I have always loved people who are kind to me. Their warmth feels like sunlight on a cold day, and perhaps that is why this memory has stayed with me so vividly.

It was just another random, boring afternoon. I was sprawled lazily on the bed, waiting for my turn to use the only smartphone in our house. My brother, Yeong‑woo, had taken it out with him, and I was growing restless. I called him, half‑annoyed, half‑pleading, asking when he would be back.

“It’s my turn,” I reminded him. “How can you use it for so long?”

The words were still on my lips when the doorbell rang. I jumped up, my irritation forgotten, and ran to the door. Without thinking, I flung it open and blurted out, “Give me the phone! It’s my turn now!”

But the person standing there was not Yeong‑woo.

I froze. My brother was behind him, smiling sheepishly, but the one at the door was someone else — tall, broad‑shouldered, and strikingly handsome. His hair was curly, falling carelessly over his forehead, and his skin carried a warm, dusky glow. His smile was gentle, his presence commanding yet comforting.

It was Eunho — my brother’s best friend.

Though he had visited our hometown when I was a child, I barely remembered him. This was his first time visiting our house, and I had just babbled nonsense at him. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

Eunho chuckled softly, his voice warm and teasing. “You can use my phone,” he said. “I’ll lend it to you without charging any fees.”

The way he spoke — kind, playful, yet mature — made me feel as though I had stumbled upon a beautiful sunset. I grew shy and darted back into my room, my heart racing.

A little later, my mother called me to serve snacks. I carried the tray into the living room, but my nerves betrayed me. I placed the plates hurriedly on the table and fled, unable to meet his eyes. From the safety of my room, I peeked through the half‑open door, secretly gazing at him.

He looked so at ease, chatting with my mother and Yeong‑woo, his laughter filling the house with warmth. I lay on my bed, hugging my pillow, trying to calm the strange flutter in my chest.

Then, unexpectedly, Eunho appeared at my door.

He leaned casually against the frame, his smile soft. “How are your studies going, Seyeon?” he asked.

I blinked, startled. At first, my words stumbled out shyly, but soon his easy manner made me comfortable. We talked — about school, about books, about little things. Time slipped away unnoticed. An hour passed, yet it felt like only minutes. I realized how much I loved talking to him, how natural it felt.

But the moment was broken when Yeong‑woo barged in, his mischievous grin already spelling trouble.

“She’s just a tomboy,” he announced to Eunho, “only good at studies and sports. She never helps Mom with chores.”

His words cut deep. My own brother, speaking ill of me in front of a guest. My anger flared. “How can you say that?” I snapped, my voice trembling.

Yeong‑woo only laughed, making silly nicknames for me, mocking me until tears welled in my eyes. I broke down, crying in frustration.

Eunho’s expression changed instantly. He placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder, his voice firm yet gentle. “Enough, Yeong‑woo,” he said. “Don’t speak like that.”

For the first time, someone stood up for me against my brother. My heart swelled with gratitude.

I wiped my tears, embarrassed, and tried to change the subject. “Do you play any mobile battle games?” I asked, shyly avoiding his gaze.

He smiled, amused. “Yes. Want my ID?”

I nodded eagerly. When he shared it, I was stunned — his rank was impressively high. “Wow,” I whispered. “You’re amazing.”

He laughed. “I’m shocked a little kiddo like you plays battle games.”

“Why?” I challenged. “Are games made only for boys?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “My younger siblings love Barbie games. You really are different, just like your brother told me.”

I straightened proudly. “Yes. I’m unique.”

The evening slipped into night. At 11 p.m., Eunho rose to leave. My heart sank as he walked toward the door.

“When will you come again?” I asked softly, almost pleading.

He smiled, his eyes warm, but gave no answer. “Bye,” he said, and stepped out into the night.

I stood there, watching him go, my heart caught between shyness and longing. That ordinary day had turned into something extraordinary — the day I met Eunho, the boy who felt like a sunset.

Days passed, yet Eunho lingered in my thoughts. His smile, his voice, the way he had defended me against Yeong‑woo — it all replayed in my mind like a secret melody I couldn’t silence.

One afternoon, while scrolling through my phone, I suddenly remembered that I had his game ID. My heart skipped. Without hesitation, I sent him a request to play. But he was offline.

Disappointment washed over me. I stared at the screen, waiting, hoping, but nothing happened. Finally, I stopped sending requests. A strange thought crept into my mind: Am I clinging to someone just because he was kind to me? The realization made me restless.

The next day, when I opened my phone, a notification blinked on the screen — a playing request. From him.

My excitement was impossible to hide. I accepted instantly, my pulse quickening. At first, we played as a duo. Eunho seemed genuinely amused by my skills, and when he praised me, I teased him back.

“You’re much older than me,” I said, grinning. “But still, I’m better at this game.”

He replied with smile emojis, his warmth shining even through the screen. Then he texted: My friends want to join. Let’s play as a squad.

At first, I hesitated. I wasn’t used to socializing with strangers. I always preferred to observe people before opening up. But it was Eunho asking, so I agreed.

Soon, his friends joined. Laughter filled the chat as we started playing. They were surprised — Eunho was playing with a girl.

“Who is she?” they teased.

Eunho answered calmly, “She’s my little sister.”

The words struck me like a sudden gust of wind. Something twisted in my chest. I didn’t understand it, but I didn’t like the feeling.

