Warm Milk
2:17 AM. I set down my tablet pen and rolled my neck. A sharp pop echoed through the quiet room, releasing the tension in my stiff muscles. Six hours of non-stop work. The coloring for the female warrior cover commissioned by President Kim was past the halfway mark. I had spent far too much time rendering the highlights on the metal armor. My perfectionism was acting up again.
I stood up and stretched, my spine popping so hard it felt like it might snap. I headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. It was my fourth day living in Haedam Villa, and a daily rhythm was finally starting to take shape. Woken up in the morning by Lee Haeun's heavy thuds upstairs, working through the day, cooking dinner, and then working again until dawn. The classic freelancer's routine.
I drank the water and was about to set the glass in the sink when I heard a sound from outside the front door. It was incredibly faint—either a soft footstep or the rustle of fabric. There was no reason for anyone to be out in the hallway at two in the morning. I held my breath and listened closely.
"..." Breathing. It was definitely the sound of someone breathing, right outside my door. It felt like the setup to a horror movie. Quietly, I pressed the button on the intercom to turn on the screen.
Someone was there. Or rather, only the top of someone's head was visible. Because the camera angle was so high, it only captured the crown of a head belonging to someone sitting on the stairs. Long, straight black hair. They weren't right in front of my door, but rather on the landing of the stairs leading from the second-floor hallway up to the third floor.
I hesitated. Should I just ignore it? Was there any reason to confront someone sitting on the stairs at two in the morning? What if they were drunk? What if they were dangerous?
But the breathing was too quiet. It didn't sound like the breath of someone dangerous. It was just the sound of someone sitting perfectly still, exhaling softly. I opened the front door. Quietly.
"..." A woman was sitting halfway up the stairs. Her long, straight black hair cascaded down her back. She was wearing silk pajamas—a pale, ivory-colored set. The moonlight streamed in at an angle through the window at the end of the hallway, sliding smoothly across the lustrous fabric.
Her collarbones were visible. Beneath the V-neck of her pajama top, her sharp, defined collarbones caught the moonlight, casting delicate shadows. Her face was completely bare of makeup. Her features were so distinct and striking that she clearly didn't need any. She had a naturally cold impression, but right now, her expression wasn't so much devoid of emotion as it was entirely hollow. She was staring out the window.
She looked to be around my age, maybe a year or two older. She also seemed quite tall. Below the hem of her silk pajama pants, her feet were completely bare. She wasn't even wearing slippers.
"Excuse me," I called out softly.
The woman turned her head. Slowly. She didn't look surprised at all, almost as if she had expected me to come out.
"...I'm sorry. Did I wake you?" Her voice was low and serene. It was a voice stripped of emotion, but rather than cold, it felt like a quiet, still lake.
"No, I wasn't sleeping. I was working."
"At this hour?"
"I'm a freelancer. I usually work at night."
"Ah." The woman turned her gaze back to the window. The April dawn's moon was nearly full, casting a silvery glow over the alleyway outside. "I'm Park Chaewon from Room 301. I live upstairs."
"I'm Han Siu from Room 201."
"I know. The new neighbor. The one who's good at cooking."
"How did you—"
"The smell drifts up. All the way to the third floor."
The smell again. Does this villa have a serious ventilation problem?
"I'm sorry, I should have ventilated—"
"No," Park Chaewon said, shaking her head. "It's a nice smell. It doesn't bother me at all."
Silence fell between us. The villa was so quiet in the dead of night that the silence itself felt like a physical sound.
"What are you doing out here? At this hour, I mean."
"I couldn't sleep." Her reply was flat. There was no particular emotion attached to her words. She spoke in a tone that merely stated a mundane fact, as if she were simply saying, 'I'm out of water.'
"Do you have insomnia?"
"Yes. Chronic."
