When the Light Touches You

Morning arrived slowly—

as if afraid to disturb the two people who had spent the night side by side in that quiet room.

Soft sunlight slipped through the thin curtains, gliding across the floor before climbing up the edge of the bed where Ailine lay.

And right there, resting against the mattress, Owen was still asleep…
while holding her hand.

Neither of them had moved since last night.

Ailine opened her eyes, sluggish and heavy, as if rising from the bottom of the sea. Warm. Drowsy. Lightly aching. Her head still throbbed, but nothing like the sharp pain she remembered.

The first thing she felt was warmth.

Warm fingers wrapped around her own.

She glanced down.

Owen.

He was asleep in a half-sitting position, his upper body propped against the bedside. His head tilted to the side, his hair messy, brows pulled together even in sleep. His fingers held hers tight—really tight—as if letting go would mean losing something important.

Ailine looked at him.

For a long, long moment.

Long enough to hear her own breathing.
Long enough to realize just how much she had missed this sight.

“Owen…” she whispered, not really intending to wake him.

Her eyes softened. For a second, she thought Owen being there had only been a dream—but no. It was real.

Her free hand reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

Funny… he looked younger when he slept. Softer.
Not the stiff, icy Owen she always saw.

He always hid this gentle side. Always.

Ailine’s lips curved faintly.

“Damn…” she breathed. “Why do you always look like this when I’m not allowed to fall for you anymore…”

Her chest tightened—but in a warm way.

“God really made you while smiling, didn’t He?”

She tried to slide her hand away to sit up. She only moved half a centimeter—

Owen’s grip tightened.

Reflexively.
Unconsciously.
Without opening his eyes.

His voice seeped out, low and rough from sleep.

“Don’t go…”

Ailine froze.

“…Owen?”

That seemed to pull him awake. Slowly, his eyes opened, pupils narrowing against the morning light. It took him a second to focus—
and when he finally saw Ailine—

The tension in his shoulders instantly faded.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, his tone low… almost relieved.

Ailine nodded softly.
“Morning…”

Owen didn’t respond verbally.
Instead, he shifted closer, checking her forehead with the back of his hand.

“Your temperature’s down… Pupil reaction normal…” he muttered, slipping effortlessly into doctor mode.

Ailine simply watched him.
Too long.
Too openly.

Owen noticed.

“…What is it?”

Ailine smiled—soft, almost too gentle.

“You… stayed here all night?”

Owen stiffened and looked away immediately.
“Obviously.”

“And… you were the one holding my hand first?”

“That—was simply a preventive measure to—”

“Prevent me from running away?” Ailine lifted a brow.

“…Prevent you from rolling off the bed,” he corrected sharply.

“Mm-hm.”

Ailine hummed, playing with his fingers—fingers that still refused to let her go.

She thought it would be awkward the moment he woke up.
Turns out she worried for nothing.

“?”

“Because last night…” Ailine continued quietly, “the only one panicking was you.”

Owen’s brows shot up. “Who panicked? Don’t spread false accusations this early in the morning.”

Ailine chuckled weakly.

“Oh, this isn’t panic?” She pointed under his eyes.
“The eye bags are pretty cute, actually.”

Cute?

Owen narrowed his eyes dangerously.
“If you still have the energy to insult me, you’re clearly getting better.”

“I am. Thanks to you.” Ailine smiled softly—genuinely. “Thank you, Owen.”

His gaze softened for a fraction of a second.

Then he stood.

“You need breakfast.”

“Eh?”

“I’ll make porridge.”

Ailine blinked. “You can cook?”

Owen paused at the doorway.
Turned his head.

“…I can cook.”

“I thought surgeons were too busy to step into a kitchen.”

“It’s called efficiency. Not inability.”

Ailine laughed. “Oh right… I still remember you cooking surprisingly well during that school event—just by following an online recipe.”

“Anyone can cook if they follow the steps properly.”

“I followed the steps and still failed.”

“That’s because you’re lazy,” Owen replied flatly.

