Yo Han considered himself very good at analyzing evidence and arriving at possible motivations and solutions. But it was true that his home was not a courtroom. And emotions were not that simple.
Yo Han took refuge in what he did best. He spent hours in his office, reading documents while incessantly scribbling. His hand movements seemed to give voice to his conflicting thoughts. Reluctantly, his mind kept returning to Ga On.
He had already grown accustomed to taking forced breaks because Ga On demanded attention (something he would never admit). Ga On, in his own way, would eventually become absorbed in some particularly interesting case. And he was as addicted to work as Yo Han was. In that sense, he was a hypocrite.
Now, it had been three days since Ga On show up in the afternoon to call him—or simply to sit by his side with the cat, while pretending not to crave attention.
Three days during which Ga On seemed interested in nothing but dodging Yo Han at all costs. Of course, he wouldn’t admit it, while gently and discreetly trying to push Yo Han away.
But after experiencing just how warm, gentle, and enthusiastic Ga On could be, there was no comparison and no doubt. What Yo Han had not yet deciphered was the reason for this abrupt distancing.
They were fine. Great, even.
Yo Han had settled into a new normal, marked by casual conversations, intertwined bodies, radiant faces, and transparent glances laden with something obvious.
Then, after Ga On had withdrawn and seemed to be slipping through his hands, Yo Han, for the first time in a long while, felt powerless.
The mental flow, the scribbled paper, and the rhythmic tapping of fingers all seemed like a prelude to the dragging sound that soon dominated the room, as Elijah pushed her chair with a ferocity that was nothing new to Yo Han. He had been wondering how long it would take for that moment to arrive.
So when Elijah gestured exasperatedly and accusingly, he was neither surprised nor particularly roused.
The accusatory tone was stronger than the question itself. Yo Han constantly felt like the defendant before his own niece.
And she was not only a judge but an entire jury.
He figured he had it coming.
Then he lazily lifted his eyes as he waited for Elijah to explain her accusations. He knew exactly what she had come to do. Yet her first tactic was to feign innocence.
At that moment, he hadn’t yet decided whether he was innocent or not. Yo Han opted for a petulant:
“What?” while widening his eyes and pursing his lips.
“What did you do to Ga On?” came the impatient reply. “He doesn’t seem like himself. What did you say to him?”
The girl appeared equally angry, impatient, and worried. Deep down, Yo Han couldn’t help but find it endearing—even though Elijah would probably sentence him to the electric chair for that.
“Elijah,” he decided to begin rationally, directing his gaze at her and at the other signs of agitation. “Contrary to what you seem to think, I am not responsible for Ga On’s feelings.”
And if that could possibly irritate her even more, he continued,
“I did nothing.” Yo Han went on, not so deliberately leaving an i think implied in his statement as he mentally reviewed, once again, his own actions over the past few days. “He must be tired. He has the right to some time alone, you know?”
And that was not the answer Elijah wanted.
“Well, you should be. He only acts like that when you do something foolish.”
Elijah moved even closer to the table. Someone of that age shouldn’t be so intimidating. “But this time it seems worse. Not even my interventions worked.”
And Yo Han couldn’t help but smile.
“Yah!” came the incriminating reply - or scream.
“Elijah, he’ll be fine. Just give him a few days.” Yo Han was also trying to convince himself of that.
Elijah seemed to deflate, as if understanding that nothing could be achieved there. Speaking more to herself than to Yo Han, she murmured,
“Why does he have to be like this? It’s annoying.” And, of course, his absence was glaring.
“I know.” The softness in his eyes indicated that Yo Han understood her. “He just needs time.”
That low-toned response was accompanied by a nod as Yo Han pretended to return to his documents.
He heard the sound of wheels turning, yet the scratch of metal on wood was not enough to silence Elijah’s mutterings as she left the room without the solutions she sought. He swore he heard a “why couldn't he just do that?” and something like “if he leaves again, I swear—”
And once again, Yo Han was reminded of just how much he resembled his niece.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Yo Han discovered that age had not brought as much patience as he had imagined. He had told Elijah that Ga On needed time. He just didn’t say how much.
On the fifth day, he hadn’t planned on finding out.
The room was shrouded in shadows, but small beams of light still filtered through the curtains when Yo Han abruptly found himself awake in the middle of the night. The moon was still high in the sky.
