Internship (in) Love

A Gundam Wing K-Drama

Chapter 7

Soo Jin stepped out of a cab, the city hum fading behind her as she looked up at the tall, nondescript apartment complex looming before her. It was one of a dozen similar high-rises in the urban district, each indistinguishable from the next except for the large number painted on the side. The one before her, simply marked "309" , served as temporary quarters for Preventer agents—those on assignment, transfers, or trainees who hadn't yet settled.

Her gaze drifted upward, to where Heero's apartment sat on the 23rd floor, high above the parking lot against the backdrop of a cloudy autumn sky. A pang of hurt twisted in her chest. This was where Heero lived—this hollow, impersonal place meant for those passing through. No one stayed here long unless they had nothing outside of Preventer.

Clutching the colorful bojagi tightly in her arms, Soo Jin felt the fading warmth of the thermos inside. She took a deep breath and stepped into the building.

The lobby was just as cold and impersonal—a stark waiting area lit by harsh fluorescent lights, white walls bare of any decoration, and a sleek marble floor reflecting the sterile surroundings. Her footsteps echoed in the emptiness, a hollow sound in the gray, sterile void.

Stepping into the elevator, Soo Jin found herself confronted by her own reflection in the mirror-like doors. Her frizzy hair was spiking out from her ponytail, and her wrinkled Preventer skirt suit hung crooked from her rushed movements. Her brown eyes, wide and anxious, stared back at her from a face that was too pale despite her makeup. She looked as distraught as she felt.

As the elevator ascended, Soo Jin set the brightly wrapped container on the floor and quickly began to straighten herself out—smoothing her skirt, tugging at her blazer, adjusting her pantyhose. She tucked stray locks of hair behind her ears and took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself, willing her reflection to look more composed. A colleague on a courtesy visit. That was all.

But when the elevator dinged softly and the doors slid open, her heart sank all over again. She stared at the long hallway stretching out in front of her, the sterile, identical doors lining the walls like silent sentinels. Somewhere at the end of this hallway was Heero's door, the place where he had withdrawn, hidden away like a wounded animal retreating into its lair to lick its wounds.

And here she was, about to step into that private den.

Soo Jin's heart pounded as she bent down to pick up the soup, forcing her hands to stop trembling. She had to do this. He was sick, alone, and clearly in need of help—even if he didn't want to admit it. She swallowed the lump in her throat, straightened her back, and stepped out of the elevator.

With every step down the long, echoing hallway, Soo Jin forced herself to remain calm, gripping the soup container as though it were the only thing anchoring her to her resolve. Whatever Heero's reaction, she'd face it. She wasn't going to abandon him—not when she had already come this far.

Reaching the door at the end of the long hallway, Soo Jin stopped, her breath catching in her throat. The sleek gray surface of the door, marked plainly with the number 2301, seemed cold and uninviting, a barrier between her and Heero's world. She hesitated, standing on the threshold of something she couldn't fully grasp—a sense of foreboding radiating from the door, as if it held the weight of secrets she wasn't ready to uncover.

What if she was crossing a line? What if Heero didn't want her there? The silence on the other side amplified her unease, but the memory of his fevered, trembling form gave her the push she needed. Finally, with a deep breath, she mustered the courage and rapped lightly on the door.

No answer. The hallway was still, unnervingly so. After a few moments, Soo Jin pressed the doorbell. The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating.

A soft thud came from inside the apartment. Then faint shuffling, and finally, the intercom camera whirred to life. The screen remained dark, but she could feel Heero's eyes on her, watching from the other side. The scrutiny made her stomach twist, and she forced a soft smile onto her face, though her heart felt heavy. Lifting the thermos to the camera's level, she tried to keep her voice steady.

"Special delivery," she said, her voice light but tentative.

The camera switched off. Silence again. The emptiness of it felt final. Soo Jin's hand tightened around the soup, holding it closer to her chest, the warmth of the thermos seeping into her fingers as if to comfort her. She bit down on her bottom lip, feeling the sting of uncertainty rise within her. This was a mistake. She shouldn't have come. He wasn't going to let her in.

A moment passed. Two. Her shoulders sagged, disappointment settling in like a stone in her stomach. Just as she began to turn away, she heard it—the soft click of the lock disengaging, followed by a faint series of beeps. Soo Jin froze, hope fluttering in her chest as she turned back to the door. But it barely opened—a crack, nothing more. Her breath hitched.

Heero hadn't fully opened the door. He was still hesitating, still unsure. From the small gap, Soo Jin could make out only a sliver of him—one bare foot beneath baggy gray sweatpants, and an arm in a loose white sleeve gripping the handle just out of sight. His head was bowed, hidden behind the door, messy black bangs obscuring his face. He seemed frozen mid-step, as if caught between retreating and letting her in, his whole form shrunken and withdrawn.

Soo Jin shifted nervously, feeling the weight of his reluctance from behind the half-opened door. She cleared her throat softly and spoke again, her voice quieter this time. "I… I was worried," she admitted, taking a small step forward. "I just wanted to check on you."

For a few agonizing moments, there was no response. She imagined him standing just behind the door, wrestling with whether to let her in or turn her away.

Then, the door creaked open a little more, just enough for her to see him standing there, holding the door half-open as though it were the only thing keeping him upright. His usually sharp, composed appearance had completely unraveled. Gone was the crisp, clean-cut Preventer uniform, replaced by a loose white long-sleeved undershirt that hung off his lean frame. His black hair, normally tousled yet somehow controlled enough to pass as presentable at work, was now a complete mess. Strands jutted out at awkward angles, his disheveled state giving him a bad case of bedhead. His face was pale, his gaunt cheeks and sharp chin rough with faint stubble. Deep shadows clung beneath his eyes, dark and heavy, and…

—His eyes! Heero's eyes.

They weren't the familiar brown she had grown used to. They were blue—a piercing, vivid blue that stopped her in her tracks. Blue. The shock hit her full force, her hand flying to her mouth as she gasped. These were not the eyes she had seen every day at the office. They were startlingly different, almost too intense to be real. Her mind raced, trying to reconcile this image of him—this Heero—with the one she thought she knew.

All this time… He'd been hiding behind colored contacts.

She stared at him, stunned, feeling as though she was looking at a stranger. The revelation left her reeling. Her mind spun, but as the shock settled, she noticed something else—Heero's reaction. He was looking at her, wide-eyed, as if realizing his own exposure.

A flicker of panic crossed his features—an emotion she had never seen in him before—quickly followed by mortification. His body stiffened. He seemed to shrink back, raising his hand to hide his face.

