Internship (in) Love | A Gundam Wing K-Drama
Chapter 9
The early morning office was blanketed in muted gray, the drizzle outside tracing soft, uneven trails down the rain-streaked windows. A faint chill clung to the air, seeping through the walls, cold enough to make Soo Jin shiver as she stepped into the Cyber Threat Analysis department. The usual hum of activity was absent, leaving only the low murmur of the air conditioning and the gentle patter of rain tapping against the glass.
At this hour, the department felt different—hushed, almost solemn. The usual buzz of glowing monitors and quiet voices was replaced with rows of dark screens, their glossy surfaces reflecting the pale light filtering through the overcast sky. Soo Jin walked toward her desk, her fingers brushing the edge of her chair as her gaze instinctively drifted across the room to Heero's station.
The sight made her pause.
Slumped over his desk, Heero was asleep, his head resting on his crossed arms. His rigid demeanor was gone, replaced by a stillness that made him look almost vulnerable.
Soo Jin approached slowly, her purse still slung over her shoulder. The dim morning light pooled over his hunched figure, casting a pale hue on his slack features. the sharp planes of his face softened in the dim light. Beneath the quiet rise and fall of his shoulders, his body curled subtly inward, a posture that hinted at how cold he felt.
Her eyes shifted to his desk. The thermos she had left the night before stood open beside him, the colorful wrapping neatly folded beside it. When she peered closer, she saw it was nearly empty. The sight stirred something bittersweet within her—relief that he'd eaten something and sadness at the quiet evidence of how much he had needed it.
She reached for the thermos, her hand moving carefully, mindful not to disturb him. She hesitated, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer. His black hair was slightly disheveled, strands falling across his closed eyes, his thick lashes resting against pale cheeks, and the faint shadow of stubble traced along his jawline, adding to the weariness etched into his slumbering expression.
As her fingers closed around the thermos, a soft clank broke the silence.
Soo Jin winced, freezing in place, her breath caught in her throat as her eyes darted to Heero's face.
He stirred, his hand twitching slightly, and his brown eyes fluttered open with a flicker, unfocused and glassy. The dim light seemed to catch him off guard, narrowing his gaze as he blinked groggily. A low groan escaped him as he pushed himself upright, the motion slow and labored, like a machine struggling to restart.
Soo Jin took a step back, watching him carefully as recognition settled in his expression. For a fleeting moment, his guard dropped—his face raw with confusion, embarrassment, and something softer, more vulnerable. Then, almost as quickly, his usual mask clicked into place, the emotion buried beneath an impassive surface. A deep sigh left his lips, heavy with resignation, suggesting that this wasn't the first time he'd woken like this.
He shifted in his chair, trying to straighten. The movement pulled a sharp wince from him, his hand shooting to his right side, gripping his ribs tightly.
Soo Jin's heart tightened at the sight, but she held back, giving him the space he needed. She watched as he slowly pulled himself together, his stoic expression returning with measured effort as he straightened in his chair, moving more carefully this time.
"You're in early," Heero rasped, his voice rough and strained, as though dragged out of him against his will.
"I wanted to get a head start on the day," she said softly, her eyes flicking to his side, where his hand remained pressed. "Are you…?"
"I'm fine," Heero snapped, cutting her off before she could finish. He braced himself on the edge of the desk, pushing to his feet. The motion was jerky, his knees buckling slightly as he rose. His breath hitched, his face momentarily tightening with pain as he clutched his side. The desk groaned softly under his weight as he steadied himself.
Soo Jin's concern deepened, but she bit back her instinct to step closer. She stayed rooted in place, her hands gripping her bag as she watched him quietly wrestle with the pain, forcing himself upright.
"Heero," she began, her voice soft, but he raised a hand, silencing her. The gesture was quick, almost automatic. Soo Jin fell silent, nodding as she took another cautious step back. Boundaries.
Yet, her heart pounded as she watched him. The strain in his posture was unmistakable—his breathing shallow, each inhale measured as though rationed. His lips pressed into a tight line, his stubbly complexion a mask of determination that barely concealed the pain beneath.
Slowly, he drew a breath, deeper this time, steadying himself. His shoulders lifted, squaring as he forced himself to straighten. The effort was visible, the slight tremble in his frame betraying the struggle. He stood still for a moment, regaining his balance, his gaze finally leveling with hers.
His brown eyes flicked to the thermos she held against her chest, lingering there for a moment before he spoke. "I, uh…" He paused, clearing the hoarseness from his throat. His voice was steadier when he tried again. "Thanks," he gestured faintly toward the thermos with his chin, the motion restrained but sincere; "for that."
"Of course," Soo Jin replied, her smile tentative but warm.
He shifted, stepping aside as if preparing to walk past her. His hand moved to his face, rubbing at his eyes, and he winced slightly, blinking hard. The discomfort in his expression caught her attention. He had fallen asleep with his contacts in, she realized.
The silence between them stretched, quiet but not uncomfortable. Soo Jin busied herself by folding her blazer, her movements unhurried as if to give him the time and space he needed. She stole a glance at him as he straightened up, his back arching slightly in a stretch. He looked a touch more composed now, though the exhaustion etched into his face remained.
Without a word, Heero pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and retrieved a small toiletries bag. Soo Jin's chest tightened at the sight. The simple act spoke volumes—this wasn't the first time he'd worked so hard and late that sleeping at his desk became inevitable.
Heero gave a curt nod, his movements sluggish as he shuffled between the rows of cubicles toward the restrooms at the far end of the office.
Soo Jin stood motionless, her eyes lingering on the chair he had just vacated. The faint imprint of his presence—the folded bojagi, the way the chair leaned slightly from his weight—stirred something deep in her.
Her worry twisted into determination.
Moving quickly, she headed to the kitchenette. The faint hiss of the espresso machine broke the stillness as she prepared a double shot, no sugar—just the way Heero drank it. She rummaged in her bag for a disposable eye drops capsule and a small pack of pain relievers, setting them carefully beside the espresso cup on a small tray. A handful of salty crackers completed the arrangement.
Returning to Heero's desk, Soo Jin placed the tray down neatly before retreating to her own desk.
As she settled into her chair, she glanced up, watching from behind her monitor as Heero returned, leaving a faint trail of soapy freshness in his wake. His black hair was now brushed into reluctant neatness, and the faint stubble she had noticed earlier was gone. Knowing him, he probably had an electric shaver for days like this.
Reaching his desk, Heero stopped short, his back stiffening under his duty jacket as his gaze fell on the tray. For a long moment, he stood still. His hand hovered over the items before picking up the capsule of eye drops. He turned it over in his fingers, his brow furrowing briefly. Then, almost hesitantly, he glanced toward Soo Jin. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, his expression shadowed but not as closed-off as before. There was something there—a quiet acknowledgment, maybe even a hint of regret.
Soo Jin offered him a soft, understanding smile, forgiving yesterday's behavior. Without a word, she turned back to her monitor, giving him space to accept the gesture without pressure.
