The next morning, Taeyang woke up feeling profoundly disoriented. For a fleeting moment, he couldn't recall where he was until the gentle warmth of a blanket draped over him registered, a subtle weight against his skin. His private office. The memories of the previous night, fragmented and hazy, slowly filtered back: the frantic search through documents, the dawning horror, the overwhelming exhaustion that had finally claimed him. He remembered collapsing, the cold bite of the floor against his cheek, but nothing beyond that.
His eyes fluttered open, heavy and reluctant, and the first thing he saw, through the bleary haze of sleep, was Hana. She sat in the worn armchair beside his makeshift bed, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her expression calm but undeniably firm, her gaze fixed intently upon him. The early morning light, struggling to penetrate the drawn curtains, cast soft shadows across her face, highlighting the subtle worry etched around her eyes. "You're awake," she said, her voice quiet, a clear statement that held no room for argument.
Taeyang blinked. "Why are you still here?" he managed, his voice raspy, a direct question born of surprise and a faint embarrassment.
"Because someone had to make sure you didn't collapse again," she shot back, her tone sharp but infused with a profound concern he couldn't miss. She unfolded her arms, pushing herself up from the chair with a decisive movement. "Come on, we're going home."
He sat up slowly, a groan escaping his lips as a dull ache throbbed behind his temples. He rubbed his temples with weary fingers, attempting to reorient himself, to gather his thoughts, which felt scattered and distant. "I have work to do—" he began, already attempting to swing his legs off the bed. The case, the terrifying new information, clawed at him, demanding his immediate attention. Every second he wasn't actively pursuing the truth felt like a betrayal.
"No, you don't," Hana interrupted, her voice firm, unwavering, cutting through his protest like a blade. She stood directly in front of him now, her stance resolute. "You're coming home, and you're resting. That's an order." There was a quiet authority in her voice, a rare display of her stubborn resolve, that made him pause.
He exhaled sharply, a frustrated sigh that carried the weight of his unyielding responsibilities. "Hana, I'm fine," he insisted, a transparent lie that even he knew sounded unconvincing. He tried to muster a dismissive wave of his hand, but his arm felt heavy, leaden.
She gave him a pointed look, her gaze piercing through his flimsy defenses. "You passed out in your office, barely ate, barely slept, and you expect me to believe that you're fine?" Her voice was laced with an incredulity that made it impossible to argue. He opened his mouth to protest, to argue, to somehow convince her that his work was more important than his wellbeing, but she moved swiftly, almost before he could gather his thoughts. She grabbed his wrist, her fingers firm around his pulse point, and pulled him up with a surprising strength that brooked no protest.
"No more discussions. Let's go," she declared, already tugging him towards the door. The quiet determination in her eyes told him that further resistance would be futile. He was too tired to fight her, too emotionally drained to argue.
By the time they reached home, the sun was casting long, pale shadows across their familiar apartment. Taeyang was still grumbling under his breath, muttering about lost time and urgent deadlines, but his protests lacked their usual fire. He was too tired to truly fight her anymore. The moment he tried to grab his laptop from his bag, his fingers brushing against the cold metal, Hana, ever vigilant, snatched it away with a swift, unexpected move, hiding it deftly behind her back.
"You are not working this weekend," she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. Her eyes met his, a challenge in their depths.
"Hana—" he started, his voice a low growl of exasperation.
"Nope. Not a chance. You're resting, and I'm making sure of it," she said, placing her hands on her hips, her stance unyielding. He let out a frustrated sigh, running a weary hand through his hair, a gesture of profound resignation. "You're being dramatic," he accused, a last-ditch effort to regain control.
She raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Oh? And what do you call working yourself to the point of collapsing, Taeyang? What do you call that?" Her rhetorical question hung in the air, undeniable and piercing.
Taeyang had no response to that. Her words were too true, too accurate, hitting him with the force of a physical blow. He stood in silence, defeated. Seeing his utter silence, the way his shoulders slumped in surrender, Hana's expression softened slightly, a wave of tenderness washing over her face. "Just for the weekend, okay? No work, no stress. Just let yourself breathe. Please." Her voice was gentle now, persuasive, laced with genuine affection. He looked at her, something unreadable in his gaze, a mix of gratitude and a profound, secret despair. Then, finally, he let out a long, shuddering sigh of surrender.
