parkhanimnida

Synopsis:

Two hearts, a cat, one domestic life... and a single email that might break them. Can they hold on to what they have?

(Written for Hanki shippers, by a Hanki shipper. No refunds if you cry. DEFINITELY NOT A SMUT *wink**wink*)

(Please listen to this song while reading. I highly recommend 🥹)

Chapter 3

Woongki’s POV

The Seoul streets were quieter than usual, the hum of cars distant beneath the glow of neon lights. My hands dug into my coat pockets as I walked, the email from Spain looping in my mind like a broken record.

Two weeks. I’d known for two weeks. And Han didn’t know.

The wind tugged at my hair, and I shivered—not from the cold, but from the weight of what I hadn’t said. A year away. A new life waiting. And Han… my Han, who didn’t deserve to feel blindsided.

I passed a small cafe and paused, staring at the warm light spilling onto the sidewalk. I could go in. I could call him. I could… do something. But my chest felt like stone. I just wanted to keep walking until my legs forgot the way home.

Back at the apartment, the door clicked shut behind me. Cookie meowed, rubbing against my legs as if sensing the tension in my shoulders. I slumped on the couch, laptop open but unread, my fingers tracing the edge of the keyboard without focus.

Shuaibo and JL’s words echoed in my mind. You got this. We got you.

I knew they were right. I had to tell Han. I had to. But the thought of seeing his expression, the possibility of disappointment, made my stomach twist.

Cookie jumped onto my lap, and I buried my face in her fur, letting her warmth steady me.

“You’re the luckiest and the unluckiest guy all at once, huh?” I whispered. “I just hope you still… love me after this.”

When Han came home, the air shifted. The door swung open with that familiar creak, and there he was—hair a little mussed from rehearsal, guitar case slung over one shoulder, and a paper bag dangling from his other hand.

“You didn’t check your messages?” he asked as he kicked off his shoes. “I texted you a while ago. Guess you were busy.” His tone was light, but his eyes searched my face like he was trying to read the whole day in one glance. He lifted the bag with a grin. “I bought us our favorite snack—Fried Egg Gummies.”

I straightened from the couch, my phone slipping onto the coffee table. “I was out with friends. Sorry, I didn’t notice.” Then I spotted the bag in his hand, the yellow-and-white gummies peeking out. “Oh wow, I want one right now. But—before that—I made us dinner.”

His brows rose in pleasant surprise. “You cooked?”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to match his warmth, though my chest felt tight.

He followed me to the kitchen, where steam curled from a pot of kimchi jjigae, the rich scent of pork and chili pepper filling the air. A plate of sizzling meat rested beside it.

Han’s smile softened. “Let’s eat. This looks amazing.”

We sat at our small wooden table, bowls steaming, Cookie weaving between our legs before settling against my ankle. Han dug into his rice like he’d been starving all day. I stared at mine, appetite gone.

That email had been burning in my mind for two weeks. Two weeks of keeping my phone face-down, two weeks of avoiding certain topics, two weeks of swallowing the guilt every time Han smiled at me. I’d drafted replies I never sent. Each time I looked at him, the weight grew heavier.

Finally, I set my spoon down. “Han… I need to tell you something.”

He looked up, mid-chew, slowing as if bracing himself. “Okay…”

“I got an email a while back,” I started, my voice too quiet. “It’s… a job offer. In Madrid. For a year.”

Han froze mid-bite. The chopsticks in his hand hovered. “When?” His voice was quiet but sharp, and the calmness didn’t reach his eyes.

“Next month.” The words came out small. “I’d have to leave by the 10th.”

His brow furrowed. “You’ve… known about this?”

I swallowed hard. “Two weeks.”

The chopsticks slipped from his hand, clattering loud against his bowl.

“Two weeks, Woongki? You sat here, ate breakfast with me every day, kissed me goodnight, and just—kept this to yourself?”

“I didn’t want to upset you. I wanted to think it through first.”

“Think it through?” His jaw tightened. “You’re making decisions about our lives and didn’t even trust me to be part of it?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you!” The words came out fast, sharp. “Do you think this is easy for me? You think I want to leave you?”

“You think I’m just going to be fine with you being a continent away for a year?” His voice cracked now, rawer. “Do you even care how much this hurts me?”

