NLFSD Chapter 110

Chapter 110 – Extra Episode 10

Opening the front door and stepping inside, the house suddenly felt hollow. It had always been spacious, but he’d only ever thought it nice to have many rooms and bathrooms; he hadn’t considered the downside of a large home.

In the big house, where no voice sounded, not a speck of dust drifted. The air itself felt stopped; the rooms were bare of warmth. Somehow, it felt as if this house had always been inhabited by Jiwoon alone.

He went into the bedroom and ran a hand over the bed. The sheets were already cold; no trace of Taecheon’s warmth remained.

What am I doing, grieving already? He’s already gone….

Patting his aching chest, he headed for the dressing room. Hanging there were the clothes Seo Taecheon had favored from the start. Of those, Jiwoon loved the shirts he often wore, the white bathrobe, and the trench coat he threw over his shoulders in spring.

All were crisply pressed, but he gathered them up anyway and carried them to the bed. He spread the trench coat wide like a sheet, then lay down hugging the rest. When he brought a shirt hem to his nose, the pheromones rose faintly. It felt like being shut in a dark, damp forest. The Alpha’s energy wrapped him, sweet as if the man were beside him.

Even like this, I want to feel him. I miss him so much.

Whimpering, Jiwoon buried his face in the shirt — and drifted into sleep.

In his dream, he was walking with Seo Taecheon. They crossed a wide‑open meadow, and between them toddled a small child, no taller than their knees, the face indistinct. The steps were clumsy, as if walking for the first time, and the cheeks were plump.

The child burst out in clear laughter, then lifted both hands and offered one tiny palm to each of them. The instant they clasped those hands, warmth flowed through. The tingling was like a mild electric shock.

You’re Mango. No one had to say it; he knew.

Breathing inside me now, soon to come into the world and be with us — Mango….

For you, I need to be sturdy. Yes, I won’t be melancholy anymore.

Waking from the dream, Jiwoon stretched as far as he could and went outside. Setting off along a wooded path, his heart felt lighter.

While Jiwoon cared for himself and began to recover like this, Seo Taecheon showed serious signs of anxiety even before he set out on the trip. In the airport lounge, in a meeting with executives, he suddenly spilled his coffee.

“Director, are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ll get something to clean it with.”

Thankfully, it was iced coffee and he’d spilled it on his own pants, so no one else was hurt — but the fact that his hand had trembled and he’d overturned the cup was shocking. To him, and to others.

His secretary spoke carefully.

“Are you unwell?”

“No — just a bit nervous.”

The great Seo Taecheon, nervous about a business trip? It sounded absurd. The secretary took in his bloodless face and tried again.

“Shall I pick up a tonic at the pharmacy? A fatigue reliever? Or something to calm you temporarily?”

“I’m alright. I don’t need anything like that.”

Over‑the‑counter medicine wouldn’t touch what he felt.

He had in fact already used a lunch break, days before, to consult a specialist — without telling Jiwoon.

“I’m going on a trip without my spouse. I’m worried that being away from Jiwoon could lower our pheromone levels or weaken the body in some way. Could you advise me on this?”

The doctor shrugged.

“Being apart a few days won’t affect the body. You said you bonded recently, yes?”

“Yes.”

“In bonded pairs, being apart often brings intense anxiety, and they sometimes feel physically unwell — but that’s psychological. Phantom pain, so to speak. There’s no actual impact on health.”

“Truly? I’m even more worried because Jiwoon is pregnant.”

“Same answer. Even in pregnancy — unless we’re talking years apart. In extremes like divorce or bereavement, pheromone imbalance can occur. But right now, your bodies should have abundant pheromones circulating. During imprinting, not just ordinary pheromones, but the foundational layer opens — you felt overwhelmed, dizzy, yes?”

“Yes.”

Indeed, recalling the day of imprinting — it had been beyond ordinary sex. The thrill, the savage rush when he’d bitten the nape, and the egoless plunge as imprinting completed.

