I spent several mornings over the past few days reading The Origins of Perfume. During that time, Lee Taeseong also finished the book I’d given him, and when he turned the last page, he looked at me with wounded eyes. The gist was—why would I recommend something so sad? But when I asked if he didn’t enjoy it, he said that wasn’t it either.

One thing I learned in the meantime: Kwon Yido had read every single book in the library. I’d asked offhandedly if he’d really finished all of them, and he shot back, “Why would I shelve books I haven’t read?” That’s when it hit me. He was like a monster. It was obvious he used seventy-two hours in a day.

According to Lee Taeseong, it seemed Kwon Yido rarely took days off. In all the time he worked under him as team leader, he said he never once saw him slack off. I thought I led a pretty busy life, but the idea of not having weekends made my jaw drop.

Of course, the most awkward moment came when I asked, “Then does that mean you can’t take days off either?”—and got no response in return.

“You’re sitting naturally now.”

As always, Lee Taeseong had been assigned to bodyguard duty, and today he sat across from me at the table without a word. He looked a little surprised at himself for doing it, as if it caught him off guard. I let out a quiet laugh and gave him a lazy chin gesture.

“I’m just kidding. Make yourself comfortable.”

The flower tea the staff had prepared today was sweet-scented plum blossom. Dried plum petals floated gently in the glass teacup. As I sat staring at them in silence, a hesitant voice piped up from across the table.

“...Do people eat flowers?”

A laugh burst out of me. I didn’t mean to mock him—it was just the way he asked, so cautious and unsure. I quickly covered my mouth and swallowed the laugh back down.

“Ah... sorry. That was just really cute.”

Lee Taeseong’s expression hardened immediately. He looked fairly intimidating, but it didn’t have much effect on me.

“You can eat them, technically, but they don’t taste very good. Better not to. It’s kind of like garnish—it’s there so you don’t choke on the tea leaves.”

The white petals looked pretty even just to the eye. Visually appealing, so they served their purpose. Honestly, it felt like such a waste to eat something so delicate.

Lee Taeseong sipped the tea carefully, just as I’d told him. He still looked like it didn’t suit his taste, but after a few days of drinking it, he seemed to be getting used to it. Come to think of it, he’d once said he’d never drunk anything other than water without a specific reason.

“I thought you liked the last book, so I brought another one by the same author.”

I handed him one of the books I’d brought, and he gave me a look full of distrust. It was as if he were asking, Is this another depressing one? I didn’t give him a straight answer ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) and just smiled vaguely.

“If you know the story beforehand, it’s boring.”

“...Then just tell me this. Does the main character die?”

“Hmm, I can’t remember.”

Probably not. The protagonist survives, but I think his lover dies.

“You’ll find out if you read it.”

“...”

His black eyes wavered with uncertainty. He must’ve been curious but didn’t have the courage to ask again. I would’ve told him if he’d pushed once more, but maybe it was better to leave it unsaid.

I opened my book and scanned the table of contents. This time, I was reading a small collection of poems in French. It looked brand new, and the moment I flipped the first page, I saw handwriting in pen.

To my beloved.

It wasn’t anything particularly special—just the French phrase “Mon Cher Amour” translated into Korean. Still, the elongated loops of the handwriting felt strangely familiar.

It didn’t take me long to realize that the handwriting belonged to Kwon Yido. The reason was simple: I remembered the card left with the bouquet on the day of our engagement. The card that explained the meaning of lily of the valley had the exact same script.

Flip. I turned another page. There was nothing on the first poem, but on the second, there were a few scattered notes. At first I thought they were pronunciation marks, but no—they were translations of certain words.

The notes were scattered and inconsistent—some translations were accurate, some were wrong. In places where the phrase should’ve been interpreted figuratively, he had translated it literally. Idioms were rendered in blunt, literal terms.

And in the fifth poem, I found this line:

I was inside the moon.

It was a poem describing the feeling of falling in love through various metaphors. The part Kwon Yido had translated—surely it wasn’t meant literally. It was probably closer in meaning to “walking on clouds,” or something like that.

I absentmindedly traced over the handwriting with my fingertip. The feel of the paper under my skin was strangely jarring. Why is my vision so blurry? I blinked, and something wet landed on the page.

“...Huh?”

Is it raining?

“...Director?”

In the haze of my ears, I heard Lee Taeseong call out in alarm. Then he shot to his feet. His chair clattered backward with a loud crash.

“What’s wrong, sir—?”

