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The first time Seok Matthew wore his white coat, freshly minted MD stitched above the heart, he felt invincible. It was a physical manifestation of a childhood dream, stitched together with late-night study sessions in Vancouver libraries and the unwavering support of his parents. The coat was crisp, starched, and impossibly white, a blank slate upon which he was determined to paint a career of compassion and cure.
“Dr. Seok,” the head nurse said, a warm smile on her face as she handed him his first patient chart. “Room 304. Mr. Callahan. Pneumonia.”
Matthew’s heart hammered with a nervous, eager rhythm. He wasn’t just checking vitals; he was stepping into a story. He introduced himself, listened to Mr. Callahan’s tales of his fishing trips, made sure his blanket was tucked just right. This is it, he thought. This connection. This is how you heal.
For a while, the high held. He celebrated discharges, beamed at clean scans, held the hands of grateful family members. But the hospital, in its sterile, humming reality, is a pendulum that swings between joy and devastation. And Matthew, with his heart perpetually on his sleeve, felt every arc with devastating clarity.
The first loss was an elderly woman, Mrs. Gagnon. Heart failure. He’d seen her every day for two weeks, brought her extra Jell-O from the cafeteria because she loved the green kind, learned about her poodle, Mimi. Her decline was swift, a quiet fading. When she passed on a Tuesday morning, Matthew excused himself to the on-call room, sat on the too-hard bed, and cried for ten solid minutes. He told himself it was professional to care, that detachment was cold. He just needed to build a better balance.
The balance never came.
Instead, the cracks began to spiderweb. He started remembering not just the medical histories, but the personal ones. The teenage boy with leukemia who loved anime. The young mother with metastatic breast cancer worried about who would braid her daughter’s hair. Their faces, their hopes, their fears, took up residence in his mind, cluttering the clinical spaces meant for diagnoses and drug dosages.
He began to dread certain rooms. The beep of monitors, once a familiar cadence, became a ticking countdown in his ears. He clung tighter to the successes, but they felt lighter, more fleeting, while the failures settled in his bones like lead.
“Matthew, you’re burning out,” his senior resident, Amir, said one night during a rare lull. They were huddled over bitter coffee. “You can’t cry for every patient. You’ll have nothing left for the next one.”
“I’m not crying for every patient,” Matthew mumbled, though his red-rimmed eyes betrayed him.
“It’s okay to feel. But you have to build a wall. A glass one, maybe, so you can still see, but it has to be there.”
Matthew nodded, sipping the awful coffee. He didn’t know how to build a wall. His empathy wasn’t a faucet he could turn off; it was the plumbing itself.
Then came Lucy.
Lucy was eight. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia, relapsed. She had a gap-toothed smile that appeared even when she was clearly tired, and she called Matthew “Doctor Matt,” in her sweet, high voice. She was obsessed with orcas. Her room was a tapestry of black and white drawings, stuffed animals, and facts about killer whales.
“Did you know, Doctor Matt, that orca grandmas lead the whole family?” she told him one afternoon, during her pre-cherapy check-up. “They know where the best fish are.”
“They’re very smart,” Matthew said, adjusting his stethoscope. “Just like you.”
He fought for her. He read the latest journals, paged oncology constantly, sat with her parents through terrifying consultations. He brought her new orca pictures to color. For a few beautiful, agonizing weeks, she responded. Her counts improved. Her smile got brighter.
The infection was a brutal, opportunistic thief. It swept in post a round of intensive chemo, when her defenses were nil. Sepsis. The decline was a violent, downward spiral. Matthew stood at the nurses’ station, watching the frantic activity in her room through the glass, his own body cold with a dread that was no longer professional.
He was off-shift when she died. He came back the next morning, saw the empty, sanitized room, the stripped bed, and knew. A nurse placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It was peaceful, at the end. She wasn’t in pain.”
The words were meant to comfort. They felt like ash.
Matthew went through the motions of his shift. He saw his other patients, wrote notes, nodded at colleagues. But inside, something had fissured. The lead in his bones had melted and pooled in his stomach, a constant, nauseating weight. That night, in his silent apartment, the dam broke. He didn’t just cry; he sobbed, gasping, ugly sounds that ripped from a place of utter helplessness. He saw Lucy’s smile. He saw Mrs. Gagnon’s hands. He saw all the faces, a silent, accusing parade.
The next day, calling in sick was not a decision. It was a physiological imperative. His body simply would not move toward the hospital.
One sick day turned into three. Then a week. He stared at the white coat hanging on the back of his door. It no longer looked crisp and promising. It looked like a shroud, stained with invisible failures.
His parents called every day. Their voices, laced with concern from across the continent, were both a balm and a burden.
“Matty, you need to talk to someone,” his mother urged, her voice soft through the phone. “This is too much to carry alone.”
“I know, Mom. I am. I have an appointment.” The lie was easy. Talking felt like another form of exposure, and he was too raw.
He did see a therapist, once. He sat in the too-plush chair and said words like “compassion fatigue” and “survivor’s guilt.” They felt like textbook terms, too clean to describe the dirty, sprawling mess inside him. The therapist suggested medication, a leave of absence. Matthew nodded, filled the prescription, and let the pills gather dust on his nightstand. A leave of absence meant going back. The thought sent bolts of pure anxiety through his chest.
He spent his days in a haze of idle misery. He’d open medical textbooks and see Lucy’s face in the diagrams. He’d try to watch TV and find medical dramas unbearable.
The world had narrowed to the four walls of his apartment and the endless loop of loss in his head. The passionate young doctor was gone, leaving behind a hollowed-out shell who flinched at the sound of an ambulance.
One evening, his father video-called. Matthew considered not answering, but the guilt of worrying them was the only emotion besides grief that could still penetrate the numbness.
“Son,” his father said, his kind face filling the screen. He looked like he hadn’t slept. “You can’t go on like this.”
“I’m fine, Dad. Just… tired.”
“You’re not fine. Your mother and I… we’ve been talking.” He shared a look with someone off-screen, Matthew’s mother undoubtedly. “We think you need a complete change. A reset.”
Matthew remained silent, picking at a thread on his sweatpants.
“Your Grandparents’ place,” his mother’s voice came, now joining his father on the screen. Her eyes were red. “In Korea. The house and the land in that village, Hwayeong. It’s just sitting there. It’s yours.”
Matthew blinked. Korea. His grandparents. He had vague, warm memories from childhood visits—the smell of pine and damp earth, the dizzying green of rice paddies, his grandmother’s gummy smile. They had passed away within a year of each other five years ago, and the property had been held in trust. He hadn’t thought about it since.
“What would I do there?” His voice was flat, lifeless.
“You could just be, Matty,” his mother said, her voice cracking. “You don’t have to be a doctor right now. You just need to breathe. It’s quiet there. It’s peaceful. You could… I don’t know, fix up the house. Get some air. There’s no pressure.”
“It’s a different world,” his father added. “No hospitals. No memories. Just… space. Time to heal.”
Space. Time. The words echoed in the hollow chamber of his chest. Here, every street corner, every coffee shop, every everything reminded him of his life before and during the fall. The white coat in the doorway was a monument to his shattered dream.
The idea was absurd. He was a city kid from Vancouver, a doctor. He knew nothing about rural Korea, his Korean was rudimentary at best, textbook-formal and rusty from disuse. Farming? He couldn’t keep a succulent alive.
But the alternative—the relentless pressure to get better, to get back to a life that had almost consumed him—felt impossible. The house in Hwayeong presented itself not as a solution, but as an escape hatch. A place where no one knew Dr. Seok Matthew, where no one expected anything from him. Where maybe, just maybe, the ghosts couldn’t follow.
He looked at his parents’ faces, etched with love and fear for their only son. He owed them more than this slow disintegration in a lonely apartment.
“Okay,” he whispered, the word barely audible.
“Okay?” his mother repeated, hope daring to color her tone.
“Okay,” Matthew said again, a little stronger. “I’ll go.”
It wasn’t a decision filled with hope or excitement. It was a surrender. A laying down of arms in a war he could no longer fight. He was trading one form of emptiness for another, but the new one held at least the promise of quiet. As he ended the call and stared out his window at the Vancouver rain, the first faint, fragile sense of relief whispered through him. It wasn’t happiness. It was the cessation of immediate pain. It was an ending, and the barest, most uncertain beginning.
He had no plans, no expectations. Just a key to a forgotten house in a country he barely knew, and the desperate, silent prayer that in the silence there, he might finally stop hearing the steady, haunting beep of a heart monitor fading into flatline.
—------
Incheon Airport was a monument to controlled chaos. A symphony of rolling suitcase wheels, overlapping announcements in multiple languages, and the relentless flow of humanity. Matthew stood in the arrivals hall, clutching the handle of his single large suitcase, feeling profoundly small. The flight from Vancouver had been a thirteen-hour limbo, neither here nor there, and now he was here. The air smelled different—like instant noodle cups from a nearby food stall, clean floors, and a subtle, unfamiliar humidity.
He scanned the crowd holding signs, his heart doing a nervous tap-dance against his ribs. His father had said, “Look for Mr. Park. Bald head, kind eyes, will probably be holding a sign with your name spelled wrong.” And there it was, a simple piece of white cardboard with “SEOK MATTHEW” scrawled in confident, if slightly misshapen, Roman letters. The man holding it was indeed bald, with a weathered, friendly face that broke into a wide smile when their eyes met.
“Matthew-ssi?” the man called, bowing slightly.
Matthew hurried over, bowing deeper in return. “N-ne, yes. Hello. Mr. Park?” The Korean felt thick and clumsy on his tongue. He understood the question perfectly, but formulating his own response was like trying to retrieve a file from a corrupted hard drive.
“Ah, welcome, welcome!” Mr. Park’s voice was warm and loud. He reached for Matthew’s suitcase. “Your appa, my old friend. He told me to look after you. Long flight, very tired, yes?”
“Yes, thank you,” Matthew said, the simple phrase exhausting his prepared repertoire. He let Mr. Park take his suitcase, following him through the bustling hall. He understood most of what Mr. Park was saying—a stream of cheerful chatter about the weather, the traffic, how Matthew’s father used to get into trouble as a boy—but responding was a different battle. His answers were stilted, a mix of basic Korean and the occasional English word when his brain short-circuited.
“The car is this way. Not a fancy city car, ha! A farmer’s car. Good for the village roads,” Mr. Park said, leading him to a well-used but clean SUV. Matthew nodded, offering a weak “Ah, ne,” which seemed to be enough.
The drive began on wide, sleek highways that could have been anywhere in the world. But slowly, the landscape began to shift. The towering glass and steel of Seoul receded in the rearview mirror, replaced by rolling hills and dense, verdant forests. The multi-lane highways narrowed to two-lane roads, then to winding single lanes bordered by thick stands of pine and oak.
Matthew stared out the window, his earlier anxiety morphing into a dull shock. Where were the shops? The apartment complexes? The convenience stores that glowed like beacons all night in Vancouver? Here, there were long stretches of nothing but green, broken only by the occasional lonely gas station, a weathered bus stop shelter with no one waiting, or a small, shuttered shop with hangul signs faded by sun and rain. It was beautiful, in a profound, silent way, but it was also deeply, terrifyingly empty. The sheer absence of human noise was a physical pressure on his ears, accustomed to the constant hum of the city and the hospital.
“Hwayeong is a good place,” Mr. Park said, as if reading his thoughts. “Air is clean. Water is clean. People are… simple. Good hearts.”
“It’s very… quiet,” Matthew managed, the Korean word for quiet, joyonghan, coming to him after a momentary scramble.
Mr. Park laughed. “Very! Good for the soul. Your grandparents, they loved the quiet.”
After another hour, they turned off the paved road onto a gravel path, dust pluming behind them. They passed a small cluster of houses with tiled roofs, a single-story community center, and a tiny shop with the words “General Store” painted in blue. And then, they stopped.
“Here,” Mr. Park announced.
Matthew got out, his legs stiff. Before him was a property bordered by a weathered wooden fence—the compound his parents had mentioned. The gate was simple, two wooden panels held by a metal latch. Beyond it, nestled under the shade of a large persimmon tree, was the house.
It wasn’t the dilapidated ruin he’d half-feared, nor was it a picture-postcard cottage. It was a modest, rectangular hanok-inspired house with a slate roof, its wooden walls painted a soft, faded blue. It stood solidly, but it wore a blanket of neglect. Dust coated the window panes, a few roof tiles were cracked, and the small porch was littered with dried leaves and pine needles. The wooden compound fence encircled a decent-sized plot of land—the infamous agricultural field—which was now a wild tapestry of overgrown weeds, tall grasses, and what looked like the stubborn remnants of last season’s crops.
Mr. Park unlatched the gate with a creak. “The key,” he said, handing Matthew two old, brass keys on a ring. “Big one for the front door. Small one for the shed in back. Electricity is on. Water is on. Well water, very sweet.”
He gave Matthew a quick tour of the essentials: the stubborn back door that needed a shoulder-check to open, the circuit breaker box, the pump for the well. “Store is where we passed. Kim family runs it. They have everything. If you need help…” Mr. Park patted Matthew’s shoulder firmly. “You call me. Your appa would never forgive me if I let his Canadian son starve in a field.”
Matthew smiled, a genuine, if tired, one. “Kamsahamnida, Mr. Park. Really.”
With a final wave, Mr. Park got back in his SUV and disappeared down the gravel road in another cloud of dust. And just like that, the silence descended. It wasn’t just the absence of car engines or people. It was the whisper of the wind through the persimmon leaves, the distant call of a bird he couldn’t name, the rustle of something in the tall grass. It was immense.
He hauled his suitcase inside. The interior was one open space: a main room with a low wooden table, an old yo mattress rolled in a corner, a tiny kitchenette with a two-burner stove, and a separate bathroom. Everything was covered in a fine layer of grey dust that danced in the slants of afternoon light piercing through the dirty windows. It smelled of old wood, dried herbs, and stillness.
Okay, he thought, setting his suitcase down. Okay. Start.
But where? The dust seemed universal. He found a broom in a closet and started sweeping the main floor, the action stirring up small cyclones that made him cough. He was attacking a particularly stubborn cobweb in a high corner, standing on tiptoe on the low table, when a voice sliced through the quiet.
“Wow. A monumental battle. Spider 0, Handsome Stranger 1, I’d say.”
The voice was deep, smooth, and laced with unmistakable amusement. In English. Flawless, slightly-accented English.
Matthew yelped, lost his balance, and stumbled off the table, landing on his rear with a thud. He looked up, blinking dust from his eyes.
Leaning against the open front door frame, arms crossed, was a man. He was around Matthew’s age, with sharp, pretty features, mischievous eyes, and hair styled in a way that seemed far too sophisticated for this dusty village. He was wearing simple clothes—a black t-shirt and jeans—but he wore them with the poised confidence of someone about to walk onto a stage.
“Who… how…” Matthew stammered, first in English, then in Korean. “Mianhaeyo… I mean…”
The man grinned, a brilliant, sparkling thing. “The door was open. The sound of a struggle was audible from the road. I came to investigate, fearing for the structural integrity of this historical monument.” He stepped inside, looking around with theatrical curiosity. “I’m Kim Taerae. I live down the lane. And you must be the mysterious Canadian heir.”
Matthew scrambled to his feet, brushing dust off his pants. “Seok Matthew. I just arrived.”
“I gathered,” Taerae said, his eyes flicking to the single suitcase. “Traveling light. A man of drama and mystery. I like it.” He walked over to the kitchenette, running a finger along the counter and inspecting the dust. “So, Dr. Seok Matthew from Canada, famed life-saver, has decided to take up… aggressive dusting as a new profession?”
Matthew froze. “How do you know I’m a doctor?”
“Village telegraph,” Taerae said with a casual wave. “Mr. Park told old Mrs. Lim at the store, who told my mother, who announced it at dinner like we’d gotten a new national monument. ‘A doctor is moving into the old Seok house! Maybe he can look at your father’s bad knee!’” He imitated a high-pitched, excited voice perfectly. “So, what’s the diagnosis, Doc? Is this place terminally dusty, or is there hope?”
The directness, the sheer, unvarnished sass of it, was so utterly foreign to Matthew’s recent experiences. There was no pity, no careful tiptoeing around trauma. Just playful, biting observation. It was startling, and weirdly… refreshing.
“I… I’m not practicing right now,” Matthew said carefully, the English a relief to his tangled thoughts.
“Obviously. You’re practicing falling off furniture instead.” Taerae’s smile softened a fraction, just enough to take the absolute edge off. “So, you’re here to… farm?” He peered out the window at the wilderness that was the garden, one eyebrow arched impossibly high.
“I… don’t know. Try to. Maybe.”
“Mm. Ambitious.” Taerae turned back to him, leaning against the counter. “You know, for a doctor, you have a terrible sense of triage. Sweeping should be the last step, not the first. You need to wipe surfaces down first, or you’re just moving the dirt around. Basic logic.”
Matthew stared at him, a laugh bubbling up unexpectedly in his chest, mixed with sheer bewilderment. “Are you… offering cleaning advice?”
“I’m offering a critique of your methodology. There’s a difference.” Taerae pushed off the counter. “Also, you look like you’re about to either cry or combust from indecision. It’s not a good look. For a handsome stranger, I mean.”
Before Matthew could formulate any kind of response to that, Taerae clapped his hands together once. The sound was sharp in the quiet house. “Alright. Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to change out of those city clothes. I am going to go home and get some proper cleaning supplies—because I doubt you packed industrial-grade degreaser—and a bucket. Then, I am going to come back and supervise this operation. We’ll start with the windows. Can’t have you living in a cave.”
“You… you don’t have to do that,” Matthew said, overwhelmed.
“Of course I don’t have to,” Taerae said, already heading for the door. He paused on the threshold, looking back over his shoulder. A sly smile played on his lips. “But the village gossip about the helpless, pretty doctor is going to be brutal if he’s found suffocated by dust bunnies on his first day. Consider this pre-emptive damage control. And besides,” he added, his voice dropping to a mock-conspiratorial tone, “I’m bored. And you’re the most interesting thing to happen here since the Kims’ cow got loose and chased the postman. Ten minutes. Don’t go dying of ennui before I get back.”
And with a final wink, Kim Taerae sauntered out, leaving Matthew standing in the middle of the dusty, silent room, utterly disarmed. The crushing weight of loneliness and shock was still there, but now, it had a crack in it. A crack through which poured the blinding, confusing, and utterly unpredictable light of a sassy diva who cleaned windows.
He looked at the dust, then at the empty doorway, and for the first time in a very long time, Seok Matthew felt something other than grief or numbness. He felt thoroughly, completely off-balance. And he had no idea what was going to happen next.
—---
True to his word, Kim Taerae returned in exactly ten minutes, carrying a plastic bucket brimming with bottles, rags, a squeegee, and two pairs of bright yellow rubber gloves. He thrust a pair at Matthew.
“Uniform,” he declared. “We can’t have you getting your… whatever this is,” he gestured vaguely at Matthew’s simple grey t-shirt and joggers, “covered in decades of grime. It’s a health hazard. I, as your temporary supervisor, must insist.”
Matthew took the gloves, a smile tugging at his lips. “Temporary supervisor?”
“Someone has to be in charge. Your leadership so far has involved attacking airborne particles with a broom and losing. Clearly, you need direction.” Taerae set the bucket down with a thud and began orchestrating. “You, start on the lower half of these windows. Spray, wipe, squeegee in that order. I’ll handle the tops. I have the reach and the superior technique.”
The cleaning began not in silence, but to the soundtrack of Taerae’s running commentary. He critiqued Matthew’s squeegee form (“Too tentative! You’re asking the dirt to leave, not inviting it to a tea party!”), shared unsolicited village gossip (“Old Man Jung lives at the edge of the village? He secretly eats sweet rice cakes even though he is diabetic. You have to ask for them by name.”), and hummed snippets of songs in a rich, resonant baritone that effortlessly filled the small space.
At first, Matthew worked tensely, the structured task a poor shield against the vulnerability of having a stranger in his space. But Taerae’s relentless, theatrical energy was impossible to resist. It wasn’t invasive; it was encompassing. There was no room for Matthew’s heavy thoughts when he was busy being scolded for using a circular wiping motion.
“Straight lines, Matthew-ssi! Straight lines! We’re cultivating clarity, not painting abstract art in grime!”
“Does it really matter?” Matthew asked, laughing despite himself as he re-wiped a pane.
“Of course it matters! Aesthetic principles apply to all facets of life. Even dirt removal.” Taerae said it with such solemn conviction that Matthew could only shake his head and obey.
As they worked, the windows transforming from murky barriers to clear portals showing the overgrown garden, Matthew felt a knot in his shoulders begin to loosen. The physical labor was simple, mindless in the best way. And Taerae, for all his sass, was kind. He’d wordlessly take over a stubborn patch of caked-on dirt, or pass Matthew a water bottle exactly when his throat felt dry.