"What about sleeping pills—"
"I take them. But my tolerance has built up, so they haven't been working well lately." Park Chaewon pulled her knees to her chest as she spoke. The sleeve of her silk pajama top slid down her arm, revealing her wrist. It was incredibly slender. Her skin was completely bare—no watch marks, no bracelets, nothing. "The stairs are comforting," she said. "When I'm in my room, I just end up staring at the ceiling. Coming out here makes it a bit better."
"But it must be cold out here."
"I'm fine."
She didn't look fine. Silk pajamas were far too thin for the chilly April night air. I could see goosebumps forming on her arms, though she didn't seem to care.
I thought for a moment. She was a stranger. We had met less than three minutes ago. I could easily just close my door and go back inside.
"Just a moment."
I went back into my kitchen and pulled a carton of milk from the fridge—the one I'd bought during my grocery run yesterday. I poured it into a small pot and set it over low heat. A spoonful of honey. A dash of cinnamon powder. As the milk warmed, a sweet, nutty aroma began to rise.
Whether warm milk actually helps with insomnia is scientifically debatable. But it was a fact that a warm liquid relaxes the body, and the sweetness of honey has a way of soothing the mind. Besides, even if it didn't work, at least it would taste good.
I poured the milk into a mug, steam rising from the brim. When I stepped back out into the hallway, Park Chaewon was still sitting in the exact same position. She turned her head and looked at me, her eyes falling on the mug in my hand.
"It's warm milk. I added some honey and cinnamon."
"...Pardon?"
"It's good to drink when you can't sleep."
Park Chaewon looked up at me. Something flickered across her hollow expression—a tiny ripple of emotion, though I couldn't tell if it was surprise or bewilderment. She reached out with both hands and took the mug. Her fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic. They were long and slender, and her fingertips looked slightly pale from the cold.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it." I leaned my back against the wall opposite the stairs. I knew I should go back inside, but leaving her out here alone felt wrong.
Park Chaewon took a sip of the milk. A faint trace of white clung to her upper lip. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, her eyes cast downward.
"It's sweet."
"I guess I put in a bit too much honey."
"No. I like it. I have a bit of a sweet tooth."
First piece of personal information: she likes sweet things.
"Siu-ssi."
"Yes?"
"Are you always awake at this hour?"
"Most of the time. It's rare for me to go to bed before three in the morning."
"Then..." Park Chaewon trailed off. She rested the mug on her knees, cradling it with both hands. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.
"You can tell me, if you'd like."
"No. It's nothing."
It was definitely not nothing. But I couldn't force her to speak. Silence settled over us once more, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because of the quiet aura she exuded. She was a person entirely devoid of noise. Her voice, her movements, her very presence—everything about her was quiet. It was a completely different kind of quiet compared to Seojin's warm hum, Lee Haeun's loud thuds, or Dain's bright chatter.
"I'm a lawyer," Park Chaewon said suddenly. "My job, I mean."
"Ah, I see."
"I thought I should explain. I must look incredibly strange, sitting on the stairs in the middle of the night."
"It's not strange."
"It is strange." The corners of her lips twitched upward ever so slightly. It was a movement too subtle to even be called a smile. "Sitting on the stairs in your pajamas at dawn is definitely strange."
"Not any stranger than a freelancer working through the night."
"But that's work."
"And not being able to sleep is something you can't help either."
Park Chaewon looked at me. She held my gaze for a long moment. Under the moonlight, her eyes were black—a deep, bottomless black. It wasn't that they lacked emotion; rather, her feelings were buried so deep that they simply couldn't rise to the surface.
"You're very kind, Siu-ssi."
"Not really. I just warmed up some milk."
"Warming up milk for someone at this hour is exactly what kindness is."
She finished the milk and held out the empty mug. As I took it, our fingers brushed briefly. She was freezing. In stark contrast to Seojin's warm hands, Park Chaewon's fingertips were as cold as ice.
"Are you sure you're not cold? Honestly."
"I am a little cold," she admitted. "But if I go back inside, I'll just end up staring at the ceiling again."
