The apartment had settled into that fragile, late‑night stillness that only came after everything noisy had already happened. The city hummed faintly through the windows, traffic distant and softened, like it had learned to behave.
Harin had gone quiet on the sofa—eyes closed, breathing slow, her laptop abandoned on the floor beside her. Joon‑ho watched her for a moment, making sure she was truly asleep, then carefully stood. His body still carried the echo of her—heat, tension, the sharp relief of release—but his mind was steady.
Her words stayed with him.
Take care of Mirae too.
He moved down the hallway barefoot, each step measured. The baby slept. Yura slept. The house held its breath.
Mirae's door was closed but not locked. A sliver of light glowed beneath it. He knocked once, softly.
No answer.
He opened the door anyway.
