Chapter 15

The slice slipped cleanly from the tips. Carefully wedging the chopsticks between his fingers once more, he tried again.

“…”

Slip.

Failing to exert proper pressure, the chopsticks failed to hoist the slice once more. Stealing a sheepish glance, the boy’s flustered demeanor finally made Gwichang realize why he had been hesitating all this time.

“Just use your hands,” Gwichang said dryly. “Use your hands.”

Can’t even use chopsticks.

Only upon receiving permission did Geum Seoul flush with embarrassment, setting the wooden sticks down onto the table. Instead, slender white fingers reached out to pick up the slice that had just slipped from his grip. No—pausing again, he set that one down and instead picked up the thickest, largest slice from the very center of the roll.

“…”

That slice was directed not toward Geum Seoul’s plump, rosy lips, but toward the mouth of the man sitting beside him. Watching the food draw closer, Gwichang narrowed his eyes halfway.

It was utterly absurd. Offering to share hadn’t been an empty courtesy, but what stunned him even more was that, starving so severely his gulps were audible across the table, the boy was offering the very first bite to him.

“Eat your fill yourself,” Gwichang grunted as he leaned back.

The refusal was entirely sincere. Kimbap was a food he rarely touched under normal circumstances. He was the type who preferred skipping a meal altogether rather than choking down hasty rations, and he possessed an inherent distaste for cramming haphazardly rolled concoctions into his mouth.

Yet however the boy interpreted that refusal, Geum Seoul’s light brown lashes fluttered faintly. The arm extended toward Gwichang’s lips fell limply downward, and this time his entire face flushed a deep, mortified crimson.

“Because… I’m too dirty,” Seoul whispered, tears pricking his eyes.

Only then did Gwichang realize how the boy had construed his words. Instead of quipping ‘Well, you are,’ he exhaled a slow, resigned breath and lightly caught the pale wrist about to set the kimbap back onto the foil.

Parting his well-defined lips, Gwichang took the kimbap from the boy’s fingers. Both men were acutely aware of the fingertips pinching the edges of the roll brushing against the thin flesh of his lips. Even so, Gwichang released the slender wrist a beat later than necessary, leaving Geum Seoul staring with wide, startled eyes as a blush stained all the way down to his throat. Watching the boy hurriedly push the water bottle toward him the instant his wrist was freed, the corners of Gwichang’s mouth quirked upward. Acting like a sly little pest again. Yet for once, that faint smirk was entirely uncalculated.

Gwichang shook his head after eating roughly three slices pushed toward his mouth, while Geum Seoul, rustling the silver foil, managed to finish half a roll before letting out a stuffed, satisfied sigh. Seeing how the boy had treated it like the most delicious delicacy on earth yet failed to finish even a single roll, his stomach had clearly shrunken to a pathetic size.

Rustle.

Carefully wrapping the foil with oil-slicked fingers, Geum Seoul became absorbed in thought once again.

Gwichang warned casually, “The kimbap will spoil by tomorrow because of the heat.”

“In just one day?” Seoul asked, wide-eyed. “Even if it’s only until morning?”

“If you keep watch over it all night, it spoils slower.”

“Please don’t lie to me,” Seoul insisted, seeing through the teasing.

Cutting through the utter bullshit far more firmly than expected, the boy picked up another slice and shoved it into his mouth. Having evidently concluded that if he couldn’t take it with him tomorrow, he had better eat as much as possible today. Yet stuffed to bursting, his chewing slowed to a crawl, alternating between a single chew and a labored breath. Unable to watch any longer while chuckling under his breath, Gwichang shoved the foil-wrapped food out of reach.

Setting the food aside, Gwichang offered, “I’ll give you a fresh roll tomorrow, so take that with you instead.”

“No, it’s fine,” Seoul replied politely. “I hate being indebted. This one is plenty good enough.”

Gwichang countered with a smirk, “You’re already in my debt up to your neck.”

“…I mean any more than that.”

