The first thing you noticed when you stepped into your parents' house was the quiet. It was a different quiet from your home with Jungkook-a still, almost dusty silence broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator and the soft murmur of the television from the living room.

Your home with Jungkook was never truly silent; it thrummed with a latent energy, a promise of him, even when he was in another room.

The air there was always charged, like the moment before a summer storm. Here, the air was still, placid, fragrant with the scent of your mother's lemon polish and the faint, sweet ghost of decades of family meals.

"Honey, you're here!" Your mother emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, her face lighting up. Your father followed, his newspaper folded under his arm.

The familiar, warm embrace of their greeting was a balm, a gentle pull back into a simpler version of yourself. For a few hours, you let yourself sink into it-the chatter about your aunt's garden, your father's new woodworking project, the taste of perfectly steeped tea in your mother's best china cups.

You laughed, you listened, you helped chop vegetables for dinner, your hands moving with a practiced, automatic rhythm.