AN: My special and warmest thanks to my two main betas, mswyrr and Halfaslug for their great help and assistance, and a tip of the hat to the whole meta squad over on tumblr. You know who you are (to know of the meta squad is to be of the meta squad) and I thank you kindly and apologise profusely for never. shutting. up. about this. And for the random paragraphs I pelted you with. This is a group effort, really.

Disclaimer: Not mine, never was, never will be. No monetary value gained from this. Just... feels.

The blue hour is the period of twilight each morning and evening where there is neither full daylight nor complete darkness. The time is considered special because of the quality of the light.

Go Dok Mi takes stock: water bottle to her right, novel to her left, phone in her lap, heart in her throat, stomach somewhere in the vicinity of her kidneys. Cushy and comfortingly solid as the business class seat might be, she remains unable to imbibe just how hundreds of tons of steal would lift themselves into the air. Understand, yes. Embrace – not quite. Remembering the impossibly long row of lit windows she saw vanishing into the dark outside the gate, she takes a measured breath, adjusts her headphones and unpauses her phone.

Waheeeeeeyyyyy, you're back. Good, great, brilliant. Something tells me you haven't taken off, yet. Can't blame you, I wouldn't want to spend too much time outside my devastatingly charming company, either, but then again I'm me, so I don't have to. Now, I'm sorry to tell you that you'll have to switch me off for a bit – for some reason they frown on any electronic devices being used during take-off; if you look around, there's probably an air hostess who's got your number already. Got her? Good. Keep an eye on her. I've put a chapter split into this - that is I will put a chapter split in, but you know what I mean, so just skip ahead to chapter 2 when you switch your phone back on, but before you go, a few words on flying: bazillions of people do it every day and there is absolutely nothing that could happen to you, because I'm thinking of you. I am not sure how exactly that relates to thermo- and aerodynamics, but I'm certain it does. Right now, as you hear my powerful words of comfort, it is something like four in the afternoon in Madrid and I'm likely pretending to pay attention to dailies at work, but mostly thinking of tomorrow, which means I'm thinking of you. It's pretty much the law in my brain. I'll be right back.

She reluctantly plucks the headphones off her ears, prompting the stewardess to give her an approving nod.

He had deposited the file into their drop box around noon that day – the middle of the night in Spain – labelled "travel companion". Opening it had carried his voice into the nooks and crannies of her apartment:

Ahjumma! I had this great idea. No, seriously, this is brilliant. So, I've been thinking about how awful it is you have to travel on your own and how awful I've felt when I had to travel on my own a year ago

It hasn't been a year.

though that was a bit different because I was going away and you are coming here and I was entirely very not good and I don't think I ever told you but there you go

The day he'd left, she'd run into Dong Hoon in the lift on her way home from the airport. Ten minutes later, he'd knocked on her door.

"Uhm, Jin Rak isn't home but I am and... I'll be in all day, if you want to come over, that is. So, yeah." With that, he'd shoved a thermos at her mumbled "I make pretty good tea." sketched a bow and went back to their apartment. She hadn't gone over, but the teahad been pretty good, and she had told him so when she'd returned the thermos the next morning.

So I didn't like you having to do it on your own and then I realized you didn't have to! Or, at least we can pretend you don't: I've recorded 19 hours of fun and conversation and heart rending readings and frankly sage-like wisdom and basically this is your Pocket-Que-geum. Demi-Que-geum. Que-geum's Guide to the Galaxy. Jimminy Que-geum! See, this way I'm with you all the way and you're not alone and also you'll be here tomorrow. Tomorrow, Ahjumma! I…

She'd jumped a bit when his rambling was cut off by the noise of a slamming door and quick-fire ranting in Spanish. She distinctly heard her name dropped a few times, before the unknown male voice scoffed, the door slammed again, and Enrique returned, whispering.

I'm sorry, that was Alvaro, remember him? I woke him… again… Dok Mi, I'll see you soon. So soon. Not soon enough. 31 hours. 30 1/2 if I can out-sleuth airport security. Maybe I should start researching that… Nah, I can probably pull it off on the fly. Oh, and one more thing: please bring a set of ear plugs alongside your headphones. Okay. Bye.

Bye.

Soon.