Cheeks puffing out as he demurred, his eyes remained stubbornly glued to the edge of the foil. Plainly intent on taking it with him tomorrow whether it spoiled or not, a faint headache throbbed behind Gwichang’s temples. It was so blindingly foolish, yet the boy’s crude calculation—that falling sick from spoiled food was still infinitely better than starving—was written plain across his face.

“Ah. It’s four o’clock,” Seoul blurted suddenly.

Blurting the words out while still unable to tear his eyes from the kimbap, the statement was so entirely out of the blue that Gwichang’s brow arched in mild amusement. The boy’s brown eyes met his.

Seoul clarified anxiously, “Shuttling the auction guests, I mean. It starts at four. Isn’t that the sort of thing you came to ask about?”

Gwichang gave him a flat look. “I came because this is my lodging.”

Information like that he had already uncovered hours ago. This house had been arranged specifically as his private quarters, and his reason for bringing Geum Seoul here rather than the lodgings where the rest of the squad stayed was unequivocal.

Geum Seoul was an omega. Judging from how even Yu Jeong-ham had failed to detect any scent, the boy’s pheromones seemed extraordinarily faint, yet tossing him into quarters crawling with feral alpha boars and telling him to rest was out of the question.

Not that he considered his squad—men who had rolled through enough field combat to know better—to be brainless simpletons who easily succumbed to base instinct. Though somewhat dull-witted on the whole, he preferred to believe they weren’t utter fools. Yet the faint trace of Geum Seoul’s pheromones he had caught earlier was the sort that permeated so naturally that even he hadn’t noticed at first, and given the boy’s collapsed state, there was no telling when those scents might suddenly flare. It was simply more convenient to shut down every variable in advance.

“Ah. I see…”

A soft, muted gasp escaped Geum Seoul. Indeed, it would have been impossible for those temporary visitors to rest in that sweltering neighborhood amid this suffocating heat. Unless actively combing the streets for Lee Hee-joong, this was presumably where they spent their downtime. Mortified at having only just realized something so blatantly obvious, Geum Seoul swallowed the mouthful of food bulging his cheeks and tucked in his lips.

Gwichang scoffed dryly. “If you’re going to keep passing out, don’t bother walking—crawl on all fours. Or ride a stroller.”

Even as he uttered those stinging words, the man extended the water bottle toward him, prompting Geum Seoul to turn his head. Though he couldn’t be certain, it felt like an oblique way of asking why on earth he kept fainting. Taking the bottle with both hands, he pondered his answer carefully.

“Because it’s hot in the summer,” Seoul murmured timidly.

Gwichang gave a dry chuckle. “So you’re sturdy in the winter? Your errand fees change with market rates, but your health is seasonal?”

“Isn’t that normal? …Everyone’s like that, not just me.”

“I’m not,” Gwichang countered flatly.

“Well, I am.”

At the tidy, point-for-point retort delivered in that prim voice, Gwichang cocked his head slightly, a corner of his mouth tugging upward. Look at this little bastard. His face clearly voiced the thought, yet Geum Seoul merely rubbed his own earlobe, oblivious.

Unaware of what Gwichang was thinking, the boy was simply drowning in shame upon reflecting that he had already passed out twice in the few short days since meeting the deputy director. He felt mortified at having displayed nothing but pathetic frailty. Truthfully, he wished he were strong and heavily muscled like Gwichang or the hulking brutes he had brought with him. He simply lacked the time to exercise, though he did usually manage to put on a bit of flesh during the winter months.

Gulp… swallow. Downing the cold water, Geum Seoul pressed his big toes firmly into the floor as he spoke again. It was a matter of pride.

Seoul puffed out his chest slightly. “Still, I’m not really that weak. Running errands involves a lot of heavy lifting, you know.”

He had merely wanted to clarify that he wasn’t completely feeble, yet fearing it might sound insolent, he stole a cautious glance at Gwichang. However, seated with an unreadable expression, the deputy director’s eyes were resting somewhere near his bare neck. Is something on me? Twisting his forefinger, Geum Seoul mulled it over before arriving at a solitary conclusion.

