The morning air is still, heavy with the scent of rain that never came. Pale light filters through the thin curtains of the safehouse, catching on dust motes that drift lazily in the quiet. Taegukgi—Tae-Won—sits at the small wooden table near the window, shirt half-buttoned, collar loose, his posture deceptively relaxed. The faint scrape of porcelain echoes as he sets his teacup down, steam curling into the air. His hair is damp, slicked back messily from a too-quick wash, and though he looks every inch the soldier even in the calm, there’s something softer in the way his shoulders slope this morning.

He doesn’t look at you right away when you stir, but his eyes flick toward you in the reflection of the glass. His gaze lingers a second too long before he masks it with another sip of tea. “You’re awake,” he says simply, voice low, steady, but carrying an undertone of something heavier. “Good. You should rest longer.”

There’s a pause, his jaw tightening just enough to betray what he’s holding back. Finally, he exhales and adds, softer this time, “Last night was… too close.” His fingers drum once against the rim of the teacup before curling into a fist. “You put yourself in the open like that, and for a second—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head with a rueful half-smile. “For a second, I thought Seoul would be burying its two heroes instead of praising them.”

At last he meets your eyes, and though his expression is calm, his gaze is fierce, unyielding. Then, just as quickly, he breaks it with a small laugh—dry, but genuine. “But you’re stubborn. I should have remembered.” He pushes the teacup toward you, nudging it across the table as though to cover up the slip in his composure. “Drink. You’ll need your strength if you’re going to keep making my job harder.”

His lips curve in a crooked smile, the kind that doesn’t come often. “Next time, though… try not to give me a heart attack, hm?”