Ailine gasped. “Excuse me? I am talking to Mr. Genius Class A who always gets perfect scores!”

Owen ignored her completely. “There should be ingredients in the fridge, right?”

“Emma fills it regularly,” Ailine nodded. “There should be enough.”

“Good. Stay here and rest.” His tone sharpened. “Don’t move.”

“Hey! Don’t be mean! I’m still a patient, doctor!”

Oddly enough, Owen trying to look stern in the morning… was cute.

“I told you to stay put. That’s not being mean.”

Ailine grinned.
He was in a good mood—she could tell.

Minutes later…

The apartment filled with the smell of warm broth. Soft clattering from the kitchen drifted into the bedroom. The rhythmic sound of a ladle, the quiet steps of Owen moving around—it all wrapped Ailine in an unfamiliar warmth.

She couldn’t remember the last time anyone—especially Owen—cooked for her.

Maybe… never.

Not like this.

Soon, Owen returned carrying a tray. A steaming bowl of porridge. A cup of water. A small dish of medicine.

Ailine immediately brightened.

“It smells amazing… what did you make?”

“Chicken porridge. No oil. Low salt. Gentle on the stomach.”

Ah yes. A doctor’s cooking. Nutritious first, taste second.

Ailine tried to sit up, but Owen pressed a hand to her shoulder.

“Don’t move.”

“I just wanted to—”

“I’ll take care of it.”

He slipped an extra pillow behind her back with the gentleness of handling fragile glass.

“Lean back. Slowly.”

Ailine obeyed.

Owen sat beside the bed, scooped some porridge, blew on it carefully, and lifted the spoon.

“Open.”

She did.

“Mmm… it’s good,” she whispered after swallowing.

“Of course it’s good.” Owen lifted his chin. “I’m not incompetent.”

Ailine laughed softly.
He really found a way to be arrogant about cooking.

“You… cook like an actual chef.”

“I’m offended you sound surprised.”

He fed her again.
And again.

Ailine ate quietly, warmed from the inside out—until she suddenly froze.

Crap.
She forgot something.

“What’s wrong?” Owen asked immediately.

“This… has a lot of calories, right…?”

Owen stopped mid-gesture.

Then stared at her.

“…You’re sick,” he said slowly. “And you’re thinking about calories?”

Ailine nodded weakly. “I’m a public figure… if I gain even one kilo on camera—”

“Ailine.”
Owen’s tone dropped an octave.
He leaned in, locking eyes with her.

“Listen carefully.”

“…”

“If you say ‘I’m scared of gaining weight’ one more time while you’re this sick… I will feed you two bowls.”

Ailine gasped. “You’re cruel.”

“No.” Owen brought the spoon to her lips again. “I’m a doctor.”

“Doctor mean…”

“Good,” he replied calmly. “Then you’ll eat.”

Ailine pouted—but opened her mouth anyway.
Inside, her heart was doing cartwheels. Weight could be fixed later.
Being doted on by Owen?
This chance didn’t come twice.

Owen had no idea she was secretly enjoying this more than any recovery meal.

And if Ailine had looked a little longer, she would’ve seen it—

Owen was smiling.
Very faintly.
But real.

Not because of the porridge.

Because she was eating from his hand.

When half the bowl was gone, Ailine grew drowsy again. Her eyelids heavier. The medicine kicking in.

Owen gently wiped the corner of her lips with a tissue.

“If you’re tired, sleep,” he murmured.

Ailine nodded… but didn’t let go of his hand.

Owen stiffened.

“Don’t go yet…” she whispered. “At least… stay until I fall asleep.”

Owen looked down at her small hand gripping his fingers.

He swallowed.

“…All right.”

He sat back down beside her.

Ailine closed her eyes, drifting.

Just before sleep claimed her, she whispered,

“Owen… thank you for staying.”

Owen went still.

He didn’t answer.

But his hand tightened around hers.

And Ailine fell asleep with a tiny smile—

because for the first time in a very long time…

The morning felt safe.