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Jongwoo thinks this is a bad idea.
No, he knows it’s a bad idea. But it’s long overdue. He’s been with Jieun for 4 years; he’s known her for a little longer than that.
Jongwoo’s mother had loved Jieun when she first met her; she called her beautiful and polite and quickly started planning Jongwoo’s life with her. Something that made them both uncomfortable. Jieun had every right to be, what with the onslaught of friendliness that she was otherwise not used to.
This is different. This is Jongwoo meeting Jieun’s parents. It’s a crucial turn in their relationship. He needs to get on their good side. He thinks she’d break up with him if he doesn’t manage to.
Jongwoo adjusts the bouquet of flowers in his arm to lift his hand and knock on her door.
He takes a breath. Then he takes two. He’s halfway through an inhale when the door opens, making him square his shoulders and clear his throat.
Jieun looks at him. At his face, then at the flowers, then at his outfit.
Jongwoo fumbles with the ribbon tied around the stems of the flowers and says, “Hi.” as Jieun steps back to open the door wider.
“Come in, oppa.”
Jongwoo steps inside, unsure what to do with the bunch of flowers. He abruptly holds it out and Jieun almost jumps. “Ah– You didn’t have to,” she’s taking the bouquet anyway, and she’s leaning in to give him a kiss on the cheek.
“Sorry I’m late,” he utters. “The train—”
Jieun is scrutinizing his state of underdress, her brow furrowed with displeasure.
“My train was delayed.”
“Ah, no. It’s okay,” she shakes her head, giving him a smile. “It was probably tiring coming all the way to Seoul.”
“It wasn’t,” Jongwoo tuts and huffs a laugh, lifting his hand to scratch the back of his head with a smile.
Jieun spares his shoes a brief glance, imperceptible if Jongwoo wasn’t paying attention. It makes his toes curl in their confines. “I’m underdressed, aren’t I?” He shifts his weight.
“Yeah, a little bit,” Jieun says amiably. He can hear the disappointment in her tone. “Why didn’t you wear that tie I bought you for your birthday? It was nice.”
Jongwoo doesn’t know how to tell her he doesn’t like ties. They make him feel constrained. They’re restrictive and he can barely breathe with something around his neck.
“Ah, well—”
“Now, now, Jieun-ah,”
Jongwoo isn’t sure when he hung his head to look at his shoes, but his eyes lift at the new voice. Out of respect if anything.
“Don’t be mean to our guest. He came all the way here just to meet me and your mother.”
Jongwoo stands straighter, balancing his weight on both legs as he looks at the man standing in the doorway.
“I wasn’t being mean!” Jieun defends. “I was just— yah!”
Jongwoo does a double take, mouth opening for just a moment before he jumps to Jieun’s defense as well. “It’s okay, Jieun abeonim. I uh. I am. Underdressed, I mean. I should’ve… yeah.”
Way to go, Jongwoo. Really.
Jieun’s father throws Jieun a smile before he looks over at Jongwoo. “You must be Jongwoo.”
“Yeah,” Jongwoo sniffles. “Shall I—” he gestures for his shoes. “Take them off or—”
“There are slippers there,” Jieun replies. “I’m going to help eomma in the kitchen.”
Jongwoo wants to tell her to please not leave him in the company of a man he barely knows. He has half a mind to voice it in his presence, but he figures that’ll leave him on Jieun’s father’s bad side.
Once she’s out of sight and Jongwoo’s feet are donning the black slippers she’d instructed him to wear, he looks up.
“Sorry for being late,” he repeats from earlier. “I think I left a bad first impression.”
“Not at all,” the man steps forward and holds a hand out. “My name’s Seo Moonjo.”
“Seo—” Jongwoo repeats with a blink.
“I’m like her father, there’s no need for niceties, don’t you think?”
“Yeah– Yeah, of course, I didn’t mean to—” Jongwoo cuts himself short and takes the proffered hand with a small bow of his head. “I’m Yoon Jongwoo.”
“I’ve heard plenty about you, Jongwoo-ssi,” Moonjo lowers his hand to his side. “It’s nice to finally meet you and put a face to the name.”
“Thanks,” Jongwoo breathes. “It’s nice to meet you too.”
“You have an interest in literature?”
“Yeah,” Jongwoo swallows. Wonders what Jieun’s said about his interest in literature. Was it as undermining as the things she sometimes said to his face?
“Come on in. Or are you planning to stand there until you have to leave?”
“Right. Right, sorry. I’m. Aish, I’m nervous.”
“Nervous?” Moonjo echoes as he ushers him into the dining room. “Why? We’re not going to eat you.”
Jongwoo breathes a quiet laugh. “I’m sorry it took so long to meet you by the way. It’s— I’m moving to Seoul soon, so it’ll be easier then.”
“No need to apologize,” Moonjo gestures to the table. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” Jongwoo utters. He clears his throat at the blatancy of the word. “Thanks.”
“You studied literature too?” Moonjo asks as he takes his seat at the head of the table.
Jongwoo fumbles for just a moment before he decides to take the seat two chairs down. He tucks his hands under his thighs and nods. “Yeah. That’s how I met Jieun-i.”
“Are you pursuing a career in it?” Moonjo wonders. He shakes his head before Jongwoo can respond. “Excuse my manners. You don’t have to answer.”
He doesn’t wait for Jongwoo to reply to that either.
“As you’re aware, Jieun-i gave up on writing a while ago. It’s a sensitive subject to her and it could be to you too.”
“No,” Jongwoo pulls a hand out from under his leg to shake it for emphasis. “It’s okay.”
Moonjo smiles pleasantly at him.