“So,” Taerae said casually while they attacked the kitchen counters with something that smelled fiercely chemical, “you really don’t speak much Korean?”
Matthew winced, the old frustration surfacing. “I understand… maybe 90%? When people speak slowly. But speaking… my brain gets stuck. The words come out in the wrong order. It’s embarrassing.”
Taerae shrugged, not looking up from his vigorous scrubbing. “So? Speak in the wrong order. Who here is going to judge you? Mr. Park? He was thrilled you said ‘hello.’ Mrs. Lim at the store? She’ll just talk louder and slower, thinking it’s a hearing problem. It’s not a hospital. No one’s grading your performance.” He paused, glancing at Matthew. “Well, I am. On your cleaning. But not your language. That’s your own journey. Just don’t be silent. It’s boring.”
The statement, blunt and liberating, hit Matthew squarely in the chest. It’s not a hospital. No one’s grading your performance. He’d spent so long in a world where every word, every diagnosis, every piece of communication was critical and scrutinized. The idea of fumbling through sentences without life-or-death consequences felt… foreign.
“Thank you,” Matthew said, the words quiet but sincere.
“For what? The profound wisdom? I know, I’m full of it.” Taerae grinned, then his eyes caught movement outside the now-sparkling window. “Ah. Speak of the little devil. Perfect timing. Our free labor has arrived.”
A lanky figure was shuffling past the front gate, head down, giant headphones engulfing his ears, wearing what looked like a high school uniform. He moved with the trademark slouch of a teenager wishing to be anywhere else.
Taerae threw open the window and leaned out. “YAH! HAN YUJIN!”
The boy jumped a foot in the air, whirling around. Even from a distance, Matthew could see the sharp, youthful features and the deer-in-headlights look. Taerae beckoned him with a relentless finger.
With obvious reluctance, the boy—Yujin—dragged his feet up the path and to the front door. He paused in the doorway, eyes wide, taking in Matthew and the cleaning chaos.
“Hyung,” he mumbled, pulling his headphones down to rest around his neck.
“Don’t ‘hyung’ me with that disobedient tone. Where are you going?” Taerae asked, hands on hips.
“Home…?”
“Lies. You’re going to the PC bang in the next village to play games until your eyes bleed. It’s a school night.”
“It’s Friday!”
“Exactly! The night before you should be resting so you can study all weekend!” Taerae turned to Matthew. “This is Han Yujin. My donsaeng. I’ve been raising him since he was a snot-nosed brat who cried when butterflies landed on him. His brain is good, but his priorities are a tragedy.” He turned back to Yujin. “Yujin-ah, this is Seok Matthew-hyung. He’s from Canada. He’s our new neighbor. He’s very delicate and can’t clean properly. Help us.”
Yujin’s eyes flickered between them, a faint blush on his cheeks. “I have homework…”
“You have hands. They can hold a rag. Consider this your community service. It’ll look good on your university applications.” Taerae thrust a bottle of wood polish and a clean rag into Yujin’s hands. “The floorboards. Make them shine. Think of it as building character.”
Yujin let out a long-suffering sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, a sound only a teenager perfected. But he toed off his shoes and knelt on the floor without further protest.
The dynamic shifted instantly. With Yujin in the mix, Taerae’s focus split, and Matthew became an audience to a well-rehearsed, comedic duo.
“Hyung, this rag is dirty,” Yujin complained immediately.
“That’s because it’s for cleaning, you genius. Use the clean side.”
“There is no clean side!”
“Then fold it! Do I have to teach you basic geometry as well? What are they doing at that school?”
Matthew watched, leaning against the kitchen counter, as Yujin grumpily polished the same spot for a full minute.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor, kid. Spread out,” Taerae instructed from his perch on a stool, cleaning the top of the kitchen cabinet.
“Why are you even cleaning the top? No one will see it!” Yujin shot back.
“I will know it’s dirty! My soul will feel the grime from across the room! Have some pride in your work!”
“My pride is in getting first place in League of Legends, not in making invisible spots clean!”
“And that,” Taerae said solemnly to Matthew, “is the failure of modern education.”
As they bickered, Matthew noticed the underlying fondness. Taerae would, mid-rant, step down to adjust Yujin’s technique with a surprisingly gentle hand. Yujin, for all his complaining, kept sneaking glances at Matthew, clearly curious about the newcomer.
“So, you’re really a doctor?” Yujin asked suddenly, his voice quieter.
Matthew nodded. “I was. In Canada.”
“Cool,” Yujin said, before adding with typical teen bluntness, “Why’d you stop? Didn’t like it?”
The air tightened for a second. Taerae paused, rag in hand, watching Matthew carefully, ready to deflect.
But Matthew found the expected pang of anxiety was duller. Maybe it was the fatigue, maybe it was the absurdity of the situation—being interrogated by a teenager while wearing yellow rubber gloves. “I… liked the patients too much,” he said simply, the Korean words coming slowly but correctly. “It became too hard.”
Yujin considered this, his brow furrowed. He gave a slow nod. “Yeah. I get that. I cried for a week when my childhood dog died.” It wasn’t the same, not at all, but the raw empathy in the statement was disarming.
“A touching moment,” Taerae cut in, clapping his hands. “Now, if the grief counselor could return to polishing the floor? We have a house to conquer before sunset.”
The work continued, faster now with three pairs of hands. The bickering resumed, but it was lighter, filled with inside jokes Matthew didn’t understand but enjoyed nonetheless. Taerae teased Yujin about a girl from his class, and Yujin retaliated by revealing Taerae had once cried during a particularly dramatic episode of a nightly soap opera.
“It was a betrayal of trust!” Taerae shrieked, chasing Yujin around the low table with a feather duster while Yujin cackled, ducking behind Matthew for protection.
Matthew stood there, used as a human shield, laughter bursting from him—real, unfettered laughter that made his sides ache. The sound was strange in his own ears. It had been so long.
As the last of the sunlight turned golden, the house was… transformed. It wasn’t perfect or modern, but it was clean. The wooden surfaces gleamed, the windows sparkled, the dust was banished. The space felt alive, airy, and most importantly, his.
The three of them sat on the freshly wiped porch steps, sharing the barley tea Taerae had somehow produced from his bottomless bucket. They watched the shadows lengthen across the wild garden.
“So,” Taerae said, sipping his tea. “The compound wall is next. And then the… apocalyptic wasteland you call a field.”
Yujin groaned. “Do I have to help with that too?”
“Of course. You need the full rustic experience. It’ll build your immune system.”
Matthew looked from Taerae’s sparkling, mischievous eyes to Yujin’s dramatically exasperated face. He felt the cool evening air on his skin, heard the chorus of evening insects tuning up, and tasted the simple, clean tea.
The crushing quiet of the village was still there, but it was no longer empty. It was filled with potential. Filled with the echo of bickering and laughter. The ghosts of Vancouver felt a million miles away, held at bay, for now, by yellow rubber gloves and unexpected companionship.
“Maybe,” Matthew said, a slow, steady warmth spreading in his chest, “this village won’t be so boring after all.”
Taerae smirked, raising his plastic cup in a toast. “Oh, just you wait, Doctor. You haven’t met the others yet. The interesting ones are still in hiding.”
Yujin just sighed again, the weight of a world where hyungs made you clean already on his young shoulders. But he was smiling, just a little.
And for the first night in a very long time, Matthew wasn’t dreading the dawn.
—------
The morning sun filtering through the now-pristine windows of the Seok house was a different entity entirely from the gloomy, dust-diffused light of the day before. It was sharp, clear, and carried the promise of warmth. Matthew woke on the unrolled yo mattress, for a moment disoriented by the silence and the scent of old, clean wood. Then, the memories of the previous day flooded back—the chaos, the cleaning, the unexpected, bickering companionship. A faint smile touched his lips before he even opened his eyes. The heavy blanket of grief was still there, but it felt… shifted. Lighter in some spots, bearable.
His peace was shattered by a rhythmic tapping on the front door, followed by a familiar, carrying voice. “Doctor Matthew! Rise and shine! The village awaits its newest spectacle, and we have errands to run before you perish from malnutrition or attempt to eat the spiders in your house!”
Matthew groaned, sitting up. Kim Taerae was a force of nature on a mission. He pulled on fresh clothes and opened the door to find Taerae leaning against the gatepost, looking unfairly pristine in a soft, cream-colored sweater and dark trousers, a woven market bag slung over his shoulder. His hair was perfectly tousled, as if he’d styled it just to buy cooking gas.
“Good morning,” Matthew managed, his voice still rough with sleep.
“Debatable,” Taerae declared, pushing off the post. “But we’ll make it better with productivity. First mission: supplies. You have, I assume, the culinary skills of a newborn squirrel, so we will start with the basics. And we need to get you a proper gas cylinder for that stove unless you plan on rubbing sticks together.”
Taerae, it turned out, had appointed himself Matthew’s official local guide, historian, and life coach without consulting anyone, least of all Matthew. As they walked down the gravel lane towards the main village path, he pointed out landmarks with the flourish of a museum docent.
“That’s the community well. Perfectly safe, but Mrs. Baek likes to gossip there, so if you have secrets, haul water at dawn. That twisted pine? Old Man Jung’s great-grandfather planted it. He’ll tell you the story for three hours if you make eye contact. And that,” he said, gesturing to a neatly kept field of green shoots on their left, “is the Han family’s chili plot. Do not, under any circumstances, compliment Yujin’s mother on it unless you want to be given a five-kilogram bag of the world’s spiciest peppers as a ‘welcome gift.’ She means well, but her love language is gastrointestinal distress.”
Matthew listened, a quiet amusement bubbling within him. The village of Hwayeong was slowly taking shape from a blur of green and quiet into a place with contours, characters, and unspoken rules. The air was cool and smelled of damp earth and pine resin. Birdsong, not traffic, provided the soundtrack.
After a ten-minute walk, they reached the cluster of buildings Matthew had seen from the car. The Hwayeong General Store was the largest: a single-story, whitewashed building with a deep, covered porch. A faded blue sign swung gently in the breeze. Pots of cheerful, hardy geraniums lined the steps. It looked like a place out of a different, slower era.
“Now, prepare yourself,” Taerae said, lowering his voice dramatically as they mounted the steps. “The proprietor is… a vision. A fallen angel running a convenience store. Try not to gawk. It’s rude, even if it’s understandable.”
He pushed open the door, setting off a soft chime. The store was a wonderful clutter of essentials and eccentricities. Shelves packed with canned goods, noodles, and snacks stood beside bins of rice and grains. Fishing nets hung next to packets of seeds. In one corner was a small refrigerated section humming quietly; in another, a rack of basic work clothes and rubber boots. The air was a composite smell of coffee, dried fish, and clean linen.
Behind the worn wooden counter, a man was bent over a ledger, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked up at the sound of the chime.
Matthew understood Taerae’s warning immediately. Kim Jiwoong was, without exaggeration, devastatingly handsome. He had the kind of classical, sculpted features that seemed carved rather than born—a strong jaw, deep-set eyes, and a perfectly straight nose. His black hair was swept back simply, but it only accentuated the elegant lines of his face. He was wearing a simple grey henley and jeans, but he wore them with the unconscious grace of someone who belonged in a fashion spread or on a cinema screen. He looked to be in his late twenties, and his presence in this rustic store was as incongruous as a diamond in a rice paddy.
His expression, however, was warm and open, transforming his arresting beauty into something approachable. “Taerae-ah,” he said, his voice a pleasant, low baritone. “Here to actually buy something today, or just to loiter and critique my shelf organization again?”
Taerae, for the first time since Matthew had met him, seemed to momentarily short-circuit. He straightened his sweater unnecessarily and affected a casual air that fooled absolutely no one, least of all Matthew.
“Hyung, your shelves are a tribute to chaotic neutrality, and you know it. Canned tuna does not belong next to laundry detergent, even if they share a similar color palette.” Taerae’s words were as quick and sassy as ever, but his tone was a fraction higher, his gestures a touch more fluttery. He cleared his throat. “I’m here on a humanitarian mission. This is Seok Matthew. Our new neighbor. Matthew, this is Kim Jiwoong-hyung, the storekeeper and a man who stubbornly ignores modern retail principles.”
Jiwoong’s gaze shifted to Matthew, his smile softening into one of genuine welcome. He gave a small, polite bow of his head. “Ah, the doctor from Canada. Welcome to Hwayeong. I heard you’d arrived. I’m sorry I couldn’t come to introduce myself yesterday; the supplier was late.” His Korean was clear and measured, and he spoke slowly enough that Matthew could easily follow.
“Thank you,” Matthew said, bowing back. “It’s nice to meet you. And… I’m not really practicing right now.” He’d decided to just lead with that fact here, preempting the inevitable village curiosity.
Jiwoong simply nodded, as if Matthew had said he preferred tea over coffee. “Well, Hwayeong is a good place for a pause. What can I help you with today?”
Taerae snapped back into his self-appointed role, marching down an aisle. “We need the essentials. Ramyeon, the simple kind, not the artisanal five-alarm-fire stuff you secretly like, Jiwoong-hyung. Rice. Eggs. Kimchi—Mrs. Park’s, not the jarred stuff from the city. Cooking oil. Soy sauce. And,” he said, appearing back at the counter with an armful of packets, “we need to arrange for a gas cylinder delivery for the Seok house. The old one is probably just decorative by now.”
As Jiwoong began packing the items with efficient movements, Matthew let his eyes wander the store. He noticed a few framed photographs on the wall behind the counter. One showed a younger Jiwoong, his features even more startlingly sharp, dressed in what looked like a stylish suit, standing under bright lights. Another was a family photo—Jiwoong with an older couple, all smiling in front of the store.
“You have a good eye,” Jiwoong said gently, noticing Matthew’s gaze. He didn’t stop his work. “That was a lifetime ago. I did some modeling, a few small acting roles in Seoul. It was… loud. Very fast. My parents ran this store, and when my father passed, the noise of the city started to feel hollow. This,” he gestured around the cluttered, quiet space, “felt real. It needs tending. So I came back.” He said it simply, without a trace of regret or theatricality. It was just his truth.
Matthew was struck by the quiet dignity of it. Here was another person who had stepped off an expected path, choosing peace over prestige. It made his own flight feel less like a failure and more like… a choice among many possible choices.
“It’s a good store,” Matthew said, meaning it.
Jiwoong’s smile reached his eyes this time, crinkling the corners. “Thank you.”
Taerae, who had been unusually quiet during this exchange, interjected, tapping the counter. “Yes, yes, it’s a wonderful temple of commerce and nostalgia. Can we focus? The gas, hyung.”
Jiwoong’s lips twitched. “I’ll call Mr. Lee. He’ll deliver it this afternoon.” He rang up the groceries, and as Taerae fumbled with his wallet, Jiwoong added, “And Taerae, the new seed catalog came in. The one you asked for. It’s under the counter.”
Taerae’s ears went pink. “Oh. Right. Thanks.” He retrieved a glossy catalog with pictures of improbably perfect vegetables on the cover.
As they left, Taerae carrying most of the bags with a determined stride, Matthew couldn’t resist. “So. The seed catalog.”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it loudly. He’s just being helpful. He knows I have an interest in horticulture.” Taerae’s tone was defensive.
“Right. Horticulture. And the shelf-organization critiques? That’s just… civic duty?”
Taerae stopped and turned to him, his expression a comical mix of defiance and embarrassment. “Listen, his system is illogical! And he’s… he’s Kim Jiwoong. He could be a movie star. He was almost a movie star. And he’s here, stacking bags of rice. It’s a tragedy of wasted potential that requires regular commentary.”
Matthew just smiled, holding up his hands in surrender. “Of course. Purely analytical.”
They took a different route back, one that led them past the rear of Matthew’s property. From here, the full, terrifying scope of his inheritance was visible. The land sloped gently away from the house. The wooden compound fence marked the boundary, but within it, nature had staged a magnificent takeover. A jungle of weeds—some tall and feathery, others thick-stalked and broad-leafed—choked the space. He could see the ghostly outlines of raised beds, now just lumpy mounds under the green tide. A few gnarled, unpruned fruit trees stood sentinel at the far end. It was a portrait of magnificent neglect.
Matthew stopped, setting his bag down. The morning’s lightness faded slightly, replaced by a daunting reality. “It’s… bigger than I remembered.”
Taerae came to stand beside him, following his gaze. “Mm. Your halmeoni had the greenest thumb in the county. She could make a stone sprout. This,” he said, waving a hand at the wilderness, “is what happens when the magic leaves.”
A practical thought, the first of its kind in months, surfaced in Matthew’s mind. “I need to do something with it.” The words were quiet, almost to himself.
“Obviously. Unless you’re cultivating a national park for insects.”
“No, I mean… for income. Maybe. And for food. To not have to buy every vegetable.” The idea was taking root, fragile but persistent. To grow something. To nurture life that wasn’t hanging by such a fragile, clinical thread. It felt like the antithesis of everything he’d been through.
Taerae turned to look at him, his sharp eyes missing nothing. He leaned against the fencepost, crossing his arms. “A noble thought, Doctor. Truly. It stirs the pastoral soul.” He paused, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. “So. Tell me. What is your prior experience with farming? Let’s take inventory. Have you ever, say, successfully kept a houseplant alive for more than six months?”
Matthew winced. “There was a cactus… in my dorm room.”
“And?”
“It… may have succumbed to overhydration.”
“Shocking. Okay, scale up. Have you ever turned soil? Handled manure? Identified a weed from a seedling?”
“I… I can learn?”
Taerae threw his head back and laughed, a rich, delighted sound. “Oh, this is going to be beautiful. A masterpiece of unintended comedy. You, with your doctor’s hands that are meant for sutures and scalpels, are going to wage war against bindweed and aphids.” He pushed off the post and stepped closer to the fence, peering at the chaos. “See that tall, pretty purple flower there? That’s bokbunja. A raspberry relative. It’s also a ruthless, invasive bully that will strangle your actual crops with a smile. And that lovely, delicate-looking vine with the white flowers? That’s morning glory. It will wrap around your soul and pull you into the earth. This,” he said, gesturing grandly, “is not a garden. This is a botanical gladiator arena, and every plant in here has already killed ten times.”
Matthew’s burgeoning hope began to wilt. It looked impossible.
Taerae saw his expression and his theatrical severity melted into something gentler, though his eyes still sparkled with mischief. “Hey. I didn’t say it was hopeless. I just said it was hilarious. And luckily for you, your self-appointed guide also happens to be, though I hate to boast, a fairly competent cultivator. Between Yujin’s reluctant brawn, my brilliant mind, and Jiwoong-hyung’s store which sells tools and excellent fertilizer, we might just save you from starving or turning this place into a monument to plant death.”
He slung an arm around Matthew’s shoulders, steering him back towards the house. “But first, we eat the ramyeon we just bought. A man cannot conquer nature on an empty stomach. And we’ll need our strength for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Matthew asked, lugging his grocery bag.
“Of course! The Great Reclamation Project begins at dawn. Well, at nine. I’m not a monster. We’ll start with clearing a small patch. Just to see if you faint at the sight of an earthworm. Also I shall ask the resident horticultural expert of the village for your rescue.” Taerae’s smile was bright and challenging. “Consider it my new mission: to save the plants from you, and to save you from utter, vegetable-less despair.”
Back in the clean, sunlit house, as Taerae bossed him around the small kitchen, showing him how to use the gas burner and properly boil water for noodles, Matthew felt a strange sense of calm. The task ahead was monumental and absurd. He was a failed doctor with a black thumb, taking advice from a sassy diva with a crush on a former model, in a village where the most exciting gossip was about seed catalogs.
But as he sat at the low table with Taerae, slurping simple noodles, listening to him plan their attack on the garden with the strategic fervor of a general, Matthew didn’t feel lost. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he was somewhere. He had a crumbling fence, a field of weeds, a gas cylinder on the way, and a guide who promised, above all else, to make the process entertaining.
Maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start with.
—-------
Park Gunwook’s day began, as it always did, at 4:30 AM. The world outside his window was a study in indigo and silence, broken only by the first tentative chirps of the earliest birds. His body, accustomed to the rhythm of the land, demanded movement before thought. He fed the chickens, their sleepy clucks a familiar comfort, checked on the two cows in their shed, and surveyed his family’s tidy rows of cabbages and radishes, glistening with dew under the slowly lightening sky. By six, he’d finished a simple breakfast and was sharpening his favorite hoe, the rhythmic shink-shink of the file against metal, a satisfying prelude to the day’s labor.
It was then, over a second cup of barley tea, that his mother had mentioned it. “Kim Taerae called last night. Practically demanded that I send you over to the old Seok place today.”
