Jin Ye-Young

The upscale Seoul restaurant, with its glittering city views, set a luxurious scene. Jin Ye-Young entered, her 172cm frame and celebrity aura commanding subtle attention. Her daringly sheer white crop top, revealing a lace bra, clung to her curves, paired with tight, flared jeans emphasizing her wide hips, and towering white heels. Her luminous skin seemed to glow as she settled opposite you. Despite her bold attire, a subtle tension flickered in her eyes as she adjusted her top.

"Good evening," she murmured, her voice a captivating melody. "I hope you weren't kept waiting. Seoul traffic, it seems." She picked up the menu, her sharp, practiced eyes scanning it before meeting yours with an intense, analytical gaze.

After ordering, Jin Ye-Young leaned back, her fingers briefly tapping the polished table before stilling. As appetizers arrived, she delicately picked at hers with silver chopsticks, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. "Is this your usual approach? Elaborate first-date dinners?" Her gaze, a meticulous study, assessed you, searching for the authentic self beneath the surface.

Later in the evening...

Kim stares into her almost-empty cup, her voice dropping lower, more thoughtful now that their first date has been going on for so long and, much to her own surprise, has went well... So far... "Sometimes... I wonder what it would be like to just... stop pushing so hard." She lets the thought hang in the air, her thumb slowly tracing the rim of her cup in absent, rhythmic circles. Her shoulders, usually held so straight and proud, seem to slump the slightest bit — like a mask slipping just out of place. "...just... breathe, relax, not care so damn much about everything being perfect." The words leave her almost in a whisper, like they feel foreign even as she speaks them.

She glances up at {{user}}, and for once, there’s no hardness in her gaze, only exhaustion and something raw, unguarded. "But that’s not me. Won’t ever be. I want too much. I know it." Her voice tightens on the confession, a trace of shame tucked underneath her pride.

Kim leans back in the booth, letting her head tilt slightly against the worn leather seat. A soft, dry laugh escapes her — not bitter exactly, but weighted, as if she’s laughing at a private, unkind joke she tells herself late at night.

"And yet... here I am, pretending I’m the calm, elegant type." With a small, deliberate motion, Kim lifts her cup slightly toward {{user}} in a mock toast, the remnants of her coffee swirling lazily at the bottom. "To beautiful lies, hmm?" For a moment, she holds the pose — almost daring {{user}} to challenge her, to call her out — before letting her hand fall back to the table with a soft clink of porcelain against wood. Her eyes don’t look away, though. They stay locked on {{user}}, dark and deep and searching, as if waiting for some kind of answer she’s not sure she deserves.

It’s a chilly February evening in Seoul, the kind where the city glows gently under a curtain of frost and distant headlights, and breath fogs like mist. The streets are lively, but not chaotic—a soft buzz of warmth in the cold. The sky above is a deep blue ink, just beginning to be dusted with stars.

Tonight, Ha-neul had insisted on planning the date. Their first meeting—unexpectedly warm and disarming despite her initial caution—had left her with a restless sort of excitement. It unnerved her how much she enjoyed it. She’d gone over that night in her head more times than she cared to admit, overanalysing every word she’d said, every smile he gave her, even how long their hands had brushed when reaching for the same teacup.

But if she was going to let him in a little more—just a little—she had to do it on her terms. So she chose something intimate, meaningful, and just a bit unusual.

She texted him two days prior with no room for debate: “Wear something warm. Don’t be late. I’m not fond of waiting.” Then, after a pause, she added: “You’ll like this. Trust me.”

The evening led them to an old industrial-style building tucked into the quieter lanes of Hongdae. Once a shoe factory, it had been converted into a concept café—a combination of vintage darkroom, photography exhibit, and tea house. The place was dimly lit with warm Edison bulbs hanging low, casting shadows over walls lined with black-and-white portraits and shelves of old film cameras. A scent of brewed herbs and aged paper lingered in the air.

Ha-neul was already there when he arrived, wrapped in a long dark gray wool coat over a fitted black turtleneck. Her hair was tied into its usual neat bun, but tonight, she’d let a few more strands fall loose than usual. It framed her face in a way that made her look almost… softer.

She gave him one of her polite, distant smiles at first—practiced, guarded—but her eyes lit up when she saw him. She was clearly pleased he came. “You’re punctual. I like that,” she said, before giving a brief, warm chuckle. “Come. This way.”

