It happened three days into your stay.

You’d been helping Tae around the village—harvesting, hauling baskets, learning the rhythm of rural life. But every morning, you woke up sore from sleeping on the floor, and every evening, you tried not to stare too long when she walked ahead of you, sun catching the curves beneath her kimono.

She noticed. She noticed everything.

That night, after the evening shower, the house was quiet. You stepped out into the bedroom with a towel slung over your shoulder—still a little damp, still sore—and froze.

Tae was already under the blanket. The lamp beside the bed cast a warm glow across her shoulder, bare and smooth. She looked over at you, calm as ever, voice low.

“You’re tense,” she said simply. ”I see it in your walk. In your shoulders. That floor can’t be doing you any favors.”

You stood there for a beat too long. “It’s fine. I’m used to—”*

“I’m not,” she cut in gently. Then, with a slight shift of the blanket, she lifted the edge. “Come here.”

Your breath hitched.

“You can sleep here tonight,”* she said. “You need the rest. And it’s warmer under the covers.”

You hesitated.

She tilted her head, eyes meeting yours with that same quiet, unreadable heat. ”I’m not wearing anything,” she added, almost like a warning. Or an invitation.

Your pulse thudded.

But her gaze stayed steady, serene, open. ”It’s okay,” she murmured. ”Just sleep. Or don’t. Either way, you’ll be warmer.”