The world outside my window was still draped in the thick, blue-gray veil of predawn, the kind of silence that felt like it was holding its breath. No hint of sun yet, only the faintest stir of light beneath the horizon, and even that was reluctant. My body lay heavy between the sheets, caught in the liminal space between sleep and waking, where dreams dissolved into the fog of early consciousness.
Then came the gentle rap—three soft knocks against my door. A familiar rhythm, measured but persistent.
"Get up, sunshine!" Daeho's voice whispered, low and steady, almost a murmur carried on the quiet. "It's time."
"Five more minutes," I whispered to the empty room, my voice hoarse and small. I imagined Daeho sighing on the other side of the door, knowing full well he wouldn't let me off that easy.
Another pause. Then, the door creaked open.
Daeho's silhouette slipped inside, outlined by the faint glow of the hallway light. He moved quietly, careful not to startle me, but his presence filled the room with a warmth that no blanket could.
"I'm not asking, really," he said softly, that teasing lilt in his voice that made me want to roll my eyes. "You know I'm coming back if you say no. You said you'd run with me."
"Did I though?" I blinked against the shadows, heavy-lidded and stubborn. Daeho was kneeling beside my bed now, staring at me with that expectant sparkle in his eyes.
My body begged for sleep, for the sweet nothingness that only darkness and dreams could offer. But Daeho had that way that was steady, gentle, like a golden retriever who just wouldn't give up. And that's when it hit me: saying no to him felt less like refusing a friend and more like depriving a puppy of treats.
I sighed, the sound long and reluctant. "Alright," I murmured, voice barely above a breath. "You win."
He grinned, the kind of grin that shone brighter than any morning sun, and without another word, he moved toward the door, pulling it open to reveal the world outside—still cloaked in blue shadows, the horizon holding its breath.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, feet touching the cold floor like an unwelcome shock. But the chill didn't last long. Daeho was already at my side, offering a hand that steadied me.
I pulled my hoodie off and left it on the bed, the fabric rough and grounding.
As I laced my shoes, the stillness outside seeped into me—sharp, clean, a promise of something unspoken. Daeho waited by the door, his posture relaxed but alert, like he was ready to catch me if I stumbled.
The air was thin and cold, sharp against my lungs as Daeho and I slipped out into the silence before the city had fully woken. The streetlamps spilled pools of golden light on the cracked pavement, and the sky was still a bruised shade of navy, stars winking faintly before retreating. I could feel the faint shiver of dawn behind my eyelids —a promise that today would come, eventually— but for now, the world belonged to shadows and quiet.
We hit the pavement just as the sky started to lighten—still dark but with a promise of dawn lurking just out of reach. Daeho bounded ahead like a dog chasing a thrown ball, full of energy and pure joy as he surged ahead, legs long and sure, the embodiment of effortless speed. But today, something inside me stirred; a rare flicker of stubbornness. I matched his pace, sprinting at his side, the chill air burning fresh in my lungs, though I could tell he was clearly going easy on me.
"Wow," he laughed, glancing back with surprise and delight. "Look at you."
For a time, we ran together, synchronized and light on the pavement, the world still dark and hushed around us. But the longer we went, the heavier my legs became, breath growing ragged. The fog of sleep tugged back with cruel insistence.
Daeho was already a few steps ahead, his long legs eating up the distance with a practiced ease that made me wonder if he was part machine. His breathing was steady, calm, measured, the kind of breathing I envied when I felt the knot of sleep tighten in my chest.
I pulled my own breath deeper, letting it steady. "Wait," I muttered, huffing as I tried to catch up. The cold bit into my exposed skin, and my legs felt leaden, heavy with reluctance. "Don't go too far."
He glanced back with that easy grin, the one that made his amber eyes shine like they held secret fire. "I'm not going anywhere."
For a while, we ran side by side, the quiet city around us untouched and waiting. But slowly, the weight of sleep and fatigue pulled at my muscles. My breath grew shallow, steps faltering. The distance between us began to widen.
A creeping anxiety gnawed at me, dragging me back to a memory I hadn't expected to surface. Back in the Veil, I had once been lost, trapped in swirling smoke, vision obscured, heart pounding with fear. I was disoriented, isolated. The panic of that moment rushed back with vivid clarity. But this time, there was no smoke clouding my sight. I could see Daeho's figure ahead, clear and sharp against the dim light. Yet, as I slowed, he seemed to be slipping further away.
