Her Room, My Home

The door had clicked shut hours ago.

But I was still sitting on the edge of the living room sofa, elbows on knees, hands threaded, staring at nothing.

The apartment felt hollow again.

The kind of hollow that came not from absence, but from impact.

Seo Yoon hadn’t come out of her room since he left. I didn’t blame her. I hadn’t moved much either.

At some point, I stood and drifted toward her door. Not to knock. Just to be near it.

My hand hovered near the frame. Then I turned away.

But before I could walk back, the door opened.

She stood there — hair tied loosely, face bare, eyes tired.

She didn’t say anything. Neither did I.

Then, softly, “Come in.”

I stepped inside her room for the first time.

It smelled like her — warm tea and fabric softener. Books in soft stacks. A folded sweater on the chair. One slipper out of place.

She sat on the edge of the bed. I followed.

We didn’t touch at first. Just sat there. Close, quiet.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She nodded, then shook her head. “Not really. But I will be.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She looked at me. “For what?”

“For dragging you into this. For not telling him sooner. For… everything.”

She reached for my hand. Laced her fingers with mine.

“You didn’t drag me. I walked into it. Willingly.”

We sat like that for a while. No music. No tea. Just the hum of the heater and the weight of something beginning.

Eventually, I stood to make tea.

She folded my hoodie that had been tossed across her chair. Neatly. Like it belonged there.

When I came back, she was sitting with her knees drawn up, mug cupped in both hands. I sat beside her again. This time, our shoulders touched.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.

She leaned her head on my shoulder, and I tilted toward her instinctively, as if my body had always known how to make space for hers.

“I know,” she whispered, and it wasn’t just acknowledgment. It was a promise.

That night, I laid out a blanket beside her bed. She told me I didn’t have to, but I only smiled.

“I want to be close,” I said.

She looked at me like I was something warm she hadn’t let herself believe in until now. And then she nodded.

She turned off the lamp but didn’t retreat entirely. Her hand reached down, fingers brushing through my hair, slow and soft.

“Goodnight, Aleem.”

I looked up at her — at the shadows across her cheeks, at the way she kept watching me like I was the beginning of something she could finally trust.

“Goodnight, Seo Yoon.”

And when I closed my eyes, I didn’t dream.

Because I didn’t need to.

I had her.

And whatever came next — I was ready for it.

For her.

For us.

—

Days passed. Quietly. Naturally. Like we’d been like this all along.

We slipped into a rhythm — sharing grocery lists, folding each other’s laundry, brushing shoulders at the sink. She made breakfast. I washed up. I left notes in her planner. She left extra sugar in my coffee.

I finally asked her — properly, simply — one night while we were curled up on the couch, legs tangled beneath the kotatsu.

“Will you be mine? Officially.”

She didn’t look surprised. Just leaned into me, nodded once, and whispered, “I already am.”

A few days later, I handed her a small box.

Inside was a silver necklace — delicate, with a small butterfly pendant.

She looked at me, touched it with her thumb, and smiled so softly I felt my heart pause. “It’s beautiful.”

“May I?” I asked, already reaching for the clasp.

She turned around without a word, lifting her hair gently off her neck.

The back of her skin was warm under my fingers. I clipped the necklace into place with slow care, then let my fingers linger just slightly longer than necessary.

She turned back to face me, her fingertips finding the pendant.

“It’s perfect,” she said.

“So is this,” I whispered, brushing a kiss to her forehead.

She leaned in, arms around my waist, her cheek against my chest.

And in that moment, I knew: I was already hers. And I always had been.

—

It rained the following Thursday.

Seo Yoon had texted that she’d be working late. I waited anyway. She wasn’t the type to carry an umbrella.

She stood in the lobby of her building, coat damp, hair clinging to her cheeks. Two men from her office offered to walk her home. One of them reached out with a teasing grin — something casual, familiar.

Then I stepped in.

My umbrella — clear, wide — hovered over both of us as I reached for her hand.

“Noona,” I said gently, “hope I’m not too late.”

She blinked, startled for a second — then smiled, a little dazed, and stepped under the umbrella.

