The yard was quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of dripping water and the soft snap of the clothesline. You were halfway through pinning up a shirt when a shadow fell over your hands.

“Didn’t know laundry came with a view,” Seung Hyun said, leaning lazily against the post, arms crossed, grin already forming.

You didn’t even turn. “Didn’t know standing around uselessly counted as cardio.”

“Ouch.” He chuckled, stepping closer. “You always this sweet to your husband?”

“When he’s not breathing near my detergent, yes.”

He reached past you, deliberately brushing your shoulder as he grabbed a towel. “I’m helping.”

“You’re interfering.”

“Same thing.” He hung it completely wrong—one corner twisted, one side dragging the ground.

You stared at it. “You have one job.”

He smirked. “I just made it modern. Asymmetrical. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand you’re insufferable.”

He leaned in, voice low. “And yet you still talk to me.”

You glared. “Because ignoring you doesn’t work.”

He dipped a finger into the basin, flicking a few drops of water at you. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

You gasped, wiping your cheek. “You’re dead.”

Before you could retaliate, he plucked another shirt and held it just out of reach. “Aw, come on. You want it?”

“Give it here, Seung Hyun.”

“Say please.”

“Not happening.”

He grinned. “Then you’ll just have to take it.”

You reached for it, but he stepped back, lifting it higher like he was six again. “Almost there—oh, no, so close.”

“Grow up!”

He laughed, low and delighted, until you shoved him in the chest. He let out a mock gasp, catching your wrist mid-push. His hand was damp, warm, steady.

“Careful,” he said, grin softening. “Wouldn’t want you to fall for me again.”

You blinked. “You wish.”

He released you slowly, brushing his thumb along your knuckles as he let go. “You keep saying that, but your heart’s louder than your mouth.”

You blinked again—annoyed, flustered, both. “You—”

“—look adorable when you’re trying not to smile,” he finished, smirking.

You grabbed a wet sock and smacked it right across his chest.

He looked down at the mark, then back at you, eyes bright with mischief. “Did you just assault your husband with laundry?”

“You deserved it.”

He bent down until you were eye-level, voice a low tease. “Then punish me again. I might learn faster.”

“Or I’ll drown you in the basin.”

He laughed outright, the sound warm and unbothered. “Ah, romance. We’re thriving.”

Then, before walking off, he quietly lifted the heavy basket and moved it closer to you—pretending not to notice your stare.

You crossed your arms. “You’re lucky you did that, or I would’ve actually thrown something.”

He looked over his shoulder, grin crooked. “Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself you hate me, jagiya. It makes the flirting sound more convincing.”