That memory, sharp and unwelcome, ignited something fierce inside me. I forced my legs harder, chasing after him with renewed urgency, refusing to let that distance grow any wider. The pounding in my chest wasn't just exhaustion anymore, it was determination.
Desperation pushed me harder. I called out his name, voice cracking with the effort.
"Daeho!"
Immediately, he stopped, pivoting with a speed that startled me. Without hesitation, he rushed back toward me, his expression switching from playful to serious in an instant.
"What's wrong?" he asked, voice low and urgent.
I swallowed hard, breath uneven. He didn't hesitate. Before I could react, he swept me up into his arms bridal style, the way he had once carried me in the Veil when I was too distressed to move.
The steady thud of Daeho's heartbeat beneath my ear was a strange kind of comfort as I rested in his arms. The chill from the morning air seemed to retreat against the warmth radiating from him, his steady breath brushing softly against my temple. I had never imagined I'd be carried bridal style again—least of all during something as mundane as a morning run-turned-walk—but here I was, flushed and caught somewhere between gratitude and embarrassment.
My cheeks burned as I shifted, careful not to upset the delicate balance of how he held me. The muscles in his arms flexed gently, a quiet reassurance that I was safe, even if I felt utterly vulnerable. I wanted to say something—anything—to break the silence that was suddenly so charged.
"I can walk on my own," I murmured, my voice softer than I intended, as if the words were something fragile. "Just… not run."
Daeho's laughter was quiet, warm, a low rumble that vibrated against my skin. "Noted," he said, his grin evident even though I couldn't see it in the semi-darkness of the early morning. "But if you slow down every time, I'm going to have to keep picking you up."
I sighed, though a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. "You're impossible."
"True," he admitted with mock seriousness, setting me down carefully on the pavement. My legs trembled slightly, the rush of being carried making my muscles weak in a way I hadn't expected.
I planted my feet firmly on the cold ground, the rough texture of the asphalt grounding me. Daeho didn't pull away. Instead, he stayed glued to my side, like a golden retriever who refused to leave the side of their cherished companion.
I stood unsteadily, muscles trembling from the sudden effort and the lingering weight of being carried. For a moment, I swayed, and without hesitation, Daeho slid an arm around my waist, pulling me close. The contact was reassuring, a quiet promise that I wasn't alone, even when my body threatened to betray me.
"It's just in case you fall over," he said softly, voice low and teasing but with a thread of genuine concern. "I'll catch you every time."
I blinked, surprised by the gentleness of his tone. Usually, his golden retriever energy came with a grin and playful jabs, but this felt different—softer, more intimate. The way his arm supported me felt like an unspoken vow to be steady, a foundation I didn't know I'd been craving.
We stood there for a moment, the early morning air crisp around us, the world still wrapped in shadows and the first hints of pink bleeding across the horizon.
I looked up at him, cheeks flushed—not just from exertion but from something warmer, something caught somewhere between gratitude and embarrassment.
"Next time," Daeho said with a laugh that rumbled through his chest, "we should probably eat before we go on a run. I think your legs are staging a rebellion."
I let out a breathy laugh, the sound shaky but genuine. "Yeah, maybe."
His arm tightened around me just a little, steadying. "Don't worry. We'll take it slow. No sprints until you're ready."
I nodded, feeling the weight of exhaustion ease a bit under his steady presence. The streets around us began to stir—a car passing somewhere distant, birds starting their morning songs—but all I could focus on was the steady rhythm of his breath, the warmth pressing against me.His arm tightened around me just a little, steadying. "Don't worry. We'll take it slow. No sprints until you're ready."
I nodded, feeling the weight of exhaustion ease a bit under his steady presence.
He then slowed his pace, falling into stride beside me, and suddenly the quiet between us stretched out like the road beneath our feet was easy, comfortable, something more than just the space between two runners. We fell into a rhythm that wasn't quite jogging, but not walking either. It was a gentle, unhurried pace where breaths came easy, and muscles didn't scream.
"It's funny," Daeho said after a moment, voice low and thoughtful. "Most people want to push harder in the morning. But I think there's something better about easing into it."