“I do care!” My throat burned. “I love you! I just… I need this.”

“You need this?” His hands pressed flat against the table, knuckles white. “And what about us? What about our whole life here? What happens to all of that?”

“I can’t stop dreaming because it hurts you, Han!” My voice was shaking.

“Well maybe I can’t stop feeling hurt because you keep secrets!” His chair scraped across the floor as he pushed back.

“Han—don’t—” I reached for him, but he was already at the door, his shoulders rigid.

The slamming of the door was ringing in my chest like a gunshot.

I sank to the floor. The jjigae on the table was still steaming, untouched. Cookie padded over, climbing into my lap and curling up as if she could keep me from falling apart.

Han’s POV

The streets outside were silent, but inside my head it was deafening — thoughts crashing into each other, tearing me apart. My feet moved on their own, hands jammed into my pockets, like if I walked fast enough, I could outrun the ache.

Steven was the first to see me when I slipped into the studio. He froze mid-step, his eyebrows shot up. “Bro… Jesus. You look like shit. What the fuck happened?”

Jeongwoo was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like he’d been waiting for me to crack. “Yeah, man. Talk.”

I scrubbed my hands through my hair, words sticking in my throat before they finally tumbled out. “We fought. Woongki… he’s leaving. Madrid. Next month.” My voice dipped lower, bitter. “I didn’t even know until tonight.”

Steven swore under his breath, shaking his head. “No way. Just like that?”

“Out of nowhere?” Jeongwoo’s brows pulled together, sharp with disbelief.

“Two weeks, hyung.” I muttered. “Two fucking weeks he kept it from me. Some year-long contract, this job he wants so bad. And I—I get it, I do. I want him happy. But fuck—” I clenched my fists. “The thought of him gone… it’s killing me.”

Steven’s hand landed heavy on my shoulder, not gentle but grounding. “Then admit it, man. You’re allowed to be pissed. You’re hurt. Own it.”

“Yeah,” Jeongwoo added, his tone blunt, unwavering. “Quit acting like you gotta be unshakable all the damn time. You’re not his superhero. You’re his boyfriend. That means you bleed too.”

I let out a humorless laugh, hollow in my chest. “So what, I tell him I’m falling apart and make him feel guilty for chasing a dream? Great way to love someone.”

“No.” Steven leaned in, eyes sharp. “You don’t dump your shit on him, you tell him the truth. Straight up. ‘I’m hurting, but I love you enough to let you go if you need to.’ You just gotta be honest, man.”

Jeongwoo pushed off the wall, arms unfolding. “And if you don’t? You’ll regret it. He’ll leave thinking you don’t care enough to even break. And you’ll be here convincing yourself you’re the strong one when really—you’re just alone.”

The words cut deep, heavier than I wanted to admit.

Steven clapped me lightly on the back, breaking the silence. “Come on. Let’s get a drink before you sink right here on the floor. You need to let some of this shit out.”

I hesitated, glanced at the maknaes working quietly in the practice room, too young to carry this kind of weight. And then I nodded.

“Yeah. Fine. Let’s go.”

By the third round, the burn of the soju had dulled into a heavy hum under my skin. I wasn’t drunk—just loose enough that my tongue stopped filtering every thought before it slipped out.

“Alright,” Jeongwoo said, leaning back in his seat, one hand lazily nursing his glass. “Man to man. No bullshit. What’s going on in your head?”

I exhaled shakily, sinking deeper into the chair. “He didn’t tell me. Not until tonight. Weeks, he kept it from me. Like—what am I to him, then? Background noise? Someone he can just… spring this on like it won’t break me?” My grip tightened on the glass. “He wants this, and yeah—I want him happy. But I can’t fucking picture him gone. Waking up without him. No stupid arguments. No… nothing.”

Steven leaned back in his chair, staring at me like he was trying to read through all the cracks. “So what’s the real fear, man? That he goes to Spain and forgets about you? Or that you’re not enough to make him stay?”

I froze for a second, glass halfway to my mouth. The words hit harder than the liquor.

Jeongwoo scoffed quietly, swirling the ice in his drink. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re scared as fuck he’ll figure out he can live without you. That’s the ego talking. Pride, insecurity—whatever. That’s your shit, not his.”