"Fine." His single word was a concession, a reluctant agreement.
Hana smiled in victory, a bright, unburdened expression that momentarily lifted the heavy weight in his chest. "Good. Now, I'm making breakfast. And if you even think about sneaking off to work, I will drag you back here myself, I swear it." Her threat was delivered with a playful glint in her eye, but he knew she meant it. Taeyang chuckled softly despite himself, a genuine sound that surprised him. "Noted," he murmured, the corners of his lips twitching into a faint smile.
And for the first time in what felt like a very long while, perhaps even years, he allowed himself to rest, truly rest, without the gnawing urgency of his relentless search.
As Hana moved around the kitchen, the scent of sizzling bacon and brewing coffee filling the air, she hummed softly to herself, a cheerful, tuneless melody that spoke of a lightness he hadn't felt in ages. Taeyang sat at the dining table, watching her, his eyes locked onto her every movement, a quiet intensity in his gaze.
She was focused, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration, carefully stirring the curry she was preparing, tasting it, adjusting the flavors with practiced ease. She was completely unaware of the storm raging inside him, the tempest of fear, grief, and dawning horror that threatened to consume his very being. His fingers, resting on the cool surface of the table, curled into fists, a silent battle against the urge to unravel everything. The truth was so hard to believe, so utterly devastating, that even now, with the cold, hard evidence, his mind struggled to accept it.
All these years, they had lived side by side, believing with unwavering certainty that their parents' deaths were nothing more than a cruel twist of fate. A tragic accident, a sudden, inexplicable loss that had shaped their entire lives. But now… now he knew better. The meticulous investigation, the hidden documents, the forensic reports—they painted a far darker picture. And yet, he still didn't have all the pieces, not every fragment of the horrifying puzzle. There were gaps, agonizing blanks that kept him from fully comprehending the true scope of the malice.
He wanted to tell her desperately. Every fiber of his being screamed to unburden himself, to share the crushing weight that pressed down on him, to seek solace in her understanding, to face this terrifying new reality together.
But what if he was wrong? What if the pieces he had were incomplete, misleading? What if he shattered her world, her entire sense of reality, with something that turned out to be nothing more than a half-formed theory, a ghost conjured from his fear? He couldn't put her through that kind of pain, that profound betrayal of trust, that raw, agonizing grief. Not unless he was absolutely, irrevocably sure. But keeping this from her was killing him, slowly, agonizingly, from the inside out. Each breath felt like a lie, each shared moment tainted by the unspoken truth.
Because he loved her.
More than just a childhood friend, more than just someone he had grown up with, more than just the other half of his fractured world. She was his everything. His anchor. His reason for breathing. His entire universe revolved around her. And the thought of her breaking under the unbearable weight of the truth, of seeing the light dim in her vibrant eyes, was simply unbearable. He would rather carry the burden alone, even if it crushed him.
But at the same time… if she found out on her own—if she stumbled upon the evidence, if she discovered the horrifying reality, and if she then realized that he had known, that he had kept it from her for so long—
Would she ever forgive him? Would the bond they shared, forged in tragedy and sustained by unwavering loyalty, survive such a profound deception? The thought was a cold, sharp blade twisting in his gut.
"Taeyang?"
Her voice, soft and clear, snapped him out of his tormenting thoughts. He blinked, the kitchen, the sunlight streaming through the window, slowly coming back into focus. He realized she was now standing directly in front of him, a bowl of steaming soup in her hands, looking at him curiously, her head tilted slightly.
"You okay?" she asked, her concern palpable.
He forced a smile, a brittle, unconvincing thing. "Yeah. Just… thinking." He tried to project an air of casual contemplation, but the tremor in his voice, the weariness in his eyes, betrayed him.
She narrowed her eyes, a flicker of suspicion in their depths, unconvinced by his flimsy excuse. "Thinking about what?" she pressed gently, her voice a quiet insistence.
He hesitated, his gaze darting away for half a second too long, the silence stretching uncomfortably between them.
Hana sighed, a sound of resignation mixed with lingering frustration. She placed the bowl of soup, rich with the aroma of ginseng, in front of him, the gentle clink of ceramic against the table. "You know, you're acting weird lately," she muttered, not an accusation but an observation. "First, you overwork yourself to the point of collapsing. Now, you're zoning out like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders."
