Saturday morning arrived with a rare gift — sunshine.
After weeks of gray skies and the low hum of hospital lights, Seoul gleamed like a freshly painted picture. The Han River shimmered in soft gold, and the air carried the faint scent of roasted chestnuts and cold wind.
Dr. Minji Park had been the one to insist. "You both need to breathe something other than disinfectant," she declared, wagging her finger at Akhiera. "And no, coffee doesn't count as oxygen."
So here she was — not in scrubs for once, not under fluorescent lights, but walking through Bukchon Hanok Village with Dr. Hyunwoo Kang, who looked far too relaxed for a surgeon.
He had traded his usual coat for a simple knit sweater and scarf, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. "You know," he said as they wandered between tiled rooftops and narrow alleys, "you still walk like you're late for surgery."
Akhiera shot him a look. "Occupational hazard."
"Relax, Dr. Smith," he teased. "The only emergency here is deciding between coffee or hotteok."
She laughed, shaking her head. "You're obsessed with food."
"Guilty," he said with no shame. "But food is the best way to know a city."
"And what about coffee?"
"That's the best way to know a person."
She gave him a playful nudge. "You really can't help yourself, can you?"
"Nope."
They walked slowly, the crowd around them a colorful blur of locals and tourists. A street musician played soft guitar near a teahouse, and children ran past with bubbles catching in their scarves. The world felt lighter, as if the air itself had been rinsed clean.
For the first time since she'd moved to Seoul, Akhiera felt like she was seeing the city — not just surviving it. Every turn revealed something new: a tiny hanok café with hanging lanterns, an artist painting mountain scenes, a grandmother selling handmade scarves.
"Here," Hyunwoo said suddenly, stopping near a small stall.
The vendor — an elderly man with kind eyes — held out a tray of small ceramic pendants. Each one was hand-painted with simple symbols: a moon, a wave, a small home.
"They're lucky charms," the vendor explained. "For travelers, for dreamers."
Akhiera picked one with a tiny blue swirl. "It looks like the sea."
"Maybe it reminds you of home," Hyunwoo said quietly.
She turned the pendant in her hand, feeling the smooth glaze under her fingertips. "Maybe it does."
"How long has it been since you were home?" he asked gently.
She smiled faintly. "Almost two years. But I think… home changes, you know? It used to be a place. Now it's just a feeling I'm still trying to find."
He nodded, thoughtful. "I get that."
She tilted her head. "Do you?"
Hyunwoo hesitated. His gaze drifted toward the horizon — the curved rooftops, the winding streets below. "After my father passed, my apartment stopped feeling like home. I filled it with work, routine, noise. But it was just… quiet inside."
Akhiera's chest tightened. "I'm sorry."
He smiled softly, shaking his head. "You don't have to be. I guess I just stopped expecting that feeling. Until…"
He didn't finish, and she didn't push him to. The silence that followed wasn't awkward — it was shared, a gentle understanding between two people who knew what it meant to lose and rebuild quietly.
They stopped for lunch at a small hanok café tucked between narrow alleys. Wooden tables, paper lanterns, soft jazz humming through an old speaker.
Eunhee — the same woman from the tteokbokki stall — happened to be there, helping her daughter run the café for the weekend. Her face lit up when she saw them. "Ah! My rainy couple!"
Akhiera nearly choked on her tea. "We're not—"
But Hyunwoo only smiled, unbothered. "You follow us everywhere, Ms. Choi."
"I follow good people," she said with a wink. "Eat well, both of you."
As she disappeared into the kitchen, Akhiera buried her face in her hands. "Rainy couple?"
"You have to admit," Hyunwoo said, grinning, "it's catchy."
"You're enjoying this way too much."
"Maybe," he said, eyes glinting. "But she's not entirely wrong."
She looked up, meeting his gaze — and suddenly the air between them shifted. The teasing softened into something quieter, steadier. His smile lingered, but it was different now — almost tender.
Before she could speak, Eunhee returned with two bowls of steaming kimchi jjigae. "Eat before it cools," she said. "Warm hearts need warm meals."
They ate slowly, conversation drifting from patients to travel, from Seoul's winters to his failed attempts at cooking. Akhiera found herself laughing more freely than she had in years. Every moment felt like a small thread — simple, delicate, but somehow strong.
In the afternoon, they wandered toward Samcheong Park, the city unfolding below like a painting. The sun dipped low, turning the sky a pale amber.
"Do you ever think about what brought you here?" Hyunwoo asked quietly as they stopped near the lookout.
"Every day," Akhiera said. "Sometimes I think it was fate. Other days, I think it was just running away from everything familiar."
He nodded. "Maybe both. But I'm glad it led you here."
She smiled, her breath fogging in the cold air. "Why's that?"
He looked at her then — really looked. "Because Seoul feels a little less heavy now."
Her heartbeat stuttered. "You mean because of the coffee breaks and umbrella rescues?"
He chuckled. "Maybe those too."
Their eyes held for a moment too long — a conversation unspoken but understood. The world around them faded into soft gold and wind, and for a heartbeat, neither moved.
Then Hyunwoo exhaled, breaking the moment with gentle humor. "If you keep staring like that, people will think we're filming a drama."
Akhiera laughed, the spell broken but the warmth lingering. "You'd be terrible at acting."
"Probably," he said, smiling. "But maybe I'd be good at pretending to fall in love."
Her laughter faltered — just slightly — at the way he said it. Not teasing, not playful, but almost sincere.
She looked away, cheeks warm. "You wouldn't have to pretend."
The silence that followed was soft and fragile, filled with meaning neither dared to name.
As the day faded into evening, they walked back toward the subway station. The streets were quiet, lanterns flickering to life one by one. Akhiera reached into her bag and handed him something small — the ceramic pendant with the blue swirl.
"For luck," she said. "You might need it more than I do."
Hyunwoo studied it, smiling. "Maybe it's already working."
They stopped under the last lamppost before parting ways. The golden light framed them both, a moment suspended between friendship and something more.
"Goodnight, Akhiera," he said softly.
She hesitated, then smiled. "Goodnight, Hyunwoo."
As she walked away, he slipped the pendant into his pocket and watched her until she disappeared into the crowd.
The air was colder now, but the warmth in his chest didn't fade.
For both of them, that day was the quiet beginning of something they wouldn't yet name — the first hint of love, steady and real, blooming like spring after rain.