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It was 2:34 AM when Cha Young’s phone woke her up. Immediately, she knew something was wrong. Her phone shouldn’t have rung at all at this hour, unless it was—
“Byeonhosa-nim?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Byeonhosa-nim,” Vincenzo sighed from the other side, the relief so palpable even through the tinny speaker that she felt herself releasing her bated breath.
“What’s wrong?” she asked again. “Are you okay? Should I go there?”
“No,” he snapped. “No, it’s—”
“It’s…?”
He was quiet, but then, “It’s silly.”
“I’m already awake. You can entertain me back to sleep.”
A huff of laughter. He said, “I’m sorry for bothering you so late at night.”
“I believe this is technically morning,” she said. “Now, stop stalling and tell me.”
His words were careful, dispassionate as he confessed, “I had a nightmare.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes. It went just like that day. I left you with her at the hospital. I went to find her killer. I made him pay.” He paused. Vincenzo had never told her about what, exactly, he had done. Only that he’d made the killer pay and sent Jang Han Seok a message.
(Cha Young got curious, sometimes, but she never asked. She had an active enough imagination, and none of the blood on him that day had been his.)
“It ended differently,” he said. “When I got back to the hospital, you were dead, too. I woke up. I know it was a dream, but I had to be sure.”
Cha Young sighed, running a hand through her rat’s nest of bedhead, and pressed the video button. Before long, his face filled the screen, grainy and reddish against a dark background, lit only by his own phone. “You look awful,” she said, though she was completely aware that her thumbnail on the top right corner didn’t look particularly flattering, either.
“You’re the one who wanted to video call.”
“I thought you had to be sure? Here,” she said, half-sitting up, putting her phone at an arm’s length so he could see more than just her face. “I’m okay, see?”
A grin bloomed on his face. It was ridiculous how he still looked handsome even like this. “Nice pyjamas.”
She flopped back to the bed, pulling her blanket up to conceal the silk pyjamas that were definitely not stolen goods. “Shut up,” she said, glad that through the shitty front camera, he wouldn’t be able to notice her blush. “I have nice sleepwear, too.”
“I’ve been wondering where they went. Those are my favourite, you know,” Vincenzo said, eyes all wide and mouth pursed in a disappointed moue. He was lucky she hadn’t figured out how to punch someone through her phone yet.
“You’ll live. I know you have a bunch of these.”
“Those are limited edition,” he said. “And”—his voice dropped an octave—“I have fond memories about them.”
She licked her dry lips and asked, “What memories?”
“I wore them the night before I left Italy,” Vincenzo said. “Paolo tried to kill me then.”
“Oh,” Cha Young said, both relieved and… perturbed by this information, for reasons she didn’t care to interrogate. Her brain then caught up with the implications, and she said, “Wait, did you kill someone while wearing this? Do I need to take this to the monks so they can exorcise it?”
“Bring them to the laundry too, when you do, and tell Mr Tak to drop them off at my place,” he suggested.
She snorted. “Nice try. You’re not getting these back.”
“You know theft is a crime, right? When did you even take them anyway?”
She rolled to her side, shifting here and there to get her pillow positioned just right under her head. He levelled her a look, waiting, and eventually she admitted—
“The last night I spent at yours.”
“Why?”
Cha Young recognised the opportunity to hedge, right here and right now. They were nice, she could say, or, you made me worry over you so many times, I thought I deserved compensation. Neither of those would be entirely false, anyway.
Instead she said, “I sleep better in them.” Unspoken were the caveats: when he wasn’t around, when the nights were cold, when the loudness of her own mind kept her awake. Before he could respond, she said, “Come over.”
He frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m feeling great,” she said, because she was already cocooned in his clothes. “But I have a feeling you’re not going back to sleep.”
“I am.”
“You never go back to sleep after your nightmares,” she pointed out. “You said you need to be sure. Come over and personally guarantee my safety.”
“Byeonhosa-nim—”
“You still have my spare keys, right?”
“Of course,” he said, mouth curled unhappily as if she’d just insulted him.
“Let yourself in. I might fall asleep again,” she said, yawning. “Okay, bye.”
She hung up, burrowed deeper into her blanket, and waited.
And waited.
And—
A hand brushed a strand of hair off her face; Cha Young squinted into the dark.
“Oh,” she said, smiling. “You came.”
“You asked me to come, byeonhosa-nim,” Vincenzo said quietly, smiling back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I just—”
“Need to be sure,” she said, yawning. “I know. I told you to come. What time is it?”
“A little after three.” He tucked the strand of hair behind her ear, fingertips tracing her jaw as his hand retreated. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be downstairs.”
Shifting to the side and lifting her blanket, she said, “Don’t be silly. Just sleep here.”
He hesitated. She rolled her eyes, even though it was probably too dark for him to tell.
“Hurry up, it’s cold tonight.”
With a defeated sigh, he climbed in next to her. “I’m taking these back,” he said, tugging on her pyjamas.
She burrowed into his warmth, plastering herself onto him. His shampoo smelled nice. “Shut up and sleep.”
He mumbled something in reply, but she didn’t catch it.
The next morning, they overslept.