On a quiet Sunday evening, the sun lingered stubbornly above the horizon, its golden light slipping into the dining room where Ye-seul lounged like she owned the place. Half-empty snack bags and a pizza box surrounded her throne of crumbs as she stuffed her cheeks with reckless abandon.
Across the table, Min-jae sat with his laptop open, his face aglow with cold blue light, his focus locked so intensely it was as though she didn't exist.
"Oppa!" she called, her words muffled by food.
"What do you want?" His reply was flat, eyes never leaving the screen.
Ye-seul smirked. "You live in this huge, beautiful house, but you never bring a girl over. Don't you ever get… lonely?" Her tone dripped with mischief as she reached for another slice.
"I'm not interested," Min-jae said sharply, fingers moving again over the keys.
Her eyes gleamed. "So you really don't have feelings for Ms. Choi anymore?"
That was when his hands froze. He lifted his gaze slowly, his cold eyes pinning her in place.
"You said you came here because you were starving." His voice was low, controlled. "Finish up and leave."
With that, he pushed back his chair and disappeared upstairs, his footsteps unhurried, dismissive.
Ye-seul puffed her cheeks. "Such a great attitude, you're lucky you're my favorite" she muttered, shoving more pizza into her mouth.
---
Steam curled thick around Min-jae's shoulders as he stood under the shower. Water streamed down taut muscles, clinging to every line as though reluctant to let go. He pressed his palm against the tiled wall, Ye-seul's careless words echoing louder than the water.
"Why does being the favorite brother feel like a curse?" he whispered, jaw tight.
When he finally emerged, a robe slung around him, the house was drowned in silence—until the sharp chime of the doorbell split it apart.
Barefoot, in loose gray sweatpants, robe half-open, hair dripping rebelliously across his forehead, he descended the stairs and opened the door.
A large box filled the frame.
"You can drop it. I'll handle it," he said coolly.
"It's fine," came a voice—familiar, too familiar.
His eyes narrowed. "…Ms. Choi?"
The box lowered. Ga-young's face came into view.
But her world stopped at the sight before her.
Min-jae stood shirtless, his robe hanging open, revealing a chest glistening with droplets that slid down the hard ridges of his abs. The golden light spilling from the hallway sculpted every line of his frame, making him look larger than life—too perfect, too dangerous.
Her breath caught. The box tumbled from her hands, crashing to the ground as a scream tore from her lips.
In a flash, Min-jae closed the distance. His hand shot out, pulling her in and pinning her against the wall. His palm pressed firmly over her mouth, his body a wall of heat and restrained power.
Water dripped from his hair, trailing down the sharp cut of his jaw, sliding over the curve of his collarbone. The clean scent of soap clung to him, mingling with something darker, undeniably him.
Their eyes locked. His gaze burned into hers—intense, unreadable, magnetic. For one dangerously still moment, the air between them felt like it might ignite.
And just as suddenly, he stepped back.
"Excuse me," he muttered roughly, turning away, climbing the stairs without another glance.
Ga-young stood trembling, her palms pressed to her heated cheeks, her lips tingling with the ghost of his touch.
Her heart barely steadied before footsteps returned.
This time, Min-jae reappeared cloaked in a dark hoodie, its loose fabric swallowing his frame, though the damp strands of hair still clung rebelliously to his forehead. He crossed to the fridge, voice calm but clipped.
"Ms. Choi, what brings you here?"
"You invited me, you said it was urgent" Ga-young said, brows knitting. "You sent me a text." She said turning her phone screen towards him.
Min-jae frowned. He checked her phone, lips pressing into a line. "Ye-seul," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That girl."
Ga-young's lips parted. "So she…?"
"She sent it using my phone. I'm sorry." His voice softened.
Ga-young shook her head quickly. "No need. I wasn't busy."
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. "You've been charmed. Don't encourage her."
She laughed lightly, tension easing. "Since I'm here, why don't we just work on the project?"
---
Later, in his study, Ga-young leaned over the desk, sketching concepts. When she finally looked up, her voice carried quiet confidence.
"Mr. Min-jae. Come look at this."
He stepped closer—too close. His tall frame leaned over her shoulder, his hand braced on the table, his presence boxing her in. His cologne mingled with the faint warmth of his skin, his breath brushing her cheek as he scrolled casually across the screen.
Ga-young's chest tightened. Her pulse betrayed her.
Without looking at her, he asked, "Do you want to watch the sunset?"
She blinked. "The… sunset?"
His lips curved faintly. "Don't misunderstand. You can see it from the balcony."
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. "That would be nice."
---
The balcony opened to a horizon drenched in amber and rose, the sky melting into fire as the sun descended.
Ga-young leaned against the railing, hair catching the breeze. Min-jae returned with two glasses of mocktails, the liquid glowing like the sky itself. He handed one to her wordlessly.
"Thank you," she murmured, exhaling.
"Do you always do this?" she asked after a sip, her tone soft.
"Only Sundays," he replied. His voice was calmer now, almost tender. "No laptop. No noise. Just silence… and the sunset."
She glanced at him, the light gilding his sharp features, softening the storm still lingering in his eyes.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
For a moment, neither spoke. Just two figures side by side, watching the world burn itself into color, their glasses catching the same glow as the fading sun.
"I've missed this," Ga-young whispered, as if the words slipped out before she could stop them.
Min-jae's head turned slightly, his eyes narrowing just a bit. "You can always come here if you want to. This balcony has the best angle of the sunset."
She gave a short laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Wouldn't that be weird? Me showing up here just to watch the sky?"
"I don't find it weird," he said quietly, his tone steady but heavy with something unspoken. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon. "The sunset is something worth dying for."
"You really love it, don't you?" she whispered, her voice fragile, like she was afraid the question itself might break him.
"Back then, I used to wait for it like it was the only thing keeping me alive. It was the brightest thing in my life, my source of joy." His reply slipped out rough, stripped bare, carrying a rawness he rarely allowed anyone to hear. His gaze never left the horizon, but the confession hung heavy between them, heavier than the dying sun itself.
Her chest tightened. Slowly, she turned back to the sky, its canvas of molten gold unraveling into violet shadow. "It must have been beautiful," she murmured—though she wasn't sure if she meant the sunset or the memory of the boy he had been.
"It was the prettiest" he replied.
The breeze stirred, lifting strands of her hair into the air, carrying with it the faint clink of ice in their untouched glasses. The silence between them was no longer empty—it pulsed, full of things unsaid. It was the kind of silence that pressed against the skin, that made her heart stumble in her chest, that felt alive, as if even the setting sun had paused to eavesdrop.