Longing—that was the right word. Because I had realized that the vague affection I had yearned for truly existed. Because I had realized it was close enough to reach out and grasp if I dared.

“What did you do for fun?”

“I looked at paintings with oppa, ate snacks, and learned flower names.”

“That must have been fun.”

“Mmhm, and oppa also...”

Her whisper trailed off too quietly for me ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) to hear. But I could feel Yido’s glance flick down at me, crouched before the flowerbed. Whatever Hye-yul said, his expression shifted, just slightly.

“...Really?”

“Yeah!”

Kwon Hye-yul nodded eagerly, her eyes shining with childish brightness. Yido looked once at her, once at me, then let a soft smile touch his lips.

“All right. Uncle will see you again next time.”

Only then did I press on my knees and stand. Since Yido had returned, it was time for me to go back to my room. Playing with Hye-yul at all had already been overstepping my place.

“Where are you going?”

But the moment I moved a step, Yido called me back. Adjusting his hold on Hye-yul, he tilted his head toward me. Perhaps because he held the child, his face did not seem as cold as usual.

“Let’s have dinner.”

It was the first time since coming to this house that I shared dinner with anyone. The meal, tailored for Hye-yul’s tastes, was pleasant enough for me as well. Thanks to her constant chatter, there was no silence at the table.

Though one subject was a little uncomfortable.

“Oppa says he doesn’t like eating alone.”

Hye-yul explained to Yido everything we had talked about earlier in detail. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but I couldn’t help feeling embarrassed. Yido had no interest, but because it came from his niece, he now knew trivial things about me.

“And he’s really good at French. He said he learned it at school.”

“You speak French well?”

“...Yes, somewhat.”

It had come up when Hye-yul mentioned a painting she wanted that was in Paris. She said she wished she could speak French but only knew basic greetings. When she asked if I was good, I had taught her a few phrases.

“Uncle, I want that painting.”

Listening to their conversation, I learned the painting was in the Musée de l’Orangerie. When she said she wanted it, Yido asked kindly and then deferred, saying he’d remember it for now. His skill at avoiding a tricky question was remarkable.

“That’s right, and also...”

As the meal wound down, Hye-yul wrinkled her nose. She leaned toward me and inhaled deeply through her nose. I wondered what she was doing—until an unusual comment spilled from her mouth.

“Oppa smells like flowers.”

***

Children whose secondary gender has not yet manifested are often especially sensitive to others’ pheromones. They notice things that would normally be hidden beneath their own pheromones. Even if they don’t know it’s “pheromones,” they often identify it simply as a kind of scent.

In that sense, what Hye-yul said must have been a sign of my coming heat. The day after her visit, I experienced my third heat cycle in Yido’s house. The fever that always came found me again from dawn, stripping me bare to the core.

“...Hht.”

What had I been thinking? That I wanted this ordeal to end quickly, and at the same time that I wanted someone to help me through it. In the past, that “someone” was vague. But this time, the person I wanted was unmistakably clear.

“Kwon... Yido...”

I wanted to feel that sweet pheromone again. I wanted to be drowned in it, even if he released it mercilessly. If I could let loose the searing heat all at once and end it in a single day, as before, it would be a blessing.

Perhaps my desperate wish was heard. Before long, the sound of the door opening reached me. He had knocked a few times, but I hadn’t answered. Curled under the blanket, I felt his measured footsteps approach.

“...”

I simply knew—Yido was looking down at me. If I reached out, he would join his body with mine again. Even if it was nothing but a loveless act of release, for me it would still be a fragile hope.

“...So that’s why you didn’t come down.”

Why did those words sound as though he’d been concerned about my absence? As though, because I hadn’t come down for a meal, he’d come to find me himself. As though he cared at least that much—though that couldn’t be true.

“Jung Sejin.”

Ridiculous as it was, I glimpsed possibility in that call. I thought—it was the first time he had properly called me as a person. And before I knew it, I was reaching out from under the blanket to grasp his wrist.

“...Sleep with me.”

“...”

The heat of his skin in my palm felt all the colder. His hands were always cool, but now it was my burning body that made them feel icy. My blurred vision couldn’t make out his expression, even when I lifted my face.

“Nothing...”