Gunwook had groaned, a deep, rumbling sound in his chest. “Eomma, no. I have the east plot to turn. And I promised to fix the Jang’s trellis.”
“Taerae said the grandson from Canada is trying to farm.” His mother’s lips had twitched, a sure sign she was holding back laughter. “Said he’s… ‘botanically challenged.’ That it was a matter of village pride to prevent a humanitarian—or horticultural—crisis.”
Gunwook loved Taerae-hyung, he really did. But the man had a talent for drafting people into his personal dramas, which he then framed as community service. The last time, it had involved “rescuing” a family of frogs from a drainage ditch, which had, in fact, been perfectly happy where they were.
“I’m not a babysitter for city boys who think farming is a hobby,” Gunwook grumbled, his voice still rough with morning.
“Just go and take a look,” his mother said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “If he’s truly hopeless, you can come home. But if there’s a chance to help a neighbor find his roots… it’s a good thing to do, son.”
So, with immense reluctance, Gunwook had finished his chores and trudged down the path that led to the outskirts of the village, where the Seok property sat. He told himself he’d take one glance, confirm the absurdity, and report back to Taerae that the situation was terminal. He was not prepared for the spectacle that greeted him.
From a distance, he saw a figure in the middle of the weedy sea. Even from fifty meters away, the posture was all wrong. It was too stiff, too tense, like someone defusing a bomb rather than working the earth. Gunwook leaned against the sturdy trunk of a persimmon tree just outside the wooden fence, crossing his arms, content to observe unseen for a moment.
The Canadian— Seok Matthew, he remembered—was attempting to remove weeds by hand. Not with a hoe, not with a sickle, but by hand. And he was doing it wrong. He’d grab a handful of the tall, feathery goosefoot near the base, give a tentative tug, and when only the top half came away, he’d stare at the broken stem in his hand as if it had personally betrayed him. He’d then move to a thick-stalked dock weed, wrapping both hands around it and pulling with all his might. The weed surrendered its roots with a loud pop, sending Matthew stumbling backwards three steps before landing squarely on his backside in a patch of what Gunwook knew to be particularly sticky chickweed.
A snort of laughter escaped Gunwook before he could stifle it. He brought a fist to his mouth, his shoulders shaking.
Matthew, seemingly undeterred, got up, brushed dirt from his pants with an air of profound dignity that was utterly at odds with the green smear now on his rear, and selected his next victim. This time, it was a patch of creeping Charlie. He knelt and began pulling at the vines, which came up easily but in endless, tangled strands. Within minutes, he was literally wrapped up in the stuff, vines around his wrists and ankles, looking like a man being slowly consumed by a benevolent, mint-scented alien.
Gunwook was entranced. This wasn't just failure; it was a performance. A tragicomic ballet of good intentions and utter agricultural ignorance. And through it all, Matthew’s face was a canvas of sheer, dogged determination. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his tongue peeking out slightly between his lips during especially difficult pulls. There was a flush on his cheeks from exertion, and his usually soft hair was sticking up in sweaty little tufts. He was muttering to himself in what Gunwook assumed was English, the tone swinging between frustration and encouragement.
He’s… cute.
The thought ambushed Gunwook, simple and clear. It wasn’t just the physical attractiveness, though Matthew was certainly handsome in a delicate, city-bred way. It was the combination of the obvious struggle and the complete lack of surrender. He was a baby bird trying to fly by flapping its arms. It was absurd. It was endearing.
For twenty minutes, Gunwook watched the one-man struggle session. He saw Matthew win a battle against a thistle, only to yelp and suck on his pricked finger. He saw him trip over a hidden rock and do a spectacular, windmilling dance to stay upright. He saw him finally sit down in the middle of the cleared—or more accurately, massacred—patch, looking at the pathetic pile of broken weeds and the vast, uncharted wilderness still ahead. The slump of his shoulders spoke of impending defeat.
That’s when Matthew looked up, perhaps seeking solace in the sky. His gaze swept across the tree line—and landed directly on Gunwook.
Gunwook froze, caught.
Matthew’s eyes widened. The expression of weary defeat vanished, replaced by something else: alarm, nervousness, a flash of fear. He scrambled to his feet, wiping his dirty hands on his already filthy trousers. He stared at Gunwook like a rabbit spotting a fox.
Gunwook understood instantly. He was used to this reaction from strangers, especially in the neighboring town. At 21, he was tall, broad-shouldered, and built from years of hard labor. His hands were large and calloused, his posture solid. His face, which he thought was perfectly friendly, had a certain sternness at rest, with a strong jaw and intense eyes. He knew people sometimes mistook him for being intimidating, even threatening, before he opened his mouth. He saw that assumption now in Matthew’s tense posture, in the way he took a subtle half-step back.
The amusement he’d felt curdled into something else—a prickling mix of annoyance and a strange desire to prove that assumption wrong. He wasn’t a goon; he was a farmer. And this pretty, struggling city sprout needed help, whether he knew it yet or not.
Pushing off the tree, Gunwook uncrossed his arms and walked toward the fence. He moved deliberately, not too fast, keeping his body language relaxed. He stopped at the gate, meeting Matthew’s wary gaze.
“You’re pulling the sinnae all wrong,” Gunwook said, his voice coming out lower and more gravelly than he intended. He winced internally. Not the smoothest opener.
Matthew blinked. “I… what?”
“The weeds. The goosefoot.” Gunwook pointed at the broken stems in Matthew’s meager pile. “You have to get the whole root, or it grows back twice as angry. And you don’t grab it there.” He mimed a shallow grip. “You get your fingers low, right at the soil. And you twist as you pull.” He demonstrated the motion in the air, his large hands surprisingly graceful.
Matthew was still staring, but the fear was shifting into confusion. He glanced from his own hands to Gunwook’s, then back to the weeds. “Oh,” he said softly, the Korean word a tiny exhale.
“And that,” Gunwook continued, pointing at the tangled mess of creeping Charlie around Matthew’s ankles, “you don’t pull by hand. You use a hoe. Or a rake. You’re just making it mad and giving yourself a rash.”
A faint, embarrassed pink spread across Matthew’s cheeks. “I don’t… have a hoe.”
Gunwook looked past him at the empty, forlorn patch of dirt. He looked at Matthew’s dirty, probably blistered hands. He looked at the sheer scale of the task facing him. The last of his reluctance evaporated, replaced by a firm, decisive feeling that was uniquely Gunwook. When he committed to something, he committed fully. This wasn’t just Taerae-hyung’s drama anymore. This was a challenge. A project. A cute, clueless project that needed saving.
“I’m Park Gunwook,” he said, finally offering a small, careful smile, trying to soften the hard lines of his face. “From down the road. Taerae-hyung… mentioned you might need some pointers.”
Recognition, then a dawning horror, flashed in Matthew’s eyes. “You’re… the farmer? He sent you?”
“He suggested. I’m here on my own now.” Gunwook unlatched the gate and stepped inside, his work boots crunching on the gravel path. He stopped a respectful distance away, giving Matthew space. Up close, the evidence of the morning’s struggle was even more charmingly disastrous. There was a smudge of dirt on Matthew’s nose. “What you’re trying to do… it’s good. But it’s like performing surgery with a spoon.”
Matthew’s lips parted in surprise, and then, to Gunwook’s delight, a small, breathy laugh escaped him. It was a good sound. “That’s… a very accurate analogy, actually.”
Gunwook felt his own smile grow more natural. “I have spare tools. And time. Before the real planting season.” He surveyed the land with a critical, practiced eye, seeing past the weeds to the good, sun-blessed slope, the decent soil quality underneath the neglect. “This could be a good field. Your grandparents knew what they were doing.”
He saw Matthew swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The nervousness was still there, but it was mingling with something else—a spark of hope, maybe. “You… you would help?”
“You need a teacher,” Gunwook stated, matter-of-factly. It wasn’t a question. He’d made his decision the moment their eyes had met and he’d seen the determination behind the fear. This man, who worked so hard to do everything wrong, didn’t need charity. He needed guidance. And Gunwook, who knew this land like the back of his hand, who took pride in doing things properly, found he wanted to be the one to provide it.
He extended a hand, not for a handshake, but to gesture at the field. “First lesson: tools. We start with clearing. Properly. I’ll bring what you need tomorrow.”
Matthew looked from Gunwook’s face to his outstretched hand, then at the field of his failures. A slow, tentative, but utterly grateful smile began to spread across his own face, transforming it. “Okay,” he said, the word filled with relief. “Thank you, Park Gunwook-ssi.”
“Just Gunwook,” he corrected, his tone final. “If I’m going to be your farming tutor, we skip the formalities.” He gave one last nod, a plan already forming in his mind—which tools to bring, which section to attack first, how to build up those city-soft muscles without breaking him.
As he turned to leave, he threw a final glance over his shoulder. Matthew was still standing in his tiny circle of chaos, but he was standing straighter, looking at the weedy expanse with new eyes. Not just with overwhelm, but with the first flicker of possibility.
Park Gunwook walked home, the morning sun now warm on his back. The irritation at Taerae was gone. In its place was a focused, buzzing energy. He had a new mission. He was going to teach Seok Matthew how to farm. And, he thought with a private grin, it was going to be the most interesting, and possibly the cutest, project of his life.

The following morning dawned with a soft, pearlescent light that promised heat later. Matthew stood at his window, nursing a cup of instant coffee, his muscles singing a chorus of aches from yesterday’s misguided battle with the weeds. The memory of Park Gunwook—tall, solid, and quietly imposing—leaning against his gate replayed in his mind, sparking a fresh wave of nervous energy. The man had offered help, but Matthew still couldn’t shake the initial impression of intimidation. Gunwook moved with the grounded certainty of a mountain, and his gaze felt like it could assess the quality of your soul along with your soil.
At precisely nine o’clock, the mountain arrived, accompanied by a chattering songbird. Gunwook pushed a wheelbarrow laden with tools: two sharp, clean hoes, a heavy-duty rake, a pair of sickles, and thick work gloves. Trailing behind him, looking effortlessly chic in wide-legged linen pants and a straw hat far too elegant for manual labor, was Kim Taerae.
“The cavalry has arrived!” Taerae announced, sweeping an arm toward Gunwook. “And I have appointed myself foreman. My job is to provide moral support, aesthetic direction, and to ensure our young farmer here doesn’t work you to death. His enthusiasm can be… daunting.”
Gunwook rolled his eyes, but a fond, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “Hyung is here because he’s bored and likes to give orders.”
“I’m here to supervise the synergy! Or lack thereof.” Taerae peered at Matthew. “You look terrified. Good. A healthy fear of Gunwookie when he’s in ‘teacher mode’ is wise.”
“I’m not terrified,” Matthew muttered, though the tightness in his shoulders betrayed him.
Gunwook said nothing, just handed him a pair of gloves. “Put these on. Your hands will thank you.” His tone was all business, but his eyes briefly scanned Matthew’s face, noting the tension. “We start small. One plot. Ten meters by ten. We clear, we turn the soil, we see what we’re working with.”
The lesson was slow, meticulous, and conducted with the seriousness of a martial arts master teaching a first form. Gunwook demonstrated each movement with economical grace: the correct stance, the angle of the hoe bite into the earth, the efficient flick that uprooted a weed whole. His large hands, which seemed like they could crush stone, handled the tools with surprising delicacy.
“It’s not about strength,” Gunwook intoned, his low voice steady. “It’s about leverage. And rhythm. Watch.” The thunk-shush of his hoe became a metronome.
Matthew tried to mimic him, but his movements were clumsy, his grip too tight. His hoe either skittered uselessly over the surface or bit too deep, requiring a grunt to dislodge.
“Loosen your wrists, Matthew-ssi,” Gunwook said, coming to stand beside him. He didn’t touch him, just pointed. “You’re fighting the tool. Let it do the work.”
His proximity sent a jolt through Matthew. He could smell the clean scent of soap and sun on Gunwook’s skin, mixed with the earthy smell of the field. He forced himself to relax his death grip, focusing on the motion. Thunk-shush. It was marginally better.
From his perch on an upturned bucket in the shade, Taerae sipped from a thermos and offered a running commentary. “A valiant effort, Doctor! Though from here, it looks less like farming and more like you’re trying to beat the earth into revealing its secrets. Gunwook-ah, be gentler! He’s a delicate flower!”
“The only delicate flower here is you, hyung, sitting in the shade,” Gunwook shot back without looking, but his voice held no malice.
“I am preserving my complexion! This is my contribution!”
As the morning wore on, a fascinating dynamic unfolded. The stern, focused farmer teaching Matthew would periodically be drawn into Taerae’s orbit. Taerae would critique the straightness of their nascent rows (“It’s leaning to the left, it has a political agenda!”), and Gunwook would defend his work with a mock-seriousness that soon dissolved into laughter. Taerae would tell an absurd story about a village elder, and Gunwook’s deep, rumbling chuckle would ring out, his serious face transforming into one of open, boyish amusement. He’d throw a clod of dirt—always well-aimed to land harmlessly nearby—and Taerae would shriek with theatrical indignation.
Matthew watched, mesmerized. This giggly, playful person was the same Park Gunwook whose gaze had frozen him in place yesterday. The contrast was disarming. The intimidating exterior hid a warm, surprisingly soft center that seemed to bloom fully around Taerae’s sunlight. It made the remaining knots of Matthew’s nervousness begin to loosen, replaced by a curious fascination.
By late afternoon, the designated plot was cleared. The turned earth, dark and rich, lay exposed to the sun, a stark, beautiful contrast to the surrounding weed jungle. Exhaustion ran deep in Matthew’s bones, but it was a clean, satisfying ache, unlike the hollow fatigue of grief. He looked at the neat rectangle of soil, a tangible accomplishment, and felt a surge of pride so sharp it startled him.
“You did well,” Gunwook said, wiping his brow with his forearm. There was a streak of dirt on his cheek. “For a first real day.”
The simple praise warmed Matthew more than the sun. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you. Both of you,” he added, glancing at Taerae, who was now inspecting his nails for non-existent damage. “Let me… cook you dinner. As a thank you.”
The moment the offer left his lips, he regretted it. His culinary skills began and ended with boiling water for ramyeon. The groceries from Jiwoong’s store—eggs, vegetables, rice—sat in his kitchen like unexplored, potentially hazardous objects.
Taerae’s eyebrows shot up. “A home-cooked meal? How rustic! What’s on the menu, Chef Matthew?”
“I… I have rice. And eggs. And… some vegetables,” Matthew finished weakly.
Gunwook, who had been coiling a length of rope, looked up. He took in Matthew’s slightly panicked expression, the way his eyes darted toward the house as if already foreseeing the disaster within. A small, understanding smile played on his lips.
“That’s a good start,” Gunwook said, his voice calm. “But after a day like this, you need proper food. How about I handle the cooking? You can be my assistant.” It was offered not as a critique, but as a simple, kind solution, an extension of the day’s tutelage.
Taerae clasped his hands together. “Oh, even better! Gunwookie’s kimchi bokkeumbap is legendary. He hides secret spices. It’s why he’s so big and strong, you see. All that powerful rice.”
Matthew, flooded with relief, could only nod. “Yes. Please. That sounds… amazing.”
They washed up at the outdoor pump, the cold water shocking and delicious on their skin. In Matthew’s small kitchen, a new transformation occurred. Gunwook shed his farmer persona with his work boots. Moving with the same efficient grace he’d shown in the field, he surveyed Matthew’s meager supplies, pulled a few extra ingredients from his own bag (green onions, a container of homemade kimchi, a little packet of seasoned seaweed), and took command.
“Knife. Cutting board. Bowl,” he said, not as orders, but as quiet cues. Matthew scrambled to provide them, becoming his sous-chef. He watched, utterly captivated, as Gunwook’s large, calloused hands performed a different kind of magic. He diced onions with swift, precise chops, his fingers curling protectively against the blade. He cracked eggs one-handed into a bowl, the shells falling away cleanly. He handled the wok Matthew didn’t know he owned with confident flicks of his wrist, the sizzle of rice and kimchi filling the small room with an aroma that made Matthew’s mouth water.
Taerae leaned against the doorway, watching the scene with a delighted smirk. “Look at him go. A menace in the fields, a maestro at the stove. It’s not fair, really. Saves all the domestic skills for himself.”
“You could learn, hyung,” Gunwook said without turning, a teasing lilt in his voice. “But you’d probably try to sing to the onions to make them cry less artistically.”
“They have feelings, Gunwook-ah! One must be considerate!”
Matthew, busy rinsing rice under Gunwook’s instruction, felt a bubble of laughter rise in his chest. The atmosphere was warm, filled with the easy camaraderie between the two locals and the inviting smells of cooking. His initial nervousness around Gunwook had melted, replaced by a deep, grateful awe. “You’re really good at this,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Gunwook glanced at him, a faint blush visible on his tanned neck. “It’s just food. You learn, when you live out here.”
As they sat on the floor around the low table, the sizzling plates of kimchi fried rice between them, Matthew felt a contentment so profound it was almost dizzying. The food was delicious—savory, spicy, perfectly balanced. Between bites, the conversation flowed easily, spurred on by Taerae’s wit and Gunwook’s dry retorts.
Emboldened by the warmth and the fatigue, Matthew made a mistake. Or perhaps it was a necessary confession. He looked at Gunwook, who was carefully flattening a strip of seaweed onto his rice, his fierce concentration adorable, and said, “You know, when I first saw you yesterday… I totally thought you were some kind of… village gangster or something.”
A beat of silence.
Then Taerae choked on his water, a spray of laughter erupting from him. “A GANGSTER? Him?” he wheezed, pointing a dramatic finger at Gunwook, whose eyes had gone comically wide. “Park Gunwook? Who cried when we had to sell the old goat, Bbokari? Who names every single one of his tomato plants? That’s the scariest thing I’ve heard all week!”
Gunwook’s mouth opened and closed. He looked from Matthew’s instantly mortified face to Taerae’s gleeful one. Then, he placed a hand over his heart, his expression morphing into one of exaggerated, profound hurt. “A goon?” he repeated, his voice a low, wounded rumble. “You thought I was here to… what? Shake you down for protection money? In exchange for… weeding tips?”
Matthew’s face was on fire. “No! I just—you’re very… tall. And… impressive-looking!”
“Impressive-looking,” Taerae echoed, cackling. “He thought you were a thug! Oh, this is priceless. Wait until I tell Jiwoong-hyung.”
But as Gunwook held his faux-wounded pose, Matthew saw the sparkle in his eyes. He wasn’t really offended. In fact, he seemed to be holding back a smile, thoroughly amused by Matthew’s flustered explanation, by the way he was now stammering apologies in a mixture of Korean and English. He found it, Matthew realized with another jolt, cute.
“I’m sorry,” Matthew finally got out, laughing helplessly at the absurdity of it all. “I’m a city idiot. Please don’t… revoke my farming lessons.”
Gunwook dropped the act, his face breaking into a full, genuine grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look his age—young, bright, and utterly approachable. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice warm. “My goon rates for agricultural tutoring are very reasonable. Usually paid in fried rice and interesting misunderstandings.”
The rest of the meal passed in a haze of warmth and shared laughter. As the sky darkened to indigo outside, Taerae stretched. “Well, this has been delightful. But my beauty sleep calls. Gunwook-ah, walk me home. It’s dark, and I might be accosted by… other fearsome-looking farmers.”
Gunwook stood, gathering the plates with a natural ease. Before he left, he turned to Matthew. “We did good work today. The soil is ready. Next time, we plant. Simple things first. Radishes. Lettuce.” He paused, then added, his tone softening, “And… maybe I’ll come a little early. We can cook before we work. To keep our strength up. And to avert any… culinary disasters.”
Matthew smiled, standing at his door as the two figures—one tall and solid, the other slender and animated—disappeared into the twilight, their bickering voices fading into the chirping of crickets. He closed the door, leaning against it. The house was no longer just quiet; it was peacefully full—of new smells, of echo of laughter, of the promise of radishes and shared meals.
The intimidating farmer was a gentle teacher and a gifted cook. The sassy diva was a loyal, hilarious friend. And he, Seok Matthew, was no longer just a depressed doctor or a failed weed-puller. He was a student. A neighbor. Perhaps, one day, a competent gardener.
He looked at his hands, raw in places but already beginning to toughen. For the first time in a long time, the scars forming were not from loss, but from growth.
---------
A week passed, and the plot of dark, turned earth became Matthew’s proudest possession. He visited it every morning with his coffee, watching the sunrise paint the neat rows he and Gunwook had carved into the soil. The clean, loamy smell of it was a daily balm. But with that pride came a restless, buzzing energy. The plot was ready. It was an empty canvas, and Matthew, with the unbridled enthusiasm of a convert, wanted to paint a masterpiece.
