The road wound through a cluster of modern townhouses before breaking into open space — a wide, tree-lined path that looked straight out of a historical drama set. The tires crunched against the gravel driveway, and when the car stopped, I nearly choked on my own disbelief.
I turned to look at the house again, because surely this was some kind of cosmic prank. The place looked… breathtaking. A modern contemporary home with hints of a Hanok-like design architecture, with warm light spilled through modernized windows; and instead of the faint scent of incense or candle smoke, I smelled fresh earth, detergent, and the faint citrus tang of new paint.
"Mm," Daeho hummed as he got out, stretching his arms like a soldier at ease. "You really outdid yourself this time."
I blinked rapidly. "I outdid—? Wait, what do you mean I?"
Daeho threw me a look over his shoulder, his grin sharp-edged and teasing. "This is one of the many weird things your magic decided to conjure up while you were unconscious. I'd call it impressive if it didn't scare me a little."
Sejun leaned forward, voice smooth as honey and twice as smug. "He's not wrong. Apparently your magic decided we needed to cohabitate. You reality-warped us into domestic bliss, sweetheart."
Haneul, who had been unbuckling his seatbelt in complete tranquility, added in his usual matter-of-fact tone, "It's a nice house."
I stared at him, then back at the hanok. "Nice? Haneul, it looks like a designer magazine threw up on a period drama!"
The white walls gleamed under the sun, accented with navy trim and carefully restored beams of dark wood. Paper lanterns hung under the eaves, glowing faintly even in daylight. There were potted plants lining the entranceway—fresh, alive, thriving. A wooden porch extended across the front, smooth and polished, as if sanded by years of careful care.
And it wasn't just any house. It looked lived in.
My jaw dropped. "There's even a potted garden! A potted garden, Sejun!"
"Your subconscious has taste," he said, flashing that knowing, dangerously charming grin of his before heading toward the porch.
Daeho was the next to get out, effortlessly carrying my bags in one hand like they weighed nothing. He took in the view, nodded once, and then gestured toward the wooden gates. "At least it's got good structure. Whoever you were in your past life, you had an eye for architecture."
Meanwhile, Seungyong finally emerged, looking thoroughly unimpressed despite how the sunlight seemed to gild his sharp features. "Could've done without the potted garden," he muttered, hands in his pockets. "Feels tacky. You look like you've never seen a house before." he said dryly.
"I've seen houses," I snapped, following him toward the steps. "Just not ones I apparently manifested out of thin air!"
"Then be grateful you didn't manifest something worse," he retorted, sidestepping a pebble without even looking. "Like a dungeon. Or a studio apartment."
"Wow," I muttered. "Your support is overwhelming."
He glanced back over his shoulder, the faintest smirk curving his lips. "You're welcome."
And just like that, he brushed past me, his shoulder grazing mine as he made for the door. He was all lazy arrogance and princely disinterest—yet when I stumbled on the uneven step, his hand shot out immediately, gripping my elbow to steady me.
He didn't even look at me when he said, almost gruffly, "Watch your step." Then, as if realizing what he'd done, he let go and muttered, "You're clumsy."
I huffed, crossing my arms as I stepped through, only for my irritation to melt away when I saw the front yard. Instead of the koi pond that used to sit at the center of our old courtyard, a sprawling collection of potted plants filled the space—rows of greens, herbs, and flowers arranged with surprising care. My breath caught.
The blue petals shimmered in the sunlight like droplets of ink come to life.
At the corner stood a trellis, wrapped in delicate vines of Clitoria ternatea—Butterfly Pea flowers, in full bloom. Their deep indigo petals glowed faintly under the afternoon sun, like drops of ink suspended in air.
"Oh," I whispered. "You're kidding."
Sejun tilted his head, watching me smile. "You like those?"
From behind me, I caught the faintest sound—barely there, but warm. Haneul's quiet laugh.
When I looked back at him, he was standing a few steps away, hands tucked into his pockets, watching the vines with that familiar stillness of his. There was something soft in his gaze—like he knew exactly what those flowers meant to me, but wouldn't dare say it out loud.
"You did this, didn't you?" I asked, smiling despite myself.
He blinked, then shook his head lightly. "They suit the place," was all he said.
That smile of his—small, unbothered, secretive—tugged at something deep in my chest.
