At the joking, offhand “Were you worried about me?” Jeheon Han’s face went scarlet.
“No, that’s not it. I just—”
He tried to ease his trapped hand free, eyes darting. Then, as if something occurred to him, his brows pinched. A flush crept all the way up his forehead.
‘Ah—he remembered we’re supposed to act close.’
He looked like he wanted to say: It’s not about giving you ideas. Anyone would worry in this situation. It isn’t because you’re special…
But as Caesar expected, Jeheon said something completely different.
“…Yeah. The truth is, I was worried.”
He squeezed the words out like a man under torture—pathetically plain in how brief they were.
He must really hate saying things like that.
“…Hahaha!”
Even while seeing straight through him, Caesar smiled like he’d been handed the world just to hear that answer.
Jeheon scowled again and muttered,
“Don’t be like that.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“You’re showing how much you like it. People might try to use you.”
Caesar tilted his head.
“I don’t act like this with other people.”
“…”
“Only with you.”
At his blunt reply, Jeheon was at a loss.
After opening and closing his mouth for a while, he turned his head and said,
“…I’ll take a look at your grinder and dripper.”
The segue was anything but smooth, but Caesar naturally let himself be pulled along. He knew that if he teased even a little more, Jeheon would bolt, so he played to the rhythm.
‘Cute.’
He mouthed the word without letting it out, and listened as if learning something new to instructions he already knew by heart.
“If you’re using beans that have hit first crack, you can’t grind this coarse. You won’t extract enough aroma or flavor. And when you use the dripper, if you pour too much water at once…”
In truth, he could recite grinder and dripper technique blindfolded, but he shamelessly feigned ignorance and kept making impressed noises.
“So you have to dial that in too.”
Peering at the grounds like they were fascinating, he murmured,
“No wonder it kept coming out like plain water.”
“Have you not been drinking coffee, then?”
“I’ve got a Moka pot, so I’ve been using that.”
He added, half-joking,
“This thing is for making Americanos. I respect American tastes, but I don’t often drink watered coffee.”
He meant he preferred Italian-style espresso.
Jeheon laughed, amused.
“Preferring espresso in the land of Americano.”
“But isn’t that right? If you’re going to add anything to espresso, milk is better. With cappuccino and latte macchiato on the menu, I see no reason to add water and ruin it.”
He sounds exactly like Teresa… like mentor, like student.
Thinking that, Jeheon asked,
“Now I’m curious—what coffee do you like best? Latte macchiato? Or espresso?”
“Caffè macchiato—espresso topped with milk foam—is my favorite.”
“Then it makes sense you dislike Americanos.”
His expression had gone perfectly serene, the tension gone.
Seeing it, Caesar smiled softly and then made a mischievous jab.
“But aren’t you going to ask about my other tastes? I’d love to answer.”
…He got ahead of himself and earned a gentle swat. Jeheon tapped his chest like scolding a friend and grumbled, “Pretty sure I told you not to be so slick.”
“Urk.”
Hunching over, Caesar started pretending he was in pain.
Startled by the hacking coughs he put on, Jeheon panicked.
“Ah—oh! I’m sorry!”
Of course Caesar was hamming it up, but poor Jeheon didn’t know that.
“Does it hurt that much? I didn’t hit you hard…”
Caesar quietly undid his shirt buttons and muttered,
“Tsk, it’s throbbing right here…”
“Where did I hit you wrong? Did I catch a tendon or something?”
“I’m not sure. You played sports—will you take a look?”
Jeheon flustered and fussed, and only when he found himself facing Caesar’s bare torso did he realize it was all a joke.
He clenched his fist for real this time and shouted,
“…Quit messing with people!”
This time Caesar nearly cracked a rib for real.
According to Joshua, “that monkey-looking Asian was too weak to ever be a quarterback.”
I’d love to know who that frail person is supposed to be.
“Tsk.”
The moment he got home, Caesar stripped off his shirt and dabbed ointment on the bruised spot at his waist. Judging by the dark bloom, it would last at least a week.
‘Just one punch… His fist is spicier than I remember.’
He had it coming, so there wasn’t even a sliver of blame for Jeheon.
He only prayed the bruise would fade before the swimwear shoot.
“More importantly…”
It was about time for a call.
The instant he picked up his phone, the ringtone chimed right on cue.
Joshua Martin.
‘I tried to pry as much out of him as I could, but he kept dodging, saying it wasn’t the kind of thing to discuss over the phone…’
I’d thought he’d spat out his brain like a sea cucumber, but apparently he’d retained the minimum.
