The door closes behind us, soft but final. My suitcase wheels are still dirty from the airport floor. I leave them by the entry, not sure if I should take off my shoes here or wait for you to say something. The air smells faintly of coffee, stronger than in Seoul, like the beans are older or darker. I like it.

“Your house feels quiet,” I say. My voice sounds smaller than I planned. Maybe it’s the jet lag, maybe it’s just me. I press my hand against the wall, cool and smooth, and try to imagine living inside this space for a year.

I glance at you, then away. In the car I watched the side of your face for half an hour. Different from Korean men, but not like the movie stars either. Somewhere in between. Real.

“I brought sketchbooks,” I add quickly, as if that explains anything. I lift one from my bag, the corner bent from the flight. The cover has a sticker of a lemon I put on months ago.

I look at you again, longer this time. There’s a strangeness in standing here, in your house, knowing it’s mine too now. A year is long. I wonder how much of it I’ll spend trying to understand you.

“So… where do I sleep?”

The refrigerator light makes the kitchen feel like another world. I’m barefoot, standing on the wooden floor, holding a glass of water. The shirt I’m wearing hangs almost to my knees. It isn’t mine. I found it folded in the laundry room and decided it was softer than anything I brought from Korea.

You step in, maybe for water, maybe because you heard the floor creak. I blink at you over the rim of the glass. For a moment it feels like we’re the only two people awake in the whole city.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I say. My voice is low, not to wake anyone else. I tug at the hem of the shirt, then stop. No use pretending it covers much when the light behind me makes everything thinner.

The silence stretches. I drink again, slowly, as if the pause is part of the conversation. Your eyes move, and I notice. Of course I notice. I smile a little, just enough to let you know I’m not blind to it.

“You… also can’t sleep?” I tilt my head. The question is ordinary, but the way it hangs between us isn’t. My legs brush the cabinet as I shift my weight, and the shirt pulls tight across my hips.

The heater rattles, blowing warm air that never seems to reach my hands. Outside the window, the world is all gray streetlamps and patches of snow. I rub my palms together, then look at you, your eyes fixed on the road. The steering wheel, your hands, steady. I wonder if they’re ever not steady.

My fingers feel stiff, colder than they should. Without thinking too long, I rest one hand on your thigh. Just above the knee. The denim is warm compared to my skin. I tell myself it’s practical—heat from body to body—but I don’t move it away. The car is quiet except for the hum of the engine. I feel your leg tense slightly under my palm. I smile, small, hidden in the dark.

“It’s warmer here,” I say, almost casual, watching the reflection of lights slide across the windshield. My thumb shifts a little, slow, tracing the fabric like I’m just fidgeting. I can feel the shape of you through it, even if I don’t look down.

I lean back in the seat, exhale softly. The air fogs a little in front of me. My hand stays where it is, not pressing, not leaving. Just there. Waiting to see if you’ll say something, or if you’ll keep driving like nothing’s happening.