Morning sunlight slipped through the thin curtains of Ji-Hyun's living room, soft and warm, settling over the space like a blanket. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of traffic outside and the faint ticking of the wall clock. Ji-Hyun sat at the dining table, one hand wrapped around a glass of water, the other flipping through her worn notebook. Her thoughts, however, were nowhere near her notes.
Her eyes drifted again toward the couch.
Seon-Woo was sitting up, stretching his arms overhead. His hair was a mess, his expression groggy but noticeably calmer than the night before. He rotated his ankle slowly, testing it with a focused look.
Ji-Hyun set her notebook down. "How's your ankle?"
"Feels… way better," he murmured, rolling it again. "Almost normal. Guess the swelling went down overnight."
Relief loosened the tightness in her chest. She had been worried—more than she admitted, even to herself.
"That's good," she said, trying not to sound like she'd stayed up too long thinking about it. "You scared me yesterday."
Seon-Woo let out a small huff, something like a laugh but quieter. "I scared myself too."
He shifted, trying to stand, and she immediately moved closer.
"Take it slow," she warned.
He gave her a look that sat somewhere between amused and grateful. "I'm not made of glass."
"No," she replied, folding her arms, "you're just reckless."
Seon-Woo shook his head lightly but didn't argue. He pushed himself up, putting weight carefully on the healed ankle. It held steady. A sharp stab of pride and relief crossed his face before he quickly tried to hide it.
Ji-Hyun didn't miss it. "See? I told you resting would help."
"You also told me to sleep on the couch," he mumbled.
She paused. "Well… yes. Because you needed rest."
He raised an eyebrow. "That's not what you thought last night."
Ji-Hyun's face warmed immediately. "Don't twist things. I just didn't want you injuring yourself worse."
"Mm-hmm."
She grabbed a pillow and lightly threw it at him, which he barely dodged.
"Can't believe you're arguing the moment you can walk again," she muttered.
His lips curled slightly. "Feels like home, honestly."
Ji-Hyun blinked, but before she could respond, Seon-Woo limped—very slightly—toward the window. He parted the curtains with one hand and looked down at the street below. Morning energy filled the neighborhood: vendors arranging stalls, cyclists weaving through traffic, kids rushing toward school.
It felt strange, almost unreal, that in the middle of all that noise, there was this quiet bubble between the two of them.
"You should eat," Ji-Hyun said, walking past him and heading to the kitchen.
"I'm not hungry."
"You say that every morning."
"That's because I'm not hungry every morning."
She gave him a pointed glare, and Seon-Woo gave up almost immediately. "Fine. Anything. I'll eat anything."
"That's what I thought."
As she began preparing something simple—toast, scrambled eggs, and fruit—she sensed him behind her. Not close, not hovering, just… present. He leaned lightly against the wall, watching her crack the eggs, whisk them, and heat the pan.
"You cook better than I expected," he remarked.
"What did you expect?"
"You seem like someone who survives off snacks and instant noodles."
"That's because I prefer snacks," she admitted. "Not because I can't cook."
"Hmm," he murmured. "Noted."
She rolled her eyes, but she couldn't hide the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips.
Breakfast passed in easy conversation—light teasing, small arguments, comfortable silences. It shouldn't have felt as normal as it did. After all, they hadn't known each other long. But somehow, their interactions slipped into a rhythm that felt natural.
When they finished eating, Ji-Hyun stood and began stacking the plates.
"I'll wash," Seon-Woo said.
"You don't need to."
"I want to."
Ji-Hyun eyed him skeptically but eventually stepped aside. He wasn't the fastest dishwasher, but he was careful, paying attention to details. She watched him for a moment before catching herself.
"You can sit down if your ankle—"
"It's fine," he cut in before she could finish. "Walking actually feels normal."
"And you're not pretending to be strong?"
"If I was pretending," he said, "you'd know."
Maybe she would. Maybe she was already starting to understand him more than she expected.
"You should still go for a checkup," she said.
Seon-Woo rinsed the plate in his hand and nodded. "I will."
After he finished the dishes, he wiped his hands on a towel and walked toward the living room again. His movements were smoother now, steadier.