Without a word, he pushed the door towards her, his intention clear—to close himself off once more.

"Wait," Soo Jin blurted out before she could even think, literally sticking her foot in the door to keep him from closing it.

Heero shot her a glare—fiercer than usual, the blue of his eyes somehow amplifying his intensity. He kept holding onto the door handle but didn't move to shut it further. Soo Jin took a small step inside, leaning into the doorway to make her stand.

"I'm sorry for coming in unannounced," she said, breathless under his piercing gaze, "But you weren't answering, and after last night, I…" She paused, lowering her gaze briefly before mustering her resolve and looking him straight in those sharp blue eyes. "I was worried."

She lifted the colorfully-wrapped thermos and added with a tentative smile, "I brought soup," holding it up as if it was the answer to all his problems.

Heero just stared at the bojagi, his gaze distant and unfocused, as if the simple offer of soup was too much to process. Then, with a faint nod of resignation, he let his hand slip away from the door handle. Without a word, he turned and walked back inside, leaving the door open.

Soo Jin blinked, taken aback by his sudden compliance. She stood there for a moment, watching his retreating form, before a soft, thankful smile touched her lips. Hugging the soup closer, she stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind her.

Heero wobbled unsteadily toward the couch, where a thin blanket lay tossed aside. As he moved, Soo Jin stepped inside, leaning against the entryway wall as she unzipped her tightly laced boots on the side. The laces were mostly decorative, but in her rush, she still fumbled with the zipper, finally managing to slip them off one by one.

Soo Jin straightened up, taking in the room with a quiet reverence.

The apartment was as stark as she had imagined—sparsely furnished, almost barren, with only the essentials: an "L"-shaped sofa, a coffee table, and a modest TV. No pictures, no plants, no personal touches to soften the space. The large windows let in the gray autumn daylight, bathing the room in a muted, somber glow. It wasn't cold, but the quiet and simplicity of the space felt… lifeless. Spartan. A world away from the warmth and clutter of her own home, where the sheer number of knickknacks her parents collected filled every corner with life and history. Here, though… everything was in its place, yet it all felt untouched, like the sterile stillness of a space that was merely occupied but never lived in.

It felt more like a temporary stop than a home—a place to rest one's head, no more.

Careful to keep her footsteps quiet, she padded forward on pantyhose-clad feet, threading softly across the hardwood floor. It felt like stepping into some kind of holy temple, a private sanctuary that wasn't to be disturbed. Her breath caught slightly as she neared the sofa, where Heero sat slumped, his body collapsed under the weight of his own exhaustion.

He let out a soft, unsteady exhale as he pulled the thin blanket over himself, his fingers clutching it tightly to his chin. His shivering became more pronounced the closer she came, his body trembling beneath the fabric. Soo Jin's heart squeezed at the sound of his chattering teeth.

She hesitated, standing over him with the soup still in her arms. Then, careful not to make any sudden noise, she gently set the thermos on the coffee table. Quietly, she lowered herself onto the couch beside him, keeping a careful distance, but close enough to see the sheen of sweat on his pale skin, despite the shivering that racked his frame. His thick eyelashes fluttered restlessly against his cheeks. Her hand itched to reach out, to brush her fingers against his forehead and check his temperature, but she held back, knowing this wasn't the time to push too far.

"Have you eaten anything?" Soo Jin asked softly.

Heero barely stirred, his eyes still shut tight as his body trembled uncontrollably under the blanket. His lips were dry, cracked from the fever, and when he finally responded, his voice was rough and thick. "Took some pills," he mumbled, his breath wheezing slightly as though his chest was tight. "I'll be fine."

Soo Jin's brow furrowed. His clothes were soaked with cold sweat—she could smell it, the faint tang of fever and sickness filling the small space between them. He looked anything but fine.

"You shouldn't take medicine on an empty stomach," she chided, her tone cautious but firm. "This doesn't look like an ordinary fever. You might need antibiotics."

"It's fine…" Heero shifted, turning away from her as he lay down fully on the sofa. His limbs curled tightly beneath the blanket, which he tugged up to his neck, his teeth chattering audibly. "I'm… fine."

Soo Jin watched him with growing concern, her forehead creased with worry.

"You need to eat something," she insisted.

Heero's eyes remained firmly shut. His brow furrowed, and he let out a faint, frustrated sigh. "I'm fine…" he muttered again, though this time it was clear the words were more a reflex than anything he believed.

She hesitated for a beat, weighing her next words carefully. "Heero, I think… I should take you to the hospital," she suggested, her voice as gentle as possible. "My friend works as a nurse not far from here. She'll be discreet."

For a long, tense moment, there was no response. But then, with a weak groan, Heero shifted slightly under the blanket. His eyes remained closed as he rasped out, "No… no hospitals." He shook his head weakly in protest, like a man speaking in the grip of a bad dream. "I can't… no hospitals."

His fingers clutched the blanket even tighter, his knuckles whitening as his body curled further in on itself. Soo Jin's heart sank, feeling the weight of his refusal. She could see how unsettled the idea made him, how much he was fighting against it.

"This… It'll pass…" he whispered, his voice strained and barely above a breath. "I just… need rest. I'm… fine…"

The faint whimper in his voice as he trailed off pierced her, the sound of someone too proud—or too frightened—to admit how bad things were.

"No, you're not," Soo Jin replied gently but with quiet resolve. "You can't just take pills and sleep. You need to eat, or you'll get worse."

Heero moaned something unintelligible, his body barely stirring, and Soo Jin sighed softly, knowing it was time to let him rest. She picked up the thermos and headed into the kitchen.

The space was as sterile and uninviting as the rest of the apartment—bare countertops, a few stray utensils, a dish towel neatly folded by the sink, and a refrigerator that seemed to exude a quiet emptiness, making Soo Jin suspect it held little more than the bare essentials, if anything at all. It was so unlike the clutter of her mother's kitchen, the childhood home always smelled like simmering broth or freshly steamed rice, the stove and countertops a constant mess, and the shelves packed with spices, condiments, and fresh herbs her mother grew in a collection of used jars.

Soo Jin carefully unwrapped the colorful bojagi, the fabric familiar under her fingers, holding a warmth of its own as if it had soaked in the essence of her family. Her hands slowed, reverent, as she laid the fabric to the side. The container inside was still warm from being cradled close all morning, and Soo Jin allowed herself a brief smile. Her mother had been making this soup for Jin Ho for over a decade, still waiting for a son who would never come home. The grief had clung to their household, stagnant like the untouched food, and yet here, in Heero's barren kitchen, Soo Jin felt that maybe, just maybe, it could finally serve its purpose.

