The other times when Bae Hoon would get scolded like this, it was Hana who would comfort him with her silent company. Hana felt like the only anchor he had left to his humanity. In many ways, her temperament would resemble that Ji Woo's. She was lovely, fun, outgoing, bright. He remembered the times in the U.S., under the watchful eye of her father— in those moments of stifling surveillance, she would, without warning, grab his hand. "Run!" she'd whisper, a mischievous glint in her eye, and pull him away, down unfamiliar streets or into a crowded cafe, granting him a few stolen minutes of freedom. It was a small respite, a tiny rebellion she orchestrated just for him.
In those moments, and in the grim silence of his apartment after a scolding from the chairman, he would find her to be his comfort zone. Without even realizing it, he had begun to dote on her, to seek out the warmth she carried with her. Gradually, he started to expect her, to wait for her light steps outside his door even in his darkest moments.
He was acutely aware that she, too, was a tool in the Chairman's hand, an unwitting pawn placed to keep him compliant. But in his heart, he knew her kindness was not a command. It was her own. She was a true friend, the only one who saw the shattered pieces of Joo Won beneath the polished facade of Hwang Bae Hoon unknowingly.
And with a single touch—a hand on his arm, the press of a warm glass of tea into his hands—she could calm the tsunami of shame, fear, and rage roaring inside him. The emotions would recede, not gone, but banked. And, fortified by her silent solidarity, he could once again slip into the role of Hwang Bae Hoon, the perfect heir, as if the storm in the Chairman's office had never happened. She was his reset button, his secret sanctuary.
But this time, it felt suffocating. The thought of how easily the chairman could end Ji Woo's life stole the air from Bae Hoon's lungs. His chest tightened, his heartbeat raced, and the secret he had fought so hard to protect now threatened to be exposed—and destroyed—because of his mistake. He tugged at his tie, set his glass down on the table, and began to gasp for breath as the room seemed to darken around him.
Hana, noticing his struggle, grew frightened. Was Bae Hoon having a panic attack? What could possibly shake this monument of a man? Why did he seem so deeply affected now? Unsure of what else to do, she opened her arms and offered him her embrace.
"Bae Hoon... are you okay?" she whispered.
In that moment, needing an anchor in the encroaching darkness, he accepted her comfort. The tighter he held her, the more warmth he felt, and the more desperately he clung to it. The man who usually carried the weight of storms on his shoulders now seemed small in her arms, like a child seeking shelter—longing to disappear within her embrace.
When Bae Hoon opened his eyes, he found himself lying on the couch with a blanket over him. Across from him, Hana fell asleep on the armchair, her delicate frame curled against the December chill. As he stood up and leaned in to carefully cover her with the blanket, he froze—drawn in by the sight before him.
Her face, softened in sleep, was pure. But it was her lips—rosy, full, and parted ever so slightly—that made his pulse quicken. They seemed to beckon him, pulling him into a dangerous gravity he could not resist. His breath grew shallow, slow, as though afraid to disturb the silence between them.
He ached to press his lips against hers, to steal a kiss that would never belong to him. Awake, she would never let him—he knew that. Because he did not deserve her light, her warmth, her trust. To her, he was Bae Hoon. But in truth, he was Joo Won—a name buried with a past of orphanage walls and shadows he could never escape. His very presence here was borrowed, stolen.
And so, he hovered inches away, trembling with the hunger he dared not satisfy. To dream of her, even for a moment, felt like betrayal. But to resist her... was its own kind of torment.
He pulled himself away.
Hana's eyes fluttered open, the soft light of the apartment telling her hours had passed. She found Bae Hoon not in the grip of anxiety, but seated across from her, the cool blue glow of his laptop screen reflecting in his calm, composed eyes but cold expression. The contrast was jarring but not something she wasn't used to see.
"Hey," she began, her voice still soft with sleep and concern. "Are you okay? Earlier you... you fainted."
