Dae-hyun POV
The ceiling was too bright.
Sunlight spilled through the curtains, warm across my face. For a second, I forgot everything—where I was, what happened, who had been here—
And then I turned my head.
The couch was empty.
My body reacted before my mind did. I sat up so fast the blanket tangled around my legs. My heart slammed against my ribs, sharp and sudden, like it remembered something before I could.
No. No. Don't tell me he—
I stood, bare feet hitting the floor hard. "Woo-jin?" I called—too loud. The word scraped out of my throat, uneven. "Woo-jin—?"
Nothing.
My chest tightened. Breath shallow. God, why was I reacting like this—?
I took a step toward the hallway—
Clatter.
Metal against metal. In the kitchen.
I froze.
Then moved.
Slow. Careful. Almost stupidly quiet.
I leaned against the doorway.
He was there.
Pink hair tied messily back, sleeves rolled to his elbows, humming under his breath — stirring something in a small pot. The smell hit me next: sesame oil, anchovy broth, warm rice, and the soft sweetness of simmered radish.
My favorite.
A memory flashed — small hands tugging my sleeve, a tiny apartment kitchen, a boy smiling shyly at me as he asked, "Does it taste okay?"
My stomach twisted.
He remembers.
He never forgot.
Woo-jin turned slightly, just enough to see me. He paused. His shoulders stiffened—then he smiled.
Not the sickeningly perfect public smile.
Not the polite society smile.
A small one.
Soft. Tired around the edges. Real.
"Good morning," he said quietly.
My throat felt tight. "…You're still here."
His lips twitched. "You sound disappointed."
"I'm not."
I said it too fast. Too sharp.
He blinked, surprised—but didn't call me out for it. He just turned back to the stove, stirring slowly. The humming started again, softer this time.
The silence settled, awkward but not suffocating.
I moved closer. "What are you making?"
He didn't look up. "Doenjang-guk. With mushrooms. And I made rolled omelette too." He pointed at the counter.
The omelette was perfect. Not restaurant perfect. Home perfect.
The kind someone makes for one person, carefully, because they remember how that person likes it — soft inside, golden outside, not too salty.
I stared a little too long.
Woo-jin's voice lowered. "…You liked it. Back then."
My breath caught.
I didn't say anything.
He exhaled, soft and almost embarrassed. "I… didn't know if your taste changed. It's okay if you don't want to eat it. I just—"
He swallowed, fingers tightening around the ladle.
"—I woke up early and didn't know what to do. So I cooked."
I didn't mean to, but the question escaped.
"Do you… cook for yourself?"
His hand stilled.
A long silence answered before he did.
"No," he said. "I don't."
Something inside me pulled, like thread unraveling.
"…Why not?" I asked.
He laughed — brittle and small. "Food doesn't taste good when it's just for you."
My chest tightened so sharply it was almost painful.
Before I could say anything, he continued—light, casual, practiced:
"I didn't want to wake you. You looked tired. So… I just let you sleep." He finally looked at me. "You're still a light sleeper, though."
"I am not," I muttered.
"You woke up the second I left the room," he replied, raising an eyebrow. "That's… very light sleeper behavior."
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Damn him.
He smiled—tiny, amused. For a moment, it felt like we were sixteen again, bickering about nothing.
He took bowls from the cabinet—my cabinet, in my kitchen—like he'd always belonged here.
"Sit," he said gently.
Something in his tone made me obey before I thought. I sat at the small table, watching him move—precise, quiet, familiar.
He set the bowls down in front of me.
Steam curled upward. Warm. Comforting. Too familiar.
I stared.
He hesitated. "If you don't want it, that's—"
I took the spoon and lifted the broth to my mouth.
Salted just right. Deep. Warm.
Home.
My chest tightened.
Woo-jin watched me—hope flickering in his eyes, fragile and terrified.
I lowered the spoon slowly. "…This is the same as before."
He froze.
