When the Clock Strikes|Pi Han Ul x Reader|

Chapter 49

The taxi hums softly beneath them, the city blurring past like an unfinished dream. The streetlights flicker, casting fleeting shadows on their faces, and Cheonga leans her head against the window, eyelids heavy, heart full.

Han Wool sits beside her, quiet, his fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on his jeans.

She exhales.

"Should've thrown this stupid bag into the lake."

Han Wool's head tilts, amused. "What?"

Cheonga lifts her bag-heavy, annoying, practically weighing her entire existence down-and drops it onto her lap with a dramatic sigh. "This. I should've just thrown it into the lake. Let the fish have it. Let them carry my burden."

Han Wool huffs a laugh. "And how were you planning to do that?"

She sighs again. Louder this time. "I don't know. Just. Like this-" She
mimics throwing it out of the taxi window, only to immediately clutch it again, because no way is she actually letting go of her things.

Han Wool smirks. "Right. Very convincing."

Cheonga elbows him lightly, and he catches her wrist before she can pull away, his grip easy, warm.

The car slows to a stop.

They've arrived.

The moment they step inside, the exhaustion slams into them like a freight train.

Han Wool drops onto the couch, head falling back, arms sprawled out, looking every bit like he's melted into the cushions.

Cheonga stands in the middle of the room, staring at him. Then at her bag. Then back at him.

And finally-finally-she lets it drop to the floor with a loud thud.

"Goodbye forever," she mutters, kicking it for good measure.

Han Wool cracks open an eye, fighting back a laugh. "Dramatic."

Cheonga hums, flopping onto the sofa beside him. "Necessary."

Silence.

Not the awkward kind. Not the heavy kind.

The good kind.

The kind that stretches between them like a soft blanket, the kind that says we don't need words to exist here.

And then-

A laugh.

A single, breathy laugh.

Han Wool turns his head.

Cheonga does the same.

And when their eyes meet-when they really, truly see each other, sitting there, exhausted and ridiculous and together-they lose it.

They laugh.

Hard.

The kind of laughter that makes their stomachs ache, the kind that makes their breaths come short and uneven, the kind that bubbles out of nowhere and refuses to be stopped.

Han Wool wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. "Why-why are we even laughing?"

Cheonga gasps between giggles. "I have no idea."

But God, it feels good.

Eventually, the laughter dies down, and Cheonga shifts to sit more comfortably-

And then-

Pain.

Sharp. Right under her.

She jumps, hissing, her hand flying to her pocket.