The front door opened, and cool air spilled out from inside, as if a refrigerator door had swung wide.

The room was already cold enough, but Juhan, who had opened the door, wasn't wearing a shirt.

"Just come in with your shoes on. It's Western-style."

Wearing black skinny jeans ripped in various places and chunky worker boots, he turned first and went into the room, stretching broadly. Water droplets clung to the ends of his hair — he had clearly just finished a shower.

"Honestly, I'm just too lazy to sweep and clean often, so I live like this."

He added that with a chuckle as he glanced back at me.

For a place to paint, I wanted wherever he felt most comfortable, and the place he chose was, perhaps inevitably, his own home.

The officetel overlooked the Seosomun overpass connecting Chungjeong-ro and City Hall. It had an unusually wide-open view for Seoul, and even during rush hour, it was only about a thirty-minute commute to Phantom.

"Director Liu gave this to me as accommodation when I became a full-time Phantom employee. Baek Yuni lives upstairs, on the 23rd floor."

He pointed to the ceiling with his index finger. His apartment was on the 21st floor.

"You said you wanted to look around, but I told you not to come because I didn't want to interrupt your work. Let's see... drinks... I only have beer. Want some?"

He peered into the refrigerator, which looked completely empty at a glance, then turned to me. Standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, I said it was fine and slid the bag off my shoulder.

The sound of him popping the tab on a beer can rang cheerfully.

"So, what do I need to do? If I have to hold a pose while you paint, I should stretch first."

"Just... do whatever you normally do. I want to sketch various poses until the image I'm after becomes clear."

Fiddling with the piercing on his lip, he looked around the narrow room and grabbed one of the two guitars carefully kept on stands along the wall next to the bed. Not a speck of dust on either of them — he clearly cared for them deeply.

"Then I'll just play guitar for a bit."

It wasn't a very large studio-type one-room, but the absence of bulky furniture kept it from feeling cramped. A curtain-style two-tier hanger took up one entire wall, a single bed faced it, and a round table placed in front of the panoramic window completed the furnishings — if you could call them that. Even without frequent sweeping, the simplicity of his belongings kept it from looking cluttered.

"Do you want to sit there and paint?"

He placed a small amplifier — maybe a handspan in each direction — on the table by the window and connected the guitar to it, then gestured toward the bed with his chin.

"Or I can play on the bed while you paint here? The conditions for painting are a bit cramped."

He looked around the narrow room with a puzzled expression.

"Today I'm just doing quick croquis sketches, so it's fine. I can bring an easel next time if needed. Whatever's most comfortable for you."

"Working around the model's comfort — you're a peculiar kind of artist."

He chuckled, opened a clear file of sheet music, and began tuning the guitar. I pulled out my sketching tools and perched on the edge of his bed.

Looking around his room again, there wasn't a single torn magazine photo or poster on the walls. Considering his punk band past and the way he dressed, I had imagined his place would be something else entirely, but the room gave off almost no sense of personal taste or lived-in feeling. It was different from simply being clean. It felt strongly like a space just for sleeping and leaving.

"Come to think of it, is this the first time we've been alone like this?"

He spoke without looking up, his long, thin fingers adorned with more than five rings pressing down the chords, gaze fixed on the guitar.

"Outside of work, I think so."

"Makes me think of when we first met."

Perhaps reminiscing about that first encounter, he shrugged his bare shoulders and laughed. I laughed too, remembering how he'd startled at my sudden appearance and cursed without realizing it.

Back then, I had no idea I would officially start working at Phantom, let alone become one of Phantom's resident artists and start painting again.

I met Suki Kim, and then Morae nuna and Yeehan hyung left Korea. I started liking someone, and pushed myself into a relationship that was complicated to define.

Only early spring to midsummer — and yet it struck me freshly how much had changed.

Electronic sound filled the room as his fingers moved. It was the first time I'd heard an electric guitar up close. The delicate trembling layered onto the inherently melancholy tone of the strings was quite captivating.

Whatever the song was, it wasn't punk. The slow, languid resonance filling the space expressed something beyond simple emotions like joy or sorrow. The song contradicted my expectation that his playing would be more aggressive, cleaner, more instinctive. Complex notes built into tension, and then a bell sound cut through. His phone.

"Can I take it?"

"Of course, move around as you like."

"Such a generous artist."

He smirked, got up, and picked up his phone from beside the sink. The corner of his mouth twisted into a mischievous smile as he checked the caller ID. A villainous smile.

"Yeah. I'm modeling right now. No, not photos — a painting."

He returned to the chair, dropped into it, and drained the beer on the table.

"Today? That's sudden... What time?... I think I can make that... but if I come, what are you going to do for me?"

His expression grew more subtle. Whatever he heard from the other end made his shoulders shake. I watched him without moving my hands.

This was completely different from the Juhan I knew at work, or when it was just the three of us with Yuni nuna, or when he was with the other Phantom staff. This was literally his private life. Expressions he never wore with us, a voice he never used around us.

I had asked him to model because I thought I knew him better than I knew nuna. But even that might have been a hopelessly fragmentary assumption, and I was beginning to suspect it.

As proof, the sketch was barely progressing. Since entering this house, I had lost direction entirely — what to paint, who to paint.

"Ah... work's been killing me lately, so you're lucky, old man? I'll be right there."

He finished the call with a light laugh and tossed his phone onto the mattress. Then he picked up the guitar again and glanced at me.

"You look shocked."

"No, not really... You told me about it before."

"Ah..."

Recalling the night we'd met at a bar in Hongdae that had a cat, he laughed awkwardly and rubbed his recently cut hair.

"That punk had barely met you and was already going on like that — you must've been pretty surprised."

It was the opposite.

"I was actually glad, because I felt like I was getting to know you and Yuni a little better... I'm not very good at talking about myself."

I'd clearly felt goodwill toward Yuni nuna and Juhan hyung, but given the situation — having to be cautious around strangers at the time — and my own introverted nature, I probably hadn't made any real effort to nurture that goodwill. I was grateful they had approached me first.

He looked at me for a moment, shrugged, and looked back down at the sheet music.

"It's a story without much meaning. Something I could tell a stranger on the street. I have a loose mouth."

Maybe so.

Since he wasn't like me, he could probably confide in anyone about that incident — which seemed like the most horrific form of conflict possible between a parent and child — as easily as recounting a random street brawl he'd gotten swept up in.

But just because his tone was light, or because he'd told it with a light heart, the events themselves couldn't be light. At the very least, through that story, I felt I understood Kwon Juhan as a more concrete individual.

He seemed about to start playing again, but instead took a sip of beer, hugged the guitar, and began to speak with some hesitation.

"This is a bit of a pathetic story, but... I actually felt a kinship with you at first."

"......"

"Everyone at Phantom is talented in their own way. The artists we meet through work too, and a lot of our clients are especially creative people. Gifted, brilliant, impressive... Being surrounded by people like that all the time can honestly make you feel a bit small."

His unexpected words froze my hand completely. Because to me, hyung was also one of those shining people.

Sliding his fingers smoothly down the guitar strings to make a pleasant sound, he continued.

"But you seemed like just an ordinary person my age, so when you showed up, I felt relieved. You and I were normal, I thought, and the others were just excessively gifted. I had something to stand on."

He took another sip of beer and placed his fingers back on the fingerboard. Then he gave me a sideways glance, playful.

"But in the end, you turned out to be talented too. Traitor."

"No, I haven't... shown anything yet. I'm not even sure I can live up to expectations in the future. You're far more — handling Phantom work so well and running Old Future on top of it—"

"I only started at Phantom because they offered room and board, and honestly, Old Future is really Yuni's. I'm just a sleazy punk who got lucky meeting good people and ended up in a role way cooler than he deserves. And you were handpicked by Director Liu. Trust me, if there's one thing he has a real talent for, it's spotting potential. He's built up the gallery discovering artists like that countless times."

A sleazy punk who got lucky meeting good people and ended up in a role way cooler than he deserves. I hadn't known that hyung, who seemed so self-assured and unguarded, would judge himself so harshly.

From that angle, I was nothing more than a coward who had been given opportunities by chance, fortunate enough to have met the right people. Before, Morae nuna and Yeehan hyung had sustained me. And now... including Juhan hyung before me, so many others, and one special person.

I was the one who had always felt my own insignificance among solid people like Director Liu, Manager Han, Yuni nuna, and Juhan hyung. Hyung seemed like someone who didn't need to feel such things, but I knew better than anyone what that feeling actually was.

There must have been a passage that wasn't quite right, because he kept repeating the same short melody. A melody that touched something deep.

