The airport smelled of freshly brewed coffee, metal, and roads. The hum of voices merged into one continuous flow, and only their small family — Do-yun, Seungho, and baby Min — stood slightly apart, as if in their own silence.
Do-yun held the baby, pressing him to his chest, as if the balance of the world depended on it. Min snuffled sleepily, his cheek resting against the collar of his shirt.
— He knows we're leaving, — Do-yun whispered.
— He knows we're coming back, — Seungho replied softly. He straightened the blanket, leaned down, and kissed his son's forehead. — We're not disappearing. Just breathing.
The nanny stood at the check-in counter — a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a firm voice. She was like calmness to them, part of the new order.
— Don't worry, Mr. Yun, — she said. — I'll be with him the whole time. And I'll send a photo as soon as he wakes up.
Do-yun nodded, but his fingers didn't unclench for a moment. He glanced at Seungho — and everything was in his face: anxiety, love, the attempt to let go.
— If he cries…
— He won't cry, — Seungho said. — And even if he does — it means he misses us. That's a good thing.
They handed Min to the nanny, and the emptiness in Do-yun's arms felt physical. When the stroller disappeared behind the glass doors of the waiting area, he exhaled — not relief, but something like nostalgia he hadn't had time to live through.
Seungho took his hand.
— It's okay.
— I know. It's just… too quiet.
— That's good. We deserve the quiet.
⋆⋆⋆
Jeju Island greeted them with air smelling of salt and tangerines. The sky was clear, transparent, like a breath after a long illness. They drove along the coast in a rented car — windows open, the wind tangling their hair, and the sea running alongside them, as if alive.
Do-yun stretched his hand out the window, feeling the air slice through his fingers.
— It's so quiet… — he said. — And no one is looking.
— What if they were?
He smiled:
— Let them. Today, I don't want to hide.
Seungho smirked, keeping his eyes on the road:
— Tell that to the journalists when we get back.
— No. Let this remain our secret.
— Then I'll keep it.
They stopped at a beach — almost empty, with gray sand and low waves that lazily beat against the shore. Seungho took off his shoes, rolled up his trousers.
— Let's go.
— The water's cold.
— Then hold on to me.
Do-yun stepped forward, and when the wave touched his ankles, he laughed. Seungho caught his hand.
— You laugh more often.
— Is that bad?
— It's beautiful.
They walked along the shore, leaving footprints that the water immediately washed away. The sun was setting; the sky turned pink, and the wind whispered in their clothes. Do-yun stopped, looked at the horizon.
— You know, I used to dream of just… disappearing. Of no one waiting, no one looking.
— And now?
He looked at him and smiled.
— Now I want to be found. Every day.
Seungho walked closer, leaned in, and kissed him. First briefly, as if checking if it was allowed. Then — deeper, warmer. Salty air, the sound of the sea, the touch of lips — everything merged into one rhythm. Do-yun pulled back, his cheeks flushed, his gaze soft.
— Did you notice how it smells here?
— Of freedom, — Seungho replied. — And of you.
They were silent, watching the sun sink into the water. Then Seungho took his hand, pulling him toward a small house on the slope — rented for the night, with a terrace and an ocean view.
Inside, it smelled of wood and the sea. No luxurious details, just a bed by the window and the sound of the waves. Do-yun sat on the edge, ran his palm over the sheet.
— I can't even believe that you can just… live. Without fear.
— You can, — Seungho said, walking closer. — You just have to remember what all this started for.
He leaned down and kissed him. Slowly, calmly, as if returning his breath with that kiss. Do-yun responded, softly, trembling slightly.
— Seungho…
— Mm?
— I thought I was afraid of losing you.
— And?
— I realized I was afraid of losing myself without you.
Seungho froze, then smiled quietly.
— Then don't let go.
They stood by the window; the sunset light fell on their skin, making it golden. Their lips met again; the movements became a little deeper, a little bolder. There was no need to rush. Only warmth, slow touches, the smell of the sea, and the rustle of breathing.
When the sun finally set, they went out onto the terrace — wrapped in a single towel. Below, waves crashed against the rocks, and in the distance, a lighthouse twinkled. Seungho placed his hand on his waist.
— We'll go up to the cliff tomorrow morning.
— Why?
— I want to see the sun rise. To remember what life looks like when everything is behind us.
He pressed close to him, and the sea roared below, like a breath, like life. That night, they fell asleep not from exhaustion — but from peace. And for the first time in a long time, sleep wasn't an escape, but a home.