Dinner had concluded in a heavy, familiar silence. Master Hwang had retreated to his room, leaving Rinwoo and Beom Seok to clear the table. As Rinwoo began to gather the dishes, his eyes kept drifting to one spot: the place where he had set a full tray of food for Taekyun. It remained completely untouched. A small, unwelcome knot of concern tightened in his stomach. He hasn't come out of his room all evening. Did something happen? Is he sick? Did he finally leave?
Beom Seok, moving stiffly from his own aches and pains, noticed the distant, worried look on Rinwoo's face. "Hyung? Is everything alright?" he asked softly.
Rinwoo's gaze flickered from the untouched tray back to Beom Seok. "Hmm? Oh, it's nothing."
But Beom Seok followed his line of sight and saw the full plate of food. The concern wasn't for the dusty room or the shrine's chores; it was for him. A hot spike of jealousy, sharp and immediate, lanced through him. He couldn't stand Rinwoo worrying about that man, not even for a second.
Thinking quickly, Beom Seok let out a sharp, pained hiss, clutching his bandaged hand.
The sound instantly snapped Rinwoo out of his thoughts. "Beom Seok-ah! What's wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with genuine alarm as he rushed to his side.
"It's... it's nothing serious," Beom Seok lied, putting on a convincing wince. "My hand just... it suddenly hurts a lot. I think I must have strained it more than I thought. Holding chopsticks is... really difficult right now." He let his hand tremble slightly for added effect.
Rinwoo's brow furrowed with concern, all thoughts of Taekyun momentarily forgotten. "Why didn't you say something earlier? We should have put a proper support on it." He gently took Beom Seok's injured hand in his, examining the bandages.
"It's okay, really," Beom Seok murmured, his heart hammering at the touch.
Seeing his genuine discomfort, Rinwoo made a decision. He picked up Beom Seok's forgotten chopsticks with a soft, understanding smile. "Here. Let me help."
Beom Seok's eyes widened, a deep blush instantly coloring his cheeks. He hesitated for only a moment before leaning forward slightly, parting his lips as Rinwoo carefully brought a bite of food to his mouth. The simple, intimate act sent a thrill through him, eclipsing the dull throb of his actual injuries. For a few precious minutes, the only thing that existed was Rinwoo's gentle attention, the soft clink of the dishes, and the warmth spreading through Beom Seok's entire being. He had successfully redirected Rinwoo's worry, and in the process, had stolen a moment of tenderness that felt more real than anything he had ever known.
Taekyun emerged from the bedroom, looking like he'd lost a fight with a dust storm. His expensive clothes were smeared with grime, his hair was a mess, and he was clutching a broom and a mop like they were alien artifacts he'd barely managed to tame. Exhausted but with a small, foolish spark of pride, he was heading to put the cleaning tools away when the scene in the main hall froze him in his tracks.
There, under the soft lamplight, was Rinwoo. He was holding a pair of chopsticks, carefully feeding a bite of food to a smiling Beom Seok. They were chatting, and a soft, silly joke from Beom Seok made Rinwoo let out a gentle laugh—a sound Taekyun hadn't heard in years. It was a scene of effortless intimacy, a domestic peace he had systematically destroyed in his own marriage. The spark of pride in his chest extinguished, replaced by a cold, hollow ache. He was witnessing exactly what he had lost, and it was more beautiful and more painful than he could have ever imagined.
He shrank back into the shadows, praying Rinwoo wouldn't see him in his pathetic, disheveled state. His heart hammered with a mixture of shame and longing. When Rinwoo finally stood to gather the dishes and walk towards the kitchen, Taekyun let out a shaky breath of relief. Maybe he could just disappear.
He took a step forward, but a low, mocking voice stopped him cold.
"Look what the cat dragged in," Beom Seok said, a wide, taunting grin spreading across his face as he leisurely stood up, blocking Taekyun's path. "Or should I say, what the broom dragged out."
Taekyun clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the mop handle. "Move," he said, his voice a low growl.
"Oh, I will," Beom Seok sneered, stepping closer, his eyes glinting with malice. "I just wanted to get a good look at you. You see what you're missing? You see how he smiles when you're not around? How he laughs?"
"Shut up," Taekyun warned, his knuckles turning white.