After a pause, Heero twisted the capsule open. Soo Jin watched from behind her monitor as he tilted his head back slightly and applied the drops, blinking rapidly as the cool liquid soothed the irritation. When he straightened back up, his relief was evident as his contacts settled more comfortably into place.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers, pressing gently as though to release the lingering strain. Then, he reached for a pill, swallowing it with a measured sip of espresso.
When he finally sat down, munching on a cracker, Soo Jin felt a quiet satisfaction bloom in her chest.
As the clock neared 10 AM, the department pulsed with its familiar rhythm. The staccato of clacking keyboards blended with the faint murmur of voices and the occasional shuffle of papers, a symphony of productivity underscored by the aroma of fresh ink and stale coffee. Papers rustled like restless whispers, and the faint hum of printers added a low drone to the background. Soo Jin slipped into the kitchenette, her steps soft against the tiled floor, craving her second coffee of the day and a moment to collect herself.
The kitchenette greeted her with a discouraging mess. The counter bore the evidence of a busy morning: abandoned mugs with faint rings of coffee staining their rims, sugar granules scattered like flecks of sand, and a precarious stack of unwashed dishes leaning dangerously toward the edge of the sink. A faint, acrid scent of burnt coffee clung to the air, sharp enough to wrinkle her nose.
Soo Jin exhaled softly, a quiet sigh of resolve as she slipped off her Preventer blazer and draped it over the back of a high chair. Rolling up the sleeves of her khaki shirt, she turned toward the sink, a determined look settling on her face.
The warm rush of water over her chilled hands sent a small wave of comfort through her. As she began to scrub the first mug, the rhythmic motion seemed to pull her thoughts into a quiet lull.
The sound of firm, quiet, footsteps broke the silence, their cadence unhurried yet commanding, growing louder with each step. The air shifted subtly, carrying a clean, sharp scent that reminded her of cedar and soap. Soo Jin's hands stilled, the water dripping from her fingers as a soft tension filled her chest.
When she finally glanced up, her gaze was drawn to the doorway. Heero stepped inside, his sharp eyes scanning the room with the precision of a hawk taking in its surroundings.
"Coffee?" Soo Jin ventured, her voice light yet laced with a tentative edge, her hands still submerged in soapy water.
Heero nodded, a brief, almost imperceptible gesture. His lips parted slightly as though he intended to speak, but no words came. He crossed the room in measured strides, his shoulders holding their usual tension, a controlled rigidity that seemed at odds with the casual act of making coffee.
The silence between them felt taut, punctuated only by the soft trickle of water from the faucet and the quiet clicks of the coffee machine as Heero adjusted the settings. Soo Jin glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, her curiosity sharpening as she noted the way his hands moved—steady but not unshaken, as though the simple task was both habit and a momentary reprieve.
Soo Jin turned her attention back to the sink, her fingers scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on a mug.
"The weather's still gloomy," she remarked, nodding toward the window. Raindrops trickled down the glass, blurring the gray cityscape beyond. "I miss the sun."
"It's November," Heero replied flatly, as if it explained everything. He slotted a coffee capsule into the machine.
"I know," Soo Jin said, smiling faintly as she glanced over her shoulder. His voice carried no malice, but its bluntness still brushed against her like a chill. "But I was hoping for at least a little sunshine today."
Heero didn't answer immediately. Instead, he adjusted the coffee machine settings with methodical precision, as if even the simplest of tasks required singular focus and perfection. After a brief pause, he spoke, his tone measured and deliberate. "People here rely on the forecast too much."
"Here in Korea?" Soo Jin asked, shaking the excess water from her hands. She reached for a paper towel, ripping it from the rack with a quick motion. Offering Heero a small smile, she dried her hands slowly, hoping to keep the conversation going.
"Earth, Korea…" Heero shrugged, his hand hovering briefly over a pile of espresso mugs near the machine. He selected one, lifting it to the light to inspect for stains. "Where I'm from, there's no weather to predict." His words were calm, laced with a faint clinical detachment as he placed the mug beneath the spout with practiced care.
"You mean… space?" Soo Jin ventured, her voice tentative, the words slipping out before she could fully consider them.
The coffee machine let out a soft hum, followed by a series of mechanical gurgles as heated water coursed through its inner workings. A faint hiss escaped with the release of steam, curling upward like a ghostly thread that captured Heero's full attention.
Soo Jin's heart quickened as she studied his profile, her gaze tracing the faint crease in his brow. His statement, casual on the surface, carried layers of significance. Heero wasn't just answering her question—he was revealing something personal, something he had never directly confirmed before, despite the countless rumors that swirled around him.
Finally, as the machine settled into its rhythm, trickling dark liquid steadily into the espresso mug, Heero spoke. "Not much happening there in terms of sunshine and rain." His voice was steady, his gaze fixed on the brewing coffee. Yet, in saying as much as he did, he had also confirmed Soo Jin's quiet suspicion. Heero was space-born.
Soo Jin chuckled softly, relief flooding her as she leaned back against the counter. This was good. This was progress. Heero was letting her in—if only just a little.
"I guess the weather here might seem like a hassle for a space-born," she said, adding a playful lilt to her voice, determined to keep the moment light. She didn't want him retreating now.
"Coming here must've been a shock."
Heero paused, the faintest crease forming between his brows as if her words had pulled him from a distant thought. The scent of fresh coffee drifted between them, warm and rich, as the machine trickled the last drops into the waiting mug. Heero's gaze lingered on the dark liquid for a moment before he replied, his voice quieter, almost as if speaking to himself. "It took some getting used to."
Soo Jin tilted her head toward the window, her gaze following the streaks of rain on the glass. The gray clouds above seemed heavy, solemn, but her eyes softened as she found beauty in their weight. "Still, I envy you."
Heero turned slightly, his brow furrowing as he glanced at her. "Why?"
She offered him a small, wistful smile. "Because nothing can prepare you for seeing a sunset for the first time," she said softly. Her voice carried a quiet wonder, as though she were imagining it in her mind's eye. "And you got to experience that."
The coffee machine let out a final hiss, signaling it was done. Heero reached for the mug, his knuckles momentarily white as they gripped the handle.
Turning slightly away from her, Heero murmured, "You'd be surprised by the things I was prepared for." His voice was low, and a faint tightness flickered in his jaw.
Soo Jin felt the weight of Heero's words sink into the quiet between them. The room seemed smaller, the warmth of the brewing coffee contrasting sharply with the chill his statement left behind. She hesitated, regretting that her curiosity had led them here.
But then, Heero lifted the mug to his lips, taking a thoughtful sip. As he lowered it again, he added quietly, "But yeah, it was quite a sight."
The corners of Soo Jin's lips lifted into a soft, relieved smile. Her gaze met Heero's, gratitude in her expression. His eyes flickered with something subtler—a faint awkwardness, perhaps—not discomfort, but the sheepishness of someone unaccustomed to sharing personal details.
"I'd love to see space one day," Soo Jin said gently, her voice laced with genuine wonder. "I imagine it has its own unique beauty."
The softness in Heero's expression ebbed, his gaze dropping back to his mug. His fingers tightened around it, and he took another slow sip as if the movement could shield him from her words. His silence was heavier now, the kind that pushed people away without intention.
