The argument had drained both of you.

It wasn’t even about the thing you were yelling about near the end—not really. It had started with something small. Maybe a forgotten message. A dismissive tone. A moment where one of you needed the other, and the timing just didn’t line up.

But it unraveled fast, as old wounds crept up between new words. You saw the way Hyun-Ju’s expression shifted from hurt to frustration, her arms crossed more out of defense than anger. And you knew, even as your voice got sharper, that this wasn’t about winning.

Eventually, she left the room. The silence that followed was worse than any shouting.

You sat on opposite sides of the apartment for a while. Hours, maybe. Long enough for the air to lose its heat, long enough for your thoughts to settle and feel heavy with guilt.

You heard her moving quietly—footsteps, the sound of her pouring water, her phone screen lighting up her face in the dark hallway.

You found her curled up on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, staring blankly at the TV screen that wasn’t really playing anything. Her eyes didn’t turn to you when you sat beside her—but she didn’t move away either.

“I hate fighting with you,” you said softly.

Her silence lasted a beat too long before she whispered,“Then stop pushing me away when I’m trying to care about you.”

You nodded. You didn’t offer excuses this time. Just leaned back against the couch, shoulder brushing hers. Slowly, she leaned into you.

It wasn’t dramatic—no fireworks, no flood of tears. Just a quiet understanding passing between you in the space of a long exhale.

“I’m still mad,” she murmured, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I know,” you said. “I am too. But I still love you.”

She looked up at you then—eyes a little glassy, but steady. Searching. “Show me.”

You didn’t rush.

Your fingers found hers first, linking them gently. Then you leaned in, brushing your lips against hers like a question. She answered, not with words, but by pulling you closer, wrapping her arms around you with a kind of desperation that wasn’t about lust—it was about needing to feel that you were still hers, that the fight didn’t break something that couldn’t be fixed.

The intimacy that followed wasn’t hurried. It was quiet, slow, and full of meaning—touches that apologized, kisses that reassured, breaths shared as if to say I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.

Her skin was warm under your hands, but more than that, it was familiar. Safe. When she looked into your eyes, she didn’t need to say “I forgive you.” It was in the way she moved with you, the way she held your face as if you were something fragile and worth keeping.