One of his friends, Joo‑ik, introduced himself warmly. I greeted them all politely. They were kind, funny, and welcoming. I found myself enjoying the game more than I expected.

Eventually, everyone logged off for dinner. Eunho messaged me: Stop playing now. Go have dinner and sleep early.

I frowned. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“I’ll eat later,” he replied.

I asked, “Why didn’t you accept my request yesterday?”

He answered honestly: “I was busy with work. I’m really sorry, kiddo. If you don’t find me online, you can call me instead.”

My eyes widened. He gave me his WeChat ID. I quickly added him and sent a shy good‑night message.

From then on, weekends became our little ritual. We played together, sometimes with his friends joining in. Slowly, our conversations grew longer, warmer.

One evening, I asked him his birthday. “February 11,” he said with a smile. “Still a long way to go.”

Then he asked mine. I grinned mischievously. “You’ll have to find out yourself.”

Months slipped by like that — games, laughter, and quiet moments that stitched themselves into my heart.

One day, while I was studying in my bedroom, the doorbell rang. My parents were away on a business trip, so I knew it had to be Yeong‑woo. He had promised to look after me while they were gone.

I opened the door, and sure enough, Yeong‑woo jumped in with his usual energy. “What do you want to eat? I’ll cook for you,” he said.

“I don’t want to eat now,” I replied.

He started babbling. “When I was your age, I cooked for myself. Look at you — you need a babysitter.”

I glared at him, my patience thinning. He finally shut his mouth.

Then his phone rang. It was Eunho.

Yeong‑woo explained the situation, and Eunho’s voice came through the speaker: “Bring that kiddo too.”

My heart skipped. After seven long months, I was finally going to meet him again. Though we had played countless games online, the thought of seeing him in person filled me with a rush of excitement I couldn’t contain.

I closed my notebook, my hands trembling slightly. The thought of standing before him again — not as a player behind a screen, but as Seyeon, the girl he had once called “little sister” — made my heart race.

That evening, I realized something: games had brought us together, but it was the warmth behind his words that kept me waiting, hoping, and remembering.

The evening air was heavy with summer warmth, and my heart was racing faster than the ticking clock on the wall. Yeong‑woo had just ended his call with Eunho, and his words still echoed in my ears: “Bring that kiddo too.”

Kiddo. That was what Eunho always called me. A teasing nickname, yet somehow it carried a strange tenderness.

I quickly brushed my hair, tied my braid neatly, and tried to calm the storm inside me. Seven months had passed since I last saw him in person. We had played countless games together, laughed through late‑night chats, and shared little secrets. But seeing him face‑to‑face again felt different — heavier, more real.

Yeong‑woo nudged me playfully. “Don’t look so nervous. He’s just Eunho.”

Just Eunho? My brother didn’t understand. To me, Eunho wasn’t just anyone. He was the boy who had defended me, the boy whose smile felt like a sunset, the boy who made me feel unique.

We walked down the street, the glow of streetlights painting golden patches on the pavement. My steps grew slower as we approached the café where Eunho was waiting.

And then I saw him.

He was seated by the window, dressed simply in a white shirt and black trousers, yet he looked effortlessly handsome. His curly hair caught the light, his posture relaxed, his smile warm as he spotted us.

“Yeong‑woo!” he greeted, standing up. His voice carried across the room, steady and kind.

Then his eyes found me.

For a moment, the world seemed to pause. His gaze softened, and the corners of his lips curved into that familiar smile.

“Seyeon,” he said, my name rolling off his tongue like a gentle melody.

I froze, my heart pounding. I wanted to say something witty, something casual, but all I managed was a shy nod.

Yeong‑woo laughed. “She’s been waiting all week to see you.”

“Yeong‑woo!” I hissed, embarrassed.

Eunho chuckled, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m glad you came,” he said simply.

We sat together, the three of us. Eunho asked about my studies, my hobbies, even teased me about my gaming skills again. His presence was so natural, yet every word he spoke felt like it carried a hidden weight.

At one point, Yeong‑woo excused himself to take a call outside. Suddenly, it was just the two of us.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Eunho leaned forward slightly. “You’ve grown,” he said softly. “Not just in games, but… you seem different.”

I looked down, fiddling with my fingers. “Different how?”

He smiled. “More confident. More… you.”

My cheeks warmed. I wanted to hide, but at the same time, I wanted to stay in that moment forever.

I tried to change the subject. “You still play late at night?”

He laughed. “Sometimes. But not as much as before. Work keeps me busy.”

“You’re twenty now,” I said, almost whispering. “That’s… older.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “And you’re thirteen. Still the same kiddo who challenged me in games.”

I pouted. “I’m not a kiddo. I’m in eighth class now. That makes me… mature.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and teasing. “Mature, huh? Then prove it.”

I crossed my arms, pretending to be serious. “I already did. I beat you in that battle game.”

He laughed again, shaking his head. “You’ll never let me forget that, will you?”

The conversation flowed easily, like water finding its path. I realized how much I had missed this — his voice, his presence, the way he made me feel seen.

When Yeong‑woo returned, the spell broke. We laughed, ate, and talked until the night grew late. But as we walked home, Eunho’s words echoed in my mind. More confident. More you.

That night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling. My heart was restless, my thoughts tangled. I didn’t know what this feeling was, but I knew one thing — the reunion had changed something inside me.

It wasn’t just about games anymore. It wasn’t just about being his “little sister.”

It was something deeper, something I couldn’t yet name.

But I knew this was only the beginning.