Haneul was silent, but when I turned, I caught the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips. That quiet kind of pride that he didn't need to voice.
I crouched beside the nearest pot, running a finger gently over the velvety bloom. "They can be used for tea, you know. Or natural dye. Or desserts. You can even eat them raw—"
Before anyone could stop me, I plucked one and popped it straight into my mouth.
Haneul let out a sigh, shaking his head in mock-disappointment. "You're eating random plants again, aren't you?"
"They're not random!" I protested, words muffled as I chewed. "They're edible! And full of antioxidants!"
For better or worse, I realized, this was home.
"I didn't mean to do this," I muttered, half to myself as we made our way up the short stone path. "It's not like I said, 'Oh, sure, let's conjure a starter home for five supernatural idiots.'"
"No," Daeho said, opening the door without hesitation—like he'd done it a hundred times. "You just reality-warped us into sitcom domesticity. I'm pretty sure this is all powered by your denial complex."
When I stepped inside, my jaw nearly hit the floor.
It was… beautiful.
Warm light filled the space, bouncing off polished wooden floors. The open layout carried the soft scent of cedar and soap. A traditional low table sat at the center of the living room, surrounded by plush floor cushions, and near it stood a sleek TV mounted above a stone fireplace—because apparently, my subconscious had decided we needed a mix of Hanok aesthetics and IKEA practicality.
On the wall, a simple frame read:
"Bless This Mess."
It was like Pinterest threw up in the best possible way.
"Did you—did you guys stage this?" I whispered.
Sejun wandered toward the kitchen like he already owned the place. "Nope. You did."
The kitchen, of course, was spotless. Every utensil gleamed, neatly hung and perfectly aligned. Matching mugs sat in a row beside the sink. Matching. Mugs.
"I don't even own matching mugs," I whispered.
Seungyong passed me, tossing his jacket over a dining chair like he'd done it a hundred times before. "You do now."
Daeho came in behind me, casually stealing a cookie from a ceramic jar. "Nice touch with the snacks."
"I didn't mean to do this," I mumbled. "It's not like I sat down and said, 'Yes, let me manifest four roommates, a starter home, and a Pinterest board come to life.'"
"No," Daeho said, flopping on the couch. "You just rewrote reality with the raw power of denial."
"I hate how accurate that sounds."
Seungyong flicked on the TV without asking. "Get used to it, Daphne."
"It's Aureal to you."
"Mhm. Daphne it is."
I scoffed and sank into the couch next to Daeho. The cushions were soft. Warm. Familiar.
And somehow, this unreal thing I'd created—this accidental home with four undead roommates—was starting to feel like the one place I might actually belong.
Even if the welcome mat said "Bless this Mess."
────── ⋆⋅⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⋅⋆ ──────
It took time to get used to the sound of four grown men breathing under the same roof. Their footsteps layered like unsynchronized clockwork on the floorboards, their voices spilling out in mismatched timbres from the kitchen, the hallway, the bathroom door when someone forgot to lock it. I had spent years training myself to enjoy my own company, and now I could barely hear myself think without Sejun piping in with a question about almond milk, or Seungyong throwing in some quip sharp enough to puncture a car tire. The house smelled like soap, cologne, soy sauce, and something sweetly unplaceable that I suspected came from Haneul. Maybe the incense he lit when no one was watching.
I had died once. I had made it across the veil. And somehow, I brought them all with me.
It would've been easier if they were normal, but none of them were. Especially not when I began to notice the things that didn't make sense. Seungyong didn't just walk, he sauntered with the poise of someone raised in a palace and was never once told no. The way he spoke was always tinged with a thinly veiled contempt, like every conversation was a negotiation, every compliment a warning. He was beautiful the way fire was beautiful; gold when it suited him, red when it didn't. He carried a quiet cruelty that could command a room, and from the day he first crossed the threshold into this rewritten reality, it was clear: Seungyong Kang wasn't just some cryptic, broody teacher. He was a former imperial prince, once of the Joseon court, who had sold his soul not for love, not for wealth, but for the wit to silence a room and bend it into obedience. And that, I learned, he used like a blade.