She unscrewed the lid of the thermos, the familiar aroma of seaweed and broth wafting into the air, filling the kitchen with a faint hint of coziness. Her chest tightened at the scent—it was the same every time her mother made it, that bittersweet reminder of love and loss. It had always felt like Jin Ho's absence hung in the air whenever her mother cooked this, a dish meant for him and him alone, never allowed to be touched by anyone else. Her mother had always made this soup with a purpose that had long since been lost, a dish that had become more of a symbol of grief than nourishment.

But here, now, it had a new purpose.

She opened a drawer and found a small pot. The microwave felt too impersonal for this. Carefully, she poured a portion of the soup into the pot, setting it on the stove and turning the heat on low. The gentle simmering sound filled the room, and Soo Jin leaned against the counter, glancing back toward the living room where Heero lay, shivering on the couch. His soft, pained moans drifted through the quiet apartment, tugging at her heart. He was restless, clearly uncomfortable, and Soo Jin's gaze lingered on his form as he stirred fitfully beneath the blanket.

She watched him for a moment longer, before turning back to the pot, giving the soup a gentle stir. Seaweed and small blocks of tofu floated to the surface, dark green and white floating against the golden broth. It was a simple dish, but one packed with meaning.

Soo Jin found a small bowl in one of the cabinets—plain white, no pattern or embellishment, nothing like the carefully curated dishes her family used at home. When she couldn't find a tray, Soo Jin improvised, setting the warm bowl on a plain plate instead. She ladled the soup into the bowl with care, her chest tightening with a mixture of emotions she couldn't quite name. Maybe this wasn't just about helping Heero recover. Maybe it was about something deeper, something tied to her own healing.

The soft sound of Heero shifting again reached her ears, and Soo Jin quickly wiped her hands on the dish towel. She carried the bowl back to the living room, her socked feet padding quietly against the hardwood floor. The apartment was quiet, save for Heero's labored breathing.

Soo Jin knelt beside the couch, setting the soup gently on the coffee table before reaching out to check on him. "Heero," she said softly, her voice low, coaxing. "You need to eat something."

His only response was a low, unintelligible murmur, his head twitching slightly as if trying to escape from the sound of her voice. He didn't open his eyes, didn't even acknowledge her fully. But Soo Jin was patient. She wasn't going to force him, but she wasn't going to give up on him either. She waited, letting the warmth of the soup and the quiet comfort of her presence do the work.

And when Heero finally stirred, just enough to give her a tired, barely-there nod, she smiled softly. This was a start.

Heero opened his eyes, and Soo Jin was immediately taken aback by the vivid blue that blinked back at her. She had almost forgotten, since he'd kept them closed soon after she arrived, how piercing that color was. It startled her, the intensity of it—and Heero could tell. His gaze held hers for a beat longer, clearly aware of her reaction, and though he didn't say anything, there was an awkward silence that hung between them.

Soo Jin cleared her throat and leaned over to the coffee table, picking up the bowl of soup resting on the plate. Her hand moved slowly, carefully, as she handed it to him with a hopeful look. Heero gave her a resigned glance, one that teetered on the edge of annoyance, but with a deep sigh, he pushed off the sofa, forcing himself to sit up. It was clearly an effort—his body moved sluggishly, like every part of him ached, and as he leaned back against the couch, the blanket pooled in his lap.

He then reached out, accepting the bowl from her hands, balancing the plate against his chest with one hand while using the other to eat. Soo Jin leaned back, giving him the space he needed.

Heero glanced at her, his eyes glazed with fever and exhaustion, before finally dipping the spoon into the soup. He lifted the spoon to his lips, the broth trembling in the bowl, and took a few small, hesitant sips.

For a moment, it seemed as if he might stop after just one bite, but he forced himself to take another, then another. Eech spoonful seemed like a deliberate, strained action. She could see how hard it was for him, the way he swallowed slowly, his stubbly jaw working with tired effort, but he soldiered on, forcing his body to accept the nourishment it desperately needed.

Finally, after a few more spoonfuls, she noticed his grip on the plate loosening. His fingers seemed to slacken, as though holding it had become too much. Without a word, Soo Jin gently slipped the plate and bowl away from his hands, setting them down on the coffee table.

Heero nodded in faint gratitude, too tired to say anything as he leaned back fully against the couch once more, pulling the blanket back up to his chin. His eyes fluttered closed, a small moan of exhaustion escaping his lips. He looked spent.

"Let's get you to bed," Soo Jin offered, moving closer. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and gave it a small shake, trying to rouse him further.

Heero stirred slightly, his eyelids fluttering. His face was damp with fever, and his breath came in shallow, uneven bursts.

"I'm fine here," he murmured weakly, though the words lacked conviction. His lips were dry and cracked, and his voice rasped like it was scraping the back of his throat.

"No, you're not," Soo Jin replied, her tone firm yet soothing, leaving no room for protest. She slipped her arm beneath his, ignoring his faint resistance as she gently pulled him to his feet. His body sagged into hers, heavy and unsteady as his legs wobbled beneath him.

"Come on," she urged softly, guiding him toward the narrow hallway. "You should be in bed."

Heero groaned softly, his words slurred and broken. "This isn't…" He trailed off, clearly too weak to finish his protest. His head lolled forward, and though he tried to stay upright, he leaned into her more than he realized. "You've… done enough…" he muttered, but the fight had already drained from his voice.

Ignoring his weak protests, Soo Jin carefully steered him down the hallway. His body was warm against hers, the heat of his fever seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. His legs trembled with every step, and by the time they reached the bedroom, he was barely holding himself up.

The bedroom, much like the rest of the apartment, was bare—sterile and cold. The bed was neatly made, the sheets and blankets folded with military precision. With a soft moan, Heero all but collapsed onto the bed, curling up instinctively as he pulled the blanket over himself, his entire body quivering beneath the covers. His teeth chattered violently, the sound filling the otherwise still room.

Though the central heating made the room stuffy, Heero was clearly freezing, shaking uncontrollably beneath the thick blanket. Soo Jin stood by his side, uncertain, watching his pale face etched with discomfort. She then moved to the window, pulling it open with a quiet creak. A cool breeze slipped into the room, carrying the fresh scent of the autumn air and clearing away the stale heat.

Outside, the afternoon sky was veiled in soft, muted tones of gray, with just a hint of pale light filtering through the clouds. The gentle light spilled into the room, casting a dim, hazy glow that softened the harsh edges of the stark, white walls. It lent the space a subdued, almost melancholic feel.