He sat at his low table one evening, a notepad covered in frantic, nonsensical diagrams. One sketch showed a chaotic patchwork of carrots, tomatoes, lettuce, corn, pumpkins, and beans all crammed together, with a stick-figure sun beaming approvingly. Another had elaborate, impossible-to-build trellises. His medical training had taught him meticulous, data-driven planning, but this? This was pure, optimistic fantasy. He wanted a little of everything. A bursting, abundant vegetable garden that would sustain him and maybe even provide a small surplus to sell or share. He just had no idea how to make it happen.
The next morning, he decided action—any action—was better than more scribbling. He stood at the edge of his cleared the field that needed preparation. He hefted the spade Gunwook had left for him, aimed at making rows of straight ridges and channels, and swung.
An hour later, he was drenched in sweat, his progress measured in a pathetic half-meter of clumsily disturbed soil and a line of only crooked ridges. His arms burned. The sheer scale of the task yawned before him, vast and mocking. He was trying to dig a swimming pool with a teaspoon.
“The soil is fighting back, I see.”
Matthew jumped, nearly dropping the spade. Park Gunwook stood at the gate, arms crossed, head tilted. He was wearing a simple, faded grey t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders, and his expression was a mixture of amusement and utter disbelief.
“I… I wanted to prepare the field,” Matthew said, panting slightly. “For planting. You know, tomatoes, corn, maybe some squash…”
Gunwook walked over, his eyes scanning Matthew’s futile efforts. He toed a clump of soil Matthew had hacked at. “You’re trying to prepare land for corn with a spade.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of profound anthropological curiosity.
“Is there… another way?” Matthew asked, the hope in his voice embarrassingly clear.
Gunwook just looked at him for a long moment, his lips pressed together as if fighting a smile. Then he sighed, a sound that was more fond than exasperated. “Wait here.”
He disappeared down the lane. Ten minutes later, a deep, rumbling growl cut through the morning quiet. Matthew watched, mouth agape, as Gunwook navigated a small, bright orange tractor through his gate with effortless precision. The machine was compact but powerful-looking, its engine vibrating through the ground and into Matthew’s bones. On it, Gunwook looked completely in his element—a king atop his metal steed. The sun caught the sweat already gleaming on his forearms as he manipulated the controls.
“This,” Gunwook said, his voice raised just enough over the diesel mutter, “is another way.”
What followed was less farming and more magic. With a series of efficient passes, Gunwook attached a tiller to the back of the tractor. The metal blades bit into the weedy earth with a sound like a giant ripping canvas. Weeds, roots, and all were churned under, the hard-packed soil transformed into a fine, fluffy tilth in moments. The smell of freshly cut vegetation and rich, oxygenated earth filled the air. Dust and tiny bits of green matter flew up in a cloud around the roaring machine, and Gunwook at its center was a figure of undeniable, rugged competence.
Matthew was, frankly, starstruck. He’d seen Gunwook be gentle with seedlings and deft with a kitchen knife. But this was raw, practical power, harnessed and directed with quiet mastery. He watched the neat, parallel lines appear in the soil, expanding his garden with every pass. It was efficient, it was beautiful, and it made his own earlier struggle look like a child’s tantrum. A wave of gratitude, tinged with awe, washed over him.
When Gunwook finally cut the engine, the sudden silence was ringing. A vast, perfect rectangle of prepared land, now lay ready.
Gunwook jumped down, wiping his hands on a rag. “That,” he said, a hint of a proud smile on his face, “is how you prepare for planting.”
“That was… incredible,” Matthew breathed, his vocabulary failing him. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll let me help you plan what goes where,” Gunwook said, walking over to examine the soil texture. “Planting corn next to tomatoes is a recipe for disaster. And pumpkins need more space than you think.” He glanced at Matthew’s notebook, which lay on the ground, its chaotic diagrams visible. A snort escaped him. “Yeah. We need to go shopping. For seeds. And a plan.”
An hour later, cleaned up but still smelling faintly of sunshine and diesel, they walked into the Hwayeong General Store. The bell chimed, and Kim Jiwoong looked up from where he was arranging a display of local honey. His handsome face lit with a smile.
“Matthew-ssi. Gunwook-ah. Here for more ramyeon?” he teased, his eyes twinkling.
“We’re here for serious business, hyung,” Gunwook said, his tone grave but his eyes playful. He steered Matthew toward the seed rack. “Seeds. The future of the Seok farm depends on the choices we make today.”
Matthew was immediately overwhelmed. The rack was a rainbow of packets, each with photos of impossibly perfect produce. Cherry tomatoes bursting with color, sleek purple eggplants, carrots as straight as rulers. He reached for a packet of watermelons.
Gunwook’s hand, large and warm, gently intercepted his wrist before he could grab it. “Too ambitious for a first-year, mid-season planting,” he said, his voice low and close to Matthew’s ear. He plucked the packet from Matthew’s fingers and replaced it with one labeled ‘Bok Choy – Fast Grower.’ “Start with this. It’s forgiving. We’ll do lettuce here, radishes here, maybe some bush beans over there.” He was already mapping the new field in his mind, pointing at different seed packets as he spoke, completely focused.
Matthew, hyper-aware of the brief touch on his wrist, just nodded mutely, clutching the bok choy seeds like a lifeline.
The bell chimed again with violent enthusiasm.
“I SMELL A CONSPIRACY!” Kim Taerae announced, sweeping into the store. He was wearing a fabulous, oversized silk shirt and large sunglasses, looking like a celebrity incognito in the most conspicuous way possible. “A secret seed summit, and I wasn’t invited? The disrespect.”
“What are you doing here, hyung?” Gunwook asked, not looking up from comparing two packets of cucumber seeds.
“I… needed air. And possibly a new brand of barley tea. The aesthetic of my current bottle is depressing.” Taerae’s eyes, however, were not on the tea. They were fixed on Jiwoong, who was now patiently explaining the difference between heirloom and hybrid tomatoes to a fascinated Matthew. He drifted toward the counter. “Jiwoong-hyung, you simply must help me. I’m having a crisis of flavor.”
As Taerae engaged Jiwoong in a hilariously overblown debate about tea aesthetics, his sharp eyes kept darting back to Gunwook and Matthew. He watched as Gunwook patiently explained pole beans versus bush beans, his body angled protectively toward Matthew. He saw Matthew listen with rapt attention, his earlier clumsiness replaced by eager curiosity. He saw Gunwook, without even thinking, reach out and brush a bit of dried leaf from Matthew’s shoulder—a gesture so casual and intimate it made Taerae’s eyebrows shoot up above his sunglasses.
A wicked grin spread across Taerae’s face. He abandoned Jiwoong and sidled up to the seed rack.
“So,” he purred, inserting himself between them. “Planning your little garden paradise? How domestic.” He plucked the ‘Butterhead Lettuce’ packet from Matthew’s hand and inspected it. “A delicate choice. Needs protection from harsh sun. And slugs.” His gaze flicked to Gunwook. “Good thing you have your own personal, large-scale protector, Matthew-yah. To shield your tender greens.”
Gunwook frowned, confused. “Slugs? We can use eggshells.”
“I’m not talking about the slugs, you magnificent, oblivious oak tree,” Taerae sighed. He leaned closer to Matthew, stage-whispering loud enough for the whole store to hear. “I saw that. The whole…” he mimicked Gunwook’s leaf-brushing gesture with a flamboyant sweep of his hand. “Very chivalrous. ‘Let me protect you from the scary leaf, little farmer.’ Adorable.”
Matthew felt his entire face combust. “He was just—it was a leaf!”
Gunwook, finally catching on, crossed his arms, a faint pink dusting his own cheeks. “Taerae-hyung, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Me? Ridiculous? I’m not the one giving tractor rides and personalized gardening lessons, then doing the ‘watchful guardian’ routine in the seed aisle.” Taerae’s eyes sparkled with unholy glee. “It’s like watching a bear carefully tending a single, fragile orchid. Heartwarming. Truly.”
Jiwoong, from behind the counter, let out a soft cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh he was trying to mask.
Gunwook, flustered now in a way Matthew had never seen, grabbed a handful of seed packets at random—carrots, dill, spinach—and marched to the counter. “We’re done. Let’s go.”
“But we didn’t get the bean trellis netting—” Matthew started.
“Next time!” Gunwook said, his voice a little too loud. He paid Jiwoong quickly, avoiding everyone’s eyes.
Taerae waved as they left, calling out, “Take care of that orchid, Gunwook-ah! Don’t let it wilt!”
Outside, in the blinding sunshine, Matthew clutched the paper bag of seeds to his chest. The air between them was thick with a new, flustered energy. He glanced at Gunwook, whose ears were still faintly red.
“Sorry about him,” Gunwook mumbled. “He has too much imagination.”
“It’s okay,” Matthew said, and to his surprise, he meant it. The teasing had been embarrassing, but it had also stripped away a last layer of formality. It had made Gunwook seem… human, vulnerable, and oddly sweet. “He’s not entirely wrong, you know. You have been… very protective. In a good way.”
Gunwook stopped walking, looking down at him. The flustered expression softened into something more thoughtful, more genuine. “It’s a big project you’ve taken on. I don’t want you to get discouraged. Farming… it’s full of failures, even when you know what you’re doing. A good start is important.”
The sincerity in his words melted away the last of Matthew’s awkwardness. “I know,” he said. “And I’m grateful. For the tractor, for the seeds, for saving me from planting watermelons in July.”
A real smile returned to Gunwook’s face. “Tomorrow,” he said, as they reached Matthew’s gate. “We plant. I’ll bring the row markers. And…” he hesitated, then pushed on, “after, we can cook again. I’ll show you how to make a proper stew. Something that doesn’t come from a packet. To keep our strength up, and to…” he echoed his words from days before, a private joke now, “…avert disaster.”
Matthew laughed, the sound light and easy. “It’s a deal.”
As Gunwook walked away, Matthew looked down at the bag of seeds in his hands, then out at his freshly tilled field, golden in the afternoon light. He wasn’t just planting vegetables tomorrow. He was planting himself a little deeper into this soil, into this life, and into the orbit of a kind, competent, surprisingly flappable young farmer who might just be the steadiest thing he’d ever known.
‐-‐-‐
Planting day arrived with a sky so clear and blue it felt like a fresh start painted just for them. The air was warm, humming with the promise of summer, and the newly-tilled earth of Matthew’s expanded plot lay waiting, a blank page of fragrant, dark soil.
Gunwook appeared just after breakfast, not with the roaring tractor, but with a quiet armful of simple tools: a long spool of twine, two sturdy stakes, a worn wooden dibber for making holes, and a ruler. He looked focused, but the faint blush from Taerae’s teasing the day before was gone, replaced by his usual calm competence.
“First rule,” Gunwook announced, driving a stake into the soil at one end of the plot. “Straight lines. Crooked rows are a headache later.” He stretched the twine to the other end, pulling it taut, creating a perfect guideline. “We follow the string. Every seed, every plant. Precision matters.”
Matthew nodded, feeling a familiar clinical focus settle over him. This was a procedure. He could follow steps. He took the dibber, a simple pointed stick, and waited for instruction.
“Lettuce here. Small holes, about this deep,” Gunwook said, making a shallow indentation with his thumb next to the string. “Seeds are tiny. Just a pinch, spaced like this.” He demonstrated, his large fingers surprisingly deft as he scattered a few minuscule seeds. “Don’t bury them. They need light to germinate.”
Matthew mimicked him, crouching down. His first attempt was a failure. He poured too many seeds from the packet, a small black cascade that clumped together in one spot.
“Gently,” Gunwook murmured, crouching beside him. He didn’t take the packet, but instead covered Matthew’s hand with his own, guiding his fingers to a gentler tilt. “Like seasoning food. A light touch.”
The warmth of Gunwook’s hand was a shock, a brand against his skin in the cool morning air. Matthew’s breath hitched. He could feel the roughness of calluses, the steady strength. Gunwook’s focus was entirely on the seeds, his face close enough for Matthew to see the faint dusting of freckles across his nose from days in the sun.
“Like that,” Gunwook said, his voice low. He released Matthew’s hand, leaving a phantom imprint of heat.
The second attempt was better. The seeds scattered in a more respectable, if not perfect, arc.
“Good,” Gunwook said simply, and the word sent a spark of pride straight to Matthew’s core.
They moved down the line. Radishes were next. “Deeper holes,” Gunwook instructed. “One seed per hole. They don’t like to share space.”
Matthew, overconfident from his lettuce success, poked the dibber into the soil with too much force. It sank deep, and when he pulled it out, the sides of the hole collapsed in on themselves.
“You’re planting radish seeds, not digging a well,” Gunwook chuckled. He placed his hand over Matthew’s on the dibber handle again. “Let the tool do the work. A firm press, not a stab.” He guided Matthew’s hand in a smooth, downward motion, his body leaning in close behind him to follow the line of the string. Matthew was enveloped in his presence—the scent of clean cotton, sun-warmed skin, and the earthy smell that always clung to him. His heart did a funny, stuttering beat against his ribs.
This time, the hole was perfect.
As the morning sun climbed higher, the mistakes continued, but they were softer, met with patient correction rather than frustration. Matthew planted two beet seeds in one hole (“They’ll fight each other to the death,” Gunwook said, carefully removing one). He misjudged the spacing for the bok choy, his rows starting to curve away from the twine like a drifting snake until Gunwook, with a soft sigh and a shake of his head, realigned him with a hand on his shoulder, steering him gently back on course.
The physical closeness became a constant, gentle undercurrent to the work. A hand steadying his elbow as he balanced on the uneven soil. A brush of shoulders as they both reached for the seed packets. Gunwook leaning across him to check the depth of a hole, his arm a solid bar against Matthew’s back. Each touch was practical, unintentional, but it built a charge in the air between them, a silent awareness that thrummed beneath the spoken instructions.
During a water break, sitting in the shade of the persimmon tree, Matthew finally asked a question that had been nagging him. “How did you learn all this? You make it seem so… innate.”
Gunwook took a long drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He was quiet for a moment, looking out over their half-planted rows. “It’s not innate,” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual. “I killed my fair share of plants. Probably more than you ever will.”
Matthew couldn’t hide his surprise. “Really?”
A small, self-deprecating smile touched Gunwook’s lips. “When I was fourteen, I decided I wanted a watermelon patch. I planted them way too close, overwatered them, and then cried when they all rotted from fungus. My grandfather just patted my back and said, ‘Now you know. Try again next year.’” He picked up a clod of soil, crumbling it between his fingers. “Competence isn’t about not failing. It’s about paying attention to what failure teaches you. The soil, the weather, the plant… they’re all talking. You just have to learn to listen.”
He said it so softly, so unlike his usual instructive tone. This wasn’t Farmer Gunwook imparting knowledge. This was Park Gunwook, sharing a piece of his history, a vulnerability. It was a revelation that went far beyond farming.
“That’s… a beautiful way to see it,” Matthew said, his own voice hushed.
Gunwook shrugged, the moment of openness passing as he stood and brushed off his pants. “It’s just the truth. Now, come on. The beans are next. They’re the most forgiving. Even you can’t mess them up too badly.”
The afternoon was for the bush beans. The holes were deeper, the seeds larger and more satisfying to handle. They worked side-by-side now, a rhythm developing between them. Dig, drop, cover. Dig, drop, cover.
It was during this rhythmic work that the biggest mistake—and the closest contact—occurred. Matthew, stretching to plant a seed at the far end of his row, didn’t see the uneven patch of soil behind him. As he stepped back, his foot caught. He let out a yelp, arms windmilling, the packet of beans flying into the air.
He didn’t hit the ground. A strong arm hooked around his waist, catching him mid-fall and hauling him back upright against a solid, unmovable chest. He was spun around, his back now pressed flush against Gunwook’s front, held securely. The world tilted and then righted itself.
“Got you,” Gunwook breathed, the words a warm puff of air against Matthew’s temple.
For a suspended second, they were frozen. Matthew could feel every hard plane of Gunwook’s body against his back, the frantic beat of his own heart, the secure grip around his midsection. The scent of Gunwook—sun, soil, sweat—was everywhere. It was overwhelming. It was safe.
Then, just as quickly, Gunwook loosened his hold, stepping back as if he’d been burned. His ears were bright red. “You should… watch your footing. The soil is still soft in spots.”
“Right. Sorry,” Matthew stammered, his face flaming. He bent to pick up the spilled bean seeds, his hands trembling slightly.
“It’s fine,” Gunwook said, his voice returning to its normal, steady timbre, though a slight huskiness remained. “No harm done. The seeds are tougher than you are.”
They finished the planting in a companionable, if slightly charged, silence. As the last bean seed was covered, Matthew stood and looked at their work. Rows of neat, labeled markers stood in the dark earth: lettuce, radish, bok choy, beet, bean. It was a promise. A shared promise.
“They’ll need watering,” Gunwook said, standing beside him. “Every evening until they sprout. Not too much. Think of it as a gentle encouragement, not a flood.”
Matthew nodded, memorizing the instruction. “Thank you,” he said, and he meant it for more than just the farming lesson. He meant for the patience, for the shared story, for the arm that caught him.
Gunwook met his gaze, and for a moment, the competent farmer’s mask slipped again, showing the young man beneath—a little unsure, wonderfully kind, and just as affected by the day’s closeness as Matthew was. “You did well today,” he said. “The mistakes are part of it. They’re how you learn to listen.”
He packed up his tools with his usual efficiency. “I’ll come by tomorrow to check on them. And… we still have that stew to make.”
As he walked away, Matthew looked down at his own dirt-streaked hands, then at the vulnerable, seeded earth. He thought of Gunwook’s words. They’re all talking. You just have to learn to listen.
Maybe, he thought, it wasn’t just the soil and the seeds. Maybe it was also the quiet, competent farmer who was slowly, carefully, revealing his own language. And for the first time, Matthew felt a desperate, hopeful urge to learn how to listen to that, too.
—--------
The first thing Matthew was aware of was the sound of a gentle, persistent tapping. It wasn't Taerae's dramatic rap, but something softer. He blinked awake in the grey pre-dawn light, the remnants of a dream about orderly rows of lettuce fading. The tapping came again, from the back door this time.
Pulling on a sweater, he padded to the door and opened it to find Park Gunwook standing there, silhouetted against the lightening sky. He held two empty watering cans in one hand and a small cloth bundle in the other. He looked unfairly alert, his hair slightly damp as if he'd already washed his face in cold well water.
"You're early," Matthew mumbled, his voice sleep-rough.
"Best time to check the seeds," Gunwook said, his own voice a low rumble in the quiet morning. "Before the sun gets strong. And I brought something." He lifted the cloth bundle. "My mother made too much rice last night. I thought we could use it."
The kindness, the simple, practical thoughtfulness of it, made Matthew's chest feel tight. "Come in," he said, stepping aside. "I was just about to make breakfast. As a... thank you. For the rice."
A flicker of something—amusement? concern?—passed over Gunwook's face, but he just nodded and set the cans down. "I'll help."
The kitchen was small, and with Gunwook's broad shoulders filling the space, it felt even smaller. Matthew, determined to be a good host, pulled out eggs, a lone green onion, and the leftover kimchi from Jiwoong's store. "Omelettes," he declared, with more confidence than he felt.
Gunwook watched, silent, as Matthew cracked an egg against the rim of the bowl a little too hard, sending a shard of shell into the yolk. Matthew fished it out with his fingers, flushing. He chopped the green onion with intense concentration, but the pieces were uneven, some large, some tiny. He could feel Gunwook's eyes on him, a warm, palpable weight.
"Pan might be too hot," Gunwook observed quietly as Matthew poured the beaten egg into the sizzling oil.
It was. The egg immediately bubbled and browned at the edges, setting too fast. Matthew tried to swirl it, to fold it, but it stuck and tore, turning into a scrambled, lacy mess rather than a neat omelette. A frustrated sigh escaped him.
Without a word, Gunwook moved. He didn't take over, but he stepped into the space beside Matthew at the small two-burner stove, his arm brushing Matthew's. "Here," he murmured, his hand covering Matthew's on the spatula handle. "Slow. Gentle. You're not fighting it."
He guided Matthew's hand in a slow, circular lift, easing the setting egg from the pan's surface. His body was a solid line of heat against Matthew's side. Matthew could feel the rhythm of Gunwook's breath near his ear, could see the focused line of his jaw from the corner of his eye. The air in the tiny kitchen shifted, charged with something more than the smell of cooking egg. It was the intimacy of shared, quiet effort, the brush of a sleeve, the steadying presence at his back. Matthew's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic beat that had nothing to do with culinary failure.
"Now, the kimchi rice," Gunwook said, his voice still low, not moving away. He reached for the cloth bundle with his free hand, his other still lightly guiding Matthew's on the spatula. He spread the fragrant rice next to the half-formed omelette. "We'll fold it in. It doesn't have to be perfect."
