The guest room was small, with low ceilings and the comforting scent of dried lavender. Yan-chen set his suitcase down, his head nearly brushing the doorframe. As he moved toward the wooden shelf to clear some space, his gaze fell on a framed photograph. It was Seo-yoon, younger and laughing, with her arm looped through a boy's—the same boy from the SNU campus. Min-ho.
Yan-chen stared at the photo, his thumb tracing the edge of the frame. "Maybe they were too close," he murmured to the empty room, his voice barely a shadow. He didn't feel anger, but a strange, heavy constriction in his chest—a structural flaw he couldn't quite calculate.
He changed into a simple black sweater and headed downstairs. The dining table was an architectural marvel of its own, crowded with steaming dishes: Bulgogi (marinated beef), Doenjang-jjigae (soybean paste stew), and an array of side dishes like Gyeran-mari (rolled omelet) and fresh Kimchi.
"Ah, you're here! Sit, sit," Seo-yoon's mother greeted warmly.
Yan-chen took his seat. Back in China, his family dinners were formal, silent affairs held in cold, echoing dining rooms. Here, the steam from the stew fogged up the windows, and the sound of metal chopsticks hitting rice bowls was like a rhythmic heartbeat. When Seo-yoon's mother placed a prime piece of meat directly onto his rice, Yan-chen paused. It was a gesture of inclusion he hadn't expected. For a moment, the "Ice Prince" disappeared, replaced by a young man who smiled—truly and openly—at the simple chaos of a happy home.
After helping her mother clear the table, Seo-yoon retreated to her room. She opened her cupboard and found the dark wool muffler she had carried all the way from Suzhou. She walked to the guest room to return it, but the bed was empty.
She knew exactly where he'd be.
On the rooftop, Yan-chen sat on a low wooden Pyeong-sang (platform), surrounded by rows of Jangdokdae (traditional earthenware jars). Below them, the Busan sea stretched out—an endless, ink-black expanse reflecting the distant lights of cargo ships. The silence here wasn't hollow like a lab; it was full of the salt wind and the distant hum of the docks.
Seo-yoon approached quietly, holding two cans of Banana Milk. Emulating that night by the canal, she pressed the cold can against Yan-chen's cheek.
He flinched slightly and looked up, his sharp features softened by the moonlight.
"What are you doing up here?" she asked, sitting beside him.
"Looking at the beauty you told me about," he replied, taking the can from her hand.
Seo-yoon popped her own can open. "I hope... my parents weren't too strange. My dad can be a bit like a stone wall."
"No," Yan-chen said, looking at her with a soft, rare laugh. "They are kind. Very kind." He took a sip, the sweetness of the milk a stark contrast to his usual black coffee.
"In Suzhou, I used to think the water was the only thing that moved," he continued, looking back at the sea. "But here, even the air feels alive. Is this why you were always so restless in my city, Scriptwriter? Because you were used to a horizon that never ends?"
Seo-yoon looked at the waves. "Maybe. But standing here now... it feels different. I used to come up here to feel alone. Tonight, I don't feel that way."
Yan-chen turned to her, his shoulder brushing hers. The distance between them, once measured in borders and languages, had shrunk to a few inches on a wooden platform. "You shouldn't feel alone," he whispered. "Not when I've memorized the map to get back to you."
They sat in silence, two people from different worlds, watching the tide come in.