in my bones. Or maybe it was just the gravity of my guilt and shame.
He was drawing now, I realized. The pencil was moving again. Light, precise strokes. But I had no idea what was forming beneath his hands.
I forced my gaze back to my plate. It was empty now, except for a sticky smear of syrup. I chased it with my fork out of habit, tracing a slow, lazy pattern into the residue.
Across from me, Sejun cleared his throat softly. "You okay?"
The question wasn't loud. Wasn't even really for anyone but me. It came with the edge of his arm brushing mine, a shared proximity that didn't demand anything, just offered presence.
I nodded. Then, because I couldn't quite stand the quiet inside myself, I asked, "You always do this? The divine breakfasts?"
Sejun smiled, youthful, charming. "For Sundays, yeah. It keeps me from spiraling over emails."
"I thought you were off on weekends?"
"Doesn't stop them from piling up. But when you start the day with good food, it tricks your brain into thinking everything else is manageable. You know?"
I did. Or maybe I just liked hearing him explain it.
Seungyong watched me. Of course he did. His gaze was all precision and curiosity now, like he was trying to figure out the story from the scattered context clues.
As I brought the dishes to the sink, my hand lightly brushed against Haneul's when he moved to take them from me and wash them. That was it for me that morning, and I mumbled some excuse about tending to the flowers before making a beeline to the storage room for gardening supplies.
The butterfly pea vines had begun to crawl higher than I expected. Some had tangled in the trellis like they were trying to escape, others dipped their heads low like sleepy indigo blooms.
I knelt by the edge of the flower bed and sighed. My knees pressed into the earth, and I pulled out the wayward weeds as I whispered my musings to the vines.
I didn't expect company. The boys usually gave me wide, cautious space when I slipped outside. Maybe it was because I never told them why the act of tending plants felt so sacred. Maybe it was because they knew—on some unspoken level—that a part of me was still trying to regrow something lost.
That's why the sound of quiet footsteps across the gravel startled me.
"Didn't peg you as the gardening type."
I didn't have to look up to know it was Seungyong. His tone was unmistakable: dry, needling, with that polished bite that made even compliments feel like curses in disguise.
"If you came out here just to talk dirt," I muttered without glancing at him, "I hope you at least brought popcorn."
He ignored that. Or rather, he stepped closer in the practiced way someone does when they want to loom without being obvious. "You do realize those flowers are basically weeds, right?"
I shrugged, dusting soil from my knees. "They're useful, pretty, and good for tea. Good for feeling like something beautiful can come from something common too."
Seungyong made a thoughtful sound, crouching beside me as if he had every right to intrude on my morning. He wore that usual half-buttoned white shirt, sleeves rolled, like he'd stepped out of a magazine but hadn't bothered to iron himself flat. He looked too clean for dirt.
And yet, he planted his knees in it anyway.
"Sounds like you."
"Are you calling me common?"
"Eh. Depends on how you wanna look at it."
I chose not to dignify him with a response. So instead I reached for the fallen petals, collecting them into my palm. They'd dry into papery shadows by evening, but for now, they were soft and alive. I held one out to him.
Seungyong chuckled, then shifted to grab one of the shears I'd set aside. I gave him a sharp look, but he only gestured at the tangled edge of the vine. "That one's strangling the baby leaves."
"You know nothing about plants."
"I know about strangulation."
I sighed. "Fine. But if you decapitate it, I'm burying you under the rosemary."
He clipped the stem surprisingly gently. For someone who antagonized his way through most conversations, he had careful hands. I watched from the corner of my eye as he mimicked my motions; tie, trim, untangle. And, unfortunately, he wasn't bad at it.
"Don't get used to this," I hummed. "This isn't a personality shift."
"I'm just here to make sure you don't collapse from heatstroke," he replied smoothly. "You've been out here for almost an hour."
"You were watching me?"
"Daeho was going to come check. I offered."
I narrowed my eyes. "Why?"
"Because I knew he'd bring water and compliments, and I wanted to bring insults and suspicion. You know, balance." He said it lightly, but there was something too observant in his gaze as he tied another vine with deft fingers. He wasn't just here to help. He was looking for something.