"And actually, I liked that painting too. Your piece hanging in Director Liu's living room. I got into the Western painting department, but only because my parents paid for entrance consulting to get me into a Seoul university, so I had no real interest in art. Abstract work especially — it always seemed like pretending to be profound without any real substance. But that one... looking at it, I felt comforted. Like, slightly, you're not the only one struggling in this world, hang in there — that kind of feeling?"

At the end he briefly lifted his head and grinned at me. Then that same melody repeated again.

Whatever his own assessment of himself, to me, hyung — who could confide these stories so honestly, without embellishment — still seemed brilliant.

His long, thin fingers moved quickly and precisely along the fingerboard, pressing down the strings. His hands were the most beautiful thing to me, but those hands were also so thin that the movement of the bones was visible beneath the skin on the back of them — and there was another kind of charm in that.

They looked dry and cold, but moved with delicate precision, a fragility that seemed to quietly plead for connection... something like that.

Perhaps it's not only art but music too that is closer to poetry than to a novel. Even as an outsider with no way to explain it logically, listening to his playing, I knew. He wasn't a shallow, lucky person with nothing underneath, the way he described himself.

I abandoned the full-body croquis, switched to a harder pencil, and focused entirely on sketching his hands as the practice slowly became a performance.

The phrases he had broken into pieces and repeated one by one now connected into a smooth, flowing melody, taking on a consistent color and forming a single current. Whether he had imbued the piece with that feeling or whether it was the song's original nature, I couldn't say — but even with just the melody and no lyrics, it seemed to paint a story.

I stopped and asked.

"This... what's the title?"

"It's called Cause We've Ended As Lovers. I'm fumbling through it like this, but originally it's an absolutely killer piece."

He answered with the most animated expression I'd seen since entering his room.

"Jeff Beck — one of the three greatest guitarists in the world. Well, opinions vary on who the top three actually are, but anyway, it's his song."

Flushed with excitement, like a child talking about dinosaurs or cars or favorite anime characters, he even sent me the guitarist's name, the album title, and the song title directly through messenger.

"Download the album and give it a listen. If you like this one, the other tracks should be good too. Make sure to hear the original recording."

There were still about two hours until the agreed six o'clock, but during that time, all I could do was sketch his exterior. Shell sketches, no different from still life. The same as the drawings in the notebook I'd shown him. I had thought I knew him a little, that I could paint him — but the Juhan I had come here to paint wasn't in this room.

When six o'clock arrived, he tossed a T-shirt over his head and preened in front of the mirror, suggesting we head out together. He was gradually transforming into the Kwon Juhan I recognized — a punk full of confidence and cheerful defiance.

Standing at the mirror and adding more piercings to his ears, he asked,

"Director Liu said he was coming to pick you up?"

"......Yes."

"A date?"

The unexpected question caught me off guard, but I told myself it was just my own conscience pricking me and tried to appear calm.

"He just mentioned an exhibition he wanted to recommend..."

"Isn't meeting up alone on a weekend evening for an exhibition a perfectly typical date? Not that I know much about typical dates."

He shrugged and gave me a sly look through the mirror.

"Lucky you, Seo Ihyeon."

"......"

He said it like he knew something. I didn't know how to react and just stood there biting my lip. Hyung turned to face me with an even more bewildered expression.

"Hey, your reaction is making me flustered. Was liking Director Liu supposed to be a secret?"

He didn't even need to confirm whether it was true. Juhan hyung was completely convinced.

"How... how did you..."

"How? What do you mean, how? On the day of the barbecue, every time I touched Director Liu, you made a face like the sky was falling. That's how I knew. But... now that's a truly sky-has-fallen expression."

Yuni nuna was in a position where she couldn't see my face, so she wouldn't have known — and Manager Han is a bit oblivious when it comes to romantic matters, so she probably hadn't caught on either. Hyung tried to console me with that. But at the same time, he pinched my cheeks where I sat on the bed and stretched them sideways, adding that I had been far too blatant for someone trying to hide anything.

"I thought you were broadcasting it to the whole neighborhood. Like, I like Director Liu. Director Liu is mine! So Juhan hyung, stop touching him!"

It was true that I'd envied that physical closeness between them that day, but I'd genuinely never imagined that hyung was conscious of my gaze the entire time. Realizing I was that transparent with my feelings was, well... a bit of a shock.

Or maybe it was just that, when it came to my feelings for him, I couldn't hide them. Even Yeehan hyung occasionally couldn't stand my impassiveness and would get angry.

"But wait — you're seriously in love with him? Not just some distant admiration, like for a celebrity?"

Seeing my reaction, which was obviously stunned, hyung's expression also grew serious. He ruffled my hair, crossed his arms, and let out a light sigh.

"Well. You probably don't even know what it feels like to like someone lightly."

Because I had never liked anyone before, I had been oblivious to what I was feeling toward him. I didn't know what state I would be in when I liked someone, what I would want from the other person — the absence of that information made everything more confusing.

And yet hyung, who was an outsider, could simply say what he thought I was like. I almost felt like asking him instead — how does someone like me like a person?

"But I never thought you would even consider someone like Director Liu as a romantic prospect. I'm genuinely surprised."

"......"

I asked the reason silently through my expression as he turned back toward the mirror.

"Director Liu, as a boss and as someone older — he's comfortable to be around, holds no grudges, takes care of things without making a show of it. There's a lot to learn from him. But honestly... he doesn't seem like someone who takes relationships seriously. So I figured if anyone, you of all people would never fall for him."

My gaze dropped to the phone in my hand as I watched hyung's back, connecting the piercing near his eyebrow to his lip piercing with a thin chain. A message floated up on the screen with a light vibration — he'd be arriving in front of the officetel in about ten minutes.

"Smooth talker, refined manners, and his looks are... well, honestly, fantastic. I'll give him that. Director Liu has a charm that draws people in."

Hyung finished threading the chain and turned toward me.

"Isn't someone more stable, more patient — isn't that your type? Or what, did you cave to Liu Weikun's externals after all?"

Perhaps to lighten the mood, he stepped closer and playfully shook my shoulder.

There had been times I found it strange — how could hyung and nuna not like him? I'd even imagined they might be silently nursing passionate one-sided crushes.

But this made one thing clear: at the very least, Juhan hyung did not like him.

If he had, and if he'd had more chances to observe him closely, he wouldn't have been able to describe him as someone lacking tolerance and full of anxiety.

Hyung let go of my shoulder — I had just been swinging limply like a doll without much reaction — and with a sigh, dropped down heavily beside me. The narrow mattress bounced with his weight.

"Hey, I'm not the type to butt into other people's relationships. I'm more the type who crosses his arms, watches, and starts snickering when things start going sideways. But you... you're not the kind of person who just gets drunk on emotion and calls it love while enjoying the drama. I'm only saying this because I'm worried you'll get hurt."

Like someone confessing a heavy secret, hyung paused and continued carefully.

"If you're still just at the fluttering, heart-racing stage... you'd be better off sorting your feelings out."

Compared to his hesitant lead-up, the advice to sort things out came without the slightest pause — almost like a roundabout command.

I felt strange.

Whether I had even passed the fluttering stage with him — I couldn't tell that much first. Just thinking about him sent an uncontainable restlessness through me, and while that could be called excitement, it definitely coexisted with a gut-dropping sensation, like missing a step from a great height.

Besides, I didn't have enough experience to gather various cases of how affection develops, find consistent patterns, and organize them into stages.

I hadn't wanted encouragement — he seems to like you too, so give it a shot, you'd make a good pair. But hearing such clear-cut, sorting-out advice from someone who knew both of us made me consider, for the first time, how outsiders might see our relationship.

Perhaps... we didn't make a very fitting picture.

As I debated whether to explain the recent subtle changes in our relationship, hyung rubbed his short hair, got up from the bed, and pulled a fresh beer from the refrigerator.

"From your perspective, do Baek Yuni and I seem very close to Director Liu?"

"......"

Hyung gulped the beer like someone drinking to numb themselves and wiped his mouth roughly with the back of his hand.

"But we know almost nothing about Director Liu. The same goes for his private life. What we do know is that he hasn't been in a serious relationship since we started working together. He might be selective about who he lets in, but he definitely doesn't hold on to people who want to leave. Don't expect anything serious from him."

After saying that, he drained several more gulps at once, looking like someone forcing themselves to say something they'd rather not.

Hyung's assessment was partly right and partly off.

If it were the old me, I might have agreed with his read of him. But if the version of him hyung was describing — unwilling to clearly define or take responsibility for a relationship — was laziness, then I hadn't been much different from that myself, all the way up until now.

On the bed, he had prioritized my pleasure over his own desires, and through prolonged, attentive caresses, he awakened not just my cock but every corner of my body to pleasure. Afterward, the aftercare was so careful it was more embarrassing than the sex itself, and his kisses were sweet enough to make me delusional.

