Into The Thrill

"I came to the officetel out of habit. Did you already finish moving?"

—I’ll send you the address. Come here. I’m at the office too. I’ll head out now.
"Okay."
Haewon went back down to the parking lot. He loaded his suitcase and violin into the car and got in. He entered the address Woojin had sent into the GPS. The distance wasn’t far. Mounting the phone on the holder, Haewon lifted his foot off the brake and looked ahead.

"Huh?"
The man he had seen earlier in the airport parking lot was now driving past in front of his car.
What the…?

So he was on TV, and now he’s got some kind of stalker?
This was no longer a coincidence. Haewon, chilled, turned to glare openly—and the car with the man inside hurriedly vanished down into the lower-level garage.
The power of being on TV really was something else. Haewon had avoided attention precisely because he feared things like this might happen.

Even besides the stalker, he’d been getting calls from all over and was exhausted. After he didn’t respond, Kim Jaemin had called twice. Haewon ended up blocking his number—not because he hated him, but because he didn’t know what Woojin might do to him otherwise.
He drove to the address Woojin had given. The underground garage of the high-rise apartment looked like a luxury car showroom. Haewon found an open spot, parked perfectly, and got out of the car. Just as he was heading toward the elevator, Woojin’s car pulled in. Spotting him, Haewon pointed with a wave to a space he had already scouted.
It had been four days. Woojin stepped out of the car with a relaxed smile aimed at Haewon.
"Right on time."

"You should’ve called."
He took the violin case and suitcase from Haewon’s hands.
"Guess that’s why habits are scary. I was going to call you after stopping by the officetel to wash up and rest."

"You tired?"
"Yeah, everyone wanted to go to the afterparty, but I came up first."
Woojin gave him the access card and the entry code. This would be the place Haewon would live now. He repeated the four-digit number under his breath so he wouldn’t forget it.

They boarded the elevator, which was as spacious as one in a skyscraper. Woojin tapped the card to the reader and pressed the button for the top floor. As far as Haewon knew, this was one of only two penthouses in the building, each worth over ten billion won.
"…I told you I don’t like high places."
"It’s not that high."

"……"
His father was the director of a general hospital, his mother a specialist at the same hospital, his older and younger brothers all doctors too—and he’d once been engaged to the eldest daughter of the HanKyung Group—so Haewon figured Woojin had some wealth. But this penthouse wasn’t something someone of Woojin’s background and profession could normally afford. He likely had considerable shares in the hotel he’d invested in too.
One of the chaebol heirs had once said that Woojin was very rich. Woojin’s frugal habits made this penthouse feel almost like a twisted joke.

Haewon’s gaze traveled to the watch on Woojin’s wrist and the ready-to-wear suit he was wearing. Then their eyes met.
"What is it?"
"How much is this penthouse?"

"Dunno. Probably something around that range."
He replied offhandedly, as if he didn’t care.
The elevator didn’t stop and continued all the way to the top. When the doors opened, a long marble hallway stretched out before them.
Woojin walked ahead. One shoulder carried the violin case, the other hand pulling the suitcase. Haewon followed behind him. Woojin gave him the door lock code. It was the same as the one for Haewon’s officetel.

"In case you forget."
Woojin looked back at him and said. Their eyes met, and for no reason, Haewon felt his chest tighten slightly. He swallowed dryly.
Woojin opened the door and gestured for him to go in first.

Haewon stepped in, passed through the long foyer, took off his shoes, and entered the living room. The penthouse Woojin had supposedly renovated was so clean it almost smelled of disinfectant, and the sheer size gave it an overwhelming sense of openness.
Haewon had come from a wealthy home and enjoyed many privileges thanks to his father, but Woojin’s penthouse radiated a scent of wealth that was more intimidating than even Kim Jung-geun’s mansion.
Past the glistening natural marble living room, Woojin headed into the bedroom.

"Come here, Haewon."
Haewon, who had been standing absentmindedly in the living room gazing out at the city, turned at his voice.
The bedroom, with warm wood-toned blinds lowered, had a bed from Haewon’s favorite brand. It was a larger size than what he used. In the walk-in closet inside the room, his familiar clothes were neatly hung on one side.

"And the rest of my stuff?"
"I cleared out a room and put it all in there. Take out whatever you need and organize it."
"My sheet music too?"

"I moved the bookshelf as it was."
"My audio system?"
"Use a different one. But yeah, I brought that too. I didn’t throw out anything. I brought everything, so don’t worry."

As Woojin spoke, he took off his jacket and changed into something more comfortable. Haewon headed to the room where his things had been moved. He had to walk across the entire living room.