Daeho was the loudest of them all, in sound and in spirit. He filled a room the moment he entered it. Broad-shouldered, bright-eyed, and often with flour dusting the edge of his shirt from some poorly measured kitchen experiment. He wasn't just strong, he was Herculean, the kind of strength that broke swords and split trees in two. But beneath that, he was a golden retriever in human form. Loyal, endlessly optimistic, and stupidly charming. He'd sold his soul for strength, back when he was a soldier in the Joseon military. "So I could protect my family," he once said, grinning like it had been worth it. Like he'd do it again.
Then there was Haneul. My first love. Not the mysterious figure the others seemed to think he was, but the boy I'd known since high school—the one who shared his sketchbook with me during lunch breaks, who sat beside me on the rooftop when we wanted to disappear from the noise below. He still said little, but his silence wasn't a wall; it was a language I'd once learned to read. Sometimes, when I glanced over, he was already looking at me, sketchbook perched on one knee like it belonged there. He had always been like this—measured, self-contained, as if waiting for the world to catch up to him. The boy who once doodled my name in the margins of his notes was now a man sitting across from me in death. I still didn't know how he died, and though he didn't say, the weight between us wasn't mystery anymore; it was memory.
Sejun, on the other hand, was from our time. A young millennial through and through. He wore hoodies and loose trousers, had a penchant for collecting plushies, and liked mixing hot sauce into his ramen like a ritual. He was clingy in the mornings, affectionate when hungover, and always smelled like clean laundry and toasted sesame. When I asked him what he sold his soul for, he didn't flinch. "Peace," he'd said, soft as a prayer. "I wanted peace. And I got it. I died during the pandemic. It was quiet, I guess... I stayed that way." And he had, in his own odd, warm way; peaceful, even in chaos. Sejun had a softness that the world hadn't managed to beat out of him, even after death. He made the place feel like home.
I watched them interact as if they'd always known each other. Bickering, teasing, existing in orbit. Seungyong raised his brow and corrected their grammar, Daeho threw cushions at him when he did. Sejun played referee with fried rice and chopsticks. Haneul simply watched.
And me? I was just trying to keep up.
My name was still Daphne, but here, I was Aureal. The girl who died and dragged four damned men into a second life with her. I didn't ask them to follow. I didn't mean to change the rules.
Breakfast the next day was pancakes. Not fancy brunch café pancakes, but aggressively homemade ones; slightly uneven, partially burnt, and definitely cooked by Sejun while he danced to K-pop in the kitchen. Daeho wore sunglasses indoors, for reasons I hadn't dared ask. Seungyong was nursing a black coffee like it had personally wronged him.
I wandered into the kitchen wrapped in sleep and borrowed warmth—someone's hoodie, sleeves swallowed to the knuckles, hair still tangled from whatever dreams I didn't remember having.
The kitchen smelled like butter and toast and something cinnamon. Light from the windows slanted low, the golden kind that made everything feel like it could stay still forever.
Sejun was by the stove, humming something out of tune, flipping pancakes with too much confidence. Daeho leaned against the counter texting one-handed, while Seungyong sat like a king at the table, half-lidded gaze drinking tea and judgment in equal measure.
Daeho shot a soft grin when he noticed my presence, and less than a moment later placed a glass of milk in front of me without ceremony. I blinked at it, then at him. But before I could say anything, Sejun spoke from behind the counter, sighing "Hyung, you didn't even ask what drink she wanted." Sejun clicked his tongue.
"I don't mind," I said quickly. "I actually like milk."
Seungyong raised an eyebrow like he thought I was lying.
Daeho's shoulders tensed slightly, his usual calm warmth shifting to a flicker of bashfulness. "Oh—uh, good. I just thought—" He trailed off, eyes darting away.
I smiled at him, gentle and reassuring. "It's really fine. Thanks for thinking of me."
The color in his cheeks deepened a little, his smooth, resonant voice—a voice that had once commanded soldiers in the Joseon military, now tempered by warmth and subtle humor—shaking only slightly as he muttered, "Ah… okay, got it."
A plate of pancakes followed, along with sliced fruit and something warm and fragrant. Haneul set it in front of me without waiting for thanks.
I didn't mean to drink the milk so quickly. It was just… there. In front of me. Cool glass catching light, condensation slipping down the sides like it was sweating for me. Haneul had already placed it near my hand without a word, so close it might as well have been a gesture of trust. Only after I set it down and licked a stray bead from my lip did I speak up.
"Hey," I said, loudly enough to cut through the air. "Can we talk about the thing no one's talking about?"