Still regaining consciousness, Yo Han mentally replayed what might have robbed him of sleep.
It was nothing unusual for him—quite the opposite. With rapid mental flashbacks, he quickly recognized that this time it wasn’t nightmares or old memories that haunted him.
Frowning, he unconsciously extended his arms to the far side of the bed. He turned his neck to confirm that his arm had rested on layers of warm sheets.
The warmth of the fabric was the only indication that Ga On had been there.
In recent days, Ga On had seemed to join Yo Han in bed—only when the other man was already asleep.
Except that Yo Han wasn’t asleep.
The older man waited patiently on the opposite side of Ga On, his back turned. That seemed to be the only way Ga On could come as close as possible to face him. It was ridiculous and made no sense.
Exactly six days ago, Ga On had deliberately pushed him into bed, snuggled into his arms, and laid his face on Yo Han’s chest.
Proximity never seemed enough. Yo Han was warmth, and Ga On lived in the cold.
So yes, Yo Han made a point of replaying every hour of that day, trying to figure out what had triggered this exorbitant distancing.
At what moment did Ga On shift from yearning to suffering with every touch?
Yo Han realized he was extremely tactile with Ga On. He rediscovered a longing for closeness, affection, and warmth that he hadn’t even known he needed. And now, the absence felt like the loss of a limb.
He seized every opportunity to touch the younger man’s back, caress his hips, rub his shoulders, trace his cheeks, mark his neck, and bring color to his lips. And Ga On was increasingly receptive to each of these gestures.
Yo Han watched with immense satisfaction every time Ga On seemed to melt just a little more.
It took a while, but Ga On began to initiate these moments. Yo Han had always been very demanding in his “lessons” to ensure that Ga On absorbed exactly what he wanted.
Unconditionally— with Yo Han.
And the young judge showed considerable enthusiasm during those lessons.
As if all the progress they’d made had never even existed to begin with. Whatever was troubling Ga On seemed directly linked to Yo Han. And as much as it fueled self-hatred in him, he believed he should be the only one capable of fixing it.
Ga On always made some excuse to pull away. More documents. More food. More work. More chores. More exhaustion. More disinterest.
His absence in the early morning hadn’t been unusual in recent days, but for some reason on the fifth day, it set off an alarm in Yo Han’s mind.
It was 3:27 when Yo Han wrapped his arms around his robe and decided to go after Ga On—from wherever (room, space, consciousness) he might be sinking.
It wasn’t hard to find him. Part of Yo Han felt relieved, but another part tightened upon seeing Ga On curled up, clutching his own knees at the kitchen table.
Ga On seemed trapped in another moment, his eyes fixed on the floor. A look Yo Han had recognized in himself many times—lost in memories, reliving memories.
He didn’t register his presence.
He tried in a whisper—a voice that surprised him with the fear and caution it carried.
Those words were enough for Ga On to lift his eyes toward him. His eyes stared, yet did not truly recognize him. His worry only deepened.
“Ga On-ah,” he tried again, keeping a safe distance—as if Ga On were a fawn he didn’t want to push away or hurt. “What happened?”
Ga On’s response did not come in words but rather in a wet flow that stained his cheeks. Yo Han saw the tears before Ga On felt them and tried to wipe them away with the backs of his hands.
Before he knew it, Yo Han found himself crouched beside Ga On, his eyes piercing into Ga On’s, searching for something there. Anything.
“And don’t tell me it’s nothing,” Yo Han whispered. “I didn’t believe it the first time, and I’m not going to believe it now.”
Ga On’s eyes seemed to swell even further. Yo Han continued,
“I don’t know what the problem is, Ga On.”
His tone was incisive, yet carried a gentleness not usually characteristic of the judge. “I can’t help you like this.”
Something seemed to break in Ga On—who until that moment had remained silent. A flash of recognition softened his eyes before he answered,
“I don’t want you to do anything.”
Those words should have struck Yo Han hard. But he wasn’t sure whether it was the hollow tone or the almost tender look that had formed an armor against them.
Once again, the evidence pointed directly at him.
Yo Han kept his eyes hard and didn’t move until Ga On once more put distance between them and stared out the window.
“If not me,” he broke the silence slowly, “then tell me who can help you. Elijah is worried.” Yo Han knew it was a low blow. Yet he had never been good at following conventional rules. Part of him felt victorious when he saw Ga On tremble and clench his fists.
