Craving for Change

The small table next to the single-person sofa, which held a vase with a few simple flowers and a couple of books, was actually a small wooden refrigerator. He retrieved a bottle of water from it and gently lifted my shoulders, as I was too limp to even bother covering myself.

"Drink some water."

My lips, and even the inside of my mouth, were bone dry, but I didn't even have the strength to lift the small water bottle. I felt completely exhausted and worn out, as if I'd been dragged around for ages, tied to a spirited horse with unflagging, taut muscles.

My left shoulder rested against his right chest. He sat me down beside him and put his arm around my shoulder, propping me up from behind with his knees bent. I tried to support myself by placing my hands on the mattress, but I couldn't even hold up my upper body without leaning on him more than halfway.

Seeing my arm and hand tremble as I tried to grab the water bottle, he took a mouthful of water for me. Then, he pressed his lips to mine and let the water flow in.

At first, I flinched and recoiled slightly in surprise. It was partly because the cool sensation touching my heated body felt unfamiliar, and partly because I hadn't expected him to go that far for me.

Even though we had just been tangled up in every sort of embarrassing position, it wasn't as if we were in a relationship where we had to be responsible for delicate kindnesses after sex, no matter how messy our encounters were during sex.

My muscles wouldn't obey, and about half the water he poured in wouldn't go down; it dribbled out around my mouth, down my neck, and soaked the chest and lower stomach hidden beneath my t-shirt. He patiently made sure I drank enough water over several attempts.

Only after confirming that my eyes had regained some semblance of life did he quench his own thirst with the remaining water. The cool, large hand that had been holding the water bottle then brushed the damp hair stuck to my forehead aside.

I was completely spent, but he was not. The muscles throughout his body were still engorged, ready to sprint at any moment, and the gaze he fixed on me still shimmered with heat.

That heat traced a path downward. It was the path the water had followed.

While still holding me close, he dragged his lips and tongue along the trail the water had made. Every time his lips brushed against my skin, I shook violently, as if having a seizure. The feeling of his mouth sucking at my nipples through the wet t-shirt was cold and alien, causing my toes to tense up.

Even after coming three times, the erection pressed against my side was still rock hard. It was as fresh as a cock aroused after more than a week of abstinence.

Yet, he seemed to accept the cessation of sex with a composed attitude. He appeared accustomed to situations where he couldn't have sex for as long as he desired.

Satisfying the relentless libido of a Golden Alpha might be impossible unless one were a Golden Omega. That's what I assumed, anyway.

Having tasted the juice flowing from the threads of pleasure, I wanted to satisfy him too, but not a single sliver of energy remained within me to induce sexual arousal. It felt like he had devoured every last bit if any had existed.

I gathered strength in my spine and lifted myself out of his embrace. As I pulled the neckline of my t-shirt, which had slipped completely off one shoulder, back into place, I subtly covered my still-matted sex, sticky with dried semen.

"I should throw this t-shirt away."

My voice came out unexpectedly hoarse, which embarrassed me.

"Hmm, you're right."

He agreed, looking down at the chest area of the t-shirt. The thin cotton shirt was so stretched out that it was impossible to tell what its original shape had been; even after I adjusted it, my collarbone and upper chest were completely exposed.

He stroked my collarbone, then playfully thrust his hand inside the neckline as if searching for something, stirring around beneath the fabric. The way his hand moved — not from the bottom up, but plunging down from the neck into the shirt — felt unexpectedly suggestive, so I looked down at his palm as he firmly pressed and rubbed my pectoral muscles a couple of times, then quickly looked away.

"It's easy to touch, and it looks suggestive — I like it. We should keep it as a souvenir."

Even managing the mood after sex, keeping it light and playful to avoid awkwardness, he did with practiced ease and naturalness.

I gave a weak laugh at his joke, but suddenly his expression hardened with seriousness.

His gaze landed between my legs. Even while sitting, the large amount of semen he had ejaculated three times continued to stream out. Just as during sex, his stare fixed on the space between my thighs was unabashedly direct. He even tilted his head to get a better look. Though I tried to remain composed, my thighs instinctively clenched together.

"Should we clean up first?"

He abruptly pulled his gaze away, as if cutting something short unnaturally, and stood up from the bed. Thinking he might try to clean me himself, I instinctively grabbed his wrist.

"Let me rest for a little while... I'll take care of it slowly."

"......"