And I had a sinking feeling I knew what.
I reached for the mint-green string, wrapping it tight around a stalk. "If you're here to interrogate me, just say it."
Seungyong raised an eyebrow. "You think I'd waste a beautiful morning like this not to?" His expression didn't shift. Just that maddening half-amused calm. "I'm just curious. You've been avoiding Haneul."
I froze, just for a second. A pause so small it could've been a breath. But Seungyong saw it. Of course he did.
"Don't flatter yourself," I said, too quickly.
"Darling, I don't need to," he smirked. "You've been moving around the house like he's a pothole."
"He's quiet."
"He's always quiet. That's not new. What is new is that you used to sit next to him at breakfast. Now you sit across from him and talk to Daeho like he's your emotional support retriever."
I shot him a look. "You're really digging for this, aren't you?"
He leaned in, all soft menace and amusement. "I just like knowing who in this house is two awkward glances away from a meltdown."
"I'm fine."
"Sure."
"I am."
Seungyong clipped another stem, far too gently for someone being this annoying. "Did he say something?"
I didn't answer. Not directly. Instead, I turned my attention to a patch of baby vines curling in the wrong direction, trying to wrap around themselves instead of the trellis. I knew that feeling too. When growth became self-destruction. When something in you reached for comfort and found only confusion.
"You trusted him," Seungyong said softly. "And now you don't. Something happened in that space."
My throat tightened. I wanted to shove him. Or scream. Or laugh in his face. But the vines around me were too still, and my heart was beating too loud.
"I don't owe you an explanation," I laughed, but my voice came out strained.
"No," he said. "But I wanted to give you a chance to say it before someone else does."
I stared at him from the corner of my eyes.
Seungyong stepped back. "He's not the only one paying attention."
The wind moved just then, brushing through the flowers like breath. I turned away. He left the shears on the grass, wiped his hands clean with the edge of his shirt, and walked back toward the house.
I knelt again, alone, and looked at the vines reaching toward the sun.
And I told them nothing.
Silence had decided it was time for it to take leave after a couple hours, for the real world had remembered I existed and chose to drag me back.
"Aureal," came Daeho's voice, unmistakably bright even through the wood, "you there?"
"What?"
He rocked back on his heels. "Can you make snacks?"
I blinked. "What, now?"
He nodded, expectant as a golden retriever who just dropped a ball at your feet. "Yes, now. I'm starving again."
I crossed my arms, squinting. "Why not ask Sejun? He's the one playing husband material lately."
Daeho grinned, entirely unbothered. "He did breakfast. This afternoon, I'm petitioning the cool, mysterious roommate instead."
I raised a brow. "So I'm mysterious now?"
"You're many things. Mostly pretty and pretty scary, but sometimes mysterious."
"Charming."
He clapped his hands once, the way someone might when rallying a team. "So? Come on, I'll help."
I let the silence hang for a moment, staring at him. "You don't know how to cook."
"Not true. I know how to boil water. And I've observed you sauté things."
"That's not how learning works."
Daeho pressed his palms together, mock-pleading. "Please. Don't let me fade into a hunger-induced coma. You'll feel so guilty when my ghost haunts the pantry."
With a groan I didn't really mean, I turned and waved a hand. "Fine. But if you chop off your fingers, I'm not driving you to the hospital."
"I heal fast anyway," he grinned, already trailing after me like a shadow.
Downstairs, the kitchen still smelled faintly of Sejun's breakfast; maple and cinnamon and something citrusy. The light coming through the windows was soft and golden, dust motes spinning like lazy dancers in the air. The house, for once, was quiet. Haneul must have retreated to his room, and Seungyong was probably out back again, pretending not to be brooding.
Daeho leaned against the counter while I rummaged through the fridge.
"Something easy," I muttered. "Maybe grilled sandwiches. Or tteokbokki, if there's still rice cakes."
He raised both hands. "I trust your culinary instincts. I'm just here for manual labor and moral support."
