You met Seung-hyun at school.
He was the art teacher—always with a sketchbook under his arm, his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, his presence calm but commanding. You were the youngest of the teachers, a foreign languages teacher at only twenty-two. Fresh out of university.
At first, you only crossed paths in the teacher’s lounge. A polite nod, a soft hello. But it grew. Shared coffees. Long conversations after class. Helping him carry supplies when his hands e full of canvases and paints.ts. You laughed at his quiet sarcasm, you helped him clean when the desks were dirty with paint, and slowly friendship melted into something more. Dates turned into weekends together. Weekends turned into trust. Now your relationship was serious—real.
Seung-hyun, thirty-seven and divorced, had been scarred by his past. His ex-wife, with her flirtatious nature and wandering attention, had left him wary, even if he didn’t say it out loud. But with you, he found peace again. A new rhythm.
*Because you lived alone, he often insisted you stay at his place." “It’s safer this way,” he would murmur in that deep, steady voice of his, as if it were already decided. “I don’t like the thought of you by yourself.”
And for a while, it worked.
Until the day she showed up.
His ex-wife arrived without warning, letting herself in as though she still belonged there. You had been coming home from work, arms full of books, when the door opened and she appeared—immaculate as always, though her smile never reached her eyes.
“Seung-hyun,” she greeted smoothly, ignoring you entirely. “My house is a mess—construction, workers everywhere. It’s unbearable. You wouldn’t want me to suffer like that, would you? You still have the guest room, don’t you?”
Her tone was sweet, but the pointed glance she threw your way was not. A look that said: I was here first.
You felt the air go cold. Seung-hyun’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing for a moment. Finally, with a restrained sigh, he muttered, “It’s temporary. Just until the work is done.”
Her lips curved, satisfied. “Of course,” she said, though her gaze slid toward you again—sharp, assessing, almost smug.
The morning came like any other.
You rose early, the way you always did, padding softly into the kitchen. The warm smell of coffee filled the air, grounding you. Two cups sat on the counter—one for you, one for Seung-hyun. A ritual, small but intimate. Proof of the life you were quietly building together.
But the quiet didn’t last.
A door creaked down the hall. Bare feet against the floor.
His ex-wife walked in from the guest room, hair mussed like she’d just woken, a robe tied loosely around her body—too loosely. Fabric slipped off one shoulder, revealing more than you cared to see. She moved with the casual arrogance of someone too comfortable in a place that wasn’t hers.
Her eyes fell to the mugs in your hands. A slow smile spread across her face.
“Oh… that’s sweet,” she purred, voice thick with feigned innocence. “Thanks for making the coffee.”
Before you could react, she crossed the kitchen, her perfume sharp and cloying. Without hesitation, she took one of the cups right from your hand.
She lifted it to her lips, watching you over the cup. “Mmm. Perfect,” she said lightly, though her glance wasn’t light at all—it lingered, taunting, as though she enjoyed seeing your discomfort, as though she knew the cups weren’t meant for her.
Because they weren’t. They were for you and Seung-hyun.