Something bright flickered across his face. Fear? Surprise? Longing?
"You… remember?" he whispered.
The room felt too small.
I didn't look at him. "No. My body did. Not my head."
His breath caught. A tiny sound.
"Oh."
Silence.
I didn't know what to do with the look on his face. Soft. Vulnerable. Like the smallest thing could break him.
So I said the only thing I could.
"…Thank you."
He blinked. Once. Twice.
Then something in him softened—something tired and aching.
"You're welcome," he murmured.
We ate quietly.
Not like strangers.
Not like lovers.
Like two people who once held each other's entire world in their hands…
and are now learning how to touch again without bleeding.
I leaned back, arms crossed loosely. "So," I started slowly, "you're… an actor now."
Woo-jin blinked, taken aback that I brought it up first. "Mhm." He nodded once. "Yeah."
I remembered the headlines.
The posters.
His face everywhere — screens, magazines, subway ads.
Bright smile. Clear eyes. Carefully perfect.
I also remembered how empty that smile had looked.
"How is that going?" I asked.
He hesitated. "Good."
Then, after a second too long: "Busy."
"Busy," I echoed, unimpressed. "So busy you forget to eat?"
He didn't look at me.
"And sleep?"
Silence.
"Woo-jin."
He flinched at my tone — small, barely noticeable, but I caught it. He always flinched when someone saw too much.
"It's just the job," he said, forcing lightness into his voice. "Long shoots. Interviews. Fan events. You know how it is."
"I don't," I said. "So tell me what it's really like."
He froze.
Not fear — not exactly.
More like… being seen.
And not knowing where to run.
His fingers fidgeted with his sleeve again—small, nervous motions that tugged the fabric up just a little too far.
My breath hitched.
Those
Red lines.
Thin, controlled, deliberate.
Not accidental.
Not old.
My stomach sank.
The air felt like glass.
"…You still do that," I said quietly.
He didn't speak.
"Recently."
His breath hitched — so tiny most people wouldn't have heard.
I moved my chair closer. Slowly. Not to trap. Just to be near.
"Look at me," I said.
Woo-jin did — and I realized suddenly that he was tired.
Not sleepy.
Bone-deep tired.
The kind that comes from fighting yourself for too long.
"It's nothing," he whispered. "It's just—stress. Pressure. I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
I kept my voice soft, not sharp. "Don't lie to me."
His eyes trembled.
"I have to be fine," he said, voice breaking. "Everyone's watching. Everyone expects something. I can't— I can't afford to fall apart."
"So you fall apart where no one can see?" I asked.
His lips parted. No sound came out.
He didn't deny it.
I exhaled slowly. "Did your manager know?"
"No."
Immediate. Fierce.
"If they know, they'll report it. They'll pull me from schedules. They'll say I'm unstable. They'll—"
He swallowed hard.
"They'll replace me."
My hands curled into fists.
He wasn't protecting himself.
He was protecting his career.
The image.
The mask.
Even if it destroyed him.
"Woo-jin." My voice dropped, softer, but sharper. "I saw you last night. At the ocean. Do you think acting matters more than staying alive?"
His eyes widened.
Just for a second.
Then he smiled.
That practiced smile.
The one he used on cameras.
Polite. Flawless. Empty.
"Don't worry about me. Really. I'm—"
His voice cut off as I reached forward and gently wrapped my hand around his wrist.
Not pulling.
Not forcing.
Just holding.
His breath stopped.
"Don't do that," I murmured. "Don't hide from me."
He swallowed hard, eyes flickering down — not at our hands, but at how naturally mine held his. Like it used to.
"…You always notice," he whispered.
"Yeah," I said. "I always have."
He blinked fast — once, twice — and for a moment, I thought he might cry.
"I thought you forgot everything," he said.
"Not entirely," I answered. "But I remember how to read you."
The room went still.
He looked at me — really looked — and something behind his eyes cracked open.
"…Jung Dae-hyun," he whispered.
