Haon had said he would think about it—until tomorrow morning. The man had told him it was fine to take a little more time, but Haon figured he’d be able to give his answer by morning. He could’ve said it right then and there, honestly, but he put it off to the next day, wanting to speak with a clearer head.
As always, the moment he lay down on the bed, he knocked out cold. And just as reliably, he woke up early the next morning. Thanks to the bright sunlight pouring in through the wide windows, he woke without needing an alarm.
Basking in the sunlight streaming in past the curtains, he enjoyed the leisure of a Sunday morning. It was a luxury he’d never known back when he lived in the goshiwon (a small, cheap one-room lodging). That place was so dark that even during the day, it felt like nighttime unless the lights were on. Because of that, he’d always needed an alarm to wake up.
Haon had always been someone who loved to sleep. Growing up in the countryside without even a computer, he’d spent most of his time taking naps. And when he wasn’t feeling well, he slept even more.
When he was awake, he’d tag along after Seong-gu hyung, helping clean out the livestock pens or running errands for the elderly neighbors who called for him. The small rural village where Haon lived was a place where the same peaceful routine repeated over and over. Nothing special ever happened—but there were no big problems either.
Unlike most kids his age, Haon didn’t have anything he particularly wanted, or dreams he burned to chase. Not once had he ever felt stifled by his small countryside home. He thought he could live there forever and still be happy. At least, that’s what he believed—until his grandmother passed away.
Bzzz—.
Haon, who had been stuck to the bed like a damp blanket, jolted upright at the vibration of his phone. He scrambled to grab it off the nightstand, hoping it might be a call from the man.
But it was a call from the owner of the bar.
“Yes, boss.”
– We’re not opening today. Hyung-cheol’s father passed away.
“Hyung-cheol hyung’s dad?”
Hyung-cheol was the kitchen staff who’d worked at the bar the longest. The owner said that without him, they couldn’t run the place anyway, so he’d decided to close for the day and gave Haon a heads-up.
– See you next week. Don’t skip out—make sure you show up.
After hanging up, Haon sat there in a daze. He wasn’t close with Hyung-cheol, but hearing that his father had passed away left him feeling heavy.
“…That must be so hard.”
He knew all too well what it meant to lose someone you loved. That only made his heart ache more. Just imagining the sorrow made him feel even sadder.
Haon’s grandmother had passed away in her sleep. She hadn’t been eating properly for days, and then, all of a sudden, one morning she just didn’t wake up, no matter how much he shook her.
The day he lost his grandmother—Haon cried more than he ever had in his life. The same boy who hadn’t even shed a tear when his mother abandoned him bawled until he couldn’t breathe. The people in the village were even more worried, seeing him like that. Seong-gu had been beside himself, afraid Haon might cry himself sick. That’s how fiercely the tears had poured out.
And after all that crying, he ran away—to Seoul.
If he stayed in that house filled with his grandmother’s scent and belongings, he felt like he’d lose his mind crying. The sorrow was unbearable.
It was the reason he kept pushing through life in Seoul, despite awakening as an Omega, the exhausting work, and the harsh living conditions. Going back to his hometown would’ve been just as hard anyway.
He believed that after three years, the scent of his grandmother and the memories tied to her would fade, even if only a little. When his mother left, too—after three years, it stopped hurting as much.
Among all the cities he could’ve chosen, he picked Seoul because of his mother. The goshiwon Haon lived in was in the neighborhood closest to the address written on the note she’d left behind. He had left his hometown to forget his grandmother, and chosen Seoul out of a longing for the blurred image of his mother.
Was it the right choice? He didn’t know.
Burying his face into the white blanket, Haon curled into a tight ball. It was only September, but it already felt like winter was creeping in.
***
From the spacious kitchen came the fragrant smell of something boiling. Standing before a pot filled with the sweet scent of pumpkin was Inho.
He was making a fresh batch of pumpkin porridge using the sweet pumpkin he had ordered in advance the day before. He could’ve bought ready-made, but he wanted to make it himself for Haon.
He stared intently into the pot, stirring the golden pumpkin mixture so it wouldn’t stick to the bottom. Despite never having received formal cooking lessons, Inho always managed to make delicious food. Korean, Western, even Chinese cuisine—he cooked them all with ease. Maybe it was the influence of having eaten so much Chinese food while living in the U.S., but he even made Chinese dishes more often than Korean ones.