Soo Jin's heart sank. She had said the wrong thing again.
Desperate to lighten the mood, she forced a small chuckle. "I mean… at least the weather's stable," she quipped, her hand gesturing vaguely toward the window. "I could avoid all this weather hassle."
Heero let out a faint, almost imperceptible "Hn." Not quite a laugh, but not indifference either. The corner of his mouth twitched briefly—a flicker of acknowledgment, a subtle signal that she had dodged the bullet.
Emboldened, Soo Jin pressed on, her voice brighter. "Wrong forecasts always get me, though," she said, waving toward the window as if to emphasize her point. "Like today—severe rainfall alert, and it's barely drizzling!"
The attempt wasn't just about filling the silence; it was about reclaiming the fragile connection she had felt just moments ago. Heero was still there, still engaged, sipping his coffee alongside her instead of retreating to his desk. For someone like him, that was something. Soo Jin wasn't about to squander it.
"The entire city was on high alert," she said, reaching for the espresso capsules and glancing back at him. "And in the end, it turned out to be nothing."
"Better safe than sorry," Heero replied, his tone steady, almost rehearsed. Beneath the calm delivery, there was a trace of finality, as if the words came from a place of personal understanding.
Soo Jin leaned in for a clean espresso cup and Heero stepped aside. He positioned himself a fraction farther away than necessary. Soo Jin noticed but said nothing, accepting the unspoken boundary as part of who he was.
The faint aroma of roasted beans and residual steam from Heero's espresso lingered as Soo Jin selected a capsule. She slotted it into the machine, the latch clicking softly into place. The hiss of hot water spurting through the spout filled the kitchenette, accompanied by the rhythmic hum of the pump.
"I'm sure plenty of people who changed their plans this morning would disagree," Soo Jin continued, her tone conversational as the machine began to gurgle and drip. "Not to mention all the emergency crews going on standby when they give out these alerts. What a waste of tax money."
Heero's gaze remained fixed on the window, his profile catching the muted daylight filtering through the rain. His expression didn't change, but his fingers curled slightly tighter around his mug.
"Inconvenience is a small price to pay," he replied, his voice calm but carrying a quiet conviction. "One should always be prepared for the worst."
Soo Jin stirred a packet of sugar into her espresso as the machine hissed and completed its cycle. Her eyes flicked to Heero, studying his silhouette against the pale gray of the window. "I guess," she murmured, her tone softer now, thoughtful.
The sound of the spoon tapping the edge of her cup echoed faintly in the small kitchenette as she set it down. Soo Jin hesitated, turning his words over in her mind, weighing whether to prod further. Finally, she asked, "Is that what you do upstairs? Prepare for the worst?"
The question hung between them like a held breath, and for a moment, Soo Jin feared she had crossed an invisible line.
"That's classified," he said, his tone even but carrying a definitive edge, like a door closing firmly.
"Something we should be worried about?" she asked carefully, threading genuine concern into her tone.
"No," Heero's reply was firm, but there was an undertone in his voice—something harder to place. He took another sip of his coffee, his posture remaining rigid. "I've got this."
Soo Jin sipped her own espresso, the sweet warmth steadying her nerves. "You're an analyst," she said after a pause, her words gentle. "I thought… you don't do fieldwork anymore."
Heero's sharp gaze snapped to hers. The intensity made her breath hitch.
"People talk," Soo Jin added quickly, offering a sheepish smile to diffuse the tension. "I've heard rumors."
His lips twitched—not quite a grimace, but enough to suggest the edge had been dulled, giving way to resignation. He turned his gaze back to his mug, tracing the rim with his thumb in a quiet, contemplative motion.
"You're right," he replied finally, his voice quieter now, almost subdued. "I'm just… an analyst."
"But there's a lot to analyze?" Soo Jin asked carefully, her words tentative as she gauged his reaction.
Heero didn't respond. Instead, he brought the small white cup to his lips. Her eyes flicked to his hands, drawn by their poise and steady grace. His fingers were long and pale, their movements fluid and controlled, more befitting a pianist than a hardened Preventer agent. Yet they were anything but delicate. The grip he held on the cup was firm, full of conviction, as though even the simplest actions demanded purpose.
As he took a slow sip, Soo Jin studied his hands more closely. His nails were neatly trimmed, his cuticles meticulously maintained—a small detail that revealed his habitual care. Yet there was something about them that seemed worn, like a well-crafted tool that had seen too much use. War-weary, she thought, the words rising unbidden in her mind. Or was she projecting, letting what she knew about him fill in the blanks?
How could someone embody such stark contradictions? Soo Jin marveled at the quiet strength in those hands, at the way they seemed to carry an unspoken weight. They were capable, commanding, yet there was a gentleness in the way he cradled the mug. Strong, yet vulnerable. Cold, yet open in ways he might not even realize. The juxtaposition made her chest ache faintly, admiration threading through an inexplicable sorrow.
Heero took another sip, his grip steady as ever, but Soo Jin couldn't shake the feeling that those hands had borne burdens she couldn't even begin to imagine. She swallowed her questions, the unspoken ones that hovered on the edge of her tongue. Now wasn't the time.
Instead, she shifted her weight slightly, her nerves pressing at the quiet between them. "It's just that…" She hesitated, the words catching as she searched for the right way to say it. "You've been working so hard lately… I imagine it must be intense."
The faint clink of his mug against the counter broke the stillness as Heero set it down. For a moment, he didn't move, his eyes fixed on the swirling remnants of his coffee. His expression was unreadable, his stillness carrying a tension that made her pulse quicken.
Then, as if coming to a decision, he lifted his gaze to hers. His eyes, shadowed with fatigue, softened just enough to reveal a glimpse of something raw—something fragile and achingly human.
"It is," he admitted quietly, his voice steady but heavy with an unspoken weight. "Nothing new. Don't worry."
Soo Jin exhaled softly, her chest tightening and loosening all at once. There was reassurance in his words, but also a faint ache. He had let her in, but only a sliver. She was curious, but she knew better than to pry any further.
"Fair enough," she nodded, her smile warm and understanding.
Heero didn't return the smile, but his shoulders relaxed fractionally. His silence wasn't rejection; it was acceptance, a quiet acknowledgment that she hadn't overstepped.
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable; it carried a weight of its own, but it felt companionable in a strange way. They stood side by side, with Heero still keeping a safe distance, and sipped their coffee while watching the rain out the window, its rhythm steady and soothing.
Soo Jin let herself breathe, let herself relax into the stillness. The quiet stretched between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts, but it didn't feel uncomfortable. If anything, it felt like a fragile truce, the kind of silence that spoke more than words ever could. At that moment, there was nothing to fix, no questions to ask or answer. Just the steady rhythm of the rain, the warmth of her coffee, and the quiet presence of the man standing beside her.
"Thanks," Heero said suddenly, breaking the stillness.
Soo Jin blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. She turned to him, her eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise. "For what?"