He didn't look up from the screen, his fingers pausing on the keyboard. "Hmm. I am okay. Don't worry." His tone was even, a practiced neutral that she knew too well.
"Okay..." she replied, not convinced but hesitant to push.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, his focus still seemingly on his work.
The deliberate shift in topic was obvious. She sat up straighter, wrapping her arms around her knees. "I won't ask you what happened," she insisted gently, "but you had a panic attack. You should see a doctor."
At that, he finally looked up. A soft, weary smile touched his lips, not quite reaching his eyes. He gestured with his chin toward the bedside table. "Don't worry. I am taking medicine for it." He only took over the counter medicine as he was not allowed to go to doctors for this as the chairman could not risk the leak of the news that his son was insane.
Hana's gaze followed his and landed on a small, distinct box of Cheongsimhwan. The sight of the herbal panic-relief medicine sent a fresh wave of worry through her. How long had he been relying on this? How many times had he hidden these episodes?
Sensing the despair threatening to swallow the room whole, Hana decided to fight it. She remembered the date. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. His birthday. Every year, she merely wished him with a cake, but this time, more than ever, she refused to let him be alone.
"Do you need anything from the supermarket?" she asked suddenly. "I was going to pick up some beers anyway. We should celebrate—getting to the finals is still a big win! We may not have the champion's trophy, but for a rookie group, it's something worth cheering for."
Bae Hoon shook his head. " I will go. You take rest."
Hana hurriedly opposing this idea, "I want to go alone because I need to buy a few things."
"I need nothing," he said, his voice quiet, eyes back to the laptop. He then added, a note of genuine, if distant, concern in his tone, "It's getting late. Your parents will be mad if you don't return home."
She waved off his concern. "No sir, I am going to celebrate our win tonight with my old friend. Besides, my parents don't mind me spending time with you."
What she didn't realize, however, was that her parents had very different reasons for their acceptance. Her mother encouraged the time she spent with him, quietly hoping she would one day marry the heir. Her father, Secretary Baek, would simply see it as his daughter successfully performing her duty—keeping a steady, unsuspecting eye on the asset he was tasked to control. Hana remained blissfully unaware of the fact that her presence was itself a tool in the Chairman's game.
Bae Hoon often had Hana over for late night work and then drive her off to her house, but this would be the first time she would stay a whole night without any work-related reason or pretext. His eyes gleamed with quiet joy—though Hana had no idea how many times he had wished for this.
Usually, he found excuses to have her around: assigning her tasks he could easily handle alone, inviting her to his apartment or office cabin under the flimsiest of pretenses—maybe to look for a file that was already on his desk, or to clarify something on a presentation he could have figured out himself, or to consult on trivial work matters that his staff could manage just as well. Sometimes, it was as simple as sipping a teeny tiny bit of alcohol during office dinners, giving her a reason to drive him home.
Hana had no idea that Bae Hoon liked her, she helped willingly and cheerfully every time. But now, when she decided on her own to spend the night at his apartment, he could hardly believe it. Panic and excitement sent him into a frenzy. As Hana went out, he started tidying his already clean couch—He hurried to his bedroom, straightening what was already immaculate, smoothing the sheets, arranging pillows that didn't need arranging—all so she would have a perfect place to sleep—and had already begun preparing dinner as well.
Hana stepped out into the evening air, a woman on a mission. Her first stop was a small cake shop, where she ordered a simple cake and had the baker write "Fighting" across the top in elegant script. Tucked safely in her office bag which was in Bae Hoon's apartment was his main gift: a pair of soft, warm gloves, practical and thoughtful that she had been carrying since the morning. But she thought she'd also splurge on a Polaroid camera—a spontaneous purchase to commemorate two celebrations at once: their team's impressive advance to the finals, and Bae Hoon's birthday.
At the supermarket, she gathered a few more essentials—a six-pack of beer, a container of traditional seaweed soup for his birthday, and some instant ramyeon for a late-night snack. Arms full of bags and boxes, she made her way back to his apartment.
