Things That Can't Be Hidden (2)
The bathroom door opened and she came out into the living room. Just as I'd planned, I tossed out a casual line.
"I left your medicine and porridge in my room. Tell me if you want some."
It was dry, like how I'd always talk to my friend, but I thought it had a bit of warmth to it. Her reaction, though, was weird. She flinched suddenly and started glancing back and forth between me and my room. After her eyes darted three or four times, something unreadable flashed in them.
"What's wrong?"
"Did you... go in?"
"Can't I go into my own room?"
The old Han Junseo would've fired back with some curse at nonsense like that. Something like, "You slept in my room, you empty-headed idiot," and I'd have felt better. But I didn't want to go that far now, so I held back the swearing and just shot back with a hint of grievance.
She suddenly snapped her head up.
"It smells! Female smell! You smelled it! Why?!"
She screamed it out. This girl who'd been crawling along since last night, only managing "sorry" and "thank you," was yelling at the top of her lungs. Her face was flushed red, sweat pouring down, and even with the fever ravaging her, her eyes locked straight on me.
I couldn't even process what she was saying. She'd slept in my bed, left her own scent there, and now she was mad that I'd smelled it? If she was yelling about her own smell, what the hell was I supposed to say? Sorry? I didn't smell it? Both lies. I wanted to say something—anything—but my head started throbbing like I'd been smacked in the back of the skull.
This wasn't a situation for logic. She was sick, feverish, screaming her head off—shove reason at that, and I'd be the asshole. In the end, I just went with instinct and opened my mouth.
"So what? Catch a cold and your brain catches one too?"
What a ridiculous thing to say. Or maybe both our words were just floating nonsense. Her rant about "female smell" was empty bullshit, and my brain-cold jab was the same. Too childish for a real argument, too serious in her eyes for a joke.
She glared at me, sweat dripping, stomped the floor once with a loud thud, then turned and stormed back into my room.
Slam.
The door shut, leaving me alone in the living room.
Haa... Is this some kind of test?
Like when I'd shown her the clothes this morning, probing my reaction? Or a defense mechanism against becoming a woman? Me smelling her scent probably hammered home that she was female now, so maybe the anger exploded sideways. Either way, I wasn't about to knock and demand answers.
I might wear myself out first, and yelling at a feverish person would just get me more nonsense. Anger could wait. I headed back to the living room and sat at the table.
"Time to work... yeah, work."
I opened my laptop and pulled up the charts. The dollar-yen rate hadn't changed much, and no sounds came from my closed room. The market closed. Nothing to watch until New York opened, and no positions today—my workday was done. I scanned the charts one last time, closed the laptop.
The living room was bathed in orange. Winter sunsets came quick; sunlight slanted through the curtain gap, cutting across the table diagonally. The chair opposite me cast a long shadow in the light.
The spot where we'd sat face-to-face eating toast this morning looked strangely lonely in the evening glow. I glanced toward my room. No sounds. No breathing, no coughing, no pained groans. Dead silent since she'd slammed the door.
A flicker of unease rose. What if? My heart picked up, but I shook my head.
No... the guy I know wouldn't break over this.
She'd lived as tough a life as me. Flashy on the outside, maybe, but grinding through a suffocating family with gritted teeth and fake smiles. No way she'd give up over a cold and a smell freakout. At least, that's what I chose to believe.
I grabbed my laptop, stood at my bedroom door, took a breath. No knock.
"Coming in."
I said it and opened the door before the words finished—like guys always did. We'd never knocked, waited for permission, any of that.
She was asleep. No energy left even for curses. The blanket was pulled up to her chin, her breaths coming in ragged wheezes. Mouth slightly open, breathing through it because her nose was clogged—the sound leaked out thin and faint. No trace of her earlier outburst; her sweat-soaked face was buried in the pillow.
But she'd vented, so her face looked more at ease. Not the hunted look from last night or this morning—just the face of someone sick and sleeping. Her huge breasts must've been uncomfortable; she was hugging my pillow between them and her stomach, curled on her side.
The room still smelled like her, but it didn't rattle me anymore.
Good she took the medicine on time.
The bedside table had an empty half-glass of water and the torn medicine packet. Even pissed, she'd taken it properly. That meant some reason was left, and it eased my mind.
