Dawn crept slow and unwilling into the city. After a night spun of adrenaline and near-captures, Amal and Min-jun finally gave in to exhaustion, stumbling into his penthouse as an uncertain sun painted the sky gray and gold. The place was all soaring windows and lush, modern edges, yet its corners were tucked with hints of another lifetime: ancient books with spines cracked from centuries of handling, a threadbare scarf too bright for the palette of the ultra-rich, music sheets curled at the edges, and a tiny, half-finished watercolor tucked behind an art-deco clock.
Amal marveled, wandering the space and brushing her fingers against the piano keys, the smooth marble of the kitchen, the barely-there dust on the windowsill. She felt like an intruder and a guest all at once, old and new memories twining with every turn. Min-jun watched her, perched on the arm of a velvet chair, hair mussed and eyes stubbornly alert despite his own exhaustion.
"Go ahead," he said, voice raspy with a tiredness that only those who never sleep properly know. "Make yourself at home. Touch anything. Except the vintage LPs. Those are sacred."
She stuck out her tongue. "You're lucky the only thing I'd break is my waistline, with all the pastry I'm craving." There was laughter in her voice, delicious and contagious. "You can have your fancy records. But first, you're making me toast."
Min-jun rolled his eyes in theatrical resignation, but as he crossed to the kitchen in his bare feet, she caught the smirk he couldn't quite hide. He looked absurd—immortal, world-famous, dangerous—now buttering bread and squinting at a too-modern toaster.
She caught him humming under his breath, a gentle melody she almost recognized from a time before eternity stretched out in front of them. "Is that a lullaby?" she asked, leaning over the counter, eyes twinkling.
He shot her a sidelong look. "Maybe. Or it might be a secret spell to get mortals to sleep so vampires can paint in peace."
She giggled—unabashed, childlike, the sound golden in the quiet. "If you start painting me in my sleep, make me look ethereal and mysterious."
He grinned, handing her a slice of perfectly burned toast. "You don't need mystery. You need jam. And probably a nap."
She took the offering, sliding onto a kitchen stool and savoring the simplicity of the moment. The toast was dry, but she said nothing, just rolled her eyes with exaggerated suffering. "You know, you're lucky you're cute. This is criminal."
The ordinary rhythm—jam, laughter, sleepy glances—felt stolen from a world that didn't want them to exist together. For a while, neither talked about the night's danger, or the collector's shadow, or the fragile peace that could evaporate at a knock on the door.
Instead, Min-jun pulled out an old Polaroid camera and snapped a photo of Amal mid-eyeroll, toast halfway to her mouth. "Evidence for posterity," he announced, shaking the film until a silly portrait appeared—her eyes bright, mouth full, hair wild.
She launched a grape at him, which he caught and promptly ate, smirking with satisfaction. "You sound like an old man. How many centuries have you been waiting for someone to laugh at your jokes?"
He waggled his eyebrows. "Roughly as long as you've been painting scarlet rivers."
She rolled her eyes but smiled, cheeks warm. "Are you always this insufferable after a near-death experience?"
He sobered just enough to catch her hand and study her face, the humor softening into something more earnest. "Only with you." The intimacy of it hovered between them, real and rare.
Her eyelids drooped, the edges of sleepless hours finally cutting in. Min-jun lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles, old-fashioned and unhurried. "Sleep, Amal. I'll watch. No dangerous art thieves are getting past me."
She leaned in, head resting against his shoulder, sleep tipping her toward dreams. "If I dream of blood and color, promise you'll paint it with me in the morning."
He smoothed her hair gently, watching her drift. "Always," he whispered.
As she faded into sleep, Min-jun sat beside her, silent guardian amid the rising light, promising himself that for every thrilling, perilous night ahead, he'd carve out mornings just like this—safe, silly, full of hush and laughter and the soft certainty that sometimes, surviving together was the bravest art of all.