Haewon, walking aimlessly, suddenly stopped in his tracks.
His head turned instinctively toward the wall. Above a decorative fireplace, a painting was hanging. Haewon’s neck stiffened as he stared up at it.
It was a Damien Ryu painting—a piece the curator had tried to sell him with a 5% discount, saying it was $120,000, but he hadn’t bought it.

"……"
Even before he could fully grasp it, a cold chill swept down Haewon’s spine. He stood staring blankly at the large painting when Woojin silently came up behind him and wrapped his arms around him.
Haewon flinched.

"You like it?"
"…It’s Damien Ryu. He’s one of my favorite artists."
"Oh yeah? That’s good. I like this artist too."

"You like him?"
Startled, he turned to look at Woojin. When he did, Woojin’s lips pressed against his cheek.
"He’s a favorite. His style’s flashy but not over the top—vivid and very realistic, you know?"

"I like him too."
"Do you want to eat first or shower first?"
"…Shower."

"Then go ahead."
Woojin said, brushing his lips through Haewon’s hair before turning away. Haewon watched his back as he headed toward the kitchen.
This wasn’t a coincidence. Coincidences like this didn’t exist.

Haewon’s instincts told him—like goosebumps rising on his arms.
No… it can’t be.
No way. It can’t be…

Haewon shook his head.
There was no reason for him to go this far. Haewon was the one who had clung to him, the one who went crawling back in tears begging to see him again. Woojin sometimes acted cold on purpose to correct Haewon’s selfish behavior, but he had said the breakup was sincere—that he had truly wanted to end things.
Haewon had missed him too much, and not being able to endure it, had gone back to Woojin like a crawling animal. It was he who did that. Woojin had no reason to go this far.

It was Haewon who melted the moment Woojin touched him, who wanted to fuse into his body, who willingly spread his legs and curled into him. It was Haewon who had declared he’d undress before Woojin. All of it was Haewon. No one forced him—he had done it all because he wanted to be with Woojin.
Even when Woojin showed up out of nowhere in a hotel room no one knew about, even when he casually opened doors whose codes changed all the time, Haewon hadn’t thought much of it.
But the Damien Ryu painting—perfectly centered in the middle of Woojin’s penthouse living room—was too perfect. So perfect it felt deceptive, and it told Haewon: This is not normal.

Woojin led the dazed Haewon—who had been standing frozen in front of the painting—into the bathroom and handed him underwear and clothes, telling him to wash up.
Haewon showered and changed into the clothes Woojin had prepared. When he looked in the mirror, the reflection staring back looked like a doll, styled to Woojin’s taste.
On the abnormally long dining table, dinner for two had been set. Haewon sat down beside him, then flinched when he noticed a shadow moving in the kitchen.

"A housekeeper. She hardly speaks any Korean. Doesn’t understand a word of it."
A neatly dressed Filipino maid emerged from the kitchen. She spoke British-accented English and seemed to have received higher education in her home country. Woojin added that she held a chef’s certification. She didn’t stay in the home but came by when they were out, cleaning, doing laundry, and preparing some ready-to-eat dishes. If there was anything they wanted, they could ask her; today, it seemed, Woojin had specially requested dinner.
A steak cooked in wine and garnished with rosemary was set down before them. When Woojin told her she could leave, the maid gave a polite smile, bowed, and quietly exited.

"Let’s eat."
Woojin fit right into this place—into the space and into the life he deserved—as if he belonged there all along. He cut a piece of steak and brought it to Haewon’s mouth. The taste and texture were just like back then, when Woojin had forced food into his mouth against his will.
Haewon chewed slowly, eyes fixed on Woojin as if studying him.

"What are you staring at? I had soundproofing installed. You can check it out yourself. No one’s going to complain about the noise here, so practice whenever you want."
"…You really prepared a lot."
"Can’t have Moon Haewon disliking it. I had to make sure it suited your taste."

Seated in Woojin’s home, in his space, in front of him—Haewon’s presence seemed to satisfy him deeply. A smile played constantly at the corner of Woojin’s mouth.
This vast space felt like his own world, a bomb shelter that kept out all interruptions. Woojin liked familiar, comfortable things. Even Haewon—who wasn’t easily surprised—felt that this dazzling home was simply “comfortable” to Woojin.
The clothes Haewon wore, the expression on his face, the way he looked at Woojin—all of it satisfied him, as if Haewon was a possession that fit perfectly in his hands. Haewon raised the wine glass Woojin poured.

"Don’t you think this house is too big?"
"Is it? You’ll get used to it."
"Prosecutors must get paid really well."

"You can’t live off salary alone. I’ve made some investments, started a few businesses."
"Like building a hotel?"
"Yeah, like that. Built a hotel."

"And selling artwork?"
"…What?"

"Nothing. Do we have any pickles? It’s a little greasy."

