Mr. Sunshine
Pre-School Teacher! Fem! Reader x Single Dad! Kim Kyoo-pyeong
Main Masterlist
LBH Masterlist
Warnings: Slowburn, Romace, Fluff, Mentions of death, Grumpy! Kim Kyoo-pyeong, Mutual Pinning, Age gap ( 25 x 49), Older man x Younger woman.
Word Counts: 7714
Author's Notes: I may be at my lowest right now due to college, but This request is so adorable!! Thank you @zzzachann for requesting this one (I might do the other request soon!!) I'm not sure yet if I have to make this as a 3 part series because I'm afraid this will be a long one... >0<
Taglist: (Join by letting me know)
@rimzaaa @alex-17s-world @sylviavf @sweetstrawberrianne @animelight128 @yxluana @carolinevoight @itsmoonchik @watasinekoru @liliannaroses @maah-sama @thedreamingreaper @sebbymybaby21 @l0vefanficti0n @lazybum0 @astronomicalastro-blog1 @hoffmanfan13 @startled-cats @mostlyyours @matchami1k @frontwomann @behabeha @barbiebabieeex @justsisse @hornylittlesimp @casuallystrangeutopia @aeriikiesss @ilovebyunghunlee @Shristiashish @darkblueeyedperson @bh7vens
The final bell rings, a cheerful, tinny sound that echoes through the brightly colored hallway. You watch as your little flock of four-year-olds scrambles for their cubbies, grabbing jackets and lunchboxes with varying degrees of success. It’s the usual controlled chaos, a symphony of giggles, misplaced shoes, and the earnest, sticky-handed hugs you receive each afternoon.
“Goodbye, Ms. L/n! See you tomorrow!” shouts Liam, always the loudest, as he barrels toward the door where his mother waits.
“Bye-bye,” whispers Maya, the quiet one, offering you a shy wave before clutching her older sister’s hand.
You smile, your heart feeling full and soft. This is it, you think. This is forever. The mess, the joy, the tiny, incremental victories—seeing a child finally master the curve of the letter ‘S’, or the proud beam when they sing the entire alphabet song without a stumble. At twenty-five, with only three years under your belt, you already know you’ve found your place in the world.
Your gaze, however, lingers on one cubby. Kim Yeon-soo. She’s methodically, almost comically seriously, packing her belongings. Her pink backpack is zipped with care. Her water bottle is placed snugly in the side pouch. She turns, her face lighting up like a sunrise, and skips over to you.
“For you, Teacher,” she says, her voice sweet and clear. She hands you a folded piece of construction paper, bright yellow. You open it. Inside, drawn with purple crayon, is a heart. Below it, in her best handwriting, are the words: “You are nice.”
“Thank you, Yeon-soo. This is wonderful,” you say, your voice warm. You tuck the note into the pocket of your cardigan. You’ve received dozens of these from her. They’re your secret treasure, little affirmations tucked away in a drawer at home.
“Is your Appa here?” you ask, peering toward the classroom door.
She nods, her dark brown eyes—so like her father’s—shining. “Yes! He is waiting. He has a big meeting later, but he came for me first.”
Always first.
You’ve pieced that together.
Kim Kyoo-Pyeong, single dad and, according to the sparse information in the school directory, CEO of something in the tech sector. He’s a silhouette at the door most days, a tall, imposing figure in a well-tailored suit that seems to absorb the light from the cheerful hallway.
His posture is straight, his expression… grumpy.
That’s the word you’ve settled on.
It’s not angry, not unkind. It’s a focused, weary seriousness that hangs around him like a shadow.
You walk Yeon-soo to the door, her small hand in yours. As you approach, the shadow shifts. His eyes, those dark chocolate brown pools that usually scan the room with a detached efficiency, find his daughter.
And they change.
The hardness melts, the focus softens into a warmth so profound it makes your breath catch in a completely non-spicy, purely observational way. His lips, usually set in a firm line, curve into a smile. It’s bright. It’s full.
It’s identical to the one Yeon-soo gives you.
Mr. Sunshine.
That’s the nickname you’ve coined for him in your private thoughts. You never dare to say it aloud. It feels too intimate, too revealing of the quiet attention you’ve paid to this small, daily transformation. His wife must be so lucky, you’ve thought more than once, imagining some graceful, accomplished woman waiting at home who gets to see that smile directed at her.
But you don’t know.
You’ve never asked.
Interaction between you and Kyoo-Pyeong exists in a narrow, functional lane.
He arrives.
You bring Yeon-soo to him.
He nods, sometimes murmuring a “Thank you” so low you almost miss it.
Then he takes her hand, and the sunshine smile remains on his face as they walk away, his tall frame bending slightly to listen to her chatter.
Your world—the bright, messy, sing-song world of preschool—and his world—the silent, serious, suit-and-meeting world—touch only at this fleeting point of transfer.
Today is the same. He’s there, one hand resting on the doorframe. You smile professionally.
“Hi, Mr. Kim. Yeon-soo had a great day. We worked on writing our full names today, and she did beautifully.”
He nods. “Thank you,” he says, his voice deeper than you expect, a smooth, quiet baritone.
Yeon-soo launches into a detailed report about the purple heart drawing, and he listens, his smile fixed on her.
