* * *
Just locking eyes with him was enough to make Junhee feel like he was suffocating.
Every time the topic of Ki Taeseong came up, he would grow sensitive, his nerves fraying at the edges, lashing out without hesitation—treating Junhee like he was nothing.
How utterly miserable that made him feel—Ki Taeryu would never understand, not even if he lived and died a hundred times over.
Naturally, nothing good came out of Junhee’s mouth either.
“That letter sat untouched for five years. Whether it’s five years and one day or two days past that, does it really make such a difference? What matters is that its contents have finally reached the person it was meant for, isn’t it?”
“What matters is that you, of all people, ripped it up when you weren’t even the intended recipient.”
“It was just a letter.”
“Just? Who gave you the right to decide that?”
The fury in his voice burned like fire.
Junhee wanted to understand, but he couldn’t.
It felt unfair, as if Ki Taeryu was unloading all the anger meant for Ki Taeseong onto him instead.
“Yes. I apologize for tearing up your letter without permission. I truly am sorry. But no matter how much you lash out at me, it’s not going to bring back the brother who ran away.”
“You don’t know a damn thing, so don’t run your mouth.”
He could have ignored it.
If he hadn’t brought it up, Ki Taeryu might have never known the truth, might have gone his whole life in ignorance.
But Junhee had spoken first—not to be berated, but because he wanted to hear Ki Taeryu’s honest feelings.
Not from someone else. From him.
“…You never even tried to tell me. If you don’t say anything, how am I supposed to know?”
Being by Ki Taeryu’s side was both comforting and unsettling.
Junhee found relief in the way Ki Taeryu pulled him away from things that threatened to harm him, yet in the end, he always felt like he’d be shoved into a pit of misery when they were alone.
He had clung to Ki Taeryu’s hand, grasping at the salvation he offered.
Just like yesterday, he had run to him, seeking shelter in his space.
But it never lasted long.
The moment Junhee touched upon Ki Taeryu’s raw nerve, he bared his fangs and sought to drive him away.
And then, the warmth that had lingered on his cheek, on his lips—vanished.
Gone, as if it had never been there at all.
To Junhee, it felt no different from being abandoned.
No—being given something only to have it snatched away was even worse.
“Aren’t you capable of being a little more honest?”
“If I were any more honest… do you really think you could handle it?”
Ki Taeryu sneered at him, and it felt like a splash of ice-cold water.
“Answer me, Yoo Junhee. You’re the one lying to me first. So why should I be honest with you?”
Junhee had hidden things from him before.
At one point, he had tried to bury the truth about Ki Taeseong.
He had wanted Ki Taeryu to suffer just as he had, had stubbornly clung to his pride and refused to tell him anything.
But what was the point of that now?
“…You were the one who deliberately approached me from the beginning, weren’t you, Director?”
Because I ended up liking you.
“I was certain you knew something.”
“Then I’m telling you now. Five years ago, I met your brother just once. By pure coincidence. After that, I forgot all about it—until you came along and made me realize that man was Ki Taeseong.”
“So in the end, you knew but pretended not to.”
His mocking words stabbed at Junhee’s heart, but he didn’t waver.
“That’s all I know. I have nothing more to tell you.”
Ki Taeryu stood up.
He walked around the round table, stopping right in front of Junhee, and reached out.
Junhee, still seated and staring down at the crumpled napkin in his lap, felt his chin roughly seized and tilted upward.
“I realized a long time ago that you weren’t worth using.”
Junhee’s brown eyes trembled.
That sentence—it felt like Ki Taeryu was telling him he had been nothing more than a tool, that he had outlived his usefulness.
“Why aren’t you saying anything, Junhee? You wanted honesty, so I gave it to you.”
He had hoped, deep down, that once he peeled back all the layers, he would find something different inside.
But there was only misery.
Why had he only realized now that this was Ki Taeryu’s true self?
“So… what you’re saying is, you have no more reason to see me?”
“Even if I don’t, you still have a reason to stay.”
Those black eyes bore into him, as if asking—who else is going to save you if not me?
That gaze pushed Junhee right to the edge of the cliff.
He closed his eyes for a long time before opening them again.
But when he did, the brutal reality was still there.