Heero didn't look at her, his gaze fixed on the dark liquid at the bottom of his mug. "For not asking for more than I can give," he murmured, each word measured, as though it had taken him the entire pause to decide to say it.
Her chest warmed at the honesty of his admission. "Of course," she replied, smiling.
Heero stepped toward the sink, placing his empty cup inside. He turned on the tap, rinsing the mug. The water ran clear as he shook the excess droplets free, his movements almost meditative.
"For earlier, too," he added as an afterthought, his voice quiet but steady as he reached for a paper towel to dry his hands.
"Earlier?" Soo Jin asked, tilting her head, her tone curious but gentle.
Heero paused, his hands lingering on the paper towel as if it were an anchor. "The eye drops, the coffee…" He hesitated, finally crumpling the towel in his hands before looking at her. "Everything else."
Soo Jin's breath caught as she watched him. He dried his hands slowly, his gaze fixed downward, but when he looked up, his eyes met hers directly. There was no mask, no guarded expression—just raw, unfiltered honesty.
"I appreciate it," he finished simply.
The sincerity in his voice sent a shiver through her. Soo Jin felt her breath catch as she held his gaze, her heart thudding in her chest.
He was beautiful. Not just in the striking symmetry of his features or the quiet intensity of his presence, but in the rare, fleeting honesty that shone through his tired eyes.
"Anytime," Soo Jin replied softly, her voice steady despite the way her chest fluttered. Her smile was small but genuine, an unspoken promise that she meant it.
Heero inclined his head—a subtle acknowledgment—as he turned toward the door. Soo Jin watched him go, the instinct to call out—to keep him there, to hold onto the fragile connection—rising in her chest. She thought of inviting him to lunch, of saying something lighthearted to prolong the moment. But the impulse faded as quickly as it came.
This was enough.
She turned back to her coffee, her fingers idly tracing the smooth rim of the cup as she let herself reflect. It hadn't been a simple conversation about the weather. Not really.
In those few exchanges, she had learned more about him than she'd dared hope—pieces of Heero Yuy that she doubted anyone else knew or cared enough to ask about. The way he'd admitted to being from space—it had been so casual, almost offhand, as if he was trying to downsize it. But Soo Jin understood the weight behind it. It wasn't just an admission of his place of origin; it was a confession. He had been on their side—the people she had been taught to see as the enemy. He had come from the oppressed side, the Colonies, who had been cornered into committing acts of terror and violence against the Earth, against her people.
Heero's entire life had been shaped by a world she couldn't begin to imagine, a reality carved from war, from atrocities still being uncovered even fourteen years later.
It was no wonder his mindset was defined by preparing for the worst. Even in a conversation as mundane as the weather, his survivalist nature—his pragmatic, unrelenting focus—shone through. It explained so much: his stoicism, the way he measured every word as though each one bore a heavy, hidden cost. It wasn't just caution. It was deliberate, protective. He was careful because he had to be.
He had let her glimpse that today, in the smallest, simplest ways. He'd chosen his words so precisely, letting her in just enough without giving away too much. It was a balancing act, and Soo Jin didn't want to throw it off. If she pushed—if she asked too much—she feared he would shut down completely. Heero always seemed just a breath away from withdrawing, and she wasn't willing to risk it. He was too important to lose to her own impulsive impatience.
She exhaled, soft and slow, willing herself to leave the moment as it was. A small victory, fragile but meaningful. For now, it was more than enough.
The bar buzzed with life, a riot of sounds and smells crashing together like waves. Laughter mingled with the sharp thrum of an upbeat K-pop song, glasses clinking to enthusiastic shouts of "Geonbae!" from a table of university students. Their stack of empty soju bottles teetered dangerously, a silent dare waiting to tumble.
Across the room, a work dinner party had descended into chaos. Middle-aged salarymen with loosened ties banged their fists on the table, cheering on their manager as he stumbled through a drinking game with theatrical enthusiasm.
At a quieter corner table, Soo Jin leaned back, savoring the warm buzz of her second shot of soju. Her Preventer jacket hung over the back of her chair, her tie loosened, and her khaki sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her hair, freed from its usual tight bun, tumbled loosely around her shoulders, framing her flushed cheeks.
"This is what Friday nights are for," Mi Cha declared, tipping her pint of beer toward the chaotic crowd. She took a long pull, the foam clinging briefly to her upper lip before she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
"It's tragic, though," Seo Yun interjected with a dramatic sigh. Perched at the head of the table, she sipped her pink cocktail delicately. Her cream sweater and plaid skirt looked perfectly styled, as if she'd walked off the set of a photoshoot. Her glossy curls framed her face as she fixed Soo Jin with a critical stare.
"Soo Jin-ah," she said, her voice dripping with mock pity, "you look like you're one drink away from a midlife crisis. Take off the tie already."
"It's comfortable," Soo Jin muttered defensively, grabbing a piece of dakbal. The bony chicken foot pointed at her like an accusation, but she bit down with a satisfying crunch, chewing loudly to make her point.
Seo Yun raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "It's a cry for help."
"You try wearing stuffy uniforms all day," Soo Jin shot back, reaching for her soju glass.
She wondered idly what Heero looked like out of uniform. Not naked! Well… maybe just a little bit naked. She snorted softly into her drink, shaking her head at herself. No, not that. Something casual—relaxed yet still sharp, because of course, he'd be the type to pull off 'effortlessly put together.'
What did he even wear on weekends? Did he even own casual clothes? He struck her as the plain 'jeans and T-shirt' type. Maybe a denim jacket if it got particularly cold.
She'd love to see him in something laid-back. Not sloppy, like in his sleepwear and disheveled from illness, but healthy Heero. Vigorous Heero. She imagined him running errands or engrossed in some everyday task, maybe fixing something—whatever men did on weekends. He'd look good doing anything, really. With that focused, single-minded determination etched onto his perfectly sculpted face, Heero managed to radiate vigorousness no matter what he was doing.
She snickered softly to herself. Funny how her mind kept circling back to the word vigorous. Or worse, the thought of him naked. He was just so terribly handsome, wasn't he? Of course, he was more than that. Much more. And Soo Jin couldn't wait to discover all the layers of him. But she also knew she had to be patient. He was letting her in, piece by piece, and she couldn't afford to push too fast or too far.
Still, today had been a huge step forward, and that was worth celebrating—with another shot of soju! She let out a chuckle and reached for the bottle, feeling the pleasant warmth spread across her cheeks.
Across the table, Mi Cha snorted, raising her glass. "Just let her be, Yun-ah. That's what people look like after a long day's work. Not all of us look like we're ready for a photoshoot at any given moment."
Seo Yun rolled her eyes, taking a delicate sip of her cocktail. "It's called having standards, Mi Cha. Not all of us want to marry our pillows."
Mi Cha shrugged, undeterred. "I love my pillows. They're dependable."
Soo Jin laughed, a warm, tipsy buzz spreading through her chest. She felt good and relaxed for the first time all week. With her friends, she didn't have to weigh every word like she did around Heero. She didn't have to be civil and tolerate rude remarks like she did with the other agents. She didn't have to grovel like she did with Director Jeong. Tonight, she wasn't the quiet, buttoned-up office assistant. Tonight, she was just Soo Jin. Sitting back, drinking soju, and celebrating a small victory: a kitchenette conversation over coffee.
