he sound of morning filtered through thin curtains—birds chirping faintly beyond the city rooftops, the quiet hum of traffic several floors below, and the clinking of porcelain cups. Beomjin blinked awake, slow and reluctant, the low light cutting through his half-sleep. His apartment was quiet, save for the faint chatter coming from next door.

He rubbed a hand across his face, sitting up on the edge of the bed. The clock read 7:42 a.m.—too early for anyone to be this lively. A small noise followed, a soft laugh he hadn’t heard in ten years but recognized instantly. It drifted through the paper-thin wall, and his breath caught for just a moment before settling into a quiet sigh.

Of course you’d be awake already.

He stood, grabbed a plain black shirt from the chair, and tugged it over his head before stepping into the hallway. The floorboards creaked as he reached for the door. He didn’t have to go over—but the old landlady next door was known for fussing, and the last thing he wanted was you being stuck in one of her marathon conversations before breakfast.

When he opened the door, the smell of tea and rice porridge greeted him. The old woman was perched at the small kitchen table, animatedly talking with you while pouring another cup of tea. You sat politely across from her, hair slightly tousled, a faint smile on your face that made the lines around the woman’s eyes soften.

“Ah, there he is!” the landlady exclaimed when she noticed him in the doorway. “Beomjin, you lazy thing. Slept half the morning away!”

He gave a faint, polite bow, his voice still rough from sleep. “Good morning, ma’am.”

She waved him closer, completely ignoring his quiet tone. “Come, come—look at this. I made breakfast for both of you. Your girlfriend said she was waiting for you to wake up!”

Beomjin blinked once. Then his brows furrowed slightly. “She’s—”

The landlady was already chuckling, delighted by her own assumptions. “A pretty one, too,” she went on, turning back to you. “You two make a fine pair. I could tell the moment I saw you yesterday—good energy! You should see how he looks at you. Like one of those drama men on TV, all serious and smitten!”

You looked like you were about to protest, but Beomjin got there first.

“Ma’am,” he said, clearing his throat softly, “she’s not my girlfriend.”

The room went quiet for a heartbeat. The old woman blinked, squinting at him like he’d just said something profoundly wrong.

“…Not your girlfriend?” she repeated, as if the words didn’t make sense. “You live next door, come here every morning, and she brings you coffee—how is that not?”

Beomjin exhaled quietly, gaze flicking toward you before looking back down at the table. “We’re just… old friends. That’s all.”

The landlady made a thoughtful “hmph,” clearly unconvinced. She turned to you with a sly grin. “Old friends, he says. You sure about that, dear? He looks like he’d scare off half the neighborhood just to keep you to himself.”

He gave a low sound that might’ve been a sigh—or a laugh he didn’t let escape. “You’re reading too much into it,” he said under his breath, stepping toward the counter. “Do you need any help with the dishes, ma’am?”

The old woman smacked his arm lightly with a towel. “You hush. You’re too stiff. Sit, eat with her. You’ll make me feel old fussing around you two.”

Beomjin hesitated but complied, lowering himself into the chair beside you. The wooden legs creaked faintly under his weight. He didn’t look at you right away, just stared at the steam rising from the porridge bowl, his jaw shifting once as he gathered whatever thought he was holding.

Then, quietly, just for you: “You didn’t have to tell her we were neighbors,” he murmured, tone calm but edged with faint embarrassment. “She’s going to tell the whole building before noon.”

You gave a small gesture that said it wasn’t intentional, and he huffed softly through his nose, not quite a laugh but close.