As she leans back into the upholstered seat and the plane begins rolling along the tarmac, she shuts her eyes and tries not to pay attention to the unfamiliar mechanical clicks and whirrs. The engines fire up, and she clenches her hands tightly around her phone, working to maintain a rational grasp on the idea of riding four controlled continuous explosions inside a 180 ton steel rod carrying 120 tons of cargo, both human and inanimate, sizzling away atop galleons and galleons of highly flammable pressurised liquid - maybe there is such a thing as too much research, after all. Watching the lights of Seoul drop off into the pinpricks of a model city full of tiny people underneath her, she relaxes into the experience as the sensation of g force abates. Her fingers unclench, leaving sweaty red impressions where her digits have tangled around the headphone cord. The young business traveller seated next to her shoots hear a toothy grin and starts leaning over.

"First time flyer, eh?"

She gives him a tight lipped smile and a curt nod while slipping the headphones back on, arching a sardonic eyebrow after he's faced away from her fully. Once the view has fallen away into darkness and a hazy cloud cover, she turns her attention to the buckle-up sign, thumb twitching over the "play" button on her phone as the plane rattles through denser clouds. After thirty minutes and two silent head shakes at her neighbour - "No, I neither want nor need you to order anything for me from the crew. And, no, I'm not very talkative.", the lights come off. Her neighbour unbuckles, and Dok Mi ostensively hits play, and is immediately treated to a cacophony of noise - prattling voices, automated messages and a distant rattling. Then, Enrique's voice sounds amongst the scuffle.

Safe and sound above the clouds? Good. I hope you're not mad at me for upgrading your ticket, but I wanted you to be comfy and I made sure you'd have the good seat far away from the toilets. However, just in case you are feeling patronised, I feel like it would be very helpful for both of us to inform you that I am, right at this moment, participating in Madrid's Pantsless on the Metro Day, which is exactly what it sounds like: I'm on my way to work. On the Metro. In my delicates. Now, if you can find it in your heart to be angry at that mental image, be my gue...

A high hysteric screech rips through the recording at that point, whipping the soft smile off her face, to be replaced with bemusement when Enrique's manic laughter rings, on and on until finally he re-emerges, wheezing.

Ahjumma, I don't think that Señora was aware of Pantsless Day. Yet. By the way, they're boxer briefs. The Zelda print ones. Just so you know. My train's here.

A stewardess walks past, looks at her face and asks whether she might want a cool beverage. Hands pressed to her cheeks, she declines.

Finding a therapist she actually wanted to speak to hadn't been an easy feat. The sort of authoritative aura the one she had had, briefly, during high school, was not something she wanted to expose herself to several times a week. Her gut told her to look for a female therapist, so she did, but when the first one had homed in on what she'd called the "retardation of your sexual development" within 20 minutes and suggested medication within 35, that relationship ended in a night's pencil sharpening and a two week hiatus on pursuing therapy. She'd been able to relax into Dr Kwon's practice when the only answer to her reluctant admittance that she just did not like most people had been to lean back, regard her over the top of her glasses and then level "Of course you don't, Go Dok Mi. Most people are bastards." Kwon's demeanour around her was straight in every regard, from the directness of her questions, to the ease with which she shared her own opinions and the lack of technical jargon and empty consolations ("So, I am going to take down in my notes that your parents are complete failures, shall I?"). It was in a similar vein that Dr Kwon opened their fourth session by saying: "Let's go for the Freudian bit today, shall we? How's your sex life?"

After about 20 seconds of deadpan staring on Dok Mi's end, Dr Kwon had relented. "Alright, I gave myself about a 50% chance of that actually working. Look: we've established that you need only tell me what you want to tell me, because if it were any different I might as well vacate this office. And I'm not looking to unlock all your issues by means of a phallus, because: please. But, and I'm speaking very frankly, I feel it is important we talk about this in an emotional context for you. Now, I have my presumptions, from what you've shared about your teen years and the transformative relationship that brought you to my office in the first place; but I'd like you to tell me yourself whether you've… sampled the menu, if you will. With your current partner or otherwise. Just for future reference, alright? Whenever you're ready"

Next session, before she'd even taken off her coat or sat down, Dok Mi just got it over with. "No otherwise. And we've, uhm, ha-had the main course, though we haven't… been for dinner a lot, and I wouldn't say we've been through the entire menu." Kwon had taken a moment to get her bearings and make the connection, before realisation settled over her features.