"Then..." This time, I was the one who trailed off. I swallowed the words I wanted to say and found a compromise. "Should I bring you a blanket?"
"No, thank you. I'll head back up soon."
Park Chaewon stood up. She was tall—probably around 172 centimeters. The silk pajamas draped loosely over her frame, and as she stood, the fabric clung softly to the contours of her body. A long, slender silhouette traced from her shoulders to her waist, and down to her hips. As she rose, the V-neck of her top parted slightly, revealing the pale skin of her upper chest and collarbones. The moonlight illuminated her skin.
"Thank you, Siu-ssi."
"It was nothing."
"Warm milk... It's been a long time since I've had some. Not since I was a child."
Something about that sentence struck a chord. If she hadn't had warm milk since she was a child, did that mean no one had ever warmed it up for her since then?
"It's just milk, honey, and a bit of cinnamon. You just heat it over low."
"I think it would taste different if I made it myself."
"Warming milk is the same no matter who—"
"It's different when there's someone making it for you."
Leaving those words behind, Park Chaewon walked up the stairs. The soft patter of her bare feet against the cold steps echoed quietly. She didn't look back once. She reached the third-floor hallway, and the door to Room 301 opened, then clicked shut. The dawn returned to its silent state.
Holding the mug, I went back into Room 201. I placed the cup in the sink and rinsed it with water. A thin film of milk clung to the inside, carrying the faint, sweet scent of honey.
"It's different when there's someone making it for you."
What was that supposed to mean? I shook my head, deciding not to overthink it. Conversations at dawn always tended to be more sentimental than those in the light of day. That was all.
I sat down in my workspace and opened the female warrior cover file. But my pen wouldn't move. In my mind, the ivory of her silk pajamas and the silver of the moonlight kept overlapping. The light reflecting off her collarbones. Her freezing fingertips. The way her eyes cast downward when she said, "It's sweet."
I opened a blank canvas on my tablet—one completely unrelated to my commission. I began to sketch the woman under the moonlight. A pose of her sitting on the stairs, hugging her knees. Her long hair cascading down her back. The moonlight resting on her collarbones beneath her V-neck pajamas.
Within thirty minutes, the rough sketch was complete. It wasn't bad. What on earth am I doing? I was drawing a woman I'd met less than ten minutes ago. And in her pajamas, no less. Yesterday it was Lee Haeun, the day before was Dain, and today was Park Chaewon. Am I losing my mind?
"Damn it." I threw myself onto the bed and closed my eyes. Park Chaewon's parting words echoed in my head. "It's different when there's someone making it for you."
For three years, I had eaten alone, worked alone, and slept alone. I ate the food I cooked, and I drank the water I boiled. For three whole years, I hadn't made a single thing for anyone else. Yet, in just four days since moving here, I had made ginger pork for Seojin, soybean paste stew for Dain, and warm milk for Chaewon. Was cooking for someone else always this satisfying? Surprisingly, sleep came quickly this time.
6:32 AM. Thud. Thud. Thud. Lee Haeun's alarm had gone off. The jump squats beyond the wall. I was starting to get used to it now. I tried to fight it by shoving earplugs in to squeeze out another thirty minutes of sleep, but I finally gave up and got out of bed at 7:00 AM.
While making breakfast, I checked my phone. There were messages from Dain.
The three messages had been sent at 4:00 AM. Had she really stayed up until four working on her assignment?
After sending my reply, I got to work. I spent the entire morning working on the female warrior cover. As the coloring entered its final stages, it required intense concentration. My eyes kept drifting back to the warrior's eyes. I had to admit I'd used Lee Haeun's eyes as a model. But as I worked, a different emotion began to bleed into them. The defiant glare of "What are you looking at?" was overlapping with the serene gaze of "It's sweet." In the end, the expression became a muddled mess of both, so I had to separate the layers and start over. A commission was a commission.
Right at noon, a voice called out from the front door. "Oppa! I'm here!"