He reaches for her hand.
But then, something shifts.
A flicker in his eyes.
They meet yours for a second longer than usual.
Not a grumpy stare, but a… look.
A moment of actual connection, not through his daughter, but directly. It’s so brief you might have imagined it.
“She speaks of you often,” he says, the words seeming to surprise even him. “At home. She says you are very kind.”
Your cheeks warm slightly. “Oh. Well, she’s a joy to teach. One of my brightest.”
He nods again, but the nod is slower, more considered. “Bright,” he repeats, as if tasting the word. His gaze drops to Yeon-soo, who is now telling him about the new butterfly painting on the wall. “Yes.”
Then it’s over. The moment collapses back into routine. “Goodbye,” you say.
“Goodbye,” he echoes. And they turn, his large hand engulfing her small one, and walk down the hallway. You watch them until they disappear around the corner, the echo of Yeon-soo’s voice fading.
You return to your classroom, the quiet after the storm of departure settling around you. You tidy crayons, straighten chairs, and your mind drifts back to that look.
What was it? Acknowledgement? Curiosity? You shake your head. Don’t push, you remind yourself.
He’s a busy man. His world revolves around his daughter and his work. You are a pleasant fixture in his daughter’s life, a service provider.
That’s the boundary. You respect it.
---
The week progresses in its normal rhythm. Mornings are a burst of energy, afternoons a gentle deceleration. Yeon-soo continues her campaign of kindness, leaving you a green paper star on Wednesday (“You are smart”) and a blue paper on Thursday (“You sing good”).
Friday, however, brings a change. It’s a grey, drizzly afternoon. The children are restless, infused with the pent-up energy of a week ending. You’ve just finished a chaotic but successful session of “musical statues,” and are herding everyone toward the cubbies for dismissal.
You see Kyoo-Pyeong at the door earlier than usual. He’s not in a suit. He’s in dark jeans and a charcoal grey sweater that seems to soften his edges, though his posture is still that of a man holding up a mountain. His expression is different, too. The grumpy shadow is heavier today, etched with lines of fatigue. Even when Yeon-soo runs to him, his smile seems slower to ignite, a little more strained.
You guide Yeon-soo over, sensing a subtle tension in the air. “Here she is, Mr. Kim. All ready.”
He takes her hand. “Thank you,” he murmurs, but his eyes don’t fully leave yours. They hold a question.
“Is everything alright?” you ask, softly, your teacher’s instinct overriding your shyness.
He hesitates. Yeon-soo looks up at him, her bright smile dimming a little. “Daddy is tired,” she announces, matter-of-factly.
He exhales, a quiet sound. “A long week,” he admits, speaking to you directly again. “And… I have a problem. My usual sitter for Saturday has been canceled. An emergency. I have… an unavoidable obligation tomorrow afternoon. A client meeting I cannot reschedule.”
He says it flatly, but the worry in his eyes is clear. This is a man whose life is built on precision, on control. A gap in his carefully constructed schedule is a crack in the foundation.
Your mind works quickly. You’re not a sitter. But you are someone who cares deeply for Yeon-soo. And you have Saturday free.
“What time is the meeting?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
“Two o’clock. Until perhaps five,” he says, watching you closely.
“I… I don’t usually do private childcare,” you begin, feeling your pulse pick up a little. “But if it’s an emergency, and if Yeon-soo would be comfortable… I could watch her at my apartment. It’s not far from here.”
His eyes widened slightly. The grumpy shadow recedes, replaced by pure, stunned surprise. “You would do that?”
“She’s a wonderful girl. And I’d be happy to help.” The words feel true as you say them.
Yeon-soo’s face erupts into a smile. “I can go to Ms. L/n’s house?!”
You nod at her. “We could draw, and maybe read some new books I have.”
She claps her hands together. “Yes, yes!”
Kyoo-Pyeong looks from his daughter’s delighted face to yours.
The conflict in his eyes is palpable—the ingrained caution of a man who protects his world fiercely, versus the practical need for a solution he can trust.
“I… I would pay you, of course. The usual rate, plus…”
“Let’s just figure it out,” you say, softening your tone. “It’s okay. Really.”
He studies you for a long moment. The silence in the doorway is thick, filled with the hum of the hallway lights and the distant sound of other children leaving. Finally, he nods, a decisive, grateful motion.
“Thank you. That is… very kind.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a phone. “May I have your number? To coordinate details?”
You give it to him, your fingers feeling oddly clumsy as you type it into his contacts.
He saves it, then looks at you again. That direct look is back, but now it’s layered with something new:
Relief.
“I will text you the address to pick her up. Eleven-thirty?”
“That’s perfect,” you say.
The transaction—now suddenly more than a transaction—is complete. He gives Yeon-soo’s hand a squeeze. “Be good for Ms. L/n,” he says to her, his voice warming.
“I am always good!” she declares, and you laugh.
He finally offers you a smile.
It’s not the full, sunshine one reserved for his daughter.
It’s smaller, more tentative, but it’s genuine. It’s for you. “Thank you, Ms. L/n. I… appreciate this.”
“It’s no trouble, Mr. Kim.”
