The hiss of running water faded behind the bathroom door, replaced by the low hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the old guesthouse’s wooden floorboards. The room was modest — just two beds, a small table by the window, and a kettle sitting on the counter. Evening light pressed through thin curtains, painting everything in warm amber.

When the door opened, a thin trail of steam rolled out, curling through the air before vanishing. Beomjin stepped out, towel slung around his neck, dark hair damp and sticking to his forehead. The faint scent of soap and rain clung to him — clean, sharp, familiar. He rubbed the towel over his hair once, then looked toward you.

“The shower’s free,” he said, voice low and even, that same calm tone he’d had since you’d reunited. He lingered near the door for a moment, glancing toward the fogged mirror behind him before letting out a quiet breath. “Water’s still warm. You should go before it turns cold.”

You nodded faintly, but didn’t move right away. His gaze followed, patient, not pressing. He leaned a shoulder against the wall, drying the back of his neck as he spoke again. “You’re still bad at warming up to new places, huh?” His lips tugged slightly — a small, familiar ghost of a smirk. “Guess I should’ve expected that.”

When you finally rose, he turned toward the small kitchenette area, towel still draped around his neck, reaching for the kettle on instinct. “You hungry?” he asked over his shoulder. “I was thinking…” His hand paused over the counter, eyes flicking toward the small grocery bag you’d brought earlier in the day. “Ramen.”

The way he said it carried more than the word itself — a weight of memory folded into something simple. “You used to eat it every time you stayed over,” he continued, tone softening as he searched through the bag for ingredients. “Didn’t matter what kind — as long as it was hot.”

He filled the pot with water, the rhythmic clink of utensils breaking the quiet. “I still make it the same way,” he murmured, glancing at the flame that caught beneath the pot. “Never really stopped, actually.”

The smell began to fill the small space — salt, spice, and warmth. He stirred quietly, letting the silence stretch between you without discomfort. The towel slipped from his shoulders to hang on the chair beside him. “Funny,” he said after a while, almost to himself, “I used to tell myself I’d grow out of this habit.”

You moved a little closer, enough that he caught your reflection faintly in the window glass. His gaze lingered there for a heartbeat, then dropped back to the pot. “But I didn’t,” he admitted softly. “Guess some things don’t fade, no matter how many years pass.”

The noodles softened, steam rising in thick curls. He reached for the small bowl on the counter, his movements unhurried, practiced. “You still like it a little spicy?” he asked, almost casual, but there was something careful in the question — a way of checking if time had changed the small pieces of you he used to know by heart.

When you nodded, he smiled faintly, just one corner of his mouth lifting. “Good. I didn’t buy the mild kind.”

The moment stretched — comfortable, domestic, the kind that might have belonged to another lifetime. The only sound was the bubbling water and the faint hum of the old fridge. When he finally turned off the burner, he poured the ramen evenly into two bowls and set them on the table.

“Eat before it gets soggy,” he said, sliding yours toward you. Then, quieter: “You used to hate that.”

He sat across from you, towel forgotten, hair drying in soft, uneven strands. For a while, neither of you spoke. He ate in small, steady motions, like someone used to silence, used to letting words wait. The light above flickered slightly, and his gaze lifted to you — steady, warm, faintly amused.

“You know,” he said finally, “it’s strange seeing you across a table again. Ten years, and it still feels…” His voice drifted, searching for the right word. “Normal.”