“Was that ever in question?”
Seungho looked away. “No.”
A beat passed. Then another.
The scent of sesame filled the silence. The pan hissed.
“…But you’re young.”
Haneul arched an eyebrow. “And you’re ancient. But I’m not calling you ‘daddy’ unless you pay off my student loans.”
Seungho made a sound halfway between a snort and a groan.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re late for breakfast.”
Haneul shoved a pancake into his hand.
Seungho looked down at the pancake. Then at the boy. Then back at the pancake.
“What is this?”
“Scallion. With a touch of holy revelation.”
He took a bite. It was… good.
Haneul looked smug.
They stood there like that for a moment—one half-dressed in silk, the other in flour and sarcasm, the kitchen warm and clattering.
Then Haneul said, almost too casually, “Hey… you remember what you said last night?”
Seungho looked at him. “Depends.”
“About… loneliness. That thing about feeling like you lost someone you never had.”
A pause.
Something flickered across Seungho’s face. Not fear. Not shame. Just… a crack.
“I remember.”
Haneul bit his lower lip. “Do you… still feel that?”
Seungho nodded. Once.
Then: “Do you?”
Haneul didn’t answer.
He just looked at him for a long, long moment. Eyes too bright. Shoulders pulled too tight under the hoodie.
Then turned away, muttering, “Eat your damn pancake before I throw it at your head.”
??????
Haneul left the dishes half-done.
