Sunlight slid through the apartment's high windows, painting the kitchen in soft gold. It was Saturday, and for once, the world outside seemed content to stay quiet. Joon-ho was already at the stove, pan sizzling with butter, a bowl of thick custard soaking slices of bread. He'd woken first, the old habits of too many dawn shoots sticking no matter how late they'd gotten to bed. Besides, he liked the illusion of being domestic—a chef for his little harem, feeding them like it was his duty.
The apartment was a patchwork of soft sounds: Nari's baby-snores from the nursery, the occasional groan from Harin's room, the muted thud of water pipes as someone flushed, half-asleep.
Mirae shuffled in first, oversized T-shirt sliding off one shoulder, hair wild, eyes puffy with sleep. She flopped at the dining table, face cradled in her hands, peeking at Joon-ho with the sulky pride of a woman who hated mornings but loved being spoiled.
