Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

In the vast, starkly white arrival lobby of Incheon Airport—where linoleum floors and ceilings stretched endlessly—journalists armed with their gear waited in a disorganized lineup that teetered on the edge of chaos. They exuded an air of weary impatience layered with restless urgency. Security guards had positioned themselves to block the crowd, while the clamor of fans standing behind the reporters thickened the air, already hot with tension. Yet, the arrival gate remained obstinately closed. The sounds of sighs, nervous gulping, murmured "Isn’t it time yet?" and the clicking of camera equipment filled the space.

Then, it happened. Without warning, the pale gray automatic doors slid open, revealing men in black suits who radiated the unmistakable aura of bodyguards—fierce, like a pack of Dobermans on high alert.

“He’s here—Zhang Hao is here!”

“Zhang Hao has come back!”

The lobby erupted into screams and the staccato bursts of camera shutters. At the heart of the dazzling flashes stood a young man, pushing nothing more than a Gucci duffle bag slung over his shoulder while his manager handled the luggage cart. Instead of recoiling at the overwhelming flashes aimed at him, he offered a charming smile and removed his sunglasses.

The screams crescendoed, transforming into a chaotic chorus of exhilaration. His softly tousled milk-tea-colored hair swayed lightly, complementing his luminous skin, pale and translucent with a hint of blush. His long, straight legs accounted for more than half of his tall, lean frame, and the proportionately small, refined skull crowning his figure emphasized how rare and enviable his body’s balance was. His narrow waist, marked by a vivid red leather belt, was a singular pop of color against the perfectly tailored black summer sweater and skinny jeans—an outfit that only someone with absolute confidence in their physique could pull off.

His eyes, warm and glistening like caramelized sugar, slanted slightly downward at the corners, while his delicately arched nose bridged to cheeks that were high but softened by lips as glossy as plum jam and a small, rounded chin. The sharpness of his beauty was tempered by an almost childlike charm, drawing admiration rather than intimidation. If beauty, intelligence, elegance, and poise could take human form, they would surely choose this body. Zhang Hao's gentle smile seemed designed to make even Venus herself bite her lip in envy.

With an elegance that captivated everyone present, Zhang Hao raised a hand and approached a flustered reporter who had thrust his microphone forward. The reporter, overwhelmed by excitement, steadied his grip on the microphone before eagerly asking his question.

“Zhang Hao, your Japan tour was a resounding success! Could you share your thoughts on the upcoming Korea tour?”

Zhang Hao stepped back slightly, avoiding the spray of spit that accompanied the overly enthusiastic question. Maintaining his gracious smile, he nodded gently and took the microphone with slender fingers.

“I’m truly excited to meet all the Korean fans who have shown love for my music. I promise not to disappoint your expectations, so please look forward to it.”

Tilting his head at the perfect angle for the cameras, he handed the microphone back to the reporter and strode forward, leaving behind a wave of escalating cheers and a blushing journalist. His manager, hurrying to catch up, discreetly offered him an alcohol wipe, which Zhang Hao used to clean his hands before casually tossing it back toward the manager without looking. Likely, it would be cleaned up without complaint. After all, no one dared voice criticism of Zhang Hao.

Tomorrow’s headlines were already decided: “Zhang Hao, Angelic Smile,” “Musical Prodigy Zhang Hao Mesmerizes Korea with His Grace,” or something equally repetitive. Zhang Hao didn’t bother reading online articles anymore.

Behind the airport, a sleek black Rolls-Royce awaited him at the VIP exit. Ducking into the car, Zhang Hao all but collapsed onto the soft leather seat, stretching out his long limbs as he let out a high-pitched groan of exasperation.

“Aaaahhhh! I’m so exhausted!”

The blonde-haired boy sitting across from him—his younger brother, Ricky—covered his ears in mock exasperation, shaking his head as if to say, Here we go again.

“Ge, the door just closed,” Ricky reminded him gently.

“So what? The windows are soundproof and tinted anyway! Ugh, all these people acting like they understand my music when they’ve never even heard it properly—it’s infuriating!” Zhang Hao ranted, flailing his arms and legs in an exaggerated tantrum.

Ricky sighed, muttering under his breath in Chinese, “She’s throwing a fit again, this little princess…”

Of course, Zhang Hao’s sharp ears didn’t miss the comment.

“Zhang Quanrui!”

“Alright, alright! I’m sorry!” Ricky raised his hands in surrender, trying to fend off the playful smacks on his arm. Once appeased, Zhang Hao folded his hands neatly on his lap and turned his attention to the window, gazing at the familiar yet monotonous scenery that always seemed to accompany the drive from an airport to the city.

Zhang Hao’s Japan tour was, in his own words, a disaster—not because of ticket sales or the audience (he adored Japanese classical fans and their gifts of cute plushies), but thanks to the sponsor-arranged “colleagues.” The middle-aged men reeked of cheap cologne and fake smiles, while the much-hyped pianist he was paired with at the opening concert was hopelessly incompetent. When Zhang Hao demanded a replacement, they panicked and offered a “bob-cut” option, as if selecting from a catalog of hairstyles instead of skill. Exasperated, Zhang Hao summoned a veteran pianist himself.

Born as the heir to a massive real estate empire spanning China, Japan and Korea, Zhang Hao had never known the concepts of "poverty" or "inconvenience." His childhood included Louis Vuitton strollers, Baccarat chandeliers, and Cristofle silverware—luxury was just his baseline. Blessed with stunning looks, a brilliant mind, and extraordinary musical talent, Zhang Hao seemed divinely favored.

Even his younger brother Ricky, despite being raised in the same privileged bubble, turned out to be the yin to Zhang Hao’s fiery yang: quiet, compliant, and gentle. The result? Zhang Hao grew into a full-fledged "大小姐"—a spoiled, unapologetically demanding princess. Despite his protests about the term’s femininity, Ricky insists it’s fitting, much to Zhang Hao’s ongoing irritation.

To Zhang Hao, the world has always been something he could bend to his will. The concept of "impossible" simply didn’t exist in his vocabulary. That’s why the blatant incompetence he encountered during his recent Japan tour had him absolutely seething. If people would just keep their mouths shut and follow his flawless directives, everything would be fine. But no, these "buffoons" had to meddle and ruin things. Resolving to cut ties with those sponsors, Zhang Hao shrugged it off—after all, companies eager to associate with the prodigious violinist and heir to the illustrious Zhang Group were a dime a dozen.

Sighing, Zhang Hao reached for a bottle of mineral water from the mini-fridge and twisted the cap off.

"Ricky," he called, "call the personal shoppers from Myeongdong Department Store. I need to shop my frustration away."

"I already did," Ricky replied, barely glancing up from his phone. "Also, I arranged for the chef from that Michelin-starred Italian place you liked to prepare dinner tonight."

Zhang Hao beamed, slamming the water back onto the table before pulling his blond-haired brother into a dramatic hug.

"My genius brother! Come here, Ricky. You deserve a hug! Yes, yes, let me pat your little head."

As Zhang Hao thoroughly mussed Ricky’s meticulously styled hair, the younger brother, at the ripe age of 18, didn’t protest. He simply accepted his fate, his face a blank canvas of quiet resignation.

For all his antics, Zhang Hao did feel a twinge of guilt about Ricky. With their parents constantly jetting around the world for work—and being wildly independent to begin with—Zhang Hao had essentially raised Ricky himself. To him, his shy younger brother was both a treasured helper and the most precious thing in his world. Yet sometimes, Zhang Hao wondered if leaving Ricky behind in a foreign country while he pursued his whirlwind lifestyle was truly the right choice.

Still, he knew no other way to live. Fortunately, Ricky had a strong sense of independence. Not long after starting high school, he successfully began a modeling career in Korea, skillfully expanding his network of connections.
Zhang Hao thought to himself that it must run in their blood—whether it was in business, the arts, or entertainment. None of the Zhang family, it seemed, were truly cut out for "family" or "love." They instinctively understood that running this race solo was faster, safer, and altogether more efficient.

"Good boy, Ricky. Were you good while I was gone?" Zhang Hao teased, sniffing the sweet scent of Chanel wafting from his brother and playfully tickling the back of his ear. Ricky finally squirmed slightly, slipping out of Zhang Hao’s grasp.

"If I wasn’t, you’d find out right away. I don’t do weird things."

"That’s my Ricky!" Zhang Hao clapped his hands on his knees, nodding with satisfaction before reaching for the water bottle he’d left open.

"Since we’re together, we should buy something for Dad and Mom, don’t you think? Oh, I was thinking of getting a new scarf from Hermès. Maybe I’ll grab a Picotin or Bolide for Mom while I’m at it."

"Good idea. Let’s have them bring something from the next season," Ricky agreed.

The car veered off the airport-bound road, heading toward a posh residential district on the outskirts of Seoul. As the towering skyscrapers gave way to meticulously planned neighborhoods, the high-end mansions looked dull and lifeless to Zhang Hao—bland monuments of wealth with no flair. Beyond this stretch of white houses and grand gates was Zhang Hao’s sprawling estate, perched atop a private hill. Its vast gates and pristine grounds dwarfed everything along the way.

Leaning his chin on his hand as he gazed out the window, Zhang Hao sighed softly, ensuring neither Ricky nor the driver could hear. The Michelin-starred meal he’d once loved? He wasn’t even sure he wanted it anymore. Was it that delicious? He couldn’t quite remember.

"…I’m so tired. I just want something truly good to eat," he murmured to himself.

---

The sound of sizzling meat filled the air, accompanied by the soft rhythm of oil crackling in a small pan placed on the neighboring burner. The clatter of metal echoed briefly as the pan met the stove, and the light melody of cooking continued. From the television came the familiar voice of a news anchor, while sunlight streamed through the curtains, past freshly hung laundry, and into the living room. The gentle rays illuminated the cluttered but cozy 2LDK apartment, wrapping it in a warm embrace.

Sung Hanbin moved his chopsticks briskly, his gaze darting to the clock display in the corner of the TV screen. He let out a sigh. Perfect timing—the bacon and sausages were now cooked to perfection. If he headed to the bedroom now and started frying the eggs afterward, they’d be ready just in time to top the toast. Turning off the heat, Hanbin wiped his fingers on his navy apron, crossed the living room, and swung open the two bedroom doors with purposeful energy, poking his head into each.

“Gyuvin, Yujin, time to wake up!”

Inside the dim rooms, where blackout curtains were tightly drawn, two figures stirred faintly under their blankets. The shorter silhouette seemed slightly more willing to face the day. Hanbin made his decision, striding into the room on the left and pulling the thick gray curtains open with a swift motion. Sunlight flooded the room, eliciting a groan from the bundled-up figure writhing on the bed—Gyuvin, now resembling a disgruntled caterpillar.

“Ugh… Hyung… Just… five more minutes…”

“Five more minutes? How many times did you end up late last semester because of that excuse? This semester, if you’re not perfect in attendance, I’m going to be mad!”

“You’re so cruel… so… so...” Gyuvin trailed off, a soft snore escaping his lips.

“Don’t fall asleep while I’m talking to you!”

Hanbin swatted Gyuvin’s bedhead lightly before marching back to the kitchen. Morning in this household was a battlefield, and he didn’t have time to focus solely on Gyuvin. Case in point: Yujin had just wandered into the living room, rubbing his sleepy eyes. His eye mask hung lopsidedly over one ear as he glanced around, dazed.

“Hanbin hyung… Where’s my gym uniform?”

“It’s already packed and by the door! I even washed your cleats! Gyuvin, get up for real this time! Gunwook’s already dressed and ready to go!”

“Don’t compare me to the class president…” Gyuvin mumbled as he finally dragged himself out of bed, stretching with the lazy grace of a golden retriever. Squinting against the bright living room light, he yawned loudly. Meanwhile, Gunwook, who had been up an hour earlier, sat calmly in the living room, adjusting his school uniform collar. He spared a glance at Hanbin, now cracking eggs into the pan, and shrugged with a knowing smile.

“Don’t worry, Hanbin hyung. Today’s gate duty teacher is the frail old classics professor who always shows up ten minutes late.”

“Why do you even know that…?”

“Every piece of knowledge is useful somehow—especially when you’ve got a brother who’s chronically late.”

“I’m awake now! See? Awake!” Gyuvin declared, striding dramatically into the kitchen. Sticking his tongue out at Gunwook, he took the breakfast plates from Hanbin’s hands. Today’s menu was a simple morning plate: toast with two fried eggs and meat on the side. Gyuvin’s plate had crispy bacon, while Yujin’s featured juicy sausages. Both boys clapped their hands together, saying a cheerful, “Thank you for the meal!” Their delighted faces brought a small smile to Hanbin’s lips as he tied his apron tighter and returned to his preparations.

It had been ten years since their parents had passed away in an accident. Hanbin was only eleven at the time, and Yujin was just four. The siblings spent the next few years being shuffled among relatives, burdened further by the substantial debt their parents had left behind. Eventually, they settled with their maternal grandparents. However, their grandparents passed away shortly after Hanbin graduated high school. Left with few options, Hanbin decided to take over their late parents’ small bento shop while attending university.

Their maternal uncle, Jiwoong, a struggling novelist, had urged Hanbin against it, offering instead to take all four of them into his home. But Hanbin refused—he didn’t want to burden Jiwoong, who wasn’t much older than himself, nor did he want to rely on anyone else. Besides, the shop’s second floor, where they lived, was the home they’d grown up in. Cooking had always been second nature to Hanbin, and the locals in the shopping district welcomed him and his siblings with open arms. Thanks to their support, the bento shop, “Hamnyang Bento,” eventually found its footing.

Now, the shop even employed two part-timers and offered delivery services. Hanbin, supported by multiple scholarships, was studying to become a certified accountant. His long-term plan was to send all three of his brothers to university before either selling the shop or entrusting its management to someone else. He loved the shop, but the reality was harsh: the shop’s earnings alone could never cover his brothers’ tuition and repay their debts.

Balancing a tray of freshly wrapped ingredients, Hanbin carried them down to the shop’s refrigerator—a routine he followed every morning before heading to university.

“Hyung have a seminar until evening today, so you’ll have to manage without me. Gunwook, Gyuvin, Yujin—after finishing your homework, help bring the prepared dishes from the fridge out to the shop's counter. Don’t touch anything else in the kitchen, okay?”

“Got it!” came their half-hearted replies as they scrambled to finish their morning routines. Gunwook, of course, was already reviewing vocabulary flashcards. Hanbin sighed, amused, as he slipped on his sneakers and tapped the floor with his toes.

“Alright, I’m heading out now. Don’t be late for school! Yujin, remember to bring back the school notices! Got it? I’m off!”

“Bye, Hyung!"

"Good luck, Hanbin hyung!”

“Fighting!”

Turning back briefly, Hanbin saw three smiling faces waving at him like a totem pole from behind the closing door. He took a deep breath, inhaling the faint sweetness of spring in the air. Their home—cluttered with bargain clothes, dollar-store dishes, and hand-me-down furniture—might not be anyone’s ideal image of happiness. But to Hanbin, it was everything. He’d do anything to protect this life, his brothers’ smiles, and their shared happiness.

Balancing the tray in his arms, Hanbin hurried down the familiar staircase. This was his purpose: to protect and nurture his brothers. For now, that was all he could handle—and all he needed to.