“And me too,” he decided to add.
With his back turned, Yo Han could only observe the slight tremors in Ga On’s shoulders. He knew him well enough to understand that Ga On was trying not to fall apart—reminding him of every moment he had, indeed, seen Ga On crumble.
Then, when Ga On’s reply came almost hesitantly, everything became incredibly obvious.
“Soo Hyun” the name whispered in a way that disarmed Yo Han and seemed to tread upon his very heart. “I had a dream about Soo Hyun.”
Of course. He should have known sooner. It now seemed obvious that he already knew the answer. Two years ago, Yo Han had seen Ga On collapse over the death of his best friend, Soo Hyun. Back then, those were days of inconsolable, isolated, and irreparably shattered despair. The same pattern was repeating now. It was crystal clear.
And Ga On was right. Yo Han was incapable of helping him—or of taking any action at all—regarding Soo Hyun’s absence.
Yo Han admitted that he had never had the best relationship with her, if it could even be called a relationship. He was indifferent to her most of the time, except when his motives were directly aimed at putting Ga On in a box and distancing him from Yo Han. And that was something Yo Han couldn’t handle well.
So yes, in those moments he despised her. In a way, they were rivals, inextricably linked by a devastating love for Ga On. And for that, Yo Han couldn’t blame her.
In the end, at least for now, Yo Han got what he wanted.
But it didn’t come for free. It came at the cost of a great burden on Ga On.
Sometimes, deep down in his mind during those blinding moments, he wondered if he would still have Ga On if Yoon Soo Hyun were still alive.
In the first year, he found himself constantly defeated by the piercing memory of her. And Yo Han wondered if Ga On still compared them—if he kissed him, still recalling her taste.
He had no right to think that; as quickly as the thought arose, he dismissed it. The truth is that certain “ifs” linger in the subconscious for a long time—even those you despise.
So no—the mention of that name, the cause of all this suffering and the only one capable of solving the problem, should not be a surprise.
If Yo Han wasn’t surprised by the name, he was disturbed by the timing.
Yoon Soo Hyun’s death anniversary had been exactly seven days ago. Seven days was the period Ga On endured before finally breaking down.
And yes, Yo Han remembered the date—it would have been even harder to forget. He recalled the terror in Ga On’s eyes, the desperation in his hands, and the agony coursing through his body as he could only watch Ga On experience something strikingly similar to what he himself had once endured.
Ga On’s world had crumbled.
During the week of the anniversary, they were stuck with a case in court. Ga On was particularly focused on convincing witnesses. So when the day arrived, Yo Han only remembered halfway through the morning, and his eyes automatically fixed on Ga On.
It was Sunday. They were off. The day began with Ga On practically drowning in him and stealing Yo Han’s breath. Ga On was not a morning person—even if he never admitted it. He even pretended well. But the young man didn’t complain when Yo Han woke him with hands on his waist and a damp weight on his neck.
Hours later, Ga On was still in good spirits. He laughed openly while preparing something between breakfast and lunch with Elijah by his side. Then, as the awareness of the day settled on Yo Han, he froze, as if expecting the worst to happen again.
But the day went on. Ga On never left his side; the smile in his eyes never faded. And when the clock hands overlapped, Yo Han felt himself breathe again, with an arm around Ga On, who nestled even closer.
The next morning, Yo Han’s subconscious still seemed on high alert. But nothing happened; Ga On seduced him into a shower. They went to court. Ga On didn’t mention it. Yo Han didn’t mention it. A part of him wanted to believe that Ga On had decided to focus on the world that still remained for him. That was his mistake.
The rapid cascade of thoughts still ran as Ga On decided to break the silence once more.
And the silence of the night had never been so loud. Once again, Yo Han reassembled his conclusions.
The moment Yo Han had spent 24 hours waiting finally arrived some 144.58 hours later. And of course that Ga On was inconsolable. He was being consumed by grief and guilt.
His voice broke in the most painful and intense way that night.
“So she had to come remind me,” he managed, swallowing hard as he turned to face Yo Han—indeed, for the first time that day.
Yo Han felt his own heart tighten before he tried,
“Ga On,” he began with more gentleness than he remembered possessing, “we had an open case. You were distracted by work, by—”
“By you,” came Ga On’s cutting tone.
