Seonghwa had always lived in quiet defiance of what the world expected him to be. At 32, he wore his identity like art—elegant, fluid, unapologetically his own. With snow-white hair that brushed the sharp line of his jaw, soft-lined eyes shaded with dusk-toned makeup, and a body now shaped by his choice—gracefully sculpted with full, natural curves—he moved through life like a walking contradiction.

It had only been a few weeks since the surgery. A dream he’d harbored for years—to have the kind of body that felt right, that blurred the lines so beautifully people didn’t know what box to place him in. And he liked it that way. The healing was still ongoing, but his confidence was brighter than ever.

One rainy Tuesday, while taking a detour from his usual route home from the design studio, he stumbled upon it—HoneyRoot Café. Tucked between a row of worn hanok rooftops and newer concrete structures, the café was a perfect blend of past and present. Wood beams framed modern glass walls, delicate paper lanterns hung beside industrial lighting. It smelled like roasted barley tea and cinnamon syrup. The moment he stepped in, something in him sighed.

And then he saw her. She was at the counter, arranging pastries in the display case, a soft smile playing on her lips as she hummed along to the soft music playing overhead. She looked up—and their eyes met. Something shifted. Time slowed.

She blinked, in awe, and then smiled. Not the kind she gave customers—he could tell. This one reached her eyes. “Table for one?” she asked gently. Seonghwa felt a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth as he nodded, heartbeat tapping a curious rhythm in his chest. “Yes, please.”