‘He’ll probably sleep in again today.’
Thinking of Haon, who hadn’t fallen asleep until past 2 a.m., Inho glanced toward the distant guest room.
It was a room that had never hosted anyone for more than two nights. Even when someone had stayed there before, Inho had never paid this much attention to the room.
“Did I make too much…?”
The porridge began to boil over slightly. Inho quickly turned down the heat, acknowledging to himself that he’d misjudged the amount. He’d made way more than necessary, wanting Haon to eat a lot, even if he couldn’t finish it all.
In the end, he scooped out about half and dumped it straight into the sink. If Haon saw how full the pot was, he’d probably force himself to eat more than he should.
By now, Inho had a pretty good grasp of Haon’s personality.
That’s why he hadn’t dragged things out and brought it up yesterday—he wanted to convince Haon to stay in this house before he went looking for another goshiwon. He thought that if he asked repeatedly, Haon might eventually give in. But when he finally brought it up, Haon’s reaction had been worse than expected.
‘Does he hate this house? Or is it me that he doesn’t like?’
If it was just discomfort, he could try to make the place more livable. But if it was hate—he had no idea how to change someone’s heart. Inho believed that once someone hated him, that was the end of it.
“You’re awake?”
As the door opened, Inho quickly turned around and broke into a warm smile when he saw Haon walking toward him from afar. Their eyes met, and Haon smiled back. Thankfully, he looked much brighter than he had when he’d gone to bed.
“Did you sleep well?”
Haon approached with a bright face, his hair neatly combed. Inho had been hoping to see it sticking up messily like the day before. Swallowing his disappointment, he exchanged morning greetings with Haon.
“You’re not hungry yet, right? Want to eat a little later?”
“I’ll eat now.”
Haon approached Inho, peeking around like he wanted to help with the meal prep. His expression was bright, and his behavior oddly forward. Watching him with quiet delight, Inho was suddenly struck by a wave of doubt.
‘Why is he acting so cheerful? Is he planning to reject my offer after all?’
“Should I do it?”
Haon, watching over the pot, smiled even wider. It seemed like he was trying a little too hard to look cheerful—probably out of guilt.
“…No, just set the spoons, please.”
Masking his expression, Inho took out a small bowl and ladled the hot porridge into it. Knowing Haon would force himself to finish whatever was given, he deliberately didn’t serve too much.
“Is this just for me?”
Grabbing a spoon, Haon looked up at him. On the induction burner, only Haon’s porridge was simmering. No other dishes were prepared.
“I don’t usually eat breakfast.”
Ah, I see. Haon nodded and carried just his spoon over to the table. When Inho placed the sweet-smelling bowl in front of him, Haon reacted with an exaggerated flair.
“Wow, pumpkin?”
Yep—definitely too bright. Haon was never exactly gloomy, but he wasn’t usually this bubbly either.
“You like pumpkin?”
“Yeah, I do. I like it.”
Smiling innocently, Haon scooped a big spoonful of porridge, blew on it, and took a bite.
Inho turned back toward the sink and slowly brewed himself a cup of coffee, then sat down across from him. Haon, as always, ate slowly.
Every time he brought a spoon to his mouth, he made little hap, hap noises, like he was eating air with it.
If Inho had been in a better mood, he probably would’ve laughed watching him. But right now, he couldn’t muster a smile.
The truth was, when he saw Haon show up with that big hiking backpack, Inho had assumed he’d be staying here a while. He had no idea it was filled not with clothes but with boxes of soy milk—and had let himself hope.
‘If only he could stay just another year and a half.’
Inho glanced at Haon’s slender wrists and swallowed a sigh. He couldn’t help but picture the frail body hidden under those oversized clothes, and the weight of that image deepened his sigh even more.
“Thank you for the meal.”
Having finished every last drop, Haon set his spoon down.
“Thanks for making it.”
For some reason, it sounded like a goodbye. Inho simply smiled with his eyes and took a sip of coffee. It tasted especially bitter today.
“So… about what you said yesterday.”
Haon wiped the corners of his mouth and smiled even more brightly, as if finally ready to get to the point. Inho, placing the bitter coffee back on the table, responded with a gentler smile of his own.
The expressions on their faces as they looked at each other—oddly enough—were almost the same.
