The Jeju air was a balm, scented with salt and pine and a deep, cellular memory of home. This time, there was no private jet; they took a commercial flight, sitting side-by-side in business class, Jin-woo's hand resting comfortably on Ha-ru's thigh. There was no secrecy, no tension. They were just two men traveling together, one occasionally pointing out cloud formations to the other, who smiled and squeezed his hand.
But the ghost of the last gala hung between them, unspoken. As their car approached the venue—the newly expanded Haenyeo Museum, its curves glowing softly against the twilight—Jin-woo grew quiet, his fingers tightening on Ha-ru's.
"Hey," Ha-ru murmured, turning to him. "Look at me."
Jin-woo did. His eyes held a flicker of the old, defensive wariness.