His gaze dropped downward again. Because I had held onto him, my t-shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing the area between my legs even more than before. During sex, I had spouted all sorts of nonsense without him even asking, but now that the magic of the climax-inducing sex had worn off, the dampness between my legs, which had soaked the sheet as if I'd wet myself, filled me with unbearable shame.

"If I keep looking at that... I feel like I'll jump on you again. The stimulation is too intense."

Despite what I said, his demeanor as he gently removed my hands and headed for the bathroom didn't seem to show much reluctance.

The bathroom light came on, the sound of water filling the tub followed, and he returned with a damp towel. Even completely naked, leading with his still-erect cock, he moved naturally.

It was just that, perhaps because of the heavy weight, his cock bobbed every time he walked, and he would grasp the base of it whenever it swung noticeably. Despite being too weak to lift a finger, seeing that sight made me curse my own lust, which made the area between my legs tingle again. How on earth had I managed to live satisfied with only mechanical masturbation until now?

"Ngh, I-it's fine..."

He sat on the edge of the bed with one leg dangling down and immediately brought the towel between my legs. I gripped his wrists with both hands to resist. He paused for a moment, then easily shook off my hands and lifted the hem of my t-shirt.

"I did all of this. So, let me do it. I know I pushed you too hard."

As he said that, his face and hands, wiping down my thighs and cock with a warm, damp cloth, looked serious, as if performing a medical procedure. Even though his arousal remained, his expression and touch were completely devoid of any sexual nuance.

He was perfectly kind, showing no sign of awkwardness or embarrassment... which made me realize that the sex we just had hadn't stirred him in the slightest, and that the moment it ended, his lust for me and the wildness beyond his control had also ceased.

I wasn't resenting his kindness or manners. It wasn't like I secretly wanted him to treat me coldly, push me away, insult me, and scratch at my heart like a pervert after he was done with what he needed.

Still, why did watching him maintain such meticulous manners while remaining so utterly calm feel so suffocating? I knew I was asking for too much.

He said it would be much easier to clean out everything inside so I wouldn't suffer later. He practically carried me, who was dying of awkwardness and embarrassment, into the bathroom. In the meantime, the bathtub had been filled generously with hot water.

He said it would be much easier to clean out while I was in the water, so he told me to take off my t-shirt and squat down in the tub.

I desperately tried to stop him when he went to step into the tub behind me. I had boasted that I could do it myself, but tragically, I didn't even have the strength to support myself while squatting. Furthermore, his tub was much larger than a standard size, so I couldn't even brace myself by holding onto the edges on either side.

He watched me repeatedly lose my balance and plop down, then sighed while clicking his tongue above my head.

"I told you, you can't do it yourself."

Splash. There was no excuse left to push him away as he entered the tub. It seemed ridiculous that I was wobbling as if all the strength had drained from my body just from having sex, and I was angry at my body for not cooperating, but considering the long, persistent foreplay that felt like it was melting my entire body, followed by the rough and intense penetration, knotting, and three climaxes, it seemed like an inevitable outcome.

"Stop being stubborn. You're going to bruise yourself in the wrong places."

As he spoke in an anxious voice, he settled in behind me. His arms immediately came around behind my knees. He lifted me slightly off the tub floor, and his chest and shoulders pressed against my back.

I didn't even expect him to be as calm and skilled as he was, but I really didn't want to look like an idiot — was even that too much to ask? The feeling of my legs being forced open by the strength lifting me from behind made me squeeze my eyes shut in shame.

He hooked my right leg over his erect knee to keep me from closing it, and then his hand fumbled its way downward.

"I'm just going to touch you a little first so things slide in smoothly."

"......"

What was there to say?

I just closed my eyes, lowered my head, bit down on my swollen lip, and prayed for this moment to pass quickly.

"Hah, ah."

But maintaining my silence while his fingers probed my acutely sensitive interior proved difficult. The act of him touching inside my hole for cleanup after the heat of sex had faded was more mortifying than the most obscene positions we had taken during intercourse, making my ears and face burn.

As if sensing my distress, he pressed a soothing kiss onto the nape of my neck.

"Ahhh...."

As his fingers, which had been gently scraping the inner walls, carefully opened the entrance, slippery fluid streamed out from within. It was a chilling sensation. When I opened my eyes, the cloudy spread of semen dispersing in the water-filled bathtub was clearly visible. What on earth...?

I bit my lip again at the overwhelming sight. Even without turning around to check, I knew his gaze must be fixed on the murky stain seeping out from inside my hole and mixing with the water.

Even though it was clearly his semen, it felt as though it had become a secretion created inside me... making me feel like a stranger to myself, as if I had become a different entity. My face, and certainly my neck which was exposed to him, must have been bright red.

