Myeong pov
I stood under the stark, cold light, the words hanging heavy in the air. Just what is true love, anyway? It was a question that felt like a punch to my gut, a stark realization of the emptiness that still lingered inside me, even with all the glittering adoration the world offered.
"Even though I have a job that lets me be loved by so many people..." my inner voice whispered, the sound feeling small and lost against the silence of my own thoughts. The crowds, the flashbulbs, the endless stream of affection-it was all conditional, performative. "I think I have it harder than anyone when it comes to being truly loved."
I looked at the woman before me. Her eyes were a dark, deep well of complicated emotion. I knew what we had was built on a fragile foundation, a mutually beneficial arrangement that had warped into something messier. "I'm not sure I even know what genuine feelings are anymore."
I could see the struggle in her face, the way her eyes held a desperate plea even as she spoke the chilling words: "You don't need to give me your genuine feelings." Her voice was barely a tremor, yet it cut through me. In that moment, the true, raw confession was not about her demand, but about my need. She was offering herself up, an acknowledgment of the transactional nature of our bond.
"Please use me," she'd said. It was a terrifying, heart-breaking offer that echoed in the quiet room.
I felt a sudden, crushing weight of responsibility, and I lashed out at the source of my confusion, aiming the question at our shared reality. "Did we use each other?"
The woman's face, now up close, was beautifully, painfully serious. Her question, a sharp counterpoint to my own: "What do you want from me?"
I pulled away, turning my back slightly, a white-haired figure against the dark setting. The memory of my own struggle for connection returned, the way I had clung to this arrangement. I remember her saying, "Even if this was just a contracted arrangement, it wouldn't be possible without some amount of desire..." She was right. There had always been a spark, a tiny ember of something real we both refused to acknowledge.
"And it can't purely be innocent love," I said, my voice heavy with the cynical truth of our world, "because somewhere underneath, we're working towards our own interests." A deep, painful silence followed as I faced the ultimate realization. "...I... just want you to be happy." I meant it. Truly. I wanted her free of this mess, of me.
She looked up at the ceiling, her face pale, the rain outside mirroring the tears she held back. I could almost hear the thoughts in her mind: "Yeah. I do need someone to love me."
And then, she looked back at me, her gaze piercing. "And I think that day... you needed someone to love you." Her words were gentle, a profound observation that stripped away all the pretense.
I looked at her, truly looked at her. "...Can you keep loving me?" The question was not a request, it was a plea for safety, for stability in a life that was spinning out of control.
Her answer was immediate, firm, and perhaps the most genuine thing either of us had said all night.
"Of course."
Eun yuhan pov
I held her close, the world outside fading into a soft blur of blue and light. Her answer-"Of course."-had been a revelation, a simple, solid promise in the face of my deepest fears. The relief was overwhelming. My lips brushed the top of her dark hair as I realized what her confession, and my own, meant for us.
"...Can you keep loving me?" I had asked, laying all my fragile hopes at her feet.
"Of course."
It wasn't just a simple arrangement anymore; it never really had been. It was raw, complicated, and entirely ours.
I tightened my embrace, my voice softening as I asked the question that would change everything: "...Then should we give this a real shot and be together?"
She leaned into me, a silent confirmation. In that moment of shared, simple warmth, the painful, cynical games we'd played felt distant. "That's what I'd hoped for all along," I admitted in my mind, a confession to myself that felt both foolish and freeing. She needed someone to love her. I needed her to love me.
A moment later, we separated, and I remembered the words she had spoken earlier, the painful truth that had led us here: "Yeah. I do need someone to love me." And the observation that had tied us together: "And I think that day... you needed someone to love you."
Weeks later, the scene was different. We were in a bright, modern room, sitting across from each other with papers in our hands. The initial glow of our decision had settled into a quiet, working rhythm.
"Things between us haven't changed much since then," I observed, my tone reflective, not disappointed. We were still busy, still balancing our careers, but now there was an underlying current of security, of belonging.
"About what happened before..." I began, ready to tackle the ghosts of our past transactional relationship. I was holding the papers, the symbol of our work, but my attention was entirely on her.
Suddenly, she coughed-a sharp, ragged sound that made me look up sharply, my own thoughts instantly forgotten. (COUGH).
My mind raced. Worry immediately replaced my earlier focus. She looked paler than usual, a flush high on her cheeks that wasn't from embarrassment.
I set the papers down, my voice immediately serious and concerned. "! Are you not feeling well?"
She looked flustered, quickly bringing her hand up to her mouth in a reflexive gesture, a clear attempt to downplay it. "Oh... I've got a bit of a cold..." she murmured, avoiding my direct gaze.