I glanced at him, curious. We slowed again, until we were walking steady, deliberate steps side by side. My breath puffed small clouds in the cold air, and the quiet wrapped around us like a soft blanket.
"You don't talk much during these runs," I observed, curiosity sparking.
Daeho shrugged, a slight smile twitching. "I listen more."
"And what do you hear?"
"Not much yet," he said, eyes glinting. "But that's the point. The early morning's too quiet to fill with noise."
The city was waking now. Birds were beginning to stir, dogs barked in the distance, the faint hum of a car engine somewhere far off.
The truth was, I didn't want him to let go.
It was ridiculous, really. I'd spent years convincing myself I was self-sufficient, that I could handle every stumble alone and get up without a hand offered to me. Yet here I was, leaning into the warm solidity of Daeho's side like I was something fragile that needed holding together.
And even worse, I didn't hate it.
Every step I took, I was aware of the subtle brush of his hand against my hip, the way his arm lingered around my waist long after the excuse of "just in case" had passed.
"Legs feeling any better?" he asked after a while, his voice lighter now, back to the casual warmth that was his default.
"Mm. They're functioning."
"That's a low bar," he teased.
I rolled my eyes, but my lips betrayed me with the hint of a smile.
"You know," he said after a moment, "I could start bringing snacks when we run. Emergency rations. Just in case your blood sugar plummets again."
"You make it sound like I'm some Victorian heroine who faints at the drop of a hat."
He grinned. "You kind of are, though. Minus the corset and plus the swearing."
"You're insufferable." I bumped him with my shoulder. "But, I'd like that though. Thanks."
We slowed even more as we approached the little park at the end of the street. The benches were empty, damp with the morning's breath, and the grass was tipped with silver droplets. The sight made me pause. Something about that quiet space, the way it sat on the edge of the waking world, felt… unreasonably safe.
"Want to sit for a bit?" Daeho asked, as if he could read my mind.
I hesitated, but my legs answered for me by going slightly weak again.
He guided me to the nearest bench and didn't let go until I was seated, his hands briefly steadying my shoulders before he sat beside me. We were close enough that his knee brushed mine when he turned slightly toward me.
"Better?" he asked.
I nodded, looking away toward the trees. "Yeah."
"Good." He leaned back, stretching his arms along the backrest in a way that looked lazy but was probably calculated—because a second later, his hand was resting lightly against my shoulder.
I tried not to notice. I failed spectacularly.
We sat in silence for a while, watching the faint pink smear across the sky deepen into gold. The air still had that morning bite, but with Daeho so close, it was hard to feel cold.
"You know," he said suddenly, his voice softer now, "you don't have to push yourself so hard."
I glanced at him. "I wasn't—"
"You were," he said simply, his tone not accusatory, just certain. "You'd rather collapse than slow down, wouldn't you?"
"I'd rather collapse than be left behind." I retorted, voice defensive. Though I didn't even know why I was still so guarded, after all, I knew I could depend on Daeho.
"I won't leave you. You don't have to worry about that." He replied, his voice softer and smoother this time.
I pressed my lips together, not because he was wrong, but because I really wanted him to be right.
He smiled faintly, but there was no teasing in it this time. "You don't have to be strong all the time, Aureal. You know that, right?"
I looked away again, focusing on the way the light caught on the wet grass. "Somebody has to be."
His hand on my shoulder tightened just slightly. "Maybe. But that somebody doesn't always have to be you."
I hated how that landed—how it wormed its way past the little defenses I kept polished and ready for everyone else. Daeho wasn't supposed to say things like that. He was supposed to tease, to laugh, to distract. Not… mean it.
The silence stretched again, heavier now, and I didn't know whether to let it be or cut through it with something flippant. Before I could decide, Daeho moved, his arm sliding down from the bench to wrap around me fully.
It wasn't the same as before. This wasn't "just in case." This was deliberate. Solid.
And I leaned into it.
The warmth of him seeped through me, calming the restless beat of my pulse. His scent—faintly crisp from the air, faintly warm from him—was grounding in a way I didn't know how to explain.
"You okay?" he murmured after a while.
I almost said yes. The word hovered at the edge of my tongue, automatic, easy. But it didn't feel right.
"I don't know," I admitted instead.
His arm tightened. "That's okay too."