Nothing he did caused me pain. That was exactly why I could stay cowardly for so long.

Even as I grew fond of him, I deferred responsibility, kept things ambiguous, never clearly expressed myself — and even found a kind of comfort in that.

As long as he kept treating me the way he did, never causing me any pain, never revealing himself with someone else or treating another person as special... maintaining this state would be enough.

So, the charge of irresponsibility should apply to me too, in fairness.

Every time hyung lifted the beer can to his lips, the metal of his piercing clinked against it. I thought about asking for a can myself. I even wanted to smoke, for the first time in a while. But I didn't ask for either. I just kept fiddling with the phone in my hand.

"I live the way I live — meeting older men, keeping things purely physical — Director Liu knows all of it. But he never touches it. He might say he'd stop Baek Yuni if she tried to go abroad, but when the actual moment came, he wouldn't say a word about what she should or shouldn't do. They say he has a pathological aversion to interfering in other people's lives. Director Liu is kind and warm, and I'm genuinely grateful for that. But... he never tries to get into someone's real depths, and he doesn't let anyone into his own. That's Liu Weikun."

As he drained the last of his beer in one go, hyung's profile looked less like he was talking about my feelings and more like he was voicing his own. It seemed like a complaint about Liu Weikun — how he never tried to enter the real depths of others, and never let anyone enter his.

Turning his head, hyung wore an expression like a young child who had grown exhausted and hurt from craving the attention of parents or teachers.

When Director Liu had told me that Yuni nuna and Juhan hyung didn't know Suki Kim was his mother, I had found it unexpected and a little startling. Perhaps that was part of the cool distance hyung was describing. But the way Director Liu behaved around nuna and hyung couldn't be dismissed as simple kindness.

Hyung saw a version of me, I saw a version of Juhan hyung, and hyung saw a version of Director Liu — all of us were seeing illusions slightly misaligned from reality. Or distorting parts into the whole. I had done the same with him before. Maybe I still was.

But I wanted to know more. I wanted to see him closer to who he actually was.

And at the same time, I wanted to show myself to him, to these people. Even if my reality was a coward who tried to protect himself by severing his connection to the world, even if that was all the current me could show.

I didn't want to close my mouth like my father and sink into that enclosed world. I had to struggle, at least in my own way. For the people who had silently stayed by my side, and for the one who told me to break free, to use my voice again like before.

"Hyung."

"......"

"For the next sketch... could you do it... nude?"

Hyung's eyes widened. Partly, no doubt, because I had suddenly changed the subject.

"Nude?"

"Yes, if you're okay with it, hyung."

He fiddled with the empty beer can, gnawing his lip piercing with his upper teeth. His face was lost in thought.

"I want to paint it... in Director Liu's garden."

Then he let out a small laugh and looked at me askance.

"Outdoor play, even?"

I laughed along with him.

"Looks like the artist has an image in mind. He's a kid whose parents have disowned him — there's nothing he can't do. It's for art, not obscenity. Let's do it!"

Slapping his palm against his thigh, he completely crushed the beer can. He seemed more alive now than when he'd been talking about his favorite guitarist.

He no longer brought up Director Liu's unsuitability as a romantic partner. As if that conversation had never happened, he chattered excitedly about the concept and poses for the next sketch.

Walking out of hyung's officetel side by side, I suddenly remembered the day of the barbecue, when hyung had raised his voice unusually high, saying it was heartless if Inwu hyung's interest in me was genuine.

Maybe back then, hyung had wanted to talk about my relationship with Director Liu, using Inwu hyung as an example.

"Hey, I think I might really not be normal."

In the elevator, he slung an arm over my shoulder and chuckled.

"Why did I suddenly get so excited when you asked for the nude? When you said you were coming over to paint today, it felt completely vague. But now I feel interested, like my blood's actually flowing — that kind of feeling?"

Perhaps hyung's change was a perfectly natural reaction. From the beginning, I had been uncertain about what I was supposed to paint. And now... it had become clear.

As we stepped out into the lobby, his sedan was immediately visible, parked on the street in front of the main entrance. Spotting the car, we slowed our pace, and he stepped out from the back seat — in a casual shirt with rolled-up sleeves, jeans, and teal loafers.

Just seeing him was enough. That feeling like all the blood in my body was rushing toward him — in hyung's words, excitement, a racing heart. At the very least, a sensation very close to those things.

Watching him relax the muscles of his face as he looked my way, I could feel that he probably wasn't so different from me right now.

"Dressed up like that — where are you headed at this hour?"

He greeted hyung first.

"To seduce an old man."

And he laughed warmly at hyung's reply.

"Don't go too far. You'll get stabbed again."

"I already had it out with my own parents — where else is there left to get stabbed? I've got no more relationships to be disowned from, so I might as well enjoy myself."

At hyung's unfiltered remark, Director Liu subtly tightened the corners of his eyes and glanced over at me.

"Ihyeon knows too. That I got stabbed and kicked out."

He shook his head as if he couldn't stop him.

"I'm curious — when you're older than those older men you date now, will your preferred age range shift up too, or will men the age they are now still be your type?"

At the joke, hyung tilted his head and laughed. But perhaps because I had just heard his story, the laugh didn't look entirely playful the way it usually did.

"Well, I'm still a vibrant youth for whom thirty feels like a distant dream. Haven't thought that far ahead."

With a deliberately annoying expression as if teasing him, hyung tapped my shoulder and stepped back.

"I'm off. Enjoy the... exhibition."

He then glanced at Director Liu's face and shot me a quick wink. It was hard to tell whether hyung was worried about this situation or simply amused by it.

"The exhibition runs until 8:30. Shall we get moving too?"

He checked his wristwatch and opened the rear car door. Watching hyung cross the crosswalk and flag down a taxi slowly approaching from the opposite direction, I nodded and climbed into the back seat.

The driver who had brought me here a few hours earlier was in the front seat. I'd never owned a car, but being driven somewhere felt even stranger than any of that. It probably always would. Even taking a taxi had been a luxury until recently.

In contrast, he had always accepted the presence of someone in the front seat as perfectly natural. Unlike in Hong Kong, where the sedans came equipped with sliding blinds between the driver and the back seat, there was no attempt at deep kissing or anything else — but he also didn't seem particularly aware that the driver could see and hear them at all.

Except for SUVs, almost all the cars he owned were strongly chauffeur-driven in character, built around the comfort of the rear seat. Cars for people who handed the driving over to someone else so they could either rest completely or, conversely, carve up the travel time for reviewing decisions.

The difference between us was stark in that alone.

Me, for whom walking ten bus stops was a perfectly normal part of daily life — and him, who accepted the back seat of a luxury sedan as comfortably as his own private room.

Our car merged into the dense procession of taillights filling the weekend evening roads. A violin concerto played at a moderate volume. Tchaikovsky's famous piece.

"Did the painting go well?"

He asked, shifting his body slightly toward me.

"...Yes."

The session hadn't been very productive, but it wasn't something worth reporting in detail, so I nodded.

He looked at my face with a smile he made no attempt to hide — the enjoyment of having this time alone written plainly across it.

It's different from just looking. Lately, he often looked at my face this way. Head tilted slightly, eyes observing the interesting and admirable thing unfolding right in front of him with quiet satisfaction.

When I faced this expression of his, I wasn't anxious. If he truly wanted to draw a line, as Juhan hyung had said, there would be no reason to put on a look like this.

The easing of my anxiety hadn't come only from that inference.

It must have started the day of the housewarming barbecue.

That day, in his study, we had been strangely, almost violently, more excited than usual, and in the confusion caused by that overheating, we had revealed to each other a desire for possession and restraint. It was clearly different from the simple sexual remarks we'd exchanged in bed up until then. The fear of being rejected by him hadn't controlled me that night.

He, too, had surprised me with a bold declaration — that he'd rather I become a fool who knew nothing but sex with him. It was a conversation about sex, but it wasn't really about sex. An impulsive greed born from a possessiveness that surged too strong, too overwhelming, toward the person before him, even knowing the idea was foolish. I didn't dislike it.

"Tired? You're quiet."

"......"

He leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on his crossed legs, and reached out with his left hand to toy with my hair.

"You weren't much of a talker to begin with."

He added that, perhaps feeling he'd said something pointless, and smiled. Then he tucked my hair — which had grown quite a bit since we first met — behind my ear and withdrew his hand.

Maybe I was making a stiffer face than usual because of the conversation with Juhan hyung. I was afraid to put a clear name on this relationship too, and I felt sorry that by offering no rebuttal to what hyung had said about him, I had made him out to be the "bad guy."

"I'm not tired. The exhibition... I'm looking forward to it."