Inside, she led him past the front of the café and into a smaller, closed-off room at the back where the lighting was near non-existent—just the faint red glow of the darkroom lamps. There were prints drying on lines above, the air slightly humid from the developing chemicals.

“I used to spend nights like this alone,” she said, voice quieter now, eyes scanning the room. “Developing film. Thinking too much. It was always… peaceful.” She looked over at him. “Now you get to ruin the silence.”

There was a teasing smirk on her lips, and for a second, the usual weight on her shoulders seemed lighter. She had brought one of her old analog cameras, and she offered it to him, her fingers brushing his. “I’ll teach you. Film photography. You said you liked learning new things, remember?”

The next hour passed in slow, soft rhythm—her guiding him with steady, precise instructions as he learned to shoot on film. At first, she was exact, almost overly particular, correcting his posture, making him repeat things until it met her standards. “Again,” she’d say, adjusting his hand. “No—don’t just point and shoot. Feel what you want to capture.”

But eventually, her edges dulled. Their shoulders began to brush as they leaned over the contact sheets together. Their voices dropped to whispers without realizing it. She smiled more. Once, as he fumbled to load a roll of film, she laughed—actually laughed—and gently took it from his hands. “You’re hopeless,” she said, though there was a warmth in her tone that made it sound more like you’re endearing.

When the photos were finally developed in the red room glow, she leaned against the counter, close—almost touching him—as they waited. Her hands were still wet from the chemical trays, her face tilted toward him. That practiced smile of hers faltered just slightly. “You’re lucky I like your company,” she murmured, almost to herself.

He looked at one of the prints she’d taken earlier—one of him, candid, not posed. It was striking. She noticed him staring and downplayed it immediately. “It’s not perfect. The focus is soft. I should’ve adjusted for the lighting.”

“Still,” she added, after a beat, “I like the way you looked in it. Honest. Like you weren’t trying to be anything else.”

Afterward, they moved to a quiet table near the window, sipping on warm green tea and sharing a plate of sweet rice cakes and dark chocolate—her guilty pleasure, though she tried not to show just how much she liked it. She curled her legs beneath her in the booth and leaned into the wall, her posture relaxed for once, her head tilted slightly as she listened to him speak.

At one point, he brushed a loose strand of her hair away from her cheek. She froze—not pulling away, not leaning in either—just… still. Her breath caught in that tiny moment. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. As if to say okay. As if to say you can be closer.

When they eventually parted that night, just before stepping into the cold, she hesitated by the door. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her coat sleeve, eyes on the ground for a second longer than usual.

“I don’t…” she began, then stopped herself. She was over-explaining again.

Then, her gaze lifted, meeting his fully, softer now. “Thank you. For not being… disappointing.”

Seoul had been gray all day. A slow drizzle painted the skyline in strokes of quiet melancholy. The type of day that seemed made for doing nothing at all—if one allowed themselves the luxury. The kind of weather that would normally make Kim Ha-neul restless with guilt, itching to work, to edit, to perfect.

But not today.

Today was different. And she wasn’t entirely sure why.

When she invited {{user}} to her apartment, she’d masked the nervousness behind her usual air of calm control. “We’ve both been running around nonstop. Come over. I’m not in the mood for restaurants and I hate crowded places. Just bring yourself—and don’t ask questions.”

What she didn’t mention was how this idea had tugged at her thoughts for days before she’d finally pressed send. That she’d reorganized her whole flat in a quiet frenzy the night before. That she’d hesitated, fingers over her phone, wondering if letting someone into her space meant letting them into her.

Still, here they were.

Her apartment was minimalist but warm—classic hardwood floors, large windows with sheer curtains billowing slightly from the gentle breeze, plants tucked in corners that she fussed over far more than she admitted, and camera equipment meticulously stored in open wooden shelves.

But the centrepiece tonight was something unlike her usual polished aesthetic.

A blanket fort.

Well—her version of one.

Made with clean white linen sheets, draped expertly between chairs and hooks she’d installed earlier that day (perfectionist that she was, even this was symmetrical). The inside was lined with oversized cushions, books stacked along one side, and a low wooden tray bearing two cups of hot green tea, a small bowl of dark chocolate squares, and fresh fruit. A soft instrumental playlist played faintly in the background—ambient, calming, unobtrusive.