"Alright. Thank you. Please get comfortable", she'd smiled calmly.

However, Dok Mi had remained standing.

"He's also very devoted to dessert.", she'd blurted out, much to her own shock.

Kwon's eyebrows had risen to previously unknown heights. "Right. More information than I was originally looking for, but thanks for sharing."

Dok Mi, horrified, had covered her face with her hands. "I have no idea why I've felt the need to mention that." She'd groaned trough her fingers.

"Aha, I have a theory on that. But you'll have to sit down to get your healthcare's worth."

Dok Mi had trudged to her chair and plopped down.

"Oh and just for the record. Well: off the record: Congratulations."

He'd checked the entertainment listings for her airline and discovered they were running UP, sending him off on a rant about its greatness, and so they watch it together, a single earplug connecting her to his voice on her phone underneath her headphones that are now plugged into the entertainment system. ( Ahjumma, we need an adventure book.)

He jabbers on colour-coding and shapes assigned to characters (Carl is square and Ellie is round and everything is perfect!). The little boy comes knocking at Mr Fredericksen's door, and he dissolves into giggles (Look, I'm sorry, but this feels toooooo familiar.) – she shoots the window a sneer before she remembers he's not actually sitting next to her.

The credits roll. His voice is gravelly.

Are you still there? Wouldn't blame you if you weren't - it's at least four in the morning for you right now. Try and sleep. The on-board socks look flimsy but are actually suuuuuper cozy; pro tip. I'll be over in chapter three whenever you want me. Sleep well. I love you very, very much.

And so she does.

For a grand total of 20 minutes. After some futile repositioning, she switches on her personal light, making a stab at her novel. Considering 11 pages a valiant attempt at this juncture, she returns to chapter three. With "The Little Prince – the extended Enrique Geum every-tangent-must-be-pursued edition" for company (Did you know London has a "fox problem" – I think that is only the right term if you have a problem with greatness.), she quietly orders a mint tea and waits for the plane to catch back up with the sun. He reads and deviates for over six hours, and after that, he tells her stories of his teen years – of Alvaro, his room mate, who had grown from chubby kid to gigantic teen within the span of a summer (He outgrew my bottom bunk!) and insisted on dragging him out of his room, or else sacrifice parties and camping trips to sit on a bean bag in my room to drink Jolt Cola and play Command an Conquer for 48 hrs straight. I would tell him he should be with his friends and he would say "I am, assmunch." – his word, not mine. How he didn't understand then why his magically transformed friend preferred being with him to going on rowing trips with the other members of the lacrosse team. I'm not sure I understand it even now. He's a good guy. He mumbles. Dok Mi just shakes her head.

Morning breaks, and things have deteriorated somewhat in the name of killing time, though if anyone can sell "Dragonball: a dramatic reading", it's probably him.

Aaaand we're still in the middle of the confrontation with Cell, who wants to destroy the earth because it's what you do in this book. You'll be surprised to learn that our hero and villain are still staring each other down. That makes 16 pages of staring. Can you believe I had POSTERS of this and everything as a kid? Aiiiissshhh. Staring. Staring. OH, dialogue panel! „I will crush you." Nope, never mind. Empty threat panel.

Chapter 4: Layover in Amsterdam! Welcome to Europe. You'll love it. Good luck with customs, though I can't think of a reason why they would give you a hard time. Just look the first officer you come across in the eyes and they'll probably carry you through the international terminal on their backs. Well, you should still concentrate, so I'll keep quiet and give you some 80ies punk rock to get you pumped and energised and shield-y, okay? Get a warm Belgian waffle! They're grrrrreat.