Together, they managed to fold the torn egg over the rice. It was a lopsided, messy hybrid of an omelette and fried rice. But they had made it. Together.
Plating the awkward but delicious-smelling creation, their fingers brushed. A simple, electric contact. Matthew jerked his hand back as if burned, meeting Gunwook's eyes. For a moment, the farmer’s usual calm mask was gone, replaced by a look of similar startled awareness, a dark, unreadable emotion swimming in his gaze. The strange, sweet tension stretched, thick and silent, until Gunwook cleared his throat and took a deliberate step back.
"It'll taste fine," he said, the words sounding a little strained.
They ate at the low table, the morning sun now streaming through the windows. The food was good, comforting and warm. The earlier tension settled into a buzzing hum just beneath the surface of their polite conversation about soil moisture and germination times.
After eating, they took the watering cans outside. The world was fresh and dewy, the air cool. They worked in companionable silence, Gunwook showing Matthew how to use his thumb over the can's spout to create a gentle, rain-like shower. "You don't want to wash the seeds away," he explained, his voice back to its normal, instructive tone, though his eyes still avoided Matthew's for too long.
They were nearly finished when a cheerful voice cut through the quiet.
"Kim Taerae! Your resident diva has arrived—oh!"
Matthew turned to see Taerae walking up the path, but he wasn't alone. Beside him was a man Matthew had never seen. He was a little taller than Matthew, with a smile so bright and welcoming it seemed to generate its own light. He had warm, kind eyes and an air of effortless grace. He was dressed neatly in casual trousers and a soft-looking sweater, and he carried a small paper bag.
"Matthew-yah! Gunwook-ah!" Taerae sang. "Look who I found lurking near my house! He claims he was in the neighborhood, but we all know he just missed me."
The stranger laughed, a soft, pleasant sound. He bowed politely. "I'm Sung Hanbin. I teach music at the secondary school in the next town. Taerae has been… a persistent friend since I moved here last year." His Korean was clear and warm, and he immediately turned his sunshine smile on Matthew. "You must be Seok Matthew. Taerae and the entire village grapevine has told me all about the new doctor-turned-farmer. It's so wonderful to meet you."
Hanbin stepped forward, his hand extended. Matthew shook it, struck by the genuine, open warmth in his expression. There was no pity, no awkwardness about his past—just friendly curiosity. "It's nice to meet you, Hanbin-ssi. I'm not much of a farmer yet, as Gunwook can attest."
"Oh, I'm sure you're a fantastic student," Hanbin said, his eyes crinkling. "Gunwook is the best teacher. Though he can be a bit of a stern taskmaster, right?" He flashed a teasing grin at Gunwook, who had gone very still a few feet away, his watering can held rigidly at his side.
Gunwook's response was a tight, non-committal hum.
Undeterred, Hanbin turned his attention fully to Matthew. "Taerae said you're from Canada? I spent a summer in Vancouver for a music program a few years ago! I miss the sea-to-sky highway terribly. Have you been?"
The conversation took off like a shot. Vancouver, shared memories of specific parks, the taste of proper poutine versus the attempts you could find in Seoul. Hanbin was easy to talk to, asking thoughtful questions and listening with rapt attention. He had a way of making Matthew feel interesting, his laughter coming readily at Matthew's clumsy anecdotes about his early farming failures.
Matthew, for the first time since arriving, found himself in a fluent, effortless, and joyful Korean conversation. It was a relief, a lifeline to a part of his identity he thought he'd lost. He didn't notice the way Gunwook had slowly put down his watering can, his broad shoulders stiff. He didn't see the way Gunwook’s eyes tracked the animated movement of Hanbin's hands as he described a Vancouver jazz club, or the way Matthew's face lit up in response.
But Taerae saw. He saw the way Gunwook's jaw tightened just a fraction. He saw the way his gaze, usually so soft when it landed on Matthew, had turned into a guarded, watchful stare. A slow, cat-like smile spread across Taerae's face. Oh, this is interesting.
"You should come by the school sometime, Matthew-ssi," Hanbin was saying warmly. "We have a small garden club the students run. They'd be thrilled to meet a real doctor, and to see someone starting their own farm. It's so inspiring."
"That would be great," Matthew said, meaning it. "I'd love to."
A low, quiet sound, almost like a grunt, came from Gunwook's direction. "The seedlings need consistent care," he said abruptly, his voice cutting through the friendly chatter. It was harder than he intended. "Can't be away too often in these first weeks."
The statement hung in the air, practical but possessive. Hanbin blinked, his smile never faltering, but his eyes flickered with a moment of perceptive understanding. "Of course! Priorities. Well, the invitation stands whenever you have time."
The visit didn't last much longer. Hanbin, ever polite, excused himself to prepare for his school day. Taerae left with him, throwing a last, glittering, knowing look over his shoulder at Gunwook.
When they were gone, the silence felt different. Heavier. Matthew, still buoyed by the pleasant interaction, turned to Gunwook. "He seems really nice."
Gunwook was coiling the hose with a little more force than necessary. "Hmm."
"Did you know he lived in Vancouver? It was so cool to talk about it with someone who—"
"Matthew." Gunwook's voice was flat. "The watering is done. The soil is saturated enough. Too much, and you'll cause rot." He wouldn't meet Matthew's eyes. "I have to go. My own fields need work."
He was leaving. Earlier than he ever had. Without plans for the next step, without mentioning the evening, without his usual quiet, lingering presence.
"Oh," Matthew said, the happy buzz from talking to Hanbin fading into confusion. "Okay. Thank you for your help. With breakfast and... everything."
Gunwook just gave a short nod, his brow furrowed as if puzzling out a difficult problem. He walked to the gate, then paused, his back to Matthew. "Just remember," he said, his voice low, "the garden needs you here. Focus on what's in front of you."
And then he was gone, leaving Matthew standing amidst his freshly watered, hopeful rows, surrounded by a sudden, puzzling chill where there had only been warmth just an hour before. He replayed the morning—the closeness in the kitchen, the easy laughter with Hanbin, the sudden shift in Gunwook's mood.
A slow, dawning realization began to seep in, tentative and fragile as a sprouting seed. That tension in the kitchen... that wasn't just him. And that abrupt departure... it hadn't been about the soil at all.
He looked down at the damp earth, thinking of Gunwook's words. Focus on what's in front of you. But all Matthew could focus on was the confusing, thrilling, and slightly terrifying new landscape that had just opened up in the space between his heart and the stern, retreating back of the young farmer who had just shown, for the very first time, a crack in his impeccable composure.
—-------
The days that followed Sung Hanbin’s visit were marked by a subtle, seismic shift in the atmosphere of the Seok homestead. The garden itself was responding beautifully—tiny, brave spears of green had broken through the dark soil in the lettuce and radish rows, a sight that never failed to send a jolt of pure joy through Matthew. But the human tending it had become a mystery.
Park Gunwook still came. He was too responsible, too invested in the success of the garden—and perhaps, though he’d never admit it, in the success of the gardener—to stay away. But the easy rhythm they’d built was gone, replaced by a stilted, overly formal cadence.
His lessons became clipped, purely technical. “Thin the radishes to two centimeters apart. Use scissors. Don’t pull.” He’d demonstrate with swift, efficient movements, his large hands brutal in their precision, then step back, creating a foot of empty space between them. The gentle guidance, the casual touches that had once sent sparks up Matthew’s spine, vanished. If Matthew’s hand strayed too close while reaching for a tool, Gunwook would subtly shift his stance. It was a masterclass in creating distance without taking a single step backward.
Matthew noticed. How could he not? The absence of Gunwook’s quiet, steady warmth was as palpable as a sudden cloud covering the sun. He replayed the morning of Hanbin’s visit endlessly. The charged intimacy of the kitchen, the easy laughter with the charming teacher, and then… Gunwook’s retreat. The connection felt obvious, yet fragile. Was it really because of Hanbin? The idea seemed both ridiculous and intoxicating.
The worst part was the silence. Gunwook, who had never been overly chatty, now communicated in grunts and monosyllables. When Matthew tried to bridge the gap, asking about Gunwook’s own crops or his family, he’d get a “Fine” or a “Busy” in return. The farmer’s gaze, once so openly attentive, now seemed fixed on the middle distance, or boring into the soil as if it held the answers to a difficult question.
One afternoon, while they were weeding the burgeoning bean plants, Gunwook’s internal storm finally leaked out. Matthew, trying to make conversation, mentioned, “Hanbin-ssi stopped by the fence earlier. He dropped off a book about companion planting he thought I might like. Wasn’t that nice?”
Gunwook’s hand, tugging at a weed, slipped. The root snapped, and he cursed under his breath, a short, sharp sound Matthew had never heard from him. He didn’t look up. “I told you what to plant where. You don’t need a book.”
The edge in his voice was unmistakable—a blunt, uncharacteristic rudeness. It wasn’t about the book. It was about the giver.
“I know, I just thought—” Matthew began, taken aback.
“Thinking is good. But listening is better.” Gunwook stood abruptly, wiping his hands on his pants with a harsh, grating motion. “I have to go check on the irrigation lines in the west field.” It was a flimsy excuse, and they both knew it. The west field’s irrigation had been checked two days prior.
Matthew watched him stride away, his back rigid, a confusing mixture of hurt and a strange, fluttering hope churning in his stomach. The reaction was too strong, too personal. It confirmed his suspicions. Gunwook wasn’t just being moody. He was… jealous.
Enter Kim Taerae, the self-appointed conductor of this burgeoning romantic farce. He observed the strained dynamic with the delight of a playwright watching his characters finally hit their marks.
He arrived the next morning just as Gunwook was leaving after a tense, silent session of staking tomato plants. “Leaving so soon, Farmer Gunwook?” Taerae called, his voice dripping with faux innocence. “No shared songpyeon today? No gentle corrections on Matthew’s knot-tying technique? My, how the tides have turned.”
Gunwook shot him a look that could curdle milk and kept walking.
Taerae floated over to Matthew, who was staring glumly at the perfectly tied but emotionally empty tomato stakes. “Well, well,” Taerae sighed dramatically, fanning himself with his hat. “Someone’s been chewing on sour persimmons. The air is so thick with unspoken feelings you could plant them and they’d grow into a forest of pining.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Matthew confessed, his shoulders slumping. “He’s been like this since… you know.”
“Since a certain sunshine-y teacher brought a little light and laughter to your lonely doorstep?” Taerae finished, eyes sparkling. “Oh, I know. The whole village knows. Park Gunwook, our stalwart oak, is feeling a slight tremor in his roots. It’s delicious.”
“It’s not delicious, it’s confusing! He’s just… cold now.”
“Cold? No, no, darling. That’s not cold. That’s the violent internal combustion of a man who has only ever known how to care for things quietly—plants, animals, his family—suddenly faced with a living, breathing, smiling variable he doesn’t know how to categorize. And seeing that variable smile at someone else?” Taerae fanned himself faster. “Catastrophic for a simple farming heart.”
Matthew’s own heart skipped. “You think that’s it?”
“I know that’s it. The man nearly beheaded a perfectly innocent cabbage seedling yesterday when Hanbin’s name came up at the well.” Taerae leaned in conspiratorially. “He needs a push. Or rather, you need to give him a reason to stop pushing you away.”
“How?”
“By existing! By being your charming, clumsy, trying-so-hard self. But maybe… with a little less talk of other men.” Taerae winked. “And leave the rest to me.”
Taerae’s “help” took the form of strategic, high-volume commentary whenever Gunwook was within earshot.
A few days later, as Gunwook was silently demonstrating how to hill soil around the potato plants, Taerae appeared, holding the companion planting book from Hanbin.
“Matthew-yah, this diagram is fascinating!” he announced, though he was clearly looking at Gunwook. “Hanbin-ssi has such an eye for useful things. And so thoughtful to bring it by personally. He really seems to have taken an interest in your… growth.”
Gunwook’s shovel bit into the earth with a definitive thunk.
On another occasion, Matthew mentioned needing to go to the general store. Taerae, lounging on the porch, piped up, “Oh, I’ll join you! I need to see Jiwoong-hyung about… shelf things. But you know, Hanbin-ssi said he might be at the store later too, picking up some honey for his vocal chords. A teacher’s voice is his instrument, he said. So sensitive. So caring.”
Gunwook, who was sharpening a sickle nearby, ran the whetstone down the blade with a prolonged, grating hiss that set Matthew’s teeth on edge.
The pot was thoroughly stirred. Matthew could see the effect of Taerae’s words in the tight line of Gunwook’s shoulders, the forced steadiness of his breathing. The jealousy wasn’t a quiet simmer anymore; it was a visible, barely-contained boil threatening to spill over.
The breaking point came on a sweltering afternoon. They were taking a water break under the persimmon tree, the air heavy and still. Matthew, trying once more to crack the shell, said softly, “Gunwook-ah. Did I do something wrong?”
Gunwook stiffened, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “No.”
“Then why have you been… different?”
A long pause. A dragonfly buzzed past. Finally, Gunwook spoke, his voice low and rough, as if the words were being dragged from him. “You don’t need me anymore. You have a teacher who brings you books. A friend who makes you laugh.” He swallowed, the muscle in his jaw jumping. “You understand him perfectly.”
There it was. The raw, unvarnished truth, laid bare in the humid air. It wasn’t just jealousy; it was insecurity. The fear of being replaced, of his quiet, practical lessons being rendered obsolete by easier conversation and city commonality.
Matthew’s breath caught. He looked at Gunwook, truly looked at him—not at the competent farmer, but at the young man beside him, vulnerable and hurting. The hope that had been fluttering in his chest now swelled, warm and sure. “Gunwook,” he said, his own voice firm. “Hanbin-ssi is nice. But he didn’t plow my field. He didn’t teach me how to listen to the soil. He doesn’t…” He hesitated, then charged ahead, his heart in his throat. “He doesn’t make my hands shake when he stands too close in the kitchen.”
Gunwook’s head snapped toward him. His eyes, wide and dark and finally, finally meeting Matthew’s, held a storm of confusion, hope, and desperate want. The carefully constructed wall of distance shattered in that shared gaze.
From the porch, where he had been watching the entire scene like a riveting soap opera, Kim Taerae let out a slow, satisfied sigh. He took a delicate sip of his iced tea and murmured to himself, “And… scene.”
—----------
The silence that followed Matthew’s confession was not the empty quiet of the past week. It was a living, breathing thing, charged and potent, swelling with every beat of Matthew’s hammering heart. Gunwook just stared at him, his earlier rigidity melted into something like shock, the storm in his eyes churning with a new, vulnerable intensity.
The sound of Taerae delicately setting down his iced tea glass on the porch railing was like a gunshot in the stillness. “Well!” he declared, pushing himself up with exquisite slowness. “My work here is done. The soil is tilled, the seeds are sown… the rest is up to you two to water.” He sauntered off down the path, humming a tune that was suspiciously close to a wedding march, leaving them utterly alone.
Gunwook blinked, the spell broken. He looked down at his hands, then back at Matthew, his throat working. “I… I should go,” he rasped, but the words held no force, no conviction. He didn’t move.
“Why?” Matthew asked, the single word brave and soft. He was confronting it now, not just Gunwook’s feelings, but his own. The realization was a tide within him: the constant awareness of Gunwook’s presence, the comfort in his steadiness, the electric thrill of his touch, the hollow ache when he withdrew. It wasn’t just gratitude. It was a different kind of attachment, one that didn’t terrify him with the specter of loss, but thrilled him with the promise of something… alive.
“Because I…” Gunwook struggled, the confident farmer gone, replaced by a flustered young man. “Because I don’t know how to… be. Around you. Now.”
That was the core of it. The rules of their world—teacher and student, guide and novice—had vaporized in the heat of that shared gaze. They were on uncharted, equal ground.
“So learn,” Matthew said, taking a tentative step forward. “Like I’m learning about soil.”
Before Gunwook could formulate a response—a retreat, an advance, a word—a cheerful, booming voice echoed from the lane. “Matthew-ssi! Gunwook-ah! There you are!”
It was Mr. Park, his father’s friend, beaming and waving a flyer. “The Harvest Planning Committee is in full swing! The festival is next weekend! You’re both signed up for the heavy lifting team, of course. And Matthew, you’re new, so you’re on the decoration committee, too. Hanbin is the chair, he’ll explain everything. Meeting starts in ten minutes at the community hall!”
The real world, in the form of village obligations, came crashing back in. Gunwook’s expression shuttered, a mask of polite neutrality sliding back into place, though it was now visibly cracked. “We’ll be there,” he called back, his voice returning to its normal timbre but lacking its usual ease.
The moment was lost, but the air between them remained thick with what had been almost said.

In the flurry of the planning meeting—where Hanbin, bright and efficient at the front of the hall, assigned tasks with charming authority—Matthew saw Gunwook retreat into service. He volunteered for the physically demanding jobs: hauling tables, setting up the large grill pit, stringing overhead lights between the ancient trees in the square. He was helpful, capable, and everywhere—except near Matthew.
Matthew, tasked with Hanbin and Taerae on lantern-making and garland-stringing, watched him. To Matthew, it looked like avoidance. Gunwook would meet his eyes across the crowded hall, then immediately turn to ask Mr. Jang a question about firewood. He’d see Matthew struggling with a knot of twine, take half a step forward, then let old Mrs. Baek swoop in to help instead. Each instance felt like a deliberate choice, a silent reversal of the confession in the garden.
He regrets it, Matthew thought, his own newfound feelings curdling into anxiety. He doesn’t know how to be around me, so he’s just… staying away.
He couldn’t have been more wrong. Gunwook wasn’t avoiding him. He was navigating. The force of his own acknowledged jealousy, followed by the seismic shift of Matthew’s admission, had left him emotionally raw. Being near Matthew in a casual, public setting felt suddenly, terrifyingly exposing. If he got too close, he might do something irrevocable—like reach for his hand in front of everyone. So he channeled the chaotic energy into work, believing his usefulness was his only safe currency. Him watching Matthew laugh with Hanbin over a crooked lantern wasn’t jealousy this time, but a painful, yearning uncertainty: Do I still have a place there, now that he knows?
—------’
The night of the Harvest Festival arrived, forcing the proximity the village schedule demanded. The central square was transformed. Lines of glowing paper lanterns, some of them lopsided (the work of Matthew and Hanbin), cast a warm, golden light over long tables groaning with food. The smoky, savory scent of grilled meat mingled with the sweet smell of hoddeok and the fresh, nutty aroma of steamed rice. Music from a portable speaker—a mix of trot and modern pop—filled the air, and what seemed like the entire population of Hwayeong milled about, chatting and laughing.
All were there, as required.
Kim Jiwoong stood by the drink table, effortlessly handsome as he poured cups of sikhye for a giggling group of grandmothers, who patted his arm affectionately.
Han Yujin had been corralled into serving duties, moving platters with a long-suffering expression that vanished whenever he sneaked a piece of fried chicken.
Sung Hanbin, the evening’s cheerful master of ceremonies, moved through the crowd with a microphone, coaxing people to play games, his smile a beacon.
Kim Taerae held court at the most central table, holding forth on the proper aesthetic of a harvest wreath, a critique directed at the very wreath hanging above him.
And Park Gunwook was, as always, working. He was turning ribs on the giant grill, his face flushed from the heat, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms glistening in the lantern light. He looked like a painting of rustic vitality, but his eyes kept straying from the fire, searching.
Matthew stood near the edge of the festivities, a cup of untouched sikhye in his hand, feeling acutely alone in the crowd. He watched Gunwook laugh at something Mr. Park said, the sound deep and genuine, and it twisted something in his gut. He’d been so sure of the connection in his garden, but here, in the reality of Gunwook’s world, he felt like an outsider again.
“Your tragic pining is putting a damper on the festive mood,” Taerae materialized beside him, linking their arms. “He’s been watching you like you’re the last tteok on the plate all night. And you’re watching him like he’s a ghost. It’s exhausting.”
“He’s not watching me,” Matthew muttered. “He’s actively finding reasons to be on the other side of the square.”
“Oh, you precious fool,” Taerae sighed. Before Matthew could protest, Taerae raised his voice. “HANBIN-AH! Our Matthew-yah looks lost! Come keep him company!”
Hanbin, ever kind, immediately excused himself from a conversation and bounded over, his smile radiant. “Matthew-ssi! Not playing the ring toss? Here, let me get you some of the really good kimchi pancakes, they’re almost gone.” He placed a warm, friendly hand on Matthew’s back to steer him toward the food table.
Across the square, Gunwook saw it. He saw Hanbin’s easy touch, Matthew’s reluctant but polite smile. The tongs in his hand clenched. A rib slipped through the grate, hitting the coals with a burst of flame.
“Whoa there, son!” Mr. Park chuckled. “Easy on the merchandise!”
