The moon hung low above the lake, its reflection trembling across the water like it was shivering from the cold night breeze. Ji-Hyun hugged her knees, sitting on the wooden platform with her sneakers dangling over the gentle ripples. Seon-woo sat beside her, elbows resting on the same railing, quiet in that way only he could be—like silence wasn't empty with him, just… full of something layered.
"It's weird," Ji-Hyun said, nudging a pebble with her shoe. "Every time I come near water, I feel like life slows down. Like it gives me space to breathe."
Seon-woo let out a soft laugh under his breath. "No offense, but you talk like a poet when you're tired."
"I am tired," she glared at him, "of you."
"That's impossible," he said, eyes still on the water, voice calm but soft with meaning.
She looked at him. Really looked at him. His messy hair moved slightly with the breeze, his side profile lit by the moonlight, jawline sharp, eyes distant—but softer than usual. Something about Seon-woo tonight wasn't the gloomy, walled-up version of him she'd met on the balcony weeks ago.
Something was opening.
Something was shifting.
"Why did you come here tonight?" Ji-Hyun asked. "To the lake, with me."
He didn't respond right away. His fingers drummed lightly against the wooden railing. A slow, thoughtful rhythm.
"Because," he finally said, "you make things feel less heavy."
Her chest tightened, unexpectedly. "That's… a big thing to say."
"It's true," he shrugged. "I didn't want to go home yet. Didn't want to sit in my room and think about everything I don't have control over. So… I came with you."
Ji-Hyun swallowed. The wind carried the faint smell of pine trees, cold water, and something warm she couldn't name.
"You know," she said quietly, "you talk like a poet when you're tired too."
He turned to her then—fully, eyes meeting hers in a slow, deliberate way that made her pulse jump.
"Then we match," he murmured.
A strange electricity sparked between them, subtle at first. Just the awareness of how close their knees were. How their shoulders brushed each time one of them shifted even slightly. How he didn't look away from her even though he normally avoided eye contact like it burned.
Ji-Hyun's breath hitched. She didn't mean for it to. But Seon-woo noticed. Of course he noticed.
"What?" she asked, defensive.
"You keep doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Breathing like you're trying not to say something."
She froze. "I— I'm not—"
He didn't smile. He didn't tease. He just looked.
"Ji-Hyun," he said quietly, "do you want to say something I should hear?"
Her heart thudded so loudly she was sure he could hear it. "Maybe."
He leaned closer. "Then say it."
She looked down at his hand next to hers on the railing. Close enough that if she moved even a little, their fingers would touch.
"I don't know if I should," she whispered.
"Try me."
"You're confusing," she confessed. "You say things that make me feel like you want this… whatever 'this' is… and then you pull away. You get quiet. Or distant. Or disappear."
He exhaled slowly, eyes closing for a moment. "I know."
"I'm not asking for a commitment," she said. "We made rules, remember? One month. No falling in—"
"Yeah," he cut in softly. "I remember."
"Then why do you look at me like that?" she asked. "Like you're trying to memorize me."
A beat of silence.
Then his voice dropped—low, almost hoarse.
"Because I am."
Ji-Hyun's breath caught again, but this time she didn't hide it.
Seon-woo shifted closer, the space between them shrinking until she could feel the warmth of him, the way his breath brushed her cheek.
"Can I ask you something?" he murmured.
She nodded, unable to speak.
"Do you want me to stop?"
Her eyes rose to his, wide, vulnerable, unsure. "Stop what?"
"This." His gaze flicked to her lips for half a second—barely noticeable, but she felt it all the way down her spine. "Being close to you. Wanting things I shouldn't want."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "I don't… want you to stop."
Seon-woo inhaled sharply—like those words did something to him. Like they clicked into place somewhere deep inside.
And then everything slowed.
His hand lifted—not fast, not uncertain, just deliberate—until his fingers brushed her jawline. A touch so gentle she didn't realize she was leaning into it until his thumb traced the corner of her mouth.
Ji-Hyun's pulse stuttered.
"Okay," he whispered. "Then I won't."
The first kiss wasn't deep. It wasn't urgent. It was a question—hesitant, soft, his lips brushing hers like he was afraid she'd pull away.
She didn't.
She moved closer.
Their noses touched for a second, breaths mingling, and then he kissed her again—deeper this time, slower, with a warmth that unfurled inside her like something blooming too fast to contain.
Her hand found his wrist, then his shirt, pulling him just a little closer. And that was all it took.
Seon-woo's restraint snapped in the gentlest way possible.
His other hand slid to the back of her neck, guiding her in as he kissed her again, deeper, firmer, but still careful—like she was something fragile he didn't want to break.
The world fell away.
The lake. The cold. The month-long deal. The rules they made.
None of it mattered.
Only his lips against hers, steady and searching. Only the soft exhale he made when she kissed him back with the same intensity. Only the way he tilted his head, deepening the kiss in slow, mesmerizing waves.
Ji-Hyun's fingers slipped into his hair, and he inhaled sharply, kissing her with a kind of quiet hunger that shocked her—not rough, not rushed, just full of everything he'd been holding back.
He pulled away for a moment, foreheads touching, breaths uneven.
"Ji-Hyun…" he whispered.
Her thumb brushed his cheek. "Don't stop."
He didn't.
Their lips met again, slower this time, deeper in a different way—like they were learning each other through every second the kiss stretched on, like they'd been waiting for this moment longer than either of them would admit.
The wind chilled their skin, but their kiss stayed warm. Warm enough to anchor them. Warm enough to unravel them. Warm enough to make them forget.
When they finally—finally—pulled apart, Ji-Hyun was staring at him like he'd rewritten the night sky.
Seon-woo rested his forehead on hers, eyes closed, breathing hard.
"We broke a rule," he whispered.
"Yeah," she breathed. "But it felt right."
He let out a small, almost helpless laugh. "Does it scare you?"
"A little." She swallowed. "Does it scare you?"
"A lot." He opened his eyes then, looking at her like she was both the problem and the answer. "But I'm not gonna pretend anymore."
The lake remained quiet.
The night carried their breathing.
And somewhere between the ripples and the moonlight, the deal they made shifted into something neither of them could name yet—but both of them felt.
Deeply.