Seungyong glanced over his shoulder. "You'll need to be more specific."
"The eyes," I said, pointing at each of them. "Your eyes are red. Mine are gold. That's not normal, and yet not one Starbucks barista flinched when you ordered your iced Americano."
"Oh, she has a point. We kind of forgot she hadn't figured that part out yet." Daeho chuckled, lowering the volume of Sejun's music. "To everyone else, your eyes look normal."
"So like, I'm guessing I have some weird magic? Since my eyes are gold?"
Seungyong gave me a very Seungyong look: mildly annoyed, vaguely superior, 80% disapproval. "Yes," he said flatly. "They've always been gold. Which you'd know, had you bothered to pay attention in the veil."
"Sorry, I was distracted by dying."
"Not my fault you chose to be dramatic about it."
" Well excuse me for not death-dabbling like it's a part-time job."
"I've been dead longer than you," he said dryly, voice calm but sharp enough to sting. "I don't need to explain my existence to a child."
"Oh, I see! Because being slightly sarcastic at everyone's expense is very grown-up and responsible, right?" I shot back, tone rising. "Classic Seungyong. Always moral high ground, always superior, never wrong."
Sejun snorted from the stove. "You two bicker like divorced parents."
"We are not—"
"We would never–"
"You'd be the ex-wife." I quipped.
Seungyong inhaled deeply, as if summoning the patience of ancient spirits, looking up at the ceiling. Probably praying for smiting privileges.
Hah.
"Okay," I said, "what exactly have you guys been doing while I was in a hospital bed, mildly comatose and completely unaware that reality got rewritten like a bad fanfic?"
Daeho perked up from his spot in the kitchen doorway, chewing on a cookie, promptly smacked out of his hand by Sejun, who mumbled about no sweets before breakfast. "Oh, are we doing a team debrief? Cool."
Seungyong sipped his tea like this conversation was beneath him. It wasn't, but he liked to pretend.
"You're the one who did this," Sejun pointed out, bringing the pancakes to the table. "Your big golden light moment or whatever? It didn't just pull us back, it dropped us here. Paperwork and everything. I had an ID in my wallet when I woke up. With a birthdate. And a tax number. And a credit card."
"I checked," Daeho added. "I apparently have a bachelor's degree in comparative literature. I've never even read Pride and Prejudice."
"So you've been pretending to be normal this whole time?" I gaped, stunned. "Like– rent, grocery runs, garbage day? And no one suspects a thing?"
"It's not just the house or the IDs," Seungyong continued. "There are people here—neighbors, coworkers—who remember us. As if we've been living here for years. I had a conversation with the librarian yesterday who complimented me on my 'usual punctuality.'"
"You think that's creepy?" Daeho said. "I got a text from a coworker asking if I was bringing lumpia to the team dinner next week. I have a job. As a detective in a police department. And speaking of lumpia, I don't even know what that is. When I asked, the coworker looked at me like I grew a head, and said that my roomie—you, probably—makes the best in the city."
"I mean I do make some damn good lumpiang shanghai…" I nodded, shrugging. "Wait, so you all have jobs? Like, actual jobs?"
Sejun finished setting the table and joined us in the living room with a loud sigh. "Corporate marketing. Tech company. I spend most of my day writing copy for things I don't care about and pretending to like cold brew. Seungyong's a history teacher."
I turned in my seat to face the room, gesturing wildly at Seungyong. "Aren't you like... medieval or something?"
"Joseon era," he corrected, in that same eternally 'done with this' tone that made me want to shake him. "And I'm a high school history teacher now."
"Of course you are," I muttered. "Do your students know you lived through the invention of calligraphy?"
"Oh, please."
I then turned to Haneul, raising an eyebrow, gesturing to him next. "And you? Let me guess, barista?"
"HR department," he said simply.
"Wait, what?"
"I work in HR."
I blinked at him. "You don't even talk that much."
He shrugged. "It helps."
I stared at them—my undead roommates, my partners-in-purgatory—and something inside me quietly unspooled. It had only been a week since the gold light, the fog, the hospital... but in that time, these men had burrowed into lives with resumes, rent, and real-world trauma like they belonged. I sat back, letting the laughter in the room wash over me. My heart ached in a weird, foreign way, a mix of grief and gratitude. They had found their footing. They had made a place here. And now, they'd carved out space for me too.