I picked up the glass, grabbed the porridge bag from under the table. Rustling from the bed—she was waking. I turned, and her gray eyes met mine over the blanket.
Awkward as hell. We'd screamed and slammed doors hours ago—what was there to say? She peeked out with just her eyes, looking up; I stood there, one hand on the glass, one on the porridge bag, looking down.
Apologizing felt off—blame was murky. Pretending it didn't happen? Her voice still echoed. So I just acted normal.
"Porridge—which? Veggie? Or abalone?"
"Abalone..."
Small, but no hesitation.
"You know you can't eat in here. Come out."
I took the bag and left the room. As I microwaved the porridge in the kitchen, I heard footsteps from my room, shuffling down the hall toward the living room. I didn't turn.
Come when I say come... eat when I say eat?
Was I raising a sick puppy or nursing a friend? She came for food, approached for water, yelled then hid to sleep, came when called. Had to be a dog.
The microwave beeped. I set the porridge on the table. Sunset nearly gone; living room dimming. Lights? Nah—dimmer might be easier for her. I put a spoon by the bowl and sat opposite, like yesterday. She sat right across too.
The chair scrape echoed in the darkening room; the last sunset rays painted half her face orange. Her fresh sweats were soaked again, thin fabric clinging wet, everything visible underneath.
I didn't say a word. Understanding her freakout's context, bringing up clothes would just ignite her again.
"Eat. Your throat must hurt like hell."
Multilayered, kinda. Fever-sore throat, cried all day, screamed earlier—vocal cords wrecked. Soft porridge fit any way.
But she didn't. Spoon in hand, but hovering over the bowl, head down. Eyes lowered, still as if waiting for me to start. Like this morning. I'd poked my fried egg first, then she took bread; I spread jam, she followed.
Hoo... really.
No choice—I opened the veggie porridge, scooped with a clink, ate. Bland as expected from convenience store junk, but bitter too.
Only then did she start, tentative. Blew on a bit of abalone porridge, slipped it in. One spoonful, two. Easier than morning toast. Soft on her sore throat—third went straight in, no blowing.
Her small hand worked the spoon; each motion shook her huge breasts inside the damp sweats. Up once, to mouth once. Swaying like they demanded notice. My eyes drifted before I caught myself.
Shit...
She noticed quick. Unlike shoving them under the table earlier, now she just left them relaxed on top. Lazy? Given up? At least from self-conscious panic to acceptance—a step.
I turned to my porridge.
Manga shit right here...
Way shorter than me, scrawny body with massive tits, impossibly pretty face—sitting defenseless in dim sunset living room, eating across from me. Honestly? Christmas gift from God.
But I swallowed the thought. To let her eat easy, cram this tasteless veggie slop. She'd stop if I did.
Wordless, no sides, just porridge. Clink. Clink. Spoons scraping plastic, swallows. Not rhythmic or fun like toast morning, but we were eating.
No screams, no "female smell"—gone from this table. Bowls empty, room fully dark. She grabbed her plastic container, headed to the sink.
Dishes?
Cute. From immobile last night to walking for chores in a day. But not praise time. Fever still there—cold water would worsen it.
"I get you're trying to act grown-up sick... but sleep now."
My words hit; her shoulders flinched, grip loosened—bowl dropped with a clack. Plastic, no shatter, but loud in quiet kitchen.
Then... she collapsed. Knees buckled to the floor, scrambled to grab the bowl. Clutching the empty plastic like priceless china, frantic.
She turned, looked up wide-eyed. Knew I might scold. Eyes admitting guilt, waiting punishment. Trembling, bowl hugged tight—like a pet huddling after spilling food, fearing the blow.
I stood silently, walked over, reached out. She whipped her head away—bracing for a hit? Avoiding eyes? Didn't matter; I just took the bowl from her arms.
It slipped free; I set it on the sink.
"I'll make you do tons of chores tomorrow. Sleep's priority now."
"Okay..."
Crawling voice. She rose from the floor, shuffled to my room. Shoulders hunched in, head down—like last night at the door.
Paused at my door, opened, went in. No slam this time. Slight gap; rustling blankets, then silence.
I leaned on the sink, scanned the empty kitchen. Morning toast table with her. Two plates, two cups.
Now two empty porridge bowls side by side in the sink.