Jieun scurries in and sits down next to Jongwoo with a sigh. “I ruined dessert.”
Jongwoo laughs.
“I told you to stay out of the kitchen,” Moonjo chides.
What Jongwoo assumes is Jieun’s mother comes in less than ten seconds later with a pot in her hands.
Jongwoo quickly brings himself to his feet as she places it down on the table. He bows his respect and says, “Hello.”
The woman dries her hands on her skirt and holds a hand out to him. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Jongwoo-ssi.”
“You too,” Jongwoo takes her hand in both of his. “I uh— I see where Jieun gets her good looks.”
It’s a line Seokyun said he should say. He told him it’ll flatter her enough to overlook all his shortcomings.
Jieun’s mother doesn’t look too dazzled by the flattery. She gives him a subtle smile and turns to the dish.
Jongwoo slowly takes his seat again, heat taking over his body at an uncomfortably fast pace. He’s going to kill Seokyun.
Jieun elbows him lightly as a small offering of comfort and gets a smile in return.
As her mother fills Jongwoo’s plate, Jongwoo admires the interior. Thinks he can break the tension by complimenting it.
“You have a lovely home.”
“Thank you,” Moonjo says. “Mikyung’s always been an aesthete.”
Jongwoo looks at him. He feels like Moonjo’s the only person around the table who’s okay with his presence.
“So, Jongwoo-ssi…”
“Yes?” Jongwoo’s brows rise as his gaze rivets to Jieun’s mother— Mikyung.
“What’s your job?”
Jongwoo opens his mouth to answer, but Jieun beats him to it. “Jaeho oppa’s offered him a spot in his company.”
“Jaeho?” her mother asks as she settles down in her seat. “Ah, the handsome one with the—”
“The arrogant one,” Moonjo interrupts. “The one who kept waving the keys to his Mercedes and slipping his assets into every sentence.”
Jongwoo tamps down a smile. Yeah, that’s Jaeho, alright.
“He’s handsome, yeobo.”
“Is he?” Moonjo questions. “I found him very much beneath our Jieun-i.”
Jieun scoffs. And it might be that she’s shy under the indirect praise coming from her stepdad, but this man’s practically her father; it’s clear she’s more annoyed with the Jaeho defamation.
Jongwoo shifts uncomfortably and looks at his food for a stupidly long time. “The food’s really good, Jieun eommonim,” he comments belatedly. “Thank you.”
“Ah, really?” Mikyung perks up. “I thought you’d like it. Jieun wasn’t sure what your favorite dish was, so I had to improvise.”
Jongwoo blinks over at Jieun; he says nothing when she meets his eye, instead giving her another silent smile before he takes a sip of his wine.
“How old are you, Jongwoo?”
“I’m twenty seven,” Jongwoo exhales. He belatedly realizes how exasperated he sounds, but he feels like he’s being investigated. His mother didn’t treat Jieun this way.
“What did you study?”
“Korean Literature,” Jongwoo slows down his chewing. “Here in Seoul. On scholarship, actually. My GPA qualified me.”
The quiet that follows makes his jaw draw taut.
“Mm,” Mikyung nods to herself. She tucks her short hair behind her ear with manicured fingers and smiles his way. “And your mother?”
“She owns a fish shop in Busan,” Jongwoo utters flatly.
He waits for the disapproval that usually comes in the trail of that admission, because working for a living is something that calls for shame, you see. But it doesn’t come as strongly as he’s expecting it to.
Jongwoo feels like he got defensive for no reason.
“Oppa…” Jieun murmurs, hand on his forearm like she’s placating him.
“Sorry.”
And,
“Can I— Can I use the bathroom?”
“I’ll show you where it is,” Jieun stands up.
Once they’re out of her parents’ vicinity, Jongwoo breathes out heavily. “Jieun-ah. I’m messing up. I shouldn’t have—”
“You’re doing okay, oppa,” Jieun climbs the stairs with Jongwoo on her heels. “Mom’s hard to please.”
“She seems to like Jaeho. When did she meet him anyway?” Jongwoo tamps down the annoyance he feels at the idea of Jaeho meeting Jieun’s parents before him.
“Last Christmas,” Jieun replies. “Appa didn’t like him though. He looks like he likes you more.”
Jongwoo nods with relief.
…
The rest of the evening goes relatively smoothly; Jongwoo answers Mikyung’s questions until she excuses herself to talk on the phone. Moonjo sits down on the sofa with a book in his hand as Jieun tells Jongwoo about her new job.
Time passes faster with nothing weighing on Jongwoo’s nerves, and before he knows it, it’s past ten o’clock.
“I should get going.”
Jieun pouts. “You just got here.”
It makes Jongwoo smile as he absently plays with her fingers. “I’m moving here soon. We’ll have more time then, okay?”
“Fine.”
“Where are you staying, Jongwoo-ssi?” Moonjo questions from across the room.
“Ah—” Jongwoo straightens his back like he’s addressing a superior. “I’m— I’m not really staying in Seoul tonight. I’m taking a train back to Busan.”
Moonjo’s brows inch up. “That’s almost four hours away.”
“It’s okay,” Jongwoo stands up.
“Why don’t you stay the night?” Moonjo offers. “I’ll drive you to the station first thing in the morning.”
“That’s a good idea,” Jieun inputs.
Jongwoo shakes his head. “Eomma has an early shift tomorrow. I have to be in Busan to—” he swallows, remembering he hadn’t mentioned his mother’s part-time job. “To take care of my brother while she works.”
Moonjo—
He smiles. It’s small, but it makes Jongwoo shy. Jongwoo thinks it’s the approval. The fact he might have his blessings to continue with Jieun.