"Why? Does the truth hurt?" Beom Seok pressed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You had him. You had all of that, and you threw it away for a woman who was just using you for your money. You're a joke. And you think a little cleaning and a few pathetic apologies will ever make him look at you the way he just looked at me?"
Taekyun's breath came in short, sharp gasps. The urge to swing the mop and wipe that smug look off Beom Seok's face was almost overwhelming.
"Go ahead," Beom Seok dared him, spreading his arms wide in a blatant challenge, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. He knew. He knew that after last night, with Master Hwang's warning hanging over them, Taekyun wouldn't dare lay a hand on him again. "Hit me. Show Rinwoo just how little you've really changed. Prove me right."
Taekyun stood there, trembling with rage and humiliation, the cleaning tools feeling like lead weights in his hands. Beom Seok was right. He was utterly powerless. All he could do was stand there and take it, the truth of Beom Seok's words carving him up from the inside out. With a final, seething glare, he shoved past Beom Seok and stormed away, the sound of Beom Seok's low, triumphant chuckle echoing in his ears, a constant reminder of the happiness he had destroyed and would never get back.
The morning sun streamed into the Park dining room, a stark contrast to the gloom that had pervaded it for days. Juwon's mother, her face brighter than it had been in weeks, happily placed another serving of grilled fish on his plate. "Eat more, Juwon-ah. You need to regain your strength," she fussed, her relief at having him home palpable.
Mr. Park sat at the head of the table, silently scrolling through his tablet as he sipped his coffee. Suddenly, he let out a short, bitter chuckle. The sound cut through the fragile morning peace.
"Look at this," Mr. Park said, turning the tablet around to face Juwon. On the screen was a society news alert, emblazoned with a headline: "Lee and Jeon Families to Unite: Lee Taemin and Jeon Nayeon's Wedding Officially Announced."
A grainy, stock photo of Taemin and Nayeon was placed beside it.
"This," Mr. Park sneered, tapping the screen with a dismissive finger, "is the same person you ran away for? The one you defied your family to save? Look at him. Barely a day after you're gone, and he's already set to marry the Jeon girl. Tsk. I told you, Juwon. The Lees are all the same. They use people and discard them when they're no longer convenient."
Juwon froze, his chopsticks hovering mid-air. His eyes locked on the screen, on Taemin's name, on the word "wedding." For a brief, dizzying second, the world tilted. This was it. This was the proof his sacrifice had worked. Taemin was safe. He was marrying his fated match. The curse would be appeased. He had achieved his goal.
A slow, deliberate smile spread across Juwon's face. He looked up at his father, the expression perfectly crafted to mask the seismic collapse happening within him.
"You're right, Father," Juwon said, his voice unnaturally calm and even. "It seems it was just a childish phase after all. I'm glad he's moving on with his life."
He picked up his chopsticks again, his hand steady as he resumed eating, as if the news was nothing more than a trivial piece of gossip. He was the picture of a son who had seen the error of his ways.
But beneath the table, hidden from view, his other hand was clenched into a white-knuckled fist, his nails digging half-moons into his palm. And deep inside his chest, his heart wasn't just breaking; it was shattering into a million irreparable pieces, each one etched with the memory of Taemin's smile, his laugh, and the love Juwon had willingly destroyed to keep him alive. The relief was a cold, hollow victory, and the price was a pain he knew he would carry for the rest of his life.
The early morning light filtered through the curtains, illuminating Daon as he stood before the mirror, meticulously tying his tie. His movements were precise, robotic, a stark contrast to the man still asleep in their bed. He glanced over at Eunjae, who was curled tightly under the covers, his face pale and etched with the exhaustion of a sleepless night spent worrying over Taemin.
A pang of something—guilt, concern, a flicker of tenderness—made Daon pause. He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. Instead of shaking him awake, he leaned down and began to wake Eunjae slowly, with a trail of soft kisses along his temple and cheek.
Eunjae stirred, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he slowly blinked awake. "Daon...?" he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and a hint of malaise.
Seeing the fatigue in his eyes, Daon's chest tightened. He gently cupped Eunjae's cheek, his thumb stroking the skin under his eye before he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. "You didn't sleep well," he stated, his voice low.
Eunjae's cheeks flushed at the unexpected sweetness, a stark contrast to their usual dynamic. He looked up into Daon's concerned eyes. "I'm okay," he whispered.