"So..." I said slowly, a small smile forming. "What I'm hearing is: you guys are paying rent now?"
Seungyong narrowed his eyes. "Technically, this is your fault."
Daeho grinned. "But yes. And we vacuum every Sunday."
Sejun raised his mug in a toast. "To capitalism!"
Haneul, quiet as ever, murmured just loud enough for me to hear, "To having something to come back to."
I grinned, raising an imaginary mug in the air. "To Sejun's divine pancakes!" I reached for the whipped cream the moment I got to the table and let out a sigh, part exhaustion, part food joy. "You know, this is dangerously domestic."
Sejun raised a brow. "Dangerous how?"
I shrugged and muttered under my breath, "Husband material."
The fork halfway to his mouth stopped mid-air.
Daeho made a wheezing sound. Seungyong blinked over his coffee. Haneul paused, blinked slowly, and sipped like it was none of his business. Sejun blinked at me. Then blinked again. "…I mean, that's... flattering?"
"I meant it in the 'you make good pancakes way!'" I protested. "You guys are just so old, so you don't get it, but this is how we girls compliment each other nowadays! Except you guys aren't girls… but forget that."
Daeho grinned so hard his dimple nearly declared independence. "No one said anything, but you're doing great."
"I hate it here," I muttered, my face now hotter than the skillet Sejun had used.
Seungyong finally spoke. "I suppose, if we rank in marriage potential based on breakfast competency, Sejun does place highest."
"Let's continue this ranking," Daeho chimed in. "I bring the charm, obviously. Haneul has the mysterious artistic loner appeal. Seungyong's the 'I'll ruin your life and fix your taxes' type."
Sejun slid the last pancake onto my plate and said, with a half-smile and a voice too soft for my dignity, "Still. Thanks for the compliment… wife material."
I almost choked. Daeho howled. Haneul smirked. Seungyong didn't even try to hide the amused shake of his head.
"That's not– you can't just–! That doesn't–!!" I stammered like a fool, the gears shifting in my head.
"Relax, Daph, it's just a compliment." Sejun hummed, digging into his own pancakes.
And me? I seriously considered haunting the toaster.
"Oh, this is too good," Daeho howled, half-laughing as he doubled over. "I feel like I'm watching the slow burn romance subplot of a high-budget drama. One of you is the quiet artist who only appears when she's breaking, the other's the husband material who stocks her favorite snacks and remembers her deadlines."
Seungyong looked over his glasses. "And me?"
Daeho grinned. "You'd be the mysterious neighbor who keeps stealing her coffee pods."
Seungyong considered it, then gave a small, satisfied nod. "Acceptable."
Sejun looked up, clearly amused. "Wait, who's who?"
Daeho pointed his spatula like it was gospel. "You? Obviously the husband. You've got apron energy. Emotional availability. Refill-her-drink-without-asking type beat."
"Okay, fair," Sejun said, clearly not offended.
Daeho turned to Haneul, who hadn't moved an inch. "And you—you've got the brooding background character aura. Like you only show up in the last ten minutes of the episode to ask if she's eaten and leave a sketchbook on her bed."
Haneul blinked once, slowly, as if absorbing the accusation.
I groaned softly and buried my face in my hands. "Please don't turn this into some tragic love triangle."
Daeho patted my head. "Sweetheart, we're past the triangle stage. This is a whole constellation."
"I'm going to die," I muttered.
"Don't worry," Sejun chuckled, slicing into his pancakes like none of this was that serious. "If you collapse, I'm CPR certified. Very husband-core of me, I know."
"Do not flirt with your patient," Daeho warned, still grinning.
"I'm not," Sejun insisted, gesturing at me with his fork. "I'm just being supportive. If that happens to be attractive, that's on her, not me."
I gave him a look. "You're impossible."
"Objectively false," he said, looking too pleased with himself. "I'm the best possible person here. Highly plausible. Domestic even. Your mom would love me."
"Wait—" I lowered my fork. "How did you guys explain this whole…roommate situation to my parents?"
Four heads turned. Sejun looked up from his coffee, Seungyong didn't even bother hiding his smirk, Daeho coughed into his glass, and Haneul—ever the phantom—blinked slowly at the table like the question hadn't been asked at all.
