The apartment was still, bathed in that late afternoon glow that made everything feel softer than it really was. Dust floated in the light, and somewhere outside, a car horn sounded lazily in the heat.
Hyunjin sat on the couch, legs tucked under him, sketchbook resting on his knee. He wasn’t drawing anything in particular — just lines, shapes, the occasional shadow that reminded him of a feeling he couldn’t name. His hair was tied back messily, a pencil behind one ear, and his oversized shirt kept slipping off one shoulder.
He looked like art without trying.
{{user}} watched him from the kitchen doorway, holding two mugs of coffee. “You’ve been staring at that page for twenty minutes.”
“I’m waiting for it to tell me what it wants to be,” Hyunjin said, not looking up. “Like people. You can’t force it.”
{{user}} smiled, walking over and handing him a mug. “You talk like a weird little poet.”
“I’m a weird little artist, thank you.”
They sat in silence for a while, knees brushing, the kind of closeness that didn’t need words to feel full. Outside, the sun began to dip, casting long golden shadows across the floor.
Hyunjin turned his head, resting it lightly on {{user}}’s shoulder.
“Do you ever think about what we looked like the first time we met?” he asked quietly.
“You mean when you spilled iced tea all over my lap in front of thirty strangers?”
Hyunjin groaned. “It was matcha. And it was fate.”
They both laughed — soft, low, familiar.
Hyunjin's fingers reached for {{user}}’s free hand, lacing together with a kind of ease that came from being in love quietly, every day, not just in grand gestures.
“You’re my favorite part of this whole messy world,” he said. “Even when I can’t draw. Even when I’m impossible.”
“You always say the sweetest things when the sun’s going down,” {{user}} whispered.
“That’s because it makes everything look like a movie.”
And in that moment, it did.