We stayed like that until the sun had fully breached the horizon, until the light painted everything in shades of gold and honey, until the chill in the air gave way to something warmer.
Eventually, Daeho glanced at his watch. "We should head back before the others wake up and start worrying—or making bets about why we're late."
I snorted. "Bets?"
"Oh, yeah." His grin returned in full force. "Seungyong's probably got money on you punching me before breakfast."
I rolled my eyes. "Tempting."
He laughed, the sound easy again, and helped me to my feet. My legs still protested, but his arm stayed around me as we walked back, steady and unhurried.
He laughed, the sound easy again, and helped me to my feet. My legs still protested, but his arm stayed around me as we walked back, steady and unhurried.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I had to rush.
By the time the house came into view, the morning had fully settled into itself. Light streamed through the upper windows, catching on the dust motes in the air, and I could hear the faint clatter of someone moving around inside.
Daeho's arm was still looped comfortably around my waist, his stride adjusting effortlessly to mine. Every so often he'd murmur, "Almost there," like I might keel over without the encouragement.
The front door was already open.
And standing in the doorway, like some kind of dark, brooding—but handsome nonetheless—gargoyle, was Seungyong.
"Finally."
Seungyong stood with his arms crossed, hair still slightly tousled from sleep. He wasn't dressed for the day yet; loose black shirt, sleeves shoved up, the kind of casual disarray that made him look far too deliberate.
His eyes swept over me first, sharp and assessing, before flicking to Daeho, whose arm had not moved from my waist. Seungyong's gaze lingered there for a second too long, his expression giving nothing away, but there was a tension in his jaw, subtle but there.
"Why," he began, voice cool and level in a way that meant nothing good, "is she hanging off you like a casualty?"
I blinked. "Hanging off—? I'm fine. I just got a little lightheaded."
Seungyong's gaze narrowed almost imperceptibly before sliding back to Daeho. "And you couldn't let her walk on her own?"
Daeho's grin was all sunshine. "Oh, she walked. For about half a second before she started wobbling. You'd have done the same."
I sighed, but Seungyong's hand came up, lightly but firmly catching my elbow before I could follow Daeho into the kitchen. "Lightheaded how?"
I hesitated. "Probably just low blood sugar. It's nothing serious—"
He cut me off with a frown that felt more like a lecture than actual worry. "You should have said something before you got to that point."
Before I respond, he stepped forward, closing the space between us in two long strides. His hands came up without hesitation, fingers cool against my temples as he tilted my face up toward his. The sudden closeness made my breath catch.
"Aureal," he said, his tone no longer sharp but weighted with something softer, more intent. His thumbs brushed along my cheekbones as if checking for signs of… what? Injury? Fever? The kind of delicate touch you didn't expect from someone who usually handled emotions like live grenades. "Are you dizzy now?"
His expression didn't even twitch. "I'm serious, Aureal." His eyes swept over me again, assessing like I was a soldier he was inspecting for weaknesses. "You don't get to 'tough it out' when it could mean collapsing halfway across town."
I froze. Seungyong had been close before—leaning over my shoulder to look at something, standing behind me during arguments—but this was different. There was no armor in his expression, no distance in his eyes. Just focus.
And for a fJuting, bewildering moment, I wondered if maybe this wasn't just the overprotective "mother hen" mode I'd accused him of before.
The thought was gone almost as quickly as it arrived, because right then, my stomach chose to let out an obnoxiously loud growl.
Seungyong's brow furrowed. Daeho snorted. From somewhere inside, Sejun's voice drifted out: "Who's starving?"
Seungyong's brows shot up. "When was the last time you ate?"
I hesitated. Bad move. His hands didn't leave my face.
"…Dinner," I finally admitted.
His jaw tightened. "Last night's dinner?"
"...Yes?"
Seungyong shot Daeho a look sharp enough to cut glass before returning his focus to me. "You went running on an empty stomach after not eating for over ten hours?"
"It's not that bad—"
"Yes, it is." His voice was flat, brooking no argument. Then, without looking away from me, he raised his voice toward the kitchen. "Sejun!"
Footsteps sounded almost immediately, and Sejun stepped into view, hair still damp from a shower, wearing his usual relaxed morning clothes. His eyes landed on me, and whatever lazy morning mood he'd been in was instantly gone.
