The Cursed Saintess Came to My House (4)
I wouldn't say I slept soundly. How could I, with my friend—who'd turned into a woman—crying all night in the living room? Every faint sob leaking from under the covers and slipping through the door crack jolted me awake, and just when it seemed to quiet down, the patter of rain outside grated on my nerves. I kept closing and opening my eyes until, at some point, the ceiling grew hazy with dawn light. I couldn't even tell if I'd dozed off or pulled an all-nighter. It was that kind of morning.
But I wasn't the first one up. As I rubbed my eyes and reached for the door, there she was, standing right in front of it. Han Junseo. She stared up at me with those blank eyes. Her hair, roughly dried with the towel I'd given her last night, was matted on one side and sticking up on the other, and dark, puffy rings under her eyes betrayed a night of tears.
I had no idea what she was doing there like that, but the moment I opened the door, she silently lifted the hem of the hoodie—just a little. Below the fabric, pulled up past her navel, was her bare lower half. She'd fallen asleep without sorting out her pants last night, so seeing skin wasn't surprising. The real issue was that as the hoodie rose, her breasts came into view too. They were massive, completely out of proportion with her petite frame, boldly asserting themselves.
There was no shame or seduction in her expression. She just gazed up at me blankly, holding up her clothes like that. Meeting those empty eyes, what came out of my mouth wasn't arousal, contempt, or embarrassment.
"What the hell are you doing, acting all cheap like that?"
It was just like always. Like talking to a friend. Flat, annoyed, matter-of-fact.
She let the hoodie drop smoothly at my words, bowed her head deeply, and started mumbling something. I could see her lips moving, but her voice was too soft to make out. Except for the last word, which rang out clear as day—almost too loud.
"Sorry…."
Another sorry. She'd said it last night too, when I covered her with the blanket. And now again. She'd thanked me just once, but this was already her third apology. It was bitter to think apologies came before gratitude in her mind, but if I reacted, she'd probably start crying again. So I said nothing.
She turned limply and shuffled down the hall. Watching her back, I noted one small mercy: she wasn't staggering like when she'd first arrived. No leaning on walls, no toddler-like waddle. She could walk straight on her own two feet now.
Good enough, I guess. As she vanished toward the living room, I leaned against the bedframe and sighed.
Just testing the waters, huh.
Makes sense. I'd let her crash here, fed her, but treated her exactly the same as always—no pity, no special treatment, even though we're close friends. Naturally, she'd want to check if I had any weird intentions. Especially after telling me herself about Sangcheol groping her thigh and pushing for a motel. I'd want to test too. Lifting her clothes like that wasn't a come-on; it was a test. And I'd passed.
Honestly… it's not like the thought never crossed my mind.
Saying my eyes didn't wander would be a lie too. She'd turned into someone so stunning—even our buddies who'd known her forever would leer—that not feeling a flicker of desire would mean something was wrong with you. I'm a guy with eyes, after all.
But that doesn't mean I'm gonna act on it.
There's a line between a dirty thought flashing by and crossing into action. One you don't step over. Holding that line is instinct too. A good one.
Instinct… yeah, a good instinct.
Until she turned back into my old pal Han Junseo, I wanted to keep that instinct locked away. No, I had to. What she needed now wasn't a man—it was a friend.
I got up and headed to the living room. She was bundled tight in the blanket on the sofa, just the tips of her hair poking out, the rest buried deep inside.
At least she's not lying there like the world's ended. Better than last night.
Compared to collapsing at the door and not moving a muscle, this was progress. Wrapping herself up meant she still cared enough to cover her body. She'd probably gained some confidence here—feels like home, and she trusts I won't do anything creepy. Maybe she'd recharged a bit.
Too optimistic? Maybe. But if I sank into pessimism too, this tiny place would have two gloomy souls. I'd stay upbeat to drag her along—even if just a little.
So what should I do for her? Buy women's clothes? She looked like she needed something to wear under that hoodie besides a blanket. Or nag her to get out from hiding? Go outside, see a doctor?
Neither.