As she stepped inside, the rich, savory aroma of freshly cooked pasta greeted her, mingling with the warm, buttery scent of garlic bread. Bae Hoon had been busy.
Hana slipped into the bedroom, quickly stashing the gifts out of sight before returning to the kitchen. The rich aroma of pasta filled the air, and she couldn't help but smile. "Hwang Bae Hoon," she said, her voice bright with genuine surprise, "I have to say—you look like a professional chef. I've never seen you cook before, let alone tasted your food."
Bae Hoon turned from the stove with an apron around his waist, a soft, almost shy smile gracing his lips. "Then I'm glad to inform you," he replied warmly, "that you are the very first person to ever see me cook... and to taste it. I'm honored."
"Wahh! Really? I'm so lucky!" Hana clapped her hands lightly, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "I want to make something for you, too."
"But I've already cooked," Bae Hoon said gently, gesturing toward the table. "It will get cold."
"Don't worry—it'll only take five minutes! Besides, I can't eat food when it's steaming hot anyway," she insisted with a playful shrug. Bae Hoon relented with a soft chuckle.
She carefully poured the ready-to-eat miyeok-guk (Seaweed soup) into a small pot, warming it slowly before carrying it proudly to the table where Bae hoon was already seated with two plates of hot seafood pasta. Curious, Bae Hoon leaned forward—and paused. There, steaming gently, was seaweed soup. Tradition. A dish for birthdays... for new beginnings.
And then he remembered—it was his birthday— Hwang Bae Hoon's.
The Hwangs made it abundantly clear that they did not want him around as a reminder of their dead son, especially on two specific days: the birthday of their deceased son, and the anniversary of his death. On those days, Joo Won was ordered to not even go to work, he was expected to vanish, to become a ghost in his own life, and so he would retreat into the silence of his apartment. The Chairman and his wife would visit the graveyard of their son skipping the duties of the owner of the company for these two days. The employees seeing the absence would think that it is normal that on birthdays, families would spend time together as neither Bae Hoon nor the chairman were present in the office. The other day that they choose to miss the work, they assumed maybe for some family event. It was their annual ritual.
Hana was Bae Hoon's only tether to warmth. She would come, her presence a brief, bright interruption in the gloom. She would cut a cake with him, give him a gift meant for another boy, and then leave after wishing him good time with his family.
But Joo Won's real birthday—March 1st, the day he had arrived at the orphanage—had not been acknowledged in over twenty-two years. Outside those walls, it was a date that had ceased to exist, a memory he had almost let himself forget.
Now, as Hana stood before him having made miyeok-guk—a soup for birthdays, for new beginnings, a taste he hadn't known since he was eight—the lines between his two lives blurred completely. The cake, the gifts, the celebration—it was all meant for the shadow of Bae Hoon.
But for the first time, it didn't feel that way.
The warmth of the soup, the kindness in her eyes—it felt like it was meant for him. For Joo Won.
A desperate, greedy thought seized him. Could he, just for this one night, accept it? Could he pretend that the celebration was for the boy who had been forgotten, that the miyeok-guk was for the orphan who had never had anyone to make it for him? For twenty-two years, no one had remembered. But tonight, Hana had. And in the quiet of his heart, he decided, just this once, to let himself believe it was his.
For Bae Hoon, her reaction was a different kind of nourishment. The nervous tension in his shoulders melted away, replaced by a deep, quiet warmth that had nothing to do with the food. He had created something, not for a corporate report or a shareholder meeting, but for her. And she had received it not as a duty or a courtesy, but with unadulterated joy.
It was a small, ordinary miracle. In a life built on lies and performance, he had offered her a simple, honest plate of pasta. And she had seen it, and him, not as Hwang Bae Hoon, the heir, but simply as a man who could cook something wonderful for a friend. In that moment, it felt like the most profound victory of his life.