Chapter 67
The rooftop air was crisp, carrying the metallic scent of a Seoul evening, but for Haru, it felt thin and insufficient. He leaned against the railing, the city's neon grid stretching out before him like a circuit board he couldn't quite plug into. Se-hee's words from the kitchen continued to echo in his mind, persistent as a heartbeat: "If you feel like you are leading him on... it's better to break things off now."
He knew she was right. As Sunghoon, he had lived through enough scripts to know that a flawed premise only led to a tragic third act. If his foundation was built on the ghost of Yeon-woo and a desperate, decades-old savior complex, then every "I love you" he whispered to Raiven was a beautiful lie. But the problem was..... He truly did like Jae-wook. He liked the human being beneath the idol, the man who loved animations and worried about his morning training. Yet, was it love? Or was it an intense, protective fascination? He feared that by the time he figured it out, the collateral damage to Raiven's heart would be irreparable.
The irrationality of his flight to Milan gnawed at him. He should have listened to Raiven; he should have waited for the tour to end. By rushing into that suite, he had accelerated a relationship he now realised he wasn't psychologically equipped to handle.
That night, as he retreated to bed, the silk sheets of the Milan suite felt like a cold memory. His emotions swirled in a violent, conflicted current. When the phone vibrated on his nightstand later that night - a call from a foreign area code - he stared at the screen until it went dark. He had tried to talk to him, to form the words of a "breakup" or at least a "slow down," but they felt like acid in his throat, burning him before he could even spit them out.
To survive the encroaching darkness, Haru threw himself into the only thing that had ever made sense to him: work.
He returned to the barbecue restaurant, finding a strange, meditative peace in the repetitive labor of cleaning grills and serving customers. While his hands moved, his mind could rest.
With his drama, Gyeongseong High, set to air in four months, the anticipation was simmering. Alice, ever the strategist, had organized a flurry of scripts for him.
He went to two major auditions, both for diverse roles with independent character arcs. However, in a move that baffled Alice, Haru chose to audition for a minor supporting role in one of the projects. He felt a quiet confidence in it; the character was a psycopath a role that resonated with his need to improve his craft more than the main supporting roles. It was a crime drama.
Despite Alice's suggestions that he aim for a flashy second-lead role in a big-budget rom-com, Haru chose a different path.
He also auditioned for an independent film from a small, struggling company. The script was raw, the budget was clearly non-existent, and the director looked like he hadn't slept in a week. It reminded Haru so much of the early days of his career as Sunghoon - the passion, the lack of pretension, the pure desire to tell a story.
He felt a genuine spark of happiness when the calls came back. He had landed both. His life was finally picking up speed, the trajectory of his career acting as a secondary anchor to keep him from drifting back into the dark waters of his past.
Beyond work, there was one other bridge Haru was determined to rebuild: Mae-rin.
He had been careful, trying to be more vocal and present without being overbearing. He wanted to learn about her life, her struggles, and the woman she had become while he was "gone." He couldn't simply tell her, 'I amyour brother, Sunghoon, returned from the dead,' so he settled for being the kind, supportive hoebae from the agency.
She was a woman who had built a fortress around her life and her daughter. He had been trying to be more vocal with her, checking in on her and offering small, genuine gestures of kindness.
Finally, a breakthrough came. She invited him to her apartment for dinner.
He spent an hour at a toy store, agonizing over a choice. He eventually settled on a plush, high-quality doll and a box of expensive refreshments. As he stood outside her door, his hands were clammy, the sweat slick against the cardboard of the gift box. He wiped his palms on his trousers, took a deep breath, and rang the bell.
The door opened to reveal Mae-rin. Her hair was pulled back into a messy, utilitarian bun, stray strands framing a face that looked tired but soft. She was wearing baggy, comfortable clothes and an apron smeared with something that looked like flour. To Haru, she looked beautiful - real and unchanged in the ways that mattered.
"Haru-ya, come in," she said, stepping aside.
The apartment was small but vibrant with the chaos of life. Toys - colorful blocks, a stray plastic dinosaur - were scattered across the seating area like a colorful minefield.
"I'm so sorry about the mess," Mae-rin apologized, frantically scooping up a handful of blocks. "My daughter was playing earlier and, well... you know how it is."
"It's okay," Haru said, his voice thick with a sudden, unexpected emotion. He set the refreshments on the table and held out the toy. "For... for your daughter."