"Don't look...."

As I murmured in a small voice, he kept his lips pressed against the back of my neck and let out a low chuckle.

"Why? It's too good a sight to waste."

Then, he kissed the back of my neck as if pressing down firmly before letting his lips slide down along my shoulder line.

"Apply pressure slowly and release."

To be told to tense up while in this position — legs spread and lifted — felt like... Haa....

I don't think I felt this ashamed even when he lifted my hips to his chest and licked my hole right in front of me. My face felt hot enough to explode, but accepting the situation and following his instructions was the only way to get through this as quickly as possible. I had no choice.

Rubbing his lips against my skin as if to encourage me, he used his index and middle fingers to stretch the entrance to my hole open. It was clearly an act to help with the discharge. Whether it was because his lips on my shoulder seemed to be smiling, or because his fingers were subtly creating unnecessary friction, my thoughts kept drifting toward something sexual.

"So much is already out. You're quick to get good at anything, aren't you?"

"..."

A faint trace of amusement clung to his voice, but since I was already short on composure, I had nothing to say, just as before.

It was strange how I could be bold enough to nearly undo the restraint he was barely holding onto by making him knot inside me, yet instantly become tongue-tied as soon as I got off the bed, but this latter reaction felt more familiar to me.

"Relax your body and sit a little longer."

He helped me sit up, leaning me against the edge of the bathtub, then walked over to the shower stall across from me. He finished showering quickly, showing no sign of awareness that another person was present in the same space. At least, he appeared not to be aware.

Maybe I was the one being overly conscious. Given his age of thirty-two and the smooth, refined bedside manner he displayed, it seemed unlikely that he would feel awkward after every encounter or flinch away from his partner's gaze.

It struck me again how inexperienced I was in every respect. When he was kind or smiled at me as if I were endearing, there were times I wondered if that proved he viewed me as slightly special too. But when I saw how calm and composed he was, unlike myself, I also suspected it was merely my delusion and that it was just his ingrained manners.

It wasn't easy to grasp the inner workings of a man ten years my senior. That was especially true when the senior in question was Liu Weikun.

While I looked down at the water, which had been cloudy with semen but was now diluted and clear again, he wiped himself dry with a large towel and left the bathroom.

After sitting a little longer, I got up to take a quick shower, my legs still weak, when he immediately returned to the bathroom. He then had me sit on the ledge designed for sitting and washed my hair.

"Close your eyes."

As I obediently closed my eyes, a stream of warm water poured down from above, rinsing away the shampoo lather. He interlaced his large hands through my hair, scrubbing more carefully to rinse out the foam completely.

By now, trying to be conscious of every move and insisting on something felt pointless. When the water stopped, I let out a small laugh at the feeling of being like a large, overgrown child, rubbing my eyes. The man standing before me gently cupped my chin, tilting my head up to thoroughly wash away the last of the suds from my face.

Just as we always had, or perhaps, just as he always spent the time after sex... everything felt entirely natural.

Just as when he entered the bathroom, I was led back to the bedroom, not walking so much as leaning heavily on him for support, though my legs weren't injured.

The sheets had been changed in the meantime. A clean set of new sheets lay on the bed, and even the underwear and pajamas for me to change into were laid out.

Even though I was the one who had been penetrated, and I hadn't exerted myself as much physically as he had, there was no question about who had expended more energy — it certainly wasn't me. Whether it was because he was an Alpha, or simply his personal ability, his stamina was admirable. Even now, he showed absolutely no sign of fatigue.

"I only have my size here, so it might be a little big."

"Yes."

My lower body felt heavy and throbbing; honestly, even just standing was a bit taxing. While I sat on the bed putting on my clothes, he too slipped into his underwear and training pants. He still wasn't wearing a top, perhaps because he was accustomed to sleeping without one in the summer. He stood beside me, looking down as I slowly dressed.

It wasn't just the overall size, but the way the underwear felt conspicuously loose in the front that made me embarrassed. It wasn't about male pride, or anything like that. Besides, grouping a Golden Alpha male and a Beta male together as "the same kind of man" was already a stretch. While nothing scientifically proven existed regarding genetic superiority like physical ability or brainpower, the fact that Alphas possessed superior reproductive capabilities was an established truth.

"We should probably buy some sets in Seo Yeehyeon's size, too."

"......"

He said that as he turned and walked toward the refrigerator. I looked up involuntarily in surprise, but he was no longer looking at me. My hands, which had been fastening the buttons of my pajamas, stopped as I fixed my gaze on his back as he bent over to pull out a bottle of water.