Chapter 5! Our final chapter! You're about 2 hours away from Madrid now, which is a good thing because I think I am going crazy and I cannot wait and did I ever tell you that the birds in Madrid sing at their loudest around 3 in the morning, which I read somewhere is something they do in all the big cities everywhere, because that's when it's the quietest and so it's the only time their mates can hear them, even though they try all day, singing louder and louder and do you think birds grow hoarse and that is really kind of sad, and also kind of awesome, because they've simply found a way around millions of noisy humans and Ahjumma it's been a yeeeeeaaaarrr…

That is being a bit dramatic. It has been only 7 months, 19 days, 3 hours and 27 vividly remembered and rather excruciating heartbeats since the air hostesses (three of them) had cajoled him onto the plane and out of her sight. (13 times Watanabe had dropped food from work at her door, 8 scripts edited and taken to print, 34 sessions with Dr Kwon, 1 time Dong Hoon had shoved Jin Rak in front of her apartment and told him to "get over himself", 3 visits to her Grandmother's grave, 14 cooking classes, and 2 after-work drinks - one of which surreal ) But who's counting?

The tape swings in increasingly random directions after that. He takes her on a walk around his neighbourhood at four in the morning: I never realised they started baking this early in the day... and cinnamon buns, no less. Ahjumma, I have to get a whole cartwheel of these for us to have at breakfast, they're SO good. OH! And Nutella. Remind me to get Nutella. Do you like Nutella? Silly question – it's Nutella.

Ducks out of a meeting: This. Is. The. Worst.

While the plane taxis, without any context, his voice a flat echo amongst the clicking of a single pair of soles on tiles, the muffled noise of diners in the background:Which do you like best? I can't wait for you to be here, I'm dying for you to get here, I miss you – very very much.

By the time she walks down the gangway and towards luggage collection, he's cheerfully narrating through grocery shopping and cooking dinner; the arcane secrets of flipping the perfect pancake, how to fold in apples without burning or breaking the dough, and why dessert for dinner strikes him as a wonderful invention. He breaks off, she picks up the sizzling of fat in the pan, the whirr of the extractor fan, nothing but background noise for 20 seconds. A breath let out slowly, then, quietly:

Are you there, yet?

Her chest clenches and she frowns at her feet.

How about now?

She presses the heel of her hand against tired eyes just as the luggage conveyor belt shudders into motion, drawing her taut attention. By the time her leather duffle swivels into view, she has to push her way through a crowd of four deep to retrieve it. The hours of sitting and her lack of sleep have robbed her legs of considerable amounts of strength, and it takes two attempts to sling the strap over her head and across her chest.

She checks her reflection in the display window of a passing vending machine, snorts at herself for being silly, and then stops in her tracks and doubles back to duck into the restroom, where she needlessly adjusts her scarf, futily splashes water onto her ashen face, haphazardly re-ties her ponytail after a brief experiment with shaking life into her limp hair and concludes the ritual by groaning and placing her forehead on the counter. Hopeless.

The last time they've seen each other – the last time they've skyped – was two nights before her flight. She had brought home pre-press proofs that needed revising before she left and was working late, he was editing boards – leaving their video channel open had become somewhat of a habit. After he'd left for a story meeting, the next thing she knew, she was jerked awake by his insistent voice ringing out with the grating regularity of an alarm.

"Dok Mi. Dok Mi. Dok Mi. Dok Mi."

Blearily, she lifted her head to the tell-tale sound file of a camera shutter. Noticing a pair of post-it's stuck to her cheek, she frowned, which caused a paper clip to tumble off from where it had clung to her forehead.

"Did you just take a photo?" she demanded, voice heavy with sleep, squinting.

"What? Of course not." his expression of indignation quickly surrendered to one of smug satisfaction. "I took a screenshot. Much better image quality, see?". He presented his phone to the web cam with a flourish, newly improved with a wallpaper of her sporting office supplies.

She snorted and leant back in her chair, stretching her neck and rubbing her face. "Wonderful."

"Ido like to think so, yes. Ahjumma?"

She returned her gaze to the screen, eyebrows raised.

"Hm?"

He'd leaned his forearms onto his desk, scooting up close to the camera, his voice dropped to its lower register: "Go to bed?"

She considered the pages left to proof. Birdsong crept in through her cracked window.

"Yes. Probably. Long day tomorrow."

"Longlastday.Day at long last." he smiled, hips swiveling from side to side in his chair, eyebrows waggling, clearly immensely proud of himself for being puntastic.

Absurdly, her fingers reached out to brush against the screen. She smiled back.

"Yeah."

"Well, off you go! Sleep well. I love you very, very much."