Taeyang let out a chuckle, a hollow sound that held a bitter irony, stirring his spoon in the warm bowl. If only you knew, he thought, the unspoken words a heavy weight in his chest.
Hana sat across from him, propping her chin on her hand as she studied him, her gaze unwavering, probing. "You know, if something's truly bothering you… something deep down… You can tell me, right? I'm here. Always."
His grip tightened around the spoon, his knuckles white. The urge to confess, to lay bare his soul, was almost overwhelming.
But instead, he simply smiled and nodded, the gesture a practiced, automatic response. "I know." The lie felt heavy, a burden he carried.
Hana watched him for a second longer, her eyes searching his face, before sighing again, a long, drawn-out sound of surrender. "Fine. Keep your secrets, then." "You've been staring at me like I'm some kind of puzzle you can't figure out." She picked up her spoon, taking a sip of her soup.
Taeyang smirked slightly, a flicker of genuine amusement breaking through his carefully constructed facade. He leaned forward on the table, his elbows resting on its surface. "Maybe I'm just admiring the view," he countered softly, his voice low, intimate, tinged with a sincerity that made her pause.
Hana blinked, her spoon pausing mid-air, halfway to her lips. A light flush, a delicate rose hue, crept onto her cheeks, a telltale sign of her surprise and fluster.
"What?" she stammered, her voice unexpectedly small, a rarity for her.
He chuckled, a warm, genuine sound this time, finally taking a sip of his soup. "Nothing. Just eat."
Hana huffed, a soft sound of embarrassment, rolling her eyes in mock annoyance, but he caught the small, flustered smile she tried, unsuccessfully, to hide. She quickly lowered her gaze to her bowl, taking another spoonful of soup.
For a moment, just a small, precious moment, the crushing weight on his chest felt a little lighter, lifted by the simple, undeniable warmth of her presence, her unwitting vulnerability.
The whole day passed in a warm, easy rhythm, a blissful respite from the storm that had raged within him. They settled onto the comfortable sofa, bickering good-naturedly over which movie to pick, eventually settling on a lighthearted comedy. They shared popcorn, their hands brushing occasionally in the bowl, and just enjoying the rare moment of peace, a quiet domesticity that felt both incredibly comforting and profoundly fragile.
By the time evening rolled around, the apartment was bathed in the soft, golden glow of twilight. Taeyang stretched lazily on the couch, his body feeling much better, more rested, than it had in days. The deep lines of exhaustion around his eyes had softened, and a faint color had returned to his cheeks.
"I want to go out," he said suddenly, the words surprising even himself, a spontaneous urge to embrace the lightness of the moment.
Hana raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in her eyes. "Out? You were practically half dead yesterday, collapsing on your office floor, and now you want to roam the streets? What's gotten into you?"
He gave her a lazy smirk, his gaze twinkling with a rare mischief. "You said I needed fresh air, didn't you? And you're nothing if not persuasive."
She sighed dramatically, a theatrical groan, but grabbed her jacket without further protest. "Fine. But you're not allowed to collapse on me halfway through. I refuse to carry you."
Seoul was alive with lights and laughter as they wandered through the bustling streets, a vibrant symphony of urban life. The air was crisp, carrying the intoxicating scent of sizzling street food, sweet crepes, and roasted chestnuts. The city vibrated with an infectious energy that seeped into their very pores.
They stopped at countless stalls, buying everything from spicy tteokbokki to warm, sweet hotteok, stuffing their faces without a care in the world, their shared laughter echoing in the lively atmosphere. Hana, with her playful spirit, took photos of Taeyang mid-bite, his cheeks stuffed, roaring with laughter when he tried to steal her food in revenge, a familiar game they had played since childhood.
They browsed little shops crammed with trinkets and novelty items, trying on ridiculous hats and oversized sunglasses, striking exaggerated poses for more pictures than they probably needed, capturing silly, unburdened moments that felt like a lifeline.
At one point, Hana, with a sudden surge of determination, dragged him to a claw machine stall, her eyes fixed on a fluffy, oversized plushie. She was determined to win it, convinced it was her destiny. She failed—repeatedly—her frustrated groans echoing in the arcade.
