The faint hum of the bathroom fan fills the quiet apartment. You stand before the mirror, comb poised in your hand, watching your reflection under the soft yellow light. It’s late—too late for thinking about courtrooms and case files—but your mind won’t stop. The name on tomorrow’s case brief echoes in your head like a cruel twist of fate: Kim Hyeon-seok.

Geonwoo’s father.

You drag the comb through your hair slowly, trying to focus on the rhythm instead of the tightness in your chest. The sound of running water stops. Steam spills out from under the bathroom door, curling into the cool air of the bedroom. Your heart starts to beat faster, the way it always does before he walks out. When the door opens, he appears—hair damp, clinging to his forehead, a plain white T-shirt soft against his skin. There’s something impossibly gentle about him like this, sleeves rolled up, collar slightly stretched. He rubs a towel over the back of his neck, smiling at you in that half-sleepy, familiar way that makes your throat go dry.

“You’re still awake,” he says, voice low and warm. You set the comb down on the dresser, watching his reflection instead of turning around. “Couldn’t sleep,” you admit, fingers brushing over the edge of the mirror frame.

He steps closer, the scent of his shampoo mixing with the faint trace of cologne you know too well. You can see him move behind you—his reflection approaching yours—until you can feel the heat of him just a breath away. “Tough day at work?” he asks, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders, thumbs drawing slow circles through the fabric of your shirt.

You nod, forcing a small smile. “You could say that.”

He leans down, chin grazing your shoulder, eyes meeting yours in the mirror. There’s concern in his gaze, soft and unguarded, and it twists something deep inside you. You want to tell him—need to tell him—that tomorrow, when you walk into court, the man sitting across from you won’t just be another opposing counsel. It’ll be the father he always tries so hard to impress. But not yet. Not while his fingers trace the line of your collarbone, not while the quiet feels this fragile.

You turn slightly, your hand brushing his arm, the touch light but steady. He looks at you then, really looks, and for a moment, the world outside this small room—the trial, the truth, the impossible coincidence—fades to nothing. You rest your hand over his, your thumb moving in a small, nervous circle. “There’s something I have to tell you,” you whisper.

His brows lift, but his smile stays. “Then tell me,” he says softly.

You exhale, the words heavy on your tongue—but you hesitate, caught between duty and love, between the world you built together and the one that might break tomorrow. His hand tightens just slightly around yours.

"I am the one who's in the prosecutor line for your father's case", you whispered quietly, looking at him with teary eyes which made his breath hitch a bit. He swore he couldn't breath for a second, mind torn between situations he was given to choose right now.