"What are you… doing?" Heero rasped from the bed, his voice weak and barely audible. "It's… cold…" His teeth chattered, and he burrowed deeper into the blanket, his body curling tighter as though he could fend off the chill.

"We need to lower your temperature," Soo Jin explained gently, glancing back at him. "You're burning up."

"I'm… freezing," he muttered, shivering violently under the blanket. "Close… the window…"

Soo Jin smiled softly at his protest, warmth swelling in her chest despite the situation. She had heard the cliché that men turned into children when they were ill, and it warmed her heart to see that Heero—stoic and composed as he usually was—was no different.

Soo Jin headed towards Heero's dresser. She opened the first drawer, only to be greeted by neatly folded rows of underwear. Her face instantly flushed, her fingers freezing mid-motion as the realization hit her—briefs. Heero wore briefs. The detail was so unexpectedly intimate, she felt heat rising in her cheeks, and she quickly looked away.

"What… are you doing?" Heero's raspy voice came from behind her, tinged with confusion.

Soo Jin's heart skipped a beat. "Uh—nothing!" she stammered, quickly slamming the drawer shut. "I'm just looking for a clean T-shirt," she said quickly, opening the next drawer with a sense of urgency. Relief washed over her when she found neatly folded shirts inside, the pleasant scent of laundry detergent wafting up from the meticulously-arranged garments. She grabbed a plain white shirt, taking a moment to steady herself before turning back to Heero.

"You're soaked with sweat," she explained. "You should change into something lighter."

Heero's brows furrowed, and despite his obvious exhaustion, a flash of irritation crossed his features. "Don't go through my stuff…" His voice held a note of protest, but it was weak—almost an afterthought.

Soo Jin held out the T-shirt, nudging it towards him. "You shouldn't stay in those damp clothes."

Heero's eyes flicked to the shirt in her hands, his expression hardening as he shifted deeper into the blanket. He tugged the covers tighter.

"You stink," Soo Jin said softly, her attempt at levity gentle, almost hesitant, as if testing the waters. But Heero's only response was a tired scoff, his eyes closing again.

Soo Jin bit her lip, watching him for a moment before sighing. "Fine," she murmured. "But this isn't helping." She set the T-shirt down on the dresser and headed back out to the living room. She returned with the thinner blanket from the sofa, her resolve firm as she approached him once more.

Without warning, she pulled the thick blanket away.

"Hey!" Heero's eyes snapped open, his body jerking slightly as the cold air hit his skin.

"If you're not going to change, then at least stop overheating yourself under that heavy blanket."

She draped the thinner cover over him, her hands moving with quiet care despite her words. Heero let out a shaky breath, his fever-bright eyes narrowing at her, though the glare lacked its usual intensity. He yanked his long sleeves down as far as they would go, his fingers clutching the blanket with a stubbornness that felt more like a shield than any real defiance.

He curled into the blanket, the tension in his shoulders slowly melting as his eyes fluttered shut again. "You're… annoying," he mumbled, his voice weak but laced with a hint of resignation.

Soo Jin's lips twitched, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, though it was tinged with quiet sadness. "I know," she whispered. Jin Ho used to say the same thing, with that same opposite meaning Heero had likely intended.

"Get some sleep," Soo Jin whispered, her voice soft and calming. She watched Heero for another brief moment, his tense form finally relaxing under the thin blanket, before quietly closing the bedroom door behind her.

Stepping back into the living room, Soo Jin was once again struck by the sterility of the apartment. The only signs of life were the thermos she had left open on the kitchen counter and the half-eaten bowl of seaweed soup on the coffee table. Everything else was clinical, bare—emotionally devoid.

Resolute, Soo Jin set to work. She shrugged off her Preventer blazer, hanging it neatly on the entryway's coat hanger—right next to Heero's worn-out duty jacket. She paused, stepping back for a moment to take in the sight of the two jackets hanging side by side. One, rugged and war-weary, its fabric softened from use; the other, crisp and freshly issued from the logistics warehouse. One broad-shouldered and masculine, the other tailored and feminine. There was something strangely fitting about the way the two jackets hung together—complementing one another, like two halves of a whole.

Then, with a quick breath, she folded her sleeves to her elbows—the same standard-issue khaki button-down that Heero and all the other agents wore at the office. Somehow, the simple act of rolling up her sleeves made her feel more grounded, more purposeful.

She glanced down at the bowl of seaweed soup, the remnants cooling on the coffee table. Her hand hovered over it, a familiar pang of guilt tightening in her chest. Normally, the act of throwing it away felt like discarding a part of her brother all over again. But this time, it was different. This time, the soup had nourished someone who needed it.

Heero hadn't eaten enough, but what he had taken was meaningful. The soup had served its purpose, and the leftovers were just that—leftovers. Not a symbol, not a burden of grief, just food that had sat out too long.

Her heart felt a little lighter as she carried the bowl to the kitchen. She poured the contents into the sink, watching as the water swirled it down the drain. It wasn't so painful this time. And maybe, just maybe, when she got back home and threw away the rest of her mother's pot, it wouldn't hurt as much either.

Soo Jin rinsed the bowl, the warm water running over her hands soothing her nerves. With quiet determination, she began searching through Heero's kitchen—opening cupboards and scanning the fridge. The shelves were mostly bare, stocked with only the essentials. There wasn't much to work with. And then, she found it: a packet of pre-cooked microwave rice. Not the ideal base for Korean rice porridge, but it would have to do.

She grabbed the pre-cooked rice, setting it aside, and turned to the refrigerator, pulling out a few wilting scallions, a carrot, zucchini, and a small block of tofu. She'd watched her mother whip up meals from seemingly nothing before. This was plenty in comparison.

Soo Jin pulled a new pot from the cupboard and set it on the stove. With practiced hands, she began chopping the scallions and garlic, their fresh, pungent scent filling the air. The rhythmic 'thunk!' of the knife against the cutting board was comforting. The tofu followed next, sliced into small cubes, soft and spongy. She tossed them all into the pot with a dash of oil, the heat quickly releasing the fragrant oils, the vegetables sizzling softly in the quiet kitchen.

As the scent of garlic and scallions wafted through the air, Soo Jin retrieved the pre-cooked rice. She hesitated briefly, looking at the microwave packet with mild disdain, but she ripped it open and dumped the grains into the pot. Stirring slowly, she let the rice meld with the vegetables, softening in the leftover seaweed broth she added next. The pot simmered, the gentle bubbling sound breaking the stillness of the apartment.

