The house was still.
Not silent—because silence was never quite possible in a place shared with four boys and too many half-finished lives—but still. A gentle hush lived in the corners now that Seungyong, Haneul, and Daeho had all left for their respective jobs, and I found myself suspended in the quiet hum of weekday inertia. The kettle sang low on the stove. The air was warm with the scent of something just a little sweet, something to do with brown sugar, maybe cinnamon. I hadn't eaten yet, but I wasn't hungry. Not in the traditional sense.
When you live in a house full of damned men and a cursed girl, you learn to savor the rare weekdays when it's just you and one of them in the apartment. No performative arguments with Seungyong, no well-meaning bro energy from Daeho, and no haunting silences from Haneul that made you feel like a glass about to crack under light. Just me and Sejun, working from home.
I was curled up in a pathetic nest of blankets on the living room floor, legs tangled, shoulders hunched over my laptop. Then came the smell of cheese and sesame oil wafting from the kitchen. It was comforting, addictive, the kind of scent that made you forget your own name. My head tilted slightly, eyes still on my screen, half-scrolling through a spreadsheet I didn't even remember opening.
I rose from my seat, drawn in a daze like a moth to warmth. Sejun was in his usual soft attire, with his hair pushed back with his fingers like he's run them through one too many times. His round gold-rimmed glasses make him look disarmingly domestic.
He turned, caught me staring, then grinned like he'd been expecting me. He lowered one bowl to the floor in front of me. "It's gyeran-mari. Egg roll. Don't act like it's caviar."
"Thought I'd have to drag you out of that room," he grinned, "but your stomach beat me to it."
"You bribing me?" I asked, raising a brow as I slid into the chair at the dining table.
"No," he chuckled, setting the plate in front of me. "I'm courting you."
The word echoed inside me. Too casual, too light—but I couldn't deny the way it landed somewhere deep. He didn't even blink. I tried the food, and it was stupidly good. The kind of good that made you want to throw your diet into the Han River.
The rolled egg was golden and glistening, cut into thick spirals and tucked with flecks of finely chopped carrots, green onion, and a thin strip of seaweed running through the center like a vein. It's too beautiful. Unreasonably thoughtful. Something in me twitched at the effort.
I plucked a piece with my fingers and bit into it—and my mouth flooded with a buttery richness, just a hint of soy, the vegetal lift of scallion. My stomach caved to it immediately.
"You're the best cook in this house," I muttered through a mouthful, not even bothering to sound annoyed.
"Obviously," Sejun says smugly, scooping his own piece with chopsticks. "I'm husband material, remember?" He didn't say it to flirt, not exactly. He said it like it was just a fact. Like it would've been dishonest to pretend otherwise.
"Okay," I sighed, chewing, "this is really good."
"I know." Sejun sat down across from me, folding his arms on the table and watching me with that calm, unreadable look he wore sometimes when he was trying to keep from grinning. "I made it as a peace offering."
"For what?"
"For kidnapping you this afternoon."
I narrowed my eyes. "Sejun—"
"Not like that," he chuckled quickly, raising his hands in surrender. "More like... a spontaneous field trip."
"I have work." I didn't thank him aloud. I just picked up one, let the texture press against my fingertips, and bit in. It was perfect. The kind of perfect that makes your stomach ache, not from sweetness, but from something softer and more invisible. Like being known.
"I checked. Your last meeting ended an hour ago. And unless the devil himself emails you, which is unlikely because Seungyong and Haneul are busy, you're free."
I stared at him. He smiled wider.
"What kind of field trip?" I asked cautiously.
"To get your roots done." He reached out and tapped a lock of my hair that had slipped from its messy tie. "It's starting to fade. I thought maybe you wanted to freshen it up. If not—totally fine."
"I didn't ask," I murmured, feigning indifference. "What if I wanted to go black again?"
He held up both hands, palms up like he was calming a stray cat. "Before you yell, I don't think you look any less pretty with your roots showing! I only did it because I saw you looking at your reflection yesterday like it owed you rent. You didn't look mad, you looked... bummed. And I figured maybe you were just waiting for an excuse to feel more like you again." He replied, before tilting his head playfully. "Also, I wanted an excuse to hang out with you, and food bribery is only sustainable for so long."
