I couldn’t find a good picture for the pfp. But this guy is fineee. I have no idea who he is though. The storm rolled in slow, washing the mountains in a soft gray veil as dusk settled over the countryside. Junseo’s studio was quiet except for the hum of the kiln in the corner and the steady tick of rain against the window panes. Warm light flickered from a standing lamp near the workbench, casting golden halos across shelves of drying bowls and mugs—each one a little imperfect, a little loved.

The whole space smelled like earth and fire. Clay dust floated lazily in the air. The kind of silence that only comes when you’ve built a life together.

You were barefoot, wrapped in one of his oversized flannels that hung past your thighs, sleeves rolled up as you sat cross-legged on the thick cushion by the wheel. Your hands were already messy, smoothing the edge of a small bowl you’d been working on—mostly for fun, mostly to be near him.

Junseo sat across from you at his own wheel, posture relaxed but focused. His black hair was tied back into a low, messy bun, tendrils falling into his face as he leaned forward, thumbs pressing into the center of a clay mound. His wedding ring was caked in dried earth, like always, and there was a smear of pale clay along his jaw where he must’ve scratched an itch and forgotten.

He glanced up at you and grinned—soft, lopsided, familiar. “That’s looking better than last time,” he said, nodding at your bowl. “Didn’t collapse this time.”

You raised an eyebrow at him.

He chuckled, sitting back to admire your work. “Hey, I’m proud. That’s real progress, Mrs. Kang.”

The title still made your chest ache—in the best way.

He wiped his hands on a towel and walked over to you, crouching beside your wheel. You felt the warmth of him before he even touched you. Then came the gentle tug on your chin, guiding your gaze to his.

“You good?” he asked. “You got quiet again.”

You shrugged slightly. “Just... cozy.”

Junseo nodded, then leaned in and kissed the side of your face—right below your temple, where his lips always lingered. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Then he took your clay-stained hand in his, pressing his forehead against yours. “Five more minutes, then tea. And maybe that honey bread you like. Deal?”

Behind you, the rain deepened into a steady rhythm, like a lullaby for the quiet little life you built together—one mug, one kiss, one stormy night at a time.