With a final nod, he leads Yeon-soo away. You watch them, but now your mind is buzzing with a strange, nervous energy.
Saturday. Tomorrow.
You’ll be in your own space, with Yeon-soo.
And he’ll be… somewhere else, trusting you with his most precious thing.
---
Saturday morning arrives, clear and cool. Your apartment is a cozy, somewhat cluttered space filled with books, plants, and the remnants of your own childhood loves—a collection of stuffed animals on a shelf, framed prints of impressionist paintings. You tidy up a little, making sure the floor is safe for small feet, setting out some fresh drawing paper and your best crayons.
At eleven-twenty-five, a text arrives. It’s from him. No name, just a number.
“Address: 12 Skyline Drive, Penthouse 4. I will bring her to the lobby at 11:30. Thank you.”
Penthouse.
Skyline Drive.
The words hit you with a quiet force. You knew he was a CEO, but the reality of it—the penthouse—sharpens the image of his life. It’s a world of high floors and silent elevators, a stark contrast to your ground-level apartment with its squeaky floorboards.
You drive there, a short ten-minute trip. The building is a sleek, modern tower of glass and steel, rising above the more modest structures around it. The lobby is vast, quiet, and cooled by discreet air conditioning. A security guard nods you toward the reception desk.
And there they are. Kyoo-Pyeong stands near a massive abstract sculpture, holding Yeon-soo’s hand. He’s back in a suit—a deep navy that fits him perfectly.
The grumpy shadow is present, but it’s mixed with that same fatigue from Friday.
Yeon-soo, in a cheerful yellow dress, waves excitedly when she sees you.
You approach, feeling oddly small in the expansive space.
“Hello,” you say.
“Ms. L/n,” he replies, giving you that tentative smile again. “Thank you for coming.” He glances at the security desk. “They have your name. You can bring her back up here after. I should return by five-thirty.”
“Of course.”
He bends down to Yeon-soo. “Listen to Ms. L/n. Have fun.” He kisses her forehead, a quick, tender gesture.
Then he stands, his eyes meeting yours.
The look is there again, but now it’s charged with a quiet intensity. “If anything… anything… happens, call me immediately. My phone will be on, even during the meeting.”
“I will,” you promise, your voice earnest.
He seems to search for more words, then simply nods. “Okay.” He gives Yeon-soo’s hand a final squeeze, then turns and walks toward the elevator bank. You watch him go, his tall figure moving with a purposeful grace until the elevator doors swallow him.
Yeon-soo tugs your hand. “Ms. L/n, your house!”
You smile down at her. “Yes, let’s go.”
The afternoon is a delight. Yeon-soo is, as always, a bright and engaged companion. She loves your stuffed animals, carefully arranging them for a “tea party.” She draws a spectacular, multi-colored picture of a butterfly for you. You read stories, she sings her alphabet song with gusto, and you share a simple lunch of sandwiches and apple slices.
At four o’clock, as she’s coloring quietly, your phone buzzes. A text. From him.
“The meeting concludes. On schedule. Will be at the lobby by 5:30. How is she?”
You text back: “She’s perfect. We’ve had a lovely time drawing and reading. She’s currently creating a masterpiece.”
A minute later, a reply: “Thank you.”
Then, another minute later, a second text arrives. This one is different.
“I realize I have not asked you for your preferred rate. And I have imposed on your personal time. When I return, may I… offer you dinner? As thanks. And to discuss payment.”
You stare at the screen.
Dinner.
With him. Mr. Sunshine, in his grumpy, tired, CEO reality.
Your heart does a funny little flip, a mixture of anxiety and a spark of something else—curiosity.
You type back, your fingers careful. “Dinner would be nice. But please, no obligation. I enjoyed today.”
His reply is swift. “Not an obligation. A wish. I will see you at 5:30.”
The text ends the conversation. You look at Yeon-soo, who is now telling a complicated story to her colored butterfly drawing.
A wish.
The word lingers in your mind, soft and significant.
At five-twenty, you pack Yeon-soo’s things and drive back to Skyline Drive. The lobby is just as quiet, just as cool. You stand near the same sculpture, Yeon-soo holding your hand, chatting about the tea party her stuffed animals had.
At five-twenty-nine, the elevator doors open. Kyoo-Pyeong steps out. The suit is still there, but the jacket is unbuttoned, his tie slightly loosened. The fatigue on his face is deeper, the lines more pronounced. But when he sees Yeon-soo, the transformation happens again—the shadow lifts, the smile emerges, warm and focused on her.
“Appa!” she cries, running to him. He catches her, lifting her up in a hug that seems to absorb all his weariness and transform it into pure affection.
He holds her for a moment, then sets her down, his eyes rising to meet yours.
“Ms. L/n,” he says, walking over. “I hope it was not too much trouble.”
“None at all. She was a delight, as always.”
He nods, then his gaze shifts to the security desk. “The dinner… I had planned to ask if you would be comfortable going now. There is a place nearby. Quiet. Yeon-soo can come, of course. Or, if you prefer, I can have the house sitter take her for an hour. She has returned.”
He’s offering options, giving you control.
The consideration in his voice is new, a layer you haven’t heard before.
Yeon-soo looks up. “I want to go with Ms. L/n and Appa!”
