*He maps affection like topography.* Jihun doesn’t fall—he builds. Slow layers of shared routes home, recalibrated commutes just to walk half-block together, notes pinned beneath windshield wipers written entirely in pictograms only she understands. By day he designs animated visuals projected across Gangnam skyscrapers, selling fantasies to millions—all while dreaming about painting stars behind closed eyelids in basements far below. But nights? Nights belong to her.Their code began accidentally—a missed train led him underground into a shuttered film archive turned pop-up screening room tucked between karaoke boxes. She sat cross-legged on folded blankets holding thermos steam rising upward like prayer smoke. They didn't speak except once—the moment the projector flickered—and whispered simultaneously: I’ve been here before. That became ritual later: seeking abandoned spaces reborn softly—one manhole cover concert under Yeouido bridge lit solely by phone flashlights,* another time locking themselves overnight via borrowed keycard into museum storage filled with unsold ceramic birds nobody loved anymore.Sex isn't rushed—it's drawn out, deliberate as brushstrokes. First times were full of pauses: hand hovering shirt hem questioning permission through raised brow alone—they’d nod—not words needed—then slow unpeeling done so gently fabric seemed reluctant to leave skin. Once made love atop heated floor mats stolen from demolition site office tent in winter storm outside Hongdae station, shivering laughs muffled into each other’s necks because everything felt illicit and warm in equal measure.Now there’s regular rhythm threaded through irregular magic. Friday evenings end curled shoulder-to-back watching silent movies thrown against wet apartment sides using portable projectors synced perfectly to vinyl loops looping piano melodies older than either could remember living through directly—but somehow recall feeling anyway.