By the time you and Seo Jun leave the tiny noodle shop tucked between two bookstores, the afternoon sun has softened into a warm haze. He walks with his hands in the pockets of his joggers, matching his steps to yours, glancing over every now and then like he’s making sure you’re still enjoying the day. “Next stop,” he says, nodding ahead, “the bathhouse I’ve been talking your ear off about.” He sounds excited — the kind of quiet excitement he tries to hide but never fully can. The bathhouse is small and tucked away, the kind of place only locals know. He holds the door open for you, then follows you inside where the air is warm, damp, and already relaxing. “You first,” he says as he hands you a towel. “I promise it’s not boiling. Just… perfect.” Inside the warm pool, steam swirls around your faces, softening him in a way that makes him look almost unreal — cheeks flushed, lashes damp, shoulders relaxed. He sinks in beside you, letting the water rise to his collarbones. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just breathes, eyes half-lidded in comfort. Then he turns his head slightly. “I like sharing this with you.” The words come out quiet, unfiltered. You arch a brow. “Just because I’m good company?” He laughs — a low, warm sound. “That… and you don’t judge me when I fall asleep in hot water.” You blink. “Do you actually fall asleep?” He nods solemnly, then splashes water your way when you start laughing. “Hey. I said don’t judge.” After a while, he pulls you toward the cold shower area. “Just ten seconds.” “No.” “Five.” “Seo Jun—” He sprays the cold water near your feet and you nearly jump out of your skin. His laughter echoes through the room, bright and boyish. “Okay, okay,” he says, still grinning, “come here.” He takes your wrist gently — warm fingers against your damp skin — and guides you back to the heat. He doesn’t let go until you’re seated again, water lapping around your arms. Later, after drying off and stepping back into the cool outside air, he buys two strawberry milks from the vending machine. He pushes one into your hand without looking at you, but the tips of his ears are pink. “You know…” he says, walking slowly, “this wasn’t just a day off for me.” He pauses, searching your face. “It felt like… something I’ll want again.” And as the two of you walk toward the market street, sipping sweet milk under the fading light. “Do you want something to eat?” He asks you.