---

The opulent curtain, adorned with gold embroidery and luxurious Venetian glass beads, descended slowly. The thunderous applause signified a standing ovation. Zhang Hao bowed his head, exhaling softly with his eyes closed. He directed all his senses toward the slight softness of the floor under his leather-clad toes. His hands, still tingling from the performance, reminded him of the peculiar exhilaration he cherished—a solitary paradise, a fleeting bliss like the mist in a garden, tantalizingly intangible yet euphoric.

The start of Zhang Hao’s Korea tour had been a resounding success. Tickets sold out for every show, and a prominent pair of elderly music critics attended the first regional performance, publishing glowing reviews. The media unanimously praised him, emphasizing that he was "not just a pretty face"—an obvious statement, but one that still pleased him. Being recognized for his effort and skill, no matter how evident, was deeply satisfying. Having someone articulate the fruits of his labor in words brought an undeniable sense of validation.

Having wrapped up his first matinee in Seoul amidst a sea of applause, Zhang Hao felt content. Relaxing on the couch in his spacious dressing room, he scrolled through social media when a shadow fell across his vision. Looking up, he saw the chief manager assigned to this performance—a young, timid-looking man. Zhang Hao typically refrained from having a personal manager, entrusting all scheduling and arrangements to a trusted family servant who had been with him since childhood. However, as that servant was currently accompanying Zhang Hao’s parents in Italy, he had no choice but to rely on a staff member provided by the sponsors.

“Zhang Hao, thank you for your hard work! Your performance was outstanding. You have a break until the evening show, but rehearsal is in an hour and a half, so we ask that you keep your makeup on…”

“What about my meal?” Zhang Hao interrupted, still lounging on the couch.

The manager blinked behind his glasses before scurrying over to the table where a bento, still wrapped in a plastic bag, sat waiting.

“Oh, yes! Here it is. Let me heat it up for you!”

“No need. You’re busy, aren’t you? Focus on your own tasks,” Zhang Hao replied, standing gracefully. His tall, slender frame, coupled with his refined yet cold demeanor, exuded a certain authority. The manager, visibly flustered, quickly bowed several times before leaving the room.

Left alone in the spacious dressing room, Zhang Hao pulled the bento from its plastic bag. The sight of its modest packaging—a simple plastic container—made him frown briefly before he placed it in the microwave. When the timer beeped, he carried the heated bento, along with disposable chopsticks and a bottle of water, to the table by the sofa.

The bento’s contents were simple: spinach and shimeji mushroom namul, bulgogi, and gyeran-mari stuffed with myeongnan were neatly arranged beside a portion of white rice, garnished with drained kimchi in the center. Zhang Hao carefully picked out the slivers of carrot from the bulgogi, setting them aside on the lid, before muttering a quiet jal meoggessseubnida and starting to eat.

“…Delicious.”

The word slipped out after his first bite. The rice was perfectly cooked—each grain fluffy and distinct, neither overly sticky nor undercooked. Unexpectedly, a layer of Korean seaweed hidden beneath the rice added a subtle saltiness and a fragrant hint of sesame oil. The namul, seasoned lightly, allowed the natural flavors of the spinach and mushrooms to shine, complemented by the nutty aroma of sesame seeds. The bulgogi, though likely made from inexpensive cuts, was tender, juicy, and seasoned just enough to enhance its slightly spicy kick. But the star was the Gyeran-mari. Golden and glossy, its layers were cooked with precision, and the myeongnan filling added a delightful burst of salty umami with every bite. It reminded Zhang Hao of the refined dashi-maki tamago he had once enjoyed at a Japanese restaurant, though this version carried a nostalgic warmth that felt more genuine.

Before he realized it, the bento was empty, save for the discarded carrots. Blinking at the now-bare container, Zhang Hao paused. It wasn’t high-end cuisine, just simple homemade Korean flavors, yet it had been a long time since he had found himself so moved by food—so compelled to savor every bite. Was it the warmth of the reheated meal? Or perhaps the novelty of the dishes? No, it was none of those. He needed to have this bento again.

“Hey.”

“Yes? Did you need something?” The manager, who had just returned, straightened his posture nervously.

“This bento—where’s it from?”

“Ah, it’s from a local catering service. ‘Hamnyang Bento Delivery,’ it says here.”

“Hamnyang Bento…” Zhang Hao repeated, the name sounding absurdly whimsical. But he liked it.

“Hey.”

“Yes!”

The manager practically jumped, like a startled meerkat, at Zhang Hao’s voice.

“While I’m in Korea, all my delivered meals should come from here. Change the menu for each performance. No carrots or bell peppers, less rice, more side dishes.”

“Ah, uh, yes! Understood!” The manager scrambled to type notes into his phone, glancing up now and then as if worried he might miss another instruction. Ignoring the flurry of activity, Zhang Hao sank back into the sofa and closed his eyes.

Despite the price difference, this simple bento had somehow surpassed the Michelin-starred French meal he’d eaten the previous night—or even the artisanal Japanese dishes he so often enjoyed. If it was delicious, then Zhang Hao decided he must eat it daily. Just before drifting into a nap, he found himself looking forward to his next bento, wondering when he had last felt such anticipation. With that comforting thought, he slipped into an unusually gentle and peaceful sleep.

---

Fear has a way of creeping up on the unsuspecting, stealthily closing in on those who feel at ease. For Zhang Hao, the moment he became aware of its presence was one afternoon, just days before the final performance of his Seoul tour. He had returned to his dressing room after a successful matinee.

Since discovering the delights of Hamnyang Bento, Zhang Hao had ordered from them not only during his Seoul shows but also for his regional performances. His initial amazement at their meals was clearly justified. Once he officially began ordering bentos for every performance, Hamnyang Bento delivered exactly as specified: less rice, more side dishes, no carrots or bell peppers. Each meal was so delicious that Zhang Hao found himself eagerly anticipating the moment he would lift the bento lid—one of the few highlights of his grueling tour schedule.

That’s why the sight that greeted him today froze him in place.

“C-carrots…!”

Zhang Hao’s nemesis, the vegetable he despised most, sat innocently atop the meal, neatly cut into a dainty flower shape. A shiver ran down his spine. Since childhood, Zhang Hao had harbored an intense aversion to carrots. Seeing this large (though not actually that large) orange interloper was akin to experiencing the worst kind of torment imaginable. Taking a deep breath, Zhang Hao called out loudly to his manager, who was likely waiting in the hallway.

“Hey! Manager-nim!”

The manager burst into the room with his usual flying-fish-level speed. Before he could utter a word, Zhang Hao jabbed a finger at the bento’s contents, his expression severe.

“This. What is the meaning of this?”

“Ah… carrots!”

The manager instantly grasped the gravity of the situation. His already pale complexion turned ashen, and he bowed deeply in a panicked apology.

“I-I am so sorry! I’ll have a replacement prepared immediately—”

“Call the person in charge.”

“Pardon?”

The manager’s bewildered tone only fueled Zhang Hao’s irritation. He stomped his foot in frustration, incredulous that such a simple request wasn’t immediately understood.

“I said, call someone from the shop! I’m not going to rehearsal until the person in charge comes.”

“You can’t be serious…”

The manager began to protest but stopped short when he noticed Zhang Hao’s arms, crossed indignantly over his pale purple dress shirt. Realizing who he was dealing with, the manager quickly collected himself.

“…Understood. I’ll arrange it immediately.”

Watching the manager leave, Zhang Hao paused in thought before carefully picking up the carrot with the precision of a surgeon and setting it aside. Beneath it lay a piece of chicken sauté, which he sampled cautiously. Delicious. The tangy mustard paired perfectly with the tender, bite-sized chicken. Hamnyang Bento’s food was, as always, exquisite. And perhaps that was why this oversight felt all the more unforgivable to Zhang Hao.

How should they make amends? Zhang Hao wondered, chewing thoughtfully. At the very least, he would demand a heartfelt apology. Perhaps even a bow, or better yet, a kneeling apology. And then, of course, they would need to atone with meals even more extraordinary than before. Nothing less would suffice.

---

Hanbin’s smartphone buzzed furiously with an incoming call just as he finished his first afternoon class and was heading toward the library. The call immediately brought back memories of an event two weeks earlier. A delivery agency that routinely handled orders for his bento shop had contacted him with a surprising offer: a “renowned individual” had taken a liking to Hanbin’s bentos and wanted his shop to handle all meals for their Korea tour. For a small business like "Hamnyang Bento", this opportunity was akin to winning the lottery. Hanbin had accepted without hesitation and had been diligently preparing special bentos for the client ever since, meticulously following their instructions.

As Hanbin dashed onto the station platform, he was relieved to see the express train pull in just in time. Leaning against the window after boarding, he wiped the light sweat from his brow and thought back to the call. The manager of none other than Zhang Hao—the internationally acclaimed violinist—had instructed him to head immediately to the Seoul concert hall where Zhang Hao was performing.

Judging by the manager’s tone, this wasn’t good news.

Could it be a contamination issue? Hanbin dismissed the thought quickly—every day, he handled the preparation of the dishes with extreme care, personally tasting and checking each one before they were packed. Perhaps the flavor wasn’t to Zhang Hao’s liking? Or maybe something had offended him? Hanbin couldn’t pinpoint the issue, but one thing was certain: if Zhang Hao was genuinely angry, it would be all too easy for him to ruin not only Hanbin’s shop but also the livelihood of his younger brothers, who depended on him.

Whatever reprimand awaited, Hanbin resolved to avoid the worst-case scenario at all costs.

---

Clad in his usual blue jeans and T-shirt, with a backpack slung over his shoulders straight from university, Hanbin’s appearance screamed “student.” The security guard at the concert hall’s back entrance briefly frowned in suspicion but ultimately led him down a corridor toward the dressing rooms. Contrary to Hanbin’s expectations, the hallway wasn’t the stark linoleum-and-fluorescent-light combination he’d imagined. Instead, it was carpeted and bathed in a warm glow from soft orange ambient lighting—befitting a grand cultural venue that hosted classical performances.

Hanbin followed the pale, bespectacled manager through the hallway until they stopped before a golden door. Swallowing hard, he knocked a few times. A voice from within beckoned him to enter. Bracing himself, Hanbin turned the handle.

“Excuse me, I’m Sung Hanbin from Hamnyang Bento…”

The first thing he saw upon stepping inside was a young man seated on a sofa in the center of the room. His milk-tea-colored hair fanned out like dandelion fluff, framing a delicate face with soft, petal-like lips. His eyes glimmered like captured starlight, and his fair skin, sculpted nose, and impossibly small face were otherworldly. Hanbin had never seen anyone so beautiful.

Momentarily stunned, Hanbin froze, his breath caught in his throat. Zhang Hao, noticing his visitor, rose slowly, a displeased pout forming on his lips as he crossed his arms. Hanbin realized, with some surprise, that they were nearly the same height, though Zhang Hao’s frame was far more delicate—his narrow waist looked as though it could be encircled entirely with both hands.

“Did you make my bento?”

“Uh…?”

Thrown off by the question, Hanbin hesitated for a moment before realizing Zhang Hao was asking about the meal’s preparation. Nodding, he replied, “Yes, I’m responsible for the preparation…”

Though Hanbin didn’t singlehandedly handle every aspect of the process—the packing was done by his part-timers, Taerae and Matthew—he took full accountability as the shop’s owner.

Zhang Hao let out a soft hmm, his keen gaze sweeping over Hanbin from head to toe. His smooth black hair, slightly flushed cheeks, and upturned nose gave him an air of innocence. Despite his athletic build, his wide eyes, long lashes, and rounded under-eye contours made him seem approachable, even vulnerable. Zhang Hao thought he resembled a curious munchkin cat. For a fleeting moment, Zhang Hao recalled an athlete he had once dated—someone who, unlike Hanbin, was brash and often mocked him.

Zhang Hao’s musings ended as he pointed to the bento, where only the decorative carrot remained untouched.

“Carrots.”

“Pardon?”

“There were carrots in the bento. I specifically said no carrots.”

“Carrots…”

Hanbin’s eyes followed Zhang Hao’s accusatory finger before he finally realized the issue.

“Oh! That must’ve been Matthew—”

“Matthew?” Zhang Hao’s brows furrowed, cutting Hanbin off. The flustered young man quickly clamped his mouth shut.

Indeed, Zhang Hao’s order had explicitly requested no carrots or bell peppers, a directive Hanbin had communicated to his team. However, today’s chicken sauté was typically garnished with decorative carrots as part of the recipe. Matthew, out of habit, must have included the garnish, forgetting that this bento was for Zhang Hao.

Still, Hanbin had no intention of blaming his part-timer. Matthew, a returnee with limited Korean proficiency, was popular among the shop’s customers for his earnest demeanor. Hanbin couldn’t bear to let his younger coworker shoulder the wrath of such a formidable client.

“No, it’s nothing. The responsibility is mine as the owner. I deeply apologize,” Hanbin declared, bowing so deeply that his head nearly touched his knees.

Zhang Hao sighed softly. “Seeing those carrots made me very sad. You understand how seeing something you hate before a performance can ruin your mood, don’t you?”

“I sincerely apologize… Please, tell me how I can make amends,” Hanbin murmured, his voice heavy with regret. After a moment’s hesitation, he lifted his gaze and spoke again, his resolve firm.

“We’re a small, family-run bento shop. It was an honor to receive your order, and I’ve poured my heart into making every meal. I understand this is a bold request, but I humbly ask for your leniency.”

Zhang Hao stared at Hanbin’s bowed head, intrigued. He had expected a middle-aged woman to appear, not a young university student. The worn jeans and faded T-shirt Hanbin wore were worlds apart from Zhang Hao’s life of luxury. Poor. The word struck Zhang Hao—a concept entirely foreign to him.

This realization shifted something within Zhang Hao. Until now, he had simply enjoyed the bentos without much thought about their origins. But seeing their creator standing before him, Zhang Hao felt an unexpected desire stir. He wanted to know more about Hanbin, about the life that shaped his cooking. He wanted to draw this young man into his world.

A small smile crept onto Zhang Hao’s lips. He stepped forward, gently placing his hands on Hanbin’s shoulders.

“I’ve decided. Forget the apology. Become my personal chef.”

“What…?”

Startled, Hanbin raised his head, meeting Zhang Hao’s amused gaze.

“Make my meals every day. You can still run your shop and deliver bentos for performances, but cook for me personally on weekends.”

“I… I’m sorry, but I have university during the day…”

“Then weekends. That works, doesn’t it?”

Zhang Hao’s tone left no room for argument. The young man before him blinked several times, his black eyes wide with confusion.

“Um…”

“Sung Hanbin, is it? I really like your cooking. It’s delicious,” Zhang Hao said, flashing a smile before raising his hand in a peace sign.

“2,000,000 won a day.”

“Two milli—?!”

“Not a bad deal for extra weekend income, wouldn’t you say?”

Zhang Hao’s confident words left Hanbin deep in thought. Two hundred thousand won a day was an absurd sum, the kind of money he could never hope to earn through ordinary work. For someone else, this might have sounded too good to be true, but Zhang Hao’s reputation was indisputable. And with his brothers’ school expenses looming, Hanbin knew his family’s finances were stretched to their limits.

The offer was too tempting to refuse.

“...Alright. I’ll do it,” Hanbin finally said, his voice steady.

Zhang Hao’s eyes lit up, and he grasped Hanbin’s hands, shaking them enthusiastically. “Great. I’m looking forward to it, Hanbin.”