The whisper from our time together — where he had told me I could have him whenever I wanted — came flooding back. Did him saying he'd stock up on underwear and clothes in my size mean he was certain I would seek him out again? Or was it an expression that he, too, intended to continue this relationship, this sex? It was all too difficult for me to decipher.

He stood before the refrigerator, nearly finishing a bottle of water, then took out a new one, twisted off the cap, and approached me. I awkwardly lowered my gaze and started buttoning my clothes again.

"It looks like you're wearing your dad's underwear..."

As he said that and handed me the water bottle, his gaze lingered on my loose underwear. It wasn't meant to be a way of showing off the size of his own manhood and putting me down. Rather, even as he spoke those words, his eyes looking down at the underwear were mixed with a subtle stickiness that made my legs involuntarily tighten.

After taking a few sips of water and setting the bottle on the side table, he lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the bed while I put on my bottoms. A simple white ceramic ashtray was placed between him and me.

"Earlier... I said it in passing, but — "

He rested his feet on the legless, one-piece bed frame and propped his elbows on his bent knees, opening his mouth as he exhaled cigarette smoke.

"From now on, if anything becomes a problem, you can just come to me like you did today. I wasn't just saying that."

Perhaps those words were just a fleeting sentiment brought on by the mood in bed. His explanation seemed to read my very thoughts.

Since he was sitting facing the sofa, I, sitting near the headboard, could see his profile comfortably. He took the next drag a little impatiently, then frowned and exhaled a long stream of smoke, almost like a sigh.

"I know you're not someone who likes leaning on others or asking for favors... but it's perfectly natural to lack the resources to solve real-world problems at your age, and consulting or relying on those who are older and more experienced doesn't make you weak or dependent..."

I was surprised that he understood me so well. He knew exactly what I was worried about, what I was hesitating over. He saw right through me, even though I had never told him. Was the ten-year age gap really that significant?

I felt awkward, like a self-conscious adolescent boy who tries to act mature but is forced to confront the fact that he is ultimately just a child when it counts, but more than that, his words were deeply appreciated.

Perhaps they were the very words I had longed to hear from someone stronger and wiser than myself, words I desperately needed to get back on track. That it was okay to consult him and rely on him. That doing so wouldn't cause him trouble or make me dependent on him.... Maybe, because I couldn't be sure on my own, I had been waiting for someone with a large, trustworthy presence to say that more than anything else.

Even so, my chest felt tight, as if pressed down by something heavy.

I needed to thank him, but the flickering of so many complicated emotions made it hard to open my mouth. I kept forming the words without speaking them, finally biting down hard on my lower lip.

In the room, where not a single wall clock hung, only the sound of him breathing as he smoked continued quietly for a long time.

"Last time, you asked if I liked that painting... Alienation."

"......"

My gaze, which had been fixed somewhere on the sheet, lifted involuntarily. My eyes widened, and my pulse quickened. I hadn't expected him to still remember that question.

"My parents divorced because of me."

And I certainly hadn't anticipated that his question about whether I liked my painting would lead down this path.

I had defined him internally as someone who buried his own stories deep inside, yet the voice confessing a part of his past was utterly flat, as if he were reading aloud from a book.

"It's a complicated issue, so explaining it would take too long, and it's not something I'd tell a stranger in detail, so I'll keep it brief... They divorced to protect me even though there was no problem in their relationship. They continued to see each other away from the public eye, but how could I not feel guilty about that situation?"

He tapped ash from his cigarette into the ashtray set between us, then swept the hand not holding the cigarette across his hair.

"No one ever said it was because of me, but as I grew up, I naturally realized it. That I was the reason the set — which was meant to be complete only when together — was unnaturally split apart."

His tone seemed to waver slightly, losing its dryness, but he quickly regained his composure, his balance.

"People often described the two of them simply as the 'ideal couple,' but what I, their only child, felt most closely was something beyond that. There were no arguments, their gazes when they looked at each other remained as sweet as lovers' even after a long marriage, and they still enjoyed date nights alone... it went beyond just that level of relationship...."

I interrupted him as he struggled to choose the right words to convey a meaning that wasn't ordinary.

"I think I know."

He was scratching his lower lip with his upper teeth, pausing for a moment, then turned to look at me. The cigarette dangling from his fingers had grown noticeably short.

He didn't challenge me, asking what I knew or how I knew. Instead, his surprised, rigid face softened into a relaxed smile, and he chuckled. It was a smile that tolerated his story being received and understood by the other person, "in their own way."

