Floor 31, Jamsil. While he tightened the green silk tie, he asked softly, “Why do your eyes look like that?”
The restaurant on the thirty-first floor. As he slid the knot upward, our glances brushed—one second, no, half a second. In that sliver everything was said: pizza crust stained crimson with tomato sauce, a napkin never lifted, I can look at you now and feel nothing at all.
“Sweetheart, what exactly are we celebrating?” The spoon tapped the window like a tuning fork. Below, Seoul glittered, and among the lights stood Yoo-hyuk in black, a glass of wine raised, smiling straight at me. Same genes, different temperature.
Back home, thirty minutes of shower noise. Yoo-jung said nothing. Once he’d chatter if a tissue fell. In the mirror my eyes were already ice.
Why did it have to be Yoo-hyuk?
“Your brother was at the restaurant—”
“Oh, Yoo-hyuk? Why didn’t you say hi?”
Silence again. Even on our first date three years ago it had been like this: elder brother, younger brother, identical smiles running at different speeds.
May 17. Yoo-jung is away on business.
11:12 p.m. A knock. Yoo-hyuk. Black T-shirt, denim, the same cologne but a deeper pulse. In his hand, a pink lunchbox.
“He forgot this.”
While the cat licked my toe, he folded himself onto the sofa, legs crossed at a different angle.
“How are things with Yoo-jung these days, Min-ji?”
My breath stalls. His eyes glint—still alive.
“Not great.”
One step, two steps. He comes closer; my heart races; the outline of the taboo sharpens.
Balcony, 2:47 a.m.
“Mind if I smoke?”
He slides the door open; I follow. Seoul’s night is pure ink. The lighter flares, a small flame trembling in his pupils.
“Your eyes must hurt, always watching for Yoo-jung’s mood.”
Cigarette smoke braids between us. His fingertip brushes a strand of hair away. A temperature I hadn’t felt in three years.
The Door Closes, Three Centimeters Left
“It’s cold. Let’s go in.”
He shuts the door, ushering me inside. Three centimeters before it latches: the distance of a nose tip, breath on a forehead, my back against the wall.
Pinned to the Wall, Three Centimeters Deep
His palm cups my cheek—hot. Yoo-jung’s eyes never burned like this after three years. Yoo-hyuk’s gaze holds me; I am vivid inside it.
This is betrayal.
But the gaze is still alive.
Our breaths mingle. His hand lingers, scorching. The chill in Yoo-jung’s eyes is explained by the fire in Yoo-hyuk’s. Within those three centimeters the taboo cracks open.
The instant a gaze cools, we crave something hotter. Whether that heat is treachery or instinct no longer matters.