At Haewon’s words, Woojin opened the fridge and brought out a jar of pickles, spooning some onto a plate.
After dinner, as he watched Woojin cleaning up, Haewon went into the room that now resembled his old officetel and began unpacking. The bed was missing—either removed or discarded.
He brought over what he needed to the main bedroom. The side table beside the bed was empty.

Haewon sat down on the bed. It was from his favorite brand. He had asked for this, so it made sense that it was here.
But the painting…
Damien Ryu wasn’t a famous artist. His works weren’t particularly valuable.

Haewon liked his art, but unless someone had a specific interest, the average person wouldn’t have even heard of him. That Woojin knew about him—sure, that was possible.
But that painting?
Of all things, that painting?

What if this wasn’t a coincidence?
An unknown artist, an unnoticed painting, something only he had stared at longingly before walking away in regret—was now hanging in Woojin’s living room.
Haewon thought of the man he had seen both in the airport parking lot and near his officetel.

This doesn’t make sense.
"……"
Except for when he was working, Woojin was with him most of the time.

He knew exactly where Haewon was going, when he was coming and going. Sometimes, Haewon even told him first, without thinking.
There’s no way Woojin would plant someone to follow him.
Logically, that should be obvious—but he couldn’t shake the ominous feeling.

It was too perfect. So perfect, it was suffocating.
"What are you doing?"
"Huh? I’ll use this drawer."

"Sure. You didn’t lose anything, right? I told them to be careful."
"The bed’s gone."
"It’s right here. If I brought that one, you might’ve run away and insisted on sleeping in that bed instead of with me, so I got rid of it altogether. Can’t have Moon Haewon sleeping just anywhere—you only sleep on the finest beds, after all."

"…What do you mean, ‘the finest’?"
He thought he misheard and asked again, but Woojin only smiled and helped him put his belongings into the empty drawer.
No one knew better than Woojin about Haewon’s habit of only sleeping soundly in that specific bed.

Fine, he could understand that. That was plausible. But something still felt wrong. Like a single pulled thread in smooth silk—something you could feel but not see.
Haewon looked down at the bed he was sitting on and spoke.
"By the way, who picked out this bedding?"

"Don’t like the color?"
"It’s too… newlywed-ish."
Not just the bright bedding, but even the light, fluttery curtains in the living room weren’t their style.

"I had someone else handle it because I was busy. If you really don’t like it, change it."
"It’s not that I hate it… it just feels overwhelming."
"Why?"

"…Feels like if I sleep here, I’ll end up with a kid."
"If Moon Haewon got pregnant, that’d be something to see. I can already imagine how picky you’d be—it’s gonna be fun."
He shook his head as if even the thought was exhausting. Then he threw Haewon down on the baby-soft bedding and pressed his weight down atop him.

"Shall we make a baby tonight?"
His nose brushed against Haewon’s, smiling smoothly. Haewon wrapped his arms around Woojin’s neck.
No way. That’s impossible.

The look in Woojin’s eyes as he gazed at him with love went beyond anything Haewon’s suspicion could touch. It’s not possible, Haewon told himself, burying his face into Woojin’s neck and clutching his back tightly.
The next morning, Damien Ryu’s painting—bathed in the brilliant morning light in Woojin’s living room—looked so sublimely radiant that Haewon almost felt it was a blessing to see it there.
If you had a living room like this, and if you liked Damien Ryu, then of course you’d buy that painting. Haewon, who had doubted him, was stunned to realize how similar their tastes were.

Could someone be this happy?
Woojin unfolded a bed tray and gently woke the still-sleeping Haewon with the smell of coffee, fresh fruit, butter, and warm bread. As Haewon slowly sat up with a limp body, sunlight poured in—thick and warm—casting breathtaking colors across the room. It was like a movie scene, repeated every morning.
After breakfast, Woojin—already dressed for work—kissed Haewon’s cheek and left first. Haewon, lazing in bed until the housekeeper arrived, would blast music through an audio system so expensive that even the company CEO probably never used it this way.

In the penthouse, he could play violin anywhere.
In the bedroom. In the living room. The sound resonated with such clarity and depth that it made Haewon grateful for his musical gift.
Even the Filipino housekeeper had surprising musical literacy—when Haewon played, she never clapped between movements, only after the entire piece ended. That meant she recognized what the piece was. But after Woojin said something to her, she began leaving quietly whenever Haewon picked up his violin.

At first, the penthouse felt intimidating in its size. But just as Woojin had said, after a few days, it no longer felt so big. It was a space perfectly suited for two.
Just as he had once said—being raised, petted, and loved by him—it wasn’t such a bad way to live. Haewon grew more and more accustomed to Woojin’s hands and his care.