"And by moral support you mean...?"
"I'll cheer you on. Stir things dramatically. Pretend I'm on a cooking show with you."
Despite myself, I snorted. "God help me."
He beamed. I pulled out the ingredients while he hovered nearby, asking questions that made it abundantly clear he had never cooked anything more complicated than instant noodles.
Still, he watched intently as I started heating the pan and slicing green onions. He offered to help peel garlic and immediately crushed it under the flat of the blade with more force than finesse.
"My bad," he said, sheepish. "Old habits."
"What, were you trying to kill the garlic?"
"I used to be a soldier, remember? Joseon era. We didn't exactly do delicate."
I glanced at him. "You really can't cook?"
He shrugged, lifting a shoulder that had once probably held armor or bloodied cloth. "Military family. Discipline, martial arts, combat drills. Cooking was women's work back then. Or servants'. I spent most of my human life learning how to kill people efficiently. And now," he added with a grin, "I'm learning how not to kill garlic."
There was something almost poetic about that. His journey from blade to butter knife, from battlefield to breakfast table. Something softened inside me, something that felt dangerously close to sympathy.
"Here," I said, handing him a spoon. "Stir this while I cut the fishcakes."
"Yes, chef!"
"Don't call me that."
"Right. Sorry. Yes, my queen."
"That's better."
He was surprisingly good at following directions, even if his technique was a little clumsy. And he kept leaning closer, trying to peer into the pan like it held the secrets of the universe. Every now and then he'd make a satisfied noise like he understood what was happening, which I highly doubted.
"Smells amazing," he murmured as the sauce started to thicken.
By the time we plated everything, he looked like he'd just come back from a hike. There was a smear of gochujang on his cheek, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, and a smile on his face that was so genuine it made me look away.
He carried the plates to the dining table with both hands like he was handling royal offerings. "You're a goddess," he declared, sitting down with reverence.
"I'm a tired roommate who let you guilt-trip her into cooking."
"Same thing."
We ate in a comfortable quiet, the kind that only came with familiarity. He devoured his portion like it was the last meal he'd ever have, pausing only to make small satisfied noises and tell me I was "wasted on this household." I rolled my eyes every time, but part of me glowed quietly under the praise.
When we finished, he leaned back in his chair, smiling and sighing like he'd just come back from war.
"You good?" I asked.
"I think I saw God. And she made tteokbokki."
"You're such a dork."
He smiled, eyes crinkling. "Thanks for feeding me."
I didn't answer. Just smiled, stood, and began to clear the table.
And maybe it was the soft light filtering through the kitchen windows, or the distant sound of a bird somewhere outside, or the way Daeho had looked at me like I'd saved his life with rice cakes, but for a moment, everything felt absurdly peaceful.
Maybe it wasn't so bad, cooking for golden retriever ghosts who didn't know how to peel garlic.
After Daeho finished inhaling his second helping—yes, second—I stood at the sink with the plates I rinsed a bowl and let the warm water run over my hands a few seconds longer than necessary. The sunlight had shifted again, pouring like amber through the windowpane, casting soft gold on the floor. The quiet was gentle, not awkward. The kind that only came after shared food and shared effort.
Daeho didn't get up. I could feel him behind me, still seated, probably resting his cheek on one hand as he watched me move around the kitchen. I didn't mind it.
"You really never learned?" I asked after a long beat, stacking the last dish on the drying rack.
"Cooking?" he replied, voice a little lower now, like the weight of the afternoon had settled into his bones.
"Mm."
He exhaled, thoughtful. "No. Not once. We weren't that kind of family. My mother was the wife of a general. She never touched a pan. My sisters were married off too early to teach me anything. My brothers were expected to train. I didn't even know how rice was made until I became... this."
"I was the firstborn," he continued. "Which meant I wasn't really a child. Just a future. A vessel for duty. Everything I did was shaped around the idea that one day, I'd replace my father in the ranks. He was already high up—commanded men, commanded fear. People bowed when he entered the room. My mother never raised her voice, because she didn't need to. She only looked disappointed."