"I thought you had work," I hummed, trying to tread back into safe territory, but I'd be lying if I said I actually wanted to stay at home instead,
"I do." He stood, stretched. "But I can reschedule calls. Today feels more important."
I hummed a bit, amused. "Mm. I actually didn't go to a salon last time."
"Oh?"
"Haneul helped me bleach and dye it while you and Seungyong were out grocery shopping." The words left my mouth like any other truth. I didn't mean them to hit the way they did.
Sejun paused just long enough for the moment to settle. His lips tugged into the kind of pout that tried very hard not to be a pout. "So what you're saying," he said slowly, "is that Haneul got to play hairstylist with you first?"
"He did a good job," I shrugged. "I mean, I still have hair, don't I?"
"No, no, no." Sejun stood up so fast his reading glasses nearly fell. "This cannot stand. I'm not going to be outdone by Captain Long Silences."
I laughed. "You're being ridiculous."
"I am reclaiming my dignity. You're coming with me to the convenience store right now."
"You're kidding."
"Oh, I'm dead serious." His grin was infuriatingly contagious. "You had your mysterious artist moment with Haneul. Now you get your fluffy domestic husband arc with me. Balance, baby."
He didn't even let me grab a jacket. Just shoved his softest hoodie over my head—one of those oversize ones that still smelled like his cologne and faintly like lavender dryer sheets—and then we were out the door.
The fluorescent lights of the convenience store hummed overhead, casting everything in a soft blue tinge. It was the middle of the afternoon, quiet enough that only one sleepy cashier loitered behind the counter, and we were the only customers browsing the aisles.
Sejun beelined toward the small beauty section. It was tucked beside the cleaning supplies, a single rack of box dyes in faded boxes. He crouched like a hunter tracking his prey, scanning the shelves until he found it. I never really noticed it before, how natural he looked in small domestic gestures. Sejun always had a loudness to him, something theatrical and too charming for its own good. But there, crouching in front of a half-empty rack of hair dye, one hand on his thigh for balance, he looked oddly serious. Intent.
"Blush Pink," he read aloud. "Same one you used before?"
I nodded, crouching beside him. "Yeah. That's it."
He grabbed two boxes and turned to me, triumphant. "Backup. In case the first one doesn't go well." He held up each box to my hair, to the soft curve of my cheek, like he was matching a painting to its frame.
I hesitated. Then, because today's impulse sounded more honest than most, I said, "Actually—don't get pink."
He blinked. "What?"
"Not a retouch," I said. "I want to go black. Back to my color. Cover the pink so it blends with my roots."
For a beat his expression was all surprise—then something like delight. "Black? Really?"
"Yeah." Simple. True. I don't think I meant the choice to be symbolic; it just felt right. Practical even. The pink had been loud and bright and a kind of experiment, but the roots were creeping in—dark and honest. I wanted them to stop contradicting each other.
Sejun's face rearranged into that determined grin. "Of course. Natural black. We will do this properly." He grabbed a box and, because habit made him generous, added a second as backup, plus a few small treats. He treated the stuff like supplies for a mission: gloves, bowls, a plastic shower cap—an unnecessary theater of competence.
I watched him fill the basket with more than we needed; a box of panda cookies I knew he secretly loved, a small hand cream shaped like a peach, a keychain near the register that looked like a smiling dumpling. He didn't ask if I wanted it, he just added it to the basket, casual and certain, like he'd already decided it was meant to dangle from my bag the moment I glanced at it for a second too long.
The front door clicked shut behind us with a soft finality, and Sejun kicked his shoes off like a boy who'd just come home from school. I followed, slower, already feeling the heavy buzz of anticipation coiling behind my ribs.
Sejun was already on his phone, scrolling through YouTube with the intense determination of someone about to perform brain surgery. His brows were furrowed, lips pressed in a line. The moment I slipped my shoes off and padded toward the hallway, I heard him mutter something like "Okay, okay, thirty-minute timer, gloves first, then mix the developer…"
He looked up briefly. "I'm watching like five different tutorials right now. Some of these people are professionals, some are chaos goblins. I'm going with the professionals. I am not messing this up."
