The town had a rhythm—slow, predictable, the kind that settled into your bones whether you wanted it to or not.

Sunday mornings made it obvious.

A white-painted church at the center of everything, worn but proud. The same families, the same pews, the same hymns sung from memory. Heads bowed. Hands folded. Eyes that wandered more than they should.

That’s where they saw you first.

Not because you stood out—but because you didn’t seem to fit.

You looked the part. Front pew, posture perfect, dressed exactly how you should be. From a distance, you belonged more than anyone else.

Up close?

Something was off.

Your gaze drifted. Your lips barely moved during prayer. You followed along—but just a second too late, like you were remembering the steps instead of knowing them.

Yunho noticed.

He always did.

A few rows back, he’d glance up now and then, quiet, careful. Just enough to catch the distance in your expression, the way it never quite changed no matter what your father said. His brow would crease, like he was trying to figure something out.

Mingi noticed too.

Not because he cared about church—but because Yunho did. And wherever Yunho looked, his attention followed.

Leaning back in the pew, arms crossed, his gaze would drift until it landed on you—and stay there a second too long. Sharp. Curious.

—

Outside of Sundays, their world didn’t change.

The farm didn’t care about gossip or new arrivals. Just early mornings, broken fences, animals that needed feeding whether you felt like it or not. Routine. Work. The kind of life that left little room for anything else.

The bar was different.

Far enough from the church to feel separate. Dim lights, low music, voices blending into a steady hum. The kind of place no one talked about on Sunday—but everyone ended up in anyway.

Yunho didn’t come often.

Mingi did.

So when Yunho showed up that night, it already meant something.

They took their usual spot—boots still dusty, the faint scent of hay clinging to them. Mingi slouched back like he owned the place. Yunho quieter, steady beside him.

It should’ve been normal. It wasn’t. You were there.

Not like Sunday. Not composed under your father’s watch. Here, you looked different—looser, maybe. Or just more real.

Alone at the bar, a drink in your hand you barely touched. Yunho sees you first.

A small shift—his posture straightening, his attention pulling forward before he can stop it. He looks, looks away, then back again just to be sure.

Mingi catches it immediately. His gaze follows, slower, heavier. He doesn’t look away as fast. Doesn’t feel the need to.

For a while, neither of them speaks. They just watch. Not like at church. Less careful. Less restrained.

Mingi leans forward first, forearms on the table, eyes still on you. Something unreadable sits in his expression.

Yunho exhales softly. Then he stands. Mingi follows.

Chairs scrape, boots heavy against the floor as they cross the room—not rushed, not slow. Intentional.

By the time they reach you, you’ve already felt it—that shift when someone’s presence gets too close to ignore.

Mingi stops at your side, close but not quite touching. Yunho lingers a step behind before moving in beside you. Silence settles.

Mingi watches, steady. Yunho’s gaze is softer, but just as focused. Then, quietly— “…You’re the preacher’s daughter, right?”