“...”

“Nothing, you don’t have to give me anything...”

Slowly, very slowly, I pulled him closer. The pheromones reaching my skin were unbearably enticing. So I forced my own pheromones to spill out, offering all I had, begging him to embrace me.

“Please, hht...”

Without ceremony, he threw back the blanket and climbed on top of me. When I tried to roll onto my stomach, he caught my arms irritably and pressed me flat. Blink, blink—tears slipped out from eyes opening and closing in a haze.

“Don’t cry. It makes me feel like I’m raping you.”

He said only that before yanking down my pants. He stripped my underwear off in one motion and tossed them to the floor, frowning as he looked at my soaked lower body. For a moment I worried he’d lost interest—but then his pheromones poured out thickly.

“Hhup...”

I inhaled them desperately, as though to fill my lungs with what I lacked. I grabbed at his collar, curling tightly against him. I had expected immediate penetration, but instead it was his fingers probing inside.

“...Hh, why... why with your hand...”

“...What?”

“Why with your hand, hhhht...”

He clicked his tongue. “No one ever stretched you, did they?” His muttered words sounded cold. His fingers pushed deep, widening me with wet sounds.

“You bled last time.”

Did I? I couldn’t really remember. Sitting had been uncomfortable, but everything was new, and I hadn’t realized anything was wrong. I’d thought what flowed between my legs was only the semen he’d spilled.

“Ah, ahhht!”

From one, to two, to three fingers—it was too easy to take them now. Every so often he brushed the most sensitive place, and though he never touched the front, precum trickled down and pooled below my navel.

“...Ahhk!”

Soon it wasn’t fingers but himself. I thought I was prepared, yet still it felt like my stomach was twisting. Panting harshly, I felt him grip my thighs and hoist them onto his shoulders.

“Ah, ahhht, hhh, hhup...”

It was sex stripped bare. No kissing, no upper bodies pressed together. The air was thick with pheromones, but the act itself was dry, mechanical.

So I clung harder. Though I said I wanted nothing, I longed for the warmth of human contact. Unsatisfied with mere release, I reached up and looped my arms around his neck.

“There, ahh, hhhnn...”

“...Hah.”

At one point he muttered a curse. The word was low, almost buried in our mingled sounds, but sharp on my ears. Am I being too much of a nuisance again? I thought. But instead of pulling away, he held me tighter.

“Jung Sejin.”

Hearing my name so softly, I nearly cried. The guilt I’d thought buried began to seep out again. I rubbed my face against his neck like I was being coy, and his large hand cradled the back of my head.

“In that little head of yours... I don’t know what you’re thinking...”

“...Hhh, hht!”

“...But only at times like this, you...”

The sound of bare flesh colliding, ragged breaths, sharp curses and muffled moans—

“...You really want nothing?”

He asked the same question three times. As if he couldn’t see what I wanted even now, his persistence was almost cruel. I kept shaking my head, and stayed in his arms until it was all over.

***

Sharing each other’s body heat reveals more than words ever could. What the other is thinking, what mood they’re in, what feelings they hold toward you. The body spoke more honestly than speech, and pheromones more honestly than the body.

“...Good morning.”

After the second time we had sex, something subtle changed between us. Awkward though it was, we now exchanged a few more words. Specifically, we began to greet each other in the mornings.

“You didn’t sleep well, did you?”

When I first moved into this house, Yido seemed like a man determined to score everything I did. His gaze measured me from head to toe, and every word I spoke was met with suspicion.

“Are you not comfortable sleeping here?”

But day by day, that shell peeled away. The once still air in his eyes began to stir with a faint breeze. Not the cutting chill of before, but the gentle warmth of a mild season.

“No... I just have insomnia.”

It was something I had never felt from my family in twenty years. His gradually softening manner gave me a satisfaction beyond words. I hadn’t known how pleasant it could be when discomfort turned to comfort, when dread turned to anticipation.

“As an office worker, everyone goes through it at least once.”

“Well, sleep disorders are common enough.”

With him, it felt as though my thirst could be quenched. As though someone capable of showing true affection might finally end my long famine. That hope grew in me, but so too did self-disgust, tightening around my throat.

“Get some sleep when you can.”