He paused, then laughed under his breath. "I got too proud. Too fast. People called me 'General Jeong' even when I wasn't. I let it feed me. I let it become my name. My identity. I thought if I could be the strongest, no one could look down on me again. That maybe my father would look at me like I wasn't just an echo of himself."
"But he didn't?" I asked quietly.
Daeho shook his head. "He died before I ever came close. He was poisoned by a rival faction. Not even on the battlefield. Just a cup of wine at a banquet. After that, I wanted blood. Revenge. Legacy."
"I got it in my head that I needed more than just training. More than just grit. I wanted real strength. So I made a deal." He didn't look at me when he said it. Just let the words settle between us like ash. "I sold my soul," he said, voice light. "I was twenty-two. And I gave it up like it was spare change. I didn't even hesitate. The offer came cloaked in a dream, or maybe a nightmare. I don't remember. Just a voice telling me I'd be invincible. And I said yes."
His laugh this time was brittle. "And I was. For a while."
I leaned closer, not for comfort, just proximity. A tether.
"What happened?"
He smiled, and there was something resigned in it. "I met someone smarter." His eyes darkened, not with anger, but with remembrance.
"It was a battle against a rebel faction. Nothing unusual. We had the numbers, the terrain, the steel. I'd been on the front lines before. I thought it would be easy. But their general... he was quiet. Unassuming. He didn't fight with rage. He fought with maps. With strategy. With patience. He cut us off from water. Lured us into false victories. Sacrificed men to gain days. By the time I realized what was happening, we were surrounded, outmaneuvered, exhausted. My men were starving. Dying." He exhaled slowly. "No amount of strength can fix starvation. Or fear. Or doubt."
He looked at me then. "I died not in a glorious duel, but kneeling in the mud, a blade between my ribs from a man I never even saw."
The words felt like they echoed, like the air itself recoiled from them. But Daeho didn't flinch. He had come to terms with it, I realized. Not in the way of someone who had forgotten, but in the way of someone who had turned it over in their mind so many times, the sharp edges had worn down.
"I thought the devil would come to collect me then. Drag me screaming. But nothing happened." His hands flexed. "I woke up in a place I didn't understand. The veil. Cold. Alone. And changed."
"And now?" I asked.
He leaned his head back against the couch, gazing upward. "Now I wake up. I do laundry badly. I ask you for food. I try not to piss off Seungyong. I fail at that part. And sometimes, when the nightmares come, I tell myself it's okay. That strength isn't the point anymore."
I looked at him, something aching and tender in my chest. "Do you regret it?"
"The deal?"
I nodded.
He smiled, faint but sure. "No. It made me who I am. But I do regret that I thought strength meant being unbreakable. That I mistook silence for honor. That I didn't know love could be... soft." His eyes met mine. "I think I'm learning that now."
"You've come a long way," I murmured.
Daeho laughed, low and real. "From ghost to roommate. What a promotion."
And it meant something, coming from him. Not from a place of flattery, but recognition. Shared history, even if our paths had only recently crossed. Pain recognized pain. The pieces we carried were jagged in different ways, but they still fit in the same broken places.
"I don't think I regretted dying," he said, not looking at me. "But I regretted never living like a human. I followed orders. I fought. I bowed. I obeyed. And then I died. Never tasted mangoes. Never kissed anyone I wanted to. Never learned what silence sounds like on a lazy Sunday."
Outside, the last light was fading. The day curling into itself. But we didn't move.
Daeho suddenly stood, stretching until his shirt lifted just a little too far, revealing the faint lines of old scars across his lower ribs. He caught me noticing and said nothing; didn't flaunt it, didn't shrink from it. Just let the moment pass.
"I think," Daeho continued after a while, "that strength looks a lot like this. Sitting still. Not needing to run. Letting someone else see you. Without armor."
I looked down at my hands. They didn't tremble. Not tonight.
"Yeah," I mumbled. "Maybe it does."
And neither of us said another word for a long time. We just sat there, quiet and alive, in the dimming room. Two people who had nothing left to prove.