The apartment smelled like garlic and sesame oil, like someone had decided comfort was a strategy.
Joon-ho had been in the kitchen since late afternoon, sleeves rolled, hair tied back in a way that made him look annoyingly competent. The stove hissed softly, the rice cooker clicked, and the counter was crowded with small bowls—banchan lined up like a tiny army.
Yura sat at the dining table with one hand on her belly and the other on a glass of water, watching him move.
"You're overdoing it," she said.
"I'm cooking," he corrected without turning around.
"You're performing."
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes calm but bright. "Let me."
Yura opened her mouth to argue, then the baby rolled under her ribs and she paused, shifting in her chair.
Joon-ho's face changed instantly. "Pressure?"
Yura lifted a finger. "Don't."
He froze mid-step, caught.
Yura breathed slowly until the movement settled. Then she gave him a look. "See? I'm fine."
