“Ah, I’ve got that painting on reserve—so it’s mine, right?”
Inwoo said it while breaking a cracker into bite-size pieces on the plate, and he knit his brow and looked back at him.
“What reserve.”
“The piece you’re working on now. When it’s finished, I’m buying it.”
“And what do you think the price will be?”
He gave a little shoulder roll and clicked his tongue in a laugh.
“I’m both a Phantom artist and a key client. You’re not about to blow all that trust by slapping on some ridiculous price, are you?”
He glanced past the table at me where I sat on the diagonal. His face looked like porcelain fissured by pressure it couldn’t withstand. Pulling his gaze off me, he pushed back the hair that fell over his forehead.
“Nothing’s set yet. We’re not at the point of taking a reservation, even verbally.”
“Either way, I’ve made my intent to buy clear to both the artist and the gallery. When the sale’s decided, I just want to be sure I’m first in line.”
Popping the last crumb of cracker into his mouth, Inwoo stood from the sofa, saying he’d already stolen too much of my work time. He said nothing about the obvious awkwardness weighing on the room. I had never wanted Inwoo to cut through a mood with that signature offhand lightness of his more than I did now. Once I was alone with him, all I could think about was how on earth I was supposed to navigate this. My mouth felt dry; I tossed back the wine left in my glass.
Even if the roughness he was showing now—the force he seemed to be holding back—was jealousy... this was nothing like when he held me right here in the studio not long ago and told me about the jealousy he’d been feeling. It wasn’t the fresh, clumsy feeling of an immature boy flustered by a relationship that wouldn’t go his way.
“Ihyeon, do you remember that painting?”
Jacket back on, Inwoo asked with an easy smile, as if he didn’t notice anything in the air between us.
“The one you picked for me when I asked for a recommendation for the bedroom in my new place.”
Of course I remembered. I nodded.
“I don’t know if you know this, but I ended up not selling it. It’s hanging over my bed now... I used to find it uncomfortable to look again at my own paintings. Like I was staring at the dregs of self that even I refused to reel back in. But after you said it was ‘honesty about your own dishonesty,’ my painting started to feel familiar.”
Circling the table, he lightly set a hand on my right shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Propping his elbow on his thigh, leaning forward, the other one cocked his head up, shooting a look at that hand on me.
“Come see it sometime if you get the chance. You’re welcome... anytime.”
Moving behind me, Inwoo set both hands on my shoulders, pressed down from above just enough to give weight, then lifted them away. Taking the full weight of his gaze above folded fingers near his lips, I stood.
Walking toward the entry, he turned and back-stepped with a grin.
“Oh, and I booked you a medical appointment—see you at the hospital. I’ll send the date and time through Director Ryu.”
Standing, I looked back and forth between him and the director. After Inwoo arrived I’d sent the driver home early; whoever left would need someone to open and close the garage door, but he didn’t look like he was going to move.
Tap, tap. At the sudden noise I lifted my eyes to the garden windows. From the start the drops were thick—like a shower coming on—hurling themselves against the glass.
“Rain, huh. I’d better run before traffic jams.”
Still backing up, keeping both of us in sight, he took a crooked little smile and finally turned toward the entry. I shifted to follow him out, but before I could, the director had already come up beside me and caught my shoulder.
“Sorry, but could you bring down some beers from upstairs?”
His eyes were tracking Inwoo’s back, not me. If I sensed reproach in the stronger-than-usual pressure pressing me down, maybe I was being too sensitive.
When I came back with the beer to the room, he’d already seen Inwoo out. He stood at the table, gripping the wine bottle, studying the label. I wondered if Inwoo had called a rideshare and gone home properly, but my gut said this wasn’t the moment to ask. Slowing my steps, I set the green, semitransparent beer bottle on the table with a hesitant clink.
“Um... I didn’t go out. He came here.”
Right after he got off work, we’d usually press close like people making up for hours apart and keep up an easy stream of little touches. This was the first time we were maintaining distance inside a cooled, unstable current like this. The unfamiliar discomfort only highlighted, paradoxically, how soft our closeness had been.
Setting the wine bottle down quietly, he turned to look at me, standing a few paces away rubbing my arm, not sure where to put myself. His face still looked like porcelain on the verge of breaking. I could feel the restraint—the effort to keep the cracks from collapsing into ruin.
“And besides, it’s almost your quitting time...”