I lifted the corners of my mouth, trying to make my expression prove that I wasn't lying. I said I was looking forward to the exhibition, but what I was truly anticipating was the time I would spend with him this evening.

Perhaps because of my earlier words — I'll do better — lately he had been paying even more attention to me than before. Still worried, he wanted me to contact him before and after going out, and even for short distances I had to use his car, but he hadn't stopped me from going out altogether. Especially in the evenings, he took me out almost every time for a proper dinner.

A few days ago, after finishing an errand at the art supply store, I had timed my arrival to coincide with his leaving work. Even with the driver waiting outside, sitting in the cafe after finishing my business — waiting for him — I had felt a quiet, almost shy sensation, wondering if this was what an ordinary couple's date felt like.

"This afternoon... what did you do, Director?"

He must have noticed my clumsy attempt to keep the conversation going, because the smile deepened around his eyes and mouth.

"My trainer came to the house for a workout."

He trained intensively for an hour or two, two or three times a week, with a trainer who visited his home — focused on muscle training. From what I'd heard, he was also proficient in tennis, horseback riding, swimming. In contrast, all I did was simple calisthenics in my room each day to keep my muscles from going slack.

He had suggested that since painting tends to make life irregular and stamina drops, I should try exercising with him.

"If weight training feels too boring, we could try some other active sports together. I worry about you feeling cooped up at home all the time..."

Ah... so that's why he'd been taking me out almost every evening recently.

I looked at his face — chin resting on his hand, elbow propped on his crossed knee, watching me with a worried expression — and my gaze drifted down to his left hand resting naturally on the seat. After a slight hesitation, I quietly took hold of his fingers.

He sat up from where he'd been leaning, looking a little surprised.

"Hmm... what kind of new service is this? I'm nervous for no reason."

Though he claimed to be nervous, he seemed pleased by my sudden physical contact. My hand, which had lightly caught his middle and ring fingers, was now gripped firmly by his large hand. His hand felt pleasantly cool — probably from the air conditioning.

With an expression like he was forcibly containing a smile that wanted to burst out, he raised our joined hands and kissed my fingers. He didn't pull his lips away immediately, holding my gaze for a moment.

"......"

Then he reached out with his other hand and pinched my lower lip. Our own form of physical affection — a substitute for a kiss.

That alone made my head reel. Lately I had been wanting him with an unusually intense craving. Even now, with just this much contact, heat pooled instantly between my legs and I felt flustered.

As if sensing my arousal, he glanced quickly toward the driver's seat. Then, with an expression tinged with regret, he lowered his voice to a murmur.

"If I'd known you'd show me this face... I should have driven myself. I gave up driving because I was planning to get you something to drink."

Satisfying the desire was of course thrilling, but this restraint wasn't bad either. It just made things difficult when it became a little too hard to bear.

"Ah, maybe we should just go home."

He squeezed my hand harder and sighed, playing at it, and I couldn't help but let out a soft laugh.

Maybe what we needed wasn't a declaration — let's start dating now, or let's be lovers. Even without such a clear benchmark, we had both tacitly agreed that obligations toward each other had already taken hold — the obligation not to date or be physically intimate with anyone else.

When I met his gaze looking at me like this, a sense of certainty settled naturally in my chest. Along with the careful prediction that this might be the right pace and direction for him and me.

I squeezed his hand back firmly. The violin solo in Tchaikovsky's concerto was racing toward its climax.

· · · · ·

The exhibition was held at a small, experimental gallery in an old detached house far from the city center. Its theme was Silence and Lies.

According to the pamphlet, the Helsinki-born artist had never received formal art education. Although she had been offered world-class training by a prominent figure who recognized her talent, she declined.

She was known for never signing exhibition contracts with major galleries, and she donated thirty percent of her income from painting sales to various foundations supporting women and children.

Due to her free style — which ignored traditional technique entirely — and her unconventional conduct, critical opinion of her work was sharply divided. The pamphlet also noted that she was unreserved about expressing her critical stance toward the contemporary art world.

While the attitude she showed outside her paintings was social, the works filling the exhibition space — several small rooms — were intensely personal. Terrifyingly deep in their inward focus, they gave the feeling of meeting eyes wide open in the abyss: eyes that reflected everything almost mechanically, hiding or softening nothing.

By the time I exited the final room, I felt as if all my energy had been drained. Similar to the exhaustion after a suspenseful film that keeps you locked in from the title sequence all the way through the credits.

I emerged into what had probably been the living room when this building was still a home, before it became a gallery — but I didn't see him right away. We had parted at the entrance, agreeing to view the exhibition separately and meet afterward, and our paths hadn't crossed since.

He stood out anywhere — not just because of his looks, but because of his height — so if he were in the same space, I would have noticed him. I looked around, pamphlet in hand, through the crowded room.

"Seo Ihyeon."

"......"

I turned reflexively toward the voice. He stood at the entrance, calling my name with a coffee in each hand. He must have finished viewing first and gone down to the cafe to buy them.

Since that night, he occasionally called me without the honorific, and each time, the back of my neck prickled as if someone were tickling it — but it felt different from when he called me like that when it was just the two of us at home.

A fluttering sensation made me freeze, unable to move right away. Instead he walked toward me, smiling. It wasn't my imagination — everyone in the room was looking at him. Whether openly or in glances, the only difference was the degree. Everyone was looking at him. Even knowing and accepting that it was natural... I still disliked it a little. Childishly, I couldn't help it.

"Crowded since it's the weekend. Shall we head out for now?"

I took the cold iced Americano he held out and made my way through the crowd. Unlike inside, the air beyond the door was thick with heat.

The gallery entrance had no dividing wall, blending seamlessly into the alley, and a car was waiting about ten meters away. Wherever we went, a car dropped us off right at the entrance and waited the moment we came out. Walking was virtually never required. Feeling awkward alone with that fact, I got into the car.

The car soon exited the alley and merged onto the road. The sun was setting, and the heat had eased somewhat compared to midday, but people passing outside the window were fanning themselves or tilting portable fans toward their faces, looking worn down by the midsummer heat.

"I feel like I barely noticed it was summer this year."

"Hmm?"

He raised an eyebrow at the words that had slipped out.

"In Hong Kong, and then after we got back — I went straight to your place and we've been moving around by car ever since, so I don't think I really registered that it was summer."

"You've been tending the garden. That must be hot."

"That's something I do because I enjoy it, just for short stretches. Complaining about the heat from that would be too much."

With his permission, I had been looking after the garden lately. Just light work — rough pruning, pulling weeds, watering with the hose — but even in a garden laid out according to a plan, that time facing nature was a meaningful change of pace. The garden, which hyung and nuna had called gloomy, now clearly showed signs of someone caring for it.

"...Are you feeling stifled?"

After a moment of silence, he lowered his voice to ask. I shook my head firmly.

"No, that's not what I meant..."

I had no complaints about my current life; the words had just come out without thought while I was looking at the street. Watching the regret and distress cloud his darkening face, I wondered if I'd said something I shouldn't have.

He was taking care of everything — my safety, my comfort, the time I needed to focus on painting — and yet every time this topic came up, he looked pained.

It was me who was living under his kindness and care, to a degree that went so far beyond gratitude it edged into guilt. And yet why did he keep looking like he owed me something?

At moments like this, the gap between us became strikingly real. Socially, economically, in terms of experience and wisdom... I was insufficient to be his support, and I still lacked the ability to give him anything substantial in return. Painting. I had to paint quickly. Because right now, that was the only thing I could do for him.

He looked at my face in silence for a moment, then let out a short sigh and gently took my hand.

"Just a little longer... please bear with me a little longer."

"I wasn't really someone who enjoyed going out or had an active personality to begin with — you know that. And you take me out often. I didn't say it because I was feeling stifled, so please don't worry."

Hoping he would smile again, I smiled first. He reached out, brushed my hair aside, and softly pulled the back of my neck to press his lips to my forehead. It was the first time we had engaged in physical contact beyond holding hands in front of the driver in Seoul.

I was conscious of it, but I didn't want to pull away. His lips against my hair felt pleasant, so I quietly rested my face against his wrist — where his hand had reached toward my neck — and stayed still.

Meanwhile, the car slowed and turned into the entrance of our destination.

"This place is..."

The hotel where I had met my uncle with Yeehan hyung and Morae nuna. Not far from his house. Now that I thought about it, the gallery from earlier was also only about a ten-minute drive from his house.

"I thought you haven't had much of an appetite lately, so I picked somewhere we can have a light meal and a drink. Today, I promise — no pressure about eating this or that."

The places he took me were all high-end restaurants serving what looked like expensive cuisine, which inevitably made me feel burdened. But I didn't want to show that and ruin the mood of someone who had gone to the trouble of thinking of me. My thoughts were complicated, but I managed a smile in return as he tried to keep things light.