Ji-Hyun followed him with her eyes. "So… what are you planning to do today?"
"Not fall down stairs, for starters," he said dryly.
She snorted.
"After that," he continued, "I'll head back home, clean up, and go to practice."
"You're going to practice today?"
"My ankle feels fine. The coach won't be thrilled if I skip."
"But you were limping yesterday," she reminded.
"Yesterday," he emphasized.
Ji-Hyun frowned. He could be stubborn—too stubborn for his own good. But she also understood how much the sport meant to him. Being away from the field for too long made him restless.
Still… she didn't want him rushing.
"You should at least talk to your coach before fully pushing yourself," she said.
"I will," he promised.
She nodded, satisfied enough for now.
As Seon-Woo gathered his bag from beside the couch, Ji-Hyun stepped toward him. "I'll walk you out."
"You don't need to—"
"I want to," she said, echoing his earlier words before he could protest.
He blinked, surprised but not unhappy.
They walked down the apartment stairs together, slower than usual, mostly because Ji-Hyun kept glancing at his ankle like she expected it to twist again. He pretended not to notice.
Outside, a fresh breeze swept through the street, carrying the scent of wet pavement and breakfast stalls. Seon-Woo zipped up his jacket and shifted the strap of his bag.
"Thanks for letting me crash here," he said. "And, you know… for last night."
Ji-Hyun crossed her arms. "You didn't give me much choice. You practically collapsed at my doorstep."
He chuckled. "Still. Thank you."
She looked away for a moment. "Just take care of yourself. And don't run on uneven ground."
"I wasn't running—"
"Then don't walk on uneven ground."
Seon-Woo raised both hands in surrender. "Okay, okay."
He stepped back slightly, ready to leave, but then paused.
"You know… you really worry a lot."
She stiffened. "That's not— I just don't want you injuring yourself more."
"Mhm."
"You're doing that thing again," she said, squinting.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you act like you know everything I'm thinking."
He shrugged. "Maybe I do."
Ji-Hyun opened her mouth to argue—but then closed it. He had this way of saying things that made her brain blank for a second before she quickly snapped back to normal.
"Don't talk like that," she muttered. "It's annoying."
"Is it?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Yes."
He hummed thoughtfully. "Okay. I'll try not to annoy you."
"That would be great."
"But no promises."
She gaped at him. "Why would you—"
"Because," he said simply, "you only glare like that when you're trying not to laugh."
Ji-Hyun's face heated again. "Just go to practice."
He gave a small nod, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "I'll text you when I get there."
She blinked. "Why?"
"So you don't worry," he said casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Before she could react, he began walking away. He moved confidently, steps steady, posture relaxed—the healed ankle no longer a hindrance.
Ji-Hyun watched him go until he rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.
Only then did she let out a long breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
Her apartment suddenly felt too quiet when she walked back in. She glanced at the couch where he had slept, the pillow slightly dented, the blanket folded neatly. The space felt different now—not empty, but marked by his presence.
She sat down, opening her notebook again. But the words blurred. Her pen hovered above the page without moving.
Instead, her mind replayed the morning—his ease, his teasing, his quiet gratitude. The unspoken understanding that seemed to weave between them naturally.
Something was shifting. Changing.
And Ji-Hyun didn't know exactly what it meant.
But for the first time in a long while, she didn't mind not knowing.
That evening, her phone buzzed.
It was a message.
Seon-Woo:
Made it to practice. Coach said I'm good. No running drills tho.
Another buzz.
Seon-Woo:
See? Told you not to worry so much.
Ji-Hyun rolled her eyes even though a small smile tugged at her lips.
She typed back.
Ji-Hyun:
I wasn't worried. Just don't push yourself.
A moment passed before his reply came.
Seon-Woo:
…You were worried.
She groaned.
Ji-Hyun:
Stop assuming things.
Another pause.
Seon-Woo:
Fine. I'll stop.
Then:
Seon-Woo:
Night, Ji-Hyun.
Her fingers hesitated before she wrote back.
Ji-Hyun:
Night.
She set her phone aside and leaned back.
Maybe things were changing.
Slowly.
Naturally.
Like the quiet warmth of morning sunlight—soft, steady, and impossible to ignore.