As Zhang Hao smiled radiantly, Hanbin studied his now-employer’s exquisite features. His eyes, soft and drowsy like pearls in milk tea; his defined brows and high cheekbones; his plush lips. This man was captivating, almost frighteningly so.

Perhaps this contract was a mistake, a decision made under the spell of the lavish atmosphere and Zhang Hao’s disarming smile. But deep down, Hanbin knew—had there been no mention of the 2,000,000 won, he would still have said yes the moment Zhang Hao’s enigmatic gaze locked onto his.

---

The advantage of maintaining near-perfect attendance in his classes was that, on days like today, when an unexpected situation made it impossible to attend afternoon lectures, Hanbin didn’t have to worry too much about his grades.

Returning home directly from the concert hall, he climbed the familiar creaking, rusted metal stairs and opened the door to his family’s apartment. Instantly, he was greeted by the warmth of a steaming dinner and his brothers’ cheerful smiles.

“Hanbin-hyung!”

“Welcome back, Hanbin-hyung!”

“I’m… home…”

Still dazed, Hanbin bent down to remove his sneakers, his odd behavior not going unnoticed. As usual, Yujin reheated leftovers from the shop and arranged Hanbin’s share on the table. Watching Hanbin settle into his chair, Yujin tilted his head curiously.

“What’s wrong, Hyung? You look like your soul’s been completely sucked out.”

“Did something happen at the shop?”

“Ah… Well, it’s not exactly that…”

Placing his backpack on the floor, Hanbin sat at the dining table, waiting for Gunwook to turn off the faucet after washing dishes. Then, after a deep breath, he spoke.

“Starting tomorrow, I won’t be home on weekends. I’ve taken on a new job.”

“What?!”

The first to react was Gyuvin, who furrowed his brow and grabbed Hanbin’s shoulder with a look of concern.

“No way, Hanbin-hyung! You’re already working so much—how can you take on another job? You’ll ruin your health!”

“It’s not that kind of job, Gyuvin. Hear me out,” Hanbin said, gently patting the back of Gyuvin’s hand to reassure him.

“Remember when I mentioned landing a big client? Zhang Hao—the violinist?”

“Oh yeah, the guy from that ultra-rich family in China? I think I saw something on the news about him sweeping all these international competitions.”

“Didn’t he graduate from some big-name school in the U.S.? What was it… Juliet?”

“Romeo?”

“Juilliard,” Gunwook corrected at lightning speed, his tone serious.

Nodding, Hanbin took a deep breath and finally shared the full story. “So, Zhang Hao personally asked me to cook for him. He wants me to be his private chef on weekends.”

For a moment, the bustling, aroma-filled room fell silent. Then—

“WHAT?!”

All three brothers rushed to Hanbin at once. Gyuvin shook his shoulders, Yujin clung to his hand, and Gunwook leaned over the table, his wide-eyed expression of disbelief drawing a laugh from Hanbin.

“Hyung, that’s amazing! A private chef for a celebrity?!”

“No way! Is that even possible? Wow, Hanbin-hyung, congratulations!”

“But wait, isn’t working weekends still working? Hyung, are you sure your body can handle it?” Gyuvin asked, his doe-like eyes filled with worry.

Hanbin’s lips softened into a fond smile, and he ruffled Gyuvin’s soft hair. Always the gentle one, he thought.

“Don’t worry, Gyuvin. They’re paying me really well, and I get to spend a day in a celebrity’s home. Hyung’s going to come back with stories to make you jealous,” he teased with a playful grin.

Yujin tugged on Hanbin’s sleeve, his signature wide-eyed, pleading look appearing as he made his request. “If you can, take pictures! I want to see what a super-rich person’s house looks like.”

“Alright, alright. As long as I don’t get caught,” Hanbin said with a chuckle before quickly switching gears. “Okay, enough about Hyung’s news. Yujin, did you get your quiz results back? Let me see them.”

“Huh?! How do you even know about that… Fine, I’ll go get them,” Yujin grumbled, retreating to his room.

Watching Yujin disappear down the hall, Hanbin chuckled before finally picking up his chopsticks. With his weekends about to get even busier, he would need to eat well to stay healthy. His gaze lingered for a moment on the table, where the familiar chicken sauté and its decorative carrot garnish sat, bringing a wry smile to his face.

The kind of person who summons you over a single carrot… From tomorrow onward, he would need to learn all of Zhang Hao’s tastes, preferences, and aversions.

Fighting, Sung Hanbin, he thought to himself. With that resolve, Hanbin began eating his homemade dinner with determination, knowing he would need all the energy he could muster for what lay ahead.

---

The memory of their parents’ death was almost nonexistent for Gyuvin and Gunwook, who had been only seven years old at the time. Yet both brothers shared one vivid recollection: through the announcement of the tragedy, through the funeral, not once did their elder brother cry.

Hanbin had dedicated his life to them. It was a fact that brought joy, gratitude, and deep love from Gyuvin toward his brother. But at the same time, it seeded an unease in his heart that he struggled to put into words. As a mere high schooler, there was no way he could change the family’s circumstances. And it was precisely because he was powerless that telling Hanbin to live for himself seemed like it would only add to the burdens his brother carried. Gyuvin wanted desperately to grow up. He wanted to become an adult who could shoulder the weight that Hanbin had carried alone for so long—giving up his youth with a smile, always saying, “It’s fine.”

“…Is he really going to be okay?”

Gyuvin sighed softly, staring at the workbook in front of him that remained stubbornly blank. Behind him, at a desk placed back-to-back with his own, Gunwook had already made it several pages ahead. Hearing the unspoken concern in Gyuvin’s voice, Gunwook glanced up. Though Gyuvin hadn’t said it outright, Gunwook felt the same. Shrugging lightly, he shook his head as if to say he understood everything.

“It’s no use trying to stop him. Hyung’s smart—he knows his limits. …Still.”

Gunwook paused, tapping the page in front of him with his pen as though deep in thought.

“Zhang Hao, huh…”

“Do you know something about him?” Gyuvin asked, turning toward his younger-yet-somehow-more-mature brother. Gunwook chuckled and patted his shoulder.

“Not really. Go take your bath first. I’ll keep studying.”

Though slightly suspicious, Gyuvin left the room as told. Once he was gone, Gunwook stretched with a sigh. He didn’t know much, nor had he ever met Zhang Hao. There wasn’t enough for him to form a complete opinion or even a reasonable judgment about the man who would soon employ his brother.

Taking out his smartphone, Gunwook typed “Zhang Hao” into the search bar. The results painted a picture of an angel, a prince, a genius—words so adorned and exaggerated they almost felt absurd. And yet, scattered between these glowing praises were starkly contrasting phrases:

“Riding on his parents’ coattails,”
“Winning awards thanks to his family’s money,”
“A pampered rich boy who’s never known hardship.”

Gunwook frowned and closed the browser. He didn’t know enough to make a judgment, nor could he see beyond the layers of public perception that surrounded Zhang Hao. All he could do was hope. Hope that this man, wrapped in countless eyes and words, would treat Hanbin’s cooking with respect. Hope that Hanbin’s involvement with him wouldn’t lead to pain.

For now, Gunwook could only pray that Zhang Hao was someone who would bring kindness into his brother’s life.

---

How much the gods in heaven cared for the eldest of four siblings living in a quiet corner of Seoul—someone with a rather unusual life story—was anyone’s guess. What was clear, however, was that Hanbin’s anxiety and nerves didn’t seem to have any measurable effect on the Earth’s rotation.

Morning arrived as it always did. Moving quietly through their small home, Hanbin got ready for the day, careful not to wake his still-sleeping younger brothers, whose peaceful breaths filled the air with the calm of a weekend morning. He rarely rode the subway or took the train, but today, clutching his phone with the map app open, he found himself navigating unfamiliar transfer corridors.

Having been appointed Zhang Hao’s personal chef—though the title felt far grander than what he imagined the role entailed—Hanbin had done some “preparation” in the days prior. His research revealed an inescapable truth: Zhang Hao was someone who lived in a world entirely different from his own. Not only was he a globally renowned violinist, but he was also the eldest son of a major conglomerate family, with a brother who was a famous model. The two had even graced magazine covers together. It was all understandable, considering their exceptional looks and stature, but still overwhelming to fathom.

Because he was traveling in the opposite direction of the usual commuter flow, the train car was nearly empty, save for Hanbin and a parent with a fidgety child, seemingly headed for an outing. As the scenery blurred past the window, Hanbin stared blankly outside, musing that Zhang Hao’s life felt like something out of a comic book. He couldn’t begin to imagine the trajectory of someone who had lived such an extraordinary existence. Then again, perhaps no one could truly comprehend the lives of others, no matter their station.

Hanbin’s own family, he liked to think, had been a happy one. His parents, both from rural areas, had built a life together in Seoul—a sprawling metropolis where they knew almost no one. They had been dedicated to each other and to the happiness of their four children. His father was the type to tell silly jokes, to which his mother would roll her eyes and scold him with a laugh. On rare days off, they’d take Hanbin to the zoo. When Gunwook and Gyuvin started Taekwondo, his mother had painstakingly sewn matching uniforms for them. When Yujin first stood up, they showed the video to nearly everyone in the neighborhood. They were the kind of couple who exuded warmth and were known for their smiles.

But after they passed away eleven years ago, Hanbin had spent every day trying to preserve the family they had built—or at least the version they had dreamed of creating. It often felt like he was desperately keeping a broken machine running with makeshift repairs, attaching electrodes to dead circuits, or forcing a rusted wheel to turn.

Was he overthinking? Perhaps the sentimentality came from the jitters of starting a new job. Shaking his head lightly to dispel the thought, Hanbin watched as the train glided into the station. He stepped off onto the platform, and a lingering summer breeze tousled his black hair before disappearing into the sky beyond.

---

Zhang Hao’s house—or rather, his mansion—was tucked deep into a luxurious residential area, past an expansive hill that seemed to stretch endlessly. As Hanbin finally arrived, he realized something about the extravagant homes often featured in dramas: the cobblestone paths leading to them weren’t for walking. They were for chauffeured luxury cars, meant for people who never needed to step outside. Wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, Hanbin was grateful for his worn, comfortable sneakers. Had he worn anything else, he might have twisted his ankle halfway through the trek.

Panting and exhausted, Hanbin climbed over the hill and arrived at a pristine white wall ten minutes before the appointed time. He double-checked the shared location and his map app, comparing them carefully. There was no nameplate, just a sleek, modern intercom that stood solitary against the white backdrop, like the clef at the start of a blank musical score. Hanbin took a moment to catch his breath, inhaled deeply, and pressed the button. The light turned red, and a young male voice promptly answered.

"Hello, this is Sung Hanbin from Hamnyang Bento. I’ve been asked to serve as Zhang Hao’s chef starting today—"

"Oh, Sung Hanbin-ssi! Please hold on for a moment!"

The voice on the other end was cheerful, and after a series of beeps and clicks, the massive metallic gate, designed with a motif of rose thorns, began to open. Hanbin gawked, his mouth slightly ajar. There didn’t seem to be a separate staff entrance; instead, he was expected to walk through this ostentatious main gate, large enough to rival the front gate of his university. As if to confirm his thoughts, the voice from the intercom spoke again.

"Just head straight to the main door!"

"Uh, thank you!"

Though no one could see him, Hanbin bowed slightly to the intercom before stepping through the gate. Behind him, the doors quietly closed without a sound. It felt like a scene straight out of a drama. That thought brought a self-deprecating chuckle, and Hanbin quickly shook his head. He focused on the task at hand and walked toward the mansion’s main entrance.

The pathway was paved with smooth, well-maintained stone, leading to the largest building in the U-shaped estate. The sprawling grounds were carpeted in lush greenery and adorned with features reminiscent of a traditional Chinese garden: a serene pond and a charming gazebo stood in the distance. Hanbin paused, letting himself marvel at the view.

“…Is this a park?”

Even Gyuvin, with his famously long legs, would need a solid ten minutes to jog across this lawn. Hanbin couldn’t help but wonder what compelled the wealthy to create such vast gardens. Were they meant to be enjoyed, or was it simply a way to spend excess wealth? Either way, it was a lifestyle far removed from his own.

Eventually, Hanbin reached the mansion’s main door, a thick wooden panel devoid of handles or knobs. Unsure what to do, he considered knocking, but before he could, the door slid open. A young man with black hair suddenly poked his head out, startling Hanbin.

"Whoa!"

"Oh, sorry! Did I scare you?"

The man flashed an easygoing smile and opened the door wider with a small grunt of effort. He looked no older than a student, dressed in a crisp white short-sleeve shirt and black slacks. Extending a hand, he introduced himself with a bright, friendly demeanor.

"Nice to meet you! I’m Yoo Seungeon. I manage this Seoul estate and look after the young masters here. Basically, think of me as the person in charge of everything."

"Sung Hanbin. Pleased to meet you."

Hanbin returned the handshake somewhat stiffly. From this introduction, he gathered that Seungeon was essentially Zhang Hao’s butler, though the term felt out of place for someone so cheerful and casual. Hanbin mentally revised his preconceptions of the wealthy: not all servants wore tailcoats and gloves, nor did they address their employers with “Yes, my lord.” Check.

"Let me show you around the estate. Young Master Hao is still sleeping, so no need to be nervous," Seungeon said, gesturing for Hanbin to follow him inside.

Stepping onto the polished marble floor, Hanbin hesitated for a moment before proceeding. The faint, sweet scent of coconut wafted through the air. Spotting Hanbin’s curious gaze, Seungeon pointed toward a small brown bottle on a decorative shelf between an abstract sculpture and a vase.

"That’s a diffuser made by Young Master Hao himself. He enjoys DIY home goods and even changes the scents with the seasons. He’s surprisingly meticulous about it."

"I see," Hanbin murmured, nodding. The Zhang Hao he’d met earlier—a wealthy, stunning man outraged over the presence of carrots in his food—seemed far removed from the person being described. It hadn’t occurred to Hanbin to consider Hao’s personality or hobbies at all. But of course, he was a young man, not much older than Hanbin himself. It made sense for him to have interests.

"You’re very handsome, by the way!" Seungeon added casually as they walked down a sunlit corridor. "It makes sense why Master Hao would bring you here."

Hanbin laughed awkwardly and scratched his cheek. "I’d like to think it’s my cooking skills, not my looks, that earned me this opportunity."

"Ah, sorry! You’re right; that was rude of me," Seungeon said lightly, though his expression betrayed little actual remorse.

This guy has nerves of steel, Hanbin thought, marveling at how Seungeon’s composure seemed unshakable. He supposed such confidence was necessary for someone managing the household of a family like Zhang Hao’s.

Eventually, they arrived at the kitchen. Seungeon gestured toward the state-of-the-art appliances and spacious counters with evident pride.

"Here’s the kitchen. You can check the fridge every morning and log any needed items into this terminal. They’ll be restocked by the next day. Feel free to use any equipment here."

Hanbin stared, wide-eyed. The gleaming appliances, from the industrial fridge to the three ovens, seemed straight out of a high-end restaurant. Hesitantly, he picked up a nearby frying pan.

"This is amazing. I’ve never touched such a nice pan before…"

Seungeon chuckled. "Neither Master Hao nor Master Ricky cooks, but their parents bought all this stuff. Honestly, I think you could take one home, and they wouldn’t even notice."