He smiles at her. “Then we all go.”
You feel a nervous flutter, but also a pull. “That sounds lovely,” you say.
He leads the way, Yeon-soo between you, holding both your hand and his. The restaurant is, as he said, nearby—a warm, Italian bistro with soft lighting and wooden tables. It’s not overly fancy, but it’s elegant in a comfortable way. He guides you to a corner table, helps Yeon-soo into a chair, then gestures for you to sit.
The waiter comes. Kyoo-Pyeong orders a simple pasta for Yeon-soo, then looks at you. “What would you like?”
You choose a salad, feeling suddenly aware of the situation. You’re having dinner with a parent. A single, male parent. In a quiet corner of a nice restaurant. The boundary has not only been crossed; it has been gently dismantled.
Once the orders are placed, he leans back slightly, his eyes studying you. The grumpy shadow is gone now, replaced by a quiet, focused attention. “Thank you, again,” he begins. “This week was… difficult. Your help was unexpected and generous.”
“It was really my pleasure,” you reply. “Yeon-soo is a special child.”
“She is,” he agrees, his gaze drifting to her as she carefully arranges the napkins. “She is everything.” He pauses, then looks back at you. “You are her favorite teacher. She talks about you constantly. Your kindness, your patience. She said you helped her write her whole name this week.”
You feel a warmth spread through you. “She was so proud. She worked very hard.”
“She does,” he says softly. Then he takes a breath, as if stepping onto unfamiliar ground. “I… am not often able to be at the school for long. My work consumes a lot of time. I rely on people to be… good. To care.” His eyes hold yours, and the intensity there is undeniable. “You care. I see it. In the way she smiles when she talks about you. In the way you looked after her today, in your own home.”
The directness of his words, the raw acknowledgment, makes your throat feel tight. “I love teaching. I love all my students. But Yeon-soo… she has a light.”
“She does,” he agrees again. A silence falls, not awkward, but heavy with something unspoken. Yeon-soo, sensing the adult conversation, focuses on her crayons, drawing quietly on the paper placemat.
He finally speaks, his voice lower. “I should tell you… perhaps you do not know. Yeon-soo’s mother… she is not with us. It was some years ago.”
The information settles into the space between you.
A widower.
The sunshine smile, reserved only for his daughter.
The grumpy shadow that shrouds him when she’s not near. It all clicks into a new, heartbreaking configuration. His wife must have been lucky—your old thought echoes, now tinged with a profound sadness. She was, and then she was gone.
“I… didn’t know,” you say, your voice gentle. “I’m so sorry.”
He nods, accepting your sympathy with a quiet grace. “It is why… my world is small. It is her, and my work. There is little room for… other things.” He says this not as a warning, but as an explanation. A statement of his reality.
The waiter arrives with the food, breaking the moment. Yeon-soo happily digs into her pasta, and you begin your salad. The conversation shifts to lighter topics—Yeon-soo’s stories about school, your plans for next week’s art project. He listens, engages, asks questions about your teaching methods. He’s intelligent, sharp, but he tempers his intensity to match the gentle flow of the dinner.
As the meal ends, Yeon-soo, full and happy, leans against her father’s side, sleepy. He strokes her hair, his large hand gentle.
“I should get her home,” he says, his eyes returning to you. “But before we leave… the payment.”
You shake your head. “Please, Mr. Kim. It was a favor. From a teacher to a student’s parent. No payment.”
He considers this, his brow furrowing slightly. “Then… the dinner. As thanks. And perhaps…” he hesitates, the words forming slowly. “Perhaps not as a one-time event.”
You look at him, your pulse quickening again.
“I find… I would like to know more about the person who brings such light to my daughter’s days,” he says, the statement simple, direct, and utterly disarming. “If you would be willing… to perhaps do this again. Dinner. Conversation.”
The offer hangs in the air, soft and significant. It’s not a proposition. It’s a request for connection, from a man whose world has been deliberately small. You feel a rush of emotions—surprise, nervousness, and a deep, resonating curiosity about this man, about the sunshine that lives beneath his shadow.
Yeon-soo stirs, looking up at her father. “Can Ms. L/n come to our house next time? We have big windows!”
He smiles at her, then his eyes lift to yours — Those big brown eyes staring at you, waiting for your answer.
—
The silence after his question stretched, warm and heavy, like the air just before a summer rain. Yeon-soo’s sleepy head against his shoulder, his eyes waiting on yours, the soft glow of the restaurant’s lights—it all felt suspended, a moment captured in glass.
You looked at him, at the earnest fatigue in his face, at the quiet hope layered beneath his usual reserve. You looked at Yeon-soo, her innocent suggestion hanging between you like a gift.
“I would like that,” you said, your voice softer than you intended. “Another dinner. Or… visiting your house.” You smiled at Yeon-soo. “I’d love to see those big windows.”
Her face lit up, a beacon of pure joy.
Kyoo-Pyeong’s expression shifted, the lines around his eyes softening into something that looked like relief, and something more—a flicker of pleasure. He nodded, a single, slow motion. “Good,” he said, the word simple but carrying weight. “We will arrange it.”