“Why are you making excuses?”
“Because...”
Because your mood looked that bad.
— I couldn’t say that. I could at least tell that his question wasn’t curiosity looking for a real answer.
He thanked me for the beer in the most perfunctory way and twisted off the cap, draining a third in one go. By then the tapping had become a real downpour, the sound etching an irregular rhythm into the room. In just a few minutes the light had dropped sharply, but neither of us reached for a switch.
“As for the painting... it’s a problem if you commit to a reserve without talking to the gallery.”
It had only been a one-sided statement from Inwoo, and I hadn’t shown any intent to accept it. But saying that now wasn’t going to make him smile.
“It’s your first time, so you didn’t know. I’ll handle Choi Inwoo this time somehow....”
He tipped his chin and threw the bottle back hard. It looked more like pouring than drinking.
“Who gets Seo Ihyeon’s work... at the very least, let me be part of that conversation from now on.”
His face twisted like he was forcing out words he didn’t want to say. If his bad mood really was jealousy, and if that jealousy extended even to the painting, then telling him I had no intention of selling to Inwoo might help a little.
While I racked my brain for how to even start saying that—me, with no gift for talking—the briefcase chimed. He took another pull of beer, set the bottle down, pulled out his phone, checked the caller, and connected with a sigh out through his nose, lips sealed.
“What now.”
I figured it was a work call, but the first line was casual. He shot me ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ a quick glance, turned his back, and stepped away from the sofa.
“It’s just like the ones we always do. The guest list’s a joint pull between us and them, I’ve checked every name on the final list—no worries. We invited only outlets with reach and seriousness. Do it just like we do here. Yuni and I will be together the whole time. There’s nothing different.”
I knew who it was. My mood crashed with his.
For about five minutes he paced the studio, struggling to persuade Artist Shushu. Then he flicked me a short look and dropped his voice.
“Got it. I’ll be there within thirty minutes—talk to me then. ...What? Cheeseca— ha... I know which one you mean. I’ll pick it up. Just don’t conk out while people are on their way.”
As my mood dropped, it felt like the temperature in my chest was dropping too. Jealousy doesn’t only spark at tender talk. Even in a call full of minor complaints, their long history—their intimacy—showed.
The surge of rough emotion was so unfamiliar it rattled me. He acts annoyed, put-upon, but he’s going to do everything she asks anyway, isn’t he. I wanted to lash out with a cold voice and hard face.
I’d been long uneasy about Shushu, and I’d already admitted I didn’t like the way he gave her piggyback-style touches like with an older sister... but my earlier feelings had never been this ugly. It felt like my face and my whole heart were scorched and shrinking, warping like a torn, melted plastic bag. I rubbed at my mouth and looked away.
He stopped in the middle of the empty space and spoke.
“She says she never heard about a party, says she hates parties and photo shoots... we’re back to square one. How are we supposed to reach a new market with no promotion. I’m sorry, but tonight... you’ll have to manage on your own.”
At the definitive statement that he’d go to Shushu, my eyes snapped to him. As I watched his profile—fingers sweeping his hair back in a nervous stroke, thumb flying as he fired off a text—my heartbeat sped up. The irregular drum of the rain only stoked the unease.
Even when the manager pushed him, he always handled it like it was a hassle. So why insist on meeting Shushu in person now? Why does it have to be now? The urge to press him hard was a mess. I hated this ugly part of myself—but even more, I didn’t want him to go.
He grabbed the jacket off the sofa back and brushed past me. I followed and caught him lightly just above the elbow.
“Could you... not go?”
The one sentence that punched through with no polish at all was blunt with need. He stopped and turned; his eyes widened a little. I’d startled myself, but since I’d already thrown the core out there, I decided to stop caring about thin pride or fear.
“If you leave like this...”
“......”
Nothing better to say came to mind. I bit hard into my lower lip and let it go. I didn’t have the courage to meet his eyes; I dropped my gaze to his shoulder and spoke weakly.
“I’d rather you didn’t go.”
He didn’t answer right away.
The muscles showing below the rolled sleeves of his forearms were drawn tight. His broad chest rose and fell under his shirt in bigger swells than usual, pushing the fabric taut. We hadn’t raised our voices or traded any calculated, wounding barbs, but we were already being consumed by each other’s feelings. We’d given each other that right. It felt like seeing part of the naked face of love.
Within my sight, his shoulders eased and he exhaled.