That single drop spread across the paper, staining it slowly. When I finally lifted my head, what I thought was rain trickling down my cheek turned out to be something else. Only then did I realize—they were tears.

“Are you hurt somewhere? Are you okay?”

“...Ah.”

I raised one hand and half-heartedly wiped my eyes. I wanted to say something got in my eye, but the lump in my throat swelled too fast for me to manage. All I could do was hide behind my hand and bow my head low.

“It’s nothing. Just... something in my eye.”

Really, it was nothing. I’d just read a poem, and happened to find Kwon Yido’s handwriting. There wasn’t even a particularly moving line that could justify tears, and I wasn’t the kind of person to cry easily over something like that.

“Something in your eye?”

“I’m fine. You don’t need to worry.”

“How could I not—”

Lee Taeseong circled the table in a fluster and came over to my side. He looked like he was trying to find tissues, but there was no way the greenhouse had anything like that. I was about to tell him not to worry and just go back to reading, when he suddenly blurted out:

“I’ll go get tissues.”

“No, really—”

There’s no need. That’s what I was about to say when—

“Jung Sejin.”

A familiar voice rang through the haze. A soft, low tone I knew could only belong to one person. The floral-scented air mixed with the smell of wood, and the faint presence I hadn’t noticed crept up close.

“...Executive Director?”

“Sejin-ah.”

The pheromones that had spread gently through the air were now close enough to pull me into an embrace. A cool hand wrapped around my wrist, then peeled my hand away from my face. I blinked slowly—and saw Kwon Yido’s deep, unmistakable eyes.

“Why are you crying?”

“...”

Oddly enough, the moment he asked, the tears started flowing again. I wasn’t overwhelmed with emotion, but I couldn’t control the tears, like something had broken. As he watched me cry, Kwon Yido gently cupped both my cheeks with his large hands.

Without hesitation, he knelt down on one knee on the greenhouse floor. He lowered himself and looked into my face, examining it closely. Lee Taeseong stood frozen, jaw hanging open, but Kwon Yido didn’t seem to care.

“Jung Sejin, look at me.”

Unfortunately, looking at him didn’t help me stop crying. If anything, it clogged my throat even more. I took a deep breath to hold it back, and he gently cradled the back of my head, pulling me into his chest.

“...”

Pat, pat. His awkward hand rubbed my back. Like someone who’d never comforted another person before—it was clumsy beyond belief. The funny thing was, that clumsiness actually worked. The ache inside me eased.

“Executive Director, how did you—”

“You can go back now.”

“...Excuse me?”

“I said go home.”

After a beat of silence, Lee Taeseong answered quickly, voice snappy and crisp. Though I couldn’t see him through Kwon Yido’s embrace, I was sure he bowed deeply before walking off. His footsteps echoed as he left, and I clutched Kwon Yido’s shirt, murmuring:

“...I’m fine now.”

My voice was hoarse, but the tears had stopped. Kwon Yido’s pheromones also began to settle, gently fading. He let out a thin sigh and slowly ran a hand down my back.

“You’re not hurt, are you?”

His kind voice seemed to hover above my head. Not just his hand—his pheromones, his voice—everything circled around me, trying to soothe.

“...No. I’m not hurt.”

“Nothing happened?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Then why were you crying...”

“...”

What could I say? I wanted to act spoiled. He’d always been kind to me, but right now, he was treating me like a child—so tender and gentle. It made me want to stretch my legs out again.

“...I really am fine.”

I lifted my head slightly to escape his arms. I was worried about my posture, and embarrassment started creeping in. But instead of letting me go, Kwon Yido held me tighter, locking my head to his chest.

“Let’s stay like this for a bit.”

“...Okay.”

“I know you’ve stopped crying... but just for a moment.”

His long fingers ran through my hair. The way he stroked it made my shoulders tremble—it was too tender. Still embracing me with both arms, he pressed his cheek softly to my hair.

Kwon Yido didn’t let go for a long time. Long enough that I’d not only stopped crying, but had time to release every lingering emotion. He stroked my hair again and again, until my ears turned hot and I had to squeeze my eyes shut.

“Are you really not going to tell me why you were crying?”

He sat in the chair where Lee Taeseong had been just moments ago, calmly interrogating me. He wanted to know why I’d cried—but the problem was, even I didn’t know.

“I was just reading...”

“Because the protagonist’s lover dies?”

His gaze shifted to the book I’d given Lee Taeseong. It was surprising enough that he knew the story, but I hadn’t been crying over that book.