"Oh, no, I’d never!" Hanbin said, hurriedly placing the pan back, his cheeks flushing.

Seungeon laughed. "I’m kidding! You seem like the type who wouldn’t dream of it."

Flustered, Hanbin turned his gaze elsewhere. This household was clearly filled with people who kept him on his toes. He hadn’t even met Zhang Hao’s younger brother yet, but he braced himself for another strong personality.

Seungeon stopped at a door and gestured inside. The room was smaller than the rest but still spacious by regular standards, bathed in soft light from three arched windows draped in sheer curtains.

"This is the second dining room. Since it’s close to the music room, Young Master Hao usually eats here."

Hanbin swallowed hard, his eyes scanning the room. Unlike the grand main dining hall, this space was more intimate, centered around an antique four-seater table with a lace tablecloth. A single pale blue vase holding a white peony stood at its center. Despite its elegance, the empty place settings hinted at solitude. The thought that Zhang Hao ate here alone tugged at something in Hanbin’s chest, but he quickly shook it off.

Maybe he just preferred eating alone. To assume otherwise would be presumptuous.

---

After a brief pause in the dining area, Seungeon continued down the hall, stopping in front of a door with a brass handle. Though equipped with a lock, the door wasn’t secured. With a deliberate motion, he pushed it open.

“And here we have the music room—Master Hao’s sanctuary for practice,” Seungeon announced, stepping aside to let Hanbin enter.

Hanbin’s eyes widened the moment he crossed the threshold, the space before him far exceeding any expectations he’d conjured.

“Wow… This is incredible,” he murmured, his voice tinged with awe.

“Quite something, isn’t it?” Seungeon replied, a touch of pride evident in his tone.

At the center of the room stood a grand piano, its polished surface gleaming under the natural light streaming through tall windows. Surrounding it were meticulously arranged instrument cases, music stands, and bookshelves brimming with scores. Yet, what truly caught Hanbin’s attention were the walls. Every inch was adorned with certificates and accolades, written in various languages and scripts, all testaments to victories and accomplishments in competitions worldwide.

“Competitions… There are so many,” Hanbin whispered, moving closer to a framed certificate inscribed in what he guessed was Italian. “And from all over the world…”

As he marveled, Seungeon, who had been silently observing, spoke softly, his tone carrying a note of nostalgia.

“My family has served this household for generations. I grew up at the main estate in China, alongside Master Ricky, who’s the same age as me. Master Hao, even as a child, was overflowing with talent. But more than talent, it’s his relentless dedication that sets him apart. Hours upon hours of practice—he never made excuses, even when it hurt. He’d play until doctors intervened.”

Seungeon gestured toward a photo frame tucked discreetly into a corner, almost out of place in the otherwise immaculate room.

The frame held a photograph of a young Zhang Hao, perhaps no older than six or seven, clutching a violin almost comically large for his small frame. His tear-streaked face bore a mix of frustration and determination. Beside him knelt a man in a white coat, presumably the doctor Seungeon had mentioned, with an expression that blended exasperation and reluctant admiration.

Hanbin couldn’t help but smile as he imagined the scene—a resolute child refusing to yield, even to a doctor’s orders. The thought brought a subtle warmth to his expression.

Seungeon continued, his voice dropping to a gentler register. “He can be… difficult at times, I’ll admit. But he’s not a bad person, not at all. If anything about your initial interactions left a bad impression, I hope you’ll understand. He has his quirks, but his heart’s in the right place.”

Hanbin set the photograph back with care, shaking his head. “Not at all. I’m here to do my best—to create dishes that Master Hao will enjoy and, hopefully, appreciate.”

For a moment, Seungeon studied him in silence before offering a small, approving smile.

After carefully placing the dusted photo frame back on the shelf, Hanbin shook his head slightly. Seungeon didn’t say anything. Instead, he offered a silent, knowing smile before glancing at his watch. His doe-like eyes blinked rapidly, and he spoke with casual cheerfulness.

“Oh, it’s already this time. I’ll go wake up Master Hao. Would you like to join me, Hanbin-ssi?”

“Wait, is that okay? Wouldn’t Zhang Hao-ssi mind…?” Hanbin asked hesitantly.

“Well, who knows? But calling someone to the estate like this means he must really like you. It should be fine, don’t you think? Hahaha,” Seungeon replied, opening the door to the music room with a carefree laugh.

Hanbin wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Seungeon. His free-spirited nature—no, his almost reckless freedom—made him unpredictable. He could see Gyuvin and Yujin getting along well with him, given their similar tendencies, but Gunwook might find himself exasperated.

Following Seungeon’s beckoning gesture, Hanbin climbed a grand spiral staircase that looked straight out of a fairytale castle. They stopped in front of an especially ornate door. Seungeon waited until the clock struck nine, then knocked gently on the door.

“Master Hao, good morning. Are you awake?”

No response came from inside. Seungeon, however, seemed entirely unsurprised by this and casually turned the doorknob.

“Excuse me,” he said smoothly, stepping inside.

The first thing Hanbin noticed as he entered Zhang Hao’s bedroom was the sweet aroma in the air. It was reminiscent of the scent he’d encountered at the entrance, but this one carried notes of vanilla and musk alongside the coconut. Was it a perfume Zhang Hao wore, or perhaps another one of his custom-made diffusers?

The room itself was astonishingly spacious—likely larger than the combined living area of Hanbin’s own home. Plush cushions lay scattered about, a massive flat-screen TV adorned one wall, and large speakers and a Blu-ray player sat nearby. A low glass table held a vintage record player, while Zhang Hao’s violin case rested neatly beside it. A door next to the TV likely led to a walk-in closet. Despite the dim lighting, as the heavy curtains were drawn closed, the room’s organization suggested that Zhang Hao had a meticulous and clean nature.

“Master Hao, it’s time to wake up,” Seungeon called out as he approached the circular bed draped with soft lace canopies.

Beneath a pastel pink silk blanket, Zhang Hao stirred slightly, clutching a plush panda bear close to his chest. He groaned softly, burrowing his face into the stuffed animal.

“Mm… go away. Let me sleep more…” he mumbled, his voice thick with drowsiness.

“No can do, Master Hao,” Seungeon replied, his tone both firm and playful. “You’ve got plans this afternoon. Besides, Hanbin-ssi is here to make breakfast. You should at least tell him what you’d like.”

Zhang Hao’s body shifted under the covers, his messy, milk-tea-colored hair poking out from the blanket. Slowly, he opened his eyes, narrowing them in a sleepy, slightly irritable squint. Then his gaze fell on Hanbin, standing awkwardly behind Seungeon in his plain short-sleeved shirt.

“…Hanbin?” Zhang Hao murmured, his voice tinged with confusion and disbelief.

“Good morning,” Hanbin greeted politely.

For a moment, silence hung in the room. Then, as if Zhang Hao’s mind had suddenly caught up to the situation, his expression morphed. His pale cheeks flushed a deep red, his eyes widened, and he hastily pulled his silk robe tighter around himself.

A split second later, a pastel pink pillow came hurtling toward Hanbin’s face.

“Why are you in my room without permission?! Unbelievable! Get out!” Zhang Hao exclaimed, his voice rising in pitch.

“Ugh…!” Hanbin let out a muffled grunt as the pillow hit him squarely in the face. Fortunately, it was stuffed with what was presumably the highest-quality cotton, sparing him a broken nose.

“Master Hao, please stop! I’m the one who brought him in!” Seungeon protested.

“I don’t care! Hanbin, OUT! Seungeon, get me proper clothes right now! NOW! IMMEDIATELY!” Zhang Hao yelled, his voice escalating as he gestured wildly for them to leave.

---

“Ahem.”

The sound of Zhang Hao clearing his throat echoed in the second dining room. Dressed in a snug, lightweight top and blue jeans, with his previously disheveled hair now perfectly styled, Zhang Hao sat at the head of the table, casting a cool, pointed gaze at Hanbin, who was seated diagonally across from him.

“Good morning. It seems you managed not to be late,” Zhang Hao said dryly.

Hanbin, sitting with his hands neatly folded on his lap, gave a small, obedient nod. Zhang Hao’s earlobes still seemed faintly pink—likely a lingering effect of the earlier incident. Hanbin wisely decided not to comment, unsure what might come flying his way if he did.

“Yes, I’m used to waking up early,” Hanbin replied.

“Good. Let’s talk business. But first…” Zhang Hao tilted his head slightly, his voice calm but firm. “Make me breakfast.”

Hanbin swallowed nervously at the casual request. The job was officially beginning.

“Do you have any preferences?” he asked, sitting up straighter.

“Something savory. Maybe with a bit of an ethnic twist, but nothing too heavy—my stomach’s sensitive in the mornings. Use a baguette for the bread, but make sure it’s not too hard. And I’d like it ready by the time I finish this coffee.” Zhang Hao ticked off his list on his fingers, then directed his long-lashed gaze coolly toward Hanbin. “Think you can manage?”

Hanbin nodded firmly, mentally reviewing the requested keywords. The cuisine might be different from what he was used to, but cooking was cooking. He could do this.

“I’ll have it ready right away!” Hanbin declared, bowing slightly before darting out of the room with an almost comical urgency.

Zhang Hao watched him leave, a faint smile playing on his lips. He glanced up at Seungeon, who stood nearby, ever observant.

“‘I’ll have it ready right away,’ he says. For a guy who runs a bento shop, he’s certainly got the right attitude,” Zhang Hao remarked with a smirk.

“Master Hao… are you sure about this? You could have one of the maids bring it instead,” Seungeon said cautiously.

“It’s fine. It’s better to eat in front of him—I can point out any adjustments I want him to make on the spot,” Zhang Hao replied, his smile widening slightly as he picked up the porcelain coffee cup before him. He enjoyed Sumatran coffee in the mornings, preferring its rich body and sweet, tangy aroma over sharper, more acidic blends. It gave him just a touch of anticipation for the day ahead.

“He’s studying economics, right?” Zhang Hao asked.

“Yes, aiming to become a certified public accountant. His grades are excellent, and he’s received multiple scholarships,” Seungeon confirmed.

“Multiple scholarships? Why so many?”

“It seems his parents passed away. From what I’ve heard, he’s been working himself hard to pay for his younger brothers’ education and clear off family debts. By all accounts, he’s highly regarded—a person who’s endured a lot,” Seungeon explained.

“…I see.”

Zhang Hao lowered his gaze. For someone so young to bear the weight of an entire family—it was a stark reminder that people often carried burdens unseen. With his good looks and impressive physique, Hanbin could easily lead what most would consider a “winning” life, yet he had chosen a path of responsibility and hard work. Zhang Hao found himself recalling their first encounter—the genuine, panicked expression on Hanbin’s face when he’d heard about the ill-fated carrots. His serious demeanor, brows knitted tightly with concern, had left an impression.

He chuckled softly at the memory, earning a sigh and a slight shake of the head from Seungeon.

“Master Hao, please don’t tease Hanbin-ssi too much. He’s already been through a lot, and he’s a year younger than you,” Seungeon chided gently.

“Yah! Why are you making me sound like a bully?” Zhang Hao pouted, his cheeks puffing slightly in protest.

Seungeon raised a finger, ticking off examples. “Well, Master Hao, you do like to be deliberately demanding with people you’re fond of. Young Master Ricky, for instance. Or Master Kuanjui.”

“That’s different! They like indulging me!” Zhang Hao huffed, crossing his arms indignantly. His fingers idly traced the delicate rose pattern on his coffee cup.

“I’m not being mean,” he muttered after a pause. “I just want him to make the food I like. And Hanbin’s cooking is good.”

“Of course,” Seungeon replied nonchalantly. Before Zhang Hao could retort, there was a knock at the door. Moments later, Hanbin’s black-haired head peeked shyly into the room.

“You’ve been waiting—here it is!”

Hanbin’s face glowed faintly, a mix of excitement and nervous energy coloring his cheeks. He carefully placed a pristine white plate with a meticulously arranged breakfast in front of Zhang Hao, who raised an eyebrow in silent appraisal. The aroma passed the test—in fact, it smelled absolutely delicious. The golden sheen of the fried egg and the bright red of the salsa gleamed invitingly. Hanbin exhaled softly, gesturing to the items on the plate with a slightly trembling hand.

“Well… it doesn’t really have a name. It’s fried eggs with salsa, baguette, and avocado. You can put the salsa or avocado on the bread if you like…”

“Did you grill the avocado?” Zhang Hao interrupted, his tone casual yet razor-sharp.

“Ah, yes… just lightly, so it’s spreadable like butter—”

“Don’t grill avocado next time. I don’t like it cooked.”

Zhang Hao delivered the critique succinctly, picking up his knife and fork with an elegant jal meoggessseubnida murmured under his breath. True to his word, he scraped every bit of the grilled avocado off the plate and into an isolated corner before slicing into the golden yolk of the egg. The rich, viscous yolk spilled out, mingling with the vibrant salsa. Zhang Hao scooped the mixture onto a slice of baguette and took a bite.

A satisfied hum escaped his lips. The baguette was perfectly toasted—crispy on the outside, tender on the inside. The creamy, savory egg yolk blended with the tangy, mildly spicy salsa, creating a harmony of flavors that paired exquisitely with his morning coffee.

“The salsa and egg are good,” he finally remarked.

“I’m glad there’s at least something to your liking,” Hanbin replied with a small sigh of relief. His choice of a simple dish like salsa and baguette had been dictated by the limited time he’d had. If given more time, he’d carefully study the kitchen’s equipment and ingredients before crafting a recipe. But for now, this was a win.

As Hanbin mentally strategized future meals, Zhang Hao spoke up while casually maneuvering his knife.

“From today, memorize everything I like and dislike. I’m only saying it once, so don’t expect me to repeat myself. Dislikes: carrots, bell peppers, shiitake mushrooms…”

“W-wait a second!” Hanbin interrupted, his voice raised in panic. Zhang Hao paused, his lips pursing into a pout of displeasure at the interruption. Hastily, Hanbin reached into his pocket, pulling out a small notepad and pen. He straightened up, offering a quick apology.

“I’ll take notes.”

The advice of his writer uncle echoed in his mind: Always carry a notebook. You never know when inspiration—or instructions—might strike. Silently thanking his uncle, Jiwoong-hyung, Hanbin focused intently on Zhang Hao’s words.

“Carrots, bell peppers, shiitake mushrooms, grapefruit, unseasoned spinach, bluefish, oysters, black beans, leafy greens of any kind, oh, and brown rice. Also, fatty meat.”

Hanbin scribbled furiously, then cautiously raised his head.

“Um… what about things you like?”

Zhang Hao froze, his fork midway to his mouth. Most cooks he’d dealt with focused so much on avoiding his dislikes that they never asked this question. It was refreshing—and confusing. Zhang Hao mulled it over, recalling a dish he had truly loved. Something he’d eaten with Ricky, a dish that had made his heart sing.

“...Gopchang.”

“Gopchang?” Hanbin repeated, blinking in surprise.

“And durian,” Seungeon chimed in uninvited.

“I wasn’t asking you, Seungeon!” Zhang Hao barked, swatting playfully at his steward’s side. Seungeon yelped a theatrical ow, entirely unconvincing.

“Ahem,” Zhang Hao cleared his throat, regaining his composure. “Anyway, if something tastes bad or has something I don’t like, I’ll tell you immediately. Also, feel free to explore the house when you’re not preparing meals—but don’t enter my room, Ricky’s room, or the music room while I’m practicing. Understood?”