Mouth full of savory chicken foot, Soo Jin's chewing slowed as a thought struck her. What would Heero think if he saw her wolfing down bony chicken feet—skin, fingers, and all?
She could picture it too clearly: those piercing eyes narrowing at the claw in her mouth, his expression blank but unmistakably judgmental. Not that he'd say anything. No, Heero wasn't the type to voice disapproval. He'd just look at her, stoic and quietly devastating, like she'd done something ridiculous.
Guilt clawed down her throat as she swallowed, the flavor suddenly alien on her tongue. She chased it away with another shot of soju, sighing heavily as the burn hit her throat.
If she were ever on a date with Heero, she'd avoid animal products entirely. Not that guys like Heero went on dates. Probably not. But… if they happened to go on one— Heero and me, on a date? —she would be respectful. She'd pick a vegan restaurant, or at least eat something safe, like salad or soup.
At lunch. Yes, lunch first. They could start at the office. Work up to something more. What would he even wear on a date? He'd look good in anything, of course. But would he make an effort for her? She imagined him pulling on a crisp shirt, buttoning it with those deft fingers. Or maybe a fitted jacket—casual but perfect, like him.
Where would they go?
She smiled to herself, half-dreaming. Heero Yuy, on a date. With her. It wasn't impossible.
"Oh no," Mi Cha said, lowering her beer with a knowing grin. "She's thinking about him again…"
"What? Who? Me? No!" Soo Jin straightened, her tone overly innocent as she reached for a vegetable side dish with her chopsticks, pretending to choose the perfect slice of pickled radish.
"Oh, please," Seo Yun drawled, rolling her eyes behind thick lashes. "You're thinking about him so loudly they can probably hear you across the bar." She tilted her chin toward the rowdy group of salarymen, who had burst into another round of off-key singing.
"Snickering like a schoolgirl…" Mi Cha teased, leaning in with a sly smile. "You were picturing him naked, weren't you?"
"What? No!" Soo Jin's voice cracked as she nearly dropped her chopsticks.
"She totally was," Seo Yun confirmed with a sage nod, swirling her cocktail as though delivering a great truth.
"Oh, you naughty girl," Mi Cha grinned, raising her glass in a mock toast. "Have another drink and tell us all about it."
"It wasn't much," Soo Jin muttered, her fingers tracing absent circles on the rim of her soju glass. "We just… had a moment."
Seo Yun gasped, her doll-like eyes widening as she leaned forward, curls bouncing dramatically. "A moment? What kind of moment? Did he look at you? Did he smile? Did he sweep you off your feet and confess his undying love?"
Mi Cha smirked, her tone as dry as the beer she sipped. "Did he manage to say anything that wasn't a glare?"
Soo Jin laughed, the sound warm and slightly sheepish. "Yes, kinda, no," she answered the questions in order, her cheeks flushing as her lips curled into a small, reluctant smile. "And… yes."
"Oh my gosh! Finally!" Seo Yun smacked the table with both hands, nearly toppling her cocktail. "He smiled? Like, for real? "
"Not that kind of smile," Soo Jin said quickly, her hands fluttering defensively. "But yeah… I think he was."
Mi Cha raised an eyebrow, pausing mid-sip. "And you're blushing. You definitely had a moment."
"It wasn't a big deal, really," Soo Jin insisted, though the corners of her lips betrayed her. "We just talked."
"About what?" Seo Yun pressed.
Soo Jin hesitated, her gaze drifting toward the rain streaking the windows outside. "…The weather," she admitted softly, her voice turning dreamy despite the mundane topic.
Both women stared at her in stunned disbelief.
Seo Yun groaned, flopping dramatically back in her chair. "The weather? Soo Jin-ah, come on. You've got the most mysterious man in the office, and the best you can do is, 'Nice clouds today?' "
Mi Cha shook her head, though her eyes softened. "You're saying this blush-worthy moment revolved around forecasts and rain clouds?"
"It's not about what we talked about," Soo Jin protested, biting her lip to hold back a grin. "It's that he didn't shut me out. He listened. And… he stuck around. We had coffee. He even thanked me."
Mi Cha leaned back, nodding thoughtfully as she took another sip of beer. "That's progress. For a guy like Heero, a 'thank you' probably counts as a grand romantic gesture."
Seo Yun rolled her eyes so hard it looked physically painful. "Progress? He thanked you for existing. You should've invited him out for coffee and turned it into a real moment."
Mi Cha shot Seo Yun with a bemused look. "Don't push her. She's moving at Heero-pace, which means one polite conversation every three weeks."
Seo Yun groaned, stirring her cocktail with theatrical despair. "If he's still silent and brooding by Christmas, I'm stepping in."
Mi Cha snorted. "Please. He'd run the second you opened your mouth."
Soo Jin burst into laughter at the mental image, doubling over as her drink wobbled precariously on the table. The tension that had weighed on her all week evaporated in an instant, replaced by the warmth of friendship and soju.
"Not everyone has it easy like you do, Yun-ah," Soo Jin said, pointing her chopsticks at her friend. "Since high school, you've had guys tripping over themselves to date you."
Seo Yun shrugged, flipping her hair with an effortless flourish. "It's not my fault I'm pretty. You two could learn a thing or two about putting in effort."
"I'd rather sleep," Mi Cha said flatly, tilting her glass toward Soo Jin. "The last guy who asked me out spent half the date telling me women didn't need careers. I could feel my IQ dropping just listening to him."
Soo Jin snorted, nudging a side dish closer to Mi Cha. "Why didn't you leave?"
"I did. Told him I had an early shift." Mi Cha's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she picked a piece of kimchi with her chopsticks. "Best decision I ever made. My pillow missed me."
Seo Yun groaned, setting her glass down with exaggerated drama. "You'll die an old maid. I'm putting all my money on Jin-ah. You're our last hope of turning at least one of us into a decent woman."
"I'm taking my time," Soo Jin said firmly, reaching for the soju bottle. "He's complicated."
Seo Yun snorted, raising her glass in a mock toast. "He's not complicated. He's a man. Men are easy."
"For you, maybe," Mi Cha muttered into her beer, earning a chuckle from Soo Jin.
As if on cue, a waiter approached their table, balancing a tray of fresh drinks. "Compliments of the gentleman at the bar," he said, nodding toward a young man who looked like he might faint under Seo Yun's attention.
Seo Yun turned toward him, her smile turning dangerously flirtatious. She waved at him with a delicate flick of her fingers, her expression a blend of cutesy charm.
The man's face lit up like fireworks, his blush creeping all the way to his ears as he raised his glass in shaky gratitude.
Mi Cha shook her head, unimpressed. "Case in point. You don't even have to try."
Soo Jin watched as the man fumbled with his drink, his gaze fixed on Seo Yun as though she'd blessed his entire existence. "You really do make it look easy."
