I smiled first, hoping he would smile again. He reached out to sweep my hair back, then gently drew me in by the nape and pressed his lips to my forehead. It was the first time in Seoul I’d done anything beyond holding hands with him while the driver was right there.
I was aware of it, but I didn’t want to push him away. His lips on the hair that fell over my forehead felt good, so I rested my face against the wrist he had stretched toward my neck and stayed quiet.
Meanwhile, the car was slowing as we turned in at the entrance.
“Here...?”
It was the hotel where, with Juhan and Morae, I’d met my uncle. Not far from his place. Come to think of it, the gallery earlier had also been about a ten-minute drive from his home.
“You haven’t had much appetite lately, so I picked a place where we can nibble and also drink a little. I promise I won’t stress you today with ‘eat this, eat that.’”
Every place he took me seemed to be a high-end restaurant serving dishes that looked expensive, and that inevitably made me feel pressured. But I didn’t want to spoil the mood of someone who had gone to the trouble of thinking of me. My thoughts were tangled, but I smiled back at him, who was trying to keep things light.
It felt odd to be walking into a hotel lobby with him.
I’d been here just two weeks ago, but the person beside me, the feelings, the situation—so much had changed. In a few days, Morae and Juhan were due to arrive safely in Bali, and after I paid back the debt there had been no word from my uncle. Not everything was back in its place, but I no longer had to live with that tight, hot breath of anxiety at my back. All of it was thanks to him. And yet, why did he still feel sorry toward me...?
Even as we walked down the broad staircase just inside the main entrance to the lower level, people coming up glanced at him, whispering about him.
“It’s inside the hotel, but it’s a casual izakaya, so it should feel relaxed.”
He seemed not to mind in the least. Given he had lived his whole life in that kind of gaze, if he still worried about other people’s attention every time, daily life would be impossible.
Just as he’d said—that even top hotels in Seoul were rebranding for younger guests with trendier interiors and menus to make them feel more approachable—the atmosphere the moment we stepped in felt more familiar than I’d expected. At least I didn’t feel that peculiar, haughty wall of a hotel restaurant. Maybe being with him made me feel safer too.
“Mr. Lau, thank you for coming. We’ve been expecting you.”
A staffer with a pleasant smile came straight over to greet him. As at several other restaurants we’d visited together, he wasn’t treated like a stranger but classified as an important guest here as well.
“The vibe’s still great. This is my guest for tonight.”
“Welcome. I’m the manager. If you need anything at all, please just say so. This way.”
The manager had greeted us in English; when he replied in Korean, the manager switched without missing a beat, smiling steadily as he exchanged greetings with me too.
Inside wasn’t large. There were about ten counter seats where you could watch the chefs cook and maybe half a dozen tables—cozy, really. Of course, the calm, refined feel still made me a little tense.
Our table was tucked into the farthest corner under a slanted ceiling that felt like stairs up to a loft—snug. He had pre-ordered the chef’s tasting course when making the reservation, so there was no need to choose a menu. I’d never had sake, but on his recommendation we ordered one with a low proof that would go down easy.
“Let’s skip the dish explanations tonight. I want to focus on our conversation.”
“Certainly. We’ll do that.”
At his request, the staffer smiled and withdrew.
“Director... English is the most comfortable for you, right?”
After the staff left, I toyed with a bleached-white hot towel and asked him.
“Probably, yes. I had my formal schooling in English, and English is my parents’ shared language, so we had to use it for family talk too.”
“But your Korean is really good. I was surprised when I heard you hadn’t lived in Korea. There’s no awkwardness at all....”
Maybe the praise embarrassed him; he dropped his gaze at a slant and smiled. With the dim indirect lighting carving deep shade across his face, he looked attractive in a way different from usual. Watching the shadow his long, thick lashes cast on his cheeks, I focused on what he was saying.
“When it was just my mother and me, we often used Korean, and my parents had lots of Korean friends, so I got used to it naturally. They kept exposing me to Korean culture through different programs and events, so none of it felt foreign to me to begin with.... And... my mother has a lot of Korean literature, so I was comfortable with the written language, but most of my live, idiomatic speech came from Korean friends I made at school.”
He paused, frowning slightly as if something displeased him.
“I did befriend a few guys like Choi Inwoo. The types who teach you the dirty words and curses first.”
I could picture Inwoo and his school days well enough that I laughed a little with him, then carefully continued. Since the topic had come up, it felt like a natural chance to ask.
“Shushu... graduated from the same school, right?”
He delayed answering, lifting his water glass to wet his lips and setting it down again. He didn’t take his eyes off me the whole time. A mischievous smile curled at his mouth. He even gave a rare little cough.
“Mm... Why do I feel like you’re paying attention to Shushu? Is it my imagination?”
Given the way we were now, I felt sure he and Shushu weren’t what I had imagined and tormented myself over. Even so, she wasn’t someone I felt relaxed around the way I did the Phantom folks or Inwoo. I was still conscious of Shushu. Knowing it wasn’t exactly wholesome or mature, my face heated as if a private flaw had been exposed.
But he looked delighted, biting his lower lip lightly and leaning in toward me. His blue eyes sparked with mischief.