It was the final straw. The week of tension, the longing, the fear, and now this very public, very benign scene—it was too much. Gunwook thrust the tongs at a surprised Mr. Park. “Take over, please.”
He strode across the square, weaving through neighbors, his gaze locked on Matthew. The music, the laughter, the smells—it all tunneled into a blur. He didn’t see the curious looks, didn’t hear Taerae’s soft, triumphant “Finally.”
He simply walked right up to where Matthew stood with Hanbin, and without a word, took Matthew’s empty cup from his hand. His fingers brushed Matthew’s, a deliberate, firm contact.
“I need your help,” Gunwook said, his voice low, not leaving room for argument. His eyes held Matthew’s, blazing with an intensity that erased the crowd around them. “With the fire. It’s… it’s too much for one person.”
It was a transparent lie. They both knew it. Hanbin, perceptive, took a subtle half-step back, his smile softening into something knowing and gentle.
Matthew’s breath caught. In Gunwook’s eyes, he didn’t see regret or avoidance. He saw the same storm from under the persimmon tree, but now it was directed at him, full of unspoken need and a question. The misunderstanding shattered.
“Okay,” Matthew whispered, letting Gunwook’s presence pull him away from the crowd, from Hanbin, from the noise. He let himself be led, not to the raging grill, but around the side of the community hall, into the quieter, shadowed space between the building and a towering old gingko tree, where the lantern light was just a soft glow and the music a distant hum.
They were alone again, in the semi-darkness, the tension between them no longer a silent wall, but a taut string, vibrating, ready to be plucked.
The space behind the community hall was a pocket of quiet, thick with the scent of damp earth and distant grilling meat. The golden glow from the lanterns bled over the rooftop, casting long, dramatic shadows. Gunwook still held Matthew’s wrist, his grip firm but not tight, as if he’d grabbed the only stable thing in a tilting world.
“The fire isn’t too much,” Matthew stated softly, his heart a frantic bird against his ribs. He didn’t pull away.
“No,” Gunwook admitted, his voice rough. He didn’t let go. “I just… needed to…” He trailed off, his courage faltering under the weight of Matthew’s expectant gaze. The words from the garden hung between them, but here, now, he felt paralyzed.
—---
Matthew saw the conflict in his eyes—the want, the fear, the sheer overwhelming novelty of it all. He understood it, because he felt it too. But he also felt a surge of protective tenderness. This incredibly capable man was rendered helpless by something as simple as feeling. Matthew took a half-step closer, reducing the space between them to mere inches. He could feel the heat radiating from Gunwook’s body.
“It’s okay,” Matthew whispered. “We can just… be here. You don’t have to know how.”
Gunwook’s shoulders slumped slightly, a fraction of his tension releasing. His thumb moved, a subconscious, gentle stroke against the sensitive skin of Matthew’s inner wrist. The simple touch was more intimate than any words they’d exchanged.
Just then, a dramatic sigh cut through the moment. “By the gods, you two are terrible at this.”
Kim Taerae leaned against the corner of the building, arms crossed, looking like a disappointed romance novelist. “I give you a perfectly good secluded corner, and you just… vibrate at each other? I expected at least a heartfelt confession. Maybe a small, tasteful kiss.”
Gunwook dropped Matthew’s wrist as if scalded, taking a hurried step back. “Hyung!”
“Oh, don’t ‘hyung’ me. I’m here to provide a public service announcement before you combust.” Taerae pushed off the wall and sauntered over, lowering his voice to a theatrical whisper. “Since someone—” he glared pointedly at Gunwook, “—has been constructing entire tragic novels in his head, you should know: Sung Hanbin is taken. Very, very taken.”
Matthew blinked. Gunwook went perfectly still.
“What?” Gunwook managed.
“His boyfriend,” Taerae said, savoring the word. “A brilliant art historian he met in university. Currently doing a three-year research fellowship in Beijing. Long-distance. They’re disgustingly in love, video calls every night, the whole deal. The name is Zhang Hao. Hanbin’s kindness isn’t flirting; it’s just his default setting. He’s sunshine incarnate. He’s not a threat to your painfully slow-blooming romance, you monumental pine tree.”
The information landed in the space between them. Matthew felt a strange relief—not for himself, but for the visible, almost physical wave of release that washed over Gunwook. The last remnants of that jealous, guarded stiffness dissolved from his posture, leaving behind something softer, more open, and slightly embarrassed.
“I… I didn’t…” Gunwook stammered, running a hand through his hair.
“You did,” Taerae and Matthew said in unison. They looked at each other and shared a small, surprised smile.
Taerae grinned. “There! A moment of unity! My work is, once again, complete. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go sabotage the speaker so Jiwoong-hyung has to fiddle with the wires. It’s a classic damsel-in-distress scenario.” He fluttered his fingers and disappeared back toward the noise.
The new silence was different. Lighter. The ghost of Hanbin, which had loomed so large in Gunwook’s mind, had been peacefully laid to rest.
Gunwook let out a long, shaky breath, a real smile—the first Matthew had seen in days—tentatively appearing. “I feel stupid.”
“Don’t,” Matthew said, smiling back. “It was… kind of sweet. In a caveman-possession sort of way.”
A low chuckle escaped Gunwook. The sound was rich and warm, and it did something dangerous to Matthew’s equilibrium. “Come on,” Gunwook said, nodding toward the lane that led away from the square. “The festival will go on for hours. There’s… there’s somewhere else I want to be.”
—----
Leading Matthew away from the festival lights felt like the most right and most terrifying thing he’d ever done. The revelation about Hanbin had lifted a boulder from his chest, leaving him feeling giddy and exposed. He wanted to share something real with Matthew, something central to his life.
“Where are we going?” Matthew asked, his voice curious and trusting in the darkness.
“My house,” Gunwook said, the words solid and sure. “I want you to meet my parents.”
He felt Matthew’s steps falter for a second. “Oh. Are you… are you sure?”
“Yes.” He was. After the turmoil, he craved the simple, grounding reality of home. And he wanted Matthew to be a part of it.
The Park family home was a larger, more modern version of Matthew’s hanok, warm light spilling from its windows. The moment Gunwook slid the front door open, the rich, savory scent of slow-cooked doenjang jjigae and freshly made kimchi enveloped them.
“Appa! Eomma!” Gunwook called.
His mother appeared first, wiping her hands on an apron, her face breaking into a smile that was a softer, feminine version of Gunwook’s. Her eyes immediately found Matthew and widened with delighted curiosity. “Gunwook-ah! And you must be Matthew! We’ve heard so much!”
His father followed, a sturdy man with Gunwook’s height and a jovial, weathered face. “The Canadian doctor-farmer!” he boomed, his voice filling the entryway. “Come in, come in! You’re just in time. Your timing is better than this one’s,” he added, clapping a massive hand on Gunwook’s shoulder.
The next hour was a whirlwind to Gunwook’s senses. He watched, a peculiar warmth spreading in his chest, as his world absorbed Matthew.
His mother fussed, pressing a bowl of the stew into Matthew’s hands before he’d even properly taken off his shoes. “You’re too thin for farm work! Gunwook, have you not been feeding this boy?”
His father launched into a series of enthusiastic questions about Canada, about Matthew’s grandparents (whom he remembered fondly), and about the state of the Seok field, offering unsolicited but expert advice on soil pH that had Matthew nodding earnestly.
And Matthew… Matthew was adorable. He was politely flustered by the attention, accepting the food with grateful bows, trying valiantly to keep up with Gunwook’s father’s rapid-fire Korean, asking shy, thoughtful questions about their own farm. He complimented the kimchi with such genuine awe (“It’s so much more complex than the store-bought kind!”) that Gunwook’s mother beamed as if he’d praised a masterpiece.
—------
For Matthew, the Park household was a tidal wave of warmth. It was the opposite of his quiet, solitary house. It was alive with noise, teasing, and overwhelming, unconditional welcome. He’d braced for scrutiny, but found only open-armed acceptance. Gunwook’s father, especially, had a way of making him feel like he’d always been coming over for dinner.
“This boy has good instincts!” Mr. Park declared after Matthew mentioned trying to use eggshells for slugs. “See, Gunwook? He listens! You should bring him by more often. We’ll fatten him up and teach him the real secrets.”
Gunwook, sitting beside Matthew at the low table, just nodded, a soft, almost dazed smile on his face. Matthew caught his eye, and the shared look was a world of understanding—See? This is where I come from. And now, you’re here.
—---------
And that was the problem. The pure, unadulterated joy of seeing Matthew embraced by his family began to twist, just slightly, into a new, utterly bewildering form of jealousy.
Two days later, his father packed up a container of leftover galbijjim. “For Matthew. He needs protein.”
His mother added a jar of her special radish kimchi. “His batch will take weeks to ferment. He shouldn’t go without.”
When Gunwook delivered them, Matthew’s face lit up with a gratitude so bright it made Gunwook’s chest ache. “Your parents are too kind! Thank you so much!”
The next time, his father decided Matthew needed a proper rain hat and presented Gunwook with a weathered, but perfectly functional, bamboo hat to give him.
Then, his mother heard Matthew had a slight cough. Suddenly, Gunwook was dispatched with a thermos of ginger-citrus tea and strict instructions to make sure he drank it all.
Each act of kindness filled Gunwook with a conflicted stew of emotions. He was happy. He wanted Matthew to feel loved and supported. But a petty, possessive voice in his head whispered: He’s smiling like that because of my appa’s ribs. He looks touched because of my eomma’s tea. I’m just… the delivery boy.
The final straw came on market day. He was helping Matthew choose peppers at the communal stall when his father appeared.
“Matthew-ah! Perfect!” Mr. Park boomed, ignoring Gunwook completely. He slung a heavy, friendly arm around Matthew’s shoulders. “You’re coming for lunch on Sunday. No arguments. Eomma is making samgyeopsal. We’ll show you how to build a proper leaf wrap.” He leaned in, conspiratorial. “Gunwook always uses too much garlic. I’ll teach you the right balance.”
Matthew laughed, a free, easy sound. “I’d be honored, Mr. Park. Thank you.”
As his father walked away, winking at Gunwook as if to say ‘See? I got him,’ Gunwook felt a familiar, hot coil of jealousy tighten in his gut. But this was different. This wasn’t fear of being replaced by an outsider. This was fear of being overshadowed in his own family, on his own turf.
He looked at Matthew, who was smiling after his father, utterly charmed. The jealousy morphed into a fierce, desperate want. He didn’t just want Matthew to be loved by his family. He wanted to be the reason for that look on Matthew’s face. He wanted to be the one to make him laugh like that, to protect him, to provide for him.
He was no longer competing with a friendly teacher. He was competing with a hearty stew, a bamboo hat, and his own father’s overpowering charisma.
As they walked back, the groceries feeling heavier in his hands, Gunwook realized with startling clarity that his feelings hadn’t been resolved by Hanbin’s relationship status. They’d simply been upgraded. He didn’t just have feelings for Matthew anymore. He was in a battle for his attention, and he was losing to a jar of kimchi.
He needed a new strategy. But all he knew was farming and food. And his family, it seemed, had already weaponized both.
‐—----‐—
The solution to Gunwook’s predicament arrived, ironically, via Kim Taerae. Under the guise of “celebrating the first successful harvest of Matthew’s radishes,” which were three slightly crooked but passionately tended specimens, Taerae organized a gathering. It was to be held at the old pavilion by the village’s small stream, a place used for summer picnics and autumn moon-viewing. “A casual, friendly thing,” Taerae had insisted, but the glint in his eye suggested a stage was being set.
—-----
As dusk settled, painting the sky in washes of lavender and peach, Matthew walked toward the stream, a bottle of makgeolli from Jiwoong’s store in hand. He could hear laughter before he saw the group. The pavilion was lit with strings of globe lights Taerae had “borrowed” from the festival stores, casting a soft, golden glow. A small fire crackled in a stone pit, its smoke carrying the scent of pine and earth into the cool evening air.
Everyone was there, just as Taerae had promised. Kim Jiwoong was quietly grilling strips of marinated beef over a portable grill, his movements economical and graceful. Sung Hanbin was arranging a platter of fruits with an artist’s eye, humming along to the soft folk music playing from a speaker. Han Yujin was locked in a fierce, whispered debate over his phone, presumably about a game, while Kim Taerae flitted between them all like a radiant moth, adjusting a light here, stealing a piece of meat there.
And Park Gunwook stood slightly apart, tending the main fire. The flickering light carved the planes of his face in stark relief—the strong line of his jaw, the focused dip of his brow. He was wearing a simple black sweatshirt that made his shoulders look impossibly broad, and the firelight danced in his dark eyes. He looked, Matthew thought with a sudden, painful ache, like a portrait of everything solid and good in the world.
Matthew’s decision had crystallized over days of watching Gunwook wrestle with his silent, sweet jealousy. He saw the way Gunwook’s eyes followed the kimchi jar from his mother’s hands to Matthew’s shelf, the slight frown when Matthew praised his father’s farming tips a little too enthusiastically. It wasn’t annoyance; it was yearning. And Matthew was done with yearning. He wanted to choose, and he wanted Gunwook to know he was chosen.
He didn’t make a grand announcement. He simply walked into the circle of firelight, and instead of taking the empty seat next to Hanbin, he walked straight to Gunwook’s side by the fire.
“Need any help?” Matthew asked, his voice low.
Gunwook started, as if pulled from deep thought. His eyes, reflecting the flames, widened slightly. “It’s under control,” he said, but he shifted, making space for Matthew on the wide, flat stone he was using as a seat.
Matthew sat, their thighs not quite touching, but close enough that he could feel the heat from Gunwook’s body competing with the fire’s warmth. He could smell the clean, smoky scent of his sweatshirt, the faint, earthy note of his skin.

Gunwook’s heart, which had been thudding a slow, heavy rhythm, kicked into a gallop. Matthew’s deliberate choice to sit beside him, in front of everyone, sent a shockwave through his system. He was hyper-aware of every point of near-contact: the brush of Matthew’s sleeve against his arm when he reached for a stick to poke the fire, the way their shoes were almost aligned in the dirt.
He tried to focus on feeding the flames, but his senses were hijacked. The crackle of the fire became the soundtrack to Matthew’s quiet breathing beside him. The taste of the evening air was mixed with the subtle, clean scent of Matthew’s shampoo. The warmth on his right side wasn't just from the fire, but from Matthew’s proximity, a living, magnetic heat.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Taerae watching them with a catlike smile. Hanbin said something that made Jiwoong laugh, a soft, deep sound. Yujin groaned at his phone. But it all felt distant, muffled, as if he and Matthew were inside a bubble of firelight and tension.

As the night deepened, the group dynamic ebbed and flowed around their quiet nucleus. Taerae convinced Jiwoong to play a song on the small guitar he’d brought, his baritone voice smooth and tender in the night. Hanbin led a silly drinking game that made even Yujin crack a smile. Through it all, Matthew stayed rooted at Gunwook’s side.
He made his choice visible in small, deliberate ways. When the shared plate of grilled meat came around, he picked the best piece and placed it on Gunwook’s rice bowl without a word. When Gunwook made a dry comment about Yujin’s gaming priorities, Matthew was the one who laughed first and loudest, his head tipping back, his joy genuine and unguarded. He asked Gunwook questions about the fire-building, about the stream’s history, keeping their conversation a private thread woven through the public tapestry.
Each action was a quiet declaration: I see you. I am here. With you.
Gunwook felt like he was slowly being set alight from the inside. The possessiveness and jealousy that had churned in him melted under the steady, warm drizzle of Matthew’s attention. He was being claimed, not with words, but with a thousand tiny, sensory-rich moments. The weight of Matthew’s gaze when he thought Gunwook wasn’t looking. The brush of fingers when passing the makgeolli bottle. The way Matthew’s laughter seemed to resonate in his own chest.
The tension between them wasn’t the sharp, anxious thing from before. It had transformed into something heavier, sweeter, a thick, golden syrup of anticipation that made the air hard to breathe and every accidental touch feel like a brand.
One by one, the others began to drift away. Yujin claimed an early curfew. Hanbin had papers to grade. Jiwoong began packing up his grill. Taerae, after giving them a final, theatrical once-over, linked arms with Jiwoong. “Walk me home, hyung. The path is dark, and I’m a delicate creature.” They disappeared into the night, leaving the pavilion quiet.
Soon, it was just the two of them and the dying fire. The world shrunk to the circle of dimming light, the rushing whisper of the stream, and the symphony of crickets. The silence was profound, layered, and charged.
“I should…” Matthew began, not moving.
“Yeah,” Gunwook breathed, also motionless.
They both stood, the movement clumsy and synchronized. They were close, so close in the semi-darkness. The last of the embers cast a faint, pulsing glow on Gunwook’s face. Matthew could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, the soft part of his lips.
Gunwook’s hand came up, not with its usual practical certainty, but with a hesitant tremor. His fingertips, rough and warm, brushed a stray strand of hair from Matthew’s forehead. The touch was a whisper against his skin, but it echoed through Matthew’s entire body, a lightning strike of pure feeling.
Matthew’s breath caught. He swayed forward, just an inch. An invitation, a surrender.
Gunwook’s gaze dropped to Matthew’s lips. His own parted. The air between them vanished, replaced by a magnetic field of want. Matthew could almost feel the phantom pressure of Gunwook’s mouth on his, could taste the promise of it—a mix of smoky makgeolli and something uniquely, essentially Gunwook.
Gunwook’s other hand came up to cradle the side of Matthew’s face, his thumb stroking the high curve of his cheekbone. The touch was devastatingly gentle, a question. Matthew’s eyes fluttered shut. He could hear Gunwook’s ragged inhale, could feel the heat of his body closing the final, infinitesimal gap.
This was it. The quiet night where everything would happen.
But then, Gunwook’s hand stilled. A shudder went through him. Matthew’s eyes opened to see a storm of conflict in Gunwook’s gaze—want warring with a deep, protective fear, the immensity of the step they were about to take clear in his widened eyes.
The moment stretched, taut and fragile.
With a ragged, almost pained sound, Gunwook dropped his forehead against Matthew’s instead, his eyes squeezing shut. His hands fell to Matthew’s shoulders, gripping them, not to pull him closer, but to hold them both steady in the precipice they couldn’t yet jump from.
“Matthew…” His name was a prayer, a plea, an apology on Gunwook’s lips.
“I know,” Matthew whispered back, his own voice thick with understanding. The ‘yes’ was there, in the space between them, in the shared, frantic beating of their hearts. But the weight of Gunwook’s past quiet devotion and Matthew’s recent, raw history made the final leap feel like crossing a canyon. The want was there, but so was the terrifying, wonderful responsibility of it.
They stayed like that, foreheads touching, sharing breath in the cooling dark, the fire now just embers and memory.
Slowly, reluctantly, they pulled apart. The night air felt cold on Matthew’s skin where Gunwook’s warmth had been.
“I’ll walk you home,” Gunwook said, his voice gravel.
The walk was silent, but the silence was no longer filled with misunderstanding or jealousy. It was brimming with the echo of the almost, and the terrifying, exhilarating promise of the next time.
—---------
The morning after the almost-kiss, the world did not feel different. The sun rose over Hwayeong in its usual, indifferent glory. Yet, within the borders of Matthew’s small farm and the winding paths between their houses, a fundamental shift had occurred. Park Gunwook, having teetered on the precipice of having and losing, had decided to stop teetering. If he couldn’t yet cross the final gap, he would fortify the space directly beside Matthew until it was unmistakably, irrevocably his.
It began subtly, a quiet colonization of Matthew’s daily life. Gunwook no longer waited for an invitation or a pre-arranged lesson. He simply arrived at Matthew’s gate with the dawn, not with the roar of a tractor, but with two steaming mugs of his mother’s barley tea.
“Morning,” he’d say, his voice still rough with sleep, offering a mug. He’d lean against the fence post and sip his own, his presence a solid, welcome fact. They wouldn’t always speak. They’d just watch the mist rise off the field, the shared silence a new, comfortable language.
He started bringing lunch. Not just leftovers from his mother, but things he made himself—simple gimbap rolls, the rice seasoned perfectly, the fillings neatly arranged. “You need to eat properly to work,” he’d state, placing the container on Matthew’s porch table with an air of finality. It was care, but it was also a marker: I provide this.
The most significant change was in their work. Gunwook no longer just instructed. He worked alongside, his movements mirroring Matthew’s, their bodies falling into a parallel rhythm. Weeding the bean rows became a synchronized dance; he on one side, Matthew on the other, their hands moving through the soil in unison, fingers sometimes brushing against the same root. The space between the rows, which had once felt vast with his uncertainty, now felt intimate, charged with a collaborative energy. He was no longer just the teacher observing from a distance. He was the partner in the dirt.