“I’m sorry,” Seoul stammered, lowering his head. “For using your bed.”

Only upon hearing the apology did Gwichang’s gaze lift from the boy’s neck. Geum Seoul assumed that was precisely why Gwichang had been staring. He knew the squalor where Geum Seoul lived, and had even seen through his greasy disguise from the start. Sharing a bed with someone like him was bound to be repulsive.

Having reached that conclusion, the realization struck home that the bed where he had been lying until moments ago was the very mattress where Gwichang slept and rested. I remember thinking it smelled so nice. His eyelids fluttered rapidly as his gaze darted into empty air.

Gwichang raised an eyebrow. “Did you walk in there on your own two feet and lie down?”

“Still… having someone else in your bed feels filthy, doesn’t it?” Seoul murmured with a guilty flush.

“Drop it.”

Seoul blinked in confusion. “Pardon?”

“Stop repeating my words back to me,” Gwichang snapped. “Do I look like someone whose hobby is soothing kids?”

Geum Seoul clamped his mouth shut. Gwichang was not one to enjoy conversations that demanded perpetual elaboration. He had too many tasks requiring his hands and too many problems demanding his brain, making the chore of hammering words repeatedly into someone else’s skull an exhausting nuisance.

In that regard, Geum Seoul was exceptionally high-maintenance. God only knew what raced through his head, but every answer was invariably preceded by several seconds of silence, and unless clear signposts were hammered in front of him, his train of thought veered off in bizarre directions. Even their brief exchanges had made that painfully obvious.

Though his mouth was shut, his body was restless; unable to keep his hands still, he constantly rubbed his nape or pinched his earlobe. Otherwise, his slender fingers fidgeted atop his thighs, twisting around each other until before long, a fresh blush bloomed across his neck and cheeks once more.

“The way you talk…” Seoul ventured softly.

“Huh?”

Gathering his courage, the boy blurted, “You speak really meanly.”

“What?”

Looking as though he couldn’t utter a single assertive thought if his life depended on it—what did he just say? The man’s brow knitted slightly, yet the corner of his mouth lifted just as high. Had the boy gone that crimson just to force out words like that?

“Stop asking me back,” Seoul retorted with a pout.

Gwichang merely raised an eyebrow in silence. “…”

“…I’m not any good at soothing grown-ups, either.”

“Ha,” Gwichang muttered in disbelief.

Lounging crookedly, Gwichang’s arched brows softened into round astonishment. Then, letting his head drop forward, he let out a scoffing chuckle—ha, huh—that quickly unfurled into a long, helpless fit of laughter. Shaking his head with his crown bared to Geum Seoul, his shoulders heaved with silent chuckles.

What on earth is this kid? For the first time in his life, he was utterly struck speechless. Blushing and paling in rapid succession like a flustered disaster, rolling his eyes as if frightened half to death, the boy still stubbornly squeezed out every single word he wanted to say. So my words grated on him earlier, did they?

“Haaah…” Gwichang exhaled between gasps of laughter.

After indulging in that amusement for quite some time, Gwichang rubbed the heated nape of his neck and straightened his head. Geum Seoul merely blinked in baffled incomprehension as to what was so funny. Having blurted out his grievance, the boy’s flushed face trembled with anxious dread, his gaze darting erratically. Gwichang found himself thinking that he wanted to pierce that pale cheek with a fork. Dragging his calloused fingertips along the edge of the table with a rasping scrape, his dark eyes grew deeper.

“Right,” Gwichang murmured darkly. “The moment I find an excuse, I’m poking the shit out of you.”

With an amused expression, Gwichang pushed himself up from the chair. What he retrieved from the island counter were tea bags. The Ghost—who had no notable hobbies aside from tormenting people—actually enjoyed drinking tea quite regularly. Not that he engaged in ceremonial brews with loose leaves, but his hypersensitivity to odors meant he preferred water briefly steeped with a mint tea bag over plain tap water.