She sprinkled in a pinch of salt, a dash of soy sauce, and sliced the carrot and zucchini into thin, delicate ribbons. She took her time, stirring the pot with care, ensuring each grain of rice was coated, each vegetable softened to perfection. This wasn't just about cooking—this was about giving Heero something more than food. It was about filling the silence of the apartment with warmth, with the essence of care that had been missing from this sterile space.

While the porridge simmered, Soo Jin moved quietly around the kitchen, washing the few dishes she had used and drying them with a small towel. The simple, domestic task felt oddly intimate in Heero's lifeless apartment—an antithesis to the once-bustling kitchen of her childhood home. Back then, her parents would sit chatting while her mother fussed over a stove filled with dishes, shooing Jin Ho away when he tried to sneak a taste. The kitchen had been full of warmth, laughter, and the constant hum of life. Now, though still cluttered, her mother's kitchen felt as lifeless and hollow as Heero's sterile one. The memory of those happy moments seemed distant, like a faint echo of a life that no longer existed.

Sighing, Soo Jin glanced at the kitchen clock—there was still time before the porridge would be ready. She wiped down the already spotless coffee table, her movements slow and thoughtful. In the living room, she fluffed the cushions on the sofa even though they didn't need it, her hands moving over the fabric absently as if the act of tidying could somehow calm the restlessness churning inside her. Everything in Heero's apartment was already orderly, clean, but she needed to feel like she was contributing. Needed to feel like she was doing something to help.

Next, she returned to the kitchen and fetched a small bowl of cool tap water and a clean washcloth. Cradling them in one arm, she headed back toward the bedroom. Just as she passed the bathroom door, she hesitated.

Heero had mentioned taking some pills earlier. Maybe he could use another dose. The idea of searching his bathroom felt invasive, too intimate, yet her concern for his well-being overpowered her reluctance.

Soo Jin's heart beat a little faster as she reached for the door handle. Her fingers hovered there, almost reluctant to cross this threshold. A bathroom was a private space, one of the most personal corners of someone's life. What would she find? What traces of Heero, the man she knew so little about, would be there?

Finally, she pushed the door open, stepping inside.

The scent that greeted her was understated, yet distinctly masculine—a crisp, woodsy note that lingered in the air, subtle but powerful, much like Heero himself.

Soo Jin's breath caught slightly as she stepped further into the small, pristine bathroom. Everything was meticulously in its place. The countertop was nearly bare, with only an electric toothbrush on a small glass shelf, along with a bottle of mouthwash, deodorant and a box of dental floss. Everything was clean and spotless, as though it had rarely been touched, save for a plain bar of soap, its corners worn down from regular use. It was minimal, almost clinical in its precision, yet as she scanned the room, small, intimate touches hinted at the man behind the discipline.

A well-worn Sudoku puzzle book lay tucked neatly beside the toilet—a quiet, human detail that made Soo Jin smile faintly.

Soo Jin set the bowl of water and the cloth down on the vanity by the sink, alongside the glass of water she had brought with her. She opened one of the vanity drawers, searching for the medication Heero had mentioned. Inside, everything was as neatly arranged as the rest of the bathroom. A closed manicure kit sat alongside a manual razor and an electric shaver, suggesting a man who alternated between efficiency and precision depending on the day. His nails were always immaculate, his stubble neatly trimmed, even when he appeared utterly fatigued at work. It was clear he maintained a strict grooming routine despite the grueling demands of his job.

She moved toward the neatly folded towels beside the sink, visibly plush and soft, their deep charcoal color standing out against the sterile white of the room. Her fingers grazed the fabric, the luxurious texture unexpectedly comforting. It was an oddly intimate realization—that even Heero, in all his reserved, methodical ways, found solace in something as simple as a soft towel. There was a hidden layer of comfort he allowed himself here, in the privacy of his bathroom.

This was Heero's sanctuary, a place where he let his guard down, if only for a few fleeting moments each day. These small, private comforts revealed a man who lived behind a wall of discipline. Seeing it felt as if she were intruding, yet it deepened her sense of connection to him. These were the quiet, unseen habits of the person behind the soldier.

Her eyes lingered on the mirror above the sink. She imagined him standing here, staring at his reflection in the quiet solitude of the morning. Not as the cold agent she knew, but as a man—flesh and blood, facial hair and nails, just like anyone else. The thought made her heart ache, realizing how much of himself he kept hidden from the world, even from his own reflection, maintaining an image of stoic perfection, walls no one was allowed to breach. Yet here she was—standing in his bathroom, going through his things.

Soo Jin tore herself away from that thought, forcing herself back to the task at hand. Find some cold medicine. She opened the mirrored cabinet, fingers hesitant as they held the door handle. Her heart pounded, as if crossing another boundary, though she reminded herself it was necessary.

Inside, she found the expected items—painkillers, cold medicine, a bottle of antiseptic, and a box of bandages and gauzes. A shelf above held a multi-pack box of disposable brown contact lenses, a case resting beside a small bottle of cleaning fluid.

Soo Jin hesitated, her hand hovering over the case. Then, slowly, she picked it up. She opened it carefully, her breath catching as she gazed down at the brown lenses floating in the cleaning fluid inside. Heero's "brown eyes", peeled away, stared back from the case.

It hit her fully then—the extent of his daily efforts to shield himself from the world. He stood here, every morning, gazing into the mirror, donning this protective layer. And then, at the end of each day, he would return here to peel it away, exposing the part of himself he worked so hard to hide. All because he happened to be a Japanese man with blue eyes.

Her heart clenched at the thought, the quiet pain of it weighing down on her. That Heero must feel such a need to conceal something as rare and unique as the color of his eyes hurt her deeply. She had only just seen them for the first time, their vividness, their soulfulness, and now they were reduced to something he had to hide—replaced by a commodity floating in a case.

Carefully, almost reverently, Soo Jin closed the case and set it back in place. Her thoughts swirled, wondering if there was more to it than just the desire to blend in. What was it that made Heero feel like he had to bury this part of himself, day after day?

With a heavy heart, she moved her gaze to the rest of the shelf. A comb rested beside a jar of hair gel, likely used in a futile attempt to tame those thick, messy locks she secretly adored. She smiled faintly at the thought—it seemed that he could never fully control that hair. Her fingers itched to run through that messy thickness, to discover whether it was soft or as callous as his personality. But before she could linger on the thought, her eyes fell on something else that made her pause.

A small, inconspicuous pack of black men's hair dye.

The realization deepened, settling into her chest like a heavy weight. It wasn't just his eyes. Heero had gone to even greater lengths to hide the parts of himself that stood out, masking not only his gaze but also the natural color of his hair. It shocked her—the extent of his attempts to erase what made him who he was.