“No, I was reading this.”

I handed him the small poetry collection, the one barely the size of my palm. It had become rumpled and creased from where I’d held and dropped it. If he opened it, the inside would probably show some water-blurred text.

“I’m sorry. It looked like something you cared about.”

“...”

I apologized out of sheer awkwardness, but Kwon Yido said nothing in return. Not even the usual “don’t apologize.” He just stared blankly at the poetry book, his eyes wide with surprise.

After a long moment, his face stiffened and he asked in a low voice:

“...You read this?”

It was as if he’d been caught with a diary. Well, strictly speaking, I suppose that wasn’t far off. I half-expected him to raise his voice this time, but instead he cautiously began:

“Jung Sejin, did you by any chance...”

By any chance?

“...No, never mind.”

“...”

There’s a reason people say cutting off a sentence midway is the most frustrating thing you can do. I knew I shouldn’t press—but it made me want to ask him to finish.

I stared at him blankly, and he gave me an apologetic look as he furrowed his brows.

“It’s nothing. Just had a ridiculous thought for a second.”

He let out a breath, and the urge to press him faded. I’d noticed this before—when he made that sorrowful expression, it was even harder to resist than when he smiled.

“But Jung Sejin...”

Kwon Yido picked up the novel Lee Taeseong had been reading and flipped through the pages. After scanning it all the way to the end, he set the book on the table and looked straight at me. His lips curled up gently, but somehow it felt ominous.

“Why are there two teacups?”

“...”

Bad feelings are never wrong. When something’s off, your instincts are always the first to notice.

“Let’s say the books are fine—sure, maybe you were reading both.”

His gaze moved between the novel and the poetry collection. Then he tapped one of the glass teacups with his fingertip and tilted his head slightly. After a faint, cynical scoff, he muttered, almost to himself:

“No one said a bodyguard’s job included being your tea companion.”

“...Well.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Panicking would only make it worse, so I tried to think fast. In the end, I just said what came to mind.

“I didn’t want to make him stand around for hours. That’s all.”

His sharp eyes narrowed. The look he gave me felt like it could see straight through to my thoughts. But the words that followed weren’t what I’d expected at all.

“His name’s Lee Taeseong?”

“...”

I blinked in confusion. “Didn’t you name him?” I asked, and he replied without changing his expression:

“Oh. I didn’t care enough to remember the name.”

That was so typically Kwon Yido that I almost laughed. He must’ve seen how stunned I was, because he gave a small shrug.

“I’m joking. I knew. I’ve known you’ve been having tea with the bodyguard.”

“...So the part about not knowing his name wasn’t a joke.”

“Should I have remembered it?”

Is that even a question? Then again, now that I think about it, even Minjae never remembered all the bodyguards’ names.

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you, I just—”

I stopped mid-sentence and instinctively glanced at Kwon Yido’s face. He gave me a small nod, as if to say, Go on.

“It’s not like he was slacking off. I told him to sit and read. Like I said—I felt weird making him stand the whole time.”

I figured Kwon Yido had to have known. After all, the one who instructed the staff to prepare the tea every day was his employee. They were making two cups daily—surely someone had reported that by now.

“And... I’m sorry for lending out the book without asking. But it felt awkward having him just sit there doing nothing.”

In other words, I was asking him not to blame Lee Taeseong. Kwon Yido didn’t seem like the type to abuse his power, but you never know. If something I did got someone else in trouble, I wouldn’t be able to sleep.

“Well, actually...”

Kwon Yido crossed one leg over the other and tapped the table with his finger. The way that long finger moved caught my attention despite myself.

“I don’t really care where the bodyguard sits. The moment I assigned him to you, he wasn’t mine anymore. You said from the start you felt uncomfortable, so I figured you’d try to make things easier for yourself.”

He paused there and looked me straight in the eye. His slow-blinking gaze was unreal in its beauty. Was it just my imagination? I felt like I might start crying again.

“Besides, you probably needed someone to talk to during the day.”

He spoke in a warm tone, saying he understood completely. He was twice as understanding as I’d expected, and not angry at all.

But what came next was something I hadn’t even considered.

“What bothers me is that you shared a space with him... one you’ve never shared with me.”

“...”

The atmosphere turned cold in an instant. Kwon Yido picked up the cup Lee Taeseong had used and poured it out with no ceremony. The tea and petals splashed messily onto the stone floor.

“...That, more than I expected, feels unpleasant.”