“Right now I’m too... anyway, it’ll be better if we’re not together.”
“......”
“Whatever you’re thinking, I’m just going for work...”
In other words, don’t get the wrong idea.
It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him. Even knowing it was only work and there was nothing with Shushu, I still didn’t want him to go. Just like he, even knowing nothing had happened between Inwoo and me, couldn’t hide how raw he felt and let it twist him—who was I to blame him. If anything... I understood.
He set a hand on my shoulder, gave one firm squeeze, and left the room. It was nothing... nothing more than the kind of touch he might exchange with Juhan—casual, nothing.
The soundproofing wasn’t as good downstairs, and the rain roared like we were standing in the heart of a squall. I stood in it, blank, for a long time, trying to let my feelings settle.
I made myself move, thinking at least I could clear the table—but my hands just fussed around with no efficiency. I tipped the wine bottle while lifting the cracker plate onto a tray, spilling the dark red that was left. I’m not the type to get mad at something like that, but I cursed my own stupidity out loud while I wiped the table and floor.
Just that, and my body felt limp, like I’d done hard physical labor. I gave up on tidying I didn’t want to do and slumped on the sofa, drinking the beer he’d left.
I never had the childish dream that there would only be sweet days. But I think I assumed that if we fought, the reason would be something deeper, more inward.
Maybe his call—that it would be better not to be together now—was the slightly more mature decision. I tried to console myself with that thought, pulled my legs up, set my knees, and rested the beer bottle on them. As if I knew anything about cigarettes, I suddenly craved one for the first time in ages.
“......”
A mechanical tone mixed into the sound of the rain and my body jolted. The door lock code beeps. I lurched to my feet. My heart kicked up, but I didn’t want to anticipate and then be disappointed. Maybe he’d forgotten something. He’d left his briefcase. Maybe he’d come back spoiling to keep arguing.
The lock released and he opened the door. He didn’t come in. He stood in the hall holding the handle and looked at me. His face looked like he was asking permission to enter.
I rounded the table and went quickly to him. Up close, his eyes were no longer trying to control anything, same as before he left the room.
“Sorry I acted like a child.”
“......”
He made it emphatic, like he wanted to fix the responsibility on himself.
“I’m trying not to, but... it’s not working. I’m ten years older and I still can’t manage my feelings over something like this. Pathetic.”
I shoved the door the rest of the way with my shoulder and shook my head hard.
“Just seeing you drinking with another guy made me angry... and then you showed your painting—maybe your first real piece as Painter Seo Ihyeon—to another man, and you handed it over to him when I wasn’t there...”
He stopped and took a long breath.
“It makes my head feel like it’ll crack, like you actually slept with him...”
I couldn’t let him keep tearing himself down. I closed the last two steps and laid my mouth over his. I felt his body go rigid with surprise. His lips tasted sweeter than before, like something lost and suddenly found.
The hand he’d pressed to my side slid slowly to circle my waist. Now it was my turn to be childish, to be pathetic, to be honest.
“Don’t go. I don’t want you alone with her.”
He looked down at me like my petulant plea was a beautiful, elegant confession.
His arm clamped hard around my waist and his mouth covered mine. His kiss—biting down until it hurt, sucking, like he might draw blood. I looped my arms around his neck as he kissed me so urgently it felt like he’d push me under and roll over me. His tongue thrust between my lips and raked everywhere along the soft lining.
Half lifting me in his arms, he carried me inside. Behind his back the door lock clicked shut with a brisk little sound.
Crossing straight through the empty middle of the studio, he tossed his jacket somewhere on the floor. His hand was already under my T-shirt, tracing the hard line of my shoulder blade, and the other gripped my ass through my jeans.
Thunk, clatter. The work chair I’d moved near the sofa clipped my calf and crashed over. I ignored it, trusted him, tightened my arms around his neck, and pressed my tongue to his.
It was a kiss that pulled up the memory of Hong Kong. That night we stumbled into his hotel room and tore through the living room, tangled up and mindless the moment the door shut.
“Felt like... it might have been my first kiss, technically.”
If he hadn’t said that as a marker, dull as I am, I might have let it pass without ever registering the meaning of a first kiss in my life.
The hand twisting at my butt slid around front, unbuckled, and pulled down the zipper. He was always fluid, like he was undressing his own clothes rather than someone else’s—but tonight, his hands were impatient.
