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One night
It started with a pencil smudge.
He’d been sketching in the booth again, between screenings.
She came in with two paper cups of vending machine cocoa and leaned over his shoulder without warning.
“You always draw noses first,” she said.
“It’s the anchor of the face.”
She hummed. “You’d think it would be the eyes.”
He glanced up. She was close. Really close.
And then she laughed.
“What?” he asked, wary.
She reached out, her thumb brushing the side of his face. “You’ve got pencil here.”
He blinked. She didn’t pull away immediately. Her hand lingered, light, curious. Then she traced just under his cheekbone, thumb resting for a second longer than it needed to.
“I got it,” she whispered.
“You did,” he said, but his voice came out quieter than he meant.
They froze. Not dramatically. Just long enough to hear the reel whir. The distance between them felt thinner than air. Her breath hitched. Or his did.
Then he leaned in.
She didn’t move.
His nose brushed hers. That was all. And still, her knees nearly gave out.
“This okay?” he asked.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
He kissed her.
Carefully. Like he was testing a brushstroke. Just the softest press of lips, warm, unsure, and reverent.
Then again, slower. Longer. Her fingers lightly touched his collar. His hand rose, cradling her cheek, thumb stroking the edge of her jaw like he wanted to memorize its shape.
She sighed into him. Her other hand came up, fingertips brushing his neck, his hair. His breath hitched, and she felt it, the surrender in the way he tilted his head, the way he pulled her just slightly closer, like giving in.
When they finally broke apart, she was breathless.
“You taste like cocoa,” he said, dazed.
She laughed against his chest. “You taste like trouble.”
He smiled. “That’s fair.”
The projector clicked into silence. Neither moved.
Outside, the alley hummed with the late-night world, but inside, the booth was warm, and her fingers were still looped in his shirt like she didn’t plan on letting go any time soon.
And neither did he.
---
Months after
She woke up to sunlight.
And the smell of something faintly savory. Not overpowering, just enough to make her lift her head from the pillow, squint at the unfamiliar ceiling, and remember.
Not her apartment.
His.
Her body ached in the most telling way. Muscles loose. A soft throb between her thighs that made her smile into the pillow.
She stretched slowly, languidly, like someone with nothing to hide. Skin warm, the faint trace of his fingertips still lingering along her ribs, the back of her knee, her hip. Her shirt, his shirt, had slid halfway up her waist.
She ran a hand through her hair and let out a small sigh. Her lips were still swollen. Her neck still buzzed where he had kissed her, over and over, like he was memorizing her.
It had been slow. Then not. Gentle, then aching. A night full of hands and mouths and soft curses and so many pauses just to breathe each other in.
She sat up slowly. Her spine protested, but her heart was calm. Full.
Then she heard movement. A soft clatter in the kitchen.
She padded out barefoot, quietly.
Chung-seob stood by the stove, poking at something in a small pan. His hair was a mess again, and his sleeves were pushed up, exposing his forearms, solid, lean, and marked by quiet strength. Her gaze lingered there, heat curling low in her belly as she remembered how her fingers had gripped them last night, holding on tighter than she meant to.
He didn’t turn around.
"Good morning,” he said.
She leaned against the doorway. “Guess I don’t know how to be quiet anymore.”
He chuckled, low and amused. “No,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. “Not after last night.”
She blushed. She shifted against the doorway, watching the way his shoulders moved, relaxed, steady. Like he knew she was there and liked it that way.
“You’re cooking?” she asked, stepping closer.
“I wanted breakfast ready.”
Her lips quirked. “I thought you didn’t do mornings.”
“I don’t.” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes just a little playful. “But for you, I try.”
She reached out and touched the hem of his sleeve.
He glanced at her, warmth in his eyes. “Sleep okay?”
She nodded. “More than okay.”
Her gaze wandered to the pan, but he wasn’t looking at the food. His eyes lingered on her instead, soft, amused. His shirt hung loose on her, sleeves pushed up just enough to show her wrists. The hem skimmed the curve of her thighs, and something flickered in his gaze, something that made her toes curl against the cool floor.
“What is it?” she asked, glancing into the pan.
“Egg and luncheon meat,” turning back.
“Smells good.”
“You look good,” He murmured, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
She stepped in, chest to his back, arms around his middle. “I don’t want to go home today.”
“Then don’t.”
“I might stay too long.”
“There’s no such thing.”
She pressed her face into the fabric of his shirt.
“I liked waking up like this,” she said.
His hand came to rest over hers.
“Then do it again tomorrow.”
---
More months later
It wasn’t official.
No boxes. No lease transfers. No keys exchanged.
But her books were on his shelf, stacked in a slightly neater row than the rest. Her slippers were near the door.
And she always used the left side of the bed now.
She stood in the middle of his, now their, tiny apartment, arms crossed loosely as he dropped a second toothbrush into the cup by the sink.
“That thing’s been through five winters,” she said.
“It still works.”
“It has toothpaste fossils on it.”
“It has character.”
She stepped behind him, reached around to replace the cup with a clean one she brought from her place. White porcelain. No cracks.
He didn’t protest. Just looked at her in the mirror and said, “You’re here a lot.”
“I am.”
He nodded, like he hadn’t realized it until just now. Like it hit different, seeing her take up space and not apologize for it.
She leaned onto him.
“Do you want me to stop coming over?”
He shook his head slowly. “I want you to bring more things.”
“Like what?”
“Another blanket. You always steal mine.”
She smiled. “Okay.”
“And maybe…” He paused, voice softer now. “More of you.”
She lifted her head, eyes searching his. “More of me?”
“Your words. Your stories. More things to make this place... feel like you.”
Her breath caught, just a little.
He turned to face her then. “You already live here. You know that, right?”
She looked up at him, soft and steady. “I was hoping you’d say it first.”
They didn’t call it moving in.
She just didn’t leave.
---
Years later
Chung-seob slipped quietly into bed, careful not to disturb Geum-myeong. The apartment held the gentle scent of dried herbs and sea salt from Aesun’s carefully packed bags. She fussed over them the way his mother once did, insisting they always take a piece of Jeju home.
Tucked at the bottom, between barley tea and roasted chestnuts, had been a journal. Soft edges, pages gently worn, covered in Geum-myeong’s familiar handwriting.
1991–1993.
In their dim bedroom, he opened it slowly, one arm draped loosely around her waist, palm warm against the gentle swell of their future. He read by muted lamplight, careful to turn each page quietly.
Her handwriting was neat but hesitant, as though she had written lightly, unsure if the thoughts belonged on paper at all.
He walks slower when I’m tired.
Hands always ready, never asking.
I wonder if he knows,
Sometimes I slow my pace
Just to stay near him a little longer.
He paused, thumb brushing softly over the faint pencil lines.
She had written this before.
Before he left, before they understood what crossing those invisible lines might mean.
He set the notebook aside. Geum-myeong stirred, a soft sigh brushing against his skin as she settled closer. And in that moment, he felt her, warm and steady, like a wish he hadn’t dared to speak, finally in his arms.