Her mind raced with questions, but no answers came. There was only the quiet weight of knowing that Heero had built so many layers of protection around himself that even his appearance wasn't entirely his own.

As her eyes drifted back to the cabinet, she spotted a small bottle of fever-reducing pills tucked away behind the other items. She reached for it, shaking a couple of tablets into her palm, the soft rattle breaking the stillness.

Closing the cabinet door with a soft click, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. The image startled her—her face looked tired, her expression worn. With a small sigh, Soo Jin straightened her blouse, tidied the stray strands of hair that had come loose from her ponytail, and gave herself a fleeting, composed look.

Gathering the bowl of water, cloth, the glass of water, and the pills, she made her way back to the bedroom, still trying to wrap her head around the quiet sadness of it all.

Heero lay on his side, curled up under the thin blanket. He was fast asleep, his breath slow and labored, sweat beading on his flushed forehead. Quietly, she set the bowl and the pills down on the night table and knelt by the bed. Her hand hesitated as she reached out, her fingertips brushing his damp forehead. He was still burning up, his skin hot and clammy. He didn't stir under her touch, only breathed heavily, lost in feverish sleep.

Soo Jin dipped the cloth in the cool water and wrung it out. Then, with the utmost care, she began to dab at his flushed face, tapping the cloth against his feverish skin. The coolness must have registered, because after a few moments, Heero stirred, blinking groggily, those vivid blue eyes meeting hers for a fleeting moment. Soo Jin felt her breath catch at the sight of them.

"Still… here…?" he rasped weakly, his voice a rough whisper, slipping into English. The fact that he wasn't even speaking Korean showed just how disoriented he was.

Soo Jin offered a small, reassuring smile, though her heart twisted at the miserable sight of him. "Yes," she replied softly, brushing the cool cloth gently over his fevered cheek. "I'm still here," she assured him, switching to English, even though the words felt heavy and foreign on her tongue.

But then, Heero's gaze seemed to cloud with confusion. He blinked, his brow furrowing slightly. "Lena…?" he mumbled, the name slipping out in a rough whisper.

Soo Jin froze, momentarily thrown by the name. Lena? Who was Lena? Her heart stuttered, but she quickly tamped down the surge of unease. Heero was a grown man; of course, there had been others in his life. She shouldn't read too much into it. He was feverish, after all.

"No, Heero… it's me," she whispered softly in Korean, brushing the cloth over his heated forehead again. "Soo Jin. Park Soo Jin."

"Mhmm…" Heero hummed in faint recognition, his body sagging into the mattress as he leaned into the soothing touch of the cloth. "…'m feelin'… much… better…" he slurred, his Korean words slow and thick. "You can… go…"

Soo Jin's heart clenched at the weak protest. "I'm not going anywhere," she replied gently. "Not until your fever's down and you've had something more to eat."

Heero's lips twitched slightly. "You Koreans…" he murmured, a faint thread of humor laced through his raspy tone, "always trying to feed me…"

Soo Jin chuckled softly, the sound light and comforting as she continued to dab the cool cloth across his burning face. "It's how we show we care," she joked, handing him a couple of pills and a glass of water.

Heero sat up slowly, moving as if every muscle protested. Giving him a sympathetic look, she held out the glass and pills in her palm.

Their fingers brushed as he took them from her, and Soo Jin's heart twinged. His skin was still alarmingly warm, the fever clinging to him. She watched closely as he downed the pills with a small sip of water. He handed her the glass wordlessly, and she set it aside on the nightstand while he laid himself back down, turning over onto his side with his back to her.

As his face turned away from her, Soo Jin's gaze caught on the lighter strands at the top of his head, peeking out from beneath the jet-black dye. Under the fading golden light filtering through the windows, she noticed the lighter brownish hue of his natural hair color. The sight gave her pause, her fingers stilling over the cloth as her thoughts turned to the man before her.

"Why hide it?"

The words slipped out before she could stop them, her voice a quiet murmur in the stillness of the room. She didn't expect an answer—she didn't even think he was fully awake.

But then, Heero's rough voice broke through the quiet. "Why wear makeup?" His eyes remained closed, but his question carried the weight of someone who had long thought about it.

Soo Jin's hand, still holding the cloth, paused mid-air. She touched her face reflexively, as though his question had peeled back a layer she hadn't meant to reveal. "To cover flaws," she admitted, the words tumbling out quietly. "To feel more confident."

"Exactly."

His chest rose and fell with slow, heavy breaths, his fever clearly sapping his strength, but there was something in his voice—something that ran deeper than their words.

As she continued dabbing his flushed skin, Heero's body leaned subtly into her touch, his face twitching slightly with each cool stroke of the cloth. The room had grown dimmer, the golden light fading as the sun dipped lower behind Seoul's concrete skyline. Outside, the rain began to tap softly against the windowpane, filling the quiet space with a soothing rhythm. The intimate cocoon of warmth in the bedroom felt even more precious now, with the sun casting its last rays through the clouds, bathing the sterile room in a soft, rosy glow.

"I understand about hiding," Soo Jin said quietly after a while, dipping the cloth back into the bowl. The soft drip of water echoed in the stillness as she wrung it out before gently touching it to Heero's brow again.

"My brother, Jin Ho… he hid who he was from our parents. He was…" She hesitated, the ache in her chest tightening as she swallowed the painful lump in her throat. "He was homosexual. But he never told them. He was afraid of what they might think, how they might react. Same when he enlisted. He never showed that part of him to anyone. He kept it hidden, and I… I kept his secret. I still do."

Heero's eyes opened slowly, and Soo Jin was taken aback once again by the piercing blue that met her gaze. She had almost forgotten. His eyes, so different from the brown she had always known, softened as they locked onto hers, a quiet understanding shared between them.

"When he died," Soo Jin continued, her voice trembling, "I hid my grief from them too. I had to be strong, for their sake. I couldn't let them see how much it hurt me, how much I missed him. I guess I've been hiding ever since."

The soft patter of rain against the window filled the silence that followed, her confession lingering in the air between them. Heero's gaze lingered on her, and though he didn't say a word, Soo Jin could feel the connection between them deepening.

"Your names…" Heero rasped after a moment, "They're similar."

Soo Jin offered a faint smile, nodding. "Yes. My parents wanted us to be connected, to always look out for each other. My name, Soo Jin, means 'Treasured Pearl.' Jin Ho's name means 'Precious Guardian'. They believed we were their greatest treasures."

Heero absorbed her words, his gaze dropping slightly as if contemplating something.