Considering that most people tend to be objective and rational about the pain of others, yet resent their own minor hurts, like a splinter under a fingernail, being easily dismissed, the slightly melancholic, resigned, gentle smile he showed suggested he wasn't just a prince who conquered the world effortlessly through the power of his circumstances.

However, what I offered was by no means a superficial display of sympathy.

Even though I couldn't be perfectly certain whether my understanding precisely matched what he intended to convey, I, too, knew a couple who shared a bond beyond what people call an ideally perfect marriage.

"My father was an admirer and an artistic comrade to my mother's entire body of work and the spirit that comprised it, and my mother considered my father, the perfect interpreter of herself and her art, to be her literal soulmate. Many people believe that a perfectly balanced relationship, one that doesn't lean toward either side, doesn't exist — especially in the unequal relationship between an artist and their supporter, where the balance tips toward the artist — but that wasn't the case for them."

He ground the cigarette out in the ashtray until the filter was completely scorched.

"It wasn't a relationship that relied simply on romantic feelings for a partner or affection built up over time. To establish a basic life by taking care of food, clothing, and shelter, and to instill a meaning beyond that into their lives... they absolutely needed each other, and those two people had to be forcibly torn apart... because of me."

He showed no demand from me, the listener, to sympathize with his emotions. Pausing briefly, gazing into space as if recalling a specific point in the past, he seemed determined to handle his own emotions entirely by himself. To me, he was merely telling a story, presenting it as information.

Perhaps he considered it unsightly to become absorbed in his own feelings and turn the listener into an audience for his misery — to say, "I struggled this much," or "I suffered this much."

While I agreed that such emotional distance was what constituted "generally accepted" maturity, and despite being a person who also felt uncomfortable exposing my own vulnerabilities, a selfish desire suddenly flared up in me: I wanted to see him drop his guard, expose his most fragile parts, and let his surging emotions overwhelm me. But it was just that — a selfish desire.

He, who had been deeply absorbed in thought, stood up, grabbed the cigarette pack and lighter from the table, and returned to his seat. After lighting a new cigarette, he exhaled smoke with a practiced motion and began to speak.

"Growing up, I often had to ask myself. Whether I was... worth that much."

I felt the urge to answer him. But of course, I had no right to speak that answer. Nor was I the one he was seeking an answer from.

"It's strange. They sacrificed even their most precious relationships for me, yet why couldn't I become a person full of love, but instead started doubting my own existence? Even though I know they didn't make that decision in order for me to feel guilty... as time went on, the feeling I had toward them became more one of apology than gratitude... And since I knew that if I wasn't completely happy, their project would be considered a failure, that guilt only grew — well, I spent my formative years caught in that vicious cycle."

He took a quick puff of his cigarette, deliberately lightening the tone for his last sentence. He rested his elbows on his knees, loosely clasped his hands, and cracked his knuckles one by one with a series of sharp pops. Then, he glanced back at me and smiled, setting the half-smoked cigarette down on the ashtray.

"So, the moment I saw that painting, I doubted. I thought, What is this? Did I really paint something like this?"

But I couldn't even manage a faint smile, much less return his grin. He was talking about one of the very cells that made him up — a secret that, at least to me right now, was the most fascinating in the world. By mentioning Alienation, that cell was now trying to connect with me.

The Alienation he must have felt for reasons that were far from ordinary.

Parents who loved each other ideally, and the sacrifice they decided upon out of love for their child. A child who was "required" to be happy within that enclosure.

Even if I thought his story bore a significant, though not perfect, resemblance to my own, it didn't feel like a desperate delusion conjured up by my urge to find common ground with him.

He picked up the cigarette again.

"That means I empathized that much. Because the things I wanted to scream out loud at my parents, or at the world... they were right there in it. I knew immediately what the artist was trying to say."

He looked at me as if asking for confirmation that he had seen the painting correctly, but I had never considered how I might receive someone else's interpretation of my work.

If that was how he felt, and if it was a very strong conviction, perhaps that's what he was meant to become through the painting. Perhaps that was enough. I could only vaguely guess.

"Born between wonderful, talented parents who loved each other dearly, raised with sacrificial love, I was supposed to be happy. Everyone said so, so why couldn't I be? I started wondering if I was the strange one for not being happy. Eventually, I even got angry at the people who forced happiness onto me."