She gives up on primping. However, she puts considerable force into scrubbing her forehead after lifting herself off the wash-up counter, turning it a subtle shade of red.

The hallway leading up to the terminal exit is simultaneously far too long and altogether not long enough. She feels completely swept blank by 19 hours of conditioned air. Spread too thin between border control officers and chatty travellers. Whittled smooth by 7 1/2 months of separation. The shoulder strap of her satchel cuts into her muscles and against all reason, as usual, she feels terrified. Their mp3 has run out but she appreciates the barrier the headphones create, so they stay on. The double doors into the airport atrium come into view, walled in on either side by another ten metres or so of security glass reaching out into the vast hall. And, right there, right next to the doors, at the other side of the thick pane, elbows resting on a handrail, head down, back curved, shoulders tense, left foot jiggling, fingers drumming against the glass like hummingbirds; Que-geum. And her stiff shoulders settle, and her anxious heartbeat becomes an excited flutter and the now familiar sensation of overwhelming tenderness washes through her stomach and makes her own fingertips trill and it has been a year. Her pace picks up and he lifts his head and he looks swept blank and spread too thin and anxious and ashen faced and all of that only serves to set off the brilliant, massive grin that spreads across his face from the left corner of his mouth to do away with smooth and he scrambles up, hands still on the handrail, and starts towards her, slamming his forehead right into 50mm bullet proof glass.

„Aissshhhh, tonto!"

He snaps back, rubbing his nose, grin reduced to a bashful smile as she stops level with him, hand brushing up against the glass

„Nonono." He shouts, the sound muffled by the barrier and her headphones. With sweeping gestures, he motions her along the security aisle. She hesitates, but already he's started weaving through the crowds waiting alongside the glass panes. Four steps ahead, he turns, takes a deliberate breath and slows his pace, beaming back at her until she catches up, and then the two of them walk along their respective sides of the split aisle, him backwards. And she makes it to the swing gate, and through it, and he stops in his tracks and there he is there he is there he is...

The shadows under his eyes are dark, his hair looks thoroughly raked, and his forehead is beginning to redden from its impact with the barrier. Hands in the pockets of his trousers, rooted to the spot, he stares, and beams, and fidgets. She takes the final half-step that brings them face to face, he sways towards her. His hair is shorter at the sides, and she remembers the morning of his departure; how she'd been unable to stop running her fingers through the spot above his ear while they'd sat, at times reclined, toes hooking behind heels, fingers trailing around wrists, noses brushing against temples. („I can cancel. I should just cancel. I'll call and cancel." – „No.") The dimple in his left cheek is working overtime, being pushed this way and that as he tries and fails to come up with a compromise between smiling and speaking. Teeth clasping on his lower lip, with steady hands, he reaches out, plucks the headphones off her ears and dangles them around his own neck. The cord beckons him a toe length closer.

„H...", he swallows. „Hi."

His hands extend once more, hers reach up to mirror him, but instead of embracing her, they settle for hovering either side of her head.

"You're back to 3D", he marvels, and her face crumbles. In an instant she has his hands covered with hers, laying them flat across her cheeks. She can feel the trill in his fingertips at her temples. His eyes stop darting all over her face and catch hers. She notices his shoulders levelling, tension seeping away. His fingertips creep on into her hairline.

„Hi," he breathes again.

„Hi," she beams back. Another passenger brushes past, jostling them both. Que-geum's eyes dart after them for a second, looking positively put out. She tightens her grip on his hands and taps his foot lightly with hers to get his attention back.

"When's the last time you slept?' she asks.

As usual, he dismisses her concern.

"Oh, here and there. Plus, I've had 5 coffees today. Biiiiig ones. You're there.You're here.You're here…" he leans in to rest his forehead against hers.

„Hi.", a third time.

He draws back, angles her head, and slowly, deliberately presses a kiss to the birthmark under her eyebrow. She frowns affectionately. "Really?"

He fixes her with earnest, red eyes.

„Ahjumma, there are no words fancy enough to tell you how much I've missed this spot." he insists.

