Morning light settles into the apartment without asking permission.
No alarms.
No schedules shouted across rooms.
Just the quiet hum of the city outside and the softer rhythm of breathing beside me.
I sit at the small table near the window, laptop open, a new document waiting patiently for words. Steam curls from my mug — matcha, hot, oat milk, two pumps of vanilla — the same as always.
Some habits don't need to change to make room for something new.
I roll my shoulders once, stretch my fingers, then reach for the pen.
The good one.
Click.
The sound is familiar now… comforting. Like the opening of a door I don't have to hesitate at anymore.
The page fills slowly. Not because I'm stuck, but because I'm choosing each word with care. There's no urgency in me anymore. No fear that if I don't write fast enough, I'll lose something.
This time, love isn't the story.
It's the environment.
Behind me, movement. The quiet shuffle of footsteps. A yawn that isn't shy about existing.
"Morning, Writer-nim," Jingyi says, voice rough with sleep and absolutely unpolished.
I glance over my shoulder.
He's barefoot. Hair messy. Glasses slightly crooked. Hoodie soft and worn, sleeves pushed up without thought. No emerald jacket. No gold accents. No version of him the world expects.
Just him.
"Good morning," I reply, smiling. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep," he says, wandering closer. "You were typing like you were negotiating with the universe."
"I usually win," I say lightly.
He hums, amused, then leans down to peer at the screen. "Is this the new one?"
I nod. "Still figuring out what it wants to be."
He straightens, stretches his arms overhead, then glances at the pen in my hand.
"You're using that one."
"Of course I am."
His mouth curves
Not the idol smile, not the practiced one.
Just something warm and private that belongs here.
He drifts into the kitchen, opens cabinets without asking, frowns at the contents like they personally betrayed him.
"Do we have anything that isn't healthy?" he asks.
"We live together," I say. "That is the unhealthy part."
He laughs, actually laughs, the sound loose and unguarded. It does something to my chest every time.
He makes himself coffee, too much sugar, and even more milk, then leans against the counter, watching me again.
"You heading out soon?" I ask.
"Script read," he replies. "First one for the new project."
I glance at him. "Nervous?"
He considers it, then shrugs. "A little. But… good nervous."
"Text me when you're done."
"I always do."
There's no promise in it. No dramatic weight.
Just fact.
He walks over, bends down, presses a kiss to my temple. Familiar. Grounding. The kind that doesn't ask for permission because it already has it.
"I'll see you later," he murmurs.
"Go be brilliant," I say.
He snorts. "You already wrote that part for me."
The door closes softly behind him.
The apartment settles again.
I turn back to the screen, fingers hovering over the keys. For a moment, I don't type. I just sit there, pen in hand, mug warm against my palm, heart steady in my chest.
I used to think love was loud.
That it announced itself. Demanded proof. Left you breathless and unsure.
Turns out… it's steady.
It's the quiet confidence that nothing here needs to be earned twice.
I lower my gaze to the page.
Click.
And I write forward.