The next morning, I woke up before the sun. Not from an alarm—just the way you do when your brain hasn't fully settled.
The guest room was quiet. The blinds were slightly open, letting in a faint strip of light. I sat on the edge of the bed.
I stepped out into the hallway, barefoot again. Yuna's door was closed. I didn't hear anything—no music, no TV, no soft humming this time.
I walked to the kitchen, poured water, and sat at the counter. My phone buzzed, but I didn't check it. I just listened.
This one exhaled in smooth air-conditioning and light creaks from wood.
Everything else was still.
By the time I'd eaten some toast and made coffee, she appeared.
Yuna padded into the kitchen like it was part of her. She wore an oversized gray hoodie that slipped down one shoulder and black gym shorts. Her hair was down today, slightly wavy, like she'd just gotten out of bed.
She didn't say good morning. Just poured herself a coffee and leaned against the counter next to mine.
"I'm not used to other people being up this early," she said.
"I'm not used to being here," I replied.
She sipped. Her eyes studied me over the rim of her mug. "Do you always sit this quiet?"
"I think more than I talk."
"That's a dangerous habit in this house."
"Why?"
"Because silence leaves too much room for imagination."
I didn't answer right away.
Her tone was soft, but I couldn't tell if she was teasing or warning me. Maybe both.
The day passed slowly. She stayed home, but we didn't talk much. I caught glimpses of her walking past my door a few times—sometimes on a call, sometimes with a towel wrapped around her hair. At one point, I came out to get water and found her on the floor of the living room, stretching. Yoga video paused on the TV. Her legs extended smoothly, her back arching as she shifted poses.
She didn't look over.
I walked away faster than I needed to.
That evening, she knocked on my door.
I turned from my laptop. "Yeah?"
She cracked it open, leaned against the frame. "I'm ordering takeout. You okay with barbecue?"
"Sure."
She tilted her head slightly. "You sure? You don't have to be polite all the time. Tell me if you want something else."
"I like barbecue."
That amused smile again. "Okay."
Before she left, she added, "I'll be eating out on the patio tonight. You can join me. Or not. Up to you."
I did.
The patio was dimly lit with warm string lights stretched above. The air smelled like grilled pork, beer, and the faint scent of her perfume—something soft and expensive.
She was sitting cross-legged on a lounge chair, a half-full glass of soju in hand. Another cup was set out next to a small plate—clearly mine.
"You came," she said, not surprised.
"I don't want to seem rude."
"You don't."
I sat down. The cushions were still warm from the heat of the day.
"You always eat out here?" I asked.
"When it's quiet like this, yeah. Most of the time I'm alone."
She picked up a piece of grilled meat with her chopsticks and took a bite. Her lips were slightly glossy from the sauce. Her legs shifted beneath the robe she'd thrown on—light, thin, barely tied.
I forced myself to look away.
She poured me a glass. I took it.
A few drinks in, her voice relaxed further. "You're handling it better than I thought."
"What do you mean?"
"Living here. With me. Most guys your age would be more awkward."
I swallowed a bite. "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
I considered that. "Someone older. Colder. Maybe someone trying too hard."
She laughed lightly. "So, not someone your dad could actually fall for."
I didn't answer.
She smiled again. "That wasn't bitterness, by the way. Just truth."
We drank quietly after that. I noticed her glances getting longer, but not urgent. She wasn't pushing. She was waiting.
Later, when we cleaned up, she stood behind me at the sink as I rinsed the dishes.
She reached over me to grab a towel, her chest brushing lightly against my shoulder. Just for a second.
No apology. No flinch.
When I turned around, she was already walking away.
Back in my room, I sat on the bed, arms resting on my knees, heart beating louder than it should've been.
I didn't know what this was turning into. It wasn't flirting in the traditional sense. It wasn't distant politeness either.
It was something in between—something slow and careful. And she was better at it than I was.
She didn't call for me. Didn't ask if I wanted anything.
I stayed in my room most of the afternoon, pretending to scroll through job listings while mostly just… thinking.
I wasn't used to this kind of silence.
It wasn't awkward, not exactly. It was something heavier. Like we were both aware of each other's presence but choosing not to press it. Yet.
Just after 6, she knocked on my door.
"Hey," she said. "I've got company coming by later. Just a heads-up."
I looked up from my laptop. "Okay."
"Some friends. We do this once or twice a month. Might get loud."
"No problem."
She lingered a second longer. Then added, "They're a bit... chatty. You don't have to come out if you don't want to."
"What kind of chatty?"
She smirked. "The kind that'll ask you what your last relationship was like before they know your last name."
I blinked. "Are they always like that?"
"Worse when there's wine."
She started to turn, then paused. "If you do come out, wear something decent. Not your sleep shirt."
I glanced down at my rumpled tee. "Right."
She left without waiting for a reply.
I spent the next hour restlessly shifting around my room. Read a few headlines. Opened my email. Closed it again. My hands wouldn't stop moving.
Around 7, I heard the front door open.
Voices.
Soft heels on wood.
Laughter that didn't belong to Yuna.
Then I heard her again, lighter than I'd heard her all weekend. The way she talked to them was different—brighter, relaxed. She laughed more.
"She's showing off," I muttered, almost to myself.
I wasn't going to go out there. That was the plan.