Sunlight poured through the wide glass doors, soft and golden, painting everything in the rooftop apartment with a warmth that felt both foreign and utterly right after a night that had ended in sweat, cries, and the kind of raw need that still lingered in every slow, easy movement. Joon-ho stood in front of the stove, hair messy, muscles flexed and glistening with the faintest sheen of last night's heat, wearing only a pair of grey boxers. He was frying eggs and slicing fruit with the steady, practiced hands of a man who liked routine—a contradiction to the chaos of the night before.
Su-bin was with him, already in her crisp black bar uniform, hair perfectly tied, hands deft as she laid out plates, poured coffee, and kept sneaking glances at Joon-ho's bare chest when she thought he wasn't looking. She smiled to herself, a little proud and a little giddy—she'd played her own part in the pleasures of last night, and now the aftercare felt like a secret they shared.