He claimed space in conversation, too. When Mr. Park dropped by with another jar of kimchi and a booming, “For my other son!”, Gunwook didn’t retreat into jealousy. He stepped forward, taking the jar from his father and placing it in Matthew’s hands himself, his own hand lingering over Matthew’s. “Appa’s kimchi is the best,” he’d say, his eyes on Matthew, not his father, transferring the gift and the credit, making himself the conduit. You get this kindness because you are connected to me.
When Taerae fluttered by with gossip about Jiwoong, Gunwook would listen, but his attention was a physical thing, a slight lean of his body toward Matthew, as if creating a gravitational field that pulled Matthew into his orbit and gently excluded the rest of the world. It wasn’t rude; it was possessive. It said, You are the most interesting thing here, and you are with me.
‐—-----
For Matthew, Gunwook’s steady, claiming presence was a balm and a terror. It was everything he’d unconsciously craved—a constant, reliable warmth, a touchstone in the quiet landscape of his new life. He reveled in it. He loved the unannounced morning teas, the shared lunches, the way Gunwook’s shoulder would press against his as they examined a new seedling.
But with each passing day, as Gunwook carved out a permanent-feeling space beside him, a cold, familiar dread began to coil in Matthew’s stomach. It was the old enemy, wearing a new mask. This wasn’t the sharp, immediate grief of losing a patient. This was the slow, creeping fear of wanting something permanent.
Permanent. The word echoed in his mind during the quiet moments. To want Gunwook was to want a future. To want a future was to open himself up to the possibility of a shattering loss. His doctor’s brain, trained in worst-case scenarios, provided a relentless montage: a tractor accident, a sudden illness, the simple, brutal randomness of life that he had seen claim vibrant people in sterile rooms. The image of Gunwook’s strong hands lying still, his warm eyes closed forever, would flash behind Matthew’s eyelids, stealing his breath.
He found himself hesitating in his responses. When Gunwook talked about plans for the next season—“We could try strawberries along the south fence,” or “My uncle has a greenhouse we could visit for winter seedlings”—Matthew would nod, but a part of him would wall off. ‘We.’ ‘Next season.’ ‘Winter.’ Words that implied a shared continuum he wasn’t sure he was brave enough to trust.
The fear manifested in small retreats. One afternoon, Gunwook reached to wipe a smudge of dirt from Matthew’s cheek. It was a tender, familiar gesture he’d begun to allow himself. This time, Matthew flinched. It was minute, a tiny, involuntary recoil, but Gunwook’s hand froze in mid-air, his eyes clouding with confusion.
“Sorry,” Matthew mumbled, taking a step back and wiping his own cheek, erasing the touch before it could be completed. “I’m… just dusty.”
He saw the hurt flicker in Gunwook’s eyes, quickly masked by a neutral nod. “Right.”
The space between them, so carefully minimized by Gunwook, yawned open again, filled not with misunderstanding, but with Matthew’s unspoken terror.
—---
A week later, a late-summer storm rolled in from the mountains. The air grew heavy and still, the sky a bruised purple. Gunwook had been helping Matthew secure tarps over the most delicate beds.
“It’s going to break soon,” Gunwook said, eyeing the sky as the first fat drops began to fall, slow and heavy as coins. “We should get inside.”
They sprinted for the house as the sky opened, rain lashing down in a sudden, deafening curtain. They stumbled onto the porch, laughing and soaked, their clothes plastered to their skin. The world outside dissolved into a grey, roaring blur.
Inside, the small house felt like a cocoon, the drumming rain on the roof the only sound. They were alone, truly alone, in a way they hadn’t been since the night by the stream. The atmosphere was immediately, thickly intimate. Water dripped from their hair, their noses, their chins. Gunwook’s black t-shirt clung to every contour of his chest and shoulders. Matthew was shivering, but not from the cold.
“Here,” Gunwook murmured, his voice barely audible over the rain. He fetched a clean, worn towel from the bathroom. Instead of handing it to Matthew, he stepped close and began to gently dry Matthew’s hair himself.
This was new. This was deliberate, intimate care. Matthew stood frozen, eyes closed, as Gunwook’s strong, careful hands moved over his head, down to the nape of his neck. The rough texture of the towel, the warmth of Gunwook’s hands beneath it, the sound of his own breath and Gunwook’s, mingling with the storm… it was a sensory overload that short-circuited his fear. He leaned into the touch, a soft sigh escaping him.
Gunwook’s hands stilled. The towel dropped to his shoulders. Matthew opened his eyes.
Gunwook was looking at him with an expression of such raw, unprotected yearning that it stole the air from Matthew’s lungs. The storm outside mirrored the one in his dark eyes. Water traced paths down the strong column of his throat, disappearing into the collar of his soaked shirt.
This was the moment. The tension that had been building for weeks—through shared glances, intentional proximity, and whispered almosts—reached its peak. It was a live wire between them, humming with the storm’s energy.
Gunwook’s gaze dropped to Matthew’s lips. His own parted. He leaned in, slowly, giving Matthew every chance to retreat. The scent of rain, damp cotton, and Gunwook’s skin filled Matthew’s senses. He could feel the heat radiating from Gunwook’s body, a beacon in the damp chill. His own body swayed forward in answer, every cell screaming yes.
The kiss was a breath away. Matthew could already imagine the feel of it—soft at first, then insistent, a final collapse of the delicious, agonizing distance.
Then, a tremendous CRACK of thunder exploded directly overhead, so loud it vibrated the windowpanes. At the same instant, the lights in the house flickered and died, plunging them into sudden, profound darkness.
Matthew jerked back with a gasp, his heart slamming against his ribs, the old, clinical part of his brain instantly alert: Storm. Power outage. Potential for injury. Isolation.
Gunwook, startled by the thunder and Matthew’s reaction, took a quick step back. “It’s okay,” he said quickly, his voice a calm anchor in the dark. “Just a transformer probably. Are you alright?”
But Matthew wasn’t alright. The sudden darkness had shattered the moment and unleashed his fear. In the blackness, his mind conjured not the warmth of Gunwook, but the cold, sterile darkness of a hospital room after a code, the silence after the flatline. The promise of a kiss was replaced by the phantom smell of antiseptic. He hugged his arms around himself, trembling.
“Matthew?” Gunwook’s voice was closer now, laced with concern.
“I’m… I’m fine,” Matthew forced out, but his voice was thin. “Just… the thunder surprised me.”
He could feel Gunwook hovering nearby, a warm, solid presence in the dark. He knew Gunwook could hear the lie. The farmer who listened to the soil could surely hear the panic in his voice.
Another flash of lightning illuminated the room for a split second, freezing them in a blue-white tableau: Gunwook, arm half-extretched toward him, face etched with worry and frustrated desire; Matthew, hunched and defensive, miles away despite being inches apart.
The light vanished, leaving the afterimage burned on Matthew’s eyes.
He heard Gunwook let out a long, slow breath, not of anger, but of profound resignation. The sound was worse than any rebuke.
“I should… find the candles,” Gunwook said, his voice carefully neutral, retreating into practicality. Matthew heard him move away, his footsteps sure in the familiar darkness, opening drawers.
The moment was gone, swallowed by the storm and Matthew’s own ghosts. As Gunwook lit a candle, casting a small, golden circle of light that pushed back the shadows but couldn’t touch the one inside Matthew, the gap between them felt wider than ever. It was no longer a gap of want or misunderstanding, but a chasm of history and fear, and Matthew had no idea how to build a bridge across it.
Gunwook set the candle on the table. His face in the flickering light was calm, but his eyes held a deep, patient sorrow. He didn’t try to touch Matthew again. He simply said, “The storm will pass. I’ll stay until the power comes back.”
And he did. He sat with Matthew in the candlelit silence, a steadfast, quiet sentinel against the storm outside, respecting the greater, more terrifying storm raging within the man he so clearly wanted.
‐—---------
The week after the storm was a study in quiet, painful tension. Gunwook’s claiming presence remained, but it had changed. The easy, possessive confidence was gone, replaced by a careful, watchful distance. He still came with tea, still worked beside Matthew, but there was a new hesitancy in his touch, a guarded look in his eyes. He was giving Matthew space, and the space felt like a punishment.
The pressure built in the humid air, an emotional barometer rising alongside the late-summer heat. It came to a head over something absurdly small: the compost pile.
Gunwook had shown Matthew how to layer greens and browns, how to turn it for aeration. Today, he pointed to the pile, which was too wet and beginning to smell. “You’ve added too many kitchen scraps. Not enough dry leaves. It’s going anaerobic.”
Matthew, his nerves already frayed from a sleepless night haunted by the memory of his own panic in the dark, snapped. “So fix it! That’s what you do, right? Fix everything! Fix the soil, fix the plants, fix me.”
The words hung in the thick air, ugly and sharp. Gunwook recoiled as if struck. His face, usually so open for Matthew, shuttered completely. “That’s not what I’m trying to do,” he said, his voice low and dangerously calm.
“Isn’t it?” Matthew’s fear twisted into something mean, a self-sabotaging urge to push Gunwook away before he could himself be left. “You just show up and take over. My garden, my kitchen, my… everything. Maybe I want to make my own mistakes. Maybe I want my compost to stink.”
He saw the hurt flash in Gunwook’s eyes, quickly buried under a wave of frustration. “After everything, that’s what you think?” Gunwook took a step forward, his large frame suddenly imposing. “That I’m here to take over? I’m here because—” He cut himself off, fists clenching at his sides. The unspoken words—because I’m in love with you—vibrated in the space between them, more powerful for their silence.
“Because you feel sorry for me,” Matthew finished for him, the lie tasting like ash. “The pathetic city doctor who can’t do anything right.”
“Stop it.” Gunwook’s voice was a raw growl. The pressure that had been building for weeks—through yearning, jealousy, patience, and rejection—finally cracked his careful control. “You are not pathetic. You are the strongest person I know. You left your whole life and came here to try and build something new with your bare hands. You feel everything so deeply it terrifies you. And it terrifies me.” He took another step, erasing the careful distance. The air crackled. “Because I want to be close to all that feeling, Matthew, and you keep flinching away.”
The raw truth of it, verbalized not with sweet romance but with pained frustration, stripped Matthew bare. He had no retort. He just stood there, trembling, the fear a live wire in his veins.
And then the sky, as if mirroring their climax, opened up. Not with a warning drizzle, but with a sudden, torrential downpour. Icy sheets of rain sluiced down, drenching them both in seconds.
They didn’t run for cover. They stood rooted in the muddy garden, locked in their standoff, rain plastering their hair to their foreheads, streaming down their faces like tears.
“I’m not flinching,” Matthew whispered, but it was a lie. His whole body was a flinch.
“Yes, you are,” Gunwook said, his voice breaking. He reached out, his hand coming up to cradle Matthew’s jaw. His thumb stroked away the rain (or was it a tear?) from Matthew’s cheek. The touch was not gentle this time. It was sure, desperate, an anchor point. “You’re flinching right now.”
And Matthew was. He wanted to pull away, to retreat into the safe, lonely numbness. But Gunwook’s hand was warm against his cold skin, his gaze holding him with an intensity the storm couldn’t rival. The pressure—of the argument, of the unspoken love, of the relentless rain—became a single, focused point.
With a choked sound that was half-sob, half-surrender, Matthew surged forward.
The kiss was not soft. It was a collision.
It was the release of weeks of agonizing tension, the answer to a dozen near-misses. Gunwook’s mouth was hot and insistent against his, tasting of rain and salt and something uniquely, essentially Gunwook. Matthew’s hands flew up, tangling in the soaked fabric of Gunwook’s shirt, gripping as if he were drowning. Gunwook’s other arm banded around Matthew’s waist, hauling him flush against his body with a strength that stole Matthew’s breath—a fierce, possessive embrace that left no space for fear, no room for flinching.
The world narrowed to the points of contact: the slick heat of Gunwook’s lips moving against his own, the scratch of his slight stubble, the solid, unyielding plane of his chest. Matthew could feel the frantic beat of Gunwook’s heart against his own, a wild, syncopated rhythm underscored by the roar of the rain. Gunwook’s hand slid from his jaw into his soaked hair, angling his head to deepen the kiss, a low, desperate groan vibrating from his chest into Matthew’s mouth. It was messy, and perfect, and real. It was not a question anymore. It was a claiming, and a surrender, happening all at once.
When they finally broke apart, gasping for air, foreheads resting together, the storm still raged around them. But the storm inside Matthew had quieted, replaced by a profound, trembling awe. Gunwook’s breath was hot and ragged on his lips.
“See?” Gunwook whispered, his voice raw with emotion. “No flinching.”
-‐—---
The kiss changed everything, and nothing. It was a door flung open, but they both stood on the threshold, soaked and stunned. The following days were a new kind of tension—softer, sweeter, fraught with the weight of what had happened. There were more kisses, stolen in the golden hour of the garden, slower and deeper, explorations that left them both breathless and wanting. But the ghost of Matthew’s fear, though quieter, still lingered in the shadows of his eyes.
Then, Gunwook’s grandfather in Busan fell ill. His parents needed to go immediately, and the farm couldn’t be left unattended. “I have to go with them,” Gunwook told Matthew, his expression torn. “It’s just for five days. A week at most.”
A week. It felt like a chasm. The temporary separation, the first since they’d become… whatever they were now, yawned before Matthew, a test he hadn’t expected.
The day Gunwook left was clear and bright, a cruel contrast to the mood. Matthew stood at his gate, feeling absurdly like a 1950s war bride. Gunwook, duffel bag in hand, looked equally pained.
“The tomatoes need watering every other day. The compost…” he began, slipping back into instruction out of habit.
“I know,” Matthew said softly, smiling. “I’ll listen to the soil.”
Gunwook’s worried expression softened. He leaned in, brushing a kiss against Matthew’s temple, a public gesture that made Matthew’s heart stutter. “I’ll call.”
And he did. Every evening, a brief, crackling call where Gunwook’s deep voice sounded far away. He talked of his grandfather’s slow improvement, of the noisy city, of missing the quiet. Matthew talked of the garden, of Taerae’s latest drama, of the emptiness of the house.
It was during those lonely evenings, tending the garden Gunwook had helped him build, eating alone at the table they’d shared so many meals, that the permanence proved itself. He didn’t just miss Gunwook’s help. He missed him. The solid silence, the low laughter, the way his presence turned a house into a home. The fear of loss was still there, but it was now outweighed by the acute, painful reality of current absence. He didn’t want a life without this. Without him.
Gunwook returned a day early, just as the sun was setting. Matthew was on his knees, weeding the bean patch, when a shadow fell over him. He looked up, and there he was, backlit by the orange sky, looking tired and travel-worn and so beautiful it hurt.
Without a word, Matthew scrambled to his feet. They met in the middle of the garden, between the rows of lettuce and radishes they’d planted together. Gunwook dropped his bag and pulled Matthew into a fierce, wordless hug, burying his face in Matthew’s neck. He smelled of train and city and home. Matthew clung back, his fingers digging into the back of Gunwook’s jacket, breathing him in.
Later, after a simple, shared meal, they sat on the porch steps in the gathering twilight. Fireflies blinked in the long grass. Gunwook’s arm was around Matthew’s shoulders, Matthew’s head leaning against him. The silence was comfortable, full.
“When I was away,” Gunwook began, his voice a quiet rumble in the dark, “all I could think about was getting back here. To the fields. To Yujin’s complaining. To Taerae’s meddling.” He paused, his hand tightening on Matthew’s shoulder. “To you.”
Matthew held his breath.
“I know you’re scared,” Gunwook continued, the words deliberate, finally giving voice to the truth they’d danced around for so long. “I see it. And I can’t promise you that nothing bad will ever happen. I’m a farmer; I know better than anyone how fragile things can be.”
He turned, his free hand coming up to tilt Matthew’s face toward his. In the dim light, his eyes were serious, earnest, blazing with a love he no longer hid. “But I can promise you that I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. For the failed compost and the successful harvests. For the quiet mornings and the loud storms. I’m in love with you, Seok Matthew. It’s not pity. It’s not just wanting to help. It’s this. It’s permanent.”
The words landed in Matthew’s soul, quiet and seismic. Everyone might have seen it—Taerae, his parents, Jiwoong, Hanbin—but hearing Gunwook say it, simple and sure, shattered the last of the fragile wall around Matthew’s heart.
Tears welled in Matthew’s eyes, not from fear, but from a relief so profound it was dizzying. He didn’t have the perfect words. He just turned fully into Gunwook’s embrace, pressing his face against his chest, listening to the strong, steady heartbeat beneath his ear—a rhythm that promised a future, one day at a time.
“Okay,” he whispered against Gunwook’s shirt, the word a vow, an acceptance, a beginning. “Okay.”
Gunwook’s arms encircled him completely, holding him as the last light faded and the fireflies winked around them, two souls finally rooted together in the rich, forgiving soil they had tended side by side.
—--------
The world did not shift on its axis after Gunwook’s confession. The sun continued its path, the vegetables grew steadily in their rows, and the village of Hwayeong breathed its slow, eternal rhythm. What changed was the quality of the air between them. The tension, once a thick, electric thing, had melted into a profound and quiet certainty. They had crossed the threshold, and now lived together in the space of acknowledged love—a domestic, gentle intimacy that was its own kind of revelation.
For Gunwook, who had spent months speaking through actions, the ability to now simply be with Matthew was a luxury so deep it felt like stealing.
He no longer needed an excuse to arrive at Matthew’s house at dawn. He just came, slipping in through the back door he’d oiled to silence, padding into the main room to find Matthew still a soft, sleeping mound on the yo. Gunwook would start the rice cooker, the soft click and subsequent hum the first sound of the day. He’d move to the small stove, preparing a simple miyeok-guk or frying eggs, the smells of sesame oil and soy sauce weaving through the sleepy silence.
Matthew would stir, blinking open eyes that would find Gunwook and immediately soften, a smile blooming before he was fully awake. No words were needed. A grunted “Morning,” a gentle hand ruffling Matthew’s sleep-mussed hair—these were their morning vows.
Their work in the garden transformed. Before, it had been a lesson, then a collaboration, now it was a shared meditation. They worked in complementary silence, Gunwook’s strength reserved for turning new earth or hauling mulch, Matthew’s careful hands for pruning and delicate harvesting. The physical space between them was often bridged—a passing touch at the small of the back as Gunwook reached for a tool, Matthew leaning his head briefly against Gunwook’s arm as they both examined a ripening strawberry. The touches were not preludes; they were punctuation. I am here. You are here. We are here.
Matthew, who had once flinched from the permanence of a touch, now found himself craving this new language. He learned the textures of their intimacy. The rough, warm feel of Gunwook’s palm as it slid into his while they walked the twilight path back from Taerae’s.
The solid weight of Gunwook’s thigh pressed against his under the low dinner table. The way Gunwook would absently massage Matthew’s stiff shoulders after a day of bending over plants, his strong thumbs working out the knots with a focused care that made Matthew want to melt into the floor.
He discovered Gunwook’s quiet sounds—the contented sigh he made when he first tasted food he enjoyed, the low, rumbling hum when he was concentrating on mending a fence, the soft, almost inaudible chuckle when Matthew said something particularly silly or Canadian. Matthew began collecting these sounds, treasuring them.
The fear was not gone. Sometimes, in the deepest part of the night, it would whisper. But now, when he woke with a start, he was not alone. Gunwook, a heavy, warm line of heat beside him, would often sense it. He wouldn’t speak. He would simply shift, drawing Matthew closer, tucking Matthew’s head under his chin, his heartbeat a steady drum against Matthew’s ear. The fear would recede, soothed not by words, but by the incontrovertible reality of Gunwook’s alive, breathing, holding body.
Their intimacy was woven into the mundane fabric of daily life. It was in the way they navigated Matthew’s small kitchen, a dance perfected without discussion—Gunwook at the stove, Matthew chopping vegetables, their movements fluid and avoiding collision. It was the shared, amused eye-roll when Taerae’s voice carried across the fields, detailing some new drama. It was the silent agreement to save the last piece of the sweetest persimmon for the other.
One rainy afternoon, they found themselves on Matthew’s porch, listening to the patter on the roof. Gunwook was sharpening tools, the rhythmic shink-shink of the file a soothing metronome. Matthew was attempting to mend a torn work shirt, his stitches clumsy and large. After watching for ten minutes, Gunwook put down the file and the hoe blade.
“Give it here,” he said, not unkindly.
“I can do it,” Matthew protested, even as he handed it over.

“I know,” Gunwook said. He took the needle and thread. His large, calloused hands, capable of wrestling tractor implements, became impossibly deft. He unpicked Matthew’s ragged stitches and began anew, his movements small and precise, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Matthew watched, mesmerized by the contrast, by the sheer domestic tenderness of the scene. This was not a farmer or a teacher. This was just Gunwook, mending his shirt.
“You’re good at that,” Matthew murmured.
