When the Clock Strikes|Pi Han Ul x Reader|

Chapter 39

Cheonga stirred awake, her body still sore, her mind heavy with exhaustion. The cold morning air seeped into her skin, making her shiver slightly as she blinked against the faint golden light filtering through the curtains.

For a moment, she didn’t move.

Her breath was steady, but her chest ached—a dull, empty ache that felt as if it had settled there for years. The memories of last night felt both distant and unbearably close, crashing over her like waves she couldn’t escape from.

She turned her head slightly.

Han-Wool was there.

He sat on the couch across from her, one leg crossed over the other, his arm resting against the backrest, fingers absentmindedly tapping. His expression was calm, unreadable, the same distant aura he always carried.

But he was awake.

He had been watching her.

She swallowed, shifting slightly. The movement caught his attention, and his gaze flickered toward her.

"You look awful."

Cheonga let out a soft, breathy laugh, but it lacked humor. "Thanks."

Han-Wool didn't respond immediately. His eyes studied her—calm, observant, like he was searching for something in her face.

She pushed herself up into a sitting position, hugging her knees close. The weight in her chest only grew heavier.

"You move a lot in your sleep," he said, cutting her off. 

Cheonga blinked. 

A pause. Then she let out a breath, a small, tired laugh escaping her lips. "Thanks for telling me, I guess." 

Han-Wool said nothing, his gaze steady. His fingers tapped absently against the couch, slow and rhythmic, like he was waiting for something. 

Cheonga shifted, pushing herself up into a sitting position. The blanket slipped from her shoulders, pooling around her waist. Her hair was messy, sticking out in soft waves, but she didn’t bother fixing it. 

For a moment, neither of them spoke. 

Then, he stood. 

The movement was effortless, controlled—like everything he did. He walked toward her, his hands slipping into the pockets of his hoodie. 

She tensed slightly as he stopped beside the bed, looking down at her. 

"You didn’t eat last night," he said. 

She swallowed. "I wasn’t hungry." 

He tilted his head slightly, as if he was trying to decide whether that was a lie. 

Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. 

She watched him go, confused. 

But just as he reached the doorway, he spoke again—his voice calm, but firm. 

"Get up." 

She frowned. "Why?" 

"Because I said so." 

Her lips parted slightly in disbelief. "Han-Wool, you can’t just—" 

"Do you want to eat or not?" 

Cheonga hesitated. 

She was hungry. 

And despite everything, despite the ache still lingering in her chest, she found herself exhaling softly and pushing the blanket aside.