She pushes up on her toes to obey a pull from just behind her sternum. However, he has already taken half a step back, dragged her satchel off her shoulders and slung it across his, and now stands next to her, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

„Now, Space Ranger Go.", he intones with a military clip to his voice. „Our immediate mission aim is to get you, unharmed, to the transport pods that await through yonder air locks.". With stiff wrists, he indicates the airport exit some 50 metres away. „So that you may rest your travel weary head at mission base." He shoots her a shifty squint. „As you can see, the immediate area is swarming with... shreks. Shreks is a good term, I like „shreks". They are a threat to our lifestyle and everything we love, so whilst we must clear the area quickly, we must take care not to touch them. Briefing received?"

She blames jet-lag and exhaustion for what happens next.

Staring straight ahead, she gives a sharp nod.

„Permission to speak, Commander?" she asks. Que-geum bristles excitedly before re-arranging his face into a sombre mask.

„Permission granted."

„Two observations: At current threat levels, I consider it advisable to stay close together.", in so saying, she extends her right hand and slides her palm slowly down the inside length of his bare forearm, starting just under the rolled-up shirt sleeves below the crook of his elbow, before weaving her fingers through his. Delighted, he returns her grip and funnels excess energy into swinging their joint hands back and forth, craning his neck to get a good look from all angles.

„Secondly: we mustn't step on the cracks, for they present rifts in the time-space continuum." Casting a furtive glance to the side, she sees him gape at her like she's materialised into being right before his eyes, and can't help but smirk back, eyebrows hitched.

„Oh, Ranger," Que-geum breathes. „you've just saved us all." Eyes back facing front and centre, he starts jogging floppily in place. „Okay, here we go?"

She affirms. "Here we go."

And so they go.

In the Taxi, he scoots up, almost but not quite touching her side. As Madrid drifts past in sluggish bursts of traffic outside the window to her left, Que-geum points out sights both well- and lesser known: The cathedral, the road leading down to the palace, the Goya Museum, the fountain he emptied himself into after too much sangria at 14 ("I almost fell in on the third heave, too. I remember because I had to grab that angel's sandal not to. And I was definitely crying."). His babbling is punctuated by his frantically jiggling leg, the nervous tonus reporting through the car's floor to the soles of her feet.

"Which do you like best:", she interrupts him. Turning to catch the tail end of his slow blink, she holds his gaze and enunciates slowly "I am glad to be here. I am ecstatic to be here. I am indescribably happy to be here. I quite actually cannot tell you how exhilarated I am to be here."

The smile starts in his eyes and ripples through the rest of his body from there, shoulders twisting ever so slightly in her direction, hands relaxing from where they had been suspended mid-gesture to rest across his thighs, back easing – and he slumps towards her gradually, pressing his nose into the side of her head.

"I can't believe you're here.", he breathes.

She leans into him by a fraction.

"I can tell." Then, mindful of the driver, she pinches his side and he squirms away, giggling. "But you're not playing it right."

"I'm so happy you're here, I could puke!", he exclaims, gesturing emphatically.

"Que-geum!"

"Honest. I think we best turn around and get back to that fountain. Oh! I forgot!" changing tacks with a jolt, he roots through his backpack on the seat next to him and solemnly produces a bottle of water.

"Here, you need to drink a lot after a long flight."

She eyes him and the bottle blankly, so he gives it an encouraging waggle and she accepts, biting down on what she knows would've been a beauty of an eye-roll. His right hand dives back into the pack and withdraws more items.

"I also have a banana and a muesli bar."

She grins into the neck of her water bottle.

"Is there a juice box, as well?"

"There is! But only because I didn't have it for lunch yesterday."

He delves into the pack once more, and when he returns with the item in question, she receives him with a smug smile and a mocking nod. He blinks, looks at her, at the school lunch in his hands and back at her before he starts laughing. "Yes. Okay. Point taken. Never mind."

He tosses the food over his shoulder onto the seat, and she gazes back, her own smile adding lines to the sketchy notes the past 40 hours drew around her eyes. It strikes her that she has had no idea just how much she's missed him, still misses him, already misses him again, a fierce yearning lodged in her chest, the back of her throat, behind her eyes. He meets her gaze, rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands and then grins at her, nose all crinkled up, and settles back down. His leg stops jiggling at last and presses up against her side, warm and solid. The pinkie on his left hand quivers against the side seam of her jeans. Her bottle is flicked in the rough direction of his backpack so she can grasp his hand, pull it towards her resolutely until their hands rest in her lap. Her thumb massages his first knuckle, his grasp slackening and readjusting throughout, checking for her ongoing presence. Again. And again. She stifles a yawn against his shoulder. The taxi sways and the traffic noise drifts away while his head settles atop hers, grows heavier. His breath wafts over the worry lines on her forehead, slowing down down down until...