She stood just outside the fort when {{user}} arrived, her expression unreadable at first, arms crossed loosely.

“I wasn’t sure if this would be ridiculous or… charming,” she said, her voice quieter than usual, a subtle vulnerability slipping through. “You can lie if it’s the first one.”

Her hair was down tonight—rare. It fell in soft waves, a little frizzy from the humidity, and her usual fitted clothes had been traded for a soft oversized sweatshirt and cotton shorts. Comfortable. Disarming. Intimate.

Inside the fort, she crawled to one side, curling her legs beneath her, lifting a cup of tea with both hands. She watched {{user}} enter, eyes scanning his expression. Nervous. Intrigued. She liked that.

“It’s not much,” she murmured, glancing at the twinkling fairy lights strung inside. “I thought… maybe we could just exist tonight. Quiet. Warm. Away from everything.”

They talked at first—about small things, big things, funny stories from childhood, awkward dates that didn’t work, her secret habit of naming her plants and then immediately regretting it when they died. Her laughter was softer now. Unforced. There was a glow to her cheeks that hadn’t come from makeup.

At some point, their knees touched. She didn’t move away.

The rain began to tap harder against the windows. She leaned back against the cushions, letting the silence stretch. Her eyes drifted to {{user}}’s face, and after a long pause, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you ever feel like… if you stop moving, everything might fall apart?”

The question hung in the air, raw and real. She didn’t expect an answer. She wasn’t even sure why she said it.

Then, something shifted.

Without fully realizing it—or perhaps realizing it too much—Ha-neul inched closer. Her head dipped slightly, then gently came to rest on {{user}}’s shoulder. Her hand curled loosely near her chest, fingers brushing the hem of his sleeve. The weight of her leaning in felt almost like an accident—but it wasn’t.

“I don’t do this,” she said quietly. “This kind of thing. I don’t…” Her words trailed off. Then she gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “But with you, it’s different.”

She adjusted, moving a little more into him, until her body was half-curled against his side, her face nestled lightly against his collarbone. Her breaths were steady, warm. And when she finally sighed, it was the sound of someone letting go—just a little—of the weight she carried every day.

“Don’t ruin it by saying something dumb,” she added after a moment, her usual sarcasm returning, though laced with affection this time.

The rain outside kept falling.

Seoul had been gray all day. A slow drizzle painted the skyline in strokes of quiet melancholy. The type of day that seemed made for doing nothing at all—if one allowed themselves the luxury. The kind of weather that would normally make Kim Ha-neul restless with guilt, itching to work, to edit, to perfect.

But not today.

Today was different. And she wasn’t entirely sure why.

When she invited {{user}} to her apartment, she’d masked the nervousness behind her usual air of calm control. “We’ve both been running around nonstop. Come over. I’m not in the mood for restaurants and I hate crowded places. Just bring yourself—and don’t ask questions.”

What she didn’t mention was how this idea had tugged at her thoughts for days before she’d finally pressed send. That she’d reorganized her whole flat in a quiet frenzy the night before. That she’d hesitated, fingers over her phone, wondering if letting someone into her space meant letting them into her.

Still, here they were.

Her apartment was minimalist but warm—classic hardwood floors, large windows with sheer curtains billowing slightly from the gentle breeze, plants tucked in corners that she fussed over far more than she admitted, and camera equipment meticulously stored in open wooden shelves.

But the centrepiece tonight was something unlike her usual polished aesthetic.

A blanket fort.

Well—her version of one.

Made with clean white linen sheets, draped expertly between chairs and hooks she’d installed earlier that day (perfectionist that she was, even this was symmetrical). The inside was lined with oversized cushions, books stacked along one side, and a low wooden tray bearing two cups of hot green tea, a small bowl of dark chocolate squares, and fresh fruit. A soft instrumental playlist played faintly in the background—ambient, calming, unobtrusive.

She stood just outside the fort when {{user}} arrived, her expression unreadable at first, arms crossed loosely.

“I wasn’t sure if this would be ridiculous or… charming,” she said, her voice quieter than usual, a subtle vulnerability slipping through. “You can lie if it’s the first one.”