"You need to stop worrying about everyone else," Daon said, his tone gentle but firm. "About Taemin, about my father... just stop."
Eunjae's gaze softened. He reached out, wrapping his arms around Daon and burying his face in the crisp fabric of his work shirt, right over his heart. "I'm not worried about them," he confessed, his voice muffled. "I'm worried about you, Daon. I've never... I've never loved someone so deeply before. It's only you. It's always been you."
The raw, unguarded confession should have been a balm. Instead, it felt like a key turning in a lock Daon hadn't known was there. He felt Eunjae's arms tighten around him, a desperate, clinging hold.
Then, the question came, quiet and terrifying. "Do you love me, Daon?"
Daon froze.
He had been thinking about it all night. The question had echoed in the silence after their emotional breakdown. He cared for Eunjae, deeply. He felt responsible for him, protective of him. The thought of him being hurt was unbearable. But was that love? He cared for his father, in a dutiful, fearful way. He cared for his brothers. Was what he felt for Eunjae just a more intense version of that familial duty? He had no frame of reference. Love was an abstract concept he'd never had the luxury to explore.
He slowly, carefully, pulled back from the hug, breaking the intimate contact. His expression was pained, thoughtful. He reached out and gently cupped Eunjae's cheek again, his touch tender but his words, when they came, were devastatingly clinical.
"Eunjae," he began, his voice quiet and horribly rational. "I care for you. More than I've ever cared for anyone. The thought of you leaving... it feels like a failure. But I don't know if what I feel is what you call love. I don't know if I'm capable of it in the way you need."
He saw the hope in Eunjae's eyes begin to dim, replaced by a dawning horror. Daon pressed on, offering his cold, logical solution to their emotional impasse.
"Maybe... maybe the problem is that you're trapped here with me. Because of the curse, we can't divorce. But..." he hesitated, searching Eunjae's face, "if you want to experience love... real love... perhaps you should. You could date someone else. I would... I would allow it. We could stay married on paper, to satisfy the curse, but you could be free to find what you're looking for. This way, we could both have what we need without a messy divorce."
The words hung in the air, a well-intentioned yet soul-crushing proposal. He was offering Eunjae permission to seek love elsewhere, believing it was the kindest, most logical way to make up for his own emotional shortcomings. He didn't understand that for Eunjae, there was no "someone else." There was only Daon. And in that moment, Daon had just confirmed his greatest fear: that in the eyes of the man he loved more than life itself, he was just a duty, a responsibility to be managed, even if it meant sharing him with the world.
The air in the room turned to ice. Eunjae stared at Daon, his expression shifting from vulnerable hope to pure, unadulterated disbelief, then to a horror so profound it seemed to steal the air from his lungs.
He shoved Daon back, the heel of his hand connecting hard with Daon's chest. "What did you just say?" Eunjae's voice was a low, dangerous whisper.
"Eunjae, calm down—" Daon tried, his own composure cracking.
"Calm down?!" Eunjae exploded, launching himself off the bed. He shoved Daon again, harder this time, his voice rising to a raw, painful shout. "You want me to calm down after you just offered to lend me out like a library book?!"
He was trembling from head to toe, tears of rage and hurt now streaming down his face. "You stand there and tell me you don't know what love is? Then let me ask you, you cold, stupid man! Do you kiss your brothers like you kiss me? Do you wake them up with kisses? Do you hold them when they cry? Do you share your fears, your secrets, your bed with them?"
Daon stood frozen, each question hitting him like a physical blow. "That's not—"
"TELL ME!" Eunjae screamed, advancing on him, his fist connecting with Daon's shoulder in a burst of frantic, helpless anger. "HAVE YOU EVER MADE LOVE TO YOUR FATHER?!"
The crude, shocking question hung in the air, stripping away all pretense and politeness.
"Answer me, Daon! Have you ever fucked your dad?!" Eunjae yelled, his voice breaking. He hit him again, a weak, sobbing blow against his arm. "NO! You haven't! Of course you haven't! So if what we do—the kissing, the hugging, the sharing, the sex, the way I feel like my soul is tied to yours—if that isn't love, then what the hell is it?!"
He finally collapsed against Daon, his strength gone, his fists uncurling to clutch desperately at Daon's shirt. He buried his face in the fabric, his body wracked with sobs.