“Be a little more jealous. Ask what’s going on between me and Shushu. Demand to know if it’s more than just gallery owner and rostered artist. Press me, cross-examine me... and even if I explain a hundred times it’s not like that, pinch me without listening, kick me under the table....”
“I—I don’t do things like that....”
The seat right beside us was still empty, maybe reserved, but I was conscious of the couple one table over. I stole a glance that way and hurriedly lowered my voice to deny it.
“Hm, but I’d be fine with it.”
Was he serious or teasing?
He frowned a little as if disappointed, leaning forward with his torso propped loosely on one arm. The table wasn’t very wide, so his face was very close. With his cheek comfortably squashed into his palm, that playful face sat just below my eye level.
I had the urge to reach out and toy with his handsome face, but given the place—and my own temperament—it wasn’t easy to act on it.
“So your possessiveness over me is only at that level for now? Last time you were so blatant about how I wasn’t allowed to do anything with anyone else... What was it you said? Kissing, fingers inside...”
“Um, Director!”
Unlike me, seated with my back to the wall facing the room, he could see only me. I spotted the manager heading our way and panicked, grabbing his hand on the table to stop him.
He looked wide-eyed at me once, then at my hand holding his, then back again.
“The exhibition was... really wonderful.”
“......”
The reason for my sudden, awkward subject change—like a child who had just learned letters sounding out a book—dawned on him, and amusement spread across his face.
I knew he wasn’t the type to clumsily let private conversation be overheard by others, but I was nowhere near seasoned enough to enjoy that kind of peril as a thrill.
He gave my hand a quick, firm squeeze and let go, straightening up just as the manager stopped beside our table.
“We’ll start you with the appetizer.”
A salmon salad with cucumber was served, and the manager promptly brought a tray with glasses of different shapes and colors for us to choose from. I still hadn’t fully recovered from that fluster that felt like it left a cold sweat on my back, so I just grabbed whatever my eyes landed on.
“Sorry. I pushed it a bit.”
Once we were alone again, he drew his chair in and met my eyes.
“I guess I got excited because it felt like Seo Ihyeon was a little jealous.”
“......”
I had thought a polished adult like him would find immature, consumptive feelings like jealousy a hassle. The tug-of-war that comes with romance—the unhealthy urge to bind and monopolize each other and try to realize that through the other person—I figured he’d find that tiresome. From Juhan’s stories, the image I had of him didn’t stray far from that.
But what he was saying now turned all the surrounding opinions of Lau Weikun into prejudice.
I suddenly wondered: were conversations like this how he always was? Or was this an exception?
“Your reaction was so... cute that I lost the reins a bit. You’re not mad, are you?”
He wasn’t trying to tease me—he was enjoying our time. You could tell from his face and eyes. Realizing that, I felt like I could enjoy this silly, childish back-and-forth too.
“Cute” made me feel ticklish inside, and I shook my head. The team lead, Yuni, and even Juhan sometimes said it, but it never felt like this.
Looking relieved, he smiled softly, picked up his chopsticks, and urged me to eat too.
“So, what did you really think of the exhibition?”
I finished chewing the last of the salmon and answered a beat late.
“It was... very intense and striking.”
He reacted as if he’d expected that.
“You want paintings that face the self opened to the limit and pour every bit of energy into it. Sitting down at the easel with a light heart—‘what shall I try today’—doesn’t really work for you.... That’s why I thought you’d like this artist.”
“It’s not that I think paintings made with a light heart are bad.... It’s not like I’ve only painted my most intimate pain, either.... It’s just that, for me, painting is a way I can be honest, so... it often ends up expressing feelings or thoughts.”
I couldn’t be sure I was conveying my real thoughts well, but with him I felt I could speak without fearing a misunderstanding.
He nodded.
“I know. There’s no need to rank what has more value—artists just have different styles. That’s what makes art richer. Most critics and power-gallery types love to sort by high and low.”
Our talk paused as the drinks arrived. They served chilled sake nested in a bowl full of crushed ice, along with tuna tataki—lightly seared on the outside.
The sake he’d recommended, my first, had fruit notes—strawberry, apple—that made it easy to drink. The small, round, translucent glass I’d grabbed on impulse had a bluish cast that reminded me of his eyes.
After a short exchange about the taste, the subject drifted back to “silence and lies.”
“And the way the thematic consciousness is so clearly present in the work felt very different from me—that was refreshing too. The artist seems like someone who [N O V E L I G H T] doesn’t hesitate to voice their feelings or thoughts, which made it more compelling.”
“I think your paintings are plenty bold—they just hold more complex feelings.”
“......”
Leaning comfortably back, idly stroking the rounded bottom of his glass with one hand, he sent me a suggestive look.
“From the work alone, it’s hard to imagine you being this well-behaved in everyday life.”
Honestly, the work is much closer to how you are in bed, he added, lifting his half-full glass to his lips, wearing that ambiguous smile. Watching him, I felt a thirst and tipped my own glass.
As the conversation deepened, we were tipping our glasses more often than we were moving our chopsticks.
After the tataki came crisp, delicate tempura and then a few kinds of skewers in sequence, but both of us only tasted them. The 720-milliliter bottle of sake, on the other hand, was already almost gone.