The waiter brought the bill, and Kyoo-Pyeong handled it with a swift, efficient motion, not allowing any discussion. You protested gently, but he shook his head. “Please. This was my invitation.” His tone was final, but not harsh. It was the tone of a man who had decided to care for you in this small, concrete way.
You all rose from the table. Yeon-soo, now more awake, skipped between you and her father, taking your hand and his as you walked out of the bistro. The night air was cool, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of the city—distant traffic, baked bread from a nearby bakery, the clean smell of rain-washed pavement. The three of you walked in a loose line, Yeon-soo’s chatter filling the space, her small voice weaving a tapestry of simple observations about the stars she couldn’t see and the shapes of the buildings.
Kyoo-Pyeong listened to her, his responses quiet and warm. But you felt his attention, like a soft pressure, on you. Every few steps, his gaze would find you, linger for a second, then return to his daughter or the path ahead.
It wasn’t a stare.
It was a look, the same one from the school doorway, but now it felt deeper, more intentional. It felt like he was seeing you, piecing you together in his mind.
The walk back to Skyline Drive was short, only a few blocks. The towering glass building loomed ahead, its geometric lines cutting into the night sky. As you approached the entrance, Yeon-soo squeezed your hand. “Ms. L/n, will you come next week?”
You glanced at Kyoo-Pyeong, letting him answer.
He met your eyes, then looked down at his daughter. “We will see what Ms. L/n’s schedule is like,” he said, his voice gentle. “But I think we can plan something.”
You nodded. “I’d love to.”
You reached the lobby doors. The security guard nodded at Kyoo-Pyeong, who gave a brief acknowledging tilt of his head. Inside, the vast, quiet space felt like a different world again, a world of polished stone and silent elevators. Your car was parked in the visitor area just outside.
You stopped, turning to them. “Well, I should head home,” you said, feeling a strange reluctance to let the evening end.
“Yes,” Kyoo-Pyeong said. He shifted Yeon-soo’s hand in his grip. “Thank you again, Ms. L/n. For everything today.” He paused, his dark chocolate brown eyes holding yours. “For your kindness to my daughter. And for your company.”
The words were formal, but the sentiment behind them felt raw, genuine. You felt a warmth spread from your chest to your cheeks. “It was truly my pleasure, Mr. Kim.”
He smiled.
It wasn’t the full, sunshine smile for Yeon-soo. It was the smaller, tentative one he’d given you earlier, but it had grown, become more settled, more real. It was a smile for you. “Goodnight,” he said.
Yeon-soo waved enthusiastically. “Goodnight, Ms. L/n! See you Monday!”
“See you Monday, Yeon-soo.” You smiled at her, then gave a final nod to Kyoo-Pyeong.
You turned and walked toward the doors. A part of you wanted to glance back, but you resisted, keeping your steps steady. As you pushed through the heavy glass door into the cooler evening air, you finally allowed yourself a look.
hey were still there, standing in the middle of the lobby, watching you.
Kyoo-Pyeong’s tall frame was slightly bent, his hand on Yeon-soo’s shoulder. His eyes were on you, unwavering. Yeon-soo was still waving, her little arm moving like a metronome.
You smiled, waved once more, then turned toward your car. The image of them stayed with you—the tall, weary man and his bright, joyful daughter, a unit against the backdrop of that sterile, grand space. You unlocked your car, slid into the driver’s seat, and let the silence envelop you.
The drive home was a quiet procession of thoughts. The dinner conversation, his admission about being a widower, the careful way he had asked for more… it all swirled in your mind.
His world is small, he had said. Her, and my work.
And now, he was opening a door, letting in a little light from outside. The responsibility of that, the delicacy of it, felt immense. You were not just a teacher anymore; you were a person he was beginning to trust, to want to know. The gravity of that trust settled over you like a blanket, both comforting and heavy.
You arrived at your apartment, the familiar clutter a welcome contrast to the sleekness of his world. You changed into soft pajamas, brushed your teeth, and sat on your couch, staring at the quiet room. Your phone sat beside you, a black rectangle on the cushion.
It buzzed.
A text. From his number.
You picked it up, your heart doing a small, hopeful leap.
“Yeon-soo is insisting we must plan the next dinner immediately. She has proposed Tuesday. I realize that may be too soon. Please feel free to suggest a time that suits you.”
You read it twice. The formal wording, the hint of amusement behind it. Yeon-soo’s influence. You typed back, your fingers moving quickly.
“Tuesday is fine for me. I don’t have any plans after school.”
The reply came within a minute.
“Tuesday, then. Shall I pick you up from the school? Or would you prefer to meet elsewhere?”
You considered. Being picked up from school felt… official. It would be visible to other parents, to your colleagues. The boundary between your professional and personal life would blur further. But you also wanted to see him, to step into that space again.
“You can pick me up at school, if that’s convenient.”
“It is. 5:30? After dismissal.”
“5:30 is perfect.”
A pause. Then:
“Thank you, Ms. L/n. I look forward to it.”
You sent a final “Me too.” and placed the phone back on the cushion. The conversation was over, but the feeling lingered—a low, warm hum in your chest. You lay back, staring at the ceiling, and let Monday morning come.