Caesar gave a short sigh, cleared his throat, and answered.
“Hello.”
—I’m almost at your place!
That was the first thing out of his mouth.
He’d already checked with foresight that Joshua would show up within a few days, but even so—knowing didn’t make it any less annoying.
Stifling a sigh, Caesar headed for the dressing room.
“I may have given you my address, but I don’t recall inviting you. Did I forget we made plans?”
—Not exactly, but you seem to have a lot of questions about me. I figured we could hang out for a day and talk, so I’m on my way.
Does he not know how to set an appointment…?
‘Whatever. If he wants to stick his head into the tiger’s mouth, who am I to stop him.’
With a blank look, Caesar grabbed a robe-and-pajama set to wear around the house. It wasn’t Jeheon coming over; there was no need to dress up.
Slotting the pants into the clothing refresher, he said,
“Fine. I actually have a few questions for you—this works out.”
—Really? Good. I was a little worried, to be honest.
Ignoring the chirpy voice, Caesar slipped into the robe. The dark navy silk pajamas rustled against his skin.
—I’m at the front gate.
“I’ll unlock it… Just to be sure, you’re alone, right?”
—I’m by myself.
After opening the gate, Caesar watched the entryway camera to confirm him coming in.
“I’ll come meet you.”
He cinched his robe and stepped outside, just to make sure no one else was hidden in the car.
Soon Joshua parked in the small lot by the door and waved.
“Caesar!”
“You made it?”
Returning the greeting, Caesar glanced into the cab. The compact four-seat pickup was very quiet.
“Got luggage? Anything to unload?”
“No. I came straight from a shoot. It’s just equipment in there.”
He gestured at the empty-looking vehicle. Apparently, it really was empty.
Caesar opened the door.
“Come in.”
Without a word, Joshua followed him inside. He seemed briefly surprised by the stark interior, then shrugged and dropped onto the sofa.
“Nice place. Clean.”
“Is it?”
“All the floors are tile—any reason?”
“I like washing with water. And I have a habit of disinfecting things.”
“Neat freak, huh.”
Caesar brought out a couple cans of dark beer and set one in front of him.
“Drink.”
“Thanks.”
Sitting opposite, Caesar said,
“If you came yourself instead of calling, sounds close to classified.”
“It’s not that big a story.”
Joshua cracked the can and took a long pull. He drained half in one go and laughed with a satisfied “krr.”
“I told you before—two punks I can’t stand: the Asian and the Black guy.”
“Mm.”
“The Asian punk got pointless buzz this time—using your name.”
“My name?”
“Yeah. Online folks were saying he had ‘Caesar’s eyes’ and whatnot. Total nonsense.”
The corner of Caesar’s mouth twitched, but Joshua didn’t see it, busy drinking.
Joshua went on,
“I thought I was gonna die from disgust. But it actually worked out in my favor.”
“Hm.”
Grinning, he tapped his own head with his fingertips.
“Kind of awkward to say right in front of you, but there are people who adore you fanatically—like something’s wrong up top.”
“…”
“To them, you’re basically the Second Coming. So when somebody dared put his name next to yours, they took offense.”
Reaching for a fresh can, Joshua said,
“They asked me for a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“Since we’re old classmates, I must know him, right? Bring him in under the pretense of casting.”
With a crisp hiss, the can popped open.
“If I brought him, they said they’d give me a decent part.”
In a low voice, Caesar asked,
“You said they’re unhinged—do they really have enough pull to hand out roles?”
Joshua answered offhandedly,
“Maybe there’s a hoodlum¹ director in the mix. People from that neighborhood owe their lives to you.”
Hearing that, Caesar thought, What a letdown.
If another O’n had been involved, there might have been variables. He’d kept his guard up—but from the sound of it, the ties weren’t deep.
‘So much for using him to grab the tail.’
Masking his disappointment, he prodded with the question anyway, offering the courtesy of one last chance though he already knew the answer.
“And? Why did they want you to bring in someone they hate?”
Joshua paused mid-sip and laughed, showing his teeth. Then he said,
“What else?”
With the hand not holding the beer, he drew a line across his throat.
“I get my payoff without lifting a finger, they get rid of the guy they hate. Win–win.”
¹ hoodlum: slang for a thug or gangster; also used derogatorily for people from inner-city neighborhoods (e.g., Harlem) or slums. Roughly akin to “ghetto,” usage varies by region.