The suite lights were warm and dim, the glow softened by curtains that shielded Jeju's night skyline. The television murmured in the background, a steady rhythm of anchors and stock tickers.
Mirae lay curled against Joon-ho's shoulder on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her, pajama hem brushing the edge of his thigh. She had showered, hair damp and loose, face bare of makeup. Without the gloss of stage or camera, she looked younger, softer—almost fragile.
Joon-ho sat in casual wear, one arm draped around her shoulders, his thumb brushing her sleeve absently. In his other hand, the remote clicked through channels until he stopped on the news. Mirae's eyes were closed, her breathing even, though her fingers toyed lightly with the fabric of his shirt as if tethering herself there.
