Hana took a fork full of pasta. Her eyes, previously crinkled in a smile, went wide. She looked from the fork to Bae Hoon, who was watching her with an uncharacteristically nervous expression, his own meal untouched.
"Bae Hoon," with the tip of her fingers of her left hand on her lips in her shock. "This is... this is incredible."
It wasn't an empty compliment. The pasta was perfectly al dente, the sauce a rich, savory masterpiece of garlic, fresh herbs, and a hint of chili that warmed her from the inside out. It was the kind of food you'd order at a small, family-run trattoria in Italy, not something whipped up in the sterile kitchen of a penthouse apartment.
She took another bite, then another, unable to stop. A soft, genuine laugh escaped her. "I'm serious! Where did you learn to cook like this? All these years, and you've been hiding this talent? This is a crime!"
She gestured at him with her fork, her expression a mixture of awe and playful accusation. "All those times we ordered expensive, boring corporate dinners, and you could have been making this? You have to give me the recipe. No—better yet, you have to promise you'll make it for me again."
Bae Hoon smilingly agreed by shaking his head.
It was now time for the soup. Hana ladled the steaming miyeok-guk into two bowls, pushing one gently toward Bae Hoon before taking her own.
He stared into the bowl, the familiar, comforting aroma—one he hadn't breathed in in twenty-two years—wrapping around him like a forgotten childhood blanket. Then, without warning, a single tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek before he could stop it. Then another.
He couldn't speak. Instead, he picked up the spoon with a slightly trembling hand, took one quick sip, then lifted the entire bowl to his lips, drinking deeply. It was a gesture to hide his face, to cover the tears that now fell freely into the soup. The small, muffled sniffs he tried to suppress were unmistakable; he was crying.
Hana watched, her own spoon still. She saw his trembling hands, the way he hid behind the bowl. She assumed it was the aftermath of the panic attack, the lingering shock from whatever had happened in his father's office earlier. She didn't pry. She didn't offer empty words. She simply gave him the grace of silence, allowing him this private moment to feel whatever he was feeling, and slowly began eating her own soup, her presence a familiar quiet.
When the bowls were empty, Hana immediately stood. "You cooked. I'll clean," she offered, her voice soft and reassuring.
Bae Hoon shook his head, quickly standing up to avoid Hana. "No," he said, his voice a little thick but firm. "You rest. I can manage." It was more than just washing dishes; it was a need to move, to do something normal, to steady himself again after being emotionally unmasked. He gathered the bowls, turning his back to her promptly, seeking solace in the simple, methodical task.
Hana took the opportunity and slipped quietly into the bedroom, retrieving the hidden cake and gifts, and settled back on the couch just before he finished. With frantic speed, she snatched every pillow in reach, building a flimsy but crucial wall to hide the birthday items behind her.
He returned to the living room, his composure carefully restored, the earlier vulnerability tucked away behind a neutral mask. He sank into the couch beside her, his attention drifting to the television. The clock shifted to midnight.
"Bae Hoon."
"Mm?" he hummed, his eyes still fixed on the screen.
"Happy Birthday!" Hana's voice was suddenly bright and warm, filling the quiet room. "Now blow out the candles!"
He turned to her, and his breath caught. There she was, holding a cake, but not the usual one adorned with a generic "Happy Birthday Bae Hoon." This time, the frosting spelled out a single, powerful word: Fighting.
For a moment, he could only stare. All these years, the cakes she brought—meant for the ghost of Hwang Bae Hoon—had felt like a cruel costume he was forced to wear, layering guilt onto his loneliness. But this... this was different. The word wasn't tied to a name or a stolen identity. It was a message of pure, unwavering support. It felt, for the very first time, like it was meant for him. For Joo Won. For the boy who had been fighting his whole life.
Hana's eyes sparkled in the candlelight. "Make a wish and blow," she urged softly.
Bae Hoon closed his eyes, perhaps an attempt to act as a dam to prevent the waterworks. In the quiet of his heart, he wished for a single, impossible thing: for this moment to last forever. For the clock to stop, for the night to never end, for this feeling of being truly seen to never fade. He took a breath and blew the candle out.
As the thin plume of smoke curled into the air, Hana handed him the first gift. "For you," she said. He unfolded the soft, well-made gloves, a simple and deeply practical gift, and a genuine smile touched his lips. "Thank you," he said, his voice warm.
Then, she revealed the second gift. She held out the Polaroid camera like an offering. "And this," she announced, her tone shifting to something more meaningful, "is for a new beginning."
He took the camera, its weight solid and promising in his hands.
"You did an amazing job today, Bae Hoon," she continued, her voice firm with conviction. "So, from now on, I want you to use this. Any time you accomplish something good, eat something delicious, have a truly good day, or meet someone who makes you happy... I want you to capture it. Right then and there. There's a kind of realness in these photos," she explained, her gaze sincere, "a kind that a picture on a phone can never give you. It makes the moment... real."
Bae Hoon looked down at the camera, then back at her, his expression a mixture of wonder and understanding. He didn't hesitate. Raising the Polaroid camera, he quickly focused and took a picture of Hana. The flash burst briefly, and the camera whirred as it produced a blank film.
With a small, almost boyish smile, he gently shook the developing photo in the air. Slowly, like magic, her image began to appear—her eyes bright, her expression warm and slightly surprised.
Once the portrait had fully developed his entire world narrowed to the image before him.
His voice carrying a new kind of warmth. "A photo of someone who made me happy."
Let's take a photo together. Bae Hoon offered. He never took selfies willingly. But seeing him promptly offering, Hana said really? Okay. They came closer in order to take the photo.