“Fuck you,” I muttered, half-hearted. My chest was too tight to throw the words with venom.

He smirked, leaning forward. “Nah, fuck you. You need to hear it. You’ve been walking around acting like he owes you his whole life, and then you crumble the second he actually chooses something for himself.”

Steven gave him a look, softer. “Ease up, Jeongwoo. He’s not wrong, but… Han, listen.” He muttered, “That’s fucked,” before knocking back another sip. Then he leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. “But look—you’re not wrong too for hurting. You’re not weak for saying it out loud. Stop acting like it makes you less of a man. It doesn’t.”

I stared at the ice clinking in my glass, my voice breaking softer. “I don’t want to hold him back. I don’t. But the idea of him waking up in another country and forgetting how we fit—” My chest tightened painfully. “Fuck, I don’t know how to survive that.”

“Then tell him that. Let him see what he means to you.” Steven pointed a finger at me, eyes steady. “Sometimes the bravest shit you can do is stand still and let them chase their dream—trusting they’ll come back.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “And what if he doesn’t?”

Jeongwoo lifted his glass, eyes sharp but not unkind. “Then you take it like a man. You hurt. You scream. You bleed. And then you live. That’s the risk with love, Han. You don’t get the good without gambling everything on the bad.”

The words settled heavy in my chest, and I tipped back the rest of my drink, letting it burn.

Authors’s Note:

Okay sooo… chapter 3 it is 🤭. I honestly thought Han would just sulk in the studio and call it a night but nope. Han is depressed. Woongki is also depressed. Everyone’s crying, nobody’s winning. It’s basically just bad communication with a side of alcohol. Jeongwoo lowkey ate tho?? like why was he so hot telling han to talk about his feelings 😳

Next chapter will be linked here:

Synopsis:

Two hearts, a cat, one domestic life... and a single email that might break them. Can they hold on to what they have?

(Written for Hanki shippers, by a Hanki shipper. No refunds if you cry. DEFINITELY NOT A SMUT *wink* *wink*)

Chapter 2

Woongki’s POV

The constant snap of cameras and the glow of the lights should have grounded me, but I couldn’t bring myself to concentrate on the sketches on my laptop.

In his usual perfectionist flair, Shuaibo hovered near the model, offering exacting directions. “Yes, darling, just like that—werk it, werk it!” He made it impossible not to watch him. At this rate, he’d be the star of any shoot without even trying.

JL sat across from me at the long design table, scribbling notes on a pad, earbuds in, tapping a pencil against the page. He hummed along with some R&B beat, completely in the zone.

And me? I was staring at my laptop, trying to sketch editorial layouts, but my brain kept drifting. Every time I thought of it, I felt that tightness in my chest again. Spain. The job offer. Han.

Shuaibo’s exaggerated sigh cut through my thoughts. “Woongki, hun — focus. You’re spacing out again, and I need those layout revisions by lunch, or we’re screwed, babe.”

I forced a smile. “Yes, yes, I got it.”

JL glanced up, raising a brow. “You sure? You look like someone just told you your favorite lipstick shade is discontinued.”

“Something like that,” I muttered.

The shoot wrapped—lights fading one by one, cameras clicking their last frames, models packing up, and the crew weaving through the clutter of garment bags and cables.

“Do you guys want sushi?” JL’s voice cut through the low hum of chatter. He was already halfway into his jacket.

Shuaibo dropped into the chair beside me, the thump of the seat loud enough to make me glance up. “Okay, spill. You’ve been tapping like a caffeinated squirrel all morning. What’s up, hunny?”

I hesitated, rolling my pen between my fingers until the click of its tip felt deafening. “It’s… personal.”

JL leaned across the table, eyes narrowing playfully, “Oh no, Woongki-hyung, not the mysterious mood again. Come on, tea me.” he slung his tote higher on his shoulder, “Actually, no—save it. Let’s yap it out over sushi.”

Five minutes later, we were stepping out into the late afternoon air, the nearest sushi bar waiting just a block away—along with whatever conversation I’d been trying to avoid.

Plates of salmon, tuna, and tamago glided past in neat little parades in the conveyor-belt. JL snapped a pair of chopsticks and handed me one.

I sighed, opening my email on my laptop. “I got this offer… a job in Spain. Full-time. They want me for a year.”