“Yes, I’ll do my best,” Hanbin replied solemnly, bowing slightly. Breakfast seemed to have been a success, even with the avocado mishap. The mild spiciness of the salsa had warmed Zhang Hao from within, leaving him ready to face the day.

Zhang Hao elegantly wiped his mouth with a napkin, signaling to Seungeon with a glance. Seungeon promptly pulled out Zhang Hao’s chair, and the latter rose with effortless grace.

“For lunch, I’ll come here when I’m hungry. Let’s go with dakbokkeumtang and gyeranjjim. Make sure it’s ready to serve when I get here,” Zhang Hao instructed before exiting the room with Seungeon trailing behind.

Left alone in the grand dining room, Hanbin slumped slightly in his chair, overwhelmed by the whirlwind of instructions. There was so much to learn and adapt to—not just in crafting the perfect dishes, but in navigating the whims of his employer. Stretching lightly, Hanbin opened his notepad and jotted down the lunch request: dakbokkeumtang and gyeranjjim. Both were straightforward Korean dishes, and he was certain the kitchen had the ingredients.

But then a thought struck him like a lightning bolt.

“Wait… but when is he coming back for lunch?”

He glanced helplessly at the door Zhang Hao had disappeared through, but of course, there was no answer. With the music room off-limits, he couldn’t even ask for clarification. This meant he had to have everything prepped and ready at a moment’s notice while keeping an ear out for the cessation of violin music as his cue.

Suppressing a groan, Hanbin slapped his cheeks lightly to re-center himself. He had known this job would involve dealing with a “demanding rich boy,” and this was just the beginning. He wasn’t about to let this challenge deter him. After all, the road ahead promised far more than just today’s three meals—it promised an unending gauntlet of demands and surprises.

---

The soft heat rising from the stove gently kissed Hanbin’s skin, a reminder of the warm, bustling kitchen around him. The Sung family was famously tall, with all four brothers reaching heights in the upper 170 centimeters or more. Their uncle Jiwoong often teased them, saying, "Your heights are a crime against this house's layout." Among them, the tallest was Gyuvin, who stood at the stove with a slight furrow between his brows. But as the scent of his cooking filled the air, the furrow relaxed, and Gyuvin turned to Hanbin, excitement evident in his voice.

“Hanbin-hyung! Taste this—quick, taste it!”

Hanbin turned just in time to see a pair of cooking chopsticks being thrust in his direction. He opened his mouth without hesitation. Any lecture about using proper tasting utensils instead of cooking chopsticks could wait. After all, the stir-fried beef and bamboo shoots Gyuvin was working on weren’t destined for sale but were part of his practice as an aspiring cook. It wasn’t meant to meet the strict hygiene standards of their shop, and this dish would later be shared among the brothers and the two part-timers at Ham Nyang Bento.

As he bit into the still-steaming beef, bamboo shoots, and asparagus, the rich aroma of sesame oil blended perfectly with a zesty lemon tang. Hanbin remembered seeing Gyuvin squeeze lemons with his large hands earlier—clearly for this refreshing touch. Cheeks full of food, Hanbin gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up, waving it in delight.

“Mmm, this is delicious! The beef is so tender… What did you use to prep it?”

“Ha!” Gyuvin puffed his chest. “I made strained yogurt for a salad recipe earlier and decided to use the leftover whey for tenderizing the beef.”

“Ah, that yogurt! Instead of cheese, huh? It’s a great idea—keeps it light and fresh.”

Hanbin nodded, still chewing. Earlier, Gyuvin had whipped up a mizuna and lettuce salad using the same strained yogurt as a topping. The yogurt, milder than traditional ricotta cheese, paired beautifully with the simple yuzu pepper and olive oil dressing. Gyuvin’s face lit up with pride at Hanbin’s praise, his lively brows relaxing into a wide grin.

“Ricotta’s expensive and too salty for some. I figured strained yogurt would be something even the ajeossi and ajumma in the market could enjoy.”

Hanbin swallowed the beef, his grin widening. He pulled Gyuvin into a spontaneous hug, ruffling his tall brother’s hair.

“Gyuvin-ah! When did you grow into such a thoughtful person? You’re amazing—Hyung is so proud of you!”

“Pfft, I’ve always been amazing,” Gyuvin declared, sniffing with exaggerated confidence. His amber eyes sparkled like starlit gemstones, and Hanbin couldn’t help but recall how their mother used to ruffle his hair in much the same way when he was younger.

Among his three younger brothers, Gyuvin was the most involved with Ham Nyang Bento. Despite being just a year older than Gunwook, Gyuvin often stepped up, embracing his role as the second “big brother.” His playful, mischievous side occasionally led to small blunders, but the moment he stepped into the kitchen, his demeanor transformed. Mischief gave way to focus, his brows furrowing slightly as he tackled recipes with seriousness. And Gyuvin had always been the loudest in their family when saying “jal meoggessseubnida”, his gratitude ringing clear at every meal.

---

Today was a national holiday, which meant no university. Hanbin had half-expected to be summoned to Zhang Hao’s house as he would on weekends, but Seungeon had called earlier to explain that Zhang Hao had other plans—something about a private spa booking. It sounded like a delightful day for Zhang Hao, but for Hanbin, a rare day off at home simply meant uninterrupted hours to devote to work.

By the time he had sorted tax paperwork, ordered necessary containers and utensils, reviewed Gyuvin's practice dishes, and finalized preparations for tomorrow's deli items, the day had already slipped into evening. Standing beside a massive rice cooker, Hanbin was diligently layering steamed rice onto individual rice ball wrappers when the sound of footsteps approaching from behind made him instinctively straighten his back.

“Hanbin-hyung, I’ve finished prepping the simmered dishes. Is there anything else you need me to do?”

“Taerae!”

Kim Taerae, dressed in a deep crimson apron, was drying his freshly washed hands with a paper towel as he approached. A part-timer at Ham Nyang Bento, Taerae was a local from the nearby “Park Front” district, as the locals called it. An aspiring musician, he balanced his work here with performing at live houses and on street corners. Having been a regular customer of the shop when Hanbin’s parents still ran it, Taerae often spoke fondly of the meals they made, which had inspired him to work at the store. Reliable and meticulous, Taerae, alongside Matthew, his fellow part-timer, was an essential part of Hanbin’s life, no less than his brothers.

Glancing at the array of wrappers laid out on trays, Hanbin mulled over Taerae’s question.

“I think we’re good. Once I finish these rice balls, there won’t be much left. You can clock out early if you want!”

“…Hyung, finishing these is exactly what I meant by asking if you needed anything,” Taerae sighed, shaking his head before pulling out a chair to sit beside Hanbin. Hanbin chuckled and handed him a pair of disposable gloves.

“Thanks, Taerae.”

“Of course. Honestly, Hyung, you don’t rely on people enough.”

“Do I? I feel like I’m pretty good at leaning on others,” Hanbin replied with a sheepish grin, tucking sweet-and-savory stir-fried pork and drained kimchi between layers of rice.

“By the way, Gyuvin mentioned you picked up a new job.”

“Ah, yeah… I’m cooking for a musician at their home,” Hanbin admitted with a half-shrug.

“Hyung, you’re working too much. What happens if you get sick? Making money still requires having your health, you know.”

Taerae’s voice softened as he watched Hanbin’s expression remain calm and unreadable. Lowering his tone, he cautiously broached a sensitive topic.

“…How much debt is left?”

“Taerae-ya…”

“I know, Hyung. I haven’t mentioned it in front of Gyuvin or the others,” Taerae assured him, his gaze steady.

There was no hiding the truth from Taerae, sharp-eyed and quick-witted as he was. As Hanbin took a deep breath, disguising it as a sigh, he told himself to keep his smile intact. Facts were facts; there was no need to dress them up with optimism or drown them in despair. No matter how he felt, the dire state of the Song family finances wasn’t going to fix itself out of pity.

“We still owe over 100 million won,” Hanbin admitted softly. “Gyuvin and Gunwook’s college entrance exams are just around the corner. I want to make sure they can live comfortably as soon as possible.”

“But if you push yourself too hard and get sick, Hyung, none of it will matter,” Taerae replied, his words tinged with gentle concern. The weight of making someone younger worry about him tugged at Hanbin’s chest. Wanting to lighten the mood, he forced a chuckle and replied with a playful tone.

“Well, if that happens, I’ll just leave the shop to you and Matthew and retire early!”

“Ha? Don’t be ridiculous!” Taerae shot back, shaking his head in exasperation. “Matthew just brought back another armful of fruit from the market lady last week, even though I told him to focus on non-perishables. You remember how much of a headache it was turning all that fruit into jelly, right? And who had to sell it all?”

Hanbin couldn’t help but laugh at the memory. That summer night, he, Taerae, and Matthew had stayed up late, eyes bleary and stinging as they simmered batch after batch of gelatin. Matthew’s cheerful personality had won over every vendor in the local market, making him a magnet for unsolicited ‘donations.’ While free ingredients were usually a blessing, the time Matthew returned with an overflowing cart of fruit had nearly driven Hanbin to tears. Though the fruit punch jelly they improvised sold well in the sweltering heat, it had devoured their fridge space and sanity in equal measure. Never again, Hanbin silently vowed.

After a moment of shared laughter, Taerae exhaled a small sigh and began expertly laying seaweed sheets over the wrappers.

“...I’m sure your brothers wouldn’t want you to suffer like this either, Hyung.”

“I’m fine,” Hanbin replied, shaping a rice ball with careful hands, mindful not to crush the grains. Gently, he wrapped the seaweed and film around it, as if handling a fragile flower. You should never squeeze a rice ball too hard, his father used to say. Treat it like holding Yujinie’s tiny hand or touching a delicate bloom. Be kind, be gentle, and it’ll turn out delicious. That’s how you make people smile when they eat it.

“This is a rare opportunity,” Hanbin continued, his tone lighter. “Honestly, I think I’ll be okay. Besides, if Mom and Dad were here, don’t you think they’d do the same thing?”

“Hanbin-hyung…” Taerae hesitated, his lips parting as if he wanted to argue but then deciding against it. Instead, he let out a small sigh, his gaze softening as he met Hanbin’s eyes.

“I’ll help you with anything, anytime. Just promise me you won’t hold back or hesitate to ask. Understood?”

“Got it. Thanks, Taerae,” Hanbin said, nodding as he affectionately touched the warm, freshly made rice balls.

His brothers’ futures depended on him. Though Taerae’s concern warmed his heart, the thought of pausing—even for a moment—felt like the wrong choice. Stopping, resting, or even second-guessing himself wasn’t an option Hanbin could afford. Not yet.

---

“Hanbin, come here.”

The sky outside the window was an unrelenting shade of gray.

As Zhang Hao marched to his usual spot at the head of the dining table and plopped himself down with an air of exasperation, Hanbin tilted his head in curiosity and trailed after him. Zhang Hao had asked for dinner after his Saturday morning concert and a planned evening of rest at home. Hanbin, by now accustomed to spending weekends at Zhang Hao’s mansion, had readily agreed. With Matthew and Taerae running the shop, he had no reason to worry. But clearly, Zhang Hao had other concerns. Sitting with his arms crossed and brows furrowed, his expression radiated displeasure.

“What was that green thing in today’s lunchbox?” Zhang Hao demanded, his tone sharp.

“Green thing?” Hanbin echoed, blinking in confusion.

“The thing on the side… looked like a stir-fry or something.”

“Oh! That!” Realization dawned on Hanbin, and he clapped his hands together. “Brussels sprouts! They’re not in season, but these were so sweet and flavorful that I thought you’d like them. Didn’t you?”

“I didn’t,” Zhang Hao said curtly, his tone icy and dismissive.

Hanbin’s shoulders sagged momentarily before he forced a cheerful smile back onto his face. Pivoting on his heel, he pointed toward the kitchen.

“Well, vitamins are important! But maybe you’d prefer this—I just made it today. Hang on a second!”

Disappearing into the kitchen, Hanbin soon returned with a pristine porcelain plate, which he carefully placed on the table before Zhang Hao. The plate held an assortment of brightly colored vegetable dishes. Hanbin had drawn inspiration from the flavors Zhang Hao had previously enjoyed, hoping to make vegetables more palatable for him.

“I’ve been thinking about how to make veggies tastier for you,” Hanbin explained, his voice warm with enthusiasm. “This is molokhia prepared Japanese-style—”

“I’m not eating that.”

The blunt interruption hit like a slap, leaving Hanbin momentarily speechless.

“Uh… well, this one is stir-fried water spinach, made with a Chinese recipe—”

“No! I don’t want it! I don’t want any of it!” Zhang Hao’s voice rose, shaking with frustration as he shoved the plate away with trembling hands.

“Zhang Hao-ssi!” Hanbin exclaimed, lunging forward. The plate slid across the tablecloth but came to a halt against his outstretched palms. Zhang Hao sat with his chest heaving, his face partially obscured by his long bangs. For a moment, Hanbin could hardly believe what had just happened.

He could feel his ears burning with anger. The surge of heat from his indignation threatened to overtake him, urging him to yell. But he clenched his fists and fought to steady his breath. He didn’t want to be that person—not here, not now. Even if the outburst felt justified, he knew that shouting at Zhang Hao would only leave him steeped in regret.

“Please,” Hanbin began, his voice trembling as he deliberately measured each word. “Don’t waste food. Ever.”

The weight of his tone hung in the air. Zhang Hao’s eyes widened in surprise, and his lips parted, pale and uncertain.

“I’m… sorry,” Zhang Hao whispered, his voice barely audible.

Zhang Hao's voice came in barely a whisper, so quiet it might have gone unheard. His head hung low, his shoulders slumped, and his clenched fists on his lap turned ghostly pale at the knuckles. Seeing him like this, Sung Hanbin felt the anger that had filled him moments ago begin to ebb, replaced by something softer, quieter. He took a deep, silent breath to steady himself, then spoke in the same gentle tone he used when coaxing a reason for mischief out of Yujin.

“…Zhang Hao-ssi, you always avoid vegetables without even taking a bite. Is it the taste, or do you dislike the smell as well?”

“No… it’s not that,” Zhang Hao replied, his voice hoarse and uncertain. His eyes remained fixed on the edge of the tablecloth, the color of his gaze unreadable.

“...It’s the maids.”

After a pause long enough to hang in the air, Zhang Hao finally lifted his face. His wide eyes, glistening with the beginnings of tears, met Hanbin’s. Hanbin offered a reassuring nod and a soft, encouraging smile.

“When I was little,” Zhang Hao began, his voice trembling with a fragile honesty, “there were these carrots. They were so bitter. I told the maid, but she wouldn’t replace them. Ricky was still little, and Father and Mother were too busy to be home, so it was just me. I sat there alone, staring at those bitter carrots on my plate, chewing them so slowly I thought I’d choke. I remember it all too well. The next day, it was spinach. The day after that, watercress. And just like that, I started hating vegetables.”

As he finished, Zhang Hao lowered his head again, pulling his trembling fists closer to his body as if to hide them. Hanbin watched him in silence, unsure what words could possibly provide comfort.

