When the Clock Strikes|Pi Han Ul x Reader|

chapter 52

The night air is thick with the scent of rain that never fell, clinging to the city like a whispered promise. Cheonga moves through it with the weight of the day pressing into her bones, her steps slow, steady. The world feels quieter now, softer at the edges. The streetlights flicker overhead, washing everything in a dull yellow glow as she nears Han Wool's home, her body aching for rest.

She expects to see him outside, waiting. Arms outstretched, grinning, the way he does that day when he sees her. But the space where he should be is empty.

Strange.

She frowns. Feels something shift inside her, uneasy. The memory of Harin's smile slips back into her mind, curling like smoke around her thoughts, but she shakes it off as she pushes open the door.

Inside, the air is warm, familiar. But he isn't there.

Her exhaustion settles deeper.

She lets out a breath, dragging herself to the bedroom. The walls seem closer than usual, the silence heavier. She should be thinking about Harin, about the car, about whether her family is planning something again-another scheme, another way to rid themselves of her. But she can't. Not right now.

Right now, all she wants is to wash the day off her skin.

The shower is scalding, the water searing down her back in thick rivulets, and she lets it. She leans into it, eyes slipping shut as steam wraps around her like a second skin. The heat numbs her, loosens the knots in her muscles, but her mind is restless.

Harin. The car.

That smile.

She knows better than to trust it.

They've talked about selling her before, her family. As if she were a piece of furniture too old to keep, too useless to matter. She used to care. Not this time.

The water rushes down her face, dripping from her lashes, washing away the weight of her thoughts. For now.

She pulls on one of Han Wool's shirts after, the fabric loose, falling just above her knees. It smells like him. Like something steady, something safe.

She breathes in and steps out.

And stops.

Han Wool is on the couch.

Shirtless.

Her brain empties.

For a second, nothing exists except the sharp lines of his collarbone, the sculpted muscles of his arms, the way his skin glows under the dim light. She's seen him like this before. She's felt this before. This strange tightening in her stomach, this stupid, ridiculous inability to look away.

Then he looks up, and his gaze meets hers.

"You didn't call me?" he says, voice thick with sleep. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back.

She blinks. Forces herself to move. "I was tired."

He watches her for a moment, then exhales through his nose, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Without a word, he pats his lap. A simple motion. An invitation.

She hesitates for half a second-then steps forward, slipping into his space like she belongs there.

Because she does.

The second she settles onto his lap, she feels the tension in her shoulders loosen, the exhaustion buried deep in her bones starting to ease. His arms circle her waist, warm and familiar, and suddenly, Harin doesn't exist. The car, the lingering paranoia, the thoughts that had been clawing at her mind just minutes ago-they all fade into static, replaced by something simpler. Something steady.