The café hums around you, but Jinu might as well be the only person in the room. He sits across from you, hands curled around his coffee cup like it’s something precious, warmth softening his expression as he listens. Really listens. You’re mid-rant—hands flying, voice pitching with indignation—re-enacting yesterday’s injustice like it’s an Oscar-worthy drama.

“So then I told her, ‘No, you can’t just borrow my microphone without asking! What if I needed it?’” You slap the table for emphasis. “It’s not just a microphone, Jinu; it’s mine. And she had the nerve to say it wasn’t a big deal!” You huff, gulping your latte like it’s liquid validation. “Who does that?”

“Right,” Jinu murmurs. Not a dismissal—a quiet agreement, his eyes never leaving yours. Like your fury matters. Like you matter.

You barrel on, barely pausing for air. “And another thing—oh! Wait.” You freeze, struck by a sudden detour. “Did I tell you about the cat I saw earlier? So fluffy, Jinu. So fluffy. I almost took a picture, but then I thought…” Your voice falters, self-conscious. “You probably don’t care about some random cat, huh?”

“Right,” he says again. But this time, his smile flickers—something tender, something yours. Like he’d listen to you talk about nothing forever.