"And what about your name?" Soo Jin probed carefully, knowing she was treading on thin ice, but recognizing this rare opportunity to understand him better. "Isn't 'Heero Yuy' the name of the assassinated Colonies' leader?"

At her question, Heero stiffened slightly, his gaze shifting to the window. "Yes… but that's not my name."

Soo Jin's brow furrowed, her curiosity piqued. "It's not?"

Heero shook his head. "It's what I go by… that's all."

As the rain continued to tap against the glass, Soo Jin let his admission sink in, her heart aching for the man lying before her—so much more complex, so much more broken than she had ever realized.

The room was quiet, the only sound the faint patter of rain against the window and the soft, steady rhythm of Heero's breathing. Soo Jin dipped the cloth into the bowl of water. A few stray droplets splashed gently as she wrung it out, the cool water sliding down her fingers. She dabbed the cloth across his burning skin.

Heero didn't stir, his body slack and still beneath the thin blanket. His face, though flushed from fever, looked peaceful in sleep, the harsh lines of exhaustion softening as the cool cloth soothed his heated skin. Soo Jin took her time, letting the moment stretch. She moved the cloth gently across his forehead, his temples, the soft stubbly skin under his chin, lingering just a moment longer as his body seemed to relax even more under her care.

The last light of the setting sun filtered through the window, casting the room in soft hues of pink and gold. The sterile bedroom, so devoid of warmth, seemed to take on a different atmosphere now, the fading autumn light making the space feel more intimate. Her fingers grazed his cheek as she wiped the cool cloth down his face again. His breathing had evened out, his body still under the blanket, and she was certain he had drifted off to sleep.

Then, out of nowhere, Heero's voice broke the quiet.

"My mother…" he began, his voice hoarse and rough, as though the words had been clawing their way up from somewhere deep inside him. "Her name means 'blue' in Japanese." His voice was low, each word strained, as if he wasn't sure he wanted to say them but couldn't hold back anymore. "She had eyes like mine. They're… all I can remember of her."

Soo Jin's hand stilled, her heart tightening at the rawness in his tone. She glanced down at him, her expression soft with silent encouragement. His eyes were still closed, but she could see the weight of what he was saying in the tension of his features, the tightness in his brow, the way his mouth was pressed into a faint frown.

Then, slowly, Heero's eyes fluttered open, and he turned to her with those piercing blue irises. They were even more stunning now, vibrant and intense despite the fever. Soo Jin felt as though she was drowning in them, the depth of their color pulling her in, making her forget to breathe.

"The name she gave me means 'Rare Blue'." Heero's gaze seemed far away, unfocused, like he was seeing another time, another place. "She thought it made me special… connected us."

Soo Jin gently resumed her motions, moving the cool cloth over his fevered brow, her fingers trembling slightly.

"But these eyes…" He paused, his throat working as he swallowed hard, as if forcing the words out was almost too much to bear. His eyes flickered, the vulnerability in them unmistakable. "They made me stand out… made me a target. A…" Heero hesitated, his voice faltering before he finally whispered, "a victim."

Soo Jin could see the strain in his features, the way he seemed to shrink slightly as he admitted it, his gaze darting away from hers as if saying it aloud made it all too real.

"I couldn't afford to be special. Not with what I had to do… with what I had to be." He heaved a sigh, his eyes fluttering shut. "When I was recruited… the first thing they commented about was… my eyes."

The weight of his confession settled in the room. Heero had closed his eyes, drifting back to sleep, his breathing deep and even once more. Soo Jin's hand hovered over his for a moment, the urge to comfort him overwhelming, but she hesitated. Instead, she let her presence speak for itself. The soft rain against the window was the only sound between them now, a steady rhythm that filled the silence.

She carefully adjusted the blanket around him, making sure he was comfortable, but just as she leaned forward to pull the blanket up, his voice broke the stillness again.

"It's been so long… since anyone really saw me…" he murmured, his eyes still closed, the words barely a whisper, slipping out like a secret he hadn't meant to share.

"We all deserve to be seen," she said softly, offering the only solace she could.

"Not me," he rasped, his voice fragile, his brow creasing with the weight of his confession. "Not someone like me…"

Soo Jin's heart clenched, sadness washing over her at the quiet despair in his voice. "Why do you say that?" she asked, her tone gentle, not pushing him but wanting to understand.

"I've done things I can't take back… things no one should forgive."

The weight of his guilt hung heavy in the air, though he didn't elaborate. It wasn't the full story, but it was enough for her to feel the depth of the burden he carried. Soo Jin's thoughts flickered back to Jin Ho, to the memory of her parents' fierce opposition when he enlisted back in '94. She was young, but she understood what it meant for him to become an OZ soldier—it meant he would take lives. Do things. See things. Things he wouldn't be able to take back. And yet, she loved him through it, knowing that part of him carried a burden no one could ease.

Her chest tightened as she looked at Heero, recognizing that same haunted look in his eyes.

"We all carry things," she whispered, "It doesn't mean you don't deserve to be seen."

Heero's voice, soft and almost childlike, broke the quiet. "Do you… see me?" he murmured, slipping back into English.

Soo Jin froze for a moment, startled by the vulnerability in his words. His feverish eyes, glazed yet piercing, held a mix of desperation and something fragile, as if he were bracing himself for her response.

"I do," she whispered softly, her voice steady and full of quiet reassurance. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

The moment her words reached him, Heero's tense expression softened, the worry in his gaze slowly dissolving into something else—relief. His breath hitched, then settled into a deeper rhythm, his grip on the blanket loosening as if a weight had been lifted from him. Soo Jin watched him in the dim light, her chest heavy with the depth of the moment, knowing that in this fleeting space, he had let her see a part of himself that no one else had. At least, not in a very long time.

Heero shifted, turning onto his back, his blue eyes now staring up at the ceiling, the weight of exhaustion clear in his heavy-lidded gaze. He seemed lost in thought, the silence between them stretching as the soft hues of the setting sun filtered into the room, casting a warm, golden light on his face.

Soo Jin remained by his side, watching him carefully, sensing that he was struggling to find the right words. She could see the tension in his brow, the way his lips parted slightly as if testing the air for what he wanted to say. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, the strain of the fever still clinging to him.

Finally, Heero spoke, his voice rough and hesitant. "I'm not…" He paused, clearly frustrated, as if the words were slipping from his grasp. "Don't expect me to… be like this… always."

Soo Jin's heart skipped a beat, the earlier ease she had found in their shared intimacy now unraveling into something more troubling, almost foreboding. The sudden shift in tone felt like a warning, one that stirred a knot of anxiety in her chest.