„¡Oiga!"

They sieve their liquid bones, he pays the taxi driver and hauls her duffle out of the boot. Into an apartment building with cast iron balconies, he leads her up a staircase, constantly glancing back at her as he trudges the steps. The air smells of chalky plaster and vinegar. On the second flight, she takes her attention off the relief tiles and instead focuses on the way his shirt drapes between his shoulder blades, on the third he catches her and pretends not to, on the fourth, he throws his head back and groans „Are we there, yet?".

At the very top of the building, there is a door with chipped powder blue paint and a sticky lock, and he puts his weight against the panel, executing a series of oft-rehearsed wiggles. When it swings open, he overbalances slightly and is thus spewed into his own apartment, duffle bag first.

He beckons her through the front door straight into a living area, a kitchen with an island to the right added like an afterthought. An unnaturally large TV screen rest atop a sideboard that doesn't quite hide nests of game controllers stuffed into its innards. Shoes are piled everywhere but in front of the door, and so she simply slinks in behind him, pulling off her too warm scarf and trench coat and folding them carefully across one arm of the couch before gingerly sitting down, herself. The moment her body touches the soft upholstery her lower back groans, and it is all she can do to stop herself from doing the same as she slumps into the backrest. Hastily kicking off her trainers, she stretches her legs before swinging them up onto the ottoman.

Meanwhile, Que-geum has made for the kitchen.

„Right," he opens the fridge: „I've got fresh milk and eggs - so there WILL be pancakes - and some pineapple and chocolate mousse, though not your favourite, because the Asia shop didn't have your brand but look, I bought some scallions don't even like scallions that much but they're there all.. scallioney, scallioning up the whole fridge maybe shouldn't have bought quite so many how many scallions do you need for an average scallion-involving meal probably not a whole bundle that was a bit stupid of me I'm almost out of fish sauce but that's okay because I can just nick some of Mum and Dad's when we go they get regular deliveries from a Korean food distributor I should probably look into setting up something like that maybe but really I'm mostly fine with Spanish food but then again they might carry Makgeoli..."

As he rants on, her conviction that he would burn himself out, and soon, wavers, to be replaced with concern. His eyes are bloodshot, and there is a tremor in his left hand that she can't quite pretend is all due to excitement anymore. She knows with absolute certainty that he has spent the last couple of days planning, plotting and rearranging to make sure everything is absolutely perfect for her, because that is what he does. Now her space commander is undeniably on his way to ramble himself into hyperspace and so she knows with equal certainty that he's in desperate need of comfort. Their mutual insecurities have fed on their separation and there remains an uncanny barrier between them, making her pleasure in his presence too much like missing him during the previous months, and she won't have it. He makes to open the french doors facing the sofa to start illuminating her on everything the light touches outside, and when his hands fumble with the door handle, her heart snaps.

„Enrique!", she emits.

Rattled, he turns to her, eyebrows up, rubbing his palms together, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

„Hm?"

She nods at the empty spot at her side.

„Come sit with me, Que-geum?"

He perks up. „Of course," he mumbles. „let me just..." he reaches for one half of the door and carefully cracks it open. Street noise drifts into the room.

There is a well-thumbed book on the side table next to her; its spine broken and pages dog-eared, a petal shower of sticky tags bursts forth from in between its pages. She picks it up and finds it's a Spanish-Korean dictionary.

He drags over and toes off his shoes one step at a time, lets them lie as they fall. Sitting down on her right, his left foot comes to rest pressed against hers on the ottoman. Smiling, he takes the dictionary from her hands and turns it over. The back cover has been glued to an accordion folder. He opens it and pulls out one of many folded A4 sheets, packed tight with a flowchart that is a jumble of scribbled words in Korean, Spanish and English. He hesitates, briefly, before he leans into her, deposits the book in her lap and holds out the chart in front of them. His chin alights on her shoulder.