My concern deepened. I reached across the space between us, my fingers brushing against hers, then gently covering her hand in mine-a silent, deliberate action. (HOLD).
It was a small gesture, but it held everything. No words were needed about the past or the future; this simple, physical connection was our new, real contract. I was here. I would take care of her.
I leaned in, my concern eclipsing every thought of work. My hand instinctively went to her forehead, fingers gently reaching beneath the wisps of her dark hair. (REACH). Her skin felt a little warm, but not alarmingly so.
"Why didn't you say so?" I chastised softly, my tone carrying only worry, not anger. I pulled my hand back, feeling a small, reassuring wave of relief. "Luckily, you don't seem to have a fever."
The relief was momentary, quickly replaced by a sense of responsibility. "Should we go to the doctor right now?" I asked, already planning to drop everything.
She shook her head slightly, her cheeks flushed with a mix of fever and embarrassment. "...I must have been a little cold at night."
My stomach clenched. I knew we hadn't changed all our routines yet, and my apartment could sometimes feel vast and empty. The thought of her suffering in silence made me feel like a failure as a partner. "I'm sorry... This is my fault..." I whispered, the shame making my own face warm. The realization hit me: Our relationship is cold, yet there's a bit of warmth. It was a paradox we lived in, but I was determined to foster the warmth.
I looked at her, then down at the papers. I had almost forgotten what we were discussing. "...Though things could get extremely hot sometimes," I mused internally, a subtle, private smile touching my lips as I recalled the moments where the "contract" was forgotten entirely.
A sudden, sharp voice broke my reverie. "MYEONG...!"
I looked up. Director Woo was approaching, clearly needing something from Myeong.
Myeong, ever the professional, immediately straightened up, composing herself instantly. "Yes, Director Woo?"
I subtly reached into my pocket, pulling out a small, pink-wrapped item. As Director Woo was momentarily distracted, I slipped the medicine into Myeong's hand-a quick, furtive gesture of care. (SQUEEZE). My fingers pressed against her palm, ensuring she held the pill before pulling away.
The director paused. "Can we talk for a second? I wanted to discuss something with you," he asked Myeong, holding up a small, patterned cloth, perhaps a towel or a handkerchief.
Myeong, clutching the medicine, smiled easily. "Sure. I wanted to go over some things about Bomi with you too. Director Woo."
I watched them go, a small sense of pride welling up inside me. She was so composed, so capable. Later, I heard her talking to someone, her voice calm and strong despite the lingering cold. "He was always by my side, like a calm lake... It's thanks to him that I'm able to carry on with the shoot."
The day's work finally concluded. I drove Myeong back to her building.
"Here we are," I said, pulling to a stop.
She gathered her things, her backpack slung over her coat. She turned, her smile genuinely radiant, free of the strain of the morning. "I'll be leaving now."
I simply nodded, watching her walk away. We were making this work. We were transitioning from a cold, negotiated deal to a place where genuine concern, small gestures of care, and shared responsibility anchored us. It wasn't perfect, but it was real.
I woke with a cough, the crisp morning air of the rooftop chilling me despite the oversized white hoodie I wore. The sun hadn't quite cleared the buildings yet, casting the high-rise apartments in a cool, silver-blue light. I felt a gentle pressure on my forehead.
"Luckily, you don't seem to have a fever," he murmured, his thumb brushing my skin as he checked my temperature with his hand. His touch was familiar now-a strange mix of cold and comforting.
I closed my eyes briefly, remembering the night. "...I must have been a little cold at night."
He withdrew his hand, his eyes softening with a familiar, hesitant guilt. He had that perpetually flustered look about him, his usually pale skin dusted pink around his cheeks. "I'm sorry... This is my fault..."
I shook my head, already feeling better. "It's fine."
We had a peculiar, delicate dynamic. It was a truth I'd realized long ago, a quiet secret tucked between us. Our relationship is cold, yet there's a bit of warmth.
(The scene shifts into a brief, internal montage of memory)
He was always by my side, like a calm lake... ...though things could get extremely hot sometimes. He was my anchor. It's thanks to him that I'm able to carry on with the shoot.
(The present moment resumes)
A figure in a dark suit approached the rooftop corner where we stood, interrupting my train of thought. Director Woo, a commanding presence with a no-nonsense air.
"Yes, Director Woo?" I asked, turning to face him, instinctively straightening my posture.
Director Woo glanced between me and the white-haired man beside me. "Can we talk for a second? I wanted to discuss something with you." He held a neatly folded pink-and-white patterned cloth-a handkerchief-that he'd been holding in his hand.