It was Dain. She stood there with a bright smile, holding plastic bags in both hands. Today, she was wearing a loose striped t-shirt and short cotton shorts. Her legs were bare as usual, with a smudge of blue paint on one thigh.
"I bought two bundles of green onions and a whole carton of eggs!"
"Two bundles is way too much."
"The more, the better! We can make pajeon too!"
Pajeon. Not a bad idea.
Dain set the ingredients in the kitchen and peeked toward my workspace. "Oppa, how far along are you with the female warrior?"
"I'm still coloring. It's not quite ready to show—"
"Please! Just a quick peek is fine!"
I should have refused, but looking into Dain's sparkling eyes made it impossible to say no. "Five seconds."
We went into the workspace, and I showed her the monitor. Dain's jaw dropped. "Whoa... the metal texture is insane. How did you do these highlights?"
"It's a combination of a basic airbrush and layer modes. A bit of screen layer with—"
"A screen layer?!" Dain whipped out her phone and began taking notes. She was dead serious. Her eyes were those of a dedicated student.
"Five seconds are up. Out."
"Aw, come on..."
I returned to the kitchen and started preparing lunch. I decided to make her some pajeon. I chopped the green onions, mixed the pancake batter with water, and poured a generous amount of oil into a cast-iron skillet. I spread the batter thin. A savory, mouthwatering aroma filled the air along with a loud sizzle.
"Oppa, this smell is seriously the best."
"It's just pajeon..."
"But I've never seen anyone make it like this. I always just eat the frozen ones you microwave."
"...That's not pajeon."
"Then what is it?"
"I don't know, but it's definitely not pajeon."
I flipped the pancake just as the edges turned crispy. It was a perfect golden brown. Dain clapped her hands in delight. I scooped some freshly cooked rice, reheated the soybean paste stew, and plated the pajeon. I set everything on the table. Dain took a big bite of the pancake.
"........."
"How is it?"
"Oppa."
"Yeah?"
"I am never, ever moving out of this villa."
It was a declaration of absolute sincerity. A twenty-two-year-old deciding her permanent residency over a single plate of scallion pancake.
After lunch, Dain showed me her assignment. It was a character illustration finished with art markers. For something done overnight, the quality was remarkably high. The color palette was excellent, and her brushstrokes were bold.
"This is actually pretty good."
"Really?!"
"Your marker control is solid. You're using the bleeding effect well."
Dain's face lit up. It had been a long time since I'd seen someone react with such pure, unadulterated joy to a compliment.
After Dain left, I worked through the afternoon while pondering what to make for dinner. The female warrior cover was nearly finished. As evening approached, I chose a menu with a bit more care than usual: beef seaweed soup. It took some time, but I wanted to make a truly delicious batch. No real reason—I just felt like having seaweed soup. I soaked the dried seaweed, sautéed the beef, and soon a rich, savory aroma began to rise from the pot along with the scent of toasted sesame oil. I knew this smell would drift out into the hallway, upstairs, and downstairs once again.
I made rice, simmered the seaweed soup, and prepared rolled omelets and stir-fried fish cakes as side dishes. It was definitely too much food for one person. But lately, eating alone had started to feel a bit lonely. Why? I had been perfectly fine with it for three years.
I sat down at the kitchen island, muttered a quiet "Let's eat," and was just lifting my spoon when my phone buzzed.
A chuckle escaped my lips. I should have seen this coming.
Ding-dong. The doorbell rang barely thirty seconds later. I opened the door to find Seojin and Yuri standing there. Yuri dashed inside, shouting, "Mister's food!"
As Seojin tasted the soup, her eyes widened. "Is this beef seaweed soup? Oh my goodness, the broth is so rich!" she marveled, while Yuri declared, "Mister's seaweed soup is the best!"
I took a spoonful of my soup, quietly realizing that the days I spent eating alone in this villa were rapidly dwindling. And to my surprise, I didn't mind it one bit.