“Then let me drive you to the station. It’s the least I can do.”
“I can’t ask that of you, seonsaengnim.”
“Nonsense,” Moonjo puts his book down and places his hands on his thighs to bring himself to his feet. “You’d be lucky to find a cab or bus in this weather.”
Jongwoo shifts his weight. “I—” he swallows and glances at Jieun, who flashes her dimple at him and momentarily squeezes her eyes shut to tell him it’s fine. “Ok. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Moonjo dismisses. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”
Jongwoo’s at the door when his phone rings. He doesn’t need to look at the screen to know it’s his mother. He stops working on his shoes and unpockets his phone to pick up.
“Yeah, eomma.”
He traps his phone between his ear and shoulder to continue tying his shoelaces.
“Jongwoo-yah,” his mother greets. “Are you on your way back?”
“I’m about to leave Jieun-i’s house,” Jongwoo responds, standing up as he shifts his phone to his hand. “Why?”
“The shop’s closed tomorrow,” his mother replies. “I’m going to stay home with your brother.”
“Ah.”
“Find a motel to house in,” her tone says it isn’t open for discussion. “Stay warm and come home tomorrow, okay?”
“Oh,” Jongwoo chews on his lip. “Oh. Yeah, okay. Take care of yourself.”
“You too, Woo-yah.”
…
Moonjo’s car is nice. It’s big. Not as big as Jongwoo expected it to be, but it’s cozy enough to filter out the cold outside.
“Fan of cars?” Moonjo asks when he catches him inspecting the space.
“What?” Jongwoo’s eyes gravitate back to him. “Oh. No, not really.”
Jongwoo taps his fingers against his leg to pass time, eyes on the blurring trees outside.
“What’s your genre?”
“What?”
“Your genre. You’re a writer, aren't you?” Moonjo probes. He sounds different than he’d sounded the whole evening. He sounds tired.
“How’d you know that?” Jongwoo exhales, looking at him.
“You’ve been tapping your fingers since you got in the car,” Moonjo smiles at the road. “And there's an artistic feel to you. So?”
Jongwoo’s mouth twitches with discomfort. He curls his fingers inwards then hides his hands under his thighs, feet tucked beneath his seat. “Crime.”
“That’s interesting.”
Jongwoo’s throat bobs.
It’s pathetic what little scraps of praise can do, given offhandedly, Jongwoo’s sure; they don’t fail to snatch a breath right out of his lungs.
“Yeah,” the word’s strained with unease.
“My wife wasn’t too nice to you today, Jongwoo-ssi,” Moonjo starts. “I apologize on her behalf. She’s had a rough couple of days.”
Jongwoo shakes his head. “No. It’s okay.”
A bit louder, Jongwoo decides to break the awkwardness himself. “What do you do?”
“I’m a dentist,” Moonjo answers. “I own a clinic in Sujeong-gu.”
“Cool,” Jongwoo buries his nails in his leg through jeans. “What were you reading?”
“Hm?”
“I just mean— I saw you reading tonight.”
“The High Window,” Moonjo glances at him briefly. “Are you familiar with Raymond Chandler?”
“Yeah,” Jongwoo swallows thickly. “I love his work.”
“Would expect nothing less from a crime fiction writer.”
Jongwoo huffs. “I’m not— not yet.”
“I look forward to seeing you published.”
Jongwoo almost curses himself when he reaches for the window switch and presses down until he can feel the rush of cold air on his face.
The car’s too hot. Jongwoo waits a few minutes before he rolls the window back up.
“I heard you’re friends with Jaeho.”
Irritation at the label of his and Jaeho’s acquaintanceship rises in Jongwoo’s chest. “No,” he utters.
“No?” Moonjo echoes. “Jieun-i told me you reached out to him for a job.”
“He’s the one who reached out to me,” Jongwoo deflects. “He wants the best work at the cheapest price.”
“That sounds like him.”
“Jieun would disagree,” Jongwoo mutters, rubbing his thumb into the opposite palm.
“She is somewhat charmed by him.”
Jongwoo feels the words like salt to a cut. He cups his hand and goes quiet.
“What’s your role in his company?” Moonjo goes on, seemingly keen on pumping life into a conversation Jongwoo has no interest in.
“Public relations writer,” Jongwoo replies. “By the way,”
“Hm?”
“Is there a motel around here?”
“A motel?” Moonjo glances at him, but he’s quick to give his attention back to the road. “Why?”
“Eomma called,” Jongwoo explains. “She told me they gave her a day off tomorrow because of the weather conditions.”
Moonjo tuts. “Jongwoo-ssi,”
He’s making a U-turn.
“We have plenty of space at home. You’re not a stranger.”
“I can’t—”
“You can,” Moonjo interrupts. “You’ll have to take the couch. I’m not particularly keen on the idea of you and Jieun sharing a bed.”
Jongwoo scoffs. “We— It’s not…”
It’s not like that?
As true as that statement is, considering Jongwoo and Jieun haven’t really gone past kissing and a bit of fondling over the past four years, Moonjo wouldn’t believe it. It’s embarrassing to even talk about this with his girlfriend’s father figure.
They go quiet.
“Thank you. By the way.”
“Hm?”
“For today,” Jongwoo twiddles his thumbs. “You were welcoming. I was nervous, and you…” he sniffs and nods.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable earlier,” Moonjo says from the driver’s seat. “Telling you how charmed Jieun was by Shin Jaeho.”
“It’s fine.”
Jongwoo’s tone says otherwise.
