⸻ The apartment finally settles into silence. The last of the lights in the hallway click off after Sa-rang finishes her routine—checking the locks, straightening a toy that didn’t quite make it back into the bin, pulling the blanket higher over her daughter’s small shoulders. Seo-yeon mumbles in her sleep, hugging her plush tighter. Min-jae is already sprawled diagonally across his bed, breathing deep and steady, completely knocked out after the long day. Sa-rang lingers in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary. Her expression softens in a way only the dark allows. The sharpness drains from her eyes, replaced by something warm, protective… tired, but fulfilled. She quietly closes both bedroom doors, careful not to make a sound, then exhales through her nose—slow, controlled. “Eight on the dot…” she murmurs under her breath. “Finally.” She pads down the hallway toward the master bedroom, bare feet silent against the floor. The door is already slightly ajar. A faint strip of warm light spills out from the lamp You must have forgotten to turn off before collapsing into sleep after their long shift. Sa-rang slips inside, closing the door behind her. Click. She turns the lock. The sound is soft—but deliberate. She leans her forehead against the door for just a second, shoulders slumping as she releases a quiet sigh. The housewife. The mother. The therapist. The responsible one. All of it melts away in that moment. When she turns around, her gaze immediately finds the bed. You is already asleep, sprawled comfortably, breathing slow and even. Their face is relaxed in a way Sa-rang rarely sees when they’re awake—no tension, no exhaustion pulled tight around their eyes. Just rest. Her chest tightens. “Tch… honestly,” she mutters, cheeks already warming. “Sleeping like that after leaving everything to me…” She walks closer, tugging absently at the hem of her oversized top, the fabric slipping just slightly off one shoulder as she sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under her weight. You stirs faintly but doesn’t wake yet. Sa-rang looks down at them, her expression torn between irritation and affection. “…You worked hard,” she admits quietly, almost reluctantly. “I know.” She reaches out, brushing her fingers through their hair—slow, careful, intimate. Her touch lingers longer than she means it to. Her face heats up immediately. “Tch—why am I getting embarrassed over this?” she whispers, scolding herself. She shifts, then—after a brief hesitation—swings one knee onto the bed. Then the other. The mattress sinks further. Sa-rang straddles You’s hips, hands hovering uncertainly for a moment before resting on their chest. She can feel their warmth through the fabric. Their steady breathing. The solid, familiar presence beneath her. Her face goes bright red. “…I’m not doing anything weird,” she mutters defensively to no one in particular. “You’re my spouse. This is normal.” As if on cue, You stirs again—this time their eyes fluttering open slightly, unfocused at first. She freezes. Her shoulders tense, eyes widening for half a second before she snaps her head to the side, bangs hiding part of her face. “Y-You’re awake already?!” she snaps. “Tch—of course you are. Can’t even sleep properly.” You blinks a few times, slowly becoming aware of the situation. The locked door. The weight on top of them. The warmth. “…What’s going on?” they ask softly. Sa-rang clenches her fists in their shirt. Her blush deepens. “N-Nothing!” she blurts. “Don’t get the wrong idea!” There’s a pause. Then, quieter—almost begrudgingly— “…The kids are asleep.” Her fingers tighten just a little. “And you were already sleeping when I came in,” she continues, voice dropping, losing its bite. “So I just… thought…” She trails off, lips pressed together, eyes squeezed shut for a second like she’s bracing herself. “…I was thinking,” she mutters, barely above a whisper, “that maybe… we could have sex… and make another baby.” The words come out rushed. Awkward. Defensive. “I-It’s not like I’m desperate or anything!” she adds quickly, flustered. “And I’m not saying it has to be right now—! I just—!” She finally looks down at You again. Her expression is vulnerable. “…I like our family,” she admits softly. “I like… us.” Her forehead lowers until it rests lightly against You’s, her bangs brushing their skin. Her voice loses all sharpness. “And I just…” she exhales shakily. “…want more time like this. With you.” There’s a long, quiet moment. The room feels warmer. Smaller. Safer. “Tch…” she murmurs, voice trembling but affectionate. “Don’t get the wrong idea…” But she doesn’t move away. She stays there, flushed, needy, stubbornly affectionate—hovering in that space between teasing defiance and quiet longing—waiting for You’s response as the night deepens around them. ⸻