It was the clearest he had sounded in days. “I was distracted by you.”
And for the first time in a long while, Yo Han didn’t know what to say.
It was no wonder Ga On wanted him away. Just the sight of him seemed to cause Ga On agony. His touch felt like it burned. Yo Han had become a walking reminder of what Ga On considered perhaps the second worst mistake he’d ever made. For once, Ga On was right—Yo Han simply couldn’t help him.
Something must have passed over Yo Han’s face, because Ga On felt compelled to continue. A new admission and awareness shaped his expression—a mixture of epiphany, recognition, guilt, and anger.
That realization lit up Ga On’s eyes. A new wave of pity washed over him. The pain was palpable. “Even you remembered.”
Even you. That struck a part of Yo Han that he had been trying to bury (or heal) for the past two years. The irrevocable and reproachful tone automatically slipped from his tongue.
“Ga On,” was all Yo Han said.
Because it was unfair. For both of them. But it was enough for the other man to understand.
“I’m sorry. I know. I'm sorry.”
Another stream of tears broke out as Ga On brought both hands to his face, as if he wanted to hide or tear away his own thoughts.
“I didn’t remember the day until we were living it.” Yo Han then approached him differently, taking advantage of Ga On’s attempt to hide to draw closer. He had to try to lower the barriers before they held Ga On back any longer. “You seemed… happy.” There was no other word to describe it. “And I wanted you to stay that way.”
It wasn’t until he spoke the words aloud that Yo Han realized how selfish they sounded.
The words made Ga On slide his hands over his face, turning his gaze back to the kitchen floor. And then, back to Yo Han.
“And I was… happy,” Ga On said almost as a secret, as if struggling with a slight curl of his lips. “Happier than I have been in a long time.”
The admission led only to more admissions. A flood of confessions seemed to pour out from Ga On.
“Yo Han, I’ve never been happier.”
And if that were true, why did he seem so devastated, so sad? The reply came next:
“And I’ve never felt more guilty.”
Yo Han noticed he was holding his breath.
“Because it’s so, so unfair. All of it. That I can be so happy when she isn’t here. That I can be happy when she can’t.”
With each sentence, his breath shortened, the urgency mounted, and the pain overflowed.
“Because I couldn’t love her—not in the way she wanted, when she deserved it. I wonder if I had loved her that way, if… if I had chosen her completely. If I had done what she begged me to do.” a suffocating pause.
Yo Han recalled what Ga On didn’t have the courage to say. He hadn’t forgotten Yoon Soo Hyun running after him, pleading for him to leave Ga On in peace, safe, obedient.
“Perhaps she would still be here. Happy.”
And the worst part of it, perhaps, was that Yo Han understood. Living on the basis of “ifs.”
If only he had noticed the fire sooner.
If only he had gone into the church with Elijah.
If only he had grabbed her hand when it was surrounded by candles and pulled her onto his lap.
Kang Isak would be alive. Elijah would have a father. He would have a brother. And, quite probably, he wouldn’t have Ga On.
The scale always tips to one side. Certain decisions are better left to fate—to let the coin flip.
When Yo Han thought Ga On had finished confessing, all that had been pent up in recent days finally began to release. He didn’t seem hesitant—rather, he felt lighter. Yet he still couldn’t face Yo Han.
“I love you. More than I can handle,” came Ga On’s soft, deliberate voice—a final confession, it seemed. He couldn’t hide the lingering sorrow in his mouth.
And for some reason, Yo Han’s body froze even as his inner self warmed.
And with exasperation and absolute indignation, Ga On continued,
“And it’s so unfair that I feel so guilty about it,” now looking directly at Yo Han, because he had never liked to show any sign of being intimidated. “Because you also deserve to be loved freely—without reservations, without guilt.” And another kind of emotion was undeniable in those laden eyes. A quiet “And I want to do that” was whispered.
Yet Yo Han heard every word.
Yo Han spent a few moments delighting in Ga On’s face, swallowing his own emotions to respond just right.
“As long as it’s yours, Ga On, I’ll want it anyway.”
It wasn’t the response Ga On had expected—that was clear. He opened his mouth once, twice, before choosing which way to go. Ga On felt raw, exposed.
“I distanced myself. Or I distanced you—because I’m constantly reminded of it, time and time again.”
