The sound of their parents' laughter faded down the lane until only the ocean remained.
Lanterns swayed softly, washing the veranda in gold. The scent of jasmine lingered in the night air.
Yoon Ha-rin sat curled against the wooden post, eyes half-closed, still smiling from the teasing.
Kang Jae-hyun watched her quietly, that same look of disbelief that someone like her had ever belonged to his life at all.
"You're staring again," she murmured.
"Trying to remember this," he said. "Every detail. In case I wake up tomorrow and it's a dream."
She turned toward him, the glow tracing the line of his face.
"It's not a dream," she whispered. "You're here. I'm here."
He reached out, brushing his thumb along her wrist. "Then tell me to stop worrying."
"Only if you promise to listen."
"I will," he said, voice roughened by honesty. "I've spent too many years not listening—to my heart, to you, to everything that mattered."
Her hand rose instinctively, resting against his chest. Beneath her palm, his heartbeat steadied.
"That's enough listening for tonight," she said softly. "Just breathe with me."
---
The world shrank to the rhythm they shared—inhale, exhale, the hush of waves below.
He drew her closer until her head rested against his shoulder.
For a long while neither spoke. The lanterns flickered; the ocean whispered secrets meant only for them.
"Ha-rin," he murmured, "do you ever think about what would've happened if we hadn't found each other again?"
She smiled without opening her eyes. "Then the universe would've kept trying until we did."
He laughed quietly. "You make destiny sound patient."
"It waited twenty years," she said, looking up at him. "I think that counts."
He bent slightly, foreheads touching, and the laughter slipped into stillness.
Their breath mingled—warm, steady, real.
"Promise me," he whispered, "that whatever happens next, we'll choose each other. Even when it's hard. Even when it hurts."
She nodded. "Always. Even when the world forgets our names."
He closed the distance, and the kiss that followed was slow, careful at first, then deeper—
not rushed desire, but recognition; the kind that comes when two people finally stop fighting gravity.
Her fingers curled in his shirt, his hand cradled the back of her head.
Every heartbeat spoke what words couldn't: you, still you, always you.
When they finally drew apart, she was smiling through the shimmer in her eyes.
"Now you really won't sleep," she teased.
"Then I'll just dream with my eyes open."
---
From the road below came faint voices—parents calling goodnight, a door closing, laughter echoing through the valley.
Ha-rin leaned against him, her voice barely above the sea breeze.
"If they catch us again, you're explaining."
He smiled. "Gladly. I'll tell them their children finally stopped running."
The night wrapped around them like a promise.
And somewhere beyond the horizon, morning waited—quiet, patient, knowing love would still be there when the light returned.