The coercion of happiness. Specifically, the pressure from those around me for a perfect happiness, one drawn as if from a fairy tale or a Hollywood family movie ending. I understood that feeling of suffocation to some degree myself.

Around the time I painted Alienation, all my friends were pursuing only what they didn't have. Friends with hands-off parents envied those who received devoted attention from theirs, while friends with overly involved parents felt it was interference and envied freedom. That was the age we were in.

The reason I painted Alienation was not due to some terrible knot of resentment, as people might think.

I loved my parents, and I was happy. It simply wasn't the flawless, perfect happiness that some people imposed on me — based solely on the highly relative grounds that I possessed something they did not.

They had already told me, when I was grateful and happy, with grim expressions, "You should be more grateful, and happier."

The air in the room was still warm from the heat we had just exchanged, but I slowly ran a hand over my pajama-clad arms, as if suddenly feeling a chill.

Taking another drag, he swept his hair back with the hand holding the cigarette and turned to look at me, his face tilted at a slight angle.

"But that painting told a different story. 'You're not the only one who's strange. I am strange too.'"

I couldn't help but relax my shoulders and laugh at his theatrical antics, which seemed to mimic someone I couldn't quite place.

As my laughter subsided, I recalled Ms. Suki Kim's story.

Alienation had been a source of comfort to him.

Now, through his own words, I was finally hearing clearly that Alienation could hang in his living room not just because he appreciated my talent as a collector or dealer... but because he himself had felt a personal resonance with my work.

The fact that at least a part of the Alienation he had carried with him was somehow intertwined with my painting stirred a unique emotion in me, something I had never felt before. Believe it or not, it was a feeling more captivating than the sex we had just shared. I wanted to know more about him.

"That's why I want Seo Yeehyeon-ssi to paint again. I want to see that artist's next work."

"......"

His eyes met mine as he spoke. He wanted to see the painting I created.

Even if he had asked to see my naked body, my soul couldn't have been more shaken than it was now.

"Seo Yeehyeon-ssi's question was brief, but my answer was... rather long, wasn't it?"

Perhaps embarrassed by the long story he had just shared, he rubbed his eyes with a faint, wry smile. I wondered if he was finally feeling tired. How could he not be tired? He had spent hours pouring his energy into holding me, someone who was hardly small.

"Could you give me one too?"

"......"

He looked at me silently, and after a moment of quiet, handed me a cigarette without any particular reaction. When I looked up because he only gave me the cigarette but not a lighter, he gestured with his chin, as if telling me to put it in my mouth. I clumsily gripped the filter, and he brought the flame of the lighter to the tip of the cigarette.

I flinched and pulled back slightly for a moment, then slowly tilted my head while meeting his eyes across the flame. He, too, didn't look away from my eyes while lighting it for me.

It didn't cause the same physical rejection in my body as the cigarette I smoked in his room in Hong Kong. I didn't cough, nor did the sharp sting that felt like it was tightening my throat and lungs feel severe. If anything, this level of pain felt like something I needed right now.

Yet, I couldn't swallow even half of the smoke. The remaining half drifted slowly upward into the empty air. Humorously, I thought it resembled the way the bodily fluid, which had flowed from me moments earlier and clouded the bathwater, had spread out.

I was the first to break eye contact.

"Ms. Suki Kim... she's your mother, Director?"

I asked the question simply to confirm, as he no longer seemed to have any intention of hiding that fact.

He stared at me intently, as if observing something novel as I smoked, then let out a small chuckle and turned his head. He skillfully handled the cigarette, as if it were an extension of his own body, inhaling the smoke.

"That's right. I dislike both the jealousy that attributes everything to parental backing and the flattery, so I don't usually make it known."

Although his mother had Korean blood, he was from Hong Kong, and it didn't seem like any close relatives had settled in Korea either. Nevertheless, I thought I could vaguely grasp the reason he opened a gallery in Seoul, a city where he had no ties, connecting it to the stories he had shared earlier.

"Everything that has shaped me since birth is already a benefit derived from my background, so saying I'd decline the benefits of influence now would just be childish stubbornness. Honestly, I'm embarrassed even to be saying this."

Saying that, almost as if to himself, he gave a self-deprecating smile and took a drag from his cigarette.

"Because people will surely whisper that it's just the petty show of a prince who wanted the title of self-made man. Even if it were true to some extent, it's certainly not the whole story... and I was tired of being talked about by people who like to simplify and judge others' lives."

Having said that much, he seemed to have revealed more of his true feelings than he intended, making a look of dismay before quickly sucking on the cigarette as if to silence himself.