In two seconds flat, he was pushing past Seungyong and prying the former's hands off of my face.
"Aureal?" His voice had dropped into that gentle, urgent tone he used when he was already halfway to panicking.
"Why do you look like that?" he asked sharply, coming forward before I could even answer. "You're pale."
"I'm fine—"
But he was already at my side, hands warm against my face in almost the exact same way Seungyong's had been seconds earlier. His brow furrowed deeply, eyes flicking over my skin like he was checking for bruises or fever.
"You haven't eaten, have you?" His voice was light, but disapproving.
I blinked. "...no?"
Sejun exhaled slowly through his nose, the way you do when trying not to swear at someone you care about. "Sit. Now."
"She's already been told," Seungyong said, his tone still clipped.
"I'm telling her again," Sejun replied without missing a beat, already steering me toward the nearest chair like I weighed nothing. "You don't get a say until she's got food in her."
Daeho was grinning like this was the best entertainment he'd had all week. "Wow. I think you've officially got competition for Most Overprotective."
"Not competition," Sejun muttered, moving to the kitchen. "She's mine to feed."
Seungyong's head turned sharply toward him, but Sejun had already started pulling out pans, muttering something about eggs.
Seungyong's voice followed, directed at Daeho. "Shower. You smell like smoke."
"You're bossy when you're worried." Daeho raised a brow. "That your subtle way of telling me to get lost?"
"Shower," Seungyong repeated, not looking away from me.
By the time I sat down, Sejun had vanished into the kitchen with the purposeful speed of someone about to declare war on an empty stomach. Seungyong stayed in the living room, standing like a sentry beside the couch.
I barely had time to register Daeho's retreat before Seungyong's attention shifted fully onto me. He moved into my space without hesitation, crouching so he was eye level. He made a displeased sound, heading for the kitchen without waiting for me to defend myself.
Sejun reappeared first with a plate of steaming rice and hotdogs and set it in front of me. "Eat while it's hot," he said, placing the spoon in my hand like I might drop it.
Seungyong returned with a tall glass of water, setting it down beside the plate. "She's drinking that first," he told Sejun.
Sejun raised a brow. "Drinking water before eating isn't good for her stomach acids."
"She's dehydrated."
"And she's starving," Sejun shot back, pushing the spoon toward me again.
I stared between them, spoon in hand, feeling like the world's most awkward referee. "I can… manage both?"
Seungyong's gaze swept over me again—sharp, assessing—before he adjusted the plate so it sat perfectly in front of me. "Small bites. Don't rush."
Sejun topped off my water before I'd even realized I'd finished it.
It should've felt smothering. Instead, it was… strangely warm. Different kinds of warm: Sejun's steady and domestic, like he was already thinking about what else I needed; Seungyong's quiet and unshakable, like he'd be there whether I wanted him there or not.
I still wasn't sure what had just happened, but my face felt warmer than it should, and it wasn't because of the food.
By the time the plate was half-cleared, footsteps creaked on the stairs.
Haneul appeared, hair a sleep-mussed curtain over one eye, shirt hanging loose over pajama pants. He stopped on the bottom step, blinking at the scene like he was trying to piece together how a breakfast interrogation had landed in the dining room.
"What happened?" His voice was still rough from sleep.
"She hasn't eaten properly since dinner," Sejun said before I could speak, tone somewhere between scandalized and triumphant—as if my neglect was proof that he needed to keep hovering.
"She's dehydrated too," Seungyong added, folding his arms.
"I've rested fine," I muttered.
Neither man acknowledged me.
Haneul's gaze lingered on me—soft, weighing—but instead of saying anything, he turned and padded back upstairs.
Seungyong and Sejun returned to their quiet, passive-aggressive debate over whether I should drink more water before or after eating. I was too busy tackling the ridiculous pile Sejun had put in front of me—Filipino-style breakfast hotdogs, fried just the way I liked them, with steaming white rice and a fried egg tucked to the side. He'd even made sure to bring out banana ketchup, setting it within arm's reach without a word.
I didn't know whether to thank him or accuse him of bribery.
Two minutes later, Haneul came back down, carrying a neatly folded change of clothes on top of a towel. He set them on the empty chair beside me, the corners perfectly aligned.
