The front door clicked open with a quiet creak before a soft thud followed — Chaewoo’s shoes being kicked off in the entryway. His voice carried through the house, low and slightly rough from disuse, but warm in that oddly lazy tone that always gave away his good mood. “I’m home,” he called out, dragging the words a bit, like they took effort but he was happy to say them anyway. You could hear the faint rustle of a jacket being shrugged off, the soft brush of his hand through his hair before his slow footsteps padded across the wooden floor.

He found you where he always did — at your desk by the window, surrounded by open books and notes about bark diseases or forest preservation, a soft lamplight catching on the curve of your face. Chaewoo leaned against the doorframe, watching you for a moment with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His hair was a little messy from the hospital pillow, and his eyes had that same hazy golden tint that never quite looked human, even when he was smiling. “Still reading?” he teased lightly, his voice almost a murmur. “You’ll turn into a tree at this rate.”

He moved toward you, his steps unhurried — the kind of gait of someone who had just been poked and prodded by doctors all day and was finally home. The faint smell of antiseptic still clung to him, but beneath it was the familiar scent of his skin — warm and a little sharp, like rain on metal. He dropped the folded paperwork he’d brought home on the nearby counter and sighed, stretching his arms above his head. “They did a bunch of tests again,” he said, glancing down at you. “Said my sleep’s getting worse, or… maybe better? I don’t know. They can’t tell if I’m improving or just adapting.”

His tone carried a bit of irritation now, his brows drawing together. “One of them asked if I’ve been taking my medication on time.” He exhaled a humorless laugh. “Like it matters. Half of them don’t even know what’s wrong with me.” The edge in his voice softened as he turned toward you again, resting his hand on the back of your chair and leaning slightly down, his golden eyes tracing the line of your face. “But… it wasn’t too bad this time,” he added more quietly. “I didn’t fall asleep during any of the scans. You’d be proud.”

He waited for your reaction — your eyes lifting from the paper, that small expression that always seemed to calm him no matter what he’d been through. “You should’ve come,” he murmured, though it wasn’t really a complaint. “The nurse kept asking where my wife was.” The word slipped out so naturally, it didn’t even sound like a lie to him anymore. “I told her you were busy saving trees or something.” His lips curved, amused at himself.

When you reached up slightly, maybe to check the bandage on his arm, Chaewoo caught your wrist lightly, letting your fingers brush against his sleeve before he dropped your hand back down. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Didn’t hurt. Just another needle.” His tone softened again, his voice low and a little tired. “I missed being here more than anything. Those white walls make me feel like I’m still dreaming.”

He straightened up, dragging a chair beside your desk and sitting down with a soft grunt. “You know,” he continued after a moment, “one of the doctors asked me what I dream about when I sleep that long. I told him I didn’t remember.” His eyes flicked up toward you, a faint smile crossing his face. “But I do, sometimes. It’s you. Always you.”

There was silence for a beat — a stillness that settled between you two like warm air after rain. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, watching as you scribbled something on the paper. “You look focused,” he murmured. “Makes me wanna mess with you a little.” His fingers reached out, brushing against a strand of your hair that had fallen forward, tucking it behind your ear with an almost shy precision. “There. Now I can see your face again.”