Amber Hours

The Han River at night was a study in quiet contradiction. The distant, glittering spine of Seoul’s skyline pulsed with silent energy, while the water below absorbed it all, reflecting only fragments of light in slow, dark ripples. The breeze carried the faint, damp scent of the river and the distant murmur of a city that never quite slept, but here on the walkway, it was just the soft lap of water against concrete and the occasional sigh of the wind.

On a double-sided bench facing the water, June lay flat on his back, a black baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. The worn leather of his jacket creaked softly against the wooden slats. In his head, a melody looped, fractured, and stubbornly refused to resolve. Broken Dreams. The track was almost there—the chord progression in the bridge ached perfectly, but the second verse’s lyrics felt like someone else’s memory. He hummed a fragment, the sound barely leaving his lips, a low, frustrated vibration in his chest. ‘The space between what is and what could be…’ No. Wrong. He let the thought dissolve into the night air.

On the opposite side of the high-backed bench, Chaeryeong slowed to a walk, her breath forming little clouds in the cool air. Her earbuds dangled, unused; the playlist in her head was on a relentless, single-song repeat. The oversized hoodie swallowed her frame, and her ponytail was a messy testament to a jog that had started with determination and ended with distraction. She patted the pocket of her jacket, her fingers finding the familiar crinkle of foil. Pulling out a half-eaten bar of milk chocolate, she broke off a piece and let it melt on her tongue, the sweetness a small, grounding comfort. She spotted the empty bench—the river-facing side—and with a quiet groan of relief, flopped down, unaware of the occupied other half.

For a moment, there was just the river and two separate silences.

Chaeryeong scrolled mindlessly through Instagram, the blue light painting her face. The chocolate and the familiar, haunting melody in her head loosened something. Softly, almost unconsciously, she began to hum. It was the chorus of Unrequited Feelings, a little off-key, the notes bending with a wistful emotion her technically perfect vocal training would never allow in a studio. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she hummed, her thoughts drifting to the SoundCloud page she’d bookmarked, to the raw ache in the singer’s voice that spoke directly to her own secret, romantic heart.

On the other side, the melody drifted over the bench back. June, still deep in his creative fog, his eyes closed under the cap, heard it. It wasn’t his own humming—this was lighter, sweeter, inflected with a feeling he’d written but hadn’t quite heard back until now. Without a single conscious thought, still chasing the ghost of the song in his mind, his voice lifted, singing the next line aloud. It was low, melodic, and startlingly close. “Is it a memory, or just a dream I keep…”

The effect was immediate and explosive.

Chaeryeong shrieked—a genuine, piercing yelp of terror. She launched off the bench as if propelled, her phone clattering onto the walkway. The chocolate bar flew from her hand, a dark arc against the night. Both hands flew up in a defensive, instinctive pose. “Aish! What the—!” she gasped, her heart hammering against her ribs. A ghost? A serial killer? Her scaredy-cat brain short-circuited, leaving only pure, adrenaline-fueled panic.

June jolted upright as if electrocuted. His cap tumbled off, revealing tousled dark hair and wide, startled eyes. He saw a woman—beautiful, terrified, staring at him like he’d risen from the river itself. His system flooded with mortification.

“Oh god—” he blurted, scrambling to his feet, hands up in surrender. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to—I was just—the song, I heard the song and my brain just… sang along. I swear I’m not a creep. That was so creepy. I’m so sorry.” The words tumbled out in a warm, frantic, deeply apologetic ramble.

Chaeryeong, panting, one hand pressed to her racing heart, slowly registered the rambling. Not a ghost. A person. A flustered person. Her eyes adjusted, taking him in: the leather jacket, the handsome, sharp lines of his face now etched with genuine panic, the cap lying forgotten on the ground. Fear ebbed, replaced by a hot wave of embarrassment, which then cooled into dawning, incredulous curiosity. Her fingers, moving on autopilot, flew to her hair, tucking and untucking the same escaped strand.

“You…” she managed, her voice shaky. “You just sang that song.”

He nodded, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I’m—it’s my song. I wrote it. I’m June. I make music. In my apartment. Not usually scaring people on benches, I promise.” He gave a helpless, awkward shrug.