They’re silent the rest of the way back to Jieun’s house. Jongwoo thinks Moonjo’s trying to ease him into the idea of being broken up with. He thinks he might have been a bit too harsh. But it’s been over twenty minutes. He doesn’t know what to say to soften the air.
The car pulls to a slow stop, and Jongwoo glances out the window before he looks at Moonjo. “Sorry for making you drive—”
“It was refreshing,” Moonjo interrupts. “That house can be suffocating sometimes.”
Jongwoo chews on the inside of his lip. He feels like there’s more to that statement than he can possibly understand.
…
Sleeping on the couch is more comfortable than sleeping in his own bed.
The pajamas Moonjo lent him are loose and warm, and the duvet that he handed him right after is so cozy Jongwoo wants to sink into it.
The cold isn’t what keeps him up.
It’s what comes once his eyes are closed that keeps them open.
He doesn’t want to give Jieun’s mother another reason to tell Jieun he isn’t good for her. That working under someone’s hand is one thing, but nightmares provoked by PTSD are a whole different level of no.
He swallows, feeling stones behind his eyelids as he attempts to keep them peeled. His eyes grow heavy.
He wishes he brought his laptop. That would keep him up.
There’s shifting, footfall, then, “Are you still up, Jongwoo-ssi?” and, “Is it uncomfortable for you over there?”
“No,” Jongwoo rasps. “I just— I’m not used to sleeping outside my house.”
That’s true, to some extent.
“Mm.”
Jongwoo blinks at the silhouette.
“Would you like some tea?”
Moonjo makes them both tea. Jongwoo uses it to warm his hands as the other man turns on the glass fireplace.
He sits down on the other end of Jongwoo’s bed for the night.
“Why are you up anyway?” Jongwoo questions. He clears his throat right after at the casual nosiness he used to voice the question.
Moonjo takes a slow sip from his mug, and Jongwoo notes the way the orange light from the fireplace shines on the silver roots at his temples.
“I was making sure you didn’t sneak into my daughter’s bedroom.”
Jongwoo’s horrified by his urge to kick Moonjo. Like. Kick him. The playful shut up kind of kick that he’d never dare do to even Jieun.
“It’s not—” Jongwoo starts, swallowing thickly. “Seonsaengnim, I think I was raised well. I know how to respect women.”
Moonjo’s brows inch upwards. He takes another sip of his tea.
He takes his time wording his next sentence.
“I was just teasing you, Jongwoo-ssi.”
“Oh.”
There’s a long pause, almost pensive to Moonjo, but awkward to Jongwoo, who tucks his mug between his thighs in favor of rubbing his aching joints slowly.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Jongwoo peers over at him.
“Thunder tends to keep me up.
“Not even my wife knows that,” Moonjo adds, lighter. “I wouldn’t want to grow smaller in her eyes.”
Jongwoo retrieves his mug and runs his thumb over its ceramic for a small while.
This might be a pivotal turn in their relationship. He should build amity between them, right? Bond over— Bond over stuff like this. Personal problems.
“Shouldn’t she know?” he asks quietly, as honest and polite as he can muster. “I mean, you’re sharing everything together. Who’d want to be in a relationship where they’re scared to talk about stuff like that?”
Moonjo’s brow lifts, half amused. “Do you know everything about Jieun?”
“Yes,” Jongwoo replies, a bit too confident for his own good. “I think I do.”
“Her favorite dish?”
“Samgyetang.”
Jongwoo sharply avoids thinking about how she’d forgotten what his was.
“Singer?”
“Kim Wansun,” Jongwoo answers abruptly. He shifts, mouth pressed tight.
Is Moonjo testing him right now? At half one in the morning?
“Mm,” Moonjo shifts too. Tilts his head. Says, “Does she know your genre?”
And.
Jongwoo deflates. “What?”
“Does she know what you write,” Moonjo voices. “Or what you read. Does she know your favorite author? Your favorite book?”
One more pause.
“Does she know the reason you keep rubbing at your joints? Or perhaps why you’re actually awake right now?”
Jongwoo’s jaw tightens.
“There are things we just don’t tell, Jongwoo-ssi. Things we should keep to ourselves so we don’t lose esteem.”
There’s nothing Jongwoo can say to that.
He sinks back into the corner of the couch, feeling too seen.
Moonjo rises to his feet and takes the mug out of Jongwoo’s loosening grip. Their fingers brush, and he smiles, and he says, “Good night, Jongwoo-ssi.”
He’s at the kitchen doorway when Jongwoo manages to find his voice.
“Isn’t it more human though?”
His voice swells halfway through, and Moonjo stops to turn around and look at him.
He’s the one drenched in the kitchen lights, and Jongwoo’s the one sitting in dimly-illuminated darkness, a vast interval between them. And yet, Jongwoo feels more unprotected than he would have had Moonjo been sitting right in front of him.
“What was that?”
Mellow. Quiet. A curiosity wrapped in passive softness.
“To just— I don’t know,” Jongwoo shrugs, looking away. “Be yourself. Especially around someone who—” he waves vaguely in the direction of the stairs. “—who vowed to love you unconditionally.”
The look on Moonjo’s face makes Jongwoo want to take back everything he’s just said.
That’s his problem, countless people have told him before; he gets too bold around people he’s comfortable with. He becomes too much.
“I mean—”
“Jieun’s a lucky woman,” Moonjo cuts in. He interrupts Jongwoo like he didn’t mean to. As if everything that’s on his mind happens to be on the tip of his tongue too.
Jongwoo blinks at him.
After his mother met Jieun, she’d told him he was lucky to have her. Jaeho reminds Jongwoo that Jieun’s way out of his league whenever he gets the chance. Seokyun saw her photo once, and he’d said Jongwoo hit the jackpot when he started dating her.