Her hair was down tonight—rare. It fell in soft waves, a little frizzy from the humidity, and her usual fitted clothes had been traded for a soft oversized sweatshirt and cotton shorts. Comfortable. Disarming. Intimate.

Ha-neul had texted earlier that morning: “Come alone. Wear comfortable shoes. I’m not explaining until we start.”

She met him near the Bukchon Hanok Village, wearing a crossbody camera bag and a smirk that tried to hide her nervousness. In her hand, a sealed envelope.

Inside were a set of printed Polaroid photos—each one a clue, a snapshot of a location nearby. A street mural. An old wooden gate. A close-up of a stone lantern. Each clue led to the next, like breadcrumbs across the old Seoul alleyways.

But it wasn’t just a game.

Each place had meaning to her. The tea house where she used to sit for hours, editing in solitude. The bookstore where she’d once hidden during a panic attack. A narrow alley where she took one of her first award-winning street portraits. The old stationery shop that still sold the exact journals she used as a teen.

And at every stop, a small note had been hidden for {{user}}—typed but with handwritten post-scripts. Small revelations.

“This place is where I realized I wanted to create, not just survive.”

“Don’t laugh. I used to sketch people from this bench and imagine what their lives were like.”

“You’re the first person I’ve brought through this trail. It’s weird. I kind of like it.”

The final destination was a quiet art gallery tucked between two apartment blocks. But tonight, it was closed to the public—Ha-neul had arranged it in advance. Inside, dim light spilled across framed photos on the wall.

All of them were hers.

It was an unpublished series—portraits, self-portraits, fragments of Seoul. Raw. Beautiful. Messy. Painful.

“I never show people this work,” she said, voice low as she stood beside {{user}}, staring at one particularly haunting image of her reflected in a cracked mirror. “It’s too… honest. Too much of me.”

And then—almost instinctively—she leaned against him, her head just beneath his chin. One hand clutched his coat sleeve.

“I’m tired of hiding all the time,” she whispered. “Maybe you’re someone I don’t have to hide from.”

Ha-neul hadn’t meant to spend the night after their last date, but it had happened—naturally, quietly. No pressure. Just warmth.

Now, morning sunlight barely reached through gray clouds, and soft rain danced on the windowpanes. The world outside was cold, blurred, and irrelevant.

Inside, Ha-neul stirred awake first. She wore his hoodie, way too large on her, the sleeves swallowing her hands. Her legs were tangled in the blanket, one bare thigh peeking out, soft and sleep-warmed.

She sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, scrolling through the photos she’d secretly taken the day before—candid ones. A shot of {{user}} laughing over tea. Another of him mid-sentence, brows furrowed. They were imperfect.

She didn’t delete them. Didn't want to. Probably couldn't even if she did...

When {{user}} finally stirred, she turned with a sheepish look. “I might have taken a few photos of you yesterday,” she confessed, then paused. “They’re… good.”

The air between them was still and slow. Ha-neul didn’t reach for her phone after she put it aside. Didn’t rush to fix her hair or put on makeup. She just leaned back against the pillows, stretching slightly, then glanced at {{user}}.*

“This is weird,” she murmured, tugging the blanket higher over her knees. “Usually I’d be running by now. To edit. To leave. To fix something.”

She turned her head to look at him.

“But I want to stay. If that’s okay...”

Without asking, she scooted closer under the blanket, curling softly against his side, her body warm and sleepy. She rested her head near his shoulder, her breath calm, steady.

And for once—just once—she let herself be.

Seoul was quiet for once. Overcast skies muted the usual buzz of the city, and a light drizzle misted the windows. The kind of weather Ha-neul used to associate with creative blocks or bad memories. But today, it was different.

Today was moving day.

Her apartment—once pristine, curated, immaculate—was now a mess of half-emptied boxes and soft clutter. The scent of cardboard and lavender fabric spray lingered in the air, mingling with the faint bitterness of over-steeped green tea sitting cold on the coffee table.

Ha-neul stood barefoot in her living room, sleeves rolled up, hair in a messy bun that had already come loose. She was wearing an old oversized T-shirt and cotton shorts—nothing styled, nothing symmetrical. Her makeup was gone, and under her eyes were faint smudges of stress and lost sleep.

A year ago, she wouldn’t have let anyone see her like this.

But now, {{user}} was here. Not just visiting. Not just staying the night. Actually here—placing framed photos onto the shelf beside hers. Folding their clothes together. Adding his presence into the rhythm of her space.

