The apartment felt strangely peaceful after so many days of tension and chaos, as if the city outside was catching its breath just for them. Sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains, dust motes tumbling lazily in the glow. Somewhere in the distance, a siren faded, replaced by the hum of traffic and a pigeon cooing from the balcony rail. But inside, all was calm—except, perhaps, for the small storm of laughter and gossip brewing at the breakfast table.
Yura woke to emptiness—cool sheets beside her, the faint scent of Joon-ho on the pillow, but no warmth. It took a moment for her to orient herself, her body pleasantly sore, her mind hovering in that delicate haze that lingered after a night spent giving in to everything she'd denied herself for weeks. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed: 10:15 AM. Late, by her standards.
