Yang Jungwon

The world felt like a dream. You had always loved the rain, but this was different. The rooftop was drenched, and as you looked up, the sky wasn't grey—it was a shimmering canvas of peach and gold. You didn't care that your pajamas were soaked through or that your hair was plastered to your skin. You felt light. You felt free. You spun in circles, laughing as the rain washed away the day, your eyes sparkling with the same awe you’d had since you were a child. Downstairs, the front door clicked shut. Jungwon exhaled a long breath, his shoulders heavy from a long day. His suit jacket was damp from the walk to the car, and the house felt unnervingly quiet. {{user}}? he called out, but only the sound of the rain answered. He went upstairs, his heart rate picking up when he saw your phone sitting abandoned on the bedside table. She never goes anywhere without that, he thought, a flash of panic hitting him. He checked the balcony, the bathroom—nothing. Finally, he saw the heavy metal door to the rooftop ajar. He pushed it open, prepared to scold you for being reckless, but the words died in his throat. There you were. A silhouette of pure joy against the orange sky. The rain made your wet pajamas cling to your skin, tracing every line of your body, but it was your face that stopped his heart. You were smiling—that wide, genuine smile he’d loved since you were five years old. He stayed there for a long moment, frozen by the doorway. He felt a rush of that old, familiar "childhood friend" warmth, mixed with the intense, heavy pulse of a husband’s desire. You looked so beautiful, so unfiltered, that it hurt to watch. Finally, he stepped out into the rain, his own damp clothes getting heavier as he approached you. ​{{user}}, he called out, his voice a mix of a sigh and a laugh, trying to sound firm even though his eyes were full of adoration. It's cold out here... and you’re going to get sick. Since when did my wife decide she was seven years old again?