---
Monday morning was a whirlwind of color and noise. Liam burst into the classroom with a story about a dinosaur he’d seen on television, his voice booming across the small tables. Maya followed, clinging to her sister’s hand, offering you a silent, shy smile. The routine of greeting each child, helping them settle, taking attendance—it all grounded you, pulling you back into the world you knew so well.
Yeon-soo arrived a little later, her father’s hand guiding her to the door. He was back in a suit—a deep grey this time—and the grumpy shadow was present, but less pronounced than last Friday. When he saw you, his eyes met yours, and he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. It was a nod of recognition, of shared knowledge. Tuesday, it seemed to say.
Yeon-soo ran to you, her backpack bouncing. “Ms. L/n! Appa says we are having dinner with you on Tuesday! At our house!”
You smiled, crouching to her level. “Yes, we are. I’m very excited.”
She beamed, then leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Appa stared at you a lot last night. When you were not looking.”
Your cheeks flushed.
You glanced up at Kyoo-Pyeong, who was still at the door, watching Yeon-soo.
He couldn’t have heard her whisper, but his gaze was intent. You gave Yeon-soo a gentle, non-committal smile. “Well, we were having a nice conversation,” you said, keeping your voice light.
She nodded, satisfied, and skipped off to her cubby. You stood, smoothing your skirt, and walked to the door to greet the remaining parents.
Kyoo-Pyeong lingered for a moment after handing off Yeon-soo. “Tuesday,” he said quietly.
“Tuesday,” you confirmed.
He nodded again, then turned to leave.
As he walked down the hallway, you watched his back, the straight line of his shoulders, the purposeful stride.
Mr. Sunshine, you thought, and the nickname felt softer now, more tender.
The day passed in a flow of lessons and laughter. Yeon-soo was particularly bright, drawing a picture of a dinner table with three people—a tall stick figure with dark hair, a smaller one with a yellow dress, and a medium-sized one with a smile. She presented it to you at lunch. “This is us,” she said proudly.
You praised her artwork, tucking it into your folder with her other notes.
The drawing felt significant, a child’s innocent mapping of a new constellation.
At dismissal, Kyoo-Pyeong was not there. A woman you recognized as the house sitter—a kind-faced, older woman named Mrs. Park—came to collect Yeon-soo. “Mr. Kim had a late meeting,” she explained. “He asked me to pass along his apologies.”
Yeon-soo hugged you goodbye, whispering, “See you Tuesday, Ms. L/n!”
You waved as they left, feeling a small pang of disappointment. You had looked forward to that brief exchange, that silent nod. But it was fine. Tuesday was coming.
—
That evening, you found yourself cleaning your apartment with a little more vigor than usual. You weren’t sure why; you weren’t hosting him. But the act of tidying felt like a preparation, a mental clearing of space for something new. You thought about his penthouse, those big windows Yeon-soo had mentioned. You imagined the view, the quiet, the contrast to your own cozy, crowded space. You wondered what it would be like to be there, with him, in his world.
Tuesday arrived with a clear sky and a nervous energy that buzzed under your skin. The school day felt both ordinary and charged. Every time you glanced at the clock, you thought of 5:30. When the children lined up for afternoon playtime, you caught Yeon-soo’s eye and she gave you a secret, excited grin.
At 5:25, you began the dismissal process. The children filed out, one by one, their parents collecting them. Liam’s mother chatted with you about his progress; Maya’s sister smiled and thanked you. The classroom emptied, leaving you and Yeon-soo, who was carefully packing her things, her movements deliberate with anticipation.
At 5:28, you saw him.
Kyoo-Pyeong stood at the doorway, not in a suit today. He wore dark trousers and a simple, well-fitting black sweater. The absence of the formal jacket made him seem younger, more approachable, though his posture still carried that innate authority. His eyes found you immediately, and the grumpy shadow was almost entirely absent.
He looked… present. Focused on you.
You walked Yeon-soo to him. “Hi,” you said, your voice a little breathless.
“Ms. L/n,” he replied. His gaze dipped to Yeon-soo. “Ready, sweetheart?”
Yeon-soo nodded vigorously. “Yes! Ms. L/n, we go now?”
“We go now,” you said, smiling.
He stepped aside, gesturing for you to lead the way. You walked with Yeon-soo between you, but this time, he didn’t take her hand.
He walked beside you, his presence close, his shoulder almost brushing yours as you moved through the hallway. The other teachers and parents glanced at you, at him, their expressions curious but polite. You felt a flutter of self-consciousness, but also a surge of something like pride.
Outside, the air was crisp. His car was parked in the school’s lot—a sleek, black sedan that looked expensive but understated. He opened the passenger door for you, a gesture so smooth and natural it caught you off guard.
“Thank you,” you murmured, sliding into the seat. The interior was clean, quiet, smelling faintly of leather and something citrusy. Yeon-soo climbed into the back, buckling herself into her booster seat with practiced ease.
Kyoo-Pyeong got in, started the engine, and drove with a calm precision. The silence in the car was not empty; it was filled with Yeon-soo’s happy chatter from the back seat, and with the unspoken tension between you and him in the front. You watched the city pass by, the streets transitioning from the modest neighborhoods around the school to the more affluent districts near his building.
“How was your day?” he asked after a few minutes, his voice low and even.
“Good,” you said. “We started a new project on seasons. Yeon-soo made a beautiful autumn leaf collage.”