„I am better at remembering things when I can visualise them." He explains. „I like... structure. And maps. When I first came here, I would draw worlds all day, and label them all in Spanish." He points a slender finger at the word at the top of the page. „See, „think" is the basic word. But then there's also „wonder", which is just a bit more intense, don't you think?" her eyes follow his finger as it wanders down the page, elaborating: „wonder" leads to „contemplate", which leads to „ponder", which leads to „mull" which leads both to „agonise" and „sulk". But „sulk" is also connected to „suspect"" his finger shoots back up an arrow to the top of the page. „Which goes back to „think" via „assume"."

While he talks, her right hand comes up to cup the side of his face on her shoulder. He leans more fully into her to improve the angle.

„it's a chain.", she says, appreciatively. „If - then; like a game plan. You've planned your vocabulary."

„Is that weird?"

The question lingers in the room, like a whiff of school lunches in hair. She turns and presses her lips against the crown of his head. In response, he flexes his toes up against the sole of her foot.

„It's brilliant.", she insists. Eyes shut, he nuzzles her shoulder, and she shifts her hand to stroke the spot above his ear. He hums.

„Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

She smiles softly. „Hm, but it's working, isn't it?"

„You need to sleep. I should be taking care of you.", he whines.

"Oh, I've slept. Here and there. Maybe I'll have a coffee later. Or five."

He lifts his head off her shoulder to snarl at her. Her hand, knocked from its former resting place, comes to fiddle with his collar.

"I'm fine. I'm here." She jiggles his top button. "Please try and relax. You're worrying me."

The snarl transitions into a pout while he lifts his feet off the ottoman, shimmies away a bit and then unceremoniously flops down into her lap, his body stretched out along the length of the sofa, a boneless arm slung across her knees. Already she thinks him asleep, until that same arm reaches back, blindly groping for hers. Having found its query, he takes her hand and places it back into the hair at the side of his head, giving her a sloppy thumb up when her fingers resume ghosting over his scalp.

„Sleep well.", she whispers. He hums, and is out.

Congratulating herself on the successful deceleration of a volatile boyfriend, her attention returns to the dictionary on the armrest next to her. While his breathing deepens, her thumb wanders margins littered with arrows, ticks, and exclamation marks, indicating years of use. Occasionally, an aggravated cartoon hobbles along at the bottom, and a plethora of jotted notes on used envelopes, coffee shop receipts and bus tickets tumbles out of the gutters when she turns the pages, the hangul on them in varied stages of distress. As per habit, she checks the editorial, and finds it to be a 2013 edition. The finger of her free hand hovers over the date and her gaze grazes on the sacked out heap of bones in her lap. Her parents had set her up for a lifetime of half-heartedness when they tore hers down the middle and left with a piece each. During days, then weeks, then years of harsh weather, the wind would howl in the cavity. It had ensured her teenage years to be an exercise in calculated risk taking rather than reckless abandon. Then, after even the wind had refused to pick her off the roof, she'd tried to shut her door against the storm.

Que-geum, of course, never did anything half-heartedly; that's how lonely boys become childhood geniuses, like becomes love, and a dictionary becomes a tattered stack of paper so he can speak his love. The way he'd tugged at the threads of her heart hadn't been tiny vibrations so much as great big pulls that tightened and strengthened it, like the tarp of a tent left unattended to; storm-proofing it.

Her hand briefly dips into the collar of his shirt, the same one he was wearing the night he'd moved into his cousin's living room. She thinks. Alright, she's pretty certain. It's a good shirt on him, after all. He stirs and flops towards her onto his back, the fingers of his right hand weaving into the hem of her long sleeve, still solidly asleep. Summer has tinted him a fading tone of terracotta, washing out into bronze where the light from the window bounces off his skin and picks out the copper of his hair. There is an exhausted pallor underneath his tan, however. She gingerly lifts his fringe off his forehead and firmly tells herself not to be selfish. One hand settling flat against his chest, her other reaches for one of the comic books on the side table to distract herself from his collar bone. Dragon Ball. In Spanish. Outstanding...

An hour later, a square of light thrown by the french doors has crept around the room and finds them, both asleep.

Chapter 1 of 3