“Your pheromones are currently meshed like hooks — custom‑fit, you might say. They course through your vessels, filling every gap. In short: a one‑week separation is fine.”

The doctor prescribed nothing and sent him on his way.

Still, doubt gnawed. Was the doctor right? This really felt like a sickness.

Never in his life had his mind been so scattered or his actions so erratic. Even passing through the departure gate on his way to board, he lost himself again — instead of heading straight for the national carrier, he nearly wandered to the concourse used by foreign airlines.

If he’d taken the direct shuttle train to that concourse, he might not have been able to come back — a near disaster. Secretary Park read the signs: the boss was not himself. I’ll have to keep a close eye. He resolved to stick close and manage him meticulously.

Once aboard, he could not sleep. The flight to Paris Charles de Gaulle was over twelve hours, a long haul. He needed to rest to function on arrival, but even with an eye mask, even with a drink, sleep would not come.

In the past, he would dine, take a glass of red, nap — habit. Now, the more the hours passed, the sharper he felt. Only Jiwoon and Mango filled his mind.

Are they alright? Are they okay without me?

Worrying over the two made the time leap by. It felt like two hours; when he looked up, he was in Paris. He collected his bag, checked that his phone had roaming. As soon as the network came up, he called Jiwoon.

“Jiwoon, I’ve landed.”

— Already? Are you tired?

“No. I’m fine. Are you alright?”

— Of course. Our ajumma grilled meat today; I ate well and took a walk.

“Did it digest well?”

— A little heavy at first, but I ate some fruit and felt better.

“Good. I’ll call again.”

Hearing that dear voice for even a moment, he felt alive. Yet not seeing that chattering face, not hearing the voice for longer — it was tantalizing.

On day one, he lived like a man with two bodies. He messaged Jiwoon in his time zone, checking that he ate, that he slept, that nothing hurt. And in the local hours, he ran the business schedule — breathless.

In client meetings, he had to focus completely; there was no time to glance at a phone. He was there as a representative of a company; he wanted to show only thoroughness — which was his style anyway.

So in the snatches of time while he was in transit, he clung to his phone. Like a desert traveler who’d found an oasis, he sent excited messages, browsed the stored photos of Jiwoon.

And then his trump card: the photo card. He lifted it and pressed a kiss to it — a stiff credit‑card‑sized print of Jiwoon’s face, lips pouted in a cheeky smile.

He had come to the idea of photo cards by chance. Deputy Kim Min‑ji in the secretariat had fallen headlong for an idol group. Like a late‑learned vice taken too far, she bought albums and goods in a frenzy; she had several members’ photo cards stuck around her monitor.

Passing by, he’d noticed them and asked where they came from.

“These come one per album — kind of a bonus.”

“Oh… I see. So that’s current marketing.”

“Yes. But it’s not the only way. Fan clubs sometimes make special runs and hand them out, or they give cards only to fans who attend concerts.”

“So to get them, you have to participate actively.”

“Ah, not necessarily. You can just make your own with a photo you like — no one will stop you.”

“Really? So ordinary people can make them?”

He sounded intrigued.

“Of course. And they’re much nicer than standard prints — the material doesn’t pick up fingerprints, and they’re compact. Exactly credit‑card size, so they fit in a wallet.”

He already had one ID photo of Jiwoon, but the rest of his photos were trapped in devices. Carrying printed photos hadn’t occurred to him; he’d never dated, and idols were a mystery — the very concept was new.

“In that case, I need to make some.”

“Pardon? Do you like idols too, Director?”

“No. I’m making them of Assistant Lee Jiwoon. While we’re at it, the baby’s ultrasound, too.”

With a seriousness deeper than at an emergency relocation meeting, he spoke; Kim Min‑ji could only respond, Ah… I see. She guessed he had a fan’s heart much like her own — just aimed at a different star.

“Secretary Kim, where do you make these?”

“There are a few websites.”

“Please send me the links.”