Back then, the village was quieter. No festivals, no rainbow banners tucked into corners of bakeries, and certainly no laughter shared between two men walking hand in hand.
Mr. Jin-woo had only just arrived—gruff, broad-shouldered, a former city man with a permanent scowl and no interest in making friends. He moved into the old house near the riverbank and opened a bakery, because bread didn't talk and didn't expect him to smile.
He rarely spoke more than a few grunts.
Until he arrived.
Mr. Min—still in his early thirties then—had a spring in his step and a softness to his gaze that made most people feel welcome just by being near him. A schoolteacher, known for telling bedtime stories even to the older students, and bringing soup to lonely widows.
He was also married. A marriage arranged by his father. The girl he married, twenty-five and shy, was more like a sister than a wife. They both knew it.
Min wasn't unhappy in an obvious way. But Jin-woo saw it.
That quiet sort of sadness. The kind that lives behind a smile, tucked away like bruises under long sleeves.
Min first came to the bakery on a rainy afternoon.
"You're new," he'd said cheerfully. "I'm Min. I teach at the school."
Jin-woo barely looked up. "Bread's on the right. I don't talk."
Min just smiled and bought a whole loaf. The next day, he came back—with fresh jam in a jar. "To go with the bread."
Jin-woo didn't thank him. Just took it and nodded.
Min kept coming back.
He talked about the students. The weather. A neighbor's cat who'd learned to open doors. Jin-woo rarely answered—but he listened.
Until one evening, it was Min who didn't smile.
He came in late. Rain-soaked. His knuckles scraped like he'd punched something.
"She said I look happier at the bakery than at home," he mumbled. "She's not wrong."
Jin-woo finally met his eyes. "Why are you still with her?"
Min let out a long breath. "Because I thought I was supposed to make everyone else happy."
Silence.
Then Jin-woo said, "That's stupid."
Min stared. Then—laughed. The first real one in weeks.
That night, Jin-woo wrapped a still-warm bun in paper and shoved it at him.
"Don't tell anyone I made it for you," he said.
Min just whispered, "I won't. But I'll remember."
And he did.
For months, they danced around each other. A stare held too long. A hand brushing the other's by accident—or maybe not. Jin-woo got softer. Still grumpy, but now he let Min talk about books, and even asked him questions. Min began spending evenings helping in the bakery, "just because he liked the smell."
Then one night, Jin-woo saw Min sitting by the back door, shoulders shaking.
"She's leaving. She found someone. I'm relieved, but... it still hurts."
Jin-woo sat beside him. Slowly. Awkwardly. "Good. Now you can start over."
Min turned to him.
And Jin-woo did something unexpected.
He reached out. Brushed his thumb under Min's eye.
"You're warm," Jin-woo muttered, looking away.
Min smiled. "You're not as cold as you pretend."
That night, their hands touched for real. Held on a little too long.
The first kiss came two weeks later.
It was awkward. Rushed. Followed by silence.
But it was real.
And so it began. Quietly. Secretly.
They met behind the bakery, shared coffee on rooftops, left notes in recipe books and under lesson plans. The village didn't know. They didn't want it to.
Not yet.
But that love... that love grew.
Until Jin-woo couldn't keep pretending that bread was just bread. That Min's voice didn't make his world softer. That a home wasn't a house, but the person waiting inside it.
So one day, he looked at him across the flour-dusted counter and said:
"Let's stop hiding. If they hate us, let them. But I'm tired of being scared."
Min nodded. "Me too."
They came out to the village months later.
Some people whispered. Some smiled.
But they didn't stop.
Because the life they'd built, brick by brick, was better than any lie they'd ever lived.
And love, real love, is always worth the cost.