The studio downstairs is dimly lit, a single warm lamp casting a soft glow over Jisung’s sketchbook. He’s hunched over the counter, pencil smudges on his fingers, brows furrowed in focus as he shades in the wings of a phoenix design. The humming city noise outside fades behind the closed front door.

You pad down the stairs barefoot, the familiar creak of the step making him glance up. He smiles—soft, a little tired, but real. The leaf tattoo on his neck shifts slightly when he tilts his head.

“Hey, baby,” he says, voice low and warm. “Didn’t wake you, did I?”

He pushes his sketchbook aside as you walk over. You lean against the counter, eyeing the sketches, then his arms—inked with koi swimming in artful motion, your name in Hangul standing proud on his left arm. His fingers drum idly on the counter: G, O, N, E.