I couldn't help but smile. "It's not that serious."
Sejun tilted his head, deeply offended. "Excuse me. You are letting me put chemicals near your scalp, this is life or death, babe."
He said babe the way he always did when he was joking—light, glimmering with the flair of his dramatics—but the word still dropped somewhere warm inside me. I didn't comment on it. I just raised an eyebrow and said, "I'm going to get changed. Try not to accidentally learn how to do a lobotomy in the meantime."
The bathroom mirror was a little foggy from this morning's shower. I wiped it with the edge of my sleeve, catching sight of my roots—bare and dark, peeking out like the truth beneath a lie. I'd dyed it pink months ago, not because I was trying to make a statement, but because I was tired of not feeling like myself. Pink was warm, loud, and impractical, but in a lovable way, kind of like me.
The last time I touched it up was with Haneul. It was a quiet afternoon, just the two of us, both pretending we had nothing better to do than sit knee to knee in the hallway while I covered my head in chemicals and he carefully held the strands I missed. Neither of us spoke much. It had been tender in a way that left a long ache behind.
But this was different.
With Sejun, things always felt like they were happening in real time, like nothing ever needed to be hidden or slow. He was loud where Haneul was quiet. He filled the silences without pushing them away. He let me breathe at my own pace and sometimes, he laughed at me when I did something wrong, only to offer his shoulder right after.
And when he kneeled beside the tub in the bathroom, gloves on, sleeves rolled, squinting at the instructions and muttering to himself, I realized something else.
"Ready?" I asked, meeting his gaze.
Sejun looked up from his phone. He had everything spread out on the dining table: gloves, plastic bowls, the dye box, even a plastic shower cap he must've found in one of the drawers.
Sejun looked up from his phone. He had everything spread out on the dining table: gloves, plastic bowls, the dye box, even a plastic shower cap he must've found in one of the drawers.
"I was born ready," he declared. "But also, I watched seven tutorials and two TikToks at extreme speed in the last fifteen minutes, so I'm actually certified now."
He came closer, sectioning my hair with careful fingers. They were surprisingly steady, surprisingly gentle as he combed through each strand with reverence, like my scalp was made of glass.
"How'd you learn to do this so fast?" I asked as he began applying the dye from root to tip, smoothing it down methodically. "I mean it's one thing to watch videos, another thing to execute it this well."
"Like I said. I'm a genius," he replied. "Also, I googled 'how not to fry your girlfriend's hair' and here we are."
"You're calling me your girlfriend now?"
"Spiritually, on google search. Legally? Emotionally?" He shrugged. "We'll get there."
For a moment, I didn't know what to say.
"So… tell me more about the hair dye lore," he continued, tapping the bowl to loosen the bubbles. "You said you and Haneul did it last time? At home?"
"Yeah," I murmured. "It wasn't really planned. You and Seungyong were out for groceries. We were bored."
"That man is so mysterious," Sejun muttered, brushing more dye behind my ears. "First the hallway painting sessions, now hair-dye dates. I need to up my game."
"Jealous?"
"Absolutely," he said without hesitation. "Do you know how long I've been waiting for you to let me be this domestic with you? The other day you let me reheat your leftovers and I almost cried."
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too wide. "I didn't realize my standards were so low."
"They're perfect," Sejun replied. "Because it means I have every opportunity to raise them."
He moved behind me again, parting more sections of hair. I heard the quiet hum of his breathing, the faint sound of his playlist running in the background with a soft, bouncy R&B beat, mellow but warm.
"Have you done this before?" I asked. "Dyeing hair, I mean."
"Nope," he said cheerfully. "But I made soufflé once. This is just like soufflé."
"That's not—"
He dipped the brush into the dye mixture and pressed it delicately to the roots of my hair, painting with slow, even strokes. It was warm, almost too warm, and the smell of chemicals filled the kitchen like synthetic fruit.
"I mean," he continued as he worked, "both require exact timing, light hands, and the knowledge that one misstep could destroy everything."
