Annyeongz One-shots

45. Hate ( 2 )

The evening passed slowly.

Wonyoung moved through Yujin’s kitchen almost mechanically. She didn’t know why she was cooking. Maybe it was habit, maybe it was expectation—but somewhere deep inside, she felt the tug to do it anyway. She diced vegetables, seasoned the meat, stirred the soup, laid out the plates. Everything neat, precise, orderly.

By the time the food was ready, she had no appetite herself. The house was quiet. The only sound was the faint simmer of the soup.

She didn’t wait for him. She didn’t even sit at the table. The day had worn her out—the silence, the constant tension, the coldness in the way he treated her, even if it was just his nature.

She washed her hands, wiped her face, and climbed into bed. Eyes heavy, mind cluttered, heart aching, she fell asleep almost immediately.

Hours passed.

The clock struck close to midnight when the quiet thrum of a car echoed outside the gates. Yujin arrived. His car door closed softly, but the house, unlike him, felt alive in a way it hadn’t before.

He stepped inside.

Immediately, he sensed it. Something different.

A smell—rich, savory, subtle. Familiar yet unexpected.

Food. Someone had cooked. For him.

He paused, taking in the scent, the faint trace of seasoning, the warmth that lingered in the air.

Slowly, deliberately, he walked through the house. Every step measured. Every sound muted. He reached the bedroom door.

She was there. Sleeping. Curled slightly on her side, hair falling over her face, the faintest line of exhaustion marking her features.

He looked at her for a long moment, expression unreadable. Nothing in his face betrayed his thoughts—not warmth, not appreciation, not concern.

Then, as if nothing had occurred, he moved to the wardrobe. Suit jacket, tie, shoes—all stripped away with mechanical precision.

He stepped into the bathroom. Hot water ran over him, washing away the day, the tension, the invisible dust of the world outside. He moved deliberately, efficiently, finishing quickly.

When he emerged, the house was still. She hadn’t stirred.

He walked toward the kitchen. The smell hit him again, stronger now in the stillness. He stopped in front of the table.

The food was still warm, neatly arranged. Rice steaming, soup bubbling faintly, meat and vegetables plated with care.

He stared. Long. Quiet.

Unbothered, unreadable. His face showed nothing.

And yet, for the first time that night—or maybe longer—he lingered.

Not to eat. Not to praise. Not even to acknowledge.

Just to look.

To see that someone, this fragile, quiet girl who moved through his house like a shadow, had taken the time, the effort, to do something for him.

He didn’t reach for a bowl. Didn’t touch the utensils. He simply stood there, the cold heir in the quiet kitchen, staring at the traces of care someone had left behind.

A thought flickered in his mind. He didn’t speak it aloud. He didn’t allow himself to feel it.

Yet the smell, the sight, the quiet insistence of her presence—it lingered. And for just a heartbeat, Yujin Ahn, untouchable, controlled, cold, felt… something stir inside.