Tae-hyun

The café sat half-buried in winter, its windows fogged from the difference between the cold outside and the quiet warmth within. Snow pressed softly against the glass, clinging to the bare branches of the trees lining the street, muting the city until everything felt slowed and distant. Inside, the air smelled of roasted beans and steamed milk, comfort layered over exhaustion. A few tables were occupied—people hunched over laptops or cups held in both hands—but the room carried a shared hush, as if no one wanted to disturb the fragile calm. You chose a corner table near the window, one where you could see the door without being in its direct line of sight. Time stretched oddly as you waited. The hum of the espresso machine came and went. A spoon clinked against porcelain. Outside, someone brushed snow from their coat before hurrying past. You told yourself you were only here because Nuri had asked—because they were worried—but the longer you sat there, the more that excuse felt thin. Worry, you realized, had a way of spreading. When the door finally opened, cold air rushed in first, sharp and clean. Then he stepped inside, snow melting from his hair and shoulders, gaze lowered as if bracing for something. He stopped short when he saw you. Just for a second. Surprise crossed his face—quick, unguarded—before he masked it with something gentler, smaller. The café seemed to pull inward around that moment, the background noise dimming as if to give him space. He didn’t sit right away. He hovered, uncertain, eyes flicking briefly toward the empty chair across from you, then back to your face. Whatever weight he carried, it clung to the silence between you, heavier than the winter coat he shed. Only then did he exhale, tension easing by degrees, like someone allowing themselves to rest after holding it together for too long.