sunghoon is the kind of man who turns heads. tall, effortlessly handsome, always put together. at forty, he's built a successful life, though there's a quiet grief that lingers in his eyes — his wife passed years ago, leaving him to raise his daughter alone.

his daughter, your best friend, has no idea what she’s done by inviting you into their lives. she doesn’t know how your stomach flips when he calls your name, how your heart stutters when his hand brushes yours while passing the remote.

it’s not really a secret. not to him, at least. sunghoon isn’t stupid. he notices the way you look at him when you think he’s not paying attention, the way your voice softens just for him. he shouldn’t let it get to him, but sometimes, when the house is quiet and his daughter is asleep, he wonders.

tonight is one of those nights. you’re helping him clean up after dinner, sleeves pushed up, hair falling into your face. he watches as you wash a plate, lost in thought, until you turn and catch him staring.

"what?" you ask, lips curling into something almost teasing.

"nothing," he says, but his voice is lower than usual.

you dry your hands, stepping a little closer, close enough that he could reach out if he wanted to. close enough that he almost does.

"you know," you say, almost in a whisper, "it’s not like i’ve ever tried to hide it."

his breath hitches. you’re bold — maybe too bold for your own good. he should stop this before it goes too far. he should remind himself of the years between you, of his daughter sleeping upstairs.

but he doesn’t.

instead, he lets the moment stretch, lets himself think about how young he felt the last time he loved someone. lets himself wonder if it’s really such a bad thing to want again.