"It is easy," Seo Yun said matter-of-factly, lifting her complimentary cocktail. "You just need confidence. And great hair." She tossed her curls dramatically, smiling again at the man.
The poor guy nearly spilled his drink, beaming at her with awe.
Mi Cha rolled her eyes. "Or a lobotomy…"
Soo Jin chuckled, pouring herself another shot of soju. "I'll stick to slow and steady, thanks." She knocked back the shot with a decisive clink of her glass.
"Sounds like you're not letting this one get away," Mi Cha observed, her tone light but her gaze thoughtful.
"I've wasted enough of my youth being led around by assholes," Soo Jin said, her voice sharper than she intended.
"And Heero's different?" Seo Yun seemed skeptic. "By what you've been telling us, he sounds like a real jerk. How is he any different from Min Hwan?"
"Ugh, don't even get me started," Soo Jin groaned, pouring another shot. "Best thing I ever did was dump him after graduation."
"Too bad it took you three years of university to figure out he was no good," Mi Cha teased gently.
"Better late than never," Soo Jin muttered, downing her drink. "Lesson learned."
Mi Cha and Seo Yun exchanged a quick, worried glance. Soo Jin noticed and set her glass down with a soft clink.
"Don't give me that look," she said, waving her chopsticks at her friends. "Heero's different. He is. I just have to find a way to make him realize that…"
"Realize what?" Seo Yun asked, blinking innocently, her wide eyes full of genuine confusion.
"That he's worth the effort," Mi Cha answered smoothly, her tone dry but not unkind. She leaned back, tilting her beer toward Soo Jin with a knowing smirk. "In other words, our girl's got it bad."
Seo Yun's face lit up with realization, but she said nothing, leaving Mi Cha's words to hang in the air. The two friends exchanged skeptical looks, but after a moment, Mi Cha nodded with a faint, understanding smile.
"All right, Jin-ah. We'll take your word for it. For now."
"That's right," Seo Yun added brightly. "But I need to approve of him first. Just in case."
"You're not my parents…" Soo Jin groaned, rubbing her temple.
"No," Mi Cha said firmly, "we're your friends."
"That's right!" Seo Yun chirped, raising her glass. "To sisterhood!"
"To sisterhood!" they all echoed, clinking their glasses together.
Heero closed the apartment door behind him with a quiet click, the muted sound of the lock the only sign of his return. The dim light from a distant streetlamp cast fractured shadows across the sterile walls, the air cool and metallic, untouched by life.
He stood there motionless, letting the heavy silence settle over him like a physical weight. The faint hum of the refrigerator was the only sound, its low vibration filling the stillness.
Heero leaned back against the door, his hand brushing over his duty jacket, above his ribcage. A deep ache radiated from his left side, intensifying with each shallow breath. His waist stung sharply on the right, phantom echoes of fire and RPG impacts replaying in his mind.
After a moment, he pushed himself forward into the narrow entryway. The faint click of his polished shoes against the floor was swallowed by the cavernous silence of the apartment. Standing in front of a lone hanger, he shrugged off his duty jacket with ingrained precision. The heavy fabric slid into place as he hung it on the single hook.
He paused, his hands hovering mid-air. His blank stare settled on the sleeve cuffs clasping his wrists, as though looking at something beyond the fabric. Something deeper. Something that throbbed with a constant, unrelenting ache—dull enough to ignore, yet sharp enough to remain ever-present. The sensation was ghostly, distant, but it pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
With a small, resigned exhale, he let his arms fall to his sides and turned away from the hanger. A quiet groan escaped him as his body protested the motion. Stiffly, Heero bent to remove his shoes, wincing as a sharp pain shot through his ribs. He placed the shoes carefully in their designated spot, his movements ritualistic.
Down the hallway, his bedroom seemed impossibly far, its darkened space stretching endlessly into the shadows, a destination that felt just out of reach.
Unable to summon the strength for the long journey to his beckoning bed, Heero compromised. He turned toward the living room and made the shorter trek to the couch. His fingers moved sluggishly to his tie, twisting it back and forth to loosen it. He collapsed onto the sofa, his body sinking heavily into the cushions. He leaned back, letting his head tilt toward the ceiling, his eyes slipping closed as a long exhale escaped him.
In the quiet stillness behind his eyelids, Heero's thoughts flickered uncontrollably, fragments of the session in the Combat Analysis Room bubbling to the surface, flashing in disjointed bursts. Color and light exploded behind his eyelids. Information streamed in torrents—too fast, too overwhelming to process. Sensor readouts. Hull damage. Explosions. Gunfire. Tactical data.
His mind was still trapped in the Cambodian jungle, shadowed by dense trees and drenched in sweat. The weight of split-second decisions bore down on him. Endless calculations spiraled through his frayed thoughts, his mind the only guide to the chaos.
A sharp intake of breath broke through the haze, his fists clenching against his thighs. Desperate to anchor himself, Heero's hand moved instinctively to his pants pocket. His fingers brushed against something small and folded.
A memo note.
He pulled it out carefully, unfolding the crumpled paper. Blinking away the chaotic visions, he forced his blurry eyes to focus on the small memo.
Soo Jin's neat handwriting stood out in the dim light filtering through the window:
'Please eat something. I'll see you tomorrow.'
The corners of his mouth twitched, the faintest hint of a tired smile curling there. His fingers tightened slightly around the paper as he read it again. And again.
The words blurred and sharpened as his gaze lingered, his chest rising with a slow, measured breath. For a long moment, he simply stared at the note, its edges soft and worn from his grip. The faint glow from the rain-dappled window fell over the words, illuminating them like a beacon in the darkness.
Heero's gaze drifted toward the shadowed hallway.
He exhaled sharply, his muscles tensing as he pushed himself upright. Pain flared in his ribs, but he ignored it, shuffling tiredly toward the hallway. His steps were heavy, each one an effort as he clutched the note tightly, his thumb repeatedly brushing over the crumpled paper.
He stopped just short of his bedroom, standing before another door—the bathroom.
He stared at the handle, the pale light catching the faint tremor in his hands. The note crinkled slightly under his tightening grip.
Squaring his shoulders, Heero turned the handle and stepped inside, choosing to take a shower instead of collapsing into the beckoning abyss of his bed.
The bathroom lights flickered on with a harsh, clinical brightness, flooding the small space with an unforgiving glare. Every detail of Heero's reflection was laid bare under the stark illumination, accentuating the pallor of his skin, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the faint stubble darkening his complexion, and the tautness of his frame.
Slowly, he unbuttoned his khaki shirt, each motion methodical, as though shedding the fabric required careful precision. The weight of the day seemed stitched into every thread.
The shirt slipped from his shoulders, falling to the tiled floor in a muted heap. Left in his white undershirt, he hesitated, his hand brushing over his waist where the ache lingered.
Lifting the hem of the shirt, he revealed lean, toned muscle beneath—unblemished, pale, stretched thin over his ribs. His fingers moved carefully, tracing the area as if expecting to find bruises or burns. There was nothing. His skin bore no evidence of impact.
The ache was in his head.
He sighed, tired and resigned, before peeling the undershirt off completely. The fabric joined the khaki shirt on the floor.
