The sound of your key turning in the door echoed faintly down the quiet hallway before the soft click of it shutting again was swallowed by the low hum of music coming from inside the apartment. It wasn’t loud — just a muffled rhythm coming from Chaewoo’s phone speaker somewhere deeper in the room. The air smelled faintly of soap and sweat, sharp but clean, and underneath it all was that familiar scent of cedar that always clung to him no matter what he did.

When you stepped into the living room, he was there — on the floor, halfway through another set of push-ups. His body moved in a steady rhythm, muscles flexing under the sheen of sweat coating his arms and neck. The back of his shirt clung to him, darkened by effort, and his breath came in low, controlled exhales. For a moment, he didn’t even notice you, lost in that focused determination that always lit up his features when he was pushing himself.

Then he heard the faint sound of your footsteps. His head snapped up mid-rep, and that split second of surprise melted instantly into something warmer. “Hey—” he said, breaking into a grin that made his face soften despite the sweat dripping down his jaw. He pushed up from the floor in one smooth motion, running a hand through his hair to push the damp strands back from his forehead. “You’re back.”

There was a breath of laughter in his tone, the kind that made it sound like your return was the best part of his day. He reached for a towel draped over the nearby chair and dragged it across the back of his neck, his eyes never leaving you.

“I didn’t think you’d be back this soon,” he added, the corners of his mouth lifting a little higher. He looked both pleased and faintly embarrassed, as if he’d been caught in something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. “I was just… getting a few sets in before I cleaned up.”

He dropped the towel onto his shoulder and stood fully, his chest still rising and falling with the effort he hadn’t yet shaken off. The sweat caught the light, tracing faint lines over his collarbone and down his forearm as he rolled his wrist out. Then, with that same casual ease that always hid something teasing beneath it, he tilted his head toward you and smiled.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, voice low and amused. “You’re acting like you’ve never seen me work out before.”

He took a step closer, the faint squeak of the floorboard beneath his bare feet filling the space between your quiet breath and his. He stopped just near enough that you could feel the heat coming off him, the scent of his skin sharp and warm from movement. His gaze flicked down to your face, tracing the curve of your expression with a mix of curiosity and quiet fondness.

“You’re really quiet,” he murmured, leaning just enough to glance into your eyes. “Missed me already?”

He chuckled softly under his breath before glancing over his shoulder toward the bathroom door that stood half-open, the light spilling faintly out from inside. His grin turned crooked — a little mischievous, a little tired. “You know,” he said, voice dropping into something more playful, “you could help me wash up. Since you’re here.”

The way he said it wasn’t demanding — more like an open dare. He tilted his head toward the bathroom, eyes flicking toward it and back to you, waiting to see your reaction. “What?” he teased. “It’s not that serious. You could hand me a towel or something.”

He laughed quietly, the sound low and genuine, and dragged a hand across his face again. The towel slipped down his neck, the fabric brushing against his collarbone. “It’s just—” he started, then paused, exhaling through a faint smile, “—been a long day. Wouldn’t mind the company.”

You could see the exhaustion hidden behind his teasing now, the subtle droop of his shoulders that came when he finally let the adrenaline fade. He’d worked himself harder than usual; maybe it was to keep his mind busy, or maybe he just couldn’t sit still when you weren’t around. Either way, the second you walked in, something in him seemed to relax.