When the Clock Strikes|Pi Han Ul x Reader|

(S02) Chapter 10

I can see him!!!!!!

The drive home is uneventful, but my mind is a storm.

I tell myself I'm not excited.

I tell myself I'm only here for the snacks.

And yet, as I walk up to the front door of Han Wool's house, my pulse is betraying me.

The door swings open before I can knock.

"Oh, Ye Na!" His mother beams at me, her eyes crinkling with warmth. "You're here just in time."

I smile, stepping inside. "Yea, I am free off from duty today".

She grabs my wrist, leading me into the house like I'm still a child. "Come in, come in! I saved some snacks just for you."

I look around, the familiar scent of freshly baked bread and home-cooked meals flooding my senses.

"Where is everyone?" I ask, subtly glancing toward the living room, then up the stairs.

"Oh, my husband has a meeting, as always," she sighs, waving a hand. "And Han Wool? That boy is always out somewhere with his friends. Probably riding that ridiculous motorcycle again."

Motorcycle.

I blink. Han Wool... rides a motorcycle?

The sight would be sooo.....

Before I can process that, her phone buzzes loudly.

She glances at the screen, and in an instant, her expression changes.

"Oh my!" she gasps, her voice jumping an octave. "Really? Right now?"

I watch as she hurriedly steps away, already answering the call.

She turns back to me, eyes apologetic. "Ye Na, sweetheart, this is an urgent call. Just wait here for a moment, okay? I'll be back soon."

I nod. "It's okay, Auntie. Take your time."

She disappears into another room, her voice lowering as she speaks into the phone.

And just like that, I'm alone.
________________

I sigh, sinking into the couch.

Boredom settles over me like a heavy blanket.

I scroll through my phone.

Check messages.

Stare at the ceiling.

Listen to the distant hum of the refrigerator.

I'm just about to start questioning my life choices when-

The front door opens.

My head snaps up just as a tall figure steps inside.

Messy dark hair, sticking up in every direction.

Sweat-dampened skin.

Leather gloves on his hands, the kind used for motorcycle riding.

He freezes when he sees me.

I blink.

Han Wool.

A second passes.

Two.

He pulls off his gloves, tossing them onto the table before reaching for a bottle of water.

I watch-just watch-as he tilts his head back, gulping it down like he's just run a marathon.

I should say something.