NLFSD Chapter 122

Chapter 122 – Call My Name IF Extra 6

After Secretary Park left, Seo Taecheon took a deep breath. The front gate was exactly as he remembered. Of course nothing had changed — yet stepping into the house felt difficult. The thought that his spouse — the Omega he’d argued with last night — was inside made his mood odd. Still, this was his house. He had to go in.

He opened the familiar gate and crossed the garden. The entry code was unchanged. As the door swung open, a scorched smell hit his nose — with a sharp wave of spices riding it.

What on earth is that smell? As he tried to assess, the crash of a breaking plate rang out. From the sound, it was happening in the kitchen.

A burglar…? No — that wouldn’t explain the burnt smell. Not a house fire, but food burning.

Either way, it was a problem. He set his face and walked toward the kitchen. The scene before him was a spectacle.

Chaos. On the induction stove, a pot of unknown scarlet soup boiled; in the toaster, a slice of bread popped up black as charcoal. Jiwoon, flustered, was trying to contain the disaster. From the way he had his hand under cold water, he must have hurt himself trying.

He’d been cooking — but could this be called cooking? More like wrecking a kitchen.

“Ah — Taecheon. Welcome home.”

Spotting him, Jiwoon brightened with relief.

But Taecheon’s expression was dire — the look of a man witnessing a natural disaster. Seeing that grim gaze, Jiwoon winced. He had wanted a good meal ready before he arrived, but nothing had gone to plan.

The pot held tomato soup. He’d searched the internet and tried a variety of spices, but the taste was flat and bitter. He’d boiled it too long: foam bubbled high, about to spill over. Turning to deal with it, he’d burned his hand on the hot pot, then rushed to the sink and, with an elbow sweep, knocked utensils clattering to the floor.

And of all times, he returned now. More than the failure of a decent dish, the wrecked kitchen embarrassed him; he hurried to set things right.

Just then, a plate stacked precariously on the counter slipped and shattered.

“Ah — I’m sorry, Taecheon.”

“…”

“Don’t come closer — it’s dangerous.”

Picking up the shards came first; otherwise, he might get hurt.

But perhaps because he was too frantic, he pricked his palm on a sharp sliver. Red drops pattered onto the floor. He didn’t care — he bent again to clean, when Taecheon stepped in and seized his wrist.

The sudden touch made Jiwoon start.

“Don’t. I’ll clean it.”

“But I broke it… and this is our house. Let me—”

“They’re my plates.”

In a level tone, he drew a line. The edge in it made Jiwoon shrink.

“…Right. Yes — if that’s how you see it.”

Calmly, Taecheon turned off the induction, tossed the charcoal toast into the food bin, fetched a broom, and swept up the shards.

When he was done and looked at the table, there were coffee, fruit, and rice. As suspected, dinner was underway.

“Pardon me, but was that for me?”

“Yes. To eat together.”

“I have no appetite. I’ll pass.”

He added nothing else, turned his back, and headed for the study. He felt Jiwoon’s eyes on him and ignored it.

That night, he sat at the heavy study desk and could not sleep for hours.

A reliable secretary had testified in person. He’d viewed the marriage certificate and wedding photos. And one more thing — there on the desk, centered, was a picture of Jiwoon grinning bright. By his tastes, this study should have been furnished entirely in black; yet in this stark room, pastel frames were stuck up here and there.

The frames held solo shots of Jiwoon or pictures of the two of them together — even one of them kissing. He’d never liked hanging anything on walls. And not black, but pastel frames — sprinkled across his walls. An eyesore.

Then his gaze caught on one photo — familiar. A tree from one of the resort affiliates. It was a famously odd‑shaped tree he always noticed when visiting; a well‑known photo spot.

He’d never bothered to take pictures there — just looked. So why was that photo framed and on his study wall?

Staring at it, an indistinct silhouette seemed to flit through his mind.

I was with someone when that was taken… When, how did I end up taking it?

He focused, trying to reel in the memory. Behind his shut eyes, a hazy scene: wind and someone’s hair in it; the thought — lovely; a clear laugh spreading in the air — and that voice was like—

“Ugh.”

A brutal headache hit without warning. Splitting pain — he could pull no more.

“Phew…”

Sighing, he stood, opened the door — and hesitated. If they were married, they must share a bed; that meant Jiwoon was in the bedroom. He couldn’t lie beside him.

He would sleep in the study. He decided so, lay on the wall‑length sofa bed, and tried to sleep. He’d said he’d report to work as normal tomorrow — he had to rest by force and hold his condition. But the nagging, something‑stuck unease made sleep elusive.

Beyond the wall, Jiwoon also lay awake until dawn. Holding his breath, he cried — afraid even a sniffle might slip under the door. Lying on his side, he let tears soak the pillow, salty and hot. He cried and cried — the sorrow would not be calmed.

Under the same roof, it felt like a night of severance, as if they no longer existed to each other. He woke from a doze before sunrise. His eyes stung for lack of sleep, but he moved at once. He wanted breakfast ready before Taecheon left.

While the coffee machine preheated, something caught his eye — the mug he’d given Taecheon last Christmas. Off‑kilter, ugly, uneven — but it was the mark of his effort to prepare a gift on his own and Taecheon’s love in accepting the clumsy thing.

“Thank you. I’ll use it well.”

He remembered the joy on his face receiving a ridiculous cup.

Would he remember this cup?

He exhaled deeply.

No — this is no time. He’s an early riser; hurry.

He toasted the bagels he liked, brewed coffee, and set the breakfast.

He tapped on the study door; a reply came. As expected, he was up early. He emerged with the same stony face as last night. Cautiously, Jiwoon spoke.

“Dar— I mean, Taecheon. Breakfast.”

“No, thank you.”

The cut‑off answer made the sting rise in Jiwoon’s throat. Before he could protest, Taecheon brushed past toward the dressing room.

Digging through hangers, he noticed something odd. Not a single black bathrobe — only white, with a rare gray.

What — I only use black robes after a shower.

From behind, Jiwoon’s voice:

“Looking for something?”

“The black bathrobes — do you know where they are?”

“You threw them all out.”

“Threw them out?”

So that memory’s gone, too. Bitterness pricked.

“Yes. I said I hated them, so you tossed them. After that you used white or gray.”

He said nothing. Jiwoon stepped in, rummaged the rack, and took out a favorite shirt and a French coat.

“What are you doing?”

“Smelling them. I’m used to lying beside you — alone, I can’t smell you.”

Head lowered, he murmured,

“So I thought… hugging your clothes might help.”

Taecheon knit his brow. Even if they were married, this man was a stranger to him — he could not permit him to clutch his clothes in bed.

“No. Put them back.”

“…What?”

“They’re mine. Don’t touch them.”

“H—how could you…”

His eyes quavered; in an instant, they reddened. Something pricked in his chest. Only days ago, this man had treated him like the most precious thing in the world — cradled like glass, loved lavishly. The same face now wore a look colder than ice.

To feel again what he’d felt in the ward — a dreadful déjà vu. It felt as if he’d fallen into cold water.

“For now — since we are legally married — you may stay here,” Taecheon said, continuing without waiting for an answer. “Use the master bedroom as you please. But do not touch my personal things.”

With that, he left the dressing room.

“Ah…”

Jiwoon crumpled to the floor, still clutching his clothes. He buried his face in the fabric and shed the tears he hadn’t finished last night.

What are tears — seawater?

No matter how much he cried, the sorrow did not dilute.

Footnotes:

1. Occam’s razor: A reasoning heuristic preferring the simplest hypothesis that fits observed facts; invoked here to accept marriage evidence despite lost affect.