Sejun made a face, like he was considering whether to lie or not. "We... smoothed it over."
"Sejun," I warned, every syllable edged like a warning bell. "I was unconscious. You could've told them anything. Please, please don't tell me you told my parents I joined a cult."
"They trust me," Haneul replied, calm as always. "We grew up together. They've known me my whole life. They know you're safe."
"I mean," I clarified, slowly, "how the hell my very Catholic, very suspicious parents agreed to let me live with four guys?"
There was silence. Then Daeho broke it first. "They don't know you live with four guys," he said, grinning sheepishly. "They think you live with one."
I stared at him. "And which one of you got the golden role?"
Haneul's lips twitched slightly, just enough to make me question whether it was a smile. "That would be me," he said quietly, matter-of-factly, as if the answer were obvious.
"You?" I looked him up and down. His calm presence was almost unnerving. "Why you?"
Before Haneul could answer, Seungyong set his cup down with theatrical flair, grinning like a cat given cream. "Oh, let's go through the list, shall we?"
"No," I shook my head. "Let's not—"
"It's a great story," Daeho grinned, leaning forward. "We had a whole debate about it."
"It wasn't a debate," Haneul muttered. "Seungyong just shot everyone else down until I was the only one left."
"I provided compelling arguments," Seungyong sniffed, then turned to me with all the elegance of a court-trained noble. "Because your parents would never approve of me. Imagine—history teacher at a high school, unmarried, living with their daughter? The optics would be… unfortunate."
"I'm in my twenties. There's nothing wrong with that," I said, exasperated.
"Your mother wouldn't see it that way," Seungyong said, smirk faint but wicked. "War crimes, political assassinations, embroidered red flags in gold thread. Scandalous."
Sejun muttered under his breath, "I don't think your royal bloodline is what they're scared of."
Seungyong ignored him. "Daeho, bless his biceps, could've charmed your parents in a heartbeat, but he's also the size of a fridge and incapable of lying to a concerned mother without looking like he ran over her cat."
Daeho finally looked up, leaning back in his chair. "I'm definitely out of the running. 'Security consultant and part-time detective' sounds like either I'm spying on you or I'm going to drag you into some dangerous investigation. Plus, I'm ripped as hell, no parent would believe their daughter was rooming with this and not hitting it." He chuckled as he fiddled with a butter knife.
I groaned again, but this time it ended in laughter—unwilling, ragged at the edges. Part of me wanted to be mad. Another part of me was impressed. They'd gone to absurd lengths to make sure my parents weren't suspicious. They'd protected me in ways I didn't even realize.
Still. "God, my parents probably think I'm dating one of you."
"They definitely think that," Sejun nodded quietly, his voice low and measured, much to my dread.
"Who?" I demanded, narrowing my eyes.
"Well." Sejun tapped his chin thoughtfully, like he was considering a chessboard in his mind. "They asked a lot of questions about Daeho." He shrugged slightly. "Daeho's the ideal protector type. Strong, dependable, the kind of guy you picture comforting you through emergencies. But… dad-coded, you know? Too obvious. Your parents would be comforted—sure—but also alarmed. They'd think, 'Wait, is this guy dating our daughter? Or just playing the part of her bodyguard?' Either way, too intimidating for a romantic partner."
Daeho, who had been smirking at me like he knew some secret, raised an eyebrow. "So basically, you're saying I look like a serial-killer hunk in their eyes?"
"Exactly," Sejun said flatly. "Strong arms, imposing presence, an honest-to-God threat if he sneezes the wrong way near the family. Not exactly the romantic fantasy they want for their daughter."
Daeho chuckled, folding his arms. "Fair enough. I can live with being the scary protective type."
"And Seungyong?" I asked, tipping my head toward the dark-clad man, who still looked way too pleased with himself.
Sejun's gaze shifted to Seungyong, whose smirk had returned in full force. "And Seungyong? Your parents adored him. Handsome, charming, elegant. But… dangerous. Evil-genius vibes, aristocratic flair, probably a secret hobby in espionage or smuggling rare antiquities. Definitely the kind of man your mother would trust to plan a war, but not to date her daughter. Lover material? Out. Too many red flags, embroidered or otherwise."
Seungyong gave a faint grin, like he'd been expecting the critique all along. "I'll take it as a compliment."
