Seo-ah's POV
Seo-ah stared at her phone screen like it had betrayed her.
The homepage of the e-reading app blinked back innocently, filled with pastel-colored covers, couples kissing under lampposts, and titles like Kisses in Kyoto and Midnight Latte Confessions. She scrolled quickly past the glowing reviews, her thumb twitching with impatience.
This was not her section.
She belonged to the darker corner of fiction—stories with cryptic titles, eerie forest covers, and morally gray protagonists. She wanted mystery, adrenaline, whispered threats, not… flower fields and emotional confessions.
"Why are you sighing like that?" Ji-won's voice cut through the silence.
Seo-ah looked up from her phone. Her best friend was sprawled across the other end of the bed, earphones hanging half-out, clearly eavesdropping.
"Because I just wasted fifteen minutes searching for a new book and all I'm getting are... heart emojis and soft boys."
Ji-won sat up and grinned like she'd been waiting for this moment. "Then it's finally time."
"For what? A lobotomy?"
"No," she said, proudly pulling out her own phone. "Lavender Skies and Winter Lies. It's a gentle, slow romance. The kind that crawls into your chest without asking."
Seo-ah wrinkled her nose. "Sounds like a disease."
"It's beautiful," Ji-won insisted, already navigating to the link. "I dare you to read just three chapters. If you hate it, I'll never recommend another soft boy again."
Seo-ah groaned. "I already hate the title."
"You will not hate Ha-joon."
She raised an eyebrow. "Is he emotionally unavailable?"
"Nope."
"Brooding?"
"Only when it rains."
"Dark past?"
Ji-won smiled mischievously. "That's the thing. He's the opposite of everything you usually read. And it'll mess you up."
Seo-ah gave her a look. "Fine. But if he plays guitar and says things like 'I'm broken, don't fix me,' I'm deleting the app."
Ten minutes later, she was curled up under her blanket, earphones in, phone glowing gently in the dark.
CHAPTER ONE: Lavender Skies and Winter Lies
He handed her the umbrella without looking at her. Just reached out, like it was second nature, like protecting her wasn't even a decision—it was instinct.
Seo-ah snorted.
Too poetic. Too sweet.
She kept reading.
By chapter two, she'd already rolled her eyes four times.
By chapter three… she slowed down.
It wasn't dramatic. Just subtle. The way Ha-joon remembered things—tiny things. The way he didn't interrupt when the female lead cried, just sat beside her and waited. The way he brought her coffee with exactly two sugars because she once said anything more gave her headaches.
Seo-ah didn't notice her thumb hovering longer between page turns.
By the time she reached chapter five, her heart wasn't racing like it did during chase scenes in thrillers. But it was… warm.
It felt like walking home under streetlights.
She paused to take a breath.
He wasn't flashy. Not poetic in the tragic way. No hidden knife collection. No haunted childhood or secret identities.
But he was present.
And that presence felt more dangerous to her than any thriller villain.
Because it made her feel.
She pulled out her earphones and stared at the ceiling.
A few moments later, Ji-won peeked into the room. "Well?"
Seo-ah didn't move. "He gave her gloves."
"Right?" Ji-won said, climbing onto the bed like a proud parent.
"She forgot hers," Seo-ah whispered. "And he noticed. Without her saying anything. Who does that?"
"Ha-joon does."
"I don't think I've ever read a boy like that."
"That's why I told you. Thrillers give you tension, but romance… it gives you ache."
Seo-ah frowned. "It's unsettling."
"It's healing," Ji-won corrected.
Seo-ah laid back down and reopened the book. This time, she read slower.
The conversations between Ha-joon and the lead girl weren't grand or lyrical—they were laced with quiet understanding. Comfort in silence. She realized it wasn't the actions alone that made him feel like a green flag. It was the way he never forced his way in. He didn't ask to be let into her world. He just waited by the door with an umbrella.
By chapter ten, Seo-ah found herself rereading a particular line:
"Some hearts don't need rescuing. They just need to be held right."
She stared at those words like they held a key to something she hadn't known she was missing.
The next night, she read four more chapters. Then another three. She told herself she was analyzing character arcs. That it was just research for her own writing. But when she cried at chapter sixteen, she didn't pretend anymore.
Ha-joon was fiction.
But he reminded her of the version of herself she used to believe in—one where softness wasn't weakness, where people could love gently without asking for pieces of you in return.
Then came the twist.
The girl chose Min-woo. The ex who ghosted her. The one who broke promises, said sorry with flowers, and showed up conveniently during emotional collapses.
Seo-ah closed the book.
She sat in silence.
Ji-won walked in five minutes later with a smug smile that vanished the moment she saw her face. "Oh no. You finished it."
Seo-ah looked up. Her voice cracked. "How could she walk away from a man like that?"
Ji-won sat beside her slowly. "I asked myself the same thing."
"She left kindness. For chaos."
"I think… Some girls don't know what to do with gentle love. They're so used to bracing for impact, they think calm is boring."
Seo-ah didn't answer.
She thought of Han-jin. The way he'd confuse her with silence, then love-bomb her the next day. The way she thought being chosen meant being loved. The way she used to call his possessiveness passion.
But Ha-joon… he was steady.
Like a lighthouse.
And she'd never once imagined herself worth someone like that.
Until now.
"Why'd you really make me read this?" Seo-ah asked.
Ji-won smiled sadly. "Because I think you deserve someone who brings you gloves before the snow starts falling."