Midnight came soft and gray over Min-jun's house. Dae-hyun stood on the porch, bag in hand, watching the neighborhood sleep around him.
Min-jun appeared in the doorway, coffee mug in hand. "You leaving already?"
"Work waits for no one." Dae-hyun's voice was steady, but his eyes held shadows.
"Bullshit." Min-jun leaned against the doorframe. "You're running. There's a difference."
Dae-hyun didn't deny it. He simply nodded once and walked toward his car.
Min-jun called after him. "Dae-hyun."
He paused.
"You're not alone. Remember that."
A long moment. Then Dae-hyun got in his car and drove away.
---
Seoul greeted him with its usual chaos—traffic, noise, and the endless churn of city life. Dae-hyun didn't go to the station. He couldn't face the bullpen, couldn't face questions and concerned looks, and couldn't face the weight of being Captain Kang.
Instead, he found a bar.
It was a small place in a narrow alley, the kind of establishment that didn't ask questions and didn't remember faces. Dark wood, dim lighting, and a few scattered patrons minding their own business. Perfect.
Dae-hyun sat at the counter and ordered soju.
Then another.
Then another.
---
Across the bar, in a slightly brighter corner, Yoon Seo-ah sat with two friends from her acting days. They'd insisted on meeting up, on celebrating her medal, and on hearing stories about her new life. She'd agreed mostly to avoid thinking about a certain captain with sad eyes.
"—and then he just bowed," one friend was saying, gesturing dramatically. "For, like, a full minute! It was all over the news!"
Seo-ah nodded, smiled, and said the right things. But her attention kept drifting.
To the man at the counter.
She'd noticed him the moment she walked in—impossible not to, with that presence, those shoulders, and the way he held himself even in a rundown bar. But she'd convinced herself it was just someone who looked like him.
Then he turned slightly, and the light caught his face.
Kang Dae-hyun.
Drinking alone.
Drinking heavily.
And as she watched, she saw it—a tear sliding down his cheek, quickly wiped away, followed by another glass of soju.
Something clenched in her chest.
"I'm sorry," she said suddenly, standing. "I have to go."
Her friends protested, but she was already moving, crossing the bar, and approaching the man, who had no idea she was there.
---
"Dae-hyun."
He didn't look up. Just stared at the empty glass in front of him.
"Dae-hyun." She touched his shoulder.
Slowly, he turned. His eyes were red-rimmed, unfocused, and lost. It took a moment for recognition to dawn.
"Seo-ah." His voice was rough and slurred. "What are you...?"
"I should ask you the same thing." She sat beside him, signaling the bartender to stop pouring. "How much have you had?"
He waved a hand vaguely. "Not enough."
"Enough." She looked at him—really looked. The perfect suit from the ceremony was gone, replaced by simple clothes. His hair was disheveled. His usual control was completely absent. "Come on. I'm taking you home."
"I don't need—"
"I know." She stood and pulled gently on his arm. "But I'm taking you anyway."
He resisted for a moment. Then something in his eyes shifted—surrender, maybe, or exhaustion—and he let her pull him up.
---
The drive to his apartment was silent. Dae-hyun stared out the window, saying nothing. Seo-ah drove his car—he'd handed over the keys without argument—and tried not to think about how wrong this felt.
Wrong, but also right.
His building was older and nondescript, the kind of place designed to be forgotten. They rode the elevator in silence. He leaned against the wall, eyes closed, breathing slowly.
At his door, he fumbled with the keys until she took them and opened it herself.
And then she stepped inside.
And stopped.
The apartment was... empty.
Not minimalist. Not simply furnished. Empty. A couch sat against one wall, old and worn. A small table with one chair. No decorations, no photos, no personal touches. Nothing on the walls. Nothing on the counters. It was like stepping into a space where no one actually lived.
Seo-ah turned slowly, taking it in. The kitchen had bare essentials—a few cups, some instant noodles, and a single pan. The bedroom door was open, revealing a bed with plain sheets and nothing else.
"Dae-hyun..." she breathed.
He had collapsed onto the couch, his head in his hands. "It's not much."
"It's nothing." She sat beside him, not touching, just present. "This is where you live?"
"For years."
She thought of her own apartment—warm, decorated, filled with things that made it hers. And then she thought of him, coming home to this emptiness night after night.
"Your grandmother," she said quietly. "The text. Min-jun told us."
He didn't respond.
"She was your family."
"She was." His voice was barely a whisper. "For three years I had someone who cared if I came home. Who called to check on me. Who made me food and told me I was too thin and..." He trailed off.
Seo-ah's heart ached.
"Now I have nothing." He lifted his head, and his eyes were wet again. "I'm alone, Seo-ah. Really alone. And I don't know how to—"
She kissed him.
It wasn't planned. It wasn't calculated. It was simply the only thing that made sense in that moment—to stop the words, to offer comfort, to bridge the impossible distance between them.
His lips were warm and tasted of soju. He froze for a heartbeat, two, three. Then his hand came up to cup her face, and he kissed her back.
It was gentle. Tender. Full of everything neither of them had said.
When they finally parted, they were both breathing hard. Dae-hyun stared at her like he'd never seen her before.
"Seo-ah..."
"I know." Her voice was steady despite her racing heart. "I know this is complicated. I know you're drunk. I know tomorrow might be different." She cupped his face in her hands. "But right now, you needed someone to remind you that you're not alone. And I'm here."
He looked at her for a long, aching moment.
Then he pulled her close and held on like she was the only solid thing in a world that kept shifting beneath him.
They stayed like that for a long time—on that worn couch in that empty apartment, wrapped in each other, saying nothing.
And for the first time in days, Kang Dae-hyun felt like he could breathe.
---
When morning came, pale light filtering through bare windows, they were still there. Dae-hyun had fallen asleep at some point, his head resting against hers. Seo-ah had stayed awake, watching him, memorizing the lines of his face without the mask he always wore.
He stirred, blinked, and focused on her.
For a moment, confusion. Then memory.
"Seo-ah."
"Good morning."
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair. "I was drunk."
"You were."
"I kissed you."
"You kissed me back."
He looked at her, something vulnerable in his eyes. "I shouldn't have—"
"Don't." She put a finger to his lips. "Don't apologize. Don't overthink. Just... let it be what it was."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "What was it?"
Seo-ah smiled—a real smile, warm and knowing. "A beginning. Maybe."
Dae-hyun looked at her, at this impossible woman who had stepped out of a screen and into his life, who had seen him at his weakest and stayed.
"Okay," he said quietly. "A beginning."
They sat together in the empty apartment, and for the first time, it didn't feel quite so empty.