"You idiot... you stupid, clueless idiot..." he cried, his words muffled. "I only love you, Daon. Only you. There is no one else for me. There never will be. How can you not see that? How can you not feel that?"
Daon stood there, shell-shocked, Eunjae's desperate, heartbroken words finally piercing the thick armor of his emotional ignorance. The violent, profane, and utterly raw comparison had been a brutal education. He slowly, hesitantly, brought his arms up to hold the sobbing man clinging to him, the truth of Eunjae's love, and the devastating inadequacy of his own response, finally, terribly clear.
Eunjae's grip on Daon's shirt was desperate, his knuckles white. He pulled him closer, their faces inches apart, his tear-filled eyes blazing with a need for validation.
"Answer me!" Eunjae demanded, his voice cracking. "Have you never felt your heart race when I get close to you? When I touch you like this?" His free hand slid up Daon's chest, his fingers splaying over the steady, frustratingly calm beat of his heart beneath the crisp dress shirt. "Has it never beat just for me? Have you never felt that jolt, that… that excitement just to see me walk into a room?"
The questions were arrows aimed at the core of Daon's emotional paralysis. Before Daon could form a answer, Eunjae's hands moved to the buttons of his own sleep shirt, his fingers fumbling in his frantic state.
"Do you see what you do to me?" Eunjae choked out, yanking the fabric apart to bare his own chest, his skin flushed with emotion. "This isn't just care, Daon! This is—!"
"Eunjae, stop." Daon's voice was firm, his hands closing over Eunjae's, stilling their frantic movements. He tried to exude a calm he didn't feel. "This isn't the way."
"Then what is the way?!" Eunjae cried, trying to wrest his hands free, his body trembling against Daon's. "Talking doesn't work! Logic doesn't work! You just offered to let me sleep with other people! How else am I supposed to make you understand?!"
He pushed against Daon's hold, his tears falling freely now. "If you don't feel it here," he pressed his hand over his own heart, "then maybe you'll remember what it feels like here!" His gaze dropped meaningfully, a last, desperate attempt to connect through the only language he felt Daon had ever truly responded to—physical intimacy.
"I need you to feel something, Daon! Anything! Just please… don't look at me like I'm just another one of your responsibilities. Don't tell me to find what I need with someone else when everything I need is right here, looking at me like I'm a problem he can't solve."
He was laid bare, not just physically, but utterly emotionally raw, begging for a sign that he was more than just a duty to the man he loved.
Daon's hands, which had been restraining, shifted into an embrace. He wrapped his arms tightly around Eunjae, pulling him close despite his struggles. With a tenderness that contradicted his cold words, he began to slowly, methodically, re-button Eunjae's sleep shirt, his fingers gently fixing what had been torn open in desperation.
"Shhh, Eunjae-ya," he murmured, his voice a low, strained whisper against Eunjae's hair. "Stop this. Please. I can't… I can't think when you're like this."
He held him, trying to absorb the violent tremors wracking Eunjae's body. "I see you. I do. You are not a responsibility. You are…" He faltered, the word 'everything' sticking in his throat, too vast and terrifying to voice.
But the moment of tenderness was too little, too late. The fight drained out of Eunjae, replaced by a chilling emptiness. The arms holding him felt like a cage, not a sanctuary. Daon's calm was not reassurance; it was a dismissal of his hurricane of emotions.
When Daon finally loosened his grip, expecting him to collapse into his chest, Eunjae did the opposite. He took a slow, deliberate step back. The tears were still on his cheeks, but his eyes were dry and hollow.
He looked at Daon, really looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time.
"You're right," Eunjae said, his voice flat, scraped raw. "You can't think when I'm like this. Because my feelings are messy. They're loud and inconvenient. They don't fit into your neat little boxes of duty and logic."
He took another step back, putting more distance between them. The space felt infinite.
"So I'll stop," he whispered. "I'll stop being like this. I'll stop asking for words you can't say. I'll stop hoping for a feeling you can't feel."
He turned and walked toward the door, his movements eerily calm.
"Eunjae," Daon called out, a note of panic finally entering his voice.
Eunjae paused at the door but didn't look back.
"You asked me what this is, if it's not love," he said, his voice barely audible. "I finally have an answer for you. It's a tragedy."
