Joon-seok woke up because something was wrong.
Not danger-wrong.Not dungeon-wrong.
The other kind.
The apartment was… quiet.
Too quiet.
He lay there for a full ten seconds, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sound that was missing to announce itself.
Nothing.
"No," he muttered, already sitting up.
He checked his phone.
07:42.
He swore under his breath, shoved himself out of bed, and padded toward the kitchen.
That's when he saw her.
Se-rin was sitting at the table.
Not in her guild jacket.Not in combat gear.Not even standing.
She was sitting. In an old hoodie. Hair tied badly. Holding a mug with both hands like it might escape.
She looked up when he froze in the doorway.
"…Morning," she said.
Joon-seok stared.
She raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"You're home."
"Yes."
"You're sitting."
She glanced down at the chair like it had betrayed her. "I do that sometimes."
"You're drinking coffee."
She looked at the mug. "This is tea."
"That's worse."
He moved slowly, like sudden motion might break the illusion.
"Did something happen?" he asked.
"No."
"You say that like you practiced it."
"I didn't," she replied. Then, after a beat, "Much."
Joon-seok pulled out a chair and sat across from her, still watching her face.
She noticed. Of course she did.
"Stop staring," she said.
"You look weird."
"You look unemployed."
He opened his mouth, closed it, then frowned. "That was uncalled for."
She took a sip of her tea, eyes fixed on the surface. "You're welcome."
They sat there.
The silence stretched—not awkward, just… unused.
Joon-seok finally reached for the kettle. It was still warm.
"You made too much," he said.
"You always complain when I don't."
"I complain when you do it wrong."
She glanced at him. "And today?"
"…Acceptable."
She nodded, satisfied.
He poured himself a mug and leaned against the counter instead of sitting back down. Habit. Distance without distance.
"So," he said. "Why are you home?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she reached into her hoodie pocket and slid something across the table.
A folded paper.
Joon-seok unfolded it.
Association letterhead.
He skimmed once, then again, slower.
"You took leave?" he asked.
"Temporary."
"For how long?"
She shrugged. "Long enough for people to get nervous."
He snorted despite himself. "You enjoy that too much."
She didn't deny it.
He set the paper down. "Is this because of me?"
She looked at him then. Not sharply. Just… directly.
"No," she said.
He waited.
"…Okay," she sighed. "Not only because of you."
"There it is."
She shot him a look. "Don't start."
"I didn't."
"You were about to."
"Maybe."
She leaned back in her chair, eyes drifting toward the window.
"You're not the problem," she said. "You're the excuse."
"For?"
"For people being afraid of things they don't control," she replied. "You just made it obvious."
Joon-seok watched her fingers tap once against the mug. Stop. Start. Stop.
A tell.
"You're tired," he said.
She scoffed. "I've been tired since I was twenty."
"That's not what I meant."
She didn't answer.
A car passed outside. Someone laughed in the distance. The city doing normal things.
Joon-seok broke first.
"Did you eat?" he asked.
She looked annoyed instantly. "Don't."
"You didn't answer."
"Joon-seok."
"You get cranky when you skip meals."
"You get annoying when you act like my mother."
He tilted his head. "You eat when she nags too."
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it.
"…I had toast."
He waited.
"…And half an egg."
"Se-rin."
"It was a big egg."
He sighed, set his mug down, and started pulling things out of the fridge.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Fixing it."
"I didn't ask—"
"You never do."
She watched him crack eggs, movements automatic, efficient.
"You don't have to," she said, quieter.
"I know."
That was it. No argument. No reassurance.
He slid a plate toward her a minute later.
She stared at it.
"…You burned the edges."
"On purpose."
She smiled before she could stop herself. Then caught it and scowled into the food.
"Idiot," she muttered.
They ate.
Halfway through, she spoke again.
"You know," she said, "when you were younger, you used to watch people the same way."
He paused. "Creepily?"
"Annoyingly," she corrected. "Like you were waiting for them to mess up."
"I still do that."
"Yes," she said. "That's the problem."
He frowned. "That's not reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be."
She finished eating and leaned back again.
"You don't owe anyone consistency," she said suddenly. "Not me. Not them."
He looked at her. "You sound like you're quitting."
She snorted. "Relax. If I quit, the world would notice."
"That's… not comforting either."
She smirked.
A pause.
Then, softer: "Just don't disappear on me."
He blinked.
"That's all," she added, immediately defensive. "I don't care what you become. Just—don't vanish into it."
He nodded once.
"I won't," he said.
She studied his face like she was checking for cracks.
Then stood abruptly. "Good. I'm going to shower."
"Your tea's getting cold."
She glanced at the mug. "So are you."
And left.
Joon-seok stood alone in the kitchen for a moment, then picked up her mug and dumped it in the sink.
He washed it. Put it back.
The apartment felt… normal again.
Which meant it wouldn't last.
But for now?
It was enough.