Just my name.
But it felt like a confession.
I tightened my hold just a little.
"I'm right here."
Woo-jin's sleeve slipped again as he reached for his cup. I pretended I didn't notice the scars this time. I didn't need to break him twice in one morning.
But his eyes drifted to the counter—specifically, to the small amber bottle near the stove.
My sleeping pills.
His movements stilled.
"…You still can't sleep?" he asked, voice low, cautious. Like he was stepping into a memory he wasn't sure he was allowed to know.
I didn't answer at first. I traced the rim of my cup with my thumb, watching the faint circle of steam blur at the edges.
"It's not that I can't sleep," I said finally. "It's that I… don't."
Woo-jin looked at me, eyebrows knitting just slightly. "Dae—"
"I sleep maybe an hour. Two if I'm lucky."
I shrugged, forcing a humorless half-smile. "Body got used to it."
"That isn't something a person should get used to." His tone sharpened, not angry—worried.
"It works fine for me."
"Jung Dae-hyun."
He said my full name, and somehow it made breathing feel harder.
I picked up my tea. "It's just how life is. Work runs late. Mind doesn't shut up. Night is quiet, so I think. Too much. Eventually it's morning again."
Woo-jin's eyes lowered, lashes shadowing the soft bruised purple beneath them. He had those, too. He hid them better.
"…When did it start?" he whispered.
"Not sure? After the divorce?."
I didn't have to think. I knew exactly when.
Woo-jin's breath caught—barely.
"And the pills?" he asked.
"They don't work," I admitted. "They just make the hours quieter."
Something flickered across his face—understanding, heavy and painful.
"You really were alone," he murmured.
The words hit harder than I expected.
I lifted my gaze, meeting his. "Weren't you?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
We were silent again, but this time the silence felt… connected. Like a bridge, not a wall.
Woo-jin exhaled softly and leaned his arms on the table. His voice was almost too gentle.
"Dae-hyun… if you had seen me last night, but… if you hadn't stopped me—"
His voice trembled.
"What would you have done?"
My jaw clenched.
Images surged—him in the water, disappearing, leaving me standing on the shore with empty hands, an empty house, an empty life—
I didn't realize I had stood up until my chair scraped the floor.
"I would have gone in after you."
My voice came out raw.
"I would have dragged you out myself. I don't care if you were screaming or fighting or begging me to let go. I would've pulled you back even if it killed me."
Woo-jin's lips parted in shock.
He wasn't used to being fought for.
Not by anyone.
I stepped closer—slowly, giving him room to back away if he needed to. He didn't.
"Don't you ever try to disappear again," I said quietly. Not a command. A plea dressed as one. "Not while I'm still here."
His eyes wavered.
Something in them broke open.
"…Why?" he whispered. "Why do you care so much? Back when I treated you sh!t"
I stared at him. And for a moment—just a moment—a memory flickered.
Not clear. Not whole.
But real.
Pink hair tangled from the wind.
Soft laughter under streetlight glow.
A hand gripping mine on a rooftop rail.
A voice—shaking.
"If you ever disappear, I'll follow you."
My breath hitched.
My head throbbed—sharp, sudden, like a nerve snapping awake.
Woo-jin saw it.
His chair screeched as he stood. "Dae-hyun? Hey—Dae, look at me—"
His voice was too close, too warm, too familiar and it startled something loose inside me.
And before I could stop it—
I whispered, barely sound at all:
"…Woo-jin… not again."
The world stopped.
His eyes widened, pupils blown wide like he'd been struck.
Because he knew exactly what those words meant.
He remembered the night on the rooftop.
He remembered the promise I made.
He remembered I had once saved his life.
And now—
I remembered it too this time clearly!
It was confusing at first.
His breath broke.
"So… you…"
My hand trembled where it rested on the table.
"I don't know everything," I choked out. "But—something's coming back."
The silence was no longer fragile.
It was electric.
Alive.