Walking into the hotel lobby with him felt strange.

It had only been two weeks since I last came here, but so much had changed — the person beside me, my feelings, the situation. Morae nuna and Yeehan hyung were scheduled to arrive safely in Bali in a few days, and my uncle had had no particular contact since I'd paid off the debt. While not everything had settled into place, I no longer needed to feel anxious as if someone were right at my heels. All of it was because of his help. And yet why did he keep looking sorry toward me?

Even as we descended the wide staircase leading to the lower floor just inside the main entrance, people coming up the other way glanced at him and whispered.

"It's a casual izakaya inside the hotel, so the atmosphere should be comfortable."

He didn't seem bothered in the slightest. Having lived his entire life under this kind of attention, it would probably be impossible to function day to day if he still registered every gaze.

As he had described, even Seoul's luxury hotels were now trending toward refreshing their image — trendier interiors, menus aimed at younger guests, psychological accessibility. Opening the door and stepping in, the atmosphere felt more approachable than expected. At least, the cold aloofness typical of hotel restaurants wasn't there. Perhaps being with him also made it feel more comfortable.

"Mr. Liu, thank you for visiting. We've been expecting you."

A staff member with a pleasant smile approached immediately. As at the many other restaurants I had visited with him, here too he was received not as an unfamiliar stranger but as an important guest.

"The atmosphere is still wonderful. This is my companion for today."

"Welcome. I'm the manager here. Please feel free to let me know if you need anything at all. I'll show you this way."

When he replied in Korean to the greeting offered in English, the manager switched without missing a beat and exchanged greetings with me as well, his smile unwavering.

The interior wasn't very spacious. About ten counter seats offered a view of the chefs at work, and perhaps five or six tables in total — rather cozy. But naturally, the calm and sophisticated atmosphere made me a little tense.

Our table was at the very back, nestled snugly beneath a slanted ceiling reminiscent of stairs leading up to an attic. Since we had pre-ordered the chef's tasting course when making the reservation, there was no need to choose from a menu. I had never tried sake before, but on his recommendation we ordered a variety that was low in alcohol and easy to drink.

"Please skip the dish explanations today. I'd like to focus on conversation."

"Yes, of course."

The staff member smiled at his request and withdrew.

"Director... English is the most comfortable language for you, right?"

After the staff member left, I fiddled with the cloth napkin — bleached so white it looked scrubbed clean — and asked him.

"That would be right. My formal education was in English, and since English was the common language between my parents, we used it for family conversations too."

"But your Korean is excellent. I was surprised when I heard you'd never actually lived in Korea. There's absolutely no awkwardness to it..."

As if embarrassed by the compliment, he looked down and smiled. His face, cast in deep shadows by the dim ambient lighting, was attractive in a way that was different from usual. Watching the shadow of his long, thick eyelashes fall across his cheek, I kept my focus on his story.

"I spoke Korean with my mother when it was just the two of us, and my parents were also active with their Korean friends, so I became naturally accustomed to it. They continuously exposed me to Korean culture through various programs and events, so the culture itself wasn't unfamiliar... And my mother owned a lot of Korean literature, so I was familiar with the written language — but the vivid spoken language I learned mostly through Korean friends I made at school."

He paused for a moment, his brow furrowing with a faint expression of displeasure.

"I had made friends with a few bastards like Choi Inwu. The kind who taught me dirty words and curses first."

I could somewhat picture Inwu hyung and his school days, so I managed a small laugh and then continued carefully. The topic had come up naturally, so it seemed like a good opportunity to ask.

"Artist Shushu... went to the same school as you, right?"

He paused before answering, raised his glass to wet his lips, then set it down again. The whole time, he didn't take his eyes off me. A mischievous smile played at the corner of his mouth. He even cleared his throat, which was rare.

"Hmm... why do I get the feeling you're concerned about Shushu? Am I imagining it?"

Given our current relationship, I knew Shushu and I weren't in the kind of relationship I had imagined and agonized over. Still, I didn't feel as comfortable with Shushu as I did with the Phantom family or Inwu hyung. I was still conscious of Shushu. Knowing my feelings weren't exactly healthy or mature, my face flushed as if I'd been caught in something shameful.

But he leaned his upper body toward me, biting his lower lip slightly, and looked genuinely pleased. His clear blue eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Be a little more jealous. Ask me what my relationship with Shushu is. Ask if it's something more than just gallery owner and artist on contract. Push me, interrogate me... and even after I explain that it isn't, keep picking at me, kicking me..."

"I... I wouldn't do anything like that..."

Even though the seat beside us was still empty, as if reserved, the couple one table over bothered me. Glancing at them, I denied it hastily in a lower voice.

"Hmm, I wouldn't mind."

Whether he was being serious or playful, I couldn't tell.

He frowned as if disappointed and leaned forward, chin resting loosely on one arm. The table wasn't very wide, so his face was extremely close. His playful face, comfortable enough that his cheek was almost pressing into his hand, was slightly below my eye level.

I had the urge to reach out and touch his handsome face, but given the location and my own nature, it wasn't easy to act on.

"Is your possessiveness toward me still only at that level? Last time, you were so explicit about how I shouldn't do it with anyone else... what was it... not kissing, or putting fingers in other..."

"Hey, Director!"

Unlike me, sitting with my back to the wall facing the room, he had only me in his line of sight. Spotting the manager approaching, I panicked and grabbed his hand on the table, cutting him off.

He widened his eyes, looking back and forth between me and the hand I was holding.

"The exhibition was truly wonderful."

"......"

He soon broke into a smile, understanding the reason for the awkward, abruptly abandoned topic — like a child sounding out words while learning to read aloud.

Even knowing he would never make the clumsy mistake of letting someone overhear our private conversation, I still wasn't experienced enough in these matters to enjoy the anxiety as a thrill.

He squeezed my hand once, let go, and straightened up in his seat. As if perfectly timed, the manager stopped beside our table.

"We'll bring out the appetizers first."

A salmon salad with cucumber was served, and the manager immediately brought a tray with glasses of various shapes and colors, letting me choose. Still flustered enough to break into a cold sweat, I just grabbed whatever caught my eye.

"I'm sorry. I went a bit too far."

Once we were alone again, he pulled his chair closer and met my gaze.

"I got carried away because it seemed like Seo Ihyeon was getting a little jealous."

"......"

As a mature adult, he would likely find immature and consuming emotions like jealousy tiresome. The psychological warfare of trying to possess and bind each other through a partner — the kind that came with romantic feelings — would probably exhaust him. His portrayal in Juhan hyung's account hadn't deviated much from that image.

But the things he was saying now were turning every opinion people had of Liu Weikun into prejudice.

I suddenly wanted to know. Was this how he always was in conversations like these? Or was this an exception?

"Part of it is that your reaction was just too... cute. I couldn't control myself. You're not angry?"

It wasn't an intention to tease me meanly — I could tell he was genuinely enjoying this moment. I couldn't miss it when I looked at his expression and his eyes. And once I realized that, I felt like I too might start to enjoy this silly, childish back-and-forth.

A ticklish feeling at the word cute. I shook my head. Manager Han, Yuni nuna, and Juhan hyung had said similar things before, but it had never felt like this.

He gave me a soft smile, visibly relieved, and picked up his chopsticks to offer me food.

"So — how was the exhibition, really?"

I swallowed the last of the salmon I'd been chewing and answered a moment later.

"It was... intense. And very impressive."

His reaction suggested he had expected as much.

"You, Seo Ihyeon, want paintings where the artist confronts a version of themselves pushed to the absolute limit, pouring out everything. You're not someone who can sit down in front of the easel with a light heart, thinking, what shall I paint today... That's why I thought you would like this artist's work."

"I don't mean to say that painting with a light heart is bad... and it's not as though I've only ever painted about my deepest suffering. It's just that for me, painting is a means of being honest. So it happens that I often express emotions or thoughts through it."

I wasn't sure if my thoughts were coming across accurately, but I felt I could speak to him without worrying about being misunderstood.

He nodded.

"I know. There's no need to distinguish what's more valuable — each artist simply has a different style. That's what makes art richer. Most critics and power-driven galleries like to rank things by high and low, but still."

The drinks arrived and the conversation paused briefly. Sake, chilled in a bowl of crushed ice, was placed alongside a dish called tataki — tuna seared only on the surface.

The sake he recommended, which I was trying for the first time, had fruity notes — strawberry and apple — making it easy to drink. The round, transparent glass with a slight bluish tint that I had picked up almost at random had something about it that reminded me of his eyes.

After a brief exchange about the taste of the sake, the conversation returned to Silence and Lies.