I shook my head. She didn't need pretty outfits or warm words. What she needed was the same old routine. Ramen, breathing the same air. That's it.
Yeah… you're just gonna hole up here all day. And tomorrow. And the day after.
Who knows for how long. A week, a month, maybe longer. But since I'd let her in, the responsibility to look after her was mine. No one told me to open the door—I did it myself.
Screwing up my resolve, I walked into the living room. The blanket bundle twitched once, then sagged again. She was aware of me. But I didn't speak. If she wasn't ready, better to leave her be.
I headed silently to the kitchen. The eggs I'd meant for last night's ramen caught my eye.
"Won't ruin the broth…."
Not planning ramen for breakfast, but the words slipped out anyway. I nearly chuckled, bit my lip, and grabbed four eggs, setting them by the cutting board. I fired up the electric burner, plopped on the frying pan.
Nothing fancy for breakfast. Fried eggs, toast, barley tea. For a single guy, it's surprisingly decent—my rule: eat like a human, at least for meals. I don't skimp on food.
Oil in the pan, crack the eggs—sizzle filled the kitchen. Whites firming at the edges; I cracked another. When the yolks firmed just right, slid them onto plates. Toaster dinged, two slices perfectly browned. Barley tea was pre-brewed in the fridge—pour into cups.
Two plates. Two cups. Two pairs of chopsticks.
For two….
Not bad. Not a hassle, not special, not joyful. No heaviness in my chest like last night, no rage-clenched fists. Just normal. A perfectly ordinary morning, prepping breakfast and waiting for company. That's what I decided she needed.
"Food's ready."
I tossed it toward the living room. The bundle stayed still for a long beat, then hair emerged, followed by puffy eyes peeking over the top. She glanced my way through the fabric, nose twitching at the smell.
I sat first, stabbing my fried egg. Yolk burst, yellow spilling over the white. I sliced a bite, popped it in—rich savoriness as the half-runny yolk spread. As I reached for seconds, the chair opposite creaked.
I looked up—she was there, across the table. Hadn't noticed her leave the blanket. No slippers, barefoot from sofa to here, silent as a cat. How?
She stared down at the bread and eggs. Last night, she'd devoured ramen, forgetting her huge breasts squishing the table. Today? She had them properly on the surface, gazing at the plate. Was she aware? Hard to say. But the outline pressing through the hoodie against the table edge looked straight out of a cartoon.
My instincts ignored it. First thing: give her a choice. A tiny one.
"Strawberry jam? Or grape? The grape's homemade by my mom."
She stared at me. Then her eyes dropped to her chest. She studied the part of herself on the table for a long moment, then expressionless, shoved it under.
First time she'd reacted to her own body. Late embarrassment? Or just annoying? Who knows.
"Grape…."
"Got it."
I stood, opened the fridge. Grabbed strawberry and grape jars from the door. As I turned with one in each hand, a faint crunch from behind.
Placed them side by side. She'd taken a tiny nibble from her toast—comically small, crescent bite at the corner. I nearly burst out laughing. This was the guy who'd demolish burgers in bites, grabbing with big hands, half gone in one go. Now? Bird-peck marks.
Pfft… got small, so mouth got small too?
Wanted to laugh. Normally, I'd rib her: "That all you're eating?" But no. She'd shrink. More important: she'd picked up the bread and eaten a bite herself. Last night, I had to nudge her shoulder to move. Today, her own tiny bite.
I twisted open the grape jar, slid it over.
"Tastes good. Try it."
She carefully pulled it close, spooned a smidge—barely tinting the toast—and spread it. Not jamming bread, painting paper: from edges in, no gaps, delicate. Unbelievable from the guy who'd chug ramen broth straight from the pot.
She lifted the finished toast in both hands, bit. Crunch. Proper size this time. Chewed, eyes dropping to her plate. Still blank-faced, but enough.
I opened strawberry, spread, bit. After that, silence. Just clinking plates, crunching toast, slurping tea, occasional chopstick taps. No rhythm, no fun. No talk, no eye contact, heads down, mouths moving.
For some reason, it was reassuring. A morning that put me at ease.