Shuaibo whistled. “Ooooh, hunny. That’s huge. Congratulations!”

“Yeah, but…” My voice faltered. “Han doesn’t know yet. I haven’t told him.”

JL’s jaw practically hit the table. “Wait… you’re telling us before him? Hunny, that’s… risky. Like, he’s your boyfriend, right? Your boyfriend needs to know!”

“I know!” I hissed, leaning back in my chair. “I just… I don’t know how he’ll take it. I don’t want to hurt him, or make him feel like I’m leaving him behind.”

Shuaibo reached over, poking my shoulder. “Babe, listen to me — you’re not doing anything wrong by thinking ahead. Han loves you. He’ll figure it out. But also, hunny, don’t keep yourself bottled up like some sad little sprite. You gotta breathe.”

JL nodded, sliding a plate toward me. “Shuaibo-hyung’s right, hun. Let us help you sort it out. You’re not alone, and we’ll help you figure out how to tell him.”

I laughed softly, despite the lump in my throat. “You two make it sound so easy. It’s… not.”

Shuaibo leaned back dramatically. “Nothing worthwhile ever is, darling. But you’re strong, and Han loves you. And if he’s feeling salty about it, that’s his drama — not yours.”

JL tilted his head. “We can even… help you rehearse the convo. I can be Han, Shuaibo-hyung can be… well, the dramatic voice in your head, whatever helps.”

I smirked despite myself. “Okay, okay. You two are ridiculous. But… thanks. Really. I needed this.”

Shuaibo leaned in, lowering his voice like he was letting me in on a secret. “Hunny, one day you’re gonna look back at this, and you’ll see that you did exactly what you were supposed to do — and Han’s gonna be lucky as hell.”

JL chimed in, playful but sincere, “Yeah, don’t forget, he’s the lucky one. But so are you, and we’re your cheer squad. We got you.”

Cookie’s imagined meow from my laptop wallpaper might as well have been them adding a tiny chorus of agreement.

I exhaled, feeling a little lighter. Maybe telling them first wasn’t the betrayal I feared. Maybe having friends like this — honest, was exactly the buffer I needed before facing Han.

We ended the meeting with laughter, mock arguments over font choices and editorial layouts, and Shuaibo dramatically insisting I try a new pink palette. But beneath the joking, I felt their support like a soft blanket.

When we finally left, I still had a decision to make. But I also had friends in my corner — and now I had to figure out how to have Han in mine.

Han’s POV

The band studio felt alive in that messy, comfortable way it always did before a gig.

Jeongwoo-hyung sat cross-legged on the couch, strumming his guitar like he was wooing an invisible audience.

Chih-en was hunched over his bass, plucking at strings with surgical precision.

Juwon and Daisuke had parked themselves by the floor eating pizza, laughing over some inside joke involving a cat video and a very unfortunate sandwich.

Steven-hyung, our manager, paced with his clipboard like a stressed schoolteacher, muttering about set lists and sound checks as if his words could physically herd us into focus.

I should’ve been focusing too, but my brain kept replaying what happened this morning.

Woongki had been… different. Not in a way anyone else would notice, but I’d caught it—the flicker of doubt in his eyes, the heavier way he carried himself. It was like he was standing right in front of me and a million miles away at the same time.

I tightened my grip on the guitar, strumming harder than necessary just to shake it off.

“Hani-hyung, you’re zoning out again,” Juwon called from across the room, deliberately hitting a chord so loud it buzzed.

“Yeah,” Daisuke chimed in, grinning like he’d caught me in a crime. “You thinking about Woongki-hyung again? Because you’ve got that faraway boyfriend stare going on.”

Jeongwoo-hyung laughed without missing a beat. “Ah, the look of a man in love and in trouble.”

I rolled my eyes, leaning back against the wall. “Maybe I am,” I said, low enough that it almost got lost under Jeongwoo-hyung’s riff.

Steven-hyung stopped pacing long enough to sigh. “Focus, please. You’re on stage in less than a month, and the audience won’t care if you’re brooding over breakfast or heartbreak or whatever this is.”

“It’s not heartbreak,” I muttered.

“Yet,” Juwon said under his breath, earning himself a swat from Chih-en.