Something about someone labeling her the lucky one makes him feel—
Happy. Special, even.
It’s that. And it’s the way Moonjo says it like he’s giving him his approval. The green light. Deeming him good enough for his daughter.
“Thank you.”
Moonjo smiles at him and disappears into the kitchen.
…
Moonjo’s smoking on the porch when Jongwoo steps out hours later. It’s still dark, despite being almost six in the morning. The clouds are gray, already spitting light rain onto the plants on the decking.
“Good morning,” he says quietly.
Moonjo drops his cigarette like he’d been caught in the act. He steps on it and turns to face Jongwoo with sunken eyes that tell Jongwoo he didn’t really get much sleep since their talk.
“You’re up early,” he says in lieu of a greeting.
“Yeah,” Jongwoo swallows. “I think I should get going now.”
Moonjo's mouth curls up at the corners. “Alright. I’ll wait for you in the car.”
“You don’t have to,” Jongwoo objects. “It’s early. And you didn’t get any sleep. I’ll take a bus. I— I like the rain.”
Moonjo’s eyes linger on him. “The closest bus stop is almost forty minutes away.”
Jongwoo shifts, waves his index finger wordlessly before he rubs its knuckle over the shape of his brow. “Then I’ll—”
“Jieun wouldn’t be happy to know I let you walk in the cold. I like to think I’m a hospitable host.”
Jongwoo nods.
“Ok,” he breathes. “I’m going to get dressed.”
…
The A/C’s on when he ducks into Moonjo’s car.
He forces his aching shoulders down and opens his phone to check if he has any calls or texts.
“Did you bid Jieun farewell?” is the first thing Moonjo says once he’s in the driver’s seat. “Seatbelt.”
Jongwoo reaches for his seatbelt and clasps it into place. “She was sleeping,” he replies. “I didn’t want to wake her. She has work—” he halts. “Don’t you have work?”
“My appointments start at ten,” Moonjo dismisses. “I’d like you to stop thinking you’re hindering me. It’s only a twenty minute drive.”
Jongwoo relaxes.
It’s lighter this time. Jongwoo feels more comfortable starting a conversation. He lasts two minutes before he says, “Are there any cheap studios here?”
“Hm?”
Jongwoo turns his head to look at Moonjo. “Not in this area,” he clarifies. “Just— in Seoul in general.”
“What’s your budget?”
Jongwoo ebbs, mouth parting for one second before he shuts it again.
Beside him, Moonjo sighs out his nose.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Jongwoo-ssi.”
“I don’t like the way you talk to me,” Jongwoo confesses quietly. He huffs right after, having admitted to something he’s been holding back since last night. “Around two hundred, two hundred and fifty a month. I wouldn’t mind less.”
“Mm,” Moonjo’s silent for a while. “That can be arranged. I’ll see what I can find and get back to you.”
“Thank you.”
A comfortable stillness blankets them until buildings turn to trees and the car brakes to a smooth stop on the side of the road.
“Thanks for the ride,” Jongwoo undoes his seatbelt and reaches into the backseat for his bag.
“Your train doesn’t leave for another hour. It’s still dark out.”
“It’s okay,” Jongwoo glances out. The rainfall is getting heavier. The gloomy weather is masked with fog, and Jongwoo doesn’t like the idea of standing in the murky cold. Alas, “I can wait. I like the rain.”
He looks over at Moonjo.
“Thank you,” he repeats, trying to tuck a belated apology into the utterance. For all the awkwardness and his last impolite line. I don’t like the way you talk to me. “Have a good day.”
He reaches for the handle and pulls. Once, then twice.
“It lags sometimes,” Moonjo explains, leaning over him to get his hand on the handle. “Perhaps I should,” he tugs harshly, “Consider a new car.”
Jongwoo swallows at the sudden intrusion of his personal space.
Moonjo’s warm; it’s the first thing Jongwoo notes in his cold state. And he smells of a light cologne and clove tea and the cigarette he put out a little more than half an hour ago.
Jongwoo presses himself back against the chair, discomfited by the closeness. Or by the way he’s reacting to it.
It’s overwhelming. An all senses-consuming thing.
Moonjo stops tugging at the handle and turns his head to look at Jongwoo.
Jongwoo looks back silently. At his eyes first; they’re his most noticeable feature, cold and warm at once, depthless black and ridiculously kind. His hair’s loose, falling over them in soft waves.
Jongwoo purses his lips and looks away, pointedly avoiding Moonjo’s gaze until—
Until a pair of lips brush against his. Warm and gentle and intentional and wrong.
Jongwoo goes dead still, and the thickening tension makes Moonjo pull back in a blink.
He bows his head, exhaling a controlled breath.
“You’re married,” Jongwoo utters. “You’re married.”
Anxiety presses down on his chest. He takes a deep breath to bring himself down.
Why is he reacting like this? Why isn’t he uncomfortable? Why is he starting to feel hot?
Moonjo hasn’t retreated, face lingering inches away from him.
“Is that all?” he questions quietly, lifting his head.
Dumbfounded, Jongwoo stares at him. Is that all?
“What?”
Then, with a defensiveness he’s sure he’s feeling deep down,
“You’re my girlfriend’s father.”
A muscle in Moonjo’s jaw ticks. “And you’re my daughter’s partner,” he parries. “We both have something to lose, don’t we?”
Jongwoo knits his brows together, eyes drifting over Moonjo’s face. The lines around his eyes, and the ones at the corners of his lips. They deepen when Moonjo smiles.
