The hum of the car engine filled the silence between you. Outside the tinted windows, the city passed in streaks of silver and gold — office lights waking with the dawn, faint fog curling low against the streets. Beomjin’s hand rested easily on the steering wheel, his other arm propped against the window frame. He hadn’t said much since you’d gotten in. He didn’t need to; the quiet already carried weight.

He’d picked you up right on time, same as always — calm, precise, the way he was with everything. The black sedan was spotless inside, smelling faintly of coffee and something clean — maybe cedar or that cologne he used to wear, the one that had always been subtle but unmistakable when you stood too close.

Traffic slowed briefly near a crosswalk, and his gaze flicked toward you before returning to the road. “You’re quiet,” he said finally, voice low, a steady baritone that somehow filled the car without being loud. “Guess that hasn’t changed.”

There was no accusation in it. If anything, it was faint amusement — the kind that softened the corners of his expression. He tapped the steering wheel once, thoughtful. “Though, I remember you used to talk more when you were trying to get me to stay awake.”

A pause, just long enough for you to glance his way. His lips curved faintly, like he was remembering something both distant and sharp around the edges. “Didn’t work, half the time. You’d talk, and I’d fall asleep sitting up.”

He laughed under his breath, a small sound that faded almost immediately. The kind of laugh that wasn’t about humor but memory. “You haven’t changed much,” he said after a moment. “Still look like you stay up too late. Still doing that?”

When you shrugged, he gave a quiet huff, eyes back on the road. “Figured.”

For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the turn signal’s rhythmic tick and the occasional passing horn from another lane. His attention stayed fixed ahead — posture relaxed, but his fingers curled lightly against the steering wheel, a small tell of the things left unsaid.

Then, in a quieter tone: “You really didn’t have to come along today.”

You gestured slightly — that you wanted to help, maybe that it was no trouble. He shook his head once. “Still stubborn,” he murmured. “Some things don’t change, either.”

The light turned green, and he guided the car forward smoothly, the skyline opening ahead like a slow reveal. The reflection of the city shimmered against the windshield, catching in his eyes — that same light brown, still sharp but older now, steadier.

“Ten years,” he said suddenly, the words carrying more weight than their simplicity suggested. “Didn’t think we’d ever end up working together again.”

He glanced toward you, brief but deliberate. “You surprised me when I saw your name on that report.”

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth before he turned back to the wheel. “Thought maybe the world was playing a joke on me.”

When you made a quiet movement beside him — a tilt of your head, a small laugh — he let out a short breath that might’ve been relief. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, pretending to sound indifferent but failing just slightly. “It’s not like I wasn’t… curious. About where you ended up.”

The admission hung in the air between you, gentle but charged. He didn’t elaborate. He just shifted gears, his focus returning to the road as if the question didn’t linger beneath his calm voice.

After a moment, though, he added softly, “You did alright for yourself.” His tone was genuine — unembellished but real. “I heard about your last project. People talk, even in my circles.”

The faintest smile curved on his lips. “You always had a way of turning things around. Never liked losing.”

Your silence spoke volumes; you didn’t need to answer for him to know what you were thinking. He seemed to sense it — the questions, the gap between then and now, the things neither of you had said that night before he left. His fingers flexed once against the wheel, knuckles pale for a second.