And with that, he left, closing the door softly behind him, leaving Daon standing alone in the middle of their bedroom, the ghost of Eunjae's warmth fading from his arms, and the devastating weight of that final word settling deep into his soul.
The morning at the shrine held a fragile, new peace. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Rinwoo had slept through the night without waking from nightmares or shadowy visions. Seeing the serene expression on his sleeping face, Beom Seok felt a wave of protective satisfaction. He moved through his morning chores with a quiet determination, one goal in mind: preserve Rinwoo's hard-won peace. And that meant eliminating any and all sources of stress.
By the time the low breakfast table was set, the aroma of rice and soup filled the main hall. Master Hwang settled down, and Beom Seok joined him, having laid out only two place settings. They had just begun eating when Taekyun emerged from the hallway. He looked slightly more composed than the previous day, though the shadows under his eyes remained. He stopped at the edge of the room, his gaze falling on the table where there was clearly no place for him.
Master Hwang looked up. "Taekyun-ssi. Come, sit. Beom Seok-ah, where is his portion?"
Beom Seok didn't even look up from his bowl. "Why should I cook for him?" he said, his voice cold and flat. "He's a grown man. He has two hands. He can cook for himself."
Taekyun froze by the doorway, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. The deliberate humiliation, so soon after his futile attempt to clean his room, was a fresh sting.
A slow, mocking smirk spread across Beom Seok's face as he finally turned to look at Taekyun. "What's the matter, Great Heir? Is the kitchen beneath you? Or are you just as useless with a rice cooker as you are with a broom?"
"Beom Seok, that is enough," Master Hwang interjected, his tone weary but firm. He then turned his attention to Taekyun. "Can you cook for yourself?"
Swallowing his pride, Taekyun gave a stiff, single nod. "I can manage."
"Good. Then the kitchen is yours," Master Hwang said, effectively ending the confrontation.
With a final, searing glare at Beom Seok's triumphant face, Taekyun turned and walked toward the kitchen, his pride in tatters. As he left, Beom Seok's mind was already whirring, plotting his next move. A cruel idea began to form. He would hide the rice. Or perhaps the clean bowls. Maybe he would "accidentally" spill the salt into the sugar container. A small, malicious smile touched his lips. If Taekyun thought cleaning was hard, wait until he tried to navigate a sabotaged kitchen. This was far from over. Beom Seok would make sure every moment of Taekyun's stay was as miserable as possible, slowly chipping away at his resolve until he had no choice but to leave Rinwoo—and Beom Seok—in peace.
Defeated and hungry, Taekyun stood in the middle of the shrine's simple kitchen. He stared blankly at the unfamiliar ingredients—bags of rice, jars of fermented pastes, bundles of unnamed greens. The confident "I can manage" he'd given Master Hwang felt like a lie spoken by another man. In his world, food simply appeared, prepared by unseen hands. Here, the process was a complete mystery. After several long minutes of futilely opening cabinets and staring into the empty rice cooker, his pride wouldn't allow him to go back and ask for help. With a sigh of resignation, he abandoned the attempt and turned to leave, his stomach growling in protest.
He was nearly at the door to his dusty room, hoping to disappear for a few more hours, when Master Hwang's voice stopped him.
"Taekyun-ssi."
Taekyun turned. The old monk was watching him, his sharp eyes missing little.
"Did you manage to find something to eat?" Master Hwang asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
Taekyun hesitated, then shook his head, a flush of shame heating his neck. "I... I will be fine."
Master Hwang observed him for a moment, taking in the proud posture warring with clear helplessness. Idle hands, especially those of a troubled soul, were a recipe for more trouble.
"Come," Master Hwang said, not unkindly. "If you are not eating, then you can be of use. Beom Seok is outside in the back yard, doing the laundry. Go and help him." His eyes drifted down to Taekyun's clothes, which were still smeared with dust and dirt from his cleaning ordeal. "And take your own messy clothes with you. They won't clean themselves."
The instruction was simple, but to Taekyun, it felt like being sent to the front lines of a war he was woefully unequipped to fight. First cleaning, then cooking, now laundry. He was being systematically broken down and rebuilt through menial labor. With a stiff nod, he turned and trudged back to his room to gather his soiled clothes, steeling himself for another round of Beom Seok's mockery and his own humiliating incompetence in the face of a task any child could seemingly manage.