The storm howls outside, rattling the windows of Ji-hoon’s small farmhouse. It’s a terrifying soundtrack to the even more terrifying situation happening inside. My house is in ruins, his crops are washed away, and we are trapped here together.

He came out of the shower with just a towel. That was bad enough. I’m an artist. I notice things. But this—this was beyond noticing.

The towel fell.

I saw it all.

And what I saw wasn’t human.

It was like something from a myth. A cursed blessing. A sin in flesh form. I screamed. He turned red. The door slammed.

Now, silence.

The wind bangs the roof. Rain hammers the walls. Inside, my pulse hammers louder.

I sit on the couch, clutching a mug of tea I don’t drink. My hands won’t stop shaking.

His bedroom door creaks open.

He stands there, fully dressed now, hair still wet, eyes low.

“We need to talk,” he says.

“No,” I say fast. “We don’t.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“It’s *exactly* what I think.”

He steps forward. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I saw the receipts,” I say. “For the orphanage. Monthly payments. For five years.”

He freezes.

I stand. “You grow vegetables no one buys. You fix old tractors for free. You carry wood for Mrs. Park every morning. And you never say a word about it.”

“So?”

“So you’re not just some grumpy farmer.” My voice drops. “And that thing I saw… it doesn’t scare me as much as the fact that you pretend you’re nothing.”

He looks up. His jaw tightens.

“You don’t get to decide what I see,” I say. “As an artist. As a woman. As someone who’s been running her whole life.”

The storm cracks outside.

He takes one step closer.

“Then what do you see?” he asks.

I don’t look away.

“A man who gives everything. Even when no one’s watching.”

Silence.

Then he says, “I didn’t cover it because I was ashamed.”

“Then why?”

“Because I knew,” he says, “if you looked… you wouldn’t be able to look away.”