It wasn't shameful to try and resist the inertia of the orbit that maintained his current self. Because even taking a tiny step away from one's original position, or even forming or changing a single habit, requires immense effort. Therefore, any intention to conduct a new experiment through himself should not be treated lightly.

Innumerable words floated in my mind, but I couldn't utter a single one of them.

Would it come across as hollow sympathy? Would anything I said feel genuine, coming from someone who hadn't made any effort to break free from inertia? Such fears cemented my tongue.

"Ah, the others don't know about my mother. Manager Han does, though."

It was an unexpected statement.

Perhaps it just turned out that way, and he hadn't intentionally tried to keep it a secret from nuna and hyung. He wasn't the type to volunteer information about himself unless asked. He hadn't specifically asked me to keep quiet about it either. Yet, the embarrassed smile on his face as he looked at me conveyed the message to keep it a secret.

He didn't feel a sense of relative superiority for having confided in me a story he hadn't even shared with nuna and hyung.

When he played his trump card — Suki Kim — to persuade me to start painting, he had probably been prepared for me to find out about the mother-child relationship as well.

Considering his desire to simply be Liu Weikun, regardless of his origins or background, it felt like a remarkably radical choice. That was why I found it surprising.

He was willing to risk exposing a part of himself he didn't want seen just to make me pick up a brush.

It wasn't just because of a business mindset — scouting an artist as a dealer or collector — but because he himself was the person who had found resonance and solace in the artwork he had kept close for so long.

He knew, and was certain, that if I didn't paint, I would lose my individuality and simply drift away like a colorless speck buried in universality. It was as if he had known me intimately for a very long time.

After taking the first drag, I slowly brought the cigarette, which I had merely been holding between my fingers, to my lips as if entranced.

He, who had been leaning back loosely with his hands pressed on the mattress behind him, looked at me and put a cigarette to his lips at the exact same moment. We were each just smoking our own cigarettes, but perhaps because of the look in his eyes or the atmosphere surrounding him, I felt the illusion of feeling his lips and tongue through the smoke. My skin tingled with a sharp sweetness, as if I were physically connecting with him.

A fragrance lingered, not with the intensity that stifled breath during sex, but with a subtle languor.

He exhaled the smoke slowly on a long breath and spoke quietly.

"Before, in front of Shushu's work, you said that it made you want to paint."

He had certainly said that. But back then, he had seemed to have almost no interest in me, so I hadn't expected him to remember that conversation all this time.

"......"

"Paint."

It was a concise core message. Stripping away all grand reasoning and persuasion, that was the essence he wanted to convey to me.

"I don't know what stopped you from painting anymore, Seo Yeehyeon-ssi, but... for someone like you... the only way to walk, run, and breathe again is by painting, so fight for your life... just focus on reclaiming your own language."

Like when he told me to eat for my own sake even if I had no appetite, his words urging me to paint as if my life depended on it captivated my mind, like a striking passage in a song.

The more I got to know him, the more it seemed he wanted me to pick up the brush not for his business or for "Phantom," but for my own sake. His words, and the serious way he looked at me, conveyed just that.

What Ms. Suki Kim had said — that he pretended to see art only in terms of its economic value — was tantamount to saying that he was someone who could never weigh art by economic value alone.

Perhaps he was a person who was compelled to treat each artist's uniqueness and the works they created with pure artistic sensitivity.

While it was true that getting recognized solely for the value of one's work, without marketing, was difficult — which is why he didn't hesitate to collaborate with the most mundane media outlets for promotion — that wasn't the entirety of his attitude toward art and artists.

It might have been an attempt to defend him too much, but it felt instead like he was trying to suppress his own pure affection for art with that very businesslike demeanor.

Though I had only taken two puffs, the ash had already grown long, so I tapped it into the ashtray and gathered my courage to ask him.

"How can you be so certain, just from a single piece, that I am someone who speaks through my art?"

He avoided my gaze, which had been fixed intently on him, and ran his fingers through his hair several times. The faint smile that touched his face looked shy, like a boy about to share a secret.

Looking down at the cigarette in his hand, which had already burned down short, he spoke.

"I don't know if you noticed, but there are hardly any paintings hanging in this house. However, I've kept Alienation hanging up since before I moved to Seoul. For five years, I've lived with that painting, staring at it every day. Not just its theme or composition, but every brushstroke and texture... If this were a movie, I'd have memorized every line spoken by every character. I probably know more about that painting now than Seo Yeehyeon-ssi does."

I felt a heat rising from deep inside my body, coloring my face red.

