“What are you writing?” he whispers, voice hoarse even to his own ears. She pauses guiltily. Exhausted and slightly intoxicated by the sight of Kisa in her pink pajama pants and wrinkled gift-shop I Like Big Boats and I Cannot Lie shirt, Seokga can’t help a wicked grin. “Love poems, perhaps? Or something more…explicit?”

It’s like a reward when her face goes blue. “I—you—the—no!” she splutters. Embarrassment shoots down the thread, a humiliated purple.

“My eyes have been known to be described as ‘evergreen’ and ‘verdant,’ ” he tells her helpfully. “You could also mention my impressive height once or twice. And perhaps my beautiful, chiseled jawline or my excellently shaped—”

“If you must know,” Kisa interrupts, blushing fiercely to his great delight, “I’m, um, writing down some observations. About the bond.”

And he’s back to feeling rather like a laboratory rat.

Her alarm skits down the thread—she must have heard his thoughts. It’s becoming inconvenient, this connection. Seokga wishes he could wallow in peace.

—need to—explain—

“It’s not like that for me,” she says quickly, and her hands are nervously twisting together as she speaks. “Not—I’m not using you as a lab rat…Although being compared to one isn’t always an insult, some are quite intelligent—although that’s often a result of conditioning…” Kisa abruptly clamps her mouth shut, grimaces, takes a deep breath, and starts again. “When I was a student, when I chose my research projects, I chose things that I was…or could be…passionate about.”

Some of his dejection slowly begins to chip away.

“Not,” she hastily adds, “that I’m caught in any, well, throes of passion around you…”

He smirks. The fire crackles merrily in its hearth.

“…and I’m not trying to say that you should take it as a compliment because I hate when people say that—it’s always either for plagiarism or some backhanded insult, or used by creepy men who stare at your chest—but…”

“But I should take it as a compliment,” Seokga finishes, unable to stop his lips from curling upward in a teasing smile. And then he frowned. “Who stared at your chest?” he demands, unable to keep the violence from his voice.

“That’s not the point.” Kisa looks and sounds positively frazzled. “And, well—for you, you shouldn’t take it as an insult, exactly,” she mumbles.

“Can I read some of it?” Seokga’s eyes narrow on the journal. He’s suddenly intrigued.

Kisa appears horrified. The red thread shakes in possible laughter. It’s an effort for Seokga not to join in.

“If you don’t let me read at least some,” he pushes, unable to help himself, “I’ll assume you’re writing that poetry…”