“There are things… we don’t have to tell,” Moonjo’s eyes drop to Jongwoo’s mouth.
Jongwoo breathes out steadily.
And maybe it’s the fact he’s running on four hours of sleep. Or maybe it’s the manner in which Moonjo’s been talking to him for the past 15 hours. Or maybe it’s the warmth in the car,
Or the one below his navel,
But he draws Moonjo in with a hand around his nape, mouth slanting over his with hot desperation.
Moonjo hums into it, unexpecting. He reaches for Jongwoo’s shirt and plays with one of the buttons as he languidly tongues into his mouth.
Jongwoo pushes him away. Wants to protest some more. He should. That's only right.
It’s only right.
“Jieun—”
“She doesn’t have to know,” Moonjo finishes with breathy eagerness. “No one has to know.”
“And— And your wife. What about— I can’t..”
“Give me something to think about,” Moonjo pleads. “When I’m with her.”
A lot of things that Moonjo has said since they met seemed to have another much deeper meaning that Jongwoo couldn’t quite dig out, and despite this being nearly just as vague, Jongwoo hears it as it is; he suddenly understands why Moonjo had sounded so tired during their last car ride, and what he meant when he’d told him there were things people don’t tell. And he understands why Moonjo told him the house can be suffocating.
Jongwoo likes to think he was raised to be respectful, and polite, and to bottle his anger up. To keep himself under control.
And he thinks that if this were a different man, one whose wife wasn’t as condescending as Mikyung, he would’ve pushed him away.
But this isn’t a different man.
This is Moonjo. And for some fucked up reason, Jongwoo feels like he knows him more than he knows his own girlfriend. And for some fucked up reason, he doesn’t care about his wife’s dignity.
So he leans forward, and he kisses him again, and he lets Moonjo undo the top button of his shirt.
Moonjo works his way down to the last one before Jongwoo pushes him away again. This time, there’s no protest on his tongue.
He pulls his jacket off, pulls his shirt off right after, and he fists a hand into Moonjo’s hair to kiss him with more hunger.
Moonjo hisses, pulling back a moment later.
The gearshift is nudging his ribs.
“Backseat,” Jongwoo says with a gall he didn’t know he had, swallowing halfway in.
Moonjo looks surprised by it. Surprised, and then aroused.
They barely make it into the backseat. Jongwoo doesn’t let his mind run away with him, mouth finding Moonjo’s the second he joins him.
“Come on,” he huffs, lying back as the older man hovers over him.
Moonjo looks down, hands slowly drifting up his bare torso. Jongwoo can feel the coolness of his wedding ring against his heated skin. It makes him hate himself; it makes him hotter.
“I’ve been thinking about this since I set my eyes on you,” Moonjo admits quietly, a murmured rumination that makes Jongwoo’s hips arch.
The tip of Moonjo’s forefinger strokes Jongwoo’s protruding Adam’s apple. It moves under his touch.
Jongwoo breathes out shakily, huffing the oxygen out with his eyes fixed on Moonjo, whose long fingers frame his jaw, creeping along its angle before they dip into the seam of his mouth.
Jongwoo’s lips part, saliva gathering in his throat as he takes the fingers between them. Sucks on them. His teeth hit the metal of Moonjo’s wedding ring and Moonjo hums.
Fucking.
Fucking hums. Says,
“You almost had me fooled. Stuttering and stammering over your words.
“Flattering my wife.”
Jongwoo’s eyes flutter shut as Moonjo pulls his fingers out of his mouth and drags them down his chin and neck and chest. They’re half dry by the time he reaches the waistband of Jongwoo’s jeans.
Jongwoo doesn’t want to get fucked. He doesn’t want— in the backseat of a car like some—
Moonjo pulls his ring off and hands it to him before he’s working on his belt.
Jongwoo watches him, hand curled tight around the metal band. His joints hurt. The metal’s mean against his skin.
As mean as a reprimand.
Guilt simmers as potent as hunger in his belly, but he doesn’t give it any mind. He stares at Moonjo through lidded eyes, watching him get his fingers wet with his own spit. And watching him reach back to get himself ready.
Jongwoo thinks, wryly, I’m going to sleep with this man before I sleep with his daughter.
Jieun—
Jieun.
The testosterone-infused haze in his head starts to clear up. Any second now, Jongwoo’s going to sit up and pull his clothes on and leave the car.
And he’s— he’s going to tell Jieun that her father—
Moonjo’s eyeing him like he’s reading his every thought, and Jongwoo doesn’t sit up. He doesn’t pull his clothes on or leave the car.
He lies back, and he reaches for Moonjo’s cock, still soft. And he touches it with uncertain fingers.
Moonjo screws his eyes shut, mouth falling open. He drops down, a hand planted on the seat, just beside Jongwoo's head.
Jongwoo can hear his nails tear into leather.
And Moonjo opens his mouth, breathes out slowly, says,
“Honey.”
Jongwoo sifts through the past day, hour by hour, trying to recall a single time he called Mikyung anything lovey-dovey.
She’d called him yeobo once or twice.
Jongwoo sifts through the past four years, day by day, trying to recall a single time Jieun called him anything lovey-dovey.
He comes up empty-handed.
Moonjo’s calling him jagiya. And Jongwoo wants to touch him.
He slides the ring onto his forefinger and sits up, pulling him in for a kiss. It’s deep, and it’s slow. Moonjo isn’t kissing back. He’s too busy fucking himself open with his fingers, breathing hot air into the part of Jongwoo’s mouth.
Jongwoo reaches around him to ghost his touch over his wrist, to stroke his knuckles and feel the stretch of skin over bone with every movement. The slow thrusting. The practiced need.