He glanced at you, a quick sideways look. “She enjoys art. Her mother was an artist.” The statement came out quietly, a piece of information offered like a gift.
You turned to him, your heart softening. “That’s lovely. She must have inherited that talent.”
He nodded, his eyes on the road. “She did.” A pause. “My wife… she painted. Landscapes. Very… peaceful scenes.” He said it with a reverence that made the air in the car feel sacred.
You didn’t press.
You simply listened, letting the information settle. You imagined a woman with a brush, creating calm vistas, leaving a legacy of beauty for her daughter.
The car pulled into the underground garage of Skyline Drive. He parked, and you all exited, walking to the elevator. This time, you didn’t wait in the lobby; you went directly up to the penthouse.
The elevator ride was smooth and silent. Yeon-soo held your hand, swinging it gently. Kyoo-Pyeong stood beside you, his arm near yours. You could feel the heat of his body, the solidity of his presence. The doors opened directly into his home.
You stepped into a space that was both breathtaking and surprisingly warm. The “big windows” Yeon-soo had mentioned were indeed enormous, floor-to-ceiling panels that offered a panoramic view of the city skyline, now dotted with the early evening lights. The room was spacious, with minimalist furniture—a large sofa, a low wooden table, and a few abstract art pieces on the walls. But it was also lived-in: a child’s drawing tacked to the wall near the window, a stack of picture books on the sofa, a pair of small pink shoes by the entrance. It was a home, not just a showcase.
“Welcome,” Kyoo-Pyeong said, his voice softer here, in his own space.
“It’s beautiful,” you said, genuinely amazed.
Yeon-soo ran to the window. “Look, Ms. L/n! You can see everything!”
You joined her, looking out at the sprawling city. The view was majestic, but it also felt isolating, so high up and away from the noise of life below.
Kyoo-Pyeong moved to the kitchen, an open space separated by a long counter. “I have prepared dinner. It is simple—some grilled fish, rice, vegetables. I hope it is acceptable.”
“It sounds wonderful,” you said, turning from the window.
He nodded, and you saw a slight uncertainty in his movements, a man used to commanding boardrooms now navigating hosting a guest in his home.
It was endearing.
You helped Yeon-soo set the table, placing napkins and utensils while Kyoo-Pyeong brought out the dishes. The food was indeed simple but expertly prepared, fragrant and neatly arranged. You sat at the table, Yeon-soo between you and her father, and began to eat.
The conversation flowed more easily here, in the comfort of his home. Yeon-soo dominated much of it, telling stories about her friends, about a bug she saw in the park, about a dream she had. Kyoo-Pyeong listened, interjecting with gentle questions, his eyes often drifting to you as you laughed or responded.
After a while, Yeon-soo’s energy began to wane. She yawned, leaning against her father’s arm.
“Time for bed, little one,” he said, his voice tender.
“But Ms. L/n is here!” she protested, though her eyes were heavy.
“Ms. L/n will still be here when you are asleep. You can see her tomorrow at school.” He stood, lifting her gently. “Say goodnight.”
Yeon-soo hugged you tightly. “Goodnight, Ms. L/n. Thank you for coming.”
“Goodnight, sweetheart. Sleep well.”
Kyoo-Pyeong carried her to her room, which was just off the main living area. You could hear his low voice murmuring a bedtime story, the sound of a door closing softly. You remained at the table, sipping the tea he had poured, looking out at the darkening sky.
He returned a few minutes later, moving quietly. He sat opposite you again, his posture relaxed now, his shoulders less rigid.
“She is asleep,” he said. “She was very excited today.”
“She’s a delightful child,” you replied. “You’ve done an amazing job with her.”
He looked down at his teacup, rotating it slowly. “It is not a job. It is… everything.” He met your eyes. “After my wife passed, it was… difficult. For a long time, I was not sure how to be both a father and… a person. I closed off many things. Work became the structure. Yeon-soo became the heart. There was no space for anything else.”
You listened, your own heart aching for him. The loneliness in his words was palpable, but not desperate. It was a fact of his life, one he had accepted.
“And now?” you asked softly.
He looked at you, his gaze steady. “Now… I am beginning to think there might be space. A little.” He paused. “Your presence… it has reminded me that the world outside can be kind. That there are people who care not because they are paid, but because they are good.”
The compliment was so direct, so unadorned, it made your throat tighten. “I care about Yeon-soo because she is special. And I…” you hesitated, then continued, “I care about you, because I see how much you love her. How much you give.”
He stared at you, his expression unreadable for a moment, then softening into something vulnerable. “You see that?”
“I see it every day,” you said. “At the school door. The way you look at her. It’s… it’s everything.”
He leaned back slightly, his eyes never leaving yours.
The silence between you was thick, but not uncomfortable. It was a silence of understanding, of two people acknowledging a connection that had grown quietly, without fanfare.
“She told me something,” he said after a while, his voice dropping even lower. “After we left you at the car on Saturday night. She said… she saw me staring at you when you were not looking.”
Your cheeks warmed. You remembered Yeon-soo’s whisper in the classroom. “She mentioned it to me too.”
He looked embarrassed, a rare flush coloring his neck. “She is too observant for a four-year-old.”
