We were drawn to each other at first sight, wanting to stay close. Something pulled us together completely, making it impossible to resist the desire building between us… the closer we were, the more we wanted.
He walked me all the way to my apartment, holding the umbrella over us. Normally, when I'm hungover, I have no mood for anything at all but this time, I led a stranger into my room without hesitation, something I had never done before.
The kind man followed quietly behind me, almost like a child lured in by sweets.
Once inside, he stood still, his expression calm as his gaze fell first on the shoes scattered untidily instead of being placed on the rack. Then his eyes moved to the sofa, where clothes were draped carelessly, and further to the balcony, where laundry had been left out so long that snow had settled over it, frozen white and stiff.
The room was rather messy. I live alone, and sometimes I stay overnight at the club or at a friend's place, so it ends up looking like this.
The young man so reminiscent of my father seemed almost restless at the sight of such disorder. If it were my father, he would have said,
"My little bear, tidy up a bit. It's so messy you'll trip and fall," and then gently ruffle my hair.
At first, I intended to take a shower and then come out to do something to warm up with the stranger I had brought back. Instead, I ended up falling asleep in the bathtub. When I finally came to, it was almost afternoon. I was lying on my own bed, and the scent of food drifted faintly through the air.
I was dressed in my own black bathrobe, inside my bedroom. The things I remembered leaving scattered in a rush were no longer in disarray.
The bedroom itself hadn't been rearranged much, but when I stepped into the bathroom, it looked noticeably cleaner and more orderly. Even the living area felt tidier open, comfortable to the eyes.
From the open kitchen came the rich aroma of kimchi stew.
That man… had taken off his coat and folded it neatly. He stood quietly at the stove, cooking. Broad back, narrow waist, long legs someone who looked good even from behind while making a simple meal. It was the first time I had seen someone like that up close.
"Are you hungry?" he asked gently, his voice soft and polite, ending every sentence with a respectful tone as he sensed my gaze on him.
"What are you doing? I didn't hire you to clean my place and now you're cooking too?"
"You brought me here, but you fell asleep in the bathtub. So I carried you to bed. I don't like waiting around doing nothing, so I took the liberty of tidying up and making some food. I'm sorry."
"Forget it. I'm not in the mood. You can go back now… Have you eaten?"
"Not yet."
"Then eat what you made. I usually buy food. I don't like eating something cooked randomly without knowing what's been put into it."
"I didn't add anything other than normal ingredients. I think you're probably hungry. We should eat together."
That demeanor so much like my father again… Why does he resemble him this much? My father had been my grandmother's most cherished son, raised almost like a young nobleman. His manners were impeccable, refined in every gesture. This man keeps reminding me of him. It makes me both long for him and want to push him away at the same time, because I miss my father so much.
But I'm afraid of disappointment. If I expect too much and the other person changes, it's no different from choosing the wrong one. Or if he suddenly leaves without warning…
How would I live the rest of my life?
Those eyes… so gentle. In the end, I chose something fleeting just to let myself feel good for a while sitting down to eat together with someone who made it feel as though I were having a meal cooked by my father once again.
He made mostly soups spicy and warming, with broth that went down smoothly. Perhaps because from the moment we met until now, the snow had continued falling all day, sometimes heavy, sometimes light. At times, you could almost feel the chill lingering high in the air, yet inside, the heater on the floor spread a steady warmth that made everything feel better.
Two grown men sat quietly at a low table, eating together. It wasn't normal for someone as pleasure-loving as me. The world of a DJ is filled with noise shouting, music blasting, friends and crowds surrounding you every night until peace becomes something rare.
I'm not used to daytime. Not used to sitting down for a quiet meal alone with someone just the two of us. And certainly not in my own apartment. A moment like this has never happened before.
Sluurp—
Cough! Hack—
Maybe I'm overly cautious about food, but after watching him taste everything first without any dramatic reaction, I finally started eating too. I must have taken a sip too quickly while it was still hot, because I choked.
For two large men, choking on food shouldn't be a big deal. No one would normally pay attention to something so trivial. But a tissue, neatly folded into a square, was gently pressed to the corner of my mouth.
I don't know why, but ever since we met, holding each other's gaze for long stretches has become something we do often. Even now, I can't help wondering how many Korean men there are who can be this soft-spoken, this polite and gentle so uncannily like my father, as if carved from the same mold.
"Is it too spicy? Here have some water."
A gentleman. That was a word I had known since childhood, shaped by being raised by my gentle father. He never once spoke ill of my mother. But she wasn't the stay-at-home type, not the kind of Korean mother who devoted herself solely to housework and raising a child. She was a career woman and she loved her work more than being a homemaker.
It's a little irritating that I inherited almost a hundred percent of her looks and personality.
"Is it alright? Can you eat it?" he asked.
"Mm."
Maybe he asked out of modesty. Or maybe he just wanted a compliment. Because the three or four dishes laid out on the table weren't just edible they were… insanely good.
Hot soup with well-balanced seasoning, spicy heat lingering at the tip of my tongue against the chilly atmosphere outside where snow continued to fall. Grilled meat sizzling on a hot pan, side dishes of kimchi, pickled chilies, sliced scallions drizzled with sesame oil, and warm steamed egg soft and silky, almost melting in my mouth.
Ever since my father died from a food allergy, I've usually stuck to pre-packaged meals with clearly listed ingredients. This might be the first time I've eaten food cooked by someone who wasn't a familiar restaurant owner…
Conversation at the table without alcohol, without cigarettes, without music, without friends shouting over one another and laughing over the noise felt awkward, unlike my usual self. Yet it was exactly like the self I used to be as a child, when I was with my father.
I never knew that when snow falls, everything grows several times quieter. Even with one more person in the room, the silence remained deep and undisturbed. Being able to rest my sense of hearing like this… it might be the first time in years.
Maybe the food tasted better because I focused only on what was in my mouth, savoring it with my own tongue, not caring about who said how delicious it was.
Just eating.
Just tasting it for myself.
Warmth brushed my lips. My tongue moved, absorbing every flavor of the ingredients, teeth tearing and crushing, everything blending and spreading through my mouth before sliding down my throat into my stomach. The gentle heat blooming inside slowly eased the nausea from heavy drinking.
Just a simple stew could make me feel as though I were wrapped in my father's warm embrace again, like in the old days.
As if there were magic in it.
It wasn't just ordinary Korean winter food meant to warm the body. It was food that carried the feeling of my father's love the father I loved and missed.
This… this was it.
"Are you alright?" he asked softly.
Bite after bite disappeared into my mouth while I chewed absentmindedly, and the kind cook across from me finally spoke up.
"It's nothing."
I shoved in a large spoonful of rice and lifted the bowl of stew to drink from it, which made him smile faintly.
"Is it good?"
"Mm… thank you."
I'm not the type to be overly polite or to think about others' feelings before my own. I'm not someone strict about etiquette or about finishing food just for appearances. But… every single dish on the table was completely wiped clean.