“I still think… we make a pretty good pair.”
A rough thumb dragged across Junhee’s lower lip.
He couldn’t deny it—Ki Taeryu wanted him.
And Junhee, too, burned for him.
He didn’t know why Ki Taeryu couldn’t seem to desire any other omega.
“…So what, are you saying we should at least be sleeping partners?”
Is that all I am to you?
At Junhee’s desperate, final question, Ki Taeryu smirked and shot back with one of his own.
“Then what? Should I marry you instead?”
He couldn’t handle this.
He had always known that.
But knowing something in theory and experiencing it firsthand, feeling it carve through his body and soul, were two entirely different things.
Ki Taeryu had always intended to marry another omega—yet to Junhee, he had only ever offered a physical relationship.
How was he supposed to accept that?
The unwavering certainty in Ki Taeryu’s eyes, the confidence that Junhee would always come crawling back to him because he had no other choice—he couldn’t bear it.
“…Fuck.”
He had wasted emotions, time, and pain on someone who only made him feel wretched.
While Ki Taeryu had carelessly discarded the days they spent together, Junhee had spent his nights feverish, suffering alone.
Ki Taeryu’s words, his actions, the fleeting kindness and cruel indifference—they had all twisted around him, leaving him drowning in a haze of confusion.
He had tried to pretend it didn’t affect him.
But in the end, it did.
Every time he gave his heart to someone, all he ever received in return was humiliation and disgrace.
He had known it would hurt, yet he had gulped it down anyway, only to be left writhing in pain.
‘You already know, don’t you?’
‘Know what?’
‘What kind of person I am.’
He had known, and yet he had still fallen.
Maybe, in the end, this was his own fault.
Disgusted by the familiar sense of self-loathing, he clenched his teeth.
That bastard—he had dangled a treat in front of Junhee like a dog, expecting him to wag his tail in submission.
Ki Taeryu knew him. Knew everything—what he liked, what he hated, what he resented.
Yet he still had the audacity to ask, can you handle it?
How could he do this, knowing everything?
“…Did you really think I had nowhere else to turn?”
His rage simmered, refusing to cool, burning through the night until the pale morning light crept in.
And in the end, when the sun finally rose, Junhee realized something.
Ki Taeryu wasn’t the only person in the world who could save him.
“You found me later than I expected.”
“…….”
“But what matters is that you came in the end, isn’t that right, Yoo Junhee?”
While Junhee pressed his lips together in silence, Hong Yeonggyeong, seated across from him, quietly lifted her glass.
He had a feeling that behind the rim of that glass, her lips were curved into a smirk.
And he wasn’t wrong.
It didn’t take long for him to think of someone other than Ki Taeryu, but it took a few more days to work up the resolve to reach out.
Even though Junhee hadn’t explicitly stated his request, Hong Yeonggyeong spoke first, as if she had anticipated everything.
“Seo Junghee will be transferred to the Dain Genetic Medical Center.”
Junhee, who had been silently listening, slowly lifted his gaze.
For a moment, he wondered—had she known about his mother’s illness before he did?
It felt as though the entire world was conspiring behind his back, weaving plans without him.
Hong Yeonggyeong took another sip of her tea as she observed the deep hollows beneath Junhee’s eyes, then continued.
“She will receive proper treatment and undergo surgery there. Hmm… According to the doctor, her condition is extremely critical. Every day’s delay lowers her survival rate by one percent, they said. So, wouldn’t it be best to move her as soon as possible?”
If it’s for my mother’s sake.
Hearing the word ‘mother’ from her lips had never felt more foreign.
“So is that why you were so certain I would come looking for you?”
At Junhee’s question, Hong Yeonggyeong pulled out the smile she had briefly tucked away.
“Of course not.”
“…….”
“Think about it. If you, Yoo Junhee, are a small stream, then no matter which direction you take, you’ll eventually end up in the same reservoir. It was only natural that you would find me.”
She was telling him that, even if it hadn’t been for Seo Junghee, he would have inevitably come to her in the end.
“You should at least be grateful that I didn’t forcefully redirect the stream. Though, if you had taken much longer, I couldn’t have promised the same.”
…Threats, when delivered with such refinement, could almost be considered an art form.
* * *