The image of a younger Zhang Hao, small enough that his legs couldn’t yet reach the floor, sitting alone in a grand dining room with a plate of untouched vegetables came unbidden to Hanbin’s mind. He imagined a child who didn’t yet speak Korean, trying in vain to express his distress in a language no one seemed to understand. The bitter taste of neglected carrots, the tang of unseasoned spinach—these must have marked his palate with the flavor of solitude and tears.

It wasn’t dislike, Hanbin realized with a quiet gasp. It was fear. Vegetables had become a symbol of Zhang Hao’s childhood loneliness, a reminder of a time when no one listened.

Hanbin’s gaze lingered on Zhang Hao’s hunched figure for a moment longer before he finally spoke, his words cutting gently through the stillness of the room.

“…Zhang Hao-ssi, may I join you for dinner tonight?”

“What?” Zhang Hao snapped, raising his head to glare at Hanbin, his brows furrowed in confusion.

With a beaming smile, Hanbin nodded and grabbed the plate of untouched vegetables before heading for the door.

“Dinner’s better with company! I’ll grab my food and be right back.”

“Wait—what? I didn’t even say yes!” Zhang Hao’s protest followed him, but Hanbin ignored it, making his way to the kitchen. He retrieved a cold pasta dish he had prepared earlier from the fridge—made from leftovers from Zhang Hao’s lunch. Tossing in roasted Brussels sprouts, crispy chicken skin for crunch, and a tangy tomato reduction for sauce, he plated it neatly on a simple dish and returned to the dining room.

Zhang Hao sat there, his flushed eyes darting away, his cheeks puffed in annoyance.

“Well, this looks great, if I do say so myself!” Hanbin declared, sliding into the seat beside Zhang Hao and clasping his hands together. “Bon appétit!”

Zhang Hao blinked in surprise, watching Hanbin take a satisfied bite. His expression was unreadable, but the apprehension from earlier seemed to have lifted.

“It’s really good,” Hanbin said between bites. “Want to try some?”

Zhang Hao hesitated, biting his lip as if weighing the offer. Slowly, he nodded. “Just one bite.”

Hanbin froze momentarily, stunned that Zhang Hao had agreed. Quickly recovering, he carefully twirled the pasta onto his fork, ensuring only a single Brussels sprout leaf nestled in the mix. He held it out, and Zhang Hao’s lips quivered before they parted hesitantly. The fork slid away, leaving the bite behind, and Zhang Hao’s eyes widened.

“...It’s good,” he admitted quietly.

“Really? That’s great!” Hanbin grinned, the warmth in his voice unmistakable.

“But just a little good!” Zhang Hao quickly added, his face turning red. “Not amazing or anything!”

“Of course, of course,” Hanbin replied, chuckling. “As long as you liked it.”

The tangy tomato sauce masked any lingering bitterness from the sprouts, while the caramelized sweetness from roasting them balanced the savory crunch of the chicken skin. It was a carefully crafted harmony, and it worked. Zhang Hao, now emboldened, mumbled a request for another bite. As Hanbin twirled more pasta onto his fork, his thoughts wandered back to the untouched plate of vegetables in the kitchen.

Cooking with care, Hanbin thought, had the power to transform any dish into something beautiful. Was he trying to make Zhang Hao smile? Perhaps. Or maybe he simply wanted Zhang Hao to know that food could be comforting, that it could bring joy.

Whatever the reason, as he watched Zhang Hao eat with quiet satisfaction, Hanbin felt an unshakable resolve: this dining table would never again be a place for tears.

---

Zhang Hao was seated in the expansive dining room, leisurely sipping his post-meal coffee while scrolling through a novel on his tablet. The quiet rhythm of footsteps echoing from the hallway made him glance up. Having spent over two decades encountering countless people and hearing their footsteps, Hao prided himself on his sharp ear. Yet, the gentle yet slightly impatient cadence of his younger brother Ricky’s steps was unmistakable, a sound that always seemed paradoxical given Ricky’s tall stature and calm demeanor.

For those meeting the Zhang brothers for the first time, their impressions were often amusingly off the mark. Hao, with his refined, gentle demeanor and an angelic face that seemed incapable of harm, was assumed to be the one wielding authority in their relationship. Ricky, on the other hand, with his strikingly sharp features and a cool, aloof air, was presumed to hold the reins.

Reality, of course, was the exact opposite. If an insect dared to appear in their living space, it was Ricky who would scream bloody murder, while Hao, armed with an expensive slipper, would efficiently dispatch the intruder without a shred of mercy. Hao often found himself puzzled by Ricky’s dual nature—was his younger brother delicate or surprisingly bold? The truth, Hao knew, was likely rooted in the dynamic they had shared growing up. And much of it, Hao admitted with some guilt, was his doing.

Ricky had always been a calm child. Unlike Hao, who as a boy would often succumb to tantrums and lock himself in his room to cry, Ricky seemed to float above such displays of frustration or anger. While most children wore their emotions on their sleeves, Ricky rarely showed his. Instead, he would sit quietly, blinking his bright, perceptive eyes, seemingly lost in thought.

Hao often speculated that Ricky simply processed far more internally than he ever expressed outwardly. Part of this restraint, Hao suspected, came from Ricky’s calculated understanding of risk and reward—what was worth saying and what wasn’t. But another part of it, Hao couldn’t deny, was born from watching his older brother drown in the overwhelming flood of his own emotions. Hao’s heart had always been a riotous garden, a wild canvas of vivid colors and clashing sounds. He had never been one to suppress it. The flowers and weeds that grew there burst forth unchecked, because Hao couldn’t find a reason to stop them. He had been fortunate, he realized now, to discover music as an outlet, a way to channel the chaos into something meaningful.

Ricky, however, had no such outlet as a child. While Hao’s outbursts often ended in catharsis, Ricky witnessed them with quiet, watchful eyes, internalizing a different lesson. It was as if he decided, somewhere along the way, that emotions—especially the kind that overflowed uncontrollably—were burdensome and wrong. So he observed, he thought, and he stayed silent, weighing every word before it left his lips. It wasn’t that Ricky lacked determination or strength; on the contrary, he had both in abundance. Yet his heart, calm and clear like a tranquil sea, was a stark contrast to the storm that raged within Hao.

Hao loved his brother deeply. He cherished Ricky’s quiet resilience and admired his wisdom. But at the same time, he feared the influence he had over him—an influence he sometimes worried might be too heavy, too all-encompassing. As much as Ricky’s calm anchored Hao, Hao couldn’t help but wonder if his tempestuous nature had cast too long a shadow over his brother’s life.

As the dining room doors swung open, Ricky’s tall frame strode in, just as Zhang Hao had expected. Hao looked up naturally but almost choked on his coffee at the sight of Ricky’s newly dyed hair—a striking wine red that seemed to scream for attention.

“What’s with the red?” Hao sighed, setting down his coffee cup with an exasperated shake of his head.

Ricky, clearly pleased with himself, ran a hand through his freshly dyed hair, the deep crimson strands contrasting strikingly with his navy satin blouse. It must have been freshly done—the slight dryness at the tips gave it away. Hao idly noted that today’s bath towel, destined to dry Ricky’s hair, was in for a rough time.

“It’s China Red,” Ricky announced smugly, his elegant lips curling into a grin. “Nice, isn’t it? Dad and Mom would love it.”

“And the real reason?” Hao asked, unimpressed.

“I just wanted red hair.”

“Figured.”

Hao pressed a hand to his face in mock defeat, shaking his head again. At least Ricky’s flamboyant hair choices wouldn’t cost him work, and their international school’s lax dress code was a saving grace. Folding his tablet, Hao turned to fully face his brother as Ricky pulled out a chair diagonally across from him and sat down.

“Want to order dinner?” Ricky asked casually.

Hao blinked, then shook his head. “No need. There’s food for you in the fridge. Hanbin made some for you, too.”

“Hanbin?” Ricky echoed, momentarily caught off guard before nodding vaguely. “Oh… sure, I’ll have that.”

“Good. Seungeon!” Hao called, gesturing to the butler who had been standing discreetly in a corner to avoid intruding on their conversation.

“Warm up what Hanbin prepared and bring it over. I’ll have some chocolate ice cream.”

“Understood,” Seungeon replied with a bow, retreating to the kitchen. Moments later, he returned carrying a silver tray laden with a pristine plate of vegetable appetizers and steamed chicken, accompanied by a lime and shallot sauce. Another smaller dish held a glistening scoop of macadamia nut and dark chocolate ice cream.

Hao eagerly dipped his spoon into the ice cream, ready to savor the first bite, when he noticed Ricky’s skeptical gaze drilling into him.

“...Wait. Is that spinach?” Ricky asked, his voice dripping with disbelief as he gestured accusingly at the plate of vegetables like it had personally wronged him.

Hao frowned and clicked his tongue. “What about it?”

“Since when do you eat green vegetables?” Ricky demanded, his fork pointed dramatically at the offending dish as if it were a weapon.

Feeling his cheeks grow uncomfortably warm, Hao glanced away. “It’s… not like that. This was just good. Hanbin made it spicier so it’s easier to eat. It’s delicious.”

“Really?” Ricky’s tone was laden with suspicion.

“What?” Hao snapped.

“Oh, nothing,” Ricky replied with exaggerated nonchalance. “Just that I’ve never heard you say, ‘There’s food in the fridge,’ in my entire life.”

“Be quiet!” Hao groaned, shoving a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. The rich cocoa flavor filled his senses, bringing a fleeting moment of solace before the embarrassment from his brother’s teasing returned.

Hanbin, despite Hao’s initial tantrum about vegetables, seemed determined to work them into his meals. Each dish came with a different preparation or seasoning—spicy, savory, tangy. At first, Hao resisted vehemently, but after a while, even the effort to protest became exhausting. He had resigned himself to eating whatever Hanbin served.

Whenever Hao picked up a piece of vegetable with his fork, he could feel Hanbin’s eyes on him, silently observing. It wasn’t just curiosity—it was as if Hanbin were trying to capture every flicker of emotion that crossed Hao’s face. The discomfort, the trepidation, the eventual satisfaction. And every time Hao cleaned his plate, murmuring an embarrassed but sincere “Thank you,” Hanbin’s face would light up with a smile so radiant it could rival the sunflowers in full bloom.

With that memory still fresh, Hao dug into his ice cream again, determined to ignore Ricky’s knowing smirk. No matter how annoying his brother could be, one thing was certain: he wasn’t about to give Ricky the satisfaction of seeing him squirm over vegetables—or the fact that Hanbin, with his unwavering patience, might actually be winning this culinary battle.

"Is Hanbin… an interesting person?" Ricky asked, glancing up briefly as he deftly sliced through a piece of chicken. Zhang Hao, hearing the question, felt the corners of his lips curve upward as he recalled Hanbin's soft, gentle tone of voice.

"He's totally a loser," Hao replied with a touch of amusement. "Every day, he comes up with some new way to make me eat vegetables. Oh, today he asked me, 'Have you ever shelled broad beans before?' I mean, how dumb is that? Like I’d ever do something like that."

He chuckled to himself, remembering Hanbin’s earnest expression and slightly furrowed brows as he asked the question, so genuinely serious it was almost comical.

"Hanbin has younger brothers too, you know. Three of them!" Hao exclaimed, shaking his head in mock horror. "I told him I couldn’t imagine having three Rickys in my life. But he just said, 'They’re all adorable,' with that dreamy look on his face. Kind of ditzy, right? Honestly, I can’t figure out how someone like him manages to run a shop on his own."

As Hao continued to recount his stories, Ricky listened quietly, his calm gaze revealing little of what he might be thinking. Finishing his mouthful of chicken, Ricky finally smiled—an easy, serene smile that had a hint of mischief in it.

"Sounds like you’re quite fond of him," Ricky remarked.

"Ah?" Hao blinked, then frowned. His cheeks flushed as he realized he’d been talking far too much. To hide his embarrassment, he pursed his lips into a tight line.

"It’s not like that," he muttered.

"Sure," Ricky said nonchalantly, twirling his fork. "Besides, you don’t even have any friends your age, right?"

"Yah! Ricky!" Hao leaned forward to smack his brother’s arm, indignant. He did have friends! Maybe not a huge number, but his best friend Kuanjui was someone he traveled with at least twice a year. And occasionally—every two months or so—he’d even go out for a meal with other friends. That counted! But Ricky, entirely unfazed by the light swat, chuckled as he popped the last piece of chicken into his mouth.

"He seems like a good person," Ricky commented, wiping his hands. "And the food he makes? It’s amazing. Probably the best I’ve had in Seoul."

"Of course, it is," Hao said, pouting. "I picked him, after all."

Pouting deeper, Hao spooned a half-melted bite of bittersweet chocolate ice cream into his mouth. Ricky’s praise for Hanbin left him feeling oddly squirmy inside—an unusual mix of pride and irritation. To make matters worse, Seungeon and Ricky exchanged some kind of meaningful glance, as if sharing an inside joke. Hao huffed, his nose wrinkling slightly, before deciding to focus entirely on the cool sweetness of the ice cream melting on his tongue.

Tomorrow would be another weekday. In the morning, he had an interview for a magazine, followed by an afternoon practice session at home. And by evening, Hanbin would return, bringing his playful smile and a new dish to coax him into trying. Somehow, the thought left Zhang Hao both annoyed and… looking forward to it.

---

It occurred to Zhang Hao that letting someone besides Ricky or Seungeon into his private practice room was an exceedingly rare event.

"Hold still, please. I need to make sure the patch doesn’t come off," Hanbin said, his voice calm yet earnest.

Sighing softly, Zhang Hao shifted his gaze to the clear autumn sky visible through the window. The scattered sheet music on the carpeted floor wasn’t exactly chaotic, but it couldn’t be called tidy either. A soft breeze stirred the lace curtains, and the cool air conditioning made the room comfortable despite the warming sun. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Zhang Hao watched as Hanbin carefully wielded a small pair of rounded scissors, cutting precise slits into a cooling patch before wrapping it gingerly around Hao's right wrist. His intense focus was almost comical.

"You’re making a big deal out of nothing. It’s barely an issue. This patch makes it harder to move, honestly," Zhang Hao grumbled, flexing his hand experimentally.

"If I don’t do this, Seungeon will scold me," Hanbin murmured, entirely absorbed in his task.

It was nothing serious—just a mild case of tendonitis. As a violinist, Zhang Hao was no stranger to overworked wrists. Since his Korean tour had concluded and he had no immediate performances lined up, he’d planned to ignore the slight swelling and let it heal naturally. That plan derailed when Hanbin had walked into the practice room mid-afternoon, grinning as usual and carrying freshly baked cookies. One glimpse of Zhang Hao’s slightly reddened wrist, and Hanbin had turned pale as a ghost. Before Hao could object, Hanbin was off to fetch the first aid kit, and now here they were.

The cooling sensation was nice, sure, but Zhang Hao couldn’t shake the feeling that Hanbin was overreacting. Still, it was clear he genuinely cared, so Zhang Hao bit back further protests, instead observing Hanbin’s eyelashes, which fanned out delicately like daisy petals.

"Zhang Hao-ssi, did you always live in Seoul?" Hanbin suddenly asked, breaking the silence as he reached for the tape to secure the patch.

"No," Hao replied, lifting his wrist slightly to help. "I was born in Beijing and lived in Shanghai for a long time. We have a house in Seoul because my family does business here."

"Wow, I can’t even imagine a life like that," Hanbin murmured, wide-eyed. Then, his expression shifted, as though he’d realized something unpleasant. "So… are you going back to China soon?"