Now shirtless, Heero stood before the mirror, his bare chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. His body bore the sharp definition of years of rigorous training—lean muscle honed for precision. Yet time had etched its toll. Faint ribs showed beneath his skin, and his pale complexion spoke of long hours spent away from sunlight. His posture, usually rigid with control, seemed stretched thin, strained by an exhaustion that drilled down deeper than fatigue.
He stared at his reflection, his gaze heavy, as if searching for someone he no longer recognized. The face that met him was unfamiliar, hollowed by time and wear. In his mind, he was still the invincible teenage soldier, yet the mirror reflected a man worn down by years of battles fought both in the field and within himself. Stubble shadowed his jawline, the lines around his eyes sharper than he remembered. He saw someone who had lived too much in too little time.
Heero's jaw clenched, his fists gripping the edge of the sink as the disconnect gnawed at him.
He was pushing thirty, but he felt decades older, and yet a part of him still expected to see the perfect soldier from his youth staring back. The dissonance clawed at his chest, a sharp reminder of the distance between who he had been and who he was now.
His knuckles turned white against the porcelain. He exhaled sharply, a flicker of anger breaking through his stillness.
It was a mess. He was a mess.
With a sigh, he leaned forward, gripping the edge of the sink as his eyes lingered on the raw, red welts around his wrists. The marks throbbed faintly, but he ignored them, raising his hands to open the medicine cabinet, the faint creak of the hinges breaking the sterile silence. Inside, the lens case waited, neatly tucked into its designated spot.
Heero retrieved it and opened it with delicate precision, his fingers moving as if guided by muscle memory. The small case rested on the sink as he reached for his left eye. Slowly, he peeled away the brown contact, blinking against the sudden sharpness of his blue iris. The lens balanced delicately on the tip of his finger before he placed it carefully into one of the small domes in the case.
He repeated the process for his right eye, the second contact joining the first. He reached for a bottle of solution, twisting the cap off with a quiet click. Tilting it carefully, he poured just enough liquid to cover each lens, the motion practiced and exact.
The case closed with two soft clicks—one for each dome.
Heero placed it back inside the cabinet with meticulous care, setting it precisely where it belonged. As he turned to set the solution bottle back, his gaze caught on something else—a small, unopened package nestled in the corner of the shelf.
The sealed box bore his name, the prescription label stark against the pristine packaging:
'H. Yuy (M, 29). x2 daily', it said.
Heero froze, the stark, clinical light making the bold black text stand out even more. The pills sat untouched, the plastic wrap unbroken, pristine as the day he had bought it.
His thumb brushed against the corner of the solution bottle, his hand tightening briefly before he reached to set it in place, nudging the pill box behind the larger bottle of solution, hiding it from view. He closed the cabinet door with a soft click, shutting away the pills and their implications.
He turned back to the mirror, his gaze locking onto his reflection. The blue eyes staring back were vivid and piercing. Too bright, too exposed.
Heero held his own gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable.
Then, he looked away.
He stepped into the shower, the scalding water striking his skin with burning intensity before melting into soothing warmth. The heat unraveled the knots in his shoulders and back, the relentless tension of the day slipping away in increments.
Heero leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the cool tiles as the stream cascaded over him. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, each exhale carrying away fragments of the strain clinging to him. The phantom pain in his torso dulled slightly, though it lingered like a ghostly echo.
The water darkened as it swirled around his feet, streaked with fresh black dye from his hair. It tainted everything—the floor of the shower, the pristine tiles, even his fingertips when he ran a hand through his damp locks. The dye never lasted as long as it should, fading unevenly after just a couple of weeks. It stained his towels, his pillowcases, even his shirts.
Yet he dyed it anyway.
Heero couldn't explain why if asked. There was no mission directive, no tactical advantage. It was simply something he felt he must do. So he did.
The water pounded against his shoulders, washing the dye away in inky rivulets. He stayed like that for a long moment, letting the stream soak into his muscles and bones, softening the rigid edges of his machine-like reflexes. Slowly, piece by piece, his mind slipped back into place.
His breathing evened out, his thoughts quieting. Heero stayed under the water until the tension in his body ebbed, the last remnants of the day's strain disappearing with the steam.
Finally, he reached for the handle, twisting it off with a decisive motion. The silence that followed was almost jarring, the absence of the water's roar leaving the room hollow.
He grabbed a towel from the nearby rack and dried himself with brisk, efficient movements. The edges of the towel darkened as the dye clung to the gray fabric, streaking it with uneven black stains. Heero grimaced faintly at the sight, folding the towel over to hide the marks before running it through his hair again.
The mirror cleared as Heero wiped his hand across the fogged glass, revealing his reflection once again. The blue eyes staring back at him were sharp and vivid, impossible to ignore in the harsh bathroom light.
He ran a hand through his damp hair, brushing the tangled mess with his fingers. The dye clung stubbornly to his scalp, a faint stain visible near his hairline despite his efforts to rinse it away. He grimaced at the sight, his fingers tightening briefly before falling away.
It was always the hair and the eyes.
They were the first things people noticed about him, the first things that stood out. He had been taught from a young age to blend in—to exist in the background, unnoticed and unremarkable. His mentors had drilled it into him: Be inconspicuous. Be forgettable. The mission depends on it.
Yet, as a cocky teenage soldier, he had never made the effort. Brown hair, bright blue eyes—his natural features marked him as different, memorable, and far from inconspicuous. Back then, he hadn't cared, too focused on surviving from one mission to the next. He had never stayed in one place long enough to be remembered—or so he had thought.
Over time, he learned the heavy price of standing out.
The first thing Relena had commented on was his eyes. Even when he'd tried to hide them behind a splayed hand and the messy fringe of his hair, she had noticed. Her curiosity pierced through his stoic façade, her words lingering long after their first encounter.
Had he been wise enough to wear brown contacts back then, could he have avoided the chain of events unleashed that day on the beach? Could he have avoided Relena altogether? Or the others—people whose unwanted attention made him vulnerable, jeopardized missions, and placed him in situations he couldn't always escape unscathed?
The questions lingered, acrid and bitter, as he stared into his own gaze. The blue eyes looking back at him felt like a curse—a tether to a past he could never fully leave behind.
Heero exhaled sharply, the sound rough and strained in the small bathroom. He knew the futility of dwelling on these thoughts, yet they clung to him like the dye staining his hair.
With a sudden burst of frustration, Heero grabbed the stained towel from the rack. He threw it into the hamper with more force than necessary, the motion breaking the silence with a dull thud.
Next, he bent down and grabbed his discarded uniform from the floor, balling it up in his hands. The fabric was wrinkled and heavy, its familiar weight pressing against his palms like an extension of the day's burdens. His chest tightened as frustration bubbled up higher; a simmering restless energy he couldn't quite shake.
He lifted the crumpled bundle, ready to shove it into the hamper alongside the stained towel, but then he paused.
A thought struck him.
No longer a haughty teenager, he had learned his lessons. When he arrived in Seoul, he made the effort. He dyed his hair black, wore brown contacts, and perfected the art of being invisible in a bustling city. He mastered the rhythm of blending in, becoming just another face in the crowd—a nameless agent in the Preventer office.