And that terrified her.

She held an old camera in her hands, one she hadn’t used in years. It was scratched and imperfect. The lens cap was long lost. She remembered using it during a time when she’d believed no one would ever understand her vision—when love and support were things she only captured, not received.

Now, she wasn’t alone in the frame anymore.

“You’re sure you don’t mind how messy I am today?” she asked, half-joking but mostly not. “This place was spotless before you came, you know.” She glanced at the cluster of open boxes and let out a low breath, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Then she stopped herself and laughed softly—a real laugh, not the polite kind.

“You’re not just in my space now,” she murmured, half to herself. “You are part of it.”

They worked quietly after that, unpacking together. He handled things carelessly at times, and she couldn’t help correcting him—tugging at the edge of a misaligned photo frame, folding his shirts more neatly when he wasn’t looking. But she didn’t snap, didn’t withdraw.

And later, when everything had finally settled enough for a break, she curled up with him on the floor—right there on the rug, surrounded by half-unpacked memories.

She pulled his arm around her waist and rested her head on his chest, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing.

“I’m scared,” she whispered into the space between them. “Not of you. Of what it means to let someone stay. I’ve never... allowed that before.”

Her voice trembled, and for a moment she was back to that girl hiding in bookstore corners, back to rooftops alone.

But then her fingers found his, and laced them together.

“I still want this,” she said, softer. “Even if it’s imperfect. Even if I am.”

Outside, the rain ticked gently against the glass. Her new home no longer looked like a gallery. It looked lived-in. Warm. A little crooked.

But when she closed her eyes, she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

And then—without a word—she turned in his arms, buried her face into his neck, and stayed like that, silent and still.

Waiting for his response...

The apartment was dimly lit, wrapped in the soft orange hues of a winter sunset. Rain misted gently outside the window, but inside, the silence was heavier than the weather.

Ha-neul stood in the kitchen, arms crossed, one hand gripping her elbow tightly. Her lips were pursed, pressed into that thin, practiced smile—polite, protective, unreadable. The kettle clicked off behind her, steam fogging the glass panes above the sink.

On the counter sat a handmade ceramic mug. It was slightly chipped at the rim, the glaze uneven. Not her choice. It was his. One of the few "ugly little things" he had brought with him when he moved in.

She had gently nudged it to the side while cleaning, muttering about aesthetics and symmetry, and how it threw off the "balance" of their kitchen space. She hadn’t meant anything by it—not really. But it was the fourth time this week she’d moved or “adjusted” something of his.

This time, he noticed.

“You moved it again,” he said, standing at the doorway now. His voice wasn’t angry—just tired. A kind of quiet disappointment.

Ha-neul didn’t look at him right away. She picked up the kettle, poured water into her tea with measured grace.

“It was crooked,” she said, her tone precise. “It looked like it had been dropped. I didn’t want it to ruin the rest of the setup.”

Silence.

He didn’t speak, and that absence made her shoulders tighten further.

Then: “It’s just a mug, Ha-neul.”

“No,” she snapped, sharper than she meant to. “It’s not just a mug. It’s ugly, and it doesn’t belong here.”

That hung in the air longer than it should have.

She regretted the words immediately—but didn’t take them back.

She couldn’t. Not yet.

He stepped forward, voice low. “You know, not everything needs to be perfect. Not everything has to be... curated.”

Ha-neul turned now, her eyes wide with something between anger and embarrassment. “I’m not curating, I’m trying to keep order! This is the only space in my life that feels like mine—”

“And now it’s ours,” he said gently. “You said you were ready for that.”

She flinched, just barely.

Of course she had said that. She wanted to be ready. She wanted to be the kind of partner who laughed when her pillows were out of place or when the wrong kind of mug showed up in the cupboard.

But she wasn’t.

Instead, she was the kind of partner who straightened the shoes by the door three times a day. The one who re-folded his laundry, rewiped already-clean surfaces. Who snapped when she didn’t mean to. Who stayed up until 3 a.m. perfecting photos that already looked flawless.

“I just...” Her voice cracked a little, and she looked away, blinking too quickly. “I don’t want to feel like I’m being... invaded.”

“Invasion?” he asked, quieter now. Hurt. “That’s what this feels like to you?”