“She is,” you agreed, smiling. “But… were you?”
The question hung in the air. He didn’t shy away from it. He met your gaze squarely. “Yes,” he said, simple and honest. “I was.”
The admission felt like a key turning in a lock. You held your breath for a second, then let it out slowly. “Why?”
He considered, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. “Because you are… different. In my world, most people are transactions. Employees, clients, acquaintances. You are not a transaction. You are a person who entered because of my daughter, but you stayed… because of you. Your kindness. Your light.” He paused, searching for words. “I find myself… wanting to look at that light. To understand it.”
Your pulse was a steady drumbeat in your ears. You looked at him, at the earnest fatigue in his face, at the honesty in his eyes. “I find myself wanting to look at you too,” you said, the words coming out before you could filter them. “To understand the man behind the grumpy shadow.”
He smiled, a small, genuine curl of his lips. “Grumpy shadow?”
You laughed softly. “That’s my secret nickname for you. Mr. Sunshine, when you smile at Yeon-soo. But Mr. Grumpy Shadow when you’re at the door, before you see her.”
He chuckled, a low, warm sound that surprised you. “Mr. Grumpy Shadow,” he repeated, amused. “It is accurate. I am often… burdened. By work, by responsibility. The shadow is real.”
“But the sunshine is real too,” you said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “The sunshine is real.” He looked at you, and his eyes held that sunshine now, directed at you, softening his features into something breathtakingly open. “You bring it out, sometimes. Even when Yeon-soo is not here.”
You felt a flush of emotion, a mixture of joy and nervousness.
The conversation had deepened, quickly, naturally. You were sitting in his home, in the quiet of the evening, with his daughter asleep nearby, and you were talking about looking at each other, about light and shadow.
It was intimate, but not physical.
was emotional intimacy, the kind that built foundations.
He shifted in his seat, leaning forward slightly. “May I ask you something… personal?”
You nodded. “Of course.”
“Why teaching? What made you choose this?”
You took a sip of tea, gathering your thoughts. “I love children,” you began. “I love their honesty, their curiosity. They haven’t learned to hide their feelings yet. Every day is a new discovery for them, and being part of that… it feels like being part of something pure. I wanted a job that felt meaningful, not just profitable.” You smiled. “And it is. Even on the chaotic days, when Liam is shouting and Maya is hiding, it feels meaningful.”
He listened intently, his gaze focused on you like you were the only subject in the room. “Meaningful,” he echoed. “My work is profitable. It is not always meaningful.”
“But it provides for Yeon-soo,” you offered. “That is meaningful.”
“It is,” he said. “But it has a different kind of meaning. One built on numbers and strategy, not on… heart.”
The word heart lingered between you.
You felt a pull toward him, a desire to reach across the table and touch his hand, but you stayed still, letting the moment breathe.
“You have heart,” you said. “I see it. In how you are with her.”
He looked down, a modest gesture. “Thank you.”
The conversation drifted to other topics—your childhood, his university years, your favorite books, his taste in art. You discovered he had a deep appreciation for classical music, and you shared your love for folk songs.
He revealed he had traveled extensively for work but rarely for pleasure. You talked about your families—your parents still living in the countryside, his parents abroad.
The exchange was easy, flowing, a mutual exploration that felt both safe and exhilarating.
Time slipped away. The city lights outside grew brighter, the sky fully dark. You realized you had been talking for over an hour, the tea pot empty, the dishes cleared.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. “It is late,” he said, not with regret, but with a note of surprise. “I have kept you too long.” His eyes finding yours for a minute, “Yeon-soo will be taken care of with Mrs. Park.” He added.
“Not at all,” you said. “I enjoyed every minute.”
He stood, and you stood with him. “I will drive you home,” he said.
“You don’t have to. I can take a taxi.”
“I will drive you,” he repeated, his tone firm but gentle. “It is my responsibility as your host.”
You nodded, accepting.
He walked you to the door, helping you with your coat. As you stepped into the hallway outside his apartment, he paused, looking at you. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “For… talking.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” you replied. “For sharing your home.”
He led you to the elevator, and you descended together, the quiet of the car now more comfortable, more familiar. In his sedan, he drove you back to your apartment, the city night peaceful around you. The radio played a soft classical piece, something with strings and a gentle melody.
When he pulled up to your building, he turned to you. “Tuesday was good,” he said.
“It was,” you agreed.
“May we… do it again? Perhaps next week?”
You smiled. “Yes. Next week.”
He nodded, his eyes holding yours in the dim light of the car. “I will text you.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
You stepped out of the car, and he didn’t drive away immediately. He waited, watching you walk to your door, a silent guardian ensuring you reached safely. You turned at your entrance, waved once, and saw him wave back, a small motion from behind the windshield.
Inside your apartment, you leaned against the door, your heart full.
The evening had been nothing more than conversation, shared food, and mutual understanding. Yet it felt like a threshold crossed, a door opened wider. You thought of his smile, his honesty, his quiet admission of staring at you. You thought of Yeon-soo’s teasing, her innocent mapping of your place in their world.
You knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that this was not just a friendly dinner. This was the beginning of something, a slow, tender burn that was warming you from the inside out.