His puppy-like gaze glimmered with what looked suspiciously like sadness. Zhang Hao hesitated. Was he imagining that?

"I have a big competition in Seoul in six months," Zhang Hao said at last. "I’ll be here until then. After that, I’m thinking of taking a break. Maybe staying here for a while."

The mention of a "break" made Hanbin flinch. His gaze dropped to Zhang Hao’s wrist, his hands tightening ever so slightly. Sensing the tension, Hao chuckled softly and patted Hanbin’s shoulder.

"Don’t make that face," he reassured. "It’s not a big deal. Ricky’s here, Seoul is fun, and I thought it might be nice to live here for a bit. That’s all."

Hanbin’s tense shoulders eased, and he gave a small smile. "If you say so," he replied, finishing his handiwork. He sat back to admire his work with obvious satisfaction.

As Zhang Hao flexed his wrist experimentally, Hanbin watched him with a bright expression, seemingly content just to be helpful. Zhang Hao found it oddly endearing.

"I’m glad you like Korea," Hanbin said softly, a genuine warmth in his voice.

Zhang Hao felt his cheeks warm slightly. It wasn’t embarrassing, per se, but admitting he enjoyed Korea in front of Hanbin felt oddly intimate. "The food is good. And I like K-pop," he offered as a deflection.

"You listen to K-pop?!" Hanbin’s jaw practically hit the floor. "I always assumed you only listened to classical music… Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume. I just thought talking about music with a professional like you might be disrespectful since I don’t know much about it."

Zhang Hao blinked at him, then sighed. It wasn’t an uncommon misconception. People often assumed that someone like him, deeply immersed in classical music, wouldn’t care for anything else—or worse, would look down on it. But Hao had always thought of the violin as just a tool, a means to make music. And music, to him, was boundless.

In truth, Zhang Hao was a devoted fan of a few K-pop girl groups. He even transcribed their songs into sheet music and practiced them for fun when new tracks dropped. But judging by Hanbin’s demeanor, he had likely avoided broaching the topic altogether, thinking it too personal or inappropriate.

Breaking into a small smile, Zhang Hao reached for his sleek black violin case. "Shall I play one of your favorite songs, Hanbin?"

"Really? You would?!"

Hanbin’s cheeks flushed a delightful shade of pink, his voice betraying his excitement as his hands clasped together tightly in front of his chest. His eyes sparkled wide with awe.

"Oh, wow, what do I do? I’m so happy... but are you sure it’s okay if I choose? And your wrist—"

As his words trailed off into uncertainty, Zhang Hao pursed his lips. "You don’t trust my skills?"

"No! Of course not! I’ve watched your performance videos—I know you’re incredible!"

"Then stop dithering and get a chair. You’ve got thirty seconds to decide," Zhang Hao said with an air of mock impatience.

Nodding fervently, Hanbin scrambled to grab a chair from the corner of the room, nearly tripping over himself in his haste. Zhang Hao smirked as he watched the flustered young man scurry off. Rising gracefully from his seated position, he reached for his violin and bow, plucking a string lightly to test its tune. His instrument was perfectly prepared—strings tuned, bow coated with just the right amount of rosin—and ready to respond to his touch.

Hanbin returned, carefully setting a small chair in place before sitting down gingerly. Zhang Hao glanced down at him, tilting his head slightly.

"So?"

"Um… Joahae, please," Hanbin murmured, clasping his hands nervously on his lap.

Zhang Hao’s lips curved into a sly smile. That OST had been wildly popular not too long ago, a soft, romantic tune perfect for swooning. Hanbin’s preference for love songs was unexpected, and his shy demeanor, reminiscent of someone dropped into a foreign restaurant with an unintelligible menu, only made it more amusing.

"Alright," Zhang Hao said, lifting his bow. He drew in a quiet breath and began to play.

The melody started smooth and gentle, flowing seamlessly through the room. Although Zhang Hao had played this piece many times before, performing it now—for an audience of one—felt different. He let the violin express the song’s emotions, adding subtle flourishes to the familiar notes. His bow danced boldly across the strings during the higher passages, and the final refrain swelled with a tender vibrato before the music faded into silence.

When Zhang Hao glanced up, he was met with Hanbin’s wide, sparkling eyes and an enthusiastic round of applause.

"That was… incredible! Amazing!" Hanbin exclaimed.

"Of course it was. I am a professional, you know," Zhang Hao replied, his tone smug yet playful.

"Right, of course! But still, I’m so moved… I don’t even know what to say," Hanbin murmured, dabbing at the corners of his eyes with his fingers.

Noticing the glimmer of unshed tears, Zhang Hao let out a soft laugh. "Are you… crying?"

"Yes," Hanbin admitted without hesitation. "It felt like you were singing, though I’ve never heard you singing before. It was so gentle, as if you were serenading someone directly. It filled my heart. And to think I was the only one lucky enough to hear this… it feels like a dream."

Zhang Hao blinked, momentarily stunned. Praise for his technique or musical understanding was commonplace, but being described as "gentle" was rare—perhaps unprecedented. He realized, somewhat sheepishly, that he had indeed played this piece as though singing to Hanbin, hoping to convey its emotion. Had Hanbin truly sensed that?

Shaking his head slightly to dispel the thought, Zhang Hao replied, "They say the violin is the instrument closest to the human voice. Maybe your impression wasn’t too far off."

Hanbin beamed at this, nodding eagerly as he handed Zhang Hao the violin case. His tone softened as he asked, "Does your wrist hurt?"

"Not even a little," Zhang Hao replied with a small sniff of disdain, carefully placing his violin and bow back into the case.

"You really like that song?" Zhang Hao asked after a moment.

"Yes," Hanbin admitted, a bit sheepishly. "I used to listen to it a lot on my way to and from university."

"Interesting," Zhang Hao said, more to himself than anyone else.

As Hanbin’s voice trailed off into quiet nostalgia, Zhang Hao turned toward him, his curiosity piqued. "Tell me about yourself."

"About me?" Hanbin asked, surprised.

"Yeah." Zhang Hao’s lips curved into a faint smile. "I’m… curious. Just a little."

He wasn’t sure why, but he found himself wondering what kind of life this man—so different from his own—lived. What kind of days filled his world, and what kind of thoughts lingered in his mind? Zhang Hao wasn’t sure where this curiosity would lead, but for now, he wanted to know more.

Startled by the unexpected question, Hanbin faltered, his brows knitting as he softly repeated, "About me…"

He then cleared his throat, as if preparing to give a formal answer. "Well, I think I mentioned I have three younger brothers? The older two, Gyuvin and Gunwook, are the same age as your younger brother, Ricky. The youngest, Yujin, just started his second year of middle school this year. They’re all wonderful kids—adorable, really. I’m so proud of them."

As Hanbin spoke, his eyes softened, a gentle glow radiating from his face. His fondness was so palpable that it seemed to infuse the room with warmth, painting his words with the colors of sibling love.

"Gyuvin, the oldest, is lively and mischievous. When he was little, he got into trouble or injured himself the most. But he’s always acted for his friends. If someone was being bullied, he’d jump in to help, and if someone was in need, he’d be the first to offer assistance. He has such a kind heart. He’s also been helping me in the kitchen a lot recently—he’s gotten so much better at cooking!"

Hanbin’s voice grew animated as he talked about his brother, a soft chuckle escaping when he recounted Gyuvin’s antics. Then he continued.

"Gunwook is the serious one. He’s diligent and reliable—almost no trouble at all. But, despite all that, he’s a big crybaby. I remember once, when he was in elementary school, he forgot to turn in his class journal just for one day. His teacher scolded him lightly, but he held it together in class. Then I came to pick him up, and he burst into tears, his face all scrunched up. He must’ve felt so bad about it. He’s got such a strong sense of responsibility."

Nostalgia softened Hanbin’s voice further, his head nodding gently as if affirming his memories.

"And Yujin, well, he’s the baby of the family, so of course, he’s a little spoiled. He tries to act cool and composed, but when he’s in trouble, he’ll tug on my shirt with those big, watery eyes—like a baby rabbit. It’s so cute. He’s also incredible at sports. He made the soccer team’s select squad this year! I think he has the potential to go pro someday. He’s that good."

Hanbin finished, his cheeks faintly pink with pride. Zhang Hao listened quietly, his gaze thoughtful. Then, after a moment of reflection, he tilted his head.

"And what about you, Hanbin? What do you want to be?"

"Me?" Hanbin blinked, as if caught off guard. He hesitated before answering. "To be honest, I’ve never really thought about it. I just want to get my CPA license, earn a stable income, and make life easier for my brothers."

"That’s not what I’m asking," Zhang Hao interrupted gently.

He extended his hand, placing it over Hanbin’s, which was warmer and slightly more calloused than his own.

"What you want. What do you really want, Hanbin?"

The sunlight filtering through the curtains painted Hanbin’s skin in hues of gold. He stared into Zhang Hao’s steady gaze for a moment, lost in thought, before he spoke in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper.

"I… I love cooking," he admitted, as though revealing a precious secret. "Someday, I’d like to keep cooking—for someone I care about, for family. I’d love to hear them say it’s delicious. If I could have that every day, it would be enough."

Zhang Hao’s lips curled into a tender smile as he traced a finger lightly over Hanbin’s hand. He didn’t know what kind of family Hanbin might have one day or who might cherish him in the future, but he could already picture it. Hanbin standing in a cozy kitchen, preparing a meal with care, a contented smile breaking across his face at the sound of someone saying, "This is amazing."

"It’ll happen," Zhang Hao said simply. "I’m sure of it."

Hanbin blushed at the encouragement, his ears turning red as he ducked his head to hide his embarrassment. He glanced at Zhang Hao’s wrist, still wrapped in a pristine white compress, and reached out as though handling fragile glass.

"Are you sure your wrist doesn’t hurt?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

"I’m fine," Zhang Hao murmured, allowing Hanbin to fuss over his hand. It had been a long time since anyone other than Ricky or Seungeon had been allowed into this practice room. Surrounded by certificates and trophies—a sea of accolades—the sensation of someone touching his injured wrist so gently was unfamiliar.

Yet, with Hanbin, Zhang Hao found it surprisingly… pleasant.

---

Autumn had arrived, bringing with it crisp skies and the comforting embrace of a pleasant breeze—the perfect season for indulging one’s appetite.
On a completely unrelated note, it turns out that the proximity of high schools and universities often determines whether convenience stores and fast-food chains decide to set up shop in a particular area. A nugget of trivia that Gunwook had proudly shared just the other day.

This meant, of course, that as Gyuvin and Gunwook shared a box of cheap nuggets on their walk home from school, they were nothing more than tiny cogs in the grand machine of capitalism. A trivial realization, perhaps, but it didn’t diminish the joy of the greasy snack.

Gyuvin glanced up from his phone screen to shoot Gunwook a sharp look.

“…Noticed it.”

Without breaking his stride or turning his head, Gunwook nodded slightly, his gaze fixed ahead. Ever since leaving school, a tall figure had been following them at an awkward distance.

Now, Gyuvin and Gunwook weren’t new to being tailed. Both brothers were well aware of their good looks—something they’d inherited from their family—and had their fair share of admirers, from giddy classmates to overly enthusiastic strangers. But this particular pursuer was different. His intentions seemed less like infatuation and more… suspicious.

Removing one earbud, Gunwook muttered under his breath, “Yeah. I saw him in the reflection of the shop window earlier.”

“Dude’s terrible at tailing people,” Gyuvin replied, rolling his eyes.

“Also, his hair’s way too red. What’s the plan?”

Gyuvin caught the mischievous glint in his younger brother’s eye and smirked. He knew exactly where this was heading.

“…Wanna catch him?”

“Leave it to me.”

Gunwook flashed a confident thumbs-up. If Hanbin or Yujin could see them now, they’d probably groan in exasperation. But in Gyuvin’s head, the Kingsman theme was already blasting.

After a brisk walk through a series of winding streets, the brothers ducked into a quieter alley. Keeping to the shadows, they waited silently, watching the entrance to the alleyway. It wasn’t long before soft, hesitant footsteps approached, slowing near the alley as if searching for them.

“Uh… where’d they go…?”

“Looking for us?”

“AH—!”

Gunwook and Gyuvin emerged dramatically from the shadows like villains in a spy movie. (Although, to be fair, they were the victims of stalking here.) The red-haired man froze in place, his eyes wide with shock.

He’s got a pretty face, Gyuvin noted idly as he studied the man. High cheekbones, a sharp nose, and long lashes cast delicate shadows over narrow, almond-shaped eyes. His lips—slightly full and glossy—betrayed a meticulous skincare routine that probably involved far more expensive products than the drugstore lip balm Gyuvin and his brothers shared in a three-pack.

The outfit? A tight white turtleneck, silver cargo pants, and black boots. Not exactly inconspicuous. Definitely not ideal for stalking.

Exchanging a knowing look, Gyuvin and Gunwook broke into matching grins before seizing the stranger by his arms—Gyuvin on the right and Gunwook on the left. Despite his tall frame, the man didn’t stand a chance. Thank you, Mom and Dad, for the superior genetics.

“There, there, no need to be scared. We’re just gonna have a chat, okay?” Gyuvin said in a saccharine tone.

“Let go of me! Hey! I said—let go!” the red-haired stranger protested, squirming like a fish out of water.

“Yeah, no,” Gunwook replied cheerfully, tightening his grip.

“You’re coming with us,” Gyuvin added with an overly friendly grin. “Nice and easy now.”

The two brothers decided to drag the red-haired guy into a chain coffee shop along their usual route home from school. Gyuvin had briefly considered the burger shop next door but abandoned the idea the moment the redhead pulled a face that could only be described as a cat hit with a flying cucumber.

"Be kind to everyone," Gyuvin reminded himself, channeling the saintly wisdom of their eldest brother, Sung Hanbin—whose moral compass was so unshakeable even the Virgin Mary would give him a standing ovation.

---

“So, Mr. Weird-Clothes-Stalker,” Gyuvin started, leaning back dramatically in his chair.

“Excuse me, these ‘weird clothes’ happen to be the latest runway collection from DIESEL,” the red-haired guy shot back, flipping his freshly dyed locks with the confidence of a diva caught in a wind machine.

“That’s what you’re gonna nitpick? Seriously?”

“And I’m not a stalker. My name’s Ricky.”

With a pointed sniff, Ricky removed his sunglasses and placed them on the table like a royal decree. Beneath perfectly arched brows and piercing eyes that screamed 'Don’t mess with me,' he blinked slowly, almost like a cat sizing up its prey.

“…Ricky Zhang. Or Zhang Quanrui, if you prefer.”

His introduction was delivered with an odd mix of pride and shyness, his voice barely above a mumble. Gyuvin and Gunwook exchanged a knowing glance. From the moment they first saw him, there’d been something familiar about his features. Now it all made sense. This guy was Zhang Hao’s brother.

Of course, the fact that he was terrible at being incognito was entirely unsurprising. Gyuvin straightened his back, subtly puffing up his chest to make his school uniform appear just a bit more authoritative next to Ricky’s runway-ready look.

“Sung Gyuvin,” he said, introducing himself with a slight nod.

“Sung Gunwook,” his brother followed suit, his tone measured and calm.

Ricky gave a small, begrudging nod of acknowledgment, prompting Gunwook—the designated rational communicator in situations like this—to take the lead.