And yet, Soo Jin noticed him.
Despite every effort he made to remain unseen, she still saw him. And she didn't just see—she made an effort to get close. So close that she saw through his disguise without flinching.
Why?
Heero's grip on the uniform slackened. The hard knot in his chest loosened just enough to let him breathe more steadily. Instead of discarding the garment, he smoothed the wrinkles with a flat hand, pressing out each fold before hanging it carefully on the rack where it would wait to be washed.
He stepped back, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, and stared at the uniform.
The faint rumble of his stomach broke the silence. His gaze shifted to the tailored trousers hanging in front of him. Reaching into the pocket, he pulled out a folded memo note.
Slowly, Heero unfolded it, smoothing the worn edges between his fingers. Soo Jin's neat handwriting came into view, the message simple and matter-of-fact:
' Please eat something. I'll see you tomorrow.'
His lips pressed into a thin line, but a small, tired smile tugged at the corners despite himself. He read the note again, the words grounding him like a lifeline in the storm of his thoughts.
Nodding slightly, Heero tucked the note into his hand, grabbed a clean pair of boxers and a plain t-shirt from a basket of folded laundry, and stepped out of the bathroom.
He flicked on the overhead light on his way into the kitchen. The sterile brightness spilled into the edges of the living room, chasing the shadows into retreat.
The mechanical hum of the refrigerator filled the silence as he opened it, staring at its sparse contents. A block of tofu. A bundle of vegetables. A half-used bottle of soy sauce on the side shelf. Not much, but enough.
Heero grabbed a pack of microwave rice from the pantry and set it on the counter. The faint click of a knife against the cutting board broke the stillness as he began to slice the tofu. The rhythmic motion steadied his hands, the sound echoing softly through the apartment along with the rain.
Each slice felt like a small victory; a simple, repetitive task. The knife moved through the vegetables next—crisp carrots, zucchini, green onions. The scent of fresh produce filled the air.
As the rice heated in the microwave, Heero sautéed the tofu and vegetables, sesame oil sizzling softly as he stirred. The warmth of the stovetop radiated against his skin, chasing away the chill of the apartment. The scent of soy sauce and garlic soon filled the kitchen, rich and savory, clinging to the air like a comforting blanket.
When the meal was ready, he plated it carefully—a bowl of fried rice with tofu and vegetables, steaming faintly in the cool air. He set the bowl on the counter, placing the folded note beside it, its edges slightly crumpled from his lengthy grip.
Sliding onto the barstool, Heero stared at the bowl for a moment, chopsticks resting loosely in his hand. His gaze drifted to the rain streaking down the window, the rhythmic patter muffled but insistent.
The first bite was hesitant. The flavors were simple but warm, grounding him as he chewed slowly. His eyes flicked to the unfolded note. Soo Jin's neat handwriting stared back at him.
Heero's grip on the chopsticks tightened briefly as he read the words again. The apartment was heavy with silence, every shift of his chair creaking into the stillness.
It wasn't usually like this. Solitude had always been his safe space, his armor. But tonight, after weeks of Soo Jin's quiet companionship—her soft voice filling the gaps, her unspoken concern lingering in every gesture—the silence felt different. Lonely.
Picking up the bowl and chopsticks, Heero rose from the barstool and moved to the living room, where a small TV hung on the wall. He flicked it on, the muted hum of faint newscast music breaking the oppressive quiet. The glow of the screen cast faint shadows on the walls, giving the apartment a semblance of life.
The couch welcomed him as he sank into the cushions, the rain streaking down the window beside him. The TV murmured softly in the background, its low hum blending with the rhythmic patter outside.
Heero took another bite, his gaze drifting between the rain-soaked window and the softly glowing screen. The flavors were still simple, but the act of eating—of being present, of choosing to sit here instead of surrendering to the emptiness—felt like something more.
For the first time in a long while, the apartment felt less like a cold shell and more like a place where life could exist. Where he could exist.
Heero leaned back on the couch, chopsticks in hand, taking slow, measured bites.
A news anchor's voice droned on, barely registering in Heero's mind as he focused on the warmth of the food.
"…and in international news, ESUN Senator Relena Darlian arrived in the L1 central colony earlier today, continuing her annual goodwill tour to the Colonies…"
Heero's hand froze mid-motion, the chopsticks hovering above the bowl. His gaze snapped to the screen.
"…This marks another step in her ongoing mission to strengthen ties between Earth and space before the election…"
Relena's face filled the frame, her long blonde hair swept into a sophisticated updo that framed her features perfectly. Bright blue eyes shone with passion and purpose, the kind of unwavering conviction that always seemed to define her. Her elegant suit befitted a world-class politician, exuding professionalism and grace.
The footage shifted, showing her stepping confidently onto a podium, her movements fluid and practiced. Her voice carried over the hum of the crowd, calm but resonant as she addressed the reporters. In a closer shot, Relena's dainty hands moved with animated gestures, emphasizing her words as though drawing the audience into her vision.
And then he saw it.
The wedding ring.
It gleamed under the flashing camera lights, simple yet unmistakable. She brushed a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear, the subtle motion making the band catch the light again.
Heero's thoughts slammed to a halt.
The chopsticks in his hand felt impossibly heavy, his grip tightening until his knuckles whitened.
Fragments of memory surged forward, unbidden. Relena's long fingers running through his brown hair, her touch soft and lingering. Her lips warm against his, stealing a kiss he hadn't offered but hadn't resisted. Her bright blue eyes gazing at him as though he were the center of her universe. Her bubbling laughter. The warmth of her touch. The comforting weight of her presence.
The hope she had always carried—not just for him, but for them both.
A hope that had soured. Stagnated. Crumbled under the weight of her expectations and his failures.
"…The Senator's efforts to promote arms reduction and peacekeeping remain central to her platform…" The anchor's voice pierced through the haze, dispassionate and calm.
But all Heero could see was that ring on her finger—a flaunting reminder of failure and defeat.
"…Senator Darlian has emphasized her commitment to strengthening ties between Earth and the Colonies, a cause she has championed since…"
The warmth of the meal vanished, replaced by a hollow ache that twisted low in his chest.
Heero's gaze locked onto the screen, his expression sharpening as it honed in on the ring glinting on her finger. The fleeting connection dissolved into something cold, sharp, and distant.
He set the chopsticks down abruptly, the quiet clink against the bowl louder than it should have been.
The rain outside grew louder in his ears, the rhythmic tapping now a dull roar against his frayed thoughts.
Reaching for the remote, Heero switched off the TV with a sharp motion. The room plunged into silence, the flickering light gone, leaving only the faint glow of the rain-streaked window.
He rose slowly, his movements heavy as he set the unfinished bowl on the coffee table.
Without a glance back, Heero retreated into the dark hallway, his figure disappearing into the shadows. The door to his bedroom creaked open, then clicked softly shut behind him.
In the living room, the bowl of rice remained on the coffee table, steam curling faintly into the cold, empty air.