I tried to laugh it off, but the unease stayed. Even after rehearsal wound down and the room thinned into pockets of chatter, I still wasn’t really there.

I propped my guitar against the wall, sat the down on the couch while staring at my phone before finally typing:

Do you need anything? I’m gonna drop by 7-Eleven. How about some fried egg gummies?

No reply.

Maybe he was busy. Or maybe—

I shook the thought away, running a hand through my hair. “He’s gonna tell me eventually,” I muttered. “I just hope it’s soon.”

Chih-en glanced over from the corner. “Talking to yourself now, hyung?”

“Yeah,” I said, trying for a smirk. “It’s the only way I get decent conversation in this place.”

Juwon tossed me an empty snack wrapper. “Rude.”

Their laughter filled the room, but it didn’t quite reach me.

Patience, Han. Patience.

Authors Note:

okay so… somehow we’re already at chapter 2 😭 you finally met woongki’s ride-or-dies — shuaibo (creative director) and JL (production manager) — plus woongki himself, our resident fashion designer. and of course, the band 9D:ce (pronounced as 9-dice): manager steven, jeongwoo (lead guitar), chih-en (vocals + bass), juwon (drums), daisuke (keys), and han (guitar + lead vocals). things are about to get interesting 👀

Next chapter will be linked here:

(Chapter 3: https://www.tumblr.com/parkhanimnida/792049076435927040/the-space-between)

The Space Between

Synopsis:

Two hearts, a cat, one domestic life… and a single email that might break them. Can they hold on to what they have?

(Written for Hanki shippers, by a Hanki shipper. No refunds if you cry. DEFINITELY NOT A SMUT *wink* *wink*)

Dedicating this Hanki fic to my faves @purrhani & @meowoongki 💖 thank you for always being my inspiration for all the fluff, angst, and everything in between… and for matching my freak hahahaha 🥹

Chapter 1

Woongki’s POV

The smell of grilled beef was already curling through the apartment when I padded out of the bedroom in my socks.

I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand, hair a mess, Cookie trotting behind me like a tiny furry shadow.

Han was in the kitchen — grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, white shirt clinging to his back — flipping slices of galbi on the grill pan. The morning sun was coming in through the blinds, striping him in gold and shadow. He didn’t see me at first, too focused on turning the meat with his tongs like it was some life-or-death mission.

“You’re seriously making galbi for breakfast?” I asked, voice still hoarse from sleep.

Han glanced over his shoulder, mouth twitching into the faintest smile. “Galbi and jajangmyeon ,” he corrected. “Your favorite.”

“That’s a dangerous combination for someone who’s supposed to fit into sample sizes,” I teased, sliding into one of the kitchen stools. Cookie immediately jumped up onto my lap, tail swishing like she owned me — which, honestly, she did.

Han didn’t bite at my joke, just reached over to stir the bubbling pot on the stove. The rich scent of the black bean paste sizzling in the pan, mixing with browned meat and sweet, soft onions filled the air. My stomach growled, loud enough for him to hear.

He turned, holding a piece of beef. “Taste.”

I leaned forward, mouth open, and he slipped the galbi in without breaking eye contact. Warm, tender, a little smoky — and maybe I made a noise that was way too close to obscene.

“Mm,” I managed, chewing slowly just to annoy him.

“You’re getting good at this, Hani-yah. I might keep you around.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was the smallest crinkle at the corner — his version of a full-blown grin. “Eat first. Tease later.”

While he cooked, I watched and helped around.

Han wasn’t the type to chatter in the mornings. He moved with this quiet, grounded focus, like the rest of the world didn’t exist. When he’s on stage with the band, he’s loud, straight-up hot as hell, magnetic, pulling the crowd into his orbit — felt miles away here in our kitchen.

I loved both versions. But this one… this was mine.

“You’ve been up for a while?” I asked, reaching over to steal another slice of galbi when he wasn’t looking.

“Since eight,” he said, glancing at me in that sharp way that meant don’t think I didn’t notice you stealing that.

“Band rehearsal’s at three. I thought we could have breakfast together before you… whatever you’re doing today.”

“Design work.” I waved vaguely. “Some sketches for the Spain project.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them. My chest tightened. I hadn’t told him the full story yet — that it wasn’t just a project. That it was a job offer. A year in Madrid.

