As Choi Kang-woo watched the tears streaming down Han Na-Eun’s face, his heart hammered against his ribs. On this cold, early winter night, while the children wrestled with their coughs, a weary Na-Eun sat trembling, her delicate shoulders bowing under an invisible weight.
To Choi Kang-woo, her pale, flushed face looked so fragile that he feared she might shatter at the slightest touch. A sudden, desperate impulse surged within him: he wanted to pull those burdened shoulders into a tight, grounding embrace. He forced himself to steady his breathing, masking his intensity with a calm, practiced voice.
“What is it? Don’t tell me you’re crying because you’re touched just because I gave you some cold medicine?”
He tried to crack a lighthearted joke, but he couldn’t quite strip the affection from his tone.
Na-Eun shook her head slowly, offering a faint, strained smile.
“No, it’s not that…”
Choi Kang-woo sat beside her, focusing intently, as if he didn’t want to miss even the subtle rhythm of her breath. It was only a dose of medicine, yet a profound, long-standing exhaustion seemed to radiate from her. Seeing the sorrow veiled behind her smile, he felt a frantic longing to reach out and hold her hand. Instead, he forced a dry smile.
“Then are you crying because you’re in pain?”
Na-Eun shook her head again, blinking silently. The tears gathered in her lashes spilled over, tracing tracks down her cheeks.
“That’s not it either. I think my eyes are just tired. Thank you.”
Na-Eun sighed, a small, hollow sound, and took the medicine he offered. When his warm fingertips brushed against her skin, her heart skipped a beat. She tried to remain composed as she swallowed the tablet, but Choi Kang-woo’s gaze felt like a physical weight, enveloping her until her chest ached.
Choi Kang-woo closed his eyes, listening to her swallow. Behind his lids, he pictured her, exhausted from caring for the children in absolute isolation. The solitary struggle she had endured for so long pained him. What was it about this woman that stirred such unfamiliar, chaotic emotions? He was profoundly conflicted.
“If it’s because your eyes are tired…”
He kept his gaze locked on her reddened eyes, speaking with deliberate care.
“From now on, tell me whenever you’re tired.”
The words spread through Na-Eun’s chest like a slow-burning warmth. She smiled without answering and rose to put the cup away, but Choi Kang-woo intercepted her, taking it from her hands.
“Just lie down, since you’re sick. Go to sleep if you can.”
“Yes. I’ll do that. You have a good night, too, Director Choi.”
As Na-Eun moved to rise, a sudden wave of dizziness hit her, and she stumbled. Choi Kang-woo reached out instinctively, but she raised a hand to stop him, sinking back onto the sofa. He stared at his rejected hand for a long moment before letting out a hollow, bitter laugh.
“It seems you have a tendency to misunderstand good intentions. Or was that stumble a performance for my benefit?”
His tone was sharp, colored by a prick of hurt. Na-Eun’s reflexive wariness bothered him; his wounded pride manifested in a petty, petulant barb.
Na-Eun frowned, bristling at his tone.
“It’s not like that. I can take care of myself.”
There was a fierce, jagged pride in her voice. She was a woman hardened by the belief that she had to stand entirely alone.
Choi Kang-woo chuckled, shaking his head.
“I’ve met many people who claim they can navigate this world on their own, but you—you can’t.”
His voice was light, but the underlying weight was heavy. A strange sense of regret washed over him at how thoroughly she barred him from her life.
Na-Eun tried to look away, but she felt her face burning even hotter. Her fever accounted for the heat, but she knew her pulse was racing for an entirely different reason.
“Of course, I don’t mean I can live entirely on my own,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper.
Choi Kang-woo raised an eyebrow.
“I only reached out because you were dizzy. I don’t have any ulterior motives.”
He felt a primal urge to tear down the walls she had constructed. Na-Eun forced a calm, fragile smile.
“I don’t think you have ulterior motives. I’m a mother.”
She looked directly at him, drawing a line in the sand. But she was terrified he might see that the line was merely a shield, a flimsy disguise to protect her own heart.
Choi Kang-woo shook his head with a bitter, cynical smile.
“You’re really keeping your guard up. So what if you’re a mother? Isn’t a mother still a woman?”
