POV: Cha Do-yun

The apartment smelled like cardboard and potential.

Cha Do-yun stepped over a pile of half-unpacked boxes and into the sunlight pooling through the balcony door. The space was smaller than his last place, but it had better light, quieter walls, and—most importantly—room for plants.

He dropped the last box of kitchen supplies onto the counter and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his hoodie. The silence in the apartment was good. Not the empty kind that echoed loneliness—just the kind that felt clean, breathable.

He moved through the space methodically, opening boxes labeled KITCHEN, LINEN, PLANTS: FRAGILE, placing things into their new homes one by one. Everything had a place. Even him, now.

Almost everything.

He glanced toward the windowsill.

No Bori.

The windows were closed, the balcony door cracked open just enough to let the breeze whisper in. He scanned the room again.

“She’s gone again,” he muttered.

Typical.

He sat on the edge of the couch, rubbed his neck, and pulled out his phone. There was already a message from Jae-min.

Jae-min: “Made it in one piece? How’s the new place smell?”

Do-yun: “Smells like rosemary and regret. Still unpacking. Bori disappeared.”

Jae-min: “Lol. Don’t worry. She’s probably already judging your neighbors.”

Do-yun smirked.

Do-yun: “How’s the lab?”

Jae-min: “Still full of plant nerds and overpriced sensors. You’ll love it.”

Another message followed a second later:

Jae-min: “Excited for the new job? New place, new city... new start?”

He paused before answering.

Do-yun: “Yeah. It feels... right.”

Jae-min: “Good. You are gonna like it here, Do-yun. Keep growing.”

Do-yun stared at the screen a moment longer before pocketing the phone.

He moved to the balcony and unwrapped the last of the potted herbs. His fingers brushed gently through the rosemary’s leaves. The scent released immediately—earthy, grounding, steady. Like something that didn’t need to be loud to be noticed.

It reminded him of someone.

The man from earlier.

They’d passed in the entryway. A little shorter than him. Pale gray turtleneck, structured coat. Slim build, dark hair that curled slightly near his ears, and eyes that hadn’t quite looked at him—just past him, like eye contact required more emotional investment than he was willing to give.

He looked tired. Not just under-slept, but deeply, exquisitely weary. Like someone carrying a load no one else could see. He hadn’t smiled, hadn’t scowled—just... existed, with a kind of passive defiance.

Do-yun hadn’t thought much of it until he noticed the man’s scent—or lack of it. Barely there. A faint trace of something like dried rain or old paper. Something delicate, hesitant.

The knock on his door came during the golden hour.

He opened it to find the man from the hallway—hair slightly messier now, wearing a navy sweater and black joggers, holding Bori like a mildly offensive housewarming gift.

“Is she yours?” the man asked flatly.

“Unfortunately,” Do-yun replied, then softened his tone. “She has good taste, but no manners.”

“I didn’t lure her,” the man said. “She just appeared. Broke in like a burglar, then made herself at home.”

“She does that.”

He gently took Bori from the man’s arms, but she protested with a dramatic wriggle, planting a paw firmly on his shoulder while staring back at the stranger like she was leaving something important behind.

“She doesn’t usually let strangers hold her,” Do-yun said.

“She assaulted me,” the man deadpanned. “I’m a victim.”

A smile cracked across Do-yun’s face before he could stop it. “I believe you.”

The man gave a tired half-smile in return—like someone who’d learned to ration his expressions.

“I’m Go I-ram,” he said. “501.”

“Cha Do-yun. 502.”

They stood in brief, awkward silence, Bori glaring from one to the other.

Do-yun glanced down at her. “Hold on a second.”

He stepped back inside, gently placed Bori on the floor where she could sulk, and returned with two things: a small, healthy rosemary plant in a pale ceramic pot... and a pouch of her favorite wet treat.

When he came back to the doorway, I-ram was still standing there, arms crossed, wearing the same expression people usually save for delayed buses.

“This is for you,” Do-yun said, holding out the rosemary.

I-ram blinked. “You’re bribing me.”

“Apologizing. And hoping you don’t sue for emotional distress.”

I-ram stared at the plant like it was a test. “I can’t make promises. Or miracles.” He said while looking in the direction of his apartment. “Mister Needle’s been surviving out of spite.”

“Mister... Needle?”

“My cactus. He thrives on abandonment.”

Do-yun chuckled, genuinely amused. “Well, rosemary’s also forgiving. But it still appreciates attention.”

I-ram took the pot with careful hands, like it might bite. Then glanced down as Bori was investigating the treat in Do-yun’s hand. One sniff. One slow lick. And then she rubbed her head against his leg like she hadn’t just spent hours glued to someone else.

“Traitor,” I-ram muttered.

“She’s a pragmatist,” Do-yun replied.

There was a quiet pause.

“Well. Thanks,” I-ram said, taking a step back with the plant. “for the hostage exchange.”

“Anytime,” Do-yun said. “If she shows up again... I’ll send reinforcements.”

“She probably will.”

He nodded once, then turned and walked back into 501, the rosemary pot cradled in one hand like it might start singing if he looked at it wrong.

Do-yun closed his door, smiling faintly.

Later that evening, he sat on the balcony with a cup of tea, feet resting on a spare crate. The apartment was still full of boxes, but it didn’t feel empty.

Through the open window, he caught a flash of cream fur leaping onto the living room chair. Bori stretched once, turned twice, and curled up with the entitlement of royalty and the exhaustion of someone who’d emotionally adopted a new tenant.

Do-yun took a sip of tea and let the quiet settle.

He thought of I-ram’s reaction to the rosemary. The hesitation. The awkward acceptance. And the way he’d looked at his apartment while mentioning his cactus, like it was an inside joke.

Do-yun chuckled softly, eyes flicking toward the balcony plants.

“Mister Needle,” he murmured. “Guess we’ll see.”

End of Episode Two