He pulls lightly. Moonjo slides his fingers out and lets Jongwoo lay him back. Plants one foot on the car floor to spread himself for him as far as the tight space allows.
Jongwoo zips himself down. He bumps his head trying to get his jeans off and mutters a profanity under his breath. Moonjo gives a lighthearted laugh, throat bobbing as he looks up at the younger man.
Jongwoo looks back, and he fits his hips between Moonjo’s legs.
The intimacy of skin on skin makes Moonjo lift himself on his elbows, eyes unwavering from Jongwoo’s as the younger man looms over him.
Jongwoo lifts a hand to work on the top button of his white shirt.
“No,” Moonjo whispers. “No,” he wraps his hand around Jongwoo’s, thumb momentarily brushing his own ring on Jongwoo’s index finger.
Jongwoo doesn’t question it. He pulls away and looks down between them before reaching for his dick. Gives it a stroke, then two more, eyes shuddering shut at the pleasure that trembles through his body.
Moonjo’s ankle hooks around the headrest of one of the seats, hips lifting slowly. “Please,” he whispers, watching with curious lust the way Jongwoo thumbs over his slit before he presses his tip against Moonjo’s opening.
Their eyes are fixed downward, Moonjo’s mouth open and glistening as he watches Jongwoo push inside.
It’s tight.
Jongwoo feels it everywhere. A hot, tight pressure at the base of his back and in his pelvis. He takes a moment, one hand grasping the assist grip tightly.
His breathlessness slowly dawns on him, contrasting Moonjo’s utter and complete silence.
He looks down at him. Finds Moonjo’s eyes already on him, pleasure a red tint high on his cheekbones. He looks ravenous, skin-hungered to the bone with the way he’s staring at Jongwoo’s mouth.
Jongwoo lets go of the grip and bends his head to kiss him again as he drives himself all the way in. Moonjo chews into Jongwoo’s lip, slaking his hunger.
As if the satiation will last longer if he used teeth and violence.
His elbows wobble under his weight as Jongwoo works his lips over the shape of his wetly.
“She’s never touched me like this,” Moonjo rasps, voice barely there. “She’s never..”
Jongwoo leans back to look down at him. There’s so much on Moonjo’s face that he’s not bothering to hide. So much—
Why does he look so—
Not sad. Just not happy either.
Jongwoo balances himself on one arm and uses his other hand to brush Moonjo’s hair away from his face. Up close, he notes the lock of gray hair wreathed through black. The small, barely-visible patches of brown near his temple, and the fine lines around his mouth and eyes.
It’s a pretty sight.
He’s a handsome man.
“Like what?” He asks, curious, not really wanting an answer.
He shifts his hips, and Moonjo inhales sharply, closing his eyes when Jongwoo starts grinding into him with steady thrusts, each slower than the one before.
He hangs his head back, baring his throat as he pushes down into every roll of Jongwoo’s waist.
Jongwoo wants to bare him all. He needs to—
He’s reaching for Moonjo’s buttons again. And Moonjo’s trying to push his hand away. “Don’t,” he exhales. “Let me have this.”
But Jongwoo’s shoving his hand aside with the back of his own, and Moonjo tries stopping him twice more before he surrenders, supple with pleasure and exhaustion.
His shirt comes undone button by button and drops open.
Jongwoo goes still, eyes roaming the expanse of Moonjo’s chest, and the lines etched into it.
Moonjo’s as still as prey underneath him. Waiting. There’s fear in his stillness.
A fear that slowly crumbles when Jongwoo lowers his mouth onto his skin. His collarbone, and the scar underneath, and the tip of the one ripped meticulously down the center of his chest. Surgical, maybe.
Moonjo sighs. Says Jongwoo’s name before he breathes it wetly. Something quakes his chest; Jongwoo looks up just in time to glimpse the single tear that slides down from the corner of his eye and sinks into his gray roots.
Jongwoo feels it deeper than he’s expecting to.
He nuzzles Moonjo’s pulse, and he starts pumping into him faster, chasing years of abstinence out of his system and into the seemingly virginal tightness surrounding him.
“Hold—” his voice sounds foreign to his own ears; he tries again. “Hold onto me.”
Moonjo leans back against the door, his arms around Jongwoo in seconds, clumsy and desperate.
It’s hard to believe this is the same man who carried himself with endless grace since Jongwoo met him.
He slides a hand under Moonjo’s open shirt and winds his arm around his waist, his other barely holding their weight up as he starts fucking him proper, pounding into him until nothing but their mingled breathlessness and slap of skin against skin is heard over the rain pattering against the windows and roof.
“Please,” Moonjo begs, word wracking his body and pulling it tight. “Please.”
Jongwoo hears the curl of Moonjo’s toes against leather, and he furls his fingers against Moonjo’s waist in time with it, digging his trimmed nails into skin,
Hoping it will sate Moonjo’s hunger a little while after they’re done.
He thinks he might have grown too affectionate towards Moonjo for someone who met him less than a day ago, but it’s hard not to. He’s kind. He’s kind and soft-spoken and uncritical.
“There. Please.”
So polite, even now.
Jongwoo targets the spot with brutal precision, feeling Moonjo’s clench around him every time he bottoms out. “There?” he asks between them.
Moonjo nods, out of breath. Clings to him tighter and pushes down against his hips to take him in deeper.
Jongwoo’s pace stammers, gut tightening as he buries his knee harder into leather and starts losing his rhythm. Moonjo takes it, the foot he had planted on the floor suddenly at the dip of Jongwoo’s back, heel digging into skin.