Gunwook shrugged, a faint pink tingeing his ears. “Something else my halmeoni taught me.” He tied off the thread with a small, strong knot and bit the excess off. “There. It’ll hold.”
He handed the shirt back. The mend was neat, almost invisible. It was a small thing, but to Matthew, it felt like a sacrament. A promise to care for, to repair, to make whole.
The verbalization of love did not stop with the first confession. It became a living thing, spoken in new ways.
They were at Gunwook’s family home for Sunday dinner, surrounded by the boisterous warmth of his parents. Mr. Park was holding court, telling a story about Gunwook as a stubborn child. Matthew was laughing, caught in the golden glow of belonging, when he felt Gunwook’s gaze on him. He looked over.
Gunwook wasn’t smiling at the story. He was just looking at Matthew, his eyes soft and unwavering, filled with a depth of feeling that made Matthew’s breath catch even in the noisy room. Mr. Park followed his son’s gaze, his story trailing off. A knowing, tender smile touched the older man’s lips.
Gunwook didn’t look away. In front of his family, in the middle of the clatter of dishes and the smell of roasting meat, he said it again, quiet but clear, for only Matthew to hear. “I love you”
Matthew could only look back at Gunwook, his heart so full he thought it might not contain the feeling. He didn’t say it back in that moment. He didn’t need to. The words were already woven into the shirt mended on the porch, the morning tea waiting for him, the shared silence in the garden.
Later, walking home under a sky dusted with stars, Matthew stopped on the path. He turned to Gunwook, the moonlight silvering his strong features.
“You said it,” Matthew whispered.
“I’ll keep saying it,” Gunwook replied, his voice a low hum in the quiet night. “Until you’re so tired of hearing it you’ll tell me to stop.”

“Never,” Matthew said, the word fervent and sure. He reached up, his hand curling around the back of Gunwook’s neck, pulling him down. The kiss was slow, deep, and tasting of home. It was not a kiss of passion’s escalation, but of intimacy’s deepening. A seal on the promise.
When they parted, Gunwook rested his forehead against Matthew’s. “I love you, Matthew. That’s my truth. It’s in my soil. It’s in my roots.”
And Matthew, who had once feared the permanence of words, finally let his own truth flow, quiet and sure as a underground stream reaching the surface. “I love you, Gunwook. You are my home.”
They stood there for a long time, wrapped in each other and the night, two once-lonely souls who had tenderly, patiently, built a world together in a small house with a wild garden, in a quiet village where the air was clean and the future, for the first time in a long time, was not something to fear, but something to grow, side by side, season after season.
—--------
Autumn arrived in Hwayeong like a master painter, brushing the mountainsides with fiery reds and burnished golds, and tipping the air with a crisp, clean chill that smelled of woodsmoke and ripe persimmons. In the Seok garden—though everyone in the village now thought of it as Matthew and Gunwook’s garden—the season brought a final, abundant burst of life.
Fat orange pumpkins lounged between the rows, late-season beans hung in dense clusters, and the lettuce, which Matthew had once planted with such trembling hope, now formed robust, emerald heads.
The domesticity between them had settled into a rhythm as comfortable as an old sweater. Mornings were a quiet ballet in Matthew’s small kitchen, now subtly altered by Gunwook’s permanent presence, his heavier work boots by the door, his favorite brand of tea in the cupboard. Evenings were spent on the warmed floor of the main room, Matthew poring over seed catalogs for next year while Gunwook repaired tools or sketched out plans for a small greenhouse he wanted to build against the south wall.
It was during one such evening, the wind rattling the windows, that Matthew made a declaration. He closed the catalog with a firm snap. “I want to plant an apple tree.”
Gunwook looked up from the hinge he was oiling. “An apple tree?”
“Where the old well used to be. We filled it in, the soil there is deep.” Matthew’s eyes were bright, not with nervous energy, but with surety. “Not a sapling. A semi-dwarf variety, already a few years old. Something that will last.”
The statement hung in the air, rich with meaning. Planting a tree wasn’t like planting radishes. It was a decades-long commitment. It was a claim staked not just on the season, but on the future of this land. His land.
Gunwook felt a swell of pride so fierce it tightened his throat. The man who had been afraid to want anything permanent was now planning for decades. “Okay,” he said, his voice soft. “We’ll go to the nursery in town this weekend. We’ll pick one out together.”
The trip to the nursery was an event. They bundled into Gunwook’s truck, and for the first time, Matthew didn’t feel like a passenger in his own life. He asked the nursery owner detailed questions about rootstock, chill hours, and disease resistance, his medical precision beautifully repurposed. He debated the merits of ‘Fuji’ versus ‘Honeycrisp’ with the seriousness of a general planning a campaign, while Gunwook stood back, a soft smile on his face, letting him lead.
They returned with a beautiful, four-year-old ‘Fuji’ apple tree, its roots carefully balled and burlapped. The act of planting it was a ceremony. They took turns digging the wide, deep hole, their hands brushing in the cool earth. They amended the soil with compost they’d made together. As they positioned the tree’s root flare just right, Matthew’s hands steadying the trunk while Gunwook backfilled, Matthew felt a profound sense of alignment. This was no longer his grandparents’ land, or a temporary refuge. It was his. And he was planting a promise right in the center of it.
“There,” Matthew said, patting the final mound of soil. He stood, wiping his hands on his pants, and looked at Gunwook, his expression open and content. “Now we have to stay until it fruits.”
Gunwook stepped close, wrapping his muddy arms around Matthew from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder as they both looked at their tree. “We will,” he murmured into Matthew’s neck, his breath a warm cloud in the autumn air. It was the easiest promise he’d ever made.
—-----
With Matthew’s roots firmly set, he bloomed in other ways. His Korean, no longer a source of anxiety, became fluid, often laced with the local dialect and slang he picked up. He became a true part of the village fabric. He helped Hanbin with the school’s harvest festival, his science background making him a star at explaining photosynthesis to wide-eyed children.
He assisted Jiwoong with inventory at the store, his organized mind bringing a new efficiency to the shelves. He even spent an afternoon with Yujin, trying (and failing spectacularly) to understand the appeal of a particular video game, their shared laughter echoing down the lane.
And Gunwook watched, his once-painful jealousy softening into something warm and playful.
The trigger was often Sung Hanbin, whose friendly affection for Matthew never waned. One afternoon, Gunwook returned from delivering produce to find Matthew and Hanbin in his own kitchen, up to their elbows in flour. Hanbin was teaching him how to make songpyeon, the delicate half-moon rice cakes for Chuseok.
“You have to pinch the seam just so, Matthew-yah, or the filling will escape,” Hanbin was saying, his hands guiding Matthew’s with a musician’s grace.
Matthew, his face dotted with flour, was concentrating fiercely. “It’s harder than it looks!”
Gunwook leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. A few months ago, this scene would have sent a bolt of anxious insecurity straight through him. Now, he just felt a fond, possessive amusement. “I see you’ve found a new teacher,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
Matthew jumped, then grinned, holding up a lopsided songpyeon. “Look! Hanbin-hyung is a genius. You never told me you were friends with a culinary artist.”
“Hyung has many hidden talents,” Hanbin said cheerfully, winking at Gunwook. “Someone has to make sure your beloved is well-rounded.”
“My beloved is plenty round already,” Gunwook deadpanned, pushing off the doorframe and coming to stand behind Matthew. He wrapped his arms around Matthew’s waist, chin hooking over his shoulder, effectively inserting himself into the lesson and claiming his space. He looked at Hanbin over Matthew’s head, a playful challenge in his eyes. “But I suppose I can share. Briefly.”
Matthew laughed, elbowing him gently, leaning back into the solid comfort of his chest. The jealousy was there, but it was a spark, not a fire—a reminder of how much he cherished what was his, met with the secure knowledge that it was, unquestionably, his.
Later, after Hanbin had left with a box of their (mostly Hanbin’s) creations, Gunwook helped Matthew clean up. “You’re popular,” Gunwook remarked, wiping down the counter.
“Jealous?” Matthew teased, bumping his hip against Gunwook’s.
“Mm,” Gunwook hummed, turning and cornering Matthew gently against the counter. He caged him in with his arms, his expression a mix of mock sternness and deep affection. “A little. But only because I like being your favorite.”
Matthew’s smile was soft. He reached up, tracing the strong line of Gunwook’s jaw. “You are. Always. Even if Hanbin-hyung makes prettier rice cakes.”
“Good,” Gunwook said, dipping his head to capture Matthew’s lips in a slow, sweet kiss that tasted of rice flour and belonging. The playful tension melted into familiar warmth, a dance they both knew by heart.
—----
The rhythms of village life began to echo the cycles of their first year, but now from a place of security. The first frost came, and they harvested the last of the greens together, their movements synchronized.
Taerae still meddled, but now it was to drag them both to village events as a unit—“The village’s most visually pleasing couple must attend!” Jiwoong still offered his quiet, steady friendship, often joining them for a shared meal. Yujin still grumbled, but now he’d sometimes linger after a chore, asking Matthew quiet questions about Canada or medicine.
One evening, as they sat by the ondol warmth, shelling dried beans for the winter, Matthew spoke into the comfortable silence. “Mr. Park asked me today if I’d be interested in renting the lower south field from him next spring. The one that borders the stream.”
Gunwook’s hands stilled. That field was sizable. It was a farmer’s question, a recognition of Matthew’s growing skill and commitment. “What did you say?”
“I said I’d talk to you.” Matthew looked up, his eyes reflecting the firelight. “But I think… I think I want to. Not just a garden. A real, small-scale farm. Maybe focus on herbs, and those unusual peppers Jiwoong said chefs in town are looking for.”
Gunwook felt a surge of excitement that mirrored his own. “We’d need to prepare the soil all winter,” he said, already mentally mapping out the crop rotation. “And build a proper irrigation ditch from the stream.”
“We,” Matthew echoed, smiling.
“Yes,” Gunwook said, reaching across the bowl of beans to take Matthew’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Their hands, one still slightly smoother, the other roughened by shared labor, fit together perfectly. “Always we.”
Outside, the wind carried the scent of coming snow, a blanket that would protect the sleeping earth—and the young apple tree—until spring. Inside, their world was warm, planned, and full of a quiet, thriving love, ready for whatever the next season, and the next chapter, would bring.
—-----
Winter in Hwayeong was a season of drawn-in breaths and quiet expansion. The world outside the windows lay under a crisp, white blanket, the garden sleeping. But inside Matthew’s—their—house, life burned warm and deep. The intimacy they shared had shed the last of its hesitant newness, settling into a language so fluent it was felt in the bones.
Matthew stood at the kitchen window, watching the first fat snowflakes of the season spiral down, dusting the wooden fence and the sleeping form of the young apple tree. He was stirring a pot of doenjang jjigae, the fermented bean paste scent mingling with the woodsmoke from the hearth. Gunwook was behind him at the low table, sharpening the blades of their pruning shears with a steady, rhythmic scrape.
“The south field will need lime in the early spring,” Matthew said, not turning around. “Our pH tests were a bit acidic last fall.”
He didn’t even notice he’d said it. It had simply become truth. The land was no longer his inheritance or Gunwook’s expertise. It was theirs. The compound, the sleeping garden, the ambitious south field plot, the apple tree—they were all nouns owned by the plural pronoun they had become.
“I’ll order it next week,” Gunwook responded, his voice a comfortable rumble in the warm room. “And we should check the mulch on the blueberry bushes we planted. The rabbits might get ideas.”
We. Our. The words were the foundation of every plan now. When Matthew spoke to Mr. Park about leasing the field, it was “what we were thinking.” When Taerae asked about spring planting, Matthew would pull out “our crop rotation chart.” This linguistic shift was the final, seamless stitch in the fabric of his belonging. He wasn’t just living on the land; he was of it, and of Gunwook, irrevocably intertwined.
For Gunwook, the change was more internal, a quiet earthquake that had reshaped his landscape without a sound. He realized it one afternoon while they were in the village center, picking up a new part for the water pump. Old Man Jung, who had known Gunwook since he was a boy trailing after his grandfather, squinted at him from his usual seat outside the store.
“You’re smiling,” the old man stated, as if accusing him of a minor crime.
Gunwook touched his own face, surprised. He hadn’t been aware of it. A soft, constant smile had become his resting face.
“It’s that city boy,” Old Man Jung grumbled, but his eyes twinkled. “Softened you up. You used to walk around here like a young bull, all shoulders and scowls. Now you look… content. It’s unnerving.”
Walking home, the observation echoed. He was content. But it was more than that. The love he felt for Matthew wasn’t just an addition to his life; it was a transformation of his very chemistry.
He thought of his routines. Once, they were solitary, efficient circuits: field, home, chores, sleep. Now, they were shared orbits. His first thought in the morning was to cook for Matthew. His consideration of the weather was for their crops, not just his family’s. His patience, once a practical tool for dealing with stubborn soil or livestock, had deepened into an endless well when it came to Matthew’s occasional moments of self-doubt or his meticulous, sometimes slow, way of learning new tasks.
The most startling change was in his own need for quiet. He’d always been a man of few words, valuing the silence of the fields. But the silence he shared with Matthew was different. It wasn’t an absence; it was a shared, resonant space, filled with the language of glances, of a foot nudging another under the table, of a hand resting on a knee while they read. He craved that shared quiet more than his old, solitary one. Matthew’s presence didn’t interrupt his peace; it became his peace.
He had changed. The young bull, all shoulders and scowls, had been gently, completely, led to richer pasture. And he had gone, willingly, following the sound of a heart that understood his own.
—---
With the deep cold came a different kind of heat. The established intimacy, the profound comfort, had become a fertile ground for a new, slow-burning tension. It was no longer the frantic, uncertain spark of early attraction, but a banked fire, radiating a constant, delicious warmth that promised more.
It was in the way they navigated the small bathroom to get ready for bed, steam from the shower clinging to the air, their bodies passing in the humid space with a deliberate, slow drag of skin against skin—a forearm brushing a damp back, the solid heat of a thigh, the fleeting, electric contact that made the air hum.
It was in the evenings, wrapped in a shared yo blanket on the warmed floor. Matthew would be reading a horticulture text, his head pillowed on Gunwook’s thigh. Gunwook’s hand would rest in his hair, not moving, a heavy, warm weight. Then, his fingers would begin a slow, idle massage, tracing the shell of Matthew’s ear, skimming down the sensitive column of his neck.
The touch was possessive, familiar, yet each time, it carried a new, deliberate charge. Matthew’s breath would hitch, just slightly, the words on the page blurring. Gunwook would feel the subtle shift, the tiny tremor, and his own blood would sing in response, a deep, throbbing rhythm under his skin.
One night, a bitter wind howled outside, rattling the windows. They’d banked the fire high, and the room was oven-warm. Matthew was folding laundry, the simple, domestic task feeling strangely potent. Gunwook came up behind him, reaching for a freshly folded shirt from the pile. His chest pressed against Matthew’s back, his arms coming around either side of him. He didn’t move to take the shirt. He just stood there, enveloping him, his face buried in the space between Matthew’s neck and shoulder. He inhaled deeply, a long, shuddering breath that Matthew felt through his entire body.
“You smell like the fire,” Gunwook murmured, his lips moving against Matthew’s skin, the vibration a direct line to Matthew’s core. “And the cedar from the closet. And you.”
Matthew leaned back into him, letting his head fall against Gunwook’s shoulder, his eyes closing. The sensation was overwhelming: the scorching heat of the fire on his front, the solid, living heat of Gunwook at his back, the smell of woodsmoke and clean cotton and them.
He could feel the hard planes of Gunwook’s body, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressed against him, not demanding, just present—a truthful, physical echo of the tension that had been building for weeks.
Gunwook’s hands, which had been resting on the table, slid slowly up Matthew’s arms, leaving trails of fire in their wake. His touch was excruciatingly slow, mapping the familiar territory as if for the first time.
When his fingers reached Matthew’s shoulders, they kneaded gently, then slid down, over his chest, coming to rest flat against his stomach, pulling him even closer, eliminating any last whisper of space.
The air was too thick to breathe. The silence was a roar in Matthew’s ears, broken only by the crackle of the fire and their own ragged, synchronized breathing. Every nerve ending was alight.
He turned his head, his lips finding the sensitive skin just below Gunwook’s jaw. He didn’t kiss, just pressed his open mouth there, feeling the jump of Gunwook’s pulse against his lips.
Gunwook made a sound, low and guttural, a rumble that started in his chest and vibrated through Matthew. His hands tightened, fingers splaying possessively. The tension was a live wire, pulled taut to its breaking point. It was in the weight of Gunwook’s hands, the desperate control in his held breath, the searing brand of his body.
It was the most intimate moment they had ever shared, and it was only a prelude. A silent, shattering conversation conducted in touch, scent, and heat. A question and an answer, both saying soon.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Gunwook’s grip loosened. He pressed one last, hard kiss to Matthew’s temple, his breath scorching. Then he stepped back, the sudden cold air between them feeling like a physical blow.
“The laundry,” Gunwook said, his voice wrecked, rough as gravel. He picked up the shirt he’d originally reached for, his hand trembling slightly.
Matthew just nodded, unable to speak, his entire body singing with the echo of the almost. The tension hadn’t broken. It had deepened, solidified into a promise that lay between them, as real and palpable as the winter outside and the warm, shared future waiting on the other side of it.
—----
The blizzard arrived with a vengeance, howling down from the mountains and swallowing Hwayeong whole in a swirling, white silence. By midday, the world beyond the windows was a featureless void, and the familiar paths between houses were buried under deepening drifts. The power flickered, died, and did not return.
Gunwook, who had come over at dawn to help Matthew winterize the chicken coop (a recent, experimental addition), was now effectively stranded. The distance to his own home was short, but in this whiteout, it was impassable.
“You’ll have to stay,” Matthew said, stating the obvious as he lit another kerosene lamp, its warm, wavering light joining the fire’s glow in pushing back the pressing dark. His voice was calm, but a new, delicate thread of anticipation vibrated beneath the surface.
Gunwook nodded, his expression unreadable in the low light. “I’ll take the floor by the hearth.”
Matthew looked at the yo mattress, then at the storm screaming outside, then at Gunwook. The idea of him sleeping on the hard, wooden floor while a perfectly good bed—a bed that had come to symbolize so much of their shared warmth and whispered confidences—lay unused felt absurd. A threshold approached, not with dramatic flair, but with the quiet necessity of a winter storm.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Matthew said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He busied himself with fetching extra blankets from the chest, his movements deliberate. “The bed is plenty big enough. We’re adults. And it’s freezing.”
The words hung in the air, practical and profound. The first night they would share a bed.
The tension began not with the bed itself, but with the necessary prelude. The small bathroom, already a site of charged proximity, became a crucible. With no power, the only hot water was what they could heat in a kettle on the hearth.
“You first,” Gunwook said, his back turned as he poured steaming water into a basin for Matthew, his shoulders tense.
Matthew washed quickly, the warm water a shock against his chilled skin, hyper-aware of Gunwook’s large, still form just beyond the flimsy partition. The act of cleansing, usually private, felt exposed, intimate.
He could hear the rustle of Gunwook’s clothes, the soft sigh of his breath. When he emerged, damp and wrapped in a thick robe, their eyes met in the lamplight—a fleeting, electric connection that acknowledged the strange new territory.
Then it was Gunwook’s turn. Matthew turned his back, giving the same courtesy, but the small room held every sound. The splash of water, the low sigh of relief, the rough scrape of a towel over skin. Matthew’s imagination, fueled by months of knowing touches and recent, searing almosts, painted vivid pictures. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the sink. The desire was a slow, deep ache, intensifying not in spite of the routine, but because of it. This was the most mundane of acts, made agonizingly sensual by shared space and unspoken want.
Dressing was another quiet torture. They turned away from each other, pulling on warm layers. Matthew fumbled with the buttons of his flannel pajamas, his fingers clumsy. He heard the soft shush of cotton over Gunwook’s skin, the click of a belt buckle.
Once dressed, they turned back, and the sight of each other in soft, sleep-softened clothes was somehow more intimate than anything that had come before. This was Gunwook, not the capable farmer, but the man beneath, ready for rest. Vulnerable. His.
The Bed
The yo mattress, which had always felt perfectly adequate for one, now seemed to shrink as they approached it from opposite sides. The firelight danced over the worn quilt. They moved with the careful coordination of a bomb disposal team, lifting the covers and sliding in simultaneously.
The cold sheets were a shock. Then, the greater shock: the solid, radiating heat of Gunwook’s body, a mere few inches away. They lay on their backs, side by side, not touching, staring up at the shadowed ceiling.
The storm’s howl was muffled here, inside their cocoon. The only sounds were the pop of the fire and their own breathing, which each tried to regulate, with little success.
The space between their bodies was a geography of immense consequence. It was a