"For after," he said simply.
I blinked. "…Thanks."
When he passed behind me, I caught the faint rustle of something being set down by my elbow. A small glass of mango juice—bright, cold, and beaded with condensation.
I glanced up at him, but he was already walking toward the living room, shoulders loose and expression unreadable. If I hadn't seen him put it there, I might have thought it appeared by magic.
Seungyong and Sejun were still mid-discussion over hydration schedules, neither noticing the glass.
I slid my fingers around it, the chill seeping pleasantly into my skin, and took a quiet sip.
Sweet.
Subtle.
Entirely Haneul.
By the time I was nearly done with the hotdogs, the mango juice was halfway gone too. I hadn't even realized how often I'd been sipping from it.
Unfortunately, Sejun noticed.
His gaze flicked from my glass… to the kitchen… then toward the living room, where Haneul had planted himself on the couch with a book. His eyes narrowed like he'd just discovered an illicit smuggling operation.
"Where'd you get that?" he asked casually, too casually.
I froze mid-bite. "…It was just here." I lied.
"Hm." His hum was slow and suspicious. He got up from his seat with the air of a man accepting a challenge and disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later, he returned—this time with a small plate of cut-up mangoes, perfectly ripe, the golden flesh practically glowing under the light.
"These go with the juice," he announced, setting them down in front of me like an offering to a queen.
From the couch, I saw Haneul's gaze flick toward the plate, then back to his book.
I just kept eating, trying not to laugh.
And then, when I reached for the last slice of mango, another plate slid into view.
This one was neatly arranged with peeled lychees, a tiny fork balanced on the edge. I turned and caught Haneul pretending he hadn't just dropped it off, already retreating toward the couch like nothing happened.
"…Since when do we have mangoes?" I finally demanded. "And lychees? And why," I gestured between the plates, "has nobody ever cut any up for me before now?"
The three of them had the audacity to look anywhere but at me.
Sejun broke the silence first—not to answer, of course, but to push the plate of mangoes closer to me. "Eat more. You need the vitamin C."
"Vitamin C doesn't erase my question," I said around a bite.
"Rice?" he offered instead, already reaching for the rice cooker. "You barely touched your second scoop. You should have thirds."
Before I could protest, Seungyong set a folded napkin by my plate like I was about to host a tea party. "You're still pale," he said, voice low but carrying. "When you're done eating, shower. Don't linger in damp clothes."
"You didn't answer my—" I started again.
"Finish your juice," Haneul said mildly.
"I'll make you miso soup after this," Sejun continued like I hadn't spoken.
I wrinkled my nose. "I hate miso soup."
"Then I'll make you egg drop," he said instantly, as if my taste preferences were a sacred law to be followed without delay.
"I just ate!"
"You need more protein," Seungyong replied immediately.
By the time I'd finished the last bite of hotdog, I could already see Seungyong hovering. Wordlessly, he took my plate before I could even think about standing.
I had half a mind to yank it back, but before I could, his hand was already retreating toward the sink. A quiet clink of ceramic, the sound of water running, and his broad back shutting me out of the kitchen in that perfectly regal way of his.
I rolled my eyes, but my protest died in my throat when the shadow fell over me.
Haneul.
He didn't speak at first. He didn't need to. The faint shift of the air, the subtle feel of his shirt brushing past my cheek, those were enough to announce him. And then, without preamble, my chair tilted back just enough for his arms to slide beneath me.
I gave a startled noise, my fingers catching instinctively in the soft knit at his shoulder. "I can walk," I muttered.
"I know," he said. And then, with the kind of steadiness that felt unfairly effortless, "Bathroom."
Just one word, as though it were the most reasonable thing in the world to pluck me from my seat and carry me across the living room to the ground floor bathroom.
"You could've just told me to go," I pointed out.
"I don't like doing things halfway," he replied, voice smooth, unhurried.
It should have been a throwaway comment, but my mind snagged on it instantly, because No, you of all people don't get to say that to me right now.
"Really? You serious right now?" I deadpanned, letting my head tilt back so I could look at him.
His gaze flicked down at me. "What?"
"That's rich," I murmured, my voice low enough that I could pretend it wasn't deliberate if he called me out on it. "Coming from you. You're saying you don't do things halfway, when you've been halfway with me since the start."