"I'm…" Heero sighed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment, his face tight with the effort it took to speak. "I'm not like this… I'm…"

His breath hitched, and he shook his head weakly, visibly spent. His hand clenched the blanket at his chest, as though grounding himself. "Sometimes… I'm not… myself…" he whispered, his voice fading into the quiet of the room.

"I think you are," she countered, her tone unwavering yet tender. "Right now, this is who you are."

Heero turned his head toward her, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as though searching her face.

Soo Jin smiled gently, her expression full of quiet understanding. "You don't have to be anyone but who you are, Heero. At least… not with me."

Heero turned his gaze back to the ceiling, deep lines of frustration wrinkling his brow. It was clear he wasn't reassured by her words, and she could see something lingering in his expression—something disappointed, yet almost resigned. His lips pressed tightly together, as though holding back something heavier, something deeper. She could feel the weight of his unspoken words between them, and for the first time, she didn't know what to say.

She had been kneeling by his bedside, feeling as though they were getting closer, like they were finally breaking through the walls that separated them. Yet, he was telling her the opposite—that this vulnerability, this rare glimpse into his soul, wasn't something she should expect. Not something he was willing to show.

It hurt more than she cared to admit.

Soo Jin shifted uncomfortably, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. She could feel the ache in her legs from kneeling so long, but the ache in her chest was sharper. Rising to her feet, she gathered the bowl of water and the cloth, her hands moving with a quiet need to create distance, to give herself a moment to absorb the truth of what he had said.

"I made porridge," she mumbled, her voice quieter, less sure than before. The words sounded hollow to her ears, a way to fill the silence. "Do you think you can eat a little more?"

Heero lay on his back, his eyes now closed, but he gave a weak, subtle nod. She took it as a cue to leave the room, to collect herself, and made her way back to the kitchen.

Her familiar movements in the kitchen—rinsing the water bowl, checking on the porridge—were comforting in their mundanity. She stirred the pot slowly, adding a pinch of salt, watching the mixture thicken as it simmered. She ladled the porridge into the same bowl she had washed earlier—the one that had held the seaweed soup—and placed it on the plate to serve as a tray.

As she made her way back to the bedroom, her steps slowed. Reaching the doorway, she paused, her breath catching in her chest. For a moment, she stood still, simply breathing. Then, she squared her shoulders, bracing herself for whatever awaited her, and stepped inside.

Heero lay where she had left him, his body still beneath the thin blanket, his face slack with exhaustion. As she approached, the soft clink of the plate and spoon in her hand seemed to pull him from the haze of sleep. He stirred slightly, his eyelids fluttering open, blinking slowly as if trying to clear the fog from his mind. He turned toward her, his tired gaze dropping to the porridge in her hands, staring at it as though his drowsy mind was struggling to process what he saw. She offered it to him, her fingers steady though her heart fluttered with nervousness, waiting for his response. He continued to study the thick, white dish for a few seconds, before finally lifting his gaze to meet hers.

Soo Jin cracked a small, encouraging smile. "Is this the first time you've had Juk?" she asked softly, trying to ease the tension.

Heero gave a faint, noncommittal sound, grunting as he braced himself with effort, his arms trembling slightly as he pushed up from the bed. The movement seemed to drain him, his muscles protesting with every inch. He exhaled sharply, settling back against the headboard with a sigh of relief. "I mostly stick to instant ramyeon," he muttered, a faint smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"It's good for you," Soo Jin reassured him, waiting for him to accept the steaming dish. He took the plate from her and picked up the spoon, poking at the porridge like a picky child inspecting unfamiliar food.

"My mother used to make Juk for Jin Ho and me whenever we were sick."

Her voice softened at the mention of her brother, and Heero's face hardened, a flicker of determination crossing his tired features. His grip on the spoon tightened slightly, as if her words had struck a chord. Without a word, he dipped the spoon into the porridge and slowly brought it to his lips, tasting it.

Her eyes searched his face for any sign of approval. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, without a word, he took another small portion, swallowing it slowly.

Soo Jin let out a quiet breath of relief, a small, hopeful smile crossing her face. Heero's acceptance—marked more by quiet resolve than reluctance—was enough for her. He might not say it, but this simple act of eating, of allowing her to care for him, spoke volumes.

After a few spoonfuls of the porridge, Heero's strength seemed to fade completely. His eyelids drooped heavily, and he slumped back against the pillows, letting out a tired sigh. Soo Jin sat beside him in silence, watching him drift between wakefulness and sleep.

The room had grown darker, shadows stretching across the floor as the last of the autumn light faded outside. A cool breeze slipped through the window. Everything felt suspended in that quiet space. Soo Jin could hear his steady breathing, see the tension finally leaving his body, but her own heart still felt heavy, like there were words left unspoken between them.

She stood, smoothing her skirt, and quietly gathered the dishes.

Heero stirred as she neared the door, his voice a rough whisper in the dim light. "You're leaving?"

Soo Jin paused, turning back. His question hung in the air, soft but weighty after all that had passed between them. She could sense the vulnerability still clinging to him, but she knew better than to push. After everything he'd shared, he wasn't asking for more closeness—he was asking for space.

"You need rest," she said, slipping into a more professional tone as she felt her face settle into a mask of composure. "Don't forget to bring a doctor's note when you're back at work," she added gently, her voice carefully neutral despite the flutter in her chest. It was a deliberate choice—one she hoped he would recognize as her understanding of his need to retreat behind his usual guardedness.

Heero's blue eyes lingered on her, that brief flash of something vulnerable softening his gaze. Then, a flicker of understanding crossed his face. "Thanks… for today," he murmured, the words quiet, but sincere. His voice had lost the tension it usually carried, as though he appreciated her willingness to step back.

Soo Jin smiled faintly, the weight of the day still pressing on her, but lighter now. "Get well soon, Agent Yuy," she whispered from the doorway, her eyes catching his one last time before she turned to leave.

As she slipped into her boots and zipped them up, she glanced at the two Preventer jackets hanging side by side—his worn, hers still crisp. The gap between them still needed to be carefully navigated.

When she closed the door behind her, the soft click echoed through the quiet apartment. Heero, now alone, exhaled deeply, his eyes slipping shut. Grateful. Relieved.

Outside, the air was cool, the fading sunlight casting long shadows on the pavement. Soo Jin slipped her hands into her pockets as she walked away, the bittersweet weight of the unspoken trailing her footsteps. They had been close today—closer than ever—but she had given him the distance he needed.

And that, in its own way, was a step forward.