Jongwoo’s mouth finds his, sloppy and needy as hot orgasm ripples through him and engulfs him whole. Moonjo’s walls flutter around him with every pulse of pleasure, draining him dry.
His hips don’t let up, the squelch loud and dirty as he erratically rides out the aftershocks.
They’re breathing, mouth to mouth, noses brushing and bodies almost one.
Moonjo’s arms loosen around him once Jongwoo slows down to a stop. He drops back, head hitting the windowsill. He barely reacts to it. Can’t, with Jongwoo’s hand wrapped around him.
Shame sinks low in his gut.
He’s only half hard. Barely. It’s a step up from the usual; he hasn’t been able to get it up lately.
“It’s not you,” he rushes to say. To appease. “I promise you, you were perfect.”
Jongwoo nods once. And he pulls out of Moonjo to move down. To—
To rest between Moonjo’s legs.
Moonjo’s chest heaves from the sight alone, throat bobbing with need as Jongwoo runs his fingers through the hair at his base.
And then he’s stroking Moonjo’s half-flaccid cock. And he’s kissing it.
Moonjo’s toes curl, heel sliding down Jongwoo’s shoulder blade burning hot.
Jongwoo takes him into his mouth until his nose is buried in coarse hair, and Moonjo’s pelvis shifts into the damp heat of it.
Jongwoo holds his hips in both hands and moves his mouth on him, eyes lifting.
He looks tired. Moonjo looks at him with intimate want, blinking slowly as Jongwoo licks his glans.
He reaches down and pats Jongwoo’s hair. “You know you already have my blessings, Jongwoo-ssi,” he whispers.
Jongwoo laughs. He can’t help it. The nasal chuckle makes Moonjo smile and tilt his head back, succumbing to the warmth and wetness Jongwoo’s mouth is giving him.
He commits it to memory. So he knows what to think about next time he’s sleeping with his wife.
So giving, Moonjo thinks. Jongwoo’s so beautiful and giving.
Jongwoo releases him, seemingly having lost interest in the challenge of getting Moonjo hard.
Eyes drifting shut, Moonjo breathes out slowly.
He believes it’s time they parted ways. He should sit up and button his shirt.
“Did it feel good?” Jongwoo asks.
“Mm,” Moonjo responds into the darkness behind his eyelids.
“Will you think about it next time?” Jongwoo hasn’t moved. Moonjo can feel the warmth of his breath against his inner thigh. “When you’re inside her?”
The words fall hot and snug in Moonjo’s gut.
“When you’re fucking your wife?” Jongwoo pushes.
Moonjo wants to press his legs together. He’s about to. It’s shameful, what he’s feeling.
Jongwoo’s hands are on the insides of his thighs, keeping them apart.
“I want you to,” he admits.
Moonjo chokes on a throaty sound. He opens his eyes heavily and looks down at Jongwoo.
So beautiful and giving.
Jongwoo maintains eye contact when he takes him back into the slick tightness of his mouth.
It doesn’t feel too different from sleeping with a woman. It doesn’t. But Moonjo’s dick kicks against Jongwoo’s tongue, spurting pre over his taste buds.
A breath hitches in Moonjo’s chest. He slides down until leather sticks his shirt to his back uncomfortably, and he clamps his legs on Jongwoo's head as he cradles the back of it.
Grows harder between his jaws.
When he comes, it’s with Jongwoo’s name on his tongue in the form of an endearment he’s never used on anyone else.
Jongwoo draws it out with slow sucks, the obscene sound of cum and spit loud and indelible in the confines of the car.
When he lets go of Moonjo, he sits back, thumbing white off the corner of his mouth.
He inhales through his nose and forces his eyes up.
Moonjo’s sagged, loose with lazy gratification. The most carefree Jongwoo’s seen him, and probably the most carefree he’s ever felt.
Jongwoo thought he’d feel awkward. That he’d start wallowing in guilt the moment they’ve both gotten off. He wants the guilt to come, overpowering and cruel.
As reprimanding as the ring on his finger.
He takes it off slowly and holds it with both hands, unsure.
The uncertainty lasts a handful of moments before he takes Moonjo’s hand, slack on his belly, and slides it back onto his finger.
An ache grows in his throat when he sees the way Moonjo’s eyes briefly widen, brows creeping up and deepening the lines on his forehead, before he strokes the ring fitted around his finger.
It seems to carry a different weight now. Because Moonjo twists it. And Jongwoo wonders if he’ll ever take it off after this.
“My train leaves soon,” he informs, guttural and noncommittal.
He hasn’t even gotten his ticket yet.
“Right,” Moonjo husks. “You should get going.”
Jongwoo nods.
He dresses himself silently and retrieves his backpack from the front seat.
Moonjo watches him through it, underwear on and shirt buttoned up.
Once he’s set to go, Jongwoo clears his throat and looks over at him, contemplating what to say next.
“It was nice meeting you,” he finally settles on.
Moonjo looks entertained by the sudden change of attitude.
“I can assure you,” he replies tiredly. “The pleasure was all mine.”
Jongwoo’s cheeks flush warmly, and the cold air that fans over his face once he pushes the door open and climbs out is a welcome relief.
“Jongwoo-ssi.”
Jongwoo ducks his head to look inside. “Ah, yeah?”
“Thank you,” Moonjo says, devastatingly raw.
Jongwoo smiles at him. He nods his head. He shuts the door.
The warmth of Moonjo’s body against his is gone three strides away from the car.
The rain’s a steady downpour, soaking through his clothes and cleansing him of Moonjo’s fingerprints.
But he can still feel him in the back of his throat, his scars against his lips and his fingers in his hair,
Phantoms of something too far from guilt.