"And I found it refreshing that the theme came through so clearly in the paintings — quite different from me. The artist seemed like someone with no hesitation about expressing her own feelings or thoughts, which made her work even more attractive."

"Your paintings seem quite bold too — they just carry more complex emotions."

"......"

He leaned comfortably back against the table, toying with the rounded bottom of his glass with one hand, and sent me a suggestive look.

"Looking only at the work, it's hard to imagine your usual quiet demeanor."

In reality, the work is far closer to how you are in bed, he added with a knowing smile, raising the half-empty glass to his lips. Watching him, I felt thirsty too and tilted my own glass.

As the conversation deepened, we raised our glasses far more often than we moved our chopsticks.

Even after the tataki, neat tempura and several kinds of skewered grilled meat were served in succession, but we both only picked at them. Meanwhile, the 720-milliliter bottle of sake was already nearly gone.

The neighboring table, which had been empty, had found its occupants by now, and the restaurant filled with the sizzle and aroma of grilling skewers and the lively chatter of people enjoying their weekend.

I could feel glances being cast his way from the table beside us, where a group of old friends seemed to have gathered. But he didn't let his attention waver for even a moment. It was as if we were alone in a quiet space, as if I were the only thing in his sight. Because he kept his full attention on me, I was gradually able to erase everything else.

"Between silence and lies — which do you think is more violent?"

He asked without looking at me, skillfully separating a grilled scallop from its skewer and placing it on my plate with its yuzu sauce.

Then he immediately corrected himself.

"No — personally, which do you detest more."

Anyone who had seriously viewed the exhibition would have had to think about this at least once. I had been unable to stop turning it over while looking at the work, so answering wasn't difficult.

"Lies are... better, I think."

He looked surprised.

"Silence can change value depending on the situation... but if it's silence about the truth, the kind that artist was trying to express... silence feels more... not violent, exactly. More cowardly."

Putting thoughts into words wasn't easy, and the carefully spaced-out words I had chosen ended up sounding like a confused jumble.

He pressed a heavy gaze on me for a moment, then looked away and poured the last of the sake into my glass.

"People usually perceive lies as far more negative than silence, don't they? In Korea especially, where Confucian influence still runs deep, silence is golden — the fewer words the better."

"I'm not a very talkative person myself... but if we're talking about silence and lies as attitudes toward the truth, I honestly think lies are better."

He rested his elbows on the table, covering his lips with loosely clasped hands, and asked.

"May I... hear the reason?"

The table beside us was bustling, apparently preparing to celebrate someone's birthday, taking out a cake and inserting candles. But seeing his serious face turned toward me, intent on listening, I could continue without interruption.

"Lies themselves can certainly become a violent act that inflicts wounds, but... where there are lies, I think there's also a corresponding movement that emerges to uncover the truth. Whereas if what happens on the opposite side of truth is silence... that seems far bleaker. I think a longer, more brutal darkness would follow before the truth finally came to light — that's why."

I was thinking of my father.

I was answering while thinking about the weapon of silence my father had chosen to protect himself — or perhaps to punish and destroy himself — and the result it had brought: a present in which no one could be happy.

"It's just my limited thoughts... and strictly... a personal view."

Had I pulled the conversation into too heavy a place? Was he reading something ominous in my expression or tone, starting to worry? I brushed it off with a smile, pretending it was merely an impression of the exhibition, and brought the glass to my lips.

I'd thought my slowing speech was a result of the weight of the subject demanding care, but it might also have been the alcohol gradually taking hold. We had finished a whole bottle between us at a fairly quick pace, so that was understandable.

But it wasn't an unpleasant kind of intoxication. Feeling my thoughts and body hazily come undone, I let my posture relax further.

"I never wanted an absolute conclusion — I wanted to hear your opinion from the very beginning. You don't need to add self-deprecating words after saying something like that. It's an original perspective, and a genuinely interesting one."

He said it with the slightly stunned expression of someone who had just taken a hit, and then fell silent, lost in thought.

We ordered another bottle of the same sake, and until the first glass of the new bottle was empty — until stable conversation was possible again — his eyes were darker and deeper than usual, turned inward.

Rolling the empty glass between his fingers, he looked down toward my chest and spoke.

"When turning away from the truth, or hiding it... can that process really happen without lies being involved? Seen from that angle, silence... could already be said to contain lies, in a way."

The sake cup, a little larger than a typical soju glass, felt even smaller in his large hand. I looked at his hands — clean, without a mark — then shifted my gaze up to his face.

It was only speculation, but he didn't seem to be talking merely about the exhibition's theme. His expression suggested he had either been a victim of silence laden with falsehood, or had, conversely, experienced holding it himself.

In the end, it seemed he too condemned silence more than lies.

"We can't always stand on the side of truth in every moment... but ultimately, what matters is whether we make excuses for our silence or lies and let ourselves go numb — or whether we keep feeling the prick of conscience and strive to approach the truth. That's what I think."

It wasn't a statement I had manufactured to comfort him.

Though I was answering his question with my father in mind, I didn't believe I had always stood on the side of dazzling truth either. No — from a certain angle, I wasn't so different from my father. Perhaps I was just a more diluted version of him.

So my words were an excuse for both of us.

He raised his gaze to meet mine, as if lifting something heavy with effort. There was a faint smile on his face, but it was a bitter one, quite literally.

"It's much more... painful than I expected."

"......"

"For a cowardly adult who can't get through life without silence and lies, what you said... hits a little too close."

He was speaking as though it were a joke, but I could tell I had touched something in him. Following him as he tilted his glass, I drained mine quickly. Twice today I had made him the "bad guy," and I couldn't keep pretending to be the innocent victim, the pure lamb.

"Even if I'm legally an adult... I've never really thought of myself as an adult. But it's not only adults who are cowardly. When it comes to the cowardice of silence... I have plenty of that too."

He glanced over at me with a smile.

"Compared to the cowardly silence I carry, Seo Ihyeon-ssi's silence must feel as fresh as morning dew."

"It really isn't."

Perhaps because of the slight buzz, my tone came out quite firm. The silence or cowardice I had exercised might not have involved hurting anyone by getting entangled with them, but that was more likely because I wasn't bearing any real social responsibilities — not because I was closer to the truth than he was.

Even if I were caught up in various networks of relationships, bound by many expectations and obligations, could I really guarantee I wouldn't drag silence deep into my life?

As if shaking off the somber mood from a moment before, he leaned toward me with a subtle smile.

"Oh? There's dark, murky, fishy-smelling silence? In a body this clean and pretty?"

"......"

I was momentarily speechless at how the conversation had veered in an unexpected direction. After wiping my face — which had quickly flushed from the sudden intrusion of a suggestive remark at such an unguarded moment — I took another sip of the innocent sake.

"I welcome the drinking... but eat something along with it. If you neglect meals because you have no appetite, your stamina won't hold up when it really matters."

He put chicken breast skewers topped with horseradish on my plate, cut into easy-to-eat pieces, and showed no inclination to return to the previous topic.

He seemed genuinely worried that I had lost my appetite lately — perhaps from the heat, even though I was rarely exposed to it. To be precise, it wasn't so much a lack of appetite as occasional aversion to food, making me wonder if it was mild gastritis — but I thought saying I simply had no appetite would cause him less worry.

The chicken he put on my plate was tender and moist. It had been made with fresh ingredients, and yet the faint inherent smell of the chicken still lightly pricked at my stomach. Still, it was tolerable. Knowing the problem was my condition and not the food, I nodded that it was good and offered some back to him.

"About Choi Inwu's work — you once said it revealed an honesty about oneself that one couldn't be honest about otherwise. You said that before, didn't you?"

Instead of picking up his chopsticks, he refilled two empty glasses and continued.

"I know that when you paint, Seo Ihyeon, you're someone who confronts the deepest part of yourself — just like the artist we were just discussing. But you don't have to force yourself to always aim for the extreme. If facing your own rock bottom right now is too hard, try painting the part of yourself that feels cowardly. If that's who you are right now, wouldn't it be meaningful to leave something of that behind?"

"......"

It felt as if he could see straight through what I had been struggling with ever since I started painting again. I paused, briefly wondering whether I had ever actually consulted him about it.

"Art isn't only about the sublime conclusion reached after enduring a painful process."

He raised the glass he had filled and proposed a toast, adding that with a slight smile. Looking back from the moment he first suggested I start painting again until now, he had been an astonishingly accurate reader of my psychology. The suggestion to bring up Suki Kim had only been possible because he understood me so well.

After we clinked glasses and each drank about half, I kept holding mine tightly without putting it down.

"Director."

His gaze turned toward me, gently.

"The sketch of Juhan hyung... next time, I'd like to paint in the garden. Would that be alright?"

