POV: Go I-ram

The laundry room was blissfully empty.
No folding. No chatting. No unnecessary niceties. Just him, a tired washing machine, and the hum of solitude.

I-ram tossed his clothes in with the energy of a man feeding a beast. The lid clanged shut, and he reached for the detergent. No thought. Just muscle memory.

“Back at it?” a voice said.

He didn’t jump, but he almost did.

Do-yun walked in, sleeves rolled. He moved like someone who never rushed and somehow still got everything done.

“Trying to stay hygienic,” I-ram muttered.

Do-yun smiled and dropped a bag of towels near the folding table. “I’m heading up to the rooftop later. Thought I’d bring some pots up this weekend—start working on that soil bed.”

I-ram didn’t look up. “You sound like someone preparing for a siege.”

“Just a few plants.”

“You say that now. Next thing I know, there’s a scarecrow with your face on it.”

“I’ll keep it tasteful.”

I-ram didn’t respond, but the corners of his mouth twitched—maybe.

They didn’t talk much after that. But something in the silence felt less… vacant.

When I-ram left, he could feel Do-yun’s presence around him, even after the door closed behind him.

Two days passed.

He wasn’t planning to go up to the rooftop. Not really. He just... happened to be heading that way. Walking past the hallway staircase. Curiosity was a symptom, not a decision.

The rooftop door creaked open like it was surprised to see anyone again.

The space was still rough—cracked beds, rusted lights—but something was different. There were pots now. Not many, just enough to disrupt the dead air. Mint, maybe. Rosemary. A splash of marigold color from one corner.

The soil bed had been cleared of debris, weeds pulled, earth turned. It looked like someone cared. Which made I-ram’s throat tighten in a way he didn’t like.

“You came to inspect?” said a voice behind him.

He turned. Do-yun stood there with a bag of soil over one shoulder and a gardening tool belt that made him look criminally competent.

“Didn’t realize this was an invitation-only area now,” I-ram replied.

Do-yun smiled. “It’s not. But I’ll charge you if you start issuing notes.”

I-ram glanced at the small stack of pots near the bed. “Are you going to try vegetables?”

“Eventually. Thought I’d start with things that won’t judge me if I mess up.”

“Good luck with that. Plants are worse than people. They just can’t yell.”

Do-yun set down the bag and pulled out a trowel. “You want to help?”

“I didn’t come here to get soil under my nails.”

“Then just pass me that planter.”

I-ram hesitated. Then passed it over. Carefully. Like it might bite him.

Ten minutes later, he was crouched next to the bed, hands in the dirt, silently cursing himself.

Bori appeared sometime during their third pot.

She slinked out of nowhere, tail high, and promptly laid down in the middle of their progress like a sun-seeking landmine.

“Of course you’re here,” I-ram muttered.

“She has good taste,” Do-yun said, brushing his forehead with his sleeve. “She always finds the best sun spots.”

“She always finds me.”

Do-yun didn’t comment on that.

They worked in relative silence. The kind that held space, that didn’t need to be filled.

When the sun began to dip low, they sat under the gazebo, sipping lukewarm water from a shared bottle and pretending they weren’t tired.

“You’ve been quiet,” Do-yun said eventually.

“Shockingly, I can’t be sarcastic while gasping for breath.”

“You were good with the soil.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

They sat a little longer. Then, out of nowhere, I-ram said:

“I used to want a garden. Didn’t have the climate for it.”

Do-yun didn’t react. He didn’t lean in and didn't make a profound statement. Just nodded once, gently.

“I think this one’ll grow,” he said.

That night, I-ram’s apartment felt... unfamiliar. It wasn’t the layout, or the furniture. Not even the plants.

It was the air.

It didn’t smell like just rosemary anymore. Or like the scentless safety he’d curated over the years. Once again he felt that scent that reminded him of Do-yun: something grounded, earthy and subtle.

He turned toward the windowsill. The rosemary stood tall, smug beside Mister Needle.

He stared at them for a moment, then sat down at his desk and opened a new draft.

Some people move into your life like they were always meant to rent space there—quietly unpacking, watering corners you forgot to dust.

He stopped typing. Looked at the screen.
Didn’t delete it.

He went back up to the rooftop.

It was darker now. The lights above the gazebo flickered faintly, barely holding on. The newly filled pots looked like promises still deciding if they were going to keep themselves.

He walked slowly to one of the beds and placed his fingers against the cool soil.

“You’re going to make me care, aren’t you?” he whispered.

The air didn’t answer, but it didn’t push him away either.

End of Episode Five