Han didn’t react, just nodded, stirring the jajangmyeon like it was the only thing that mattered. I wondered if he knew more than he let on. With him, it was hard to tell.

We ate at the small table by the window, knees brushing under the wood. The jajangmyeon was perfectly chewy, the sauce was savory, glossy enough to make my lips shine. Han ate quietly. I slurped and made noises just to annoy him.

Halfway through, he reached over and wiped the corner of my mouth with his thumb, totally unbothered, like it was the most natural thing in the world. My ears went hot.

“Messy,” he murmured, and went back to eating.

Cookie sat between us on the table, her tail flicking dangerously close to the bowls. Han gently nudged her away every time she leaned forward to sniff the galbi, muttering, “Not for you,” like she understood.

It was so ordinary, so small, and yet…

I felt the moment sinking into me like an anchor.

Later, maybe even later today, I’d have to tell him.

But for now, I let the comforting noodles, the sizzle of beef, and the weight of his knee against mine keep me here — in this kitchen, on this morning, before anything could change.

Han’s POV

Woongki was never still. Even when he was sitting, he was moving — tapping his fingers on the table, swinging one leg, running his hands through his hair.

But this morning, between the bites of galbi and his deliberately obnoxious slurps, there were moments where he’d just… pause.

Like now. His chopsticks hovered in midair, eyes distant for a fraction too long before he caught me looking.

“What?” he asked, mouth curling in that way that dared me to say something sappy.

“Nothing,” I said, but I didn’t look away.

We cleaned up together, the familiar choreography we’d fallen into over the years. I rinsed; he dried. He sang under his breath something bright and catchy that I didn’t recognize — while I stacked the dishes in the rack.

I liked watching him when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. The way his hair fell into his eyes, the way his fingers flicked the towel over the rim of the bowl like it was a precision job. People always thought I was the intense one in this relationship, but Woongki was the one who could obsess over getting something just right.

“You’ve been sketching a lot lately,” I said casually, passing him another plate.

He froze for a second. “That’s… good, right?”

“Depends,” I said. “Sketching for who?”

His eyes flickered, the smallest thing, but I caught it. I always did.

We finished in silence, but not a heavy one. He tossed the towel onto the counter and leaned against it, arms folded. His blue button-down shirt was slipping off one shoulder, and I wondered if he did that on purpose. Probably.

“You’re staring,” he said, smirking.

“I always stare,” I replied, stepping closer until there was barely a hand’s width between us.

I unbuttoned his shirt, my fingers brushing lightly against the fabric, careful, almost reverent, until it fell open to reveal the soft white shirt beneath. God—how can someone so perfect be this precious? He looked at me with that small, unguarded smile, the kind he doesn’t give to anyone else.

It wasn’t planned. I didn’t think about it. My hand just moved — lifting his body to the kitchen counter, sliding to the back of his neck, thumb brushing his hairline. His smirk faltered, but his eyes softened in that way that killed me every time.

“Han—” he started, but I kissed him before he could finish.

It was slow, almost lazy at first — the kind of kiss you could sink into for hours. His lips were warm and soft, and when he tilted his head just right, I deepened it without meaning to.

Woongki made this small sound in the back of his throat, and it pulled something tight in my chest.

My other hand found his waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He leaned into me, pressing close, and for a second, the world shrank down to the heat between us and the faint meow of Cookie somewhere near our feet.

When we finally broke apart, he was grinning — that bright, reckless grin that made me forget every bad thing in my life.

“Kitchen make-outs?” he teased, voice a little breathless. “Very domestic of you, Park Han.”

“Shut up,” I said, but I couldn’t hide my smile.

Even as we went about the rest of the morning, I kept catching him in the corner of my eye — distracted for half a second before covering it up.

Something was coming. I didn’t know what.

But I knew I’d fight it, whatever it was, if it meant keeping mornings like this.

(More cookie cameo)

Author’s Note: Yeah, this is technically Chapter 1. It’s short. I cry every time. Six hours of work went into this, mostly me staring at my laptop. This is my first fanfic pls give lots of love mwa.

Next chapter will be linked here:

(Chapter 2: https://www.tumblr.com/parkhanimnida/791979879880130560/the-space-between)