Sejun's eyes flicked toward me, quiet, observant. "That leaves you with two plausible options: me, who is mild, agreeable, capable of small lies, socially acceptable; or Haneul, who's trustworthy by default because he's known your family forever. The rest? Not even on the table."
I snorted, half in amusement, half in disbelief. "So, let me get this straight: Daeho's like a personal tank, Seungyong's like a secret villain, Haneul's too trustworthy to be suspicious, and I'm supposed to picture you as… romantic?"
Sejun shrugged, perfectly calm. "Depends on who's imagining. Parents? Me. You? Definitely Haneul."
I felt my stomach twist at that last part, and I didn't even try to hide it. Haneul, quietly refilling my milk glass without looking at anyone, nudging a piece of fruit toward me, so casual and effortless—it was everything I had ever loved about him. My parents trusted him. I trusted him. My heart… well, it still belonged firmly, stubbornly, to him.
"And yet, despite all those years of history between you two," Sejun murmured, almost as an afterthought, "I'm the one they picture you with when imagining a romance. Life's weird, isn't it?"
I leaned back, fork halfway to my mouth, eyes narrowing at Sejun. "Wait—how are you still in the running for the hypothetical… lover position? You literally look like a cute K-pop idol with a deceptive voice. My parents would—" I gestured vaguely, "—immediately think you're trouble."
Sejun's grin widened, all teeth and dimples, like he'd been waiting for this question. "Oh? Trouble?" He leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm, voice light, playful. "Cute? Deceptive? Sounds like a compliment to me. But really…" He let his tone drop into something slower, lower, teasing, almost a mock whisper, "I'm full of surprises."
I gave him a flat stare. "Oh really? Because if my mom thinks I'm dating a boy-band reject, I don't see approval happening. Plus, you're the guy with the husky, deep voice who makes sarcastic comments like he's narrating a noir thriller. And the one who can roast anyone without mercy. How is that safe?"
Seungyong snorted, leaning back in his chair. "Your parents would approve because he's deceptively… cute. Like a K-pop idol who can smile politely while hiding a thousand little schemes. There's a certain charm in someone who looks harmless but is sharp underneath."
I blinked. "Wait… cute K-pop idol?" I echoed. "Are you serious?"
Sejun tilted his head, grin widening. "Absolutely. Look, I know I can sound intense, deep, even a little dangerous when I want. But I can also sound… perfectly normal." He leaned back and, almost imperceptibly, lowered his shoulders. Then, in a voice that was lighter, higher, and entirely different from the husky tones I knew, he said, "Hello, noona~ How was your day?"
I froze. The words were soft, sweet, even teasing in the way he emphasized "noona." My brain refused to reconcile it with the sharp, deep, husky voice I had heard in our earlier conversations. "Wait. That's… not you," I said slowly, suspicion creeping in.
"Oh, it's me," he said with a small shrug, still smiling. "Just… the public-friendly version. People like it when I'm approachable, polite, cheerful. Your parents included."
Sejun's casual tone, the easy warmth of it, made me falter. I tried to picture him in that light, as someone who could sit across from my mother and give tea-time small talk without raising any alarm. But it was hard. My first impression of him—deep, sharp, witty, confident, a little dangerous—was hard to reconcile with this new, charmingly sweet persona.
I blinked. "You—what? You can… just… change your voice like that?"
"Not just my voice," Sejun said with a lazy shrug. "Mannerisms, body language. Smile? Check. Tone? Check. Everything you think you know about me? Half the time, it's a performance." He leaned back, adopting that casual, mischievous grin I was used to. "But this one? This is the public face. I'm sweet. Respectful. Unthreatening. Your parents would love me, noona."
Daeho nodded. "Yeah. And your mom's not going to question a nice, polite young man who seems harmless at first glance. She won't know about the deep voice, the wit, or the fact that he can probably make anyone blush in three sentences."
Sejun leaned closer, voice now a gentle whisper, still using that soft, affectionate tone. "See? Totally harmless. I even know how to hold a teacup properly and ask about your mother's flowers. Perfect roommate material. Or… potential lover material if your imagination runs wild."
I blinked at him, still reeling. My eyebrows shot up. "Was the noona necessary though?"
Sejun tilted his head, his usual grin in place, completely unfazed. "Yep," he said casually. "Noona. Sweet, polite, charming… all rolled into one. Fits, doesn't it?"