A slight pressure on my hand made me look down. My companion had been squeezing my hand lightly, a silent signal. He looked up, his expression unreadable as he stared at the Director.
"Sure. I wanted to go over some things about Bomi with you too," I replied to Director Woo, giving a small nod to the man beside me to reassure him. "Director Woo."
After the brief discussion, as the sun climbed higher and the world began its morning rush, we stood by the glass door leading into the building.
"Here we are," I said, turning to him, a slight, genuine smile on my face. The conversation had been productive. "I'll be leaving now."
He simply watched me, his expression uncharacteristically strained.
"Good night," I said, knowing he'd be working through the night again. "You must be tired, so please get some rest."
He let out a silent breath, his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked like he wanted to say more, a word caught in his throat.
(HESITATE)
He said nothing. He simply watched me go, and I walked away, the morning light reflecting off the sleek glass of the building, leaving him to the quiet turmoil I knew he carried.
The vacation home was beautiful-a stunning, sun-drenched space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water. We stood on a spacious indoor balcony, the light casting a warm, golden glow across the room, illuminating dust motes dancing over the large meeting table and the pristine white bathrobes hanging nearby.
"A quiet vacation home right in front of the beautiful ocean. It feels like a dream," I murmured, leaning against the railing, watching the shimmering horizon.
My eyes fell on the white-haired man beside me. He was always so composed, dressed impeccably in black, always standing guard. I realized how little I truly knew about the person behind the professional facade.
"But I see you got to spend your childhood in a place like this..." I started, a note of wistfulness in my voice. "My family dynamic was pretty cold, so we never went on trips."
I paused, looking at his profile. He was looking out at the ocean, but his focus seemed miles away.
"Come to think of it, I guess I don't really know that much about you. What were you like when you were little?" I asked, a gentle curiosity driving the question. "And how was your relationship with your family? Are you an only child?"
He turned his head slightly, and I saw a rare flash of vulnerability in his expression.
"...Instead of talking about my family, can I share a secret with you?" he asked, his voice low and earnest.
I was taken aback. This was not the kind of personal disclosure I expected from him.
"Hm? What kind of secret?"
He didn't answer immediately. He took a breath, then performed a slow, deliberate movement.
(TURN)
He fully turned his back to me.
"...?" I looked at his broad back, wondering what he was doing.
Then, I understood. With a quick, smooth motion, he pushed the edges of his black turtleneck and belt up slightly, revealing the pale, smooth skin of his lower back and abdomen.
The action was swift, yet deliberate, an undeniable invitation. The golden light framed his torso, highlighting the subtle curve of his muscles.
(WHOOSH)
My eyes widened. I stared at his exposed skin, a sudden, heavy silence falling between us as the warmth of the sun and the raw intensity of the moment merged. Was this his secret? The bold, physical display felt like a confession in itself.
What was he trying to tell me?
My heart hammered against my ribs, a sudden, frantic rhythm that shattered the peace of the morning light. I stared at his back, unable to speak, the silence stretching taut between us.
He stood perfectly still, his muscles flexing slightly as he held the black fabric of his shirt. The golden sun haloed the striking pale shade of his hair and traced the defined lines of his shoulders.
And then I saw it.
In the center of the skin just below the nape of his neck, a single character was tattooed in stark black ink: 明 (Myeong).
It was my name. The exact character of my name.
My breath hitched. I took in the sculpted perfection of his back, the tattoo marking him in a way I could never have imagined. He slowly turned his head, looking over his shoulder at me, his eyes holding a depth of emotion I had never seen before-a silent plea, a profound confession.
I felt the blood drain from my face. My wide eyes reflected the pink and gold glow of the sunrise and the shock of his revelation. The meaning of the secret hit me like a physical blow.
He let the fabric fall back into place, covering the tattoo once more, before turning fully to face me. His gaze was steady, unwavering.
"You once saved my life," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it echoed in the silence of the luxurious room.
Saved his life?
I racked my brain, searching through old memories, trying to make sense of the tattoo and the staggering pronouncement. When? How? Our relationship was strictly professional, built on duty and companionship, but never on a debt this monumental. I felt like I was grasping at air, trying to catch a piece of a story I hadn't known I was living.
He looked at me, waiting for a response, waiting for the recognition that refused to come. The truth, whatever it was, was deeper and more complicated than I could have ever conceived. My whole understanding of the man who stood by my side, like a calm lake, was shifting beneath my feet, giving way to an overwhelming, profound mystery.