I laughed under my breath. "So comforting."
"You'll look great," he smiled softly, without teasing this time. "You already do."
It came so quietly I nearly didn't catch it. But I did.
And in that moment, with the chemical smell in the air, pink dye on my head, and Sejun beaming like a man on a mission, I realized that maybe this wasn't about hair at all. Maybe this was about someone seeing the parts of you that grow back—messy, dark, and human—and choosing to color them in with light anyway.
And maybe, just maybe, I was letting him.
I thought about the last time Haneul had helped—the small quiet between two people who didn't make a show of their tenderness—and then about this, which had required more noise and more confidence. Both of them, in their different ways, had touched me. Neither had been wrong.
Maybe going black was practical—a way to stop the pink from fighting my roots. Maybe it was also a small, private return. I hadn't announced it to anyone; I hadn't written it out loud. But letting Sejun do it for me felt less like surrender and more like accepting help at exactly the moment I needed it.
The plastic brush dragged gently across my hair like he was trying to coax something out of me.
I stared straight ahead as Sejun sectioned off another part of my hair, sliding a clip into place with a quick snap. He was fast, methodical, and comfortable, like he'd been waiting for this moment longer than he'd admit.
His fingers kept brushing the curve of my ear or grazing the slope of my nape, and every accidental touch was a spark I pretended not to feel.
"You're being very careful." I mused, humming. "You're going at this like it's brain surgery."
"That's because it is as serious as a surgery." He mumbled, eyes focused. "If I mess this up, Haneul wins."
I glanced toward the mirror over the sink and caught a glance of myself— towel-wrapped, pink smudged and bleeding around my forehead like war paint. And behind me, Sejun stood like some proud mad scientist, grinning wide, with gloves stained black.
I smiled, despite myself.
It was cute— At that moment, I wasn't sure if I was referring to his affectionate actions, or just him in general, or both.
It was probably both, and maybe—just maybe—I wanted to keep him there.
He finished, smoothed the last strand flat, and sealed my head with the shower cap. "Thirty minutes," he said, sliding the timer across the table like a judge passing sentence. He sat on the edge of the tub and drummed his fingers, watching me with the peculiar intensity of someone deeply pleased with being useful.
Time did the gentle work of dye. The small domestic noises—traffic outside, the kettle cooling, the thunk of a chapter ending on somebody else's audiobook—seemed to swell in the gaps. I let my eyes close. When you let someone do something intimate like color your hair, there is a vulnerability that feels like an offering and, sometimes, a test. Sejun's presence was soft assurance. He hummed under his breath, mile markers of a song only he knew. Once, he leaned forward and kissed the crown of my head, careful enough not to disturb the cap. It was brief and ridiculous and impossibly tender.
When the timer bleeped, Sejun was ceremonious—peeling back the cap like unwrapping a present. He rinsed my hair in the shower with meticulous thoroughness, shampooing until the water ran clear and no hint of rose washed away with it. The water was warm and overturning. He guided my shoulders, steadying me as though we were finishing a race together.
He towel-dried with exaggerated care, combing through damp strands so the newly dark hair clung and fell like a curtain. The smell of dye had been replaced by the clean, neutral scent of shampoo and the faint residue of the cabbage-sweetness of the kitchen egg rolls. He used a hairdryer, not for show but because he liked to see the way my hair lay when it was finally set—how it caught the light, how it moved.
When he spun the chair slowly and I faced the mirror, the woman reflected back at me had my old color: dark, unadorned, familiar in a way that felt like homecoming. The pink was gone, not in a dramatic erasure but like a book returned to its shelf. I touched the lengths, surprised by both the texture and the quietness of the shade.
Sejun's mouth did that soft upward thing—approval without fanfare. "You look like yourself," he said simply.
I found I wanted to argue—say I looked better with pink, or that I should be bolder—but all of that felt unnecessary. There was a kind of permission in his quiet. "I like it," I admitted. "It feels… honest."
He reached across the table and laced our fingers without ceremony. "Good. Also," he added with a grin, "it makes your face look extra mysterious."
"You're ridiculous," I told him; but I didn't pull away.