His Noona, My Crush

The morning after the power outage, I woke up with the same flicker of heat still lodged in my chest. It had dulled overnight, quieted beneath the surface — but it hadn’t left. Her warmth, the way her body had pressed against mine, the split-second weight of her trust — too brief to be anything. Too heavy to be nothing.

We didn’t speak of it. Not the stumble. Not the way she’d laughed. Not the way I’d wanted to stay in that moment just a little longer.

And somehow, that silence made it worse.

Over breakfast, she was back to her composed self — tied hair, soft cardigan, eyes on the stove. The mask of professionalism back in place.

“Coffee?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I replied, like the night before hadn’t rearranged the space between us.

She poured and passed it to me without meeting my eyes. I accepted it with both hands, grounding myself in the warmth.

We were back to normal. But the normal had changed.

—

That evening, I spotted her by accident.

I was walking past a restaurant near the station when her voice — light and tipsy — floated through the air. Neon spilled over the pavement. The smell of grilled meat and alcohol hung thick.

There she was, seated at a long table with colleagues. Her cheeks were flushed. Her smile relaxed. Laughter spilling out like water. She looked different in that light — not the Seo Yoon of quiet mornings and folded towels, but someone lighter, freer.

I didn’t mean to stay.

But I did.

One of the men — a guy with slicked hair and too much confidence — lifted her shot glass and downed it with a grin. She nodded, her smile sleepy. When she stood, swaying just slightly, he placed a hand behind her back.

I moved without thinking.

By the time she reached the sidewalk, the same guy reached out again — casual, claiming. I stepped in.

I grabbed his wrist before it touched her.

“Don’t,” I said, steady and low. “I’ll take her home. Leave it to me.”

He blinked at me, half-drunk and thrown off. “Who are you?”

“Her housemate.”

The girls nearby whispered. The guy frowned, but backed off.

Seo Yoon leaned into me instinctively. Her balance off, her trust immediate. She smelled of soju and citrus. Her voice was barely audible.

“Mmm… Aleem?”

“Yeah. I’ve got you.”

We made it home slowly. I helped her out of her shoes. Walked her to her room. She mumbled something I couldn’t quite catch. I guided her to bed and covered her with a blanket, careful not to wake whatever part of her needed rest.

Then I went to the kitchen.

I filled the pot with water. Anchovy base, seaweed, tofu — hangover soup, muscle memory from childhood mornings with my mother.

And as I stirred, something unsettled in me kept swirling with the broth.

What was that all about?

Why did it matter so much?

What am I doing?

—

Later that night, I texted Ivan.

aleem: what if you liked someone you weren’t supposed to like?

ivan: you mean like… your professor? your cousin? your TA?

aleem: no.

ivan: oh. then go on.

aleem: she’s close to someone I care about.

ivan: and?

aleem: and I think she feels something too. but we’re both pretending it’s not there.

ivan: so what’s worse — acting on it? or living in a house with it bottled up?

I didn’t respond.

Because I didn’t know.

—

The next morning, I set the hangover soup down in front of her. She blinked at it, still half-asleep.

“You made this?” she asked.

I nodded.

She tasted it. Her lips curled gently. “Thanks.”

A beat of hesitation.

“Was it you who… brought me home?”

Another nod.

She looked at me for a moment, eyes searching.

Then, quietly: “Thanks.”

Not casual. Not obligatory.

Just soft. Real.

I sat there long after she disappeared into her room.

This wasn’t just about Kim Ho anymore.

It was about whether I could keep pretending this was nothing.

And with every day, that illusion was getting harder to hold.