He held her gaze, serious and intense. He couldn’t comprehend why her constant boundary-setting made his heart feel so twisted.
“Or do you think you’ve suddenly aged into insignificance because you’re a mother?”
Na-Eun was left speechless, her eyes widening. To the frozen woman, Choi Kang-woo said,
“In my eyes, Han Na-Eun is a very beautiful woman. You’re still in your twenties, and you’re pretty.”
Na-Eun felt the breath catch in her throat. Her face flushed a deep, agonizing crimson. While she stared at him, caught in a blank paralysis, Choi Kang-woo turned without another word and headed straight up the stairs. She sat there long after his footsteps faded, trying to calm the tremors rippling through her chest like a rising tide.
She covered her burning cheeks with both palms. The man was clearly teasing her—acting out of petty spite because she had refused his help. But if he had caught her, her heart would have hammered itself to pieces. She had to be careful.
“I didn’t expect something like this.”
Choi Kang-woo muttered to himself as he climbed.
Why on earth did he have to go that far? *Pretty?* What was pretty about her? She’s a mother, for heaven’s sake.
But the moment he closed his door and entered his suite, her pale, stricken face surfaced in his mind again. When she had stumbled, he had been a heartbeat away from pulling her into a crushing embrace.
“I’m losing my mind. Why the hell am I like this?”
He didn’t usually drink, save for the occasional glass of wine or whiskey. His second-floor sanctuary was fully self-sufficient—he had no need to go back downstairs. He looked at his collection of spirits, then suddenly remembered the Rooibos tea she had given him. It wasn’t here.
“Whatever. Giving me some kids’ barley tea…”
For some reason, he found himself desperate to grumble about every aspect of her.
“Drinking tea that doesn’t even taste good, and what else? Right. Acting so stiff with me as if she can do everything on her own. And why is her body so thin? And why is she so pretty? Lovely, even… Why the hell did that word even come out?”
He was utterly bewildered.
“Not her, the kids. The kids are lovely.”
Correcting himself while muttering to the empty air, he poured a glass of whiskey and downed it. As the alcohol burned, her image flickered in his mind—her gentle hand stroking Minho’s hair, tucking him in.
He had never felt that kind of touch growing up. His mother, Choi Kyung-Hye, had prioritized discipline above all else. She praised performance, but she lacked the warmth Na-Eun possessed in abundance. She was always the stern commander.
Choi Kang-woo was certain that his brother and sister-in-law’s divorce had been fueled by that very austerity.
Even if his sister-in-law had been vain and superficial, he believed that if she had offered just a fraction of such warmth, Minho would never have developed Selective Mutism.
“Women are truly impossible to understand.”
Impossible. Why was Han Na-Eun’s world so terrifyingly sweet and warm? He found himself jealous of the way she directed that warmth toward the children.
“What a nuisance.”
The fact that she wouldn’t leave his thoughts was, quite simply, a nuisance. Everything about her was.
* * *
The next morning, Choi Kang-woo came down the stairs early for work. At this hour, he assumed the first floor would be silent. He was certain they had all succumbed to the medicine and fallen into a deep sleep.
But to his surprise, he ran into Na-Eun, who was calmly arranging vegetables on the dining table.
“Director Choi, are you leaving this early? Then you must not have eaten yet.”
The way she spoke, as if nothing at all had happened, was infuriating.
“That’s none of your concern.”
He tried to stride past her, but her voice rang out, anchoring him in place.
“I made an omelet. Have some before you go.”
Now that she mentioned it, the savory, buttery scent of a fresh omelet filled the air. Choi Kang-woo paused, then turned back.
“Is this the kids’ side dish for today?”
“Yes, that’s right. It’s a Cheese Omelet—soft and delicious. Wouldn’t you like some?”
Seeing her bright, disarming smile, he felt the resentment in his heart begin to thaw. He asked, as if tossing the words away to save face.
“How is your cold?”
“I’m an adult, aren’t I? I took the medicine and slept; I’m fine now. I’m actually quite strong.”
*Strong, my foot,* he thought, looking at her slender arms. Yet, the temptation of the savory omelet—perhaps because his stomach was empty—was undeniable. His mouth began to water, and his appetite stirred.