“So, Ricky. You’re Zhang Hao’s brother, right? Mind telling us why you’ve been tailing us?”

At this, Ricky furrowed his brows, his expression torn between irritation and reluctance.

“Just… don’t tell Hao-hyung about this.”

“Don’t worry,” Gunwook reassured him. “We don’t even know him personally. And telling Hanbin-hyung wouldn’t help anyone either.”

Ricky hesitated, biting his lip as though deciding whether to spill the beans. His thick brows scrunched together, creating deep lines on his otherwise pristine face. Frankly, the dramatic tension would’ve been worthy of a K-drama… if they weren’t in a generic coffee shop where a barista was loudly announcing “One tall vanilla latte for pickup!” in the background.

Unable to bear the sight of Ricky’s turmoil any longer, Gyuvin let out a long sigh and took a sip of his iced Americano.

“You’re our age, right? Let’s just keep this normal. Why on earth were you stalking us in an outfit that screams, ‘Look at me, I’m suspicious!’?”

Ricky, perhaps realizing how ridiculous the situation was, sighed and clasped his hands on the table. Slowly, he began to explain.

“…Hao-hyung’s been acting weird. Ever since Sung Hanbin started coming to our house to cook.”

Gyuvin paused mid-sip, exchanging a glance with Gunwook before motioning for Ricky to elaborate.

“He’s been laughing more,” Ricky continued, clearly distraught. “Cracking jokes. He’s stopped impulse shopping like a man possessed. And—get this—he’s eating vegetables. Vegetables! All of this—it’s because of Sung Hanbin.”

“So, naturally, you decided to spy on Hanbin-hyung’s brothers instead?” Gunwook asked, his tone dry.

To Gyuvin, it sounded like their brother’s influence was nothing short of miraculous. Changing a grumpy celebrity’s life for the better? That wasn’t just Hanbin’s charm—it was practically divine intervention. Maybe they should brand it. “The Sung Hanbin Beam.” or “Sung Hanbeam.” Catchy, right? A reasonable ₩50,000 per session, and you, too, could experience life-altering good vibes.

Gyuvin shook himself free of his marketing daydreams. The situation demanded focus—no matter how tempting it was to imagine “Sung Hanbeam.” as a business venture.

Gunwook’s exasperated comment seemed to resonate with Ricky, who nodded solemnly. Gyuvin, meanwhile, was busy sipping his iced Americano at a snail’s pace, silently lamenting its outrageous price and determined to savor every overpriced drop.

“You know,” Ricky began, his tone unexpectedly pensive, “Hao-hyung isn’t the kind of person to get attached to anyone. Even when he likes someone, it’s usually not serious—because he’s scared of getting hurt.”

“Wait, wait, hold up!” Gunwook interrupted, waving his hand. “Are you saying your brother likes Hanbin-hyung?”

“And stop calling my brother ‘your brother.’ It sounds barbaric. Try ‘my esteemed older brother’ or something.”

“Yeah, no. Not the point.”

Ignoring the exchange, Ricky reached for his strawberry frappuccino—a monstrosity so overloaded with toppings that Gyuvin couldn’t fathom how the lid stayed on.

“I’ve never seen Hao-hyung talk about someone with such excitement,” Ricky said, swirling the pink drink with a fat straw. “Or eat someone’s cooking with that much joy.”

He paused dramatically, stirring the whipped cream into the drink. “I just want my brother to be happy. And if Hanbin is the reason, I need to know what kind of family he comes from.”

Gunwook softened at that. “You really care about him, huh?”

“Yeah, even if his hair’s too red,” Gyuvin added with a smirk.

“Gyuvin,” Gunwook deadpanned, “I’m having a heartfelt moment here.”

With a sigh, Gunwook pulled out his phone. “Alright, we get it. But no more stalking, okay? Do you have KakaoTalk? Let’s just exchange numbers.”

Ricky, to their surprise, agreed without hesitation. Gyuvin blinked, caught off guard. He’d assumed someone as high-profile as Ricky would be more guarded, but the kid seemed oddly… trusting. Maybe Gyuvin and Gunwook had been too quick to judge. Turns out, fabulously rich with impeccable cheekbones didn’t mean emotionally closed off.

After confirming their contact details, Gunwook folded his hands on the table. “For what it’s worth, we think Hanbin-hyung really cares about Zhang Hao. Whether it’s romantic or not… hard to say.”

Gyuvin nodded. “He’s been in a great mood lately. Even though he’s busier than ever, he’s singing in the mornings and gushing about Zhang Hao’s reactions to his cooking.”

“So… do you think they have something good going on?” Ricky asked, eyes wide with hope.

“Maybe,” Gunwook replied with a small smile.

“But,” Gyuvin added, “it’s hilarious that they’re both too oblivious to notice it themselves.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Gunwook retorted.

Gyuvin immediately backtracked. “Wait, no! Gunwook is brilliant, so smart, and oh, that anime he recommended last night? Absolute masterpiece—Gunwook has the best taste!”

“…Why does that feel like someone used a rag made of my old T-shirts to mop up spilled milk?” Gunwook muttered.

“You’re oddly poetic about discomfort,” Ricky remarked, clearly amused.

Gunwook coughed, steering the conversation back on track. “Anyway, how about this: we’ll share info about Hanbin-hyung, and you tell us about Zhang Hao. Deal?”

Ricky considered, sipping his frappuccino like it held the secrets of the universe. “…Okay. Deal.”

Satisfied, Gunwook smirked. “Alright, what do you want to know, young master?”

Both brothers lifted their Americanos in unison, savoring the overpriced coffee as they waited. Ricky tapped his chin thoughtfully before clapping his hands together, his expression bright and mischievous—eerily reminiscent of Zhang Hao’s.

“Okay, so… is Hanbin a top or a bottom?”

The Americano didn’t even make it halfway down their throats before Gunwook and Gyuvin choked, spraying coffee across the table.

---

By mid-October, the chill of autumn had firmly settled over Seoul. Hanbin, ever the warm-blooded anomaly, was still braving the outdoors in short sleeves, though just barely. His younger brother Yujin, however, had mumbled through a mouthful of eggs that morning, “Hyung, can I take out the thicker blanket?” If cold were an enemy, Yujin had already surrendered. Across from Hanbin sat another cold-averse soul: Zhang Hao, bundled up in a caramel-colored sweater and soft, fluffy slippers, his feet stretched lazily over the floor. Hanbin couldn’t help but wonder, What on earth is he going to wear when winter actually arrives?

The lace curtains fluttered gently in the autumn sunlight, casting playful shadows on Zhang Hao’s pale skin. His hair, grown slightly longer, softened his sharp features. Would winter make him crave steaming soups or perhaps something roasted and fresh from the oven?

Zhang Hao was twirling egg spaghetti in a terra-cotta-hued cream sauce on an intricately designed Flora Danica plate when Hanbin’s words made him pause, his wide eyes brimming with disbelief.

“Wait… so you’ve never left Korea?” Zhang Hao’s voice rose with incredulity.

“No… not yet,” Hanbin admitted, a little sheepish.

“Seriously?! Hanbin, you have to travel! It’s amazing, so, so much fun!” Zhang Hao’s enthusiasm was palpable, and he gestured animatedly with his fork.

Seated at what had become his usual spot—next to Zhang Hao’s unofficial “throne” at the head of the table—Hanbin smiled, charmed by his employer’s excitement.

The conversation had started innocuously enough, with Zhang Hao musing aloud about possibly spending Christmas in Seoul this year. With his Korean tour behind him and preparation for a spring competition underway, Zhang Hao had handed Hanbin a spare copy of the house key, allowing him to come and go as needed. For Hanbin, who was eager to chip away at his family’s debt, this was a golden opportunity. He often found himself at Zhang Hao’s home on weekday mornings, laughing as Seungeon fussed over a half-asleep Zhang Hao before sharing lunch with him.

Today’s lunch was Italian—a departure from their usual Korean meals. Inspired by the ingredients and gadgets available in Zhang Hao’s sprawling kitchen, Hanbin had whipped up a creamy spaghetti dish using a blender he found tucked away in a cabinet. The meal reminded Zhang Hao of a pasta dish he’d enjoyed during a summer vacation abroad, sparking a conversation about favorite cuisines. When Zhang Hao had asked, with curious, sparkling eyes, which international food Hanbin liked best, Hanbin’s face had reddened as he confessed he’d never traveled overseas.

The farthest he’d ever ventured was Jeju Island, during a summer vacation with his family when both his parents were still alive. His mother had been pregnant with Yujin at the time, and six-year-old Hanbin had marveled at the intense sun and endless blue skies, thinking it felt like stepping into another world. He remembered helping his younger brothers, Gyuvin and Gunwook, navigate the long walks they weren’t used to. On one outing, they stopped by a roadside stand selling mandarins, peeling the fruit together as they gazed out at the sea. Gyuvin and Gunwook had struggled with the task, so Hanbin had eagerly taken over, his small hands turning yellow with citrus juice. His parents had smiled, ruffling his hair.

“Such a good big brother,” they’d said.

The salty tang of the ocean, the bright aroma of mandarins—that was the entirety of Hanbin’s experience with travel.

When Zhang Hao spoke about travel and foreign countries, his eyes sparkled with the same brilliance they held when he talked about music. He must have been born with a free spirit. As his silver fork deftly twirled spaghetti on the intricately painted porcelain plate, Hanbin caught the sight from the corner of his eye. Zhang Hao’s soft cheeks rose into a joyous smile so full it seemed ready to overflow, and Hanbin couldn’t help but watch him with a gentle gaze.

“If it’s winter, you have to go to New York. The Rockefeller Center Christmas tree is stunning. Oh, and skiing in Scandinavia is amazing! They even have sauna boats. You can dive into an icy lake to cool off and then head right back into the sauna. But—haha—there was this one time when Ricky was in middle school, I think? He jumped into the lake and immediately got a cramp…”

Zhang Hao chuckled, his face lighting up with exaggerated expressions as he eagerly recounted the story to Hanbin.

“He panicked, yelling, ‘I’m drowning!’ Ricky, who’s usually so composed and cool, made the funniest face calling for me. Everyone had to pull him out. He sat in the sauna afterward, soaking wet, looking like the saddest drowned cat. Oh, it was absolutely hilarious!”

Hanbin smiled, lowering his eyebrows in amusement as he tried to imagine the tall, flamboyantly-haired young man he had recently met—that Ricky—looking like a “sad, wet cat.” From his slightly bashful demeanor, Hanbin could tell Ricky wasn’t as tough as his striking appearance suggested, but with his frosty Siberian-beauty vibes, it was hard to picture him in such a comically tragic state.

“Was he okay? No injuries?” Hanbin asked, concerned despite the humor.

“Not at all! He was perfectly fine. In fact, he bragged about how the cold water tightened his skin.”

“Hahaha! Well, as long as nothing bad happened. What’s your summer recommendation?”

As Hanbin asked, he twirled his own forkful of spaghetti. The creamy sauce, rich with a whole jar of capers and generous amounts of Parmesan blended to silky perfection, clung beautifully to the fresh egg pasta. Adding sun-dried tomatoes to the mix had been a masterstroke, Hanbin thought proudly. Meanwhile, Zhang Hao grinned and raised a finger as if he’d been waiting for this exact question.

“Summer? Definitely Europe! Monaco’s perfect—cool breezes, cruises, and even masquerade balls. Oh, they hold an annual masquerade ball there. Technically, you’re supposed to go with a partner, but if my best friend Kuanjui is busy, I go solo. It’s lovely to watch everyone dancing from above—dresses and tuxedos billowing like flowers blooming and swaying on a grand, moving canvas.”

Zhang Hao nodded wistfully, leaning an elbow on the table and narrowing his eyes as if reliving the scene.

“This summer, I was in Italy—Florence, Naples, Milan. I stood over a canal, watching the moon’s reflection ripple on the dark water. Lanterns hung along the banks, glowing like tiny moons. In the daytime, the walls look this soft salmon pink, but at night, they turn a faint blue. It’s surreal. And the gelato and pasta? Absolutely divine.”

As he spoke, his voice softened, and his lips curved into a peaceful smile. Pointing to his plate of spaghetti, he said, “But, you know, I like your tomato pasta more.”

When Zhang Hao let out his slightly imperfect joh-a, Hanbin blinked slowly, momentarily caught off guard. Zhang Hao's sapphire-like eyes, deep and labyrinthine like a mirror maze, seemed to hide layers Hanbin couldn’t quite decipher.

“…Really?” Hanbin asked softly, his voice tinged with hesitation.

Zhang Hao puffed out his cheeks and jutted his lower lip in mock indignation. “Hey, do you think I’m lying?”

His mock-petulant tone, even more lisping than usual, was so endearing that Hanbin couldn’t help but laugh.

“It’s an honor. Thank you, Zhang Hao-ssi,” Hanbin said, his lips curling into a gentle smile.

Zhang Hao watched him, his expression softening before he suddenly tilted his head in thought. Absentmindedly, he began twirling the stem of his iced tea glass with his free hand.

“…Hey, Hanbin. Can we drop the ‘Zhang Hao-ssi’ thing? It feels… ticklish.”

“Huh? But… you’re older, and you’re my employer—”

“The employer is asking you to stop.”

Hanbin felt his ears grow warm at the directness. He hesitated for a moment before awkwardly testing the words on his tongue. “…Then, how about Hao-hyung?”

“Drop the formal speech too.”

How demanding could one person be? But with those wide, sparkling eyes full of expectation, Zhang Hao looked so eager that Hanbin could only chuckle in defeat and nod.

“…Alright, Hao-hyung. Is this okay?”

The casual tone felt strange on his tongue, and Hanbin’s flushed cheeks betrayed his discomfort. He tried to cover it by feigning irritation, but Zhang Hao’s soft, peach-like cheeks lifted in delight, and he let out a quiet, mischievous giggle.

“…Heehee.”

“What’s so funny?” Hanbin asked, exasperated, rolling up the caramel-colored sweater sleeves that had slipped down Zhang Hao’s arms during his laughter.

“Nothing…” Zhang Hao replied, shaking his head in satisfaction. “Just say it lots, okay?”

Hanbin didn’t know how to respond. For a moment, he felt as if the person before him was a delicate sugar sculpture—so fragile he dared not touch it. Instead, it was as if he were a child pressing his hands against the glass of a showcase, longing for what lay inside.

The silver autumn sunlight, faintly pink-tinged, reflected off Zhang Hao’s pale skin, which seemed cool to the touch, like fine porcelain. His hair, slightly overgrown with roots just beginning to show, brought an inexplicable sense of happiness to Hanbin. Zhang Hao’s slender, well-manicured fingers lifted the silver fork again, twirling the remaining strands of pasta with lingering fondness.

Hanbin found himself transfixed, watching as Zhang Hao brought a forkful of his cooking to his lips. It was like witnessing the first snowfall or gazing up at a starry sky—quietly awe-inspiring. When Zhang Hao’s eyes sparkled with delight, Hanbin couldn’t help but respond with a soft smile of his own.

“Hanbin, this pasta is so good! What’s in it?” Zhang Hao exclaimed, his enthusiasm lighting up the room.

“Oh, well… I know Hao-hyung likes bold flavors, so I added extra capers, blended them with almonds, grated cheese, and olive oil to make the tomato sauce…” Hanbin began explaining, his voice warm with pride.

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