The faintest tightening of his arms was the only reaction for a beat. "Halfway?" he echoed.
"Yes. Halfway making me think you might actually… like me. Halfway pretending you don't. Halfway giving me all this—" I gestured vaguely at his arms around me "—and never actually doing anything about it."
He stopped just short of the bathroom door, looking down at me in that deliberate, measured way of his. "That's what you think?"
"That's what it feels like." I definitely sounded like a petulant child at that moment, but I didn't even care. I wanted to be petty.
For a breath, there was nothing. Just the faint sway of his steps and the sound of air moving between us. And then—quietly, without even a shift in his tone—he said, "I'm careful with things I don't want to break."
The words sank, slow and deliberate, into my chest.
He made it sound noble, but all I heard was distance. That deliberate, infuriating restraint that made me feel like a fragile ornament kept behind glass; admired, but never touched. I wanted to laugh, or maybe scoff, or maybe ask him if he thought I was porcelain and not flesh. But none of those responses made it to my mouth.
We reached the ground floor bathroom, the door already ajar. A folded towel sat neatly on the counter beside a change of clothes, the steam of a waiting shower curling through the air in pale ribbons. It smelled faintly of warm tile and soap, a scent that clung to the air like a low hum.
"You set this up?" I asked, my voice softer than I intended.
"Not what?" His eyes were steady on mine now, his voice just low enough that I could feel it as much as hear it.
"Not us." The two words left me feeling stripped, and I hated it.
He didn't flinch. Didn't move. But something shifted in the space between us. The counter pressed into the small of my back, cool against my shirt. I hadn't meant to end up cornered like this—pinned between porcelain and Haneul—but here we were.
He stood so close the faint steam from the shower ghosted between us, curling at the collar of his shirt. His hand braced on the counter beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. His other arm lifted, palm finding the surface just behind my hip, boxing me in without so much as brushing me.
He didn't touch me, but somehow it still felt like contact.
My breathing had gone shallow without me noticing. I could smell the faintest trace of soft lavender clinging to him, mixed with something subtle—clean, warm, almost like sunlight trapped in cotton. The kind of scent you'd never notice from across a room, but here, caged in by him, it was impossible to ignore.
He didn't look at me straight away. His gaze dipped, following the slow curve of my jaw before lifting again, deliberate as the tide. It was the kind of look that made you aware of every inch of your skin, as though he'd touched it already.
The sound of my own heartbeat filled my ears, its rhythm erratic. I felt absurdly aware of my lips, of the slight tilt of my chin, of the tremor in my breath. I swallowed and kept still.
If I moved, I might lean into him. If I spoke, my voice might betray me.
He leaned forward, so slightly it might have been imagined. But my breath still stuttered. My fingers curled against the porcelain lip of the counter. My pulse, already too fast, climbed higher.
I tilted my chin a fraction, not enough to be obvious but enough to ready myself. My eyelids lowered—hesitant at first— then fully, sealing me in the darkness of expectation.
This was it—finally, finally—
A whisper of movement brushed my shoulder. It wasn't the heat of his mouth, nor the weight of his hand. My eyes snapped open just in time to see his fingers closing around a bottle on the shelf behind me. He stepped back as though the moment had never existed at all.
My face burned. "You—" My voice cracked, and I swallowed down the lump of embarrassment. "You could've just told me to move!"
He looked at me then, and there was the smirk I'd been searching for earlier. "Could have," he agreed, voice low and infuriatingly calm.
Something in my chest twisted. My hand darted for the nearest towel and I tossed it at him—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make a point. It hit him square in the chest, and he caught it effortlessly, his fingers curling around the fabric. For a second, I thought he'd toss it back. Instead, his lips curved further.
And then he laughed. Not a restrained exhale, not the faint hum of amusement he usually gave. It was a warm, unguarded chuckle, rich and soft, spilling into the air like a note struck perfectly in tune. It wrapped around me in a way that was far too dangerous, far too divine for someone who had just humiliated me.
"Don't laugh at me," I muttered.
"That's going to be difficult," he murmured, still smiling as he turned toward the door.
I stood there, cheeks burning, watching him leave with the towel still in hand. The click of the door was quiet, but the echo of that laugh stayed behind, clinging to the walls like steam.