Sunday mornings in Seoul had their own kind of rhythm.
The air smelled of roasted corn and street bread, the sound of chatter spilling from open market stalls. Bright awnings fluttered over piles of vegetables, fresh herbs, and steaming pots of odeng broth. Somewhere, a street performer strummed a guitar softly beneath a yellow parasol.
Dr. Akhiera Smith hadn't expected her weekend to start here.
"Remind me," she said, shifting the shopping basket in her arm, "how did I get volunteered for this again?"
"Because you lost at rock-paper-scissors," Dr. Hyunwoo Kang replied, pushing the cart beside her with an infuriatingly calm smile.
"I think Minji rigged it," Akhiera muttered. "She knows I always pick rock."
"She also knows you can't say no," he teased. "You're too polite."
"I'm a victim of workplace manipulation."
He chuckled. "Consider it exposure therapy."
"For what?"
"For being human outside the hospital."
She rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips anyway.
They moved through the market slowly, weaving between stalls bursting with color — gleaming peppers, bunches of green onions, baskets of bright tangerines. The air buzzed with energy, yet between them, the pace was unhurried.
"Okay," Hyunwoo said, glancing at the list Minji had texted. "Eggs, tofu, vegetables, chicken… and a note that says 'don't burn anything this time.'"
Akhiera laughed. "She doesn't trust us after the pancake incident."
"Fair," he said. "We did almost burn my apartment down."
"Correction: you did."
He pointed at her accusingly. "You flipped the pancake."
"You handed me a broken spatula!"
"It was an artistic choice!"
They both broke into laughter, drawing a few curious glances from nearby shoppers.
Akhiera shook her head, cheeks flushed from amusement and the cool morning air. "You're impossible."
He smiled, watching her laugh — not the quiet, careful kind she gave at work, but the real one, bright and unguarded. It made the market noise fade into the background.
At a small produce stall, an elderly vendor greeted them with a cheerful wave. "Ah, young couple! Fresh cabbage today!"
Akhiera blinked. "Oh— we're not—"
But Hyunwoo smiled and nodded politely. "We'll take two."
The woman chuckled knowingly. "Two hearts, two cabbages. Lucky number."
As they walked away, Akhiera groaned. "You didn't correct her."
"Would it have helped?"
"She thought we were—"
"Buying vegetables?" he said innocently.
"Very funny."
He grinned. "I didn't mind. You looked like you were about to argue with a grandmother. No one wins that battle."
She sighed but couldn't suppress her smile. "Fine. But you're carrying the cabbages."
"Yes, ma'am," he said with a mock salute.
They stopped for snacks — skewers of tteokbokki and mandu from a street vendor. Steam rose between them as they stood under the shade of an awning, sharing bites and small talk.
"Careful," Hyunwoo warned. "It's spicy."
"I can handle it," she said confidently.
A moment later, she coughed, eyes watering.
He laughed, offering her a bottle of water. "Told you."
She accepted it, glaring playfully. "I'll never admit defeat."
"That's okay," he said softly. "I like that about you."
The words slipped out easily, but they lingered — a little too honest, a little too quiet.
She froze for half a heartbeat, then smiled faintly. "Flattery won't get you out of carrying the groceries."
He chuckled, but his gaze stayed on her a moment longer than it should have.
By early afternoon, their baskets were full. They sat on a low stone wall outside the market, resting. The city moved around them — traffic hums, vendors calling out prices, laughter echoing in the distance.
Akhiera glanced at their shopping bags, then at him. "You know," she said softly, "this feels… normal."
"Normal?"
"Yeah," she said, looking around. "Not hospitals or surgeries or schedules. Just… this. Like something people do every weekend without thinking about it."
He followed her gaze — the families passing by, the couples holding hands, the old friends sharing lunch. "Maybe that's what makes it special," he said. "We don't get many days like this."
She smiled faintly. "You sound sentimental."
"Occupational hazard," he said, echoing her own old joke.
Their eyes met. The playful tone faded into quiet warmth — the kind that said I'm happy you're here.
On their way back, a sudden drizzle began to fall.
"Not again," Akhiera groaned, looking up at the gray sky.
Hyunwoo quickly opened his umbrella, motioning her under it. "Déjà vu."
She laughed, stepping close beside him. "We're going to need a bigger umbrella at this rate."
He smiled, tilting it slightly so the drops curved away from her. "Or maybe Seoul just keeps finding excuses."
"For what?"
"For this," he said simply.
She glanced at him — the soft rain catching the edge of his hair, the light in his eyes reflected from wet streets. And for a moment, it felt like the whole city had slowed just for them.
Back at her apartment, they set the bags down by the door, both reluctant for the day to end.
"Thank you," she said, brushing raindrops from her sleeve. "For today. It was… nice."
"Just nice?" he teased.
She smiled. "Fine. It was more than nice."
He grinned, satisfied. "Then we'll call it a success."
As he turned to leave, she called after him. "Hyunwoo."
He paused, looking back.
She hesitated, then said quietly, "You make it easy to forget how hard things used to feel."
His expression softened. "That's what friends are for, right?"
She nodded, though the word friends suddenly felt too small.
"See you tomorrow," he said, smiling.
"See you," she replied.
When the door closed, Akhiera leaned against it, exhaling slowly. The sound of the rain outside blended with the echo of his laughter still lingering in her chest.
For the first time, she realized that home wasn't just a place she found — it was something, someone, that made even an ordinary grocery day feel like a glimpse of forever.