We walked home quietly, shoulders brushing, our fingers eventually linking. The rain kept falling, but we didn’t notice.

She kept glancing up at me, her eyes catching in the dim glow of passing streetlamps. I tugged the umbrella a little lower to shield more of her, then shifted it so she didn’t have to lean in quite so much.

“You really didn’t have to come,” she said, her voice small under the rain.

“I wanted to,” I said. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you standing there, soaked and surrounded by people who don’t know how to hold your quiet.”

She looked at me — really looked — then leaned her head lightly against my shoulder as we walked.

I kissed her temple without thinking. Just a soft brush. Just to feel her warmth.

“You’re getting bolder,” she murmured.

“I’m catching up,” I replied. “You’ve been in my heart longer than I’ve admitted.”

She stopped walking for a moment, turned to face me under the umbrella. The rain curved around us like a veil.

“You mean that?”

I reached out and tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear.

“With everything I have.”

And then we walked again. Hand in hand. Her fingers curled tighter around mine.

We were too full of each other to feel the cold.

—

When we reached the apartment, the hallway lights buzzed faintly. But it wasn’t empty.

Kim Ho stood there.

Drenched.

His hair was soaked. His hoodie clung to his frame. And his eyes — more tired than angry — locked onto us.

His gaze dropped to our joined hands.

Seo Yoon tensed beside me.

I stepped forward first. “You’re early,” I said softly.

He didn’t answer.

We opened the door. Invited him in.

He stepped inside, shoes squeaking on the floor. No one said anything at first.

Seo Yoon handed him a towel. He took it but didn’t use it.

The silence lasted longer than it should’ve. Until finally — Kim Ho cleared his throat, his eyes flicking between the floor and the both of us.

“I… I don’t really know what to say,” he muttered. His voice was hoarse, thick with something more than rain. “It’s weird. Seeing you like that.”

Seo Yoon opened her mouth, then closed it again. She looked at him — her younger brother — with something tender in her expression. Something protective.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling hard. “If she’s happy… and if you’re serious… then just… don’t hurt her, hyung. Please.”

His voice cracked fully on that last word. His shoulders rose like he was bracing for something.

“I won’t,” I said, stepping closer. “You have my word.”

He looked at his sister, and for a long moment, neither of them said anything. Then, finally, he spoke again, quieter this time.

“I mean it, hyung. If you’re not ready to love her right… then let her go.”

“I’m ready,” I said. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Kim Ho’s jaw clenched. He blinked fast, then gave a shaky nod — not quite approval, but not rejection either.

“I just… I still remember when she cried over someone who didn’t stay,” he said, voice trembling. “Don’t be that guy.”

“I won’t be,” I said gently. “Not now. Not ever.”

There was another beat of silence. Then Seo Yoon stepped forward, wrapped her arms around her brother.

He didn’t move at first. But then he sank into it, his chin pressing to her shoulder.

I stepped forward too — slowly, cautiously — and placed a hand on his back.

He didn’t pull away.

The three of us stood there, soaked in rain, heavy with history, and finally—lightened by the beginning of something whole.

When we pulled apart, no one said anything else.

We didn’t need to.

—

That night, Seo Yoon and I stood by the window of our apartment, side by side.

She wore the necklace — the butterfly catching glints of the fireworks like it had caught a piece of the sky. I held her hand, her fingers curled lightly around mine, thumb tracing the back of my knuckles as if she was memorizing the shape of me.

Outside, the Han River sparkled with bursts of gold, red, and green, reflected in her eyes as though they belonged to her.

We sipped our coffee slowly, the steam curling between us, our shoulders touching like gravity had chosen us to lean.

“I’m glad I studied in Korea,” I said, voice barely above the hum of the heater, but certain.

She looked up at me, her eyes soft, lips curved with the kind of smile you only give once you’ve found home.

She gave a soft laugh, eyes crinkling. “Then I guess I’m glad you studied in Seoul.”

She leaned her head on my shoulder, and I kissed the top of her hair.

The sky bloomed with color outside, but I couldn’t look away from her.

Not anymore.

Not ever.