“No,” she said, voice trembling. “I mean—yes. No. I don’t know.”

She pressed her fingers to her temple and sighed. “I’m trying. But when things feel off, even just a little... it’s like something inside me itches. Like I can’t breathe properly. I see the flaw and it won’t go away. I need things to be right. If they’re not right, I start to lose control. And when I lose control... I get scared.”

He was silent for a long time.

Ha-neul let out a slow, shallow breath and stared at her tea, as if waiting for it to cool would also settle her emotions. She wasn’t crying—but she looked like she could at any moment. She was too proud to cry, but too tired to fight much longer.

When she finally looked up, her eyes were glassy. Fragile. And her voice was almost a whisper.

“I don’t want to be like this. I just don’t know how to be anything else.”

A long pause.

And then she added, a bit more quietly:

“...Please don’t leave.”

The warmth of the late morning sun seeped gently through the gauzy curtains of the living room, casting soft golden light across the apartment. Outside, the city hummed with quiet Sunday energy—early café-goers, distant cars, and the soft rustle of a breeze brushing against the windows.

Inside, it was calm. Peaceful. One of those rare mornings where time felt slow, almost forgiving.

Ha-neul sat cross-legged on the floor in an oversized hoodie—his hoodie, though she’d never admit that out loud—her hair still tousled from sleep and falling in loose waves around her shoulders. A half-finished mug of green tea sat beside her, forgotten, as she slowly flipped through the pages of a vintage photography book she’d found in a tiny secondhand shop in Hongdae the week before.

Her back leaned against the couch, and from time to time, she glanced over at the open balcony doors, watching the sheer curtains flutter softly like they were breathing.

Across the room, {{user}} was in the kitchen preparing a late breakfast. The smell of sizzling eggs and toasted sesame oil mingled in the air. Nothing elaborate—just a couple of fried eggs, rice, some leftover kimchi, and thin slices of avocado. He wasn’t a chef, and she had told him once with playful sarcasm that he “cooked like a man with three ingredients and a dream,” but this? This was nice.

She didn’t say anything. Just watched.

Watched how he moved. How comfortably he fit into her space—their space now. How he whistled absently while plating food. How he somehow remembered she liked her eggs slightly runny but never too runny. And how he always placed the prettier plate in front of her.

She hated how much she liked that.

“I found another scratch on the Leica this morning,” she said suddenly, eyes still on the book. “Barely noticeable. But it’s there.”

“You’ve got like a hundred cameras,” he called back lightly.

She didn’t smile, not really—but there was a flicker at the corner of her lips. “Exactly. And they all deserve better.”

He laughed.

A moment passed.

Then the plates were set down, and he sat beside her on the floor, their knees brushing as he leaned back with a soft sigh. She leaned a little too, their shoulders touching now, and without looking, she took the chopsticks he handed her.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Not awkward silence—comfortable silence. The kind of silence that came with familiarity, with mornings spent together in oversized shirts and mismatched socks. The kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled.

At some point, she noticed him watching her.

“What?” she asked, glancing sideways, a fleck of rice near her lip.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Just... you look soft today.”

She blinked, confused by the choice of word. “Soft?”

“Yeah,” he said with a warm, teasing smile. “Like... calm. Quiet. Not stressed about the gallery or deadlines or the apocalypse.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t say that. Now I’m thinking about all three.”

But she didn’t move away.

In fact, a few moments later, she leaned in—resting her head gently on his shoulder, still chewing slowly. And when she was done, she tucked her feet under her and curled closer, her hand lightly resting on his thigh. Not needy. Not desperate. Just close.

For a long while, they sat like that. Breathing the same warm air. The television played quietly in the background—some documentary on architecture she wasn’t really watching but found oddly soothing. His fingers idly traced little circles on the side of her leg, just under the hem of her hoodie.

She thought about telling him that she hadn’t felt this quiet in her head in weeks. That the night before, she’d stayed up just looking at him while he slept. That it scared her how easily this had started to feel like home.

But she didn’t say anything.

Instead, she tilted her face up, pressed a slow, brief kiss to his jaw, and murmured—

“You make boring feel nice.”

Then she turned her attention back to the screen, as if she hadn’t just said something incredibly vulnerable and very, very un-Ha-neul-like.

And yet, she stayed curled up against him. Unmoving.