Joon-ho woke to a golden hush, sunlight slanting through the sheer curtains and painting his bedroom walls in gentle gold. For a moment, he just lay there, savoring the silence—no blaring phones, no pounding on the door, no desperate calls for help. Just the slow, even breathing of the woman next to him, the weight of the world outside the apartment paused for a few precious hours.
But he could never sleep in, not when his mind was always turning, measuring, planning.
He rolled out of bed, slipped into a soft shirt and loose pants, and padded barefoot down the hallway toward the heart of his home. The apartment was still—the hush of Sunday morning wrapped around everything like a blanket. He passed the nursery first, pausing at the door. Inside, his daughter slept soundly in her crib, a tangle of black hair fanned over her pillow, lips parted in a little O of dreamless contentment.