He raised an eyebrow and asked.

"Hmm, my garden?"

"Yes."

"Of course. Whenever you like, as much as you need."

"Um, well... I'm planning to paint... a nude..."

"......"

His stern expression as he looked at me seemed to wish he had misheard.

"Whose? Kwon Juhan's nude?"

I nodded, and he turned his wrist, swirling the sake in his glass, and fell silent with an unreadable expression. He moved his lips several times as if trying to say something, but instead of speaking, he refilled and emptied his glass twice in quick succession.

Then he asked whether I'd rather have dessert now, skipping the rest of the meal course. Already tipsy and with no appetite for a full meal, I agreed. Matcha ice cream in delicate dishes was brought out almost immediately, and he focused on scooping it with his spoon, behaving as though he hadn't heard a word of the previous conversation. At least, that was how it appeared.

Our eyes met. Facing me as I waited with nervous tension for his answer, he sighed in resignation and let the tension leave his shoulders.

"You thought if you said you were going to paint Kwon Juhan nude, I'd jump up and object — so you brought it up beforehand, right?"

"Uh... well..."

I fiddled with the spoon handle, evasive. I couldn't say no, but admitting it felt awkward too.

"If that's what you thought, then you saw things correctly."

An unexpected confession. He let out a self-deprecating sigh and put the spoon down on the plate.

"I've been surrounded by art since the day I was born. I've been doing this work for years. And now... to not be able to separate my professional judgment from personal feelings, to lose my mind at the thought of you painting another man nude — I genuinely didn't see that coming."

"......"

Slightly startled by the blunt, unfiltered emotional honesty, I dropped my spoon and fumbled for a moment.

"Don't make that face. I'm just saying that's how I felt — not that I'm going to stop you from painting it. Fortunately... I still have that much discernment left. At least for now."

He reached out and lightly pinched my cheek, managing a strained smile. It didn't hurt, but I kept rubbing the spot he'd pinched and couldn't stop myself from laughing.

"If you just wanted to paint a nude, I'd offer to pose. But that's not it — you want to paint Kwon Juhan nude, don't you."

Even as he said he wouldn't stop me, his expression remained displeased.

Would he really show jealousy over something like this? Having sometimes dismissed my own worries as excessive self-consciousness, I felt relieved he wasn't angry — but his unhappy face, openly showing his jealousy, kept making me laugh.

Perhaps he took my suppressed laughter as mockery of his jealousy, because he scratched his forehead and spoke as if making an excuse.

"I know it's pathetic... but jealousy I've never even felt as a teenager is coming out of me now. That's right, I'm insanely jealous. But because you knew I'd be jealous and still thought to tell me first — I think it can stay as mild jealousy and not turn uglier. So... in the future, if something like this comes up, I'd appreciate you telling me in advance, like you did this time."

"I... get jealous sometimes too."

"......"

His eyes widened. Then a smile full of anticipation spread across his entire face. He rested his arms on the table and leaned toward me, as if silently asking me to go on.

Partly the alcohol, and partly the courage I'd found from his confession. He wasn't the only one who had been the "bad guy," and the burning heat of jealousy wasn't a hardship that belonged to him alone.

I held my spoon upright and aimlessly scraped the plate holding the ice cream, and this time I revealed my childishness to him.

"With nuna and hyung... I clearly like them both, and I know there's no deeper meaning in any of it, but..."

"You know, but?"

"Giving piggyback rides and things like that... I'd prefer it if you didn't."

"......"

Saying it out loud made it sound like an incredibly childish demand — no, a tantrum. When he had carried nuna on his back, or when he was casually affectionate with hyung, I had felt envious, ugly little emotions flaring up — but I had never once thought of asking him to stop. I knew those feelings were foolish.

I looked down at the slowly melting ice cream, then glanced sideways at him, who was quiet.

"Just... pretend you didn't hear that..."

He caught my wrist as I was about to put the spoon down. The grip wasn't entirely playful.

"Am I the only one you're going to make childish? So from now on, it's fine if I carry Baek Yuni every time she gets drunk?"

He wanted me to admit it. To not hide the ugly desire to exclusively possess the other person — even while knowing the feeling was unreasonable — by being wary of painting models or acquaintances around us. Looking at his face, demanding we be childish together, I slowly shook my head.

He made a satisfied expression and released my wrist.

"How does my face look right now? Not hideous?"

He was performing — touching his own cheeks with a dead-serious expression — and I couldn't help but let out a small laugh.

"It must be hideous. A face trying desperately hard not to let its mouth stretch into a grin because someone twenty-two years old is jealous — isn't that what it looks like right now?"

He brought his face close to mine, asking me to look carefully, and I gazed at it for a moment before cupping his cheek in my palm. This action required more courage than his confession had moments before.

"You're just... handsome."

Perhaps it was a compliment he had heard so many times it no longer registered — and yet he stared at me, frozen, with the expression of someone hearing for the first time in their life that they were born handsome.

He looked slowly from my left eye to my right, then gently placed his hand over mine. It was embarrassing, but for a moment, it felt as if all the surrounding noise and gazes had been cut off. The illusion that only the two of us existed. Strangely, it was in that moment that this finally felt like a date.

"The poolside and garden here are quite lovely. Shall we take a walk before heading home?"

No matter how much he saw me as a pure, innocent lamb, I was worldly enough to grasp the meaning in the gaze he was sending me now — and to feel a light flutter of anticipation.

I met his eyes and nodded.

I could feel curious glances from the neighboring table, but they didn't bother me anymore. The sudden drop in volume over there made it even more obvious that they were talking about us, and I occasionally caught the words Alpha and Omega mixed in.

Perhaps they saw him and me as an Alpha-Omega couple.

Regardless of primary gender, Alphas and Omegas could legally marry. Although Betas made up an overwhelming majority of society, Korea had long carried a deep emotional resistance to such unions, and the legal framework had only been fully established within the last ten to fifteen years. Currently, there was an active movement domestically to legally recognize not only Alpha-Omega unions but all relationships capable of pregnancy.

Separate from legal allowance or effect, public prejudice against same-sex unions still existed. But among the upper class — who placed more value on the interests arising from marriage than on heterosexual alignment of primary gender — same-sex Alpha-Omega unions were already common.

Particularly in marriages among chaebol families or celebrities, it was no longer unusual. Even though homosexuality was still ostracized in mainstream society, dramas and films featuring same-sex Alpha-Omega couples were hugely popular, and Alphas or Omegas with same-sex partners working actively as public figures were common as well.

The glances from the neighboring table held more curiosity than disgust — likely because of the images projected through that kind of media. Perhaps one of them, as an Omega, felt drawn to him. Though of course, Omegas weren't the only ones who felt that way about him.

The only society I had ever really known was school and the military, both environments where second genders were clearly established, so I had never been mistaken for an Alpha or Omega before. Looking back, those kinds of misreadings had only begun after I left the village and started working at Phantom.

While I felt an awkward discomfort under their gazes — which seemed to mistake me for an Omega paired with him, an Alpha — there was also a part of me secretly imagining myself being with him as an Omega.

A memory surfaced that made me uneasy: during a night we had spent together, I had urged him to knot me, and for a fleeting moment had hoped for the changes that might come to our relationship if my body were actually capable of pregnancy.

That kind of self-negation wasn't a pleasant thing to revisit, so I cut the thought off quickly and followed him, gathering my things.

After settling the bill, we left the restaurant and boarded the escalator to go down one more floor. He had mentioned a club downstairs that could get a bit noisy, but tonight, it seemed like something more than that.

Screaming and shouting from somewhere out of sight, warnings trying to restrain people, and radio voices calling for backup were all tangled together in a tense, chaotic way. People riding the escalator going up were turning back toward the source of the commotion and whispering to each other.

As the escalator carried us further down, a small crowd became visible at the club entrance, which had no separate door. Through the gaps between the club staff and hotel security surrounding a bench placed against the wall, I caught brief glimpses of two or three men and women slumped across it.

They were loudly proclaiming the legitimacy of their sexual arousal and their grievance at being interrupted, using explicit language. Words like pheromone, heat, and sex felt like props placed incorrectly — jarring against the hotel's elegant interior.

From the radio chatter, it sounded as though the hotel had decided to turn them over to the police and was simply waiting for them to arrive. Staff were struggling to restrain and quiet them, but it didn't seem to be going easily.

"Sometimes Alphas or Omegas come to places like this without taking their suppressants on purpose. They think that going into heat and drinking alcohol together can substitute for drugs."

He was clearly trying to keep his personal feelings out of it, but he couldn't hide his intense disgust.

Once we stepped fully off the escalator, we could see them more clearly.