Taeyang shook his head, an amused smile playing on his lips. "You're terrible at this," he teased, watching her increasingly frantic attempts. Hana groaned again as the claw, for the tenth time, dropped the plushie just as it reached the prize chute.
"This thing is rigged," she muttered, her voice filled with profound exasperation, pouting slightly.
Taeyang smirked. "Or maybe you just suck at it."
She shot him a glare, a playful challenge in her eyes. "Then you do it."
Without warning, his amusement fading into something more subtle, he stepped behind her, his body brushing against hers, his hands covering hers on the joystick. She stiffened instinctively at the sudden closeness, a jolt of something unfamiliar sparking through her, but before she could react, before she could even consciously acknowledge the unexpected intimacy, he was already guiding her hands effortlessly, his fingers warm and firm over hers.
He moved the joystick with quiet confidence, his focus unwavering. A second later, with a satisfying clunk, the plushie dropped perfectly into the prize slot.
"See? Easy," he murmured, his voice low, close to her ear, a breath ghosting across her skin. The words, the proximity, the casual intimacy, sent a strange tremor through Hana.
Hana quickly pulled away, her heart beginning to race with an unsettling speed, grabbing the plushie with a frantic movement to avoid looking at him, to avoid meeting his gaze, which she felt, inexplicably, was searching for something. Her heart wasn't racing—it shouldn't be racing. This was just Taeyang. Her best friend. The person she had known forever.
Right? She tried to convince herself, her internal voice sounding strangely hollow.
To cover up her sudden weirdness, the inexplicable blush she felt creeping up her neck, she lightly smacked him with the plushie, a playful but deliberate diversion. "Show off," she muttered, attempting to sound annoyed.
Taeyang only chuckled, a low, knowing sound, his eyes watching her carefully, waiting. He didn't say anything else, but his gaze was a question, an invitation. She didn't realize it then, couldn't possibly comprehend the depth of his intention, but he was trying to make her see him. To make her realize what he had known for a long, long time, what he had kept hidden in his heart.
As they walked back towards the river, the city lights shimmering around them like a scattered galaxy, their laughter echoed faintly in the cool night air. It was the illuminated fountain area that truly caught Hana's attention, drawing her in with its ethereal beauty. The water danced under soft golden lights, creating breathtaking, ever-changing patterns, a mesmerizing spectacle that pulled at her soul. The air was crisp, carrying the distant hum of laughter and quiet conversations, a peaceful melody.
Hana stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide with unadulterated admiration, a childlike wonder shining in their depths. "Wow… It's beautiful," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper, taking in the entire, enchanting scene.
But Taeyang wasn't looking at the fountain. He wasn't admiring the shimmering water or the golden lights. He was looking only at her. The way her eyes sparkled under the gentle glow, reflecting the lights like tiny stars, the way the cool evening breeze played with strands of her hair, caressing her face, she looked effortlessly, breathtakingly beautiful. And she didn't even realize it, utterly unaware of the profound effect she had on him.
A small, tender smile tugged at his lips as he watched her, his heart tightening in his chest with an ache that was both sweet and agonizing.
She was admiring the view.
And he, with every fiber of his being, was admiring her.
Hana turned slightly, a soft, contented sigh escaping her lips, and caught his unwavering gaze. "What?" she asked, blinking in confusion, a faint blush returning to her cheeks under his intense stare. Taeyang's expression didn't change. He just shook his head, a soft, almost imperceptible chuckle escaping him, a silent denial.
"Nothing," he said, his voice a soft murmur, keeping his thoughts carefully guarded.
She shrugged, a subtle gesture, returning her attention to the mesmerizing dance of the fountain, pushing aside the fleeting, unidentifiable feeling that had stirred within her.
But Taeyang?
He was still looking at his favorite view, the most beautiful one he had ever known, his heart full of a silent devotion. Something about the way he was looking at her made her stomach twist in confusion, a strange, unfamiliar flutter. It was unfamiliar and new. A warmth that spread through her, yet also a subtle disquiet. She didn't know what to make of it, what it meant, or how to interpret the quiet intensity in his eyes. So, instead of pressing further, instead of seeking to understand the unsettling shift she felt, she turned back to the fountain, pushing the weird feeling aside, dismissing it as a figment of her imagination, a trick of the light. But the echo of his gaze lingered, a silent question in the quiet night.