The road to her family's new home was narrow and unfamiliar, the kind of road that didn't appear on postcards or campus brochures. Hae-min drove slowly, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other tapping absently against the door as he followed Ha-yoon's directions.
"Turn left here," she said, then hesitated. "No...sorry. The next one."
He smiled faintly. "Take your time."
When the car finally stopped, the engine humming softly before he turned it off, they both sat there for a moment longer than necessary.
"So," he said, looking out through the windshield, taking in the small, modest building ahead of them. "This is the place?"
She nodded. "Yes. This is it."
The house wasn't large. It leaned slightly to one side, paint chipped in places, the gate squeaking when the wind passed through it. But there were signs of care, potted plants by the entrance, laundry neatly folded on a line, light glowing warmly from a window.
"It's smaller than before," she added quietly, as if apologizing.
"It feels lived in," he replied. "That's what matters."
She looked at him then, something soft and grateful flickering across her face.
"Thank you for driving me," she said.
"I'll do it again," he answered easily. "Anytime."
And somehow, that didn't sound like a promise he'd regret.
Days turned into weeks without either of them noticing.
Not because time moved quickly, but because it moved gently.
They fell into a rhythm that didn't need explanations.
Some nights, they talked until dawn, lying on separate beds in separate rooms, phones pressed to their ears, listening to each other breathe. Sometimes they spoke about everything: childhood memories, dreams that still scared them, the weight of expectations. Other nights, they spoke about nothing at all.
"You still there?" she would ask softly after a long silence.
"Yeah," he'd reply. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
"About how quiet this is."
She'd smile to herself in the dark. "Then let's stay quiet together."
And they would.
On mornings when she worked early, he'd stop by her workplace before school, pretending it was no big deal. He'd leave a paper bag on the counter, always the same burger from her favorite spot, still warm, wrapped carefully like it mattered.
"You didn't have to," she'd say every time.
"I know," he'd reply. "I wanted to."
She'd watch him leave through the glass window, his figure disappearing into the crowd, and something in her chest would settle, just a little.
On her days off, they sat together on the floor of her room, scrolling through old photos on his phone.
"What about this hairstyle?" she asked once, tilting the screen toward him.
He squinted. "No."
"Why not?"
"It makes you look like you'd scold me for being late."
She laughed, nudging his shoulder. "And this one?"
He paused. "That one suits you."
She looked at him. "Because?"
"Because you look like yourself."
The next day, he took her to the salon.
She hesitated at the door, fingers curling around the strap of her bag. "What if it doesn't turn out right?"
"Then we'll pretend it was intentional," he said. "Artistic expression."
She rolled her eyes, smiling, and stepped inside.
When she came out later, hair shorter, lighter, framing her face differently, he stood up slowly, like he needed a second to recalibrate.
"Well?" she asked, nervous now.
He swallowed. "Yeah. Definitely you."
They walked home side by side, both with matching butterfly-shaped hair clips from the salon, a ridiculous impulse purchase neither of them wanted to admit they enjoyed.
"Promise you won't wear it to training," she teased.
"No promises," he said seriously. "It might intimidate my opponents."
Not everything was light.
When they went to visit Seon-woo, the atmosphere changed.
The prison waiting room was always cold, always too quiet. Ha-yoon sat with her hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the door that never opened for them.
"He said he doesn't want to see us," the guard repeated gently.
Again.
Hae-min nodded, thanking him politely, even though his jaw was clenched tight.
They walked out together without speaking.
In the car, Ha-yoon stared out the window, the city blurring past her vision.
"He thinks he's protecting us," she whispered eventually.
"By pushing us away?"
"By not letting us see what he's become."
Hae-min tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "He doesn't get to decide that alone."
She leaned her forehead against the glass. "He always did that. Carried everything by himself."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was heavy, filled with absence.
Meanwhile, Hae-min's life was changing faster than he expected.
Training intensified. Interviews came more often. His name began appearing in articles, commentators praising his discipline, his growth, his potential.
"You're becoming famous," Ha-yoon joked once, holding up her phone with an article pulled up.
He shrugged. "I'm just running faster."
His father called more often now. Not to ask how he was, but to remind him of expectations. Sponsors. Image. Discipline.
At night, when the pressure felt too tight around his chest, he called her.
"Do you ever feel like you're becoming someone you don't recognize?" he asked once.
She thought for a moment. "Sometimes. But I think that just means you're growing."
"And what if I don't like who I'm becoming?"
"Then remember who you were," she said gently. "And who you want to stay."
He closed his eyes, her voice anchoring him.
They weren't rushing toward anything.
No labels.
No declarations.
Just presence.
Late-night calls.
Shared meals.
Quiet walks.
Unspoken understanding.
And yet, beneath it all, something waited.
Seon-woo behind locked doors.
A past that hadn't finished asking for its due.
A future demanding more than either of them were ready to give.
But for now, they had this.
And sometimes, that was enough.