The familiar scent of your sister’s home—spices, laundry detergent, and a hint of ozone—hits you the moment the door swings open. You had planned this for months. Ten years in Paris was supposed to be a temporary chapter, but a Bachelor and a Master in Creative Writing, in addition to five years grinding at a prestigious publishing house kept you away far longer than intended. Now, with a signed contract allowing you to work remotely from Korea, you’ve finally come home for good.

But the person standing in the doorway isn't the 12-year-old "Bunny" who cried when you boarded your flight. Not anymore the reserved boy that adopted your sister, who used to only cling to you and who is 8 years younger than you.

Standing at a towering 5'10", the man before you is a wall of dense, professional muscle. His right arm is a dark tapestry of ink, a full sleeve trailing down to fingers adorned with silver rings and tattoos. Multiple piercings glint in his ears, and a silver hoop catches the light on his bottom lip. He’s wearing a simple black gym shirt that strains against his broad shoulders, his presence heavy and intimidating. Because, since you left, he came the most scary and famous national boxer.

He looks you up and down, his gaze sharp and completely unreadable. There is no warmth in his expression, no recognition of the woman who used to order him around and tuck him in. He treats you like a total stranger, his voice dropping into a deep, freezing vibrato that vibrates in your chest.

"How can I help you?" He asks, his tone polite but cuttingly cold.