His song.

The words connected in her brain with the sound of his voice—the same voice from her headphones, the one that had made her cry into her pillow. Her eyes, already wide, went impossibly larger. All remaining embarrassment was vaporized by sheer, starstruck shock.

“Wait.” She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Your song? ‘Unrequited Feelings’? That’s your song?”

He nodded again, confused by the intensity of her reaction. “Yeah…?”

The floodgates burst. Chaeryeong’s hands flew to her cheeks. “No way. No way,” she breathed, her voice pitching higher with unrestrained excitement. “I found your SoundCloud a week ago. I’ve listened to all four songs on repeat. ‘Meridian’ made me cry—like, actually cry into my pillow. I’m obsessed.” She caught herself, realizing how she sounded, and groaned, hiding her face for a second before peeking through her fingers. “Oh my god, I sound like a stalker now. I’m not a stalker. I’m just a fan. A big fan.” She was rambling, her cheeks burning, her hair now thoroughly disheveled from her nervous fingers.

June stared, utterly stunned. The fear, the apology, the entire bizarre situation melted away, leaving only a profound, disbelieving warmth. A shy, lopsided smile broke across his face. “You… you actually listen to my stuff? That’s… that’s crazy.”

Trying to claw back some semblance of dignity, Chaeryeong straightened her posture. She smoothed her hoodie and extended a hand formally, slipping into the polite, public-facing persona that was second nature. “I’m—”

“Chaeryeong,” he said quietly, his voice softening. He took her hand, his grip warm. “From ITZY. I know.”

She froze mid-handshake. Then a low, despairing groan escaped her as she used her free hand to cover her eyes. “So you saw me scream like a banshee and curse. Very idol-like. So professional.”

He laughed then—a genuine, warm, surprised sound that seemed to startle even him. It was a nice laugh. “Honestly, I’d scream too if a voice started singing behind me in the dark. Valid reaction. Ten out of ten.”

The tension snapped. Chaeryeong dropped her hand from her face, revealing a reluctant, then genuine, smile. She finally looked at him—really looked. The rugged handsomeness, the intelligent eyes still holding a trace of bewilderment, the way the leather jacket seemed like a part of him. A tiny, silent beat passed where they both just saw each other.

“So,” she said, gesturing to the bench. A silent truce. They sat back down, this time on the same side, a careful, respectful foot of space between them. The fallen chocolate bar lay a few feet away, a sad, forgotten casualty.

Now seated, a different kind of nervousness took hold of Chaeryeong. This was no longer about fangirling. This was about a dream. She took a steadying breath, tapping into a core of professional determination she rarely showed outside the practice room.

“I’m working on my solo debut album,” she began, her voice more measured. “I’ve been… searching. For a sound. Something emotionally raw, R&B-tinged, something that feels real, not just produced.” She turned to face him, her eyes earnest in the dim light. “It sounds exactly like your music. The feeling in it.” She hesitated, the question feeling huge in the quiet night. “Would you want to work with me? Produce one of the songs maybe?”

June’s reaction was immediate and visceral. He looked as if she’d gently shoved him. Flattery washed over him, followed by a tidal wave of disbelief. He rubbed the back of his neck, once, twice, three times—a quick, nervous tic.

“I’ve never done anything professional,” he said, the words rushing out. “I’m self-taught. My studio is literally second-hand gear I found online, crammed into my apartment. I don’t know the first thing about the industry, about budgets, about… any of it. I’d probably mess it up for you.”

Chaeryeong listened, then leaned forward, her gaze fierce. The hidden savage spark, the one her members knew well, flickered to life. “How do you make your songs, then? The ones that made me cry.”

He blinked. “Alone. In that apartment. With those second-hand things.”

“That,” she said, her voice firm, “is exactly what I want. That raw, honest sound. Not the polished industry machine.” She paused, a new idea forming. “Where do you live?”

A little dazed, he pointed across the river toward a small, modest two-story building nestled among taller complexes. A single warm light glowed in an upper window. “Right there. The one with the flickering balcony light. That’s my apartment. The studio.”