Stocky security guards were holding them back as they groped themselves and tried to remove their clothing. One of the troublemakers even lunged at a guard, rubbing against him and pouring out obscene words with eyes completely glazed over. Even when their mouths were covered and threats were shouted at them, they were unstoppable.

Even though I didn't want to look, my gaze kept drifting there.

They were definitely... different from the drunk Betas I had seen before.

They didn't have the intoxicating, hazy quality that Juhan hyung had once described about artist Shushu, nor did they appear sublime. It was simply uncomfortable — like being forced to witness the extremely private state of others, something that should have belonged only to a bed.

He put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close, as if shielding me from something harmful.

"This isn't really the atmosphere for a quiet walk. Should we just... walk home?"

He tried to smile, but he seemed to be having a harder time bearing the scene than I was.

We turned around immediately and took the escalator back up. As the commotion from below faded, my mood gradually returned to normal. There was no reason to let people with nothing to do with us ruin the lingering warmth of the time I had spent with him.

We sent the driver and car ahead, and then we began to walk slowly. A comfortable ten-minute walk to his house.

The temperature was high, but a breeze blew intermittently.

Walking with him like this was probably the first time since we returned from Hong Kong.

Maybe it was the sweet intoxication of the sake — a taste completely unlike beer, soju, or wine, which I was experiencing for the first time — or maybe it was simply the heightened awareness that I was walking beside him, but I found myself unusually giddy, giggling to myself, and he kept turning his head to check my face, as if he found me amusing.

Passing the short shopping strip right in front of the hotel — a mix of high-end tailors and old, modest hair salons — the atmosphere of the street changed completely. In the upscale residential area lined with large houses enclosed by tall, long walls, cars passed only rarely and not a single person could be seen.

As we passed a mansion whose wall was built from slate-gray bricks as large as boulders, he lightly took hold of my arm, exposed below my short sleeve. His hand stroked slowly downward until it found mine and gripped it.

Walking hand-in-hand with him down the street suddenly felt more unbelievable than kissing him or sleeping with him, so I kept raising our joined hands to shoulder height to confirm with my own eyes that it was real.

He looked back at me, chuckling. Feeling giddy, and aware of my own tipsiness, I pushed lightly against his shoulder.

"Why... why do you keep looking at me?"

Behind an SUV parked in the designated spot in front of the mansion with the gray brick wall, he suddenly pulled my hand and drew me with him.

Leaning his back against the wall, he held me and raised his index finger in front of his lips. Before I could say anything, he covered my lips with his. Not a deep kiss — shallow, playful pecks, lips meeting with a soft sound before parting, repeated many times. I found myself laughing without realizing it.

"Mmm... why are you laughing like that?"

I was clearly drunk, because I was the one laughing more, and yet I was asking him why he was laughing.

"I can't help smiling when I'm with someone pretty. Can't really blame me for that."

As I laughed at his nonchalance, our lips met again. This time, the warmth of his tongue tracing my lips made the back of my neck tighten. On his tongue, teasing at my lips, I could taste the fruity scent of sake and the sweetness of the ice cream we'd had for dessert.

"You really smile a lot when you're drunk. If you had to put a face to the word beaming, this would be it."

He clasped both hands behind my waist.

His voice, lowered to a whisper, made me tense even though there was no one passing by. Or perhaps, exactly because the area was so quiet with no passersby, he had no choice but to whisper.

"If I smile... do you like it?"

"I do. Because you don't usually smile this brightly."

He rubbed his nose against mine as he said it.

The sound of a car approaching from below and the sweep of its headlights made me startle and freeze, and instinctively I pressed myself closer to him. He pulled me tightly into his arms as if to hide me — even though I was neither small nor delicate — and pressed his lips deeply into my temple.

Being with him, in the living room or his bedroom or the kitchen or the downstairs studio, there had never been any restrictions on physical touch. This felt different from all of that.

He was someone who could instantly secure a completely private space anywhere outside of home whenever he wanted, and right now, the house was barely five minutes away anyway — there was no need to hide in the dark shadow behind a parked car, lowering our voices for fleeting kisses, bracing ourselves for the moment someone might discover us.

But I didn't dislike it.

I looked up at his face, thinking that this was probably what dating was like for most people my age — arriving somewhere and then lingering outside, unwilling to part, slipping into a secluded corner to whisper.

When our eyes met, I smiled foolishly again. Remembering that he had said he liked my smile, I didn't look away even as I tried to hide my flushed face. He was looking at me with a gaze that seemed to carefully trace every contour of my face.

"I want to keep making you smile like this..."

As if moving between the small joys of something like love and the anxieties it brought, I wanted to wipe away the shadows that flickered occasionally in his eyes.

"Well, then... if you kissed me again... that would work..."

Where those words came from in my head, I had no idea. I wanted to blame it on the alcohol.

Watching his blue eyes widen, a mortifying rush of shame and regret squeezed through the cracks of my tipsiness. If I was going to say something like that, I should have drunk more first.

"If it makes you smile like this, I'd do it all day."

His eyes curved gently and he tightened his hold around my waist. I placed my hands on his chest and leaned into him a little more, and he tilted his chin and pressed his lips firmly against mine.

The kiss continued, our lips opening and closing, taking each other in and releasing again. Beneath our lightly lowered eyelids, neither of us lost sight of the other.

My hands, which had been tracing the broad, firm curve of his chest muscles, moved upward past his shoulders and neck until I was cradling his face in both palms. He caught my wrists and turned his head, rubbing his lips against my palm. I could feel his cock, hot and hard, pressing against my lower body.

I, too, wanted deeper contact. The craving for his scent — which drifted near and then receded — made me restless in an instant.

"Tonight, I want us to sleep together without having sex."

"......"

He whispered it calmly, pressing his cheek and lips against my palm.

At first I didn't immediately understand what he meant. When I looked up at him with a questioning expression, he smiled and lightly flicked my forehead with his finger.

"Ah."

He pulled my hand away from where I'd been rubbing my forehead, pressed a kiss to that spot, and chuckled softly.

"When did you get so accustomed to sex?"

He was teasing me for having come to treat this kind of atmosphere as a natural lead-up to sex — but it was understandable. Recently, we had been having sex almost every day.

When we first arrived back at his place we had sometimes stopped at petting or caressing, cautiously, but lately, the kisses after dinner had become an established routine that led to sex. That change had clearly started after the barbecue party and the night with the lace lingerie — because that night, we had decided to cross a line we'd only circled hesitantly before and no longer hide the seriousness of our feelings for each other. At least, that was how I understood it. As time passed, I was growing more and more certain that he felt the same way.

During the day, painting alone, it was manageable. But after dinner together, conversation, being exposed to his conscious, wanting gaze and his heavy, provocative scent — self-control became impossible. Lately, neither of us waited for the other to initiate.

That was why I didn't immediately understand what he meant. Even now, his cock was hot and hard. It wasn't that he didn't want sex.

He rubbed my forehead for me, lifted his chin to look up at nothing in particular, and murmured playfully.

"Once we start, not thrusting is impossible... and if I thrust, I knot, and that puts a lot of strain on your body."

"But... we've knotted almost every time lately... and we've even knotted twice in one night before..."

"......"

It wasn't meant as an accusation about the knotting, but he looked down at me with that complicated expression again. It wasn't as if he had been the only one who wanted to knot.

"Even though we did it that often... my body was fine, wasn't it? That's what I meant..."

He cupped the back of my head and pulled me closer. As I pressed near his nape, his scent — mixed with traces of perfume — grew a little clearer.

The force of his hold was strong enough that my torso ached, but I felt no discomfort and no urge to pull away. The warmth of his lips against my ear was warm.

"I want to be with you too, Ihyeon. I always want to. But... just once. I want to know what it's like to wake up in the morning and have you right there beside me. I won't ask for much. Just once, for me too..."

I still couldn't fully connect how not having penetrative sex — or not knotting — was related to staying together until morning. But thinking about it, even with all the passionate nights we had shared, we had never actually fallen asleep together.

As much as I loved having sex with him... I was just as curious about what it would feel like to go to bed without it and wake up together in the morning.

"Okay."

Leaning against the wall meant I couldn't wrap my arms fully around his back, but I held gently onto the backs of his arms and whispered toward his nape.

I wanted to ask — why couldn't we sleep together after sex? But the alcohol made clear thought difficult. My questions took shape only to crumble again, dissolving into the deep heat of his scent.

"Seo Ihyeon."

His voice whispering my name by my ear overlapped with the voice that had called out to me when I'd been searching for him. I hoped that even if I were to lose him, he would find me like that, call out to me. And that I could do the same for him.

Instead of answering, I buried my face deeper into his nape and quietly felt the steady beat of his heart against my own chest.