When I read his review of the artist Shushu, I had felt that the high praise for Shushu's capabilities as an artist, along with his words about Shushu's work having a personal impact on him, were like a fervent confession. But this — this was something more...

Suddenly, he tilted his head and looked back at me, and in contrast, I dropped my gaze to avoid his. As if fleeing, I brought the cigarette to my lips and took a drag.

"So I can't help but know that the artist of Alienation is someone who can only live by painting."

Still, I couldn't ignore my curiosity about the expression on his face as he spoke of me and my painting. When I exhaled and raised my head, his eyes held a heat different from what they held during sex.

It was a seriousness that stripped away all pretense, falsehood, probing, and self-protection — a frankness that exposed his entire interior, refusing to let me dismiss it with a laugh.

"I'm not someone who speaks through painting, but I was born to someone who cannot live unless they paint. Genes? You can't ignore those."

He managed a smile, as if joking, but I couldn't follow suit.

"I thought that something inside me had died, which is why I couldn't paint anymore... but then one day, it occurred to me that perhaps I had died because I stopped painting."

His words — that I must paint as if my life depended on it — echoed what Ms. Suki Kim had said. As he claimed, the power of genes truly could not be ignored.

I clearly remembered the teacher's words, as if I had recorded them and listened every day, about the time when she had put down her brush for two years because she had to prioritize things over painting, and temporarily give up art for something more important than the paintings themselves.

Perhaps that two-year period was related to the process of having to get a divorce by deception to protect him, but that was just speculation.

Just as I couldn't explain why I had stopped painting, I couldn't ask what his most vulnerable point was.

He stared intently at me while I smoked, then reached out and traced the surface of my lips — lips swollen sensitively from our deep kiss.

In the dim light, his eyes, which looked paler than usual, meticulously scanned my face. He looked at me this way sometimes. From my perspective — someone attracted to him — it was a gaze too intense to meet comfortably. If it was a habit, he should probably break it. Especially if he didn't want to invite unnecessary misunderstanding and get tangled up in something like a lovers' quarrel.

"Did it hurt?"

"......"

It was ambiguous whether he was asking about my lips, given that he had been touching them, or about what had happened internally during the knotting, or perhaps about the sex in general. But whatever he was asking about, the answer I would give him was the same anyway. I shook my head.

After pulling down my lower lip slightly, as if turning it inside out, and withdrawing his hand, he continued to stare at me for a long time. It felt like a ritual of imprinting a face onto his memory before departing on a long journey.

His gaze and expression were calmer than when he spoke, yet the shimmering waves of atmosphere emanating from him conveyed a sense of turmoil.

Vaguely, I felt an urge to confess everything to him. If I could learn about him by confessing about myself, it felt like a mutually beneficial transaction.

Had I ever wanted to know someone this deeply? Especially about the most private and cruel wounds, the ones trapped in his most secret and shadowed corners.

As if sensing that I had noticed his agitation, he forced a smile and gripped my shoulder.

"It must have been a very long day, so please get some sleep. I actually have somewhere I need to be... I have to get ready and leave in a little while, but don't worry about me; sleep as soundly as you need to."

He got out of bed and arranged the blankets for me. Perhaps the fatigue was finally catching up to him, as he pressed his fingers against the top of his eyelids several times while doing so.

I felt apologetic that we had been so intensely intertwined when he had to leave early in the morning, but apologizing now for having wanted sex also felt inappropriate for the situation.

The sky outside was already lightening to a rather deep violet. It was still raining, but the downpour had eased compared to the middle of the night.

I asked him in an apologetic voice if he truly had no time to rest at all as he added another layer of blackout curtain, but he just smiled as if it were nothing, approached me, and lightly pressed my shoulder, urging me to lie down.

"I'll leave your phone here. I'll call you, so even if you're sleepy, make sure to answer it."

He was probably calling to discuss how the task was progressing, yet his instruction to answer the phone sounded like a small promise between lovers — it was briefly sweet, and that made me even more afraid.

I was not prepared, either situationally or internally, to handle something like dating or love without issues.

Not even he was expecting anything from me, yet here I was worrying about whether I was ready or not... Finding my own premature assumptions bitter and ridiculous, I pulled the blanket up to my lips and nodded.

It was hard to believe that just a few hours ago, I had been trembling with such intense fear the moment I saw my uncle standing at the front gate. If he said everything was fine, I felt like it really would be fine.

Perhaps that was an ability as formidable as actually resolving the issue. Thinking that, I closed my eyes, which were growing heavy.