Alive

The Red Room

The silence in the car was heavy, suffocating. Your hand had rested in his for only a brief moment before nerves got the better of you, and you slipped it away into your lap. The instant the connection broke, the air seemed colder.

"Change of plans." His voice cut through the quiet like a blade. His gaze flicked toward you, dark and unreadable. "I'm going to make you something."

You blinked, startled. "M-Make me something?"

But he didn't explain. He pushed the door open and climbed out of the car with swift, confident movements. You sat there for a moment, your pulse racing, then hurried after him as if afraid he might vanish if you didn't.

Inside, the house was dim, the glow from the kitchen spilling down the hall. You found him there, standing tall in front of the fridge. He moved with an elegance that made even mundane things like choosing food seem deliberate. His broad shoulders tensed as he pulled out a package of beef and set it firmly on the counter.

"Tonight," he said without looking at you, his tone smooth but edged in steel, "you are going to be punished."

The words sliced through you, making your stomach flip. Punished. The word lingered in the air, heavy with meaning.

"H-Huh?" Your voice cracked as your mind scrambled to catch up.

He didn't turn around. Instead, he shut the fridge with a low thud, his movements too calm for how sharp his voice sounded. He reached for a knife, the blade gleaming under the kitchen light.

"I know you were talking to Jinyoung about me." His tone was cool, but his hand tightened slightly on the handle as he began slicing.

You froze, blood rushing to your cheeks. "He... He wasn't saying anything bad. He was just telling me that—" You bit your lip, uncertain.

"That what?" His voice was harsher this time, cutting off your hesitation.

You swallowed. "That you're a good person. And that you don't... smile much. He said when he saw you smile today, it was the first time in years."

The kitchen fell silent. The only sound was the steady rhythm of the knife against the cutting board. Then came the slow tread of footsteps. Your heart pounded as he closed the distance between you, each step echoing like a warning.

He stopped right in front of you. His presence pressed down on you, overwhelming. A finger tilted your chin upward, forcing your gaze to meet his. His eyes were dark, glimmering with something you couldn't name.

"You'll learn," he murmured, his voice low and cold, "not to talk to strangers without asking me first."

The heat of shame crawled up your neck. You wanted to shrink, to disappear—but at the same time, your pulse fluttered in a way you couldn't control. "Okay," you whispered, barely audible.

Without another word, he turned away and washed his hands at the sink. The sound of running water filled the silence. The calm domesticity of it was jarring after the icy threat in his tone.

You moved stiffly, almost mechanically, setting plates and silverware on the table. When he finally carried the food over, he placed it in the center with quiet precision. He sat down, posture perfect, every motion measured.

You slid into the seat across from him, nerves making your hands tremble as you picked at your food.

"How is it?" he asked suddenly, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

You swallowed. "It's good... really good. How did you learn to cook like this?"

For the first time that night, his expression softened ever so slightly. "When my appa was always at work, it was just me and my eomma. I picked up a few things from her." His gaze drifted away as he spoke.