When the Clock Strikes|Pi Han Ul x Reader|

Chapter 53

Han Wool's POV

The morning light spills through the curtains, soft and golden, painting gentle patterns across the bed. 

And there she is. 

Asleep. 

I lean back in the chair, hands resting loosely on my lap, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. The way her hair is splayed across the pillow, the strands catching the morning light like they belong to something celestial.  

She looks peaceful like this. Dreaming, maybe. 

My lips curve into a small smile. 

There’s something about seeing her like this—completely at ease, unaware of the way she undoes me without even trying. 

I love her. 

More than I ever thought I could love someone. 

More than anything, really. 

I let my gaze trace every delicate detail—her lashes fanning against her cheeks, the faint movement of her lips as she breathes. I could spend forever just watching her like this, memorizing every inch of her existence, tucking it away in the places of me that no one else will ever reach. 

The thought makes my chest ache, makes something warm curl in my stomach. 

Then— 

She stirs. 

Her breathing shifts, eyelids fluttering slightly before she slowly peeks them open. 

Dark brown eyes meet mine, hazy with sleep. 

A pause. 

She blinks. Then, voice thick with drowsiness, she murmurs,
“You’re staring.” 

A soft chuckle escapes me.
“I was waiting.” 

She squints at me, like she’s still processing my existence. Then she sighs, stretching slightly, one hand coming up to rub at her eyes. “Waiting for what?” 

I tilt my head. “For you to wake up.”

She groans. “You could’ve woken me up yourself.” 

I smirk. “And miss out on watching you sleep?” 

Her eyes narrow, but there’s no real annoyance there. Just something fond, something familiar. 

She exhales through her nose, letting her arm drop to the bed. “You’re weird.” 

“You’re adorable.”

She pauses. Then, muttering, “That’s not fair.”

I chuckle again, then push myself up from the chair. “Come on, freshen up. I’ll make breakfast.” 

She hums in response, still sluggish from sleep, and I take that as my cue to step out. 

--- 

The kitchen is quiet except for the soft sounds of eggs sizzling in the pan, the faint clink of utensils against ceramic. 

There’s something oddly soothing about mornings like this—about standing here, making breakfast, knowing that she’s just a few steps away, that soon she’ll be here, sleepy-eyed and warm, sitting across from me at the table. 

It’s ridiculous how much I enjoy this. 

Loving her has turned me into someone I never expected to be. Someone who finds joy in things as simple as cooking breakfast, as waiting for her to wake up, as hearing the first sound of her voice in the morning.