"You didn't have to do that," she protested, but she smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Na-bi! Come here and say hello!"
A small figure emerged from behind the sofa. Na-bi - which meant 'Butterfly' - was a tiny, ethereal reflection of the Mae-rin Haru remembered from his childhood. She stared at him with wide, curious eyes, her thumb hovering near her mouth. When she finally smiled, Haru's heart did a strange, painful somersault. Her front teeth were missing, leaving a gap that made her look both mischievous and profoundly innocent.
"Hello," Haru whispered, crouching down to her level.
While Mae-rin retreated to the kitchen to finish cooking, Haru stayed in the living room with Na-bi. She was quietly watching cartoons, clutching her new doll, but she kept stealing glances at him. Haru," slowly struck up a conversation about the cartoon characters.
He quickly discovered that Na-bi was not just cute; she was sharp-tongued and witty, a trait he suspected she inherited from the Sunghoon side of the family.
"Do you know Alice-unnie?" she asked, her voice high and clear.
"I do," Haru laughed. "She's my boss."
Na-bi mumbled something under her breath about Alice being "very loud when she drinks coffee," which sent Haru into a fit of genuine, shoulder-shaking laughter.
"I have a recital soon," she announced suddenly, puffing out her chest.
"A recital? That sounds very important,"
Haru said, leaning in. "What are you doing?"
"I'm a flower," she said solemnly. "A very big flower."
Haru felt a surge of warmth. "Can I come? If your mom says it's okay, I'd love to see the big flower."
Na-bi's face lit up. She turned around, shouting toward the kitchen, "Eomma! Can Haru-ssi come to my recital? He wants to see me be a flower!"
Mae-rin walked into the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron, her expression a mix of amusement and apology. "Na-bi, don't disturb Haru. He's a very busy ."
"I'm not that busy," Haru interjected, looking up at Mae-rin with an earnestness that made her pause. "I'd really love to come. Truly."
Mae-rin looked between the two of them - the tall, handsome young man on the floor and her gap-toothed daughter - and her expression softened into something incredibly fond. "Well, if you're sure... then yes, you can come."
The happiness that flooded Haru in that moment was unlike anything he had felt since his "rebirth." It wasn't the adrenaline of a successful shoot or the heat of a romance; it was the quiet, solid joy of belonging.
Dinner was a simple, home-cooked affair. Haru watched as Na-bi ate with a focused intensity, her small hands navigating the chopsticks with impressive dexterity.
"She reminds me of my brother sometimes," Mae-rin said quietly, watching her daughter. "When he wasn't busy filming, he loved eating. He used to say that a good meal was the only thing that kept him going." She laughed, but the sound was tinged with lingering sadness.
Haru swallowed the lump in his throat and took a bite of the stew. It tasted like home. It tasted like a memory he had finally been allowed to touch.
After dinner, Haru insisted on doing the dishes. Mae-rin protested, but he simply took the sponge from her hand with a playful, firm smile. "Let me do this. You cooked."
As he stood at the sink, the warm water running over his hands, he looked back into the living room. Mae-rin and Na-bi were sitting on the floor, playing a game of cards, their laughter echoing through the small apartment. For a moment, he let himself drown in the familiarity.
Once Na-bi was tucked into bed, Mae-rin joined him back in the sitting area, a steaming mug of tea in her hands. The atmosphere shifted, turning more serious.
"Alice told me about you and Raiven," she said, her voice gentle but direct.
Haru's heart tightened. He looked down at the fruit in front of him.
"She did?"
"Haru-ya, I don't have a problem with it," she said, offering a warm smile. "If you like him, then go ahead."
She paused, her expression turning professional. "But you have to take precautions. Especially in public. And if there is ever an issue , any issue at all ,you have to inform Alice immediately. Don't try to handle it alone."
Haru nodded, a lump of gratitude forming in his throat. "I will. Thank you, Mae-rin."
"Your drama is almost airing," she added, her tone turning cheerful again. "Are you excited? Nervous?"
"Both," he admitted, finally meeting her eyes. "But mostly... I'm just to get the opportunity. "
They talked for a while longer, the conversation flowing easily between work and the small, mundane details of life. When Haru finally said goodbye and stepped back out into the Seoul night, the air didn't feel quite so cold.