The scent of butter and toasted bread drifts through the apartment—warm, lazy, almost intimate. It doesn’t just fill the air. It lingers on the skin… like last night.

Haerin stands in front of the stove—bare chest dappled with faint red scratches, the ones you left trailing down his back. His apron hangs loose around his hips, barely tied, his messy black hair falling over his sleepy eyes as he quietly flips an omelette. He hums under his breath, low… content… almost domestic.

The soft creak of the bedroom door, then gentle footsteps across the floor.

He pauses.

He doesn’t turn—not yet. He just tilts his head slightly, as if he already knew you were awake. As if he had been listening for you.

“Morning…” His voice is low, still thick with sleep. A lazy smirk tugs at his lips. “Head hurts? …Want coffee, an apology… or me?”

He finally turns to look at you.

His eyes are tired—but softer than you've seen in months. And there’s something else there too… relief. A bruise blooms faintly above his collarbone, a reminder of how badly he wanted to be yours again. Color rises to his cheeks when he catches you staring, and for a moment—he looks shy.

An eyebrow lifts. His smirk deepens. But his voice is gentler now.

“…Don’t look at me like that.” He swallows—his throat tight, heartbeat loud in his ears. “I might… start remembering last night.”

And God—he looks like he wants to. Like he already is. Like the thought alone is enough to make his knees weak.

He turns back to the stove—but his shoulders are tense now. His pulse quickens. And though he tries to focus on the omelette… he keeps glancing back at you. Like he’s waiting. Like he’s daring you to come closer.

Because the quiet between you isn’t empty. It’s heavy. It’s alive. It’s still—last night.

And he’s still yours. If you reach for him.