Chaeryeong stood up, brushing invisible lint from her joggers. A grin played on her lips—teasing, mischievous, full of a daring she hadn’t felt in months. “Great,” she said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She turned to jog away but stopped short. Her eyes landed on the discarded chocolate bar, now slightly melted and smeared on the concrete edge of the walkway. A pang of genuine loss hit her. Her chocolate.

She walked over, bent down, and picked it up delicately with two fingers, holding it aloft like a forensic investigator. “My chocolate,” she announced mournfully. Then she looked back at June, who was still frozen on the bench, watching her every move with captivated confusion.

Her expression shifted into a playful, faux-serious pout. “You owe me a replacement. And not just any chocolate. The good kind. The one with hazelnut filling.” She wagged the sad, ruined bar at him for emphasis. “Bring it tomorrow. With coffee. As your new producer-client tax.”

June just stared, utterly dumbfounded, his mouth slightly open. The whirlwind of the last ten minutes—the scare, the recognition, the monumental offer, and now a chocolate ransom—left him speechless.

Seemingly satisfied, Chaeryeong tucked the melted chocolate back into her jacket pocket with a resigned sigh. She shot him one last smile—a complex blend of starry-eyed fangirl and confident future collaborator—then turned and began to jog back down the path, her figure gradually dissolving into the shadows.

June remained frozen. The bench felt colder without her presence. He replayed it all: the humming, the scream, her wide, excited eyes, the direct question that still echoed in his ears. A breathless, disbelieving laugh finally escaped him. He ran a hand through his hair again and muttered to the empty night, “What… just happened?”

As he stood to collect his cap, a small, cinematic detail caught the distant light: a single, smeared fingerprint of melted chocolate on the wooden slat where she had sat. He stared at it for a second, then picked up his cap, brushing off a tiny, old chocolate stain of his own near the brim. Slinging his jacket tighter, he began the short walk home, a new, unplanned melody—light, curious, and sweet—already humming softly in his chest, keeping perfect time with his quickening heartbeat.

The morning sun filtered through the dusty window of his ground-floor apartment, painting stripes of gold across a floor littered with coiled cables. June had been awake since five, wiping down monitors, rearranging foam panels that didn’t need rearranging, and brewing a pot of coffee so strong it could probably stand up on its own. He’d also made a specific trip to the convenience store. The hazelnut chocolates sat in the center of his small kitchen table, a silent, hopeful testament.

A knock, soft but definite, echoed at exactly ten.

He opened the door, and the breath left his lungs in a quiet, surprised rush.

Chaeryeong stood in the hallway, backlit by the morning light from a distant window. She was a vision of effortless, off-duty chic that felt leagues away from the scared, hoodie-clad jogger of the night before. A black tube top hugged her frame, paired with relaxed, high-waisted plaid trousers that pooled slightly over sleek sneakers. An oversized, cream cardigan was slung off one shoulder, revealing a collarbone and the thin strap beneath. A statement Chanel hobo bag was hooked on her elbow. Her hair was in a low, loose ponytail, but soft, face-framing layers had been carefully styled to escape, and her makeup was minimal, just a hint of gloss and mascara that made her eyes seem even larger. In one hand, she held a sleek acoustic guitar case; in the other, a stylish canvas tote.

For a second, they just stared. Her fingers, free of bags, instinctively went to tuck a strand behind her ear.

“You came,” June finally said, his voice a mix of wonder and relief. A beat passed where he just blinked, as if confirming she was real. “I— part of me really, honestly thought you wouldn’t show up. Like, I half-expected to open the door and just find… a gust of wind and a hallucination I’d conjured from too much coffee and wishful thinking.”

A slow, teasing smile spread across Chaeryeong’s lips. She tilted her head. “I said I’d come. I’m a woman of my word.” She lifted the tote bag meaningfully. “Plus…” Her eyes sparkled with mock severity. “You still owe me chocolate. A whole replacement bar. With hazelnut filling. I specified. Very clearly. In the dark. While holding a melted tragedy. I have a photographic memory for chocolate-related debts.”