We left the clinic through the back entrance.
Apparently, idols did not use front doors.
Ha-rin walked three steps behind me, head lowered, cap pulled down so far it nearly covered her eyes. If anyone recognized her, I was expected to react naturally.
I had never practiced reacting naturally.
A black van waited at the curb. The doctor waved us off like a man sending problems far away from his life.
"This is temporary," he said quickly. "I'll… contact you later."
He vanished before I could respond.
Ha-rin and I stood there in silence.
"Do you… have a car?" she asked carefully.
"No."
"…Of course you don't."
I hailed a taxi.
The driver glanced at us through the mirror. Ha-rin froze. I gave him my address. He nodded and drove off without another word.
This confirmed my long-standing belief that taxis were the best form of human interaction.
Inside the car, Ha-rin sat rigidly, hands folded, like someone being escorted to an interrogation.
"You don't have to look so tense," I said.
"I'm in a taxi with a stranger who might be the father of my child," she replied. "What part of this is relaxed?"
"That is a fair point."
She looked at me. "You're really not scared?"
"I am adjusting," I said. "Fear is inefficient until conclusions are reached."
She stared out the window.
"…You're weird."
"Yes."
That seemed to comfort her slightly.
My apartment was quiet.
It was always quiet.
That was the first thing Ha-rin noticed when we stepped inside.
She stood in the entryway, shoes still on, scanning the space like she was waiting for something to jump out at her.
"This is… it?" she asked.
"Yes."
There was a sofa. A table. A bookshelf. No decorations. No photos. No unnecessary objects.
Her voice dropped. "It's… empty."
"It is organized."
"You don't even have a rug."
"I do not spill things."
She slowly took off her shoes.
"…This place feels illegal."
I ignored that.
"The spare room is down the hall," I said. "Bathroom is shared. Kitchen rules are simple."
"Kitchen rules?"
"Do not move items without informing me."
She blinked. "You have kitchen rules?"
"Yes."
She sighed deeply and followed me.
The spare room had been unused for years. Clean. Plain. A bed. A desk. A closet.
Ha-rin sat on the edge of the bed and looked around.
"…I can stay here?" she asked quietly.
"Yes."
"No cameras?"
"No."
"No managers?"
"No."
"No staff?"
"No."
Her shoulders finally relaxed.
For the first time since we met, she smiled. Not the idol smile. A small, tired one.
"…It's really quiet."
"That was intentional."
She lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
"I haven't been somewhere this quiet in years."
I paused at the door.
"You may rest," I said. "I will prepare food."
She looked at me again. "You cook?"
"I feed myself."
"That wasn't the question."
I left before the conversation became complicated.
Thirty minutes later, I placed a bowl of soup on the table.
Ha-rin approached cautiously.
"This smells… normal."
"That is the goal."
She took a spoonful.
Her eyes widened slightly.
"…It's good."
"Thank you."
She ate quietly for a few moments, then looked up.
"So," she said, "we're really doing this."
"Yes."
"We're living together."
"Yes."
"You're not telling anyone."
"No."
"And the agency can't find me."
"Correct."
She hesitated.
"…And you're okay with this?"
I considered it.
My life was no longer quiet.My schedule was no longer empty.There was an idol eating soup at my table.
"No," I said honestly. "But I am capable."
She laughed.
It slipped out before she could stop it.
It was soft. Real.
"…I think," she said, "this might be the strangest safe house in Seoul."
"That is acceptable."
She looked around my apartment again.
And for the first time, this place no longer felt empty.