Because Caesar O’n had played along so convincingly, Jeheon Han felt compelled to call him every single day after that—apologizing all the while for only taking without ever giving anything back.
Did I cross your mind today?
Around lunchtime, Caesar couldn’t suppress a silly laugh as he read yet another message from Jeheon. When he was manipulating other people, he thought, there was no one craftier than himself—but in this regard, he was downright innocent.
‘He’d bolt if I bluntly asked him to love me forever,’ Caesar mused. ‘Yet here he is, asking if there’s anything he can do for me.’
It was nothing less than psychological torture.
Still, Caesar reread Jeheon’s brief text several times.
‘I need to give a decent answer. What would be small enough not to overwhelm him, yet satisfying enough to make him proud…?’
Since he clearly wanted an excuse to get closer to me…
Should I suggest grabbing a meal together? Or maybe just coffee?
His eyes fell on the manual coffee grinder in his office—brought in to serve visiting guests, but rarely used by Caesar himself.
“Ah-ha.”
He chuckled and began typing. A reply pinged back almost immediately.
I was puzzled by Caesar’s request, but I replied that I’d be happy to help. After all, his ask was absurd:
‘He wants instructions on how to brew coffee. I could understand if it were an espresso machine, but he doesn’t even know how to use a dripper…’
He was moving the grinder and dripper from his office to his home, he said, yet somehow didn’t know how to use them. Brewing with a dripper wasn’t exactly rocket science—there was no way he genuinely didn’t know.
‘Then again…maybe it’s so Caesar. He may look flawless on the outside, but he’s a bit sloppy beneath the surface—so quick to give to others without thinking ahead…’
‘...He really shouldn’t be so naïve, that fox.’
I must be overworked if my brain is really frying like this.
‘I’ll swing by Caesar’s office, then take a good few days off to rest.’
With that, I got ready to leave.
I arrived at FromA, Caesar’s agency, around lunchtime. Caesar was waiting for me in the lobby, and even in a casual three-quarter-sleeve shirt and ankle-length chinos, he looked like a masterpiece. I couldn’t help but exclaim inwardly,
‘Damn, this is how a celebrity should look.’
As I passed through the revolving doors, Caesar spotted me and gave a light wave. He hurried over, saying,
“Why are you staring like that? Does it feel…new to you?”
His trademark smirk was intact.
Heat crept up the back of my neck, but I shrugged nonchalantly.
“I was almost cast for a role recently. Watching you now, I’m glad I turned it down.”
“Cast? Why did that remind you of me?”
“I mean…only someone like Caesar O’n could pull off being a celebrity. I wouldn’t stand a chance with my face.”
Caesar cocked his head in that familiar, puzzled expression.
“You have a surprisingly cute way of gesturing.”
“I figured silence could lead to misunderstandings.”
He motioned for me to follow him inside.
“Still, I’m curious what you meant by ‘only someone like me could be a celebrity.’”
We stepped into the office corridor as I replied,
“I meant it literally. It takes someone like Caesar O’n to be a celebrity—my face just won’t cut it.”
“I still don’t get it. What’s wrong with my looks?”
“You’re serious?”
I thought about America’s so-called diversity, but even here, our standards aren’t that broken.
“I’m…pretty average. Just an okay-looking average guy.”
Caesar fell silent and studied me as if words would poison the air. After a long beat, he asked,
“…Why not? Has nobody ever told you you’re handsome or cute?”
Did he just call me “cute”? He knows that among guys it means, “You’re totally my type,” right?
‘He flirts like breathing…’
I watched Caesar hold the elevator door and muttered,
“I’m not much of a dater—typical American guy, you know?”
He immediately shot back,
“I’ve never dated anyone either. But haven’t you heard compliments like that before? From school friends or…?”
He was teasing, of course—no one could leave someone like him alone.
‘And judging by how he does it, he’s not uninterested in romance himself…’
Just kidding.
“Don’t tease me. You can’t really be inexperienced.”
I laughed off his comment, and Caesar deftly changed the subject.
“I keep wondering—what company approached you for casting?”
“I don’t recall. It was a small outfit…an actor even came in to cast me directly.”
I paused, then asked, “Did I ever mention I played college football?”
“Football? I think I heard that.”
“One of my teammates retired and became an actor.”
“Ah, that’s it.”
“Now that my face is everywhere, he remembered and came to cast me. His name’s Joshua Martin—you’ve maybe seen him in bit parts. He’s not very famous.”
Caesar blinked rapidly, surprised.
“If it’s him, I think he requested a transfer to FromA recently.”
“A transfer?”
“Yeah, he interviewed here not long ago.”
Why would that guy have come to cast me?
‘Did the CEO threaten him to fill the spot and get out?’
Just then, the elevator chimed at the office floor. Caesar led me to his private office.
“I’m actually considering his transfer. We need someone who specializes in action roles.”
My mind snapped to attention.
‘Who? Joshua that asshole?’
No way—are you gonna tank the company? You’re the majority shareholder!
“Absolutely not!”
I blurted out, and Caesar looked momentarily taken aback. I cut myself off,
“Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. What’s going on?”
I hesitated—someone might be listening.
Only after closing the door did I speak.
“Joshua Martin can’t come here—he should never work for any agency!”
“Why not?”
“He’s a white supremacist!”
Rage flooded me. I grabbed Caesar’s arm and rattled off my grievances.
“Back in college he was reprimanded twice for racism. He’d shout ‘Where are you REALLY from?’ at Asian students as if that weren’t bad enough. He genuinely believed people of color couldn’t beat white folks.”
“Is it that bad?”
“It’s worse. He even demanded I take five doping tests, saying Asian athletes couldn’t possibly be legit.”
Caesar sighed through clenched teeth.
“In California—with its highest percentage of people of color…?”
I tightened my grip and continued,
“There are even those threatening to expose him publicly if he succeeds here.”
“Really?”
“Yes…if that happens, FromA would face a boycott.”
Especially from the Hispanic and Black communities that Macaulay McQueen belongs to—they might literally show up with rocks and Molotov cocktails. Their protest culture runs deep since the civil rights movement.
“Isn’t it better to avoid that fight? Above all, if your name starts trending on portals and news sites…”
…McQueen would die of embarrassment. I’d look like I’d attacked Caesar for hiring Joshua.
“I wouldn’t feel good about that either.”
My voice dropped to a gloomy murmur. Caesar’s hand slid gently over mine.
“Oh.”
Only then did I realize I’d been gripping his arm so hard—I must’ve hurt him.
“Sorry…for grabbing you like that.”
I tried to pull away, but Caesar held on.
I looked up, startled, and saw his eyes half-closed and his lips softening—a faint blush on his cheeks.
He whispered, his voice warm with delight,
“You were worried about me?”