“Oh? Honestly, that sounds like he’s serious about you. Inwoo calling every couple of days—that’s not normal.”
Yuni’s eyes sparkled as she teased, while Juhan frowned.
“If he were serious about you—well, that’d be shameless, wouldn’t it?”
“Hey, are you saying an experienced playboy has no right to pursue someone innocent? Suddenly you’re acting /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ all conservative. What about you, Chief Han? If Inwoo is sincere and you like him too, would you object?”
Chief Han shrugged, leaning on the table.
“Hmm... can anyone really forbid someone else’s relationship?”
Yuni smirked at Juhan, but he—always the liberal on romance—refused to give ground.
“I know that. But it’s not something others should police—they need to exercise their own moral restraint.”
He fell silent, and for a moment I thought the topic was closed—until he spoke:
“Ihyeon, are you interested in Inwoo?”
His question cut through the chatter. There was no accusation in his tone—only curious observation—which made it even more disorienting. I glanced around at everyone, then, fidgeting with my wine glass, answered softly:
“No....”
He shrugged, looking at the others.
“See? Why expend so much energy on something you don’t even feel?”
“Poor Inwoo,” Yuni said sympathetically. “He always says he’s a Golden Alpha who could seduce anyone. Guess it doesn’t work on a Beta.”
Juhan squeezed my shoulder in solidarity, grinning. I smiled wryly, thinking how absurd it was to answer questions about a scandal that didn’t exist—until Yuni called out again, and I looked up at him without meaning to.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To get more drinks.”
“Okay, we’re done with wine—beer, please!”
He waved off Juhan’s shout, then froze when Yuni called after him.
“On your way, give me a ride to the bathroom, too.”
Yuni climbed onto the bench, and without protest he steadied her—like an older brother. She laughed like a child with flushed cheeks, clinging to him. Watching them, I remembered that night in the garden, feeling like Alice in Wonderland. Our relationship had grown more passionate since then, yet in their world I still felt like an outsider.
“So am I the nude model now? Is it finally my chance to show off this physique?”
Juhan poured his beer into my empty wine glass and teased, and I forced a laugh.
■ ■ ■
Their laughter drifted through the open foyer into the kitchen as I cleared away the remaining dishes. He wiped frying oil off plates with a paper towel and looked back over his shoulder.
“They’ve still got a long way to go. They’ll keep talking until dawn,” he said, rinsing his hands.
After a busy week at the gallery, Chief Han had called for a driver home, but Yuni and Juhan were just getting started—debating ‘Old Future’s fall season, the Chicago show, U.S. gallery philosophies, and their own dreams. The conversation never ran dry, and their ideas only got more animated as the wine flowed.
He handed me a dish, then paused in midstep and tilted his head—shifting the air between us.
“I didn’t know you spoke with Inwoo every other day.”
His voice was soft, and he brushed damp hair from his forehead as he smiled.
“Nothing special—just everyday talk.”
“Everyday talk—like dinner?”
I nodded slowly.
“You really aren’t interested in him?”
“......”
I held his gaze, though my heart pounded. Part of me wanted him to read my thoughts, but I forced myself to meet his eyes and answer quietly:
“No.”
He studied me for a moment, then turned away. I exhaled, realizing how vulnerable I felt under his look.
He stepped closer, the marble countertop at his elbow. He traced its edge with his fingertips and glanced down at his hand.
“When you go out, you’ll still ride in my car, right?”
“......”
His question felt distant from Inwoo—or any other concern. I nodded, not wanting to worry him or the others.
“That’s all I need,” he said, slipping his hands into his back pockets and forcing a bright tone. “Before you sleep, could you stop by my study? I have a gift—unlike those two, I didn’t come empty-handed.”
I blinked.
“Really?”
His grin deepened.
“Don’t look so doubtful. That wasn’t the expression I wanted.”
I’d always thought repaying kindness with kindness could feel burdensome, but now I had nothing to give in return—and I hated feeling indebted.
He sighed, leaning on the counter with an apologetic tilt of his shoulders. His profile, lower than mine, looked almost vulnerable.
“Again, I’m not sacrificing anything for you. I’m not stretching finances for support or gifts—I do this for Yuni and Juhan just as often. All I want is your genuine delight in accepting them.”
If it had been Yuni or Juhan, they’d have squealed with joy. Had I judged them ungrateful? I shook my head—knowing it wasn’t so simple.
“Then do one thing for me. Fair is fair.”
His eyes brightened as he straightened.
“I’d like to see the drawings you’ve done since moving here.”
He tilted his head, urging me to answer.
“Now?”
He nodded.
“Why not? You don’t have a rule against sharing works in progress. And since you’ll be sketching Juhan anyway, he’ll see them. So it can’t be that you never show anything.”
He was the gallery owner, after all—it wasn’t unreasonable for him to want a glimpse of my process. More than that, I wanted to oblige him.
I met his expectant gaze and nodded. His smile was radiant—pure delight like a child with a new toy—and it struck me unexpectedly. He was so much larger than I, so utterly confident, yet here he was beaming because of something I’d made.
I’d felt warmth sharing with Morae or Juhan, but this was different: his joy sparked my own, igniting impulses I didn’t know I had. I realized in that quiet moment that I truly liked him.
If I feared change, it was this feeling—liking someone—because it reshapes you without permission. I remembered my initial defiance when I first met him—an unspoken rebellion against indifference. Now, though, I found myself hoping to remain a mystery to him, even as I wanted to share everything.
I followed him down to the basement. From the built-in shelves we’d passed, I took down several sketchbooks filled with the past days’ work. My hands were clammy, my throat dry, as I handed them to him.
He weighed the books in his hands, raised an eyebrow, and asked,
“All drawn since you moved in?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Looks like you really focused on painting after I left for work.”
He took a seat on the three-seat sofa set away from the wall and flipped through each sketchbook in silence. He showed no critique—just a raised hand as if to say it didn’t matter if they were practice sketches.
I wished for at least some feedback; his calm, unreadable expression said nothing. If showing rough sketches earned this reaction, I needed much more preparation before sharing my canvases.
As he lingered on a few pages, he finally let the corners of his mouth lift.
“This makes my humble gift seem so trivial.”
He murmured, his gaze still on the paper. After a moment, he closed the book and, almost shyly, pressed his palm to his mouth. Then he handed the sketchbook back to me. Our fingers brushed, and he gently hooked his little finger around mine.
“I’ll be waiting in my study.”
He smiled, and I realized how profoundly I wanted him to be happy—and that, if given the chance, I’d gladly give him anything.
— Diamond Dust continues in next Volume.
