Morning arrived without ceremony.
Minjae became aware of consciousness the same way he always did—slowly, reluctantly, with the vague sensation that he'd made a mistake somewhere the night before. His head didn't hurt. That alone was suspicious.
He lay still, eyes closed, cataloguing sensations. Soft blanket. Floor beneath him, not a bed. The faint smell of coffee drifting from somewhere nearby.
Coffee.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling wasn't his. The light filtering through the curtains was too pale, too gentle. The house felt… paused. Like everyone had agreed not to move too loudly.
Then memory caught up.
He sat up too quickly and immediately regretted it.
"Alive?" Seori's voice came from the kitchen bar, calm and lightly amused.
Minjae blinked at her. She was already dressed, hair tied back, holding a glass of water like she'd been awake for a while. Of course she was.
"Barely," he muttered.
She slid the glass across the bar toward him without standing. It stopped just within reach. "Hydration. You faint dramatically, but at least you do it safely."
"I did not faint."
"You fully powered down."
He took the glass anyway and drank. "Temporary system overload."
"Mmhmm."
His eyes drifted past her.
Yura was curled sideways on the couch, hugging a cushion like it had personally wronged her. One sock had come off during the night and now lay abandoned on the floor. Yuri was sprawled on the rug near the kotatsu, hoodie half-riding up her back, using a rolled towel as a pillow.
Minjae stared.
They'd stayed.
The realization hit him harder than last night's embarrassment.
"…You didn't go to your rooms," he said quietly.
Yuri groaned without opening her eyes. "He's awake. Abort serenity."
Yura shifted, face buried deeper into the cushion. "Five more minutes. I don't accept this timeline."
Seori glanced back at them, then at Minjae. "We weren't exactly going to leave you face-down on the floor."
"I wasn't face-down."
"You were halfway there."
He rubbed his face with both hands. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Yuri asked, pushing herself up on one elbow. "Rejecting us respectfully and then short-circuiting?"
"Yes."
She snorted. "Please. If anything, it was impressive."
Yura finally cracked one eye open. "You looked like someone unplugged your brain mid-sentence."
Minjae winced. "That's… not comforting."
Seori leaned back against the counter. "You didn't do anything wrong."
He looked at her then. Really looked.
She wasn't teasing. No deflection. Just direct, steady sincerity.
"I panicked," he said. "I didn't want to—"
"—take advantage," she finished calmly.
"…Yes."
Yuri sat up fully now, legs crossed. "You realize that makes you worse, right?"
"Worse?"
"As a problem," she clarified. "Men like you ruin expectations."
Yura nodded sleepily. "He said no because it mattered. That's illegal levels of green flag."
Minjae groaned and leaned his forehead against the glass. "Please don't say 'green flag' before breakfast."
"But it fits," Yura insisted. "You weren't rejecting us. You were protecting… whatever this is."
He didn't answer immediately.
"I didn't say it to stop anything," he said at last. "I said it because it meant something. To me."
The room went quiet again.
Not tense. Not awkward.
Fragile.
Seori studied him for a long moment, then gave a small nod. "That's what I thought."
Yuri scratched the back of her head. "Still annoying though."
Minjae let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I'll take annoying."
---
They moved through the morning like a practiced routine they'd somehow always known.
Minjae made coffee.
No one questioned it. No one offered to help. He just… did. Kettle on. Mugs lined up.
Yura wandered over, still half-asleep. "Milk."
He nodded. "I know."
"Sugar too."
"I know."
Yuri leaned against the counter. "You never forget anyone's preferences. It's unsettling."
"It's basic courtesy."
"That's what makes it unsettling."
Seori watched him from the side, arms crossed. "Cinnamon?"
"For Yuri," he replied automatically.
Yuri grinned. "See? Marriage material."
"Stop," he said flatly.
"No."
They ate quietly after that. Toast. Leftover fruit. Nothing fancy.
But the quiet didn't feel empty.
Yura kicked his ankle lightly under the table. "You okay now?"
"Yes."
"Like… actually okay."
He met her eyes. "Yes."
She smiled and leaned back. "Good."
---
Packing was uneventful.
No one mentioned last night directly. No grand declarations. No awkward avoidance either.
Just… proximity.
Yuri handed him folded clothes without comment. Seori double-checked the kitchen. Yura hovered near the door, making sure nothing was left behind.
When they loaded the last bag into the trunk, Minjae's mother appeared with her phone already raised.
"Smile!"
"Mom," he warned.
Too late. Click.
She circled them like a paparazzo. "My girls look radiant."
Yura waved. "We were fed very well."
Seori bowed politely. "Thank you for letting us stay."
Yuri slung an arm around Minjae's shoulders. "You raised him right. Mostly."
His mother beamed. "I always knew."
"Knew what?" he muttered.
"That my son would find trouble like this." She leaned closer, voice stage-whispered. "Only you could accidentally collect three."
"Mom."
"I'm joking," she said brightly. "Mostly."
She hugged each of them in turn, then squeezed Minjae's cheek. "Call me when you get back."
"Yes."
"And be good."
He didn't bother asking what that meant.
---
The city felt sharper when they returned.
Louder. Brighter. Less forgiving.
By Monday afternoon, the rumors had already mutated.
A junior from design claimed they'd seen all four of them exit the same subway station.
Someone else swore Yuri had been wearing Minjae's hoodie.
A Slack thread titled *Guess the Bride* resurfaced, this time with charts.
Minjae ignored it.
He ignored the glances. The whispers. The way conversations paused when he entered a room.
He focused on work.
Until HR cornered him by the pantry.
"So," the man said, grinning. "Should I prepare three invites?"
Minjae walked away.
---
Late that evening, he sat alone in the lab's side office.
Everything was in order. Logs archived. Notes backed up. Systems stable.
His hands rested flat on the table.
Yet his thoughts refused to line up.
He remembered warmth. Laughter. The weight of trust pressing gently against him.
He remembered being seen.
Not as a strategist. Not as a rumor. Not as anything else.
Just Minjae.
He closed his eyes and exhaled.
"…So this is what it means," he murmured, "to have people waiting at the end of the line."
The lab hummed quietly around him.
And for once, the silence didn't feel like loneliness.