What if he learned the truth? Then everything would instantly return to the beginning. I already knew how cold that sunset-lit face could turn.

“...Thank you for your concern.”

It felt like standing at a crossroads filled only with danger. Stop here, or reach out my hand. Either way, the path before me was unclear.

“Ah, right. Jung Sejin.”

He spoke suddenly in the middle of breakfast. As I lifted my head, trying to soothe the sting inside, he asked a plain question.

“You speak French well?”

***

After the meal, Yido took me to the study on the second floor. With time before work, he said he had a small request. The moment we entered, my eyes were caught—as always—by the gun mounted on the wall.

“...I have a question.”

“Ask.”

“That gun... it’s decorative, right?”

At most a lighter, I thought, though it looked real. The gleaming barrel, the weight of its form.

“No.”

He answered without hesitation. When my eyes widened, he added matter-of-factly:

“It’s a real gun, loaded.”

“....”

I was struck dumb. What reason was there for a real gun here? Possession was illegal. Though of course, he was someone with the power to make the illegal legal.

“Are you going to tell Chairman Jung?” 𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦

“...Ah.”

Was that a joke?

“I don’t report our conversations to my father.”

I answered slowly, avoiding his eyes. In any case, I wasn’t in frequent contact with Father. In truth, none at all.

“Well... I suppose not.”

His reply was flat. Then he gave a thin laugh, as though at some thought.

“Since you took leave, you haven’t spoken to anyone.”

A chill ran down my back. His voice was unnervingly calm. And sure enough, he continued with something chilling.

“I pulled your call records. About a month’s worth.”

“....”

“No secretary’s been by either, so unless you’re sending carrier pigeons, you haven’t communicated with anyone.”

What could I call this—good fortune, or disaster? I had narrowly avoided exposure this time. If I had contacted Father, he would have found out immediately.

“If it was unpleasant, let it go. I have to maintain at least minimal vigilance.”

My heart thundered. Keeping my expression steady was all I could manage. While I clenched my fists in secret, he drew a book from the shelf and handed it to me.

“Read this.”

“....”

The title. I read it aloud as naturally as possible, and he glanced at the cover.

“Good pronunciation.”

I barely calmed my racing heart. All kinds of worst-case scenarios had flashed through my mind, yet there was nothing I could do. Only hope it all passed safely.

“The author is... Charles?”

“...Yes, Charles.”

“All right. Then next, this one.”

This time it was a slim book of poetry. He grabbed a pen from the desk and gestured toward the sofa.

“Sit there. Translate the lines I point out.”

Why this sudden test? Even so, I obediently took the pen. As soon as I sat, he opened the first page and pointed to a sentence.

“This one first.”

“Mon Cher Amour.” To my beloved. I wrote it neatly, then he turned two more pages to the second poem.

“This one, and this one too.”

“....”

I wrote translations mechanically. Without much thought, some were correct, others not. I translated idioms literally, ignored figurative phrasing.

“Don’t just scribble thinking I won’t know better.”

“....”

The sharp comment made me falter. He slid closer on the sofa, crossing his legs, and opened a fifth poem. A lyric about the feelings of falling in love.

“This one. Write it.”

“I was inside the moon.” I hesitated after writing. Surely it meant something else, but I couldn’t decide whether to explain. I was about to speak when my eyes met his—he’d been watching me.

“....”

“....”

My face reflected in his dark eyes. Sitting side by side, I realized the distance was closer than I had thought. Close enough that if I leaned in, our lips would touch. Close enough that our breaths mingled.

“...What does it mean?”

He asked, a beat late, about the line I had written. Without breaking eye contact, I answered slowly.

“That there’s no sense of reality...”

Unintended, my voice dropped low. The drawn-out words seemed to tremble. His eyes blinked, then half-closed, and he murmured faintly, as if entranced.

“Ah. A loss of reality.”

It was just—timing. Or perhaps a signal answered.

Softly, my eyelids lowered. My head tilted, pheromones brushing against my nose as breaths mingled. As our faces inched closer, something soft touched my lips.

“....”

“....”

So his lips were warm, too. It took two times of sharing bodies to realize it. The faint tremor was not only mine. For a while, we stayed like that, exchanging warmth.