I nearly choked on my food. "Fits? Sejun, you're… way older than me! I mean, come on. That's… that's a huge age gap!"
He leaned back, eyes twinkling like he'd been waiting for me to bring this up. "Technically?" he said, voice dropping into that familiar, low, husky undertone for emphasis. "I was born way before you. Way, way before you."
"Exactly!" I said, pointing a finger at him. "So why are you calling me noona? That's… that's not how this works."
Sejun's grin widened, and he shrugged in a deliberately casual way. "I get that. But here's the thing—you're in your late twenties now, right? I… physically, died just in my mid-twenties."
I froze, trying to process that. "Wait… what? You… died in your mid-twenties?"
He waved a hand casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Yeah. A little unfortunate timing, but hey, physics isn't really my strong suit. The important part is, I never physically aged past twenty-something. Which means, for all appearances, I could call you noona without technically lying."
I blinked again, feeling my brain short-circuit a little. "So… you're this weird… time-displaced thing? And somehow you're cute and approachable and calling me noona?"
Sejun leaned closer, lowering his voice in that soft, public-friendly tone again, stretching out the word affectionately. "Exactly, noona. Totally fine, right? Completely accurate. I mean, who's keeping track of who's older when I look like this?" He gave a playful shrug, like the whole thing was utterly logical.
I opened my mouth to argue, but I couldn't. Somehow it made sense, in the weirdest, most disarming way. My mental image of Sejun—husky voice, razor-sharp wit, dark humor—clashed with this new version of him: the polite, sweet, slightly teasing young man who could charm parents, strangers, and apparently me, all in one breath.
"Exactly." He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table, chin in hand. "I may have been born more or less a decade or so before you, but my mid-twenties body is still eligible for polite age-based nicknames. Socially acceptable, even."
I crossed my arms, still flustered. "I can't. This is so… hard to picture. You, sweet, polite, calling me noona, while I'm trying not to choke on my own thoughts about Haneul sitting right over there."
Sejun tilted his head, his smirk playful but disarmingly charming. "Absolutely. Look at it this way: your late-twenties self is technically older, wiser, and more experienced. My mid-twenties body? Cute, polite, obedient to social niceties. Perfectly harmless. Your parents would love it. And if you happen to roll your eyes at me? That's okay too. No harm done."
he leaned closer, voice dipping into that same soft, teasing tone. "Noona, I get it. It's disorienting. First impressions of me? Sharp, deep-voiced, borderline dangerous. Current me? Soft, polite, affectionate… harmless. Two sides of the same coin. One that your parents would nod at approvingly while sipping tea."
I ran a hand down my face. "I can't even imagine this. You're… a different person."
"Different? Maybe. But still me," Sejun said, reaching across the table and tapping my hand lightly. "See? The same guy, just… socially optimized. For parents, strangers, roommates, noona situations… whatever you want to call it."
I stared at him, torn between laughing, groaning, and feeling an inexplicable sense of disorientation. "So… you're telling me, because you 'died' mid-twenties and I'm in my late twenties… you get to call me noona?"
He nodded, unabashed. "Exactly. And technically, it's polite. Respectful. Acknowledging your age and experience. And also—" he smirked, leaning back again, hands behind his head, eyes gleaming mischievously—"affectionate. Just a little. Harmlessly so."
I stared at him, heart pounding, brain refusing to settle. How could one person be both… the dangerous, deep-voiced Sejun I had met, and this polite, soft, noona-calling version? I wanted to laugh, and I wanted to cry, and I wanted to strangle him all at once.
Sejun, of course, just grinned, clearly enjoying every moment of my internal chaos. "Relax, noona. I promise, you'll get used to it… eventually."
I didn't know if I wanted to.
Sejun hit me like a flash. Younger-looking in a way that should have read innocent—face soft and doe-eyed, like a k-pop idol who'd been shot for a fashion editorial—except there was an undercurrent to him that emptied my chest of air. He wore confidence like a second skin: white shirt, slim black pants, an open collar that suggested he owned whatever quiet havoc he decided to wreak. The smile he gave when our eyes met was slow and sharp, as though he'd been carved to compel attention. There was something feline in the way he moved, all lithe lines and controlled grace—white cat energy, all sleek indulgence and dangerous purr.