Of love, it wasn’t explicitly said, but it was understood.
“I woke up two days later from the dream about her, and being by your side was unbearable. It was like waves of guilt carrying me away and then bringing me back.”
Ga On didn’t even notice he was holding his breath until he finally let it out.
“Because I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. Not even her.”
Ga On might never know that he had just shattered some “ifs” that would haunt Yo Han’s mind for years. That’s just how he was.
And Yo Han trembled. What else could he do? Waves of relief washed over him as Ga On seemed to confess something deeply painful.
How can something that makes one incandescent cast so many shadows on another?
“Every time you touch me, I feel as if I’m catching fire. It burns everything and leaves no room for anything else.”
The anything else was also understood.
It became clear once again, and Yo Han found his voice.
“You were punishing yourself.” It was sad and soft.
Ga On hesitated for a moment. Sometimes, speaking it aloud makes it all the more obvious—especially when it comes from the love of your life.
“I think so. Yes,” Ga On nodded in acceptance; his actions hadn’t simply vanished as he had imagined. “I didn’t want to feel anything but guilt.”
Guilt and love struggled in turn to take control of him. Yet neither was enough to completely overcome the other. Ga On understood that now.
And it became even clearer that much of that confession wasn’t for Yo Han. He was merely a bystander—perhaps one who shouldn’t even be there. That was Ga On allowing himself to be vulnerable. One more stage in his transformation.
Yo Han had always been adept at using the tools he had to his advantage. Ga On had just shown him another tool—a tool he could very well use if Ga On allowed it.
He didn’t know how to make things better for Ga On.
It pained him that Ga On’s love was so bittersweet and melancholic, while his own was decisive, irrevocable, and absolute. There was no turning back, but there was a way forward—a long road ahead.
If Yo Han had so much power over Ga On, he might very well use it. If Ga On allowed him.
So he took deliberate steps toward Ga On at a painfully slow pace, trying to close the distance between them while the barriers were not yet insurmountable. Ga On’s breathing quickened, and he seemed apprehensive.
Yo Han reached out his hand, giving the other a chance to pull away if desired—if it was still too soon. Ga On didn’t move.
Yo Han took it as an invitation.
His left hand grasped Ga On’s waist—a mere touch—while his right rested on his cheek. Ga On’s eyes filled with water once again. Then he closed his eyes and leaned into Yo Han’s touch. The older man studied every micro-expression playing across Ga On’s gaze.
The tug on his chest made it clear just how much power Ga On held over him. Simple as that.
Yo Han felt his breath mingle with Ga On’s as they brought their foreheads together, resting them there for a while. Ga On’s chest rose and fell—up and down—until a calm rhythm set in, his shoulders slumped, his defenses crumbled. And Yo Han caught a glimpse of the Ga On from seven days ago.
In that small space, Yo Han felt that words still mattered. He exhaled and allowed himself to confess as well.
It was a name that would always leave a lingering taste in his mouth—and he understood why. “I can understand her more than you imagine.”
That seemed to pull Ga On out of his trance, as he opened his eyes again—as if he couldn’t hide his curiosity.
“All of her actions were out of love for you. And for that, I will always respect her.”
A flash of recognition passed through Ga On’s eyes. Yo Han let him absorb those words before adding,
“That’s why I’m asking you to believe me when I say that nothing would be more important to her than your happiness. Even if the object of that happiness isn’t her.”
Unspoken, Ga On clearly heard “me”.
Here, Yo Han was using Soo Hyun as a means to confess—allowing her to carry a few more words for Ga On. It’s true that you will never fully understand another human being unless you love them deeply.
Ga On couldn’t have been more grateful. So even as he burned, he closed the distance between them and allowed himself to be bathed in this confusion of feelings—a confusion of certainties.
As their lips intertwine, Ga On’s mind goes blank. As it always has. As it always will—part of him knows that.
Guilt—or any other lingering feeling—will only come when he opens his eyes. Most of the time, for long stretches, there is only love.
Devotional, undeniable, overwhelming.
Ga On decides to hold onto that for as long as he can. Because Yo Han deserves it—perhaps more than anyone. And so does he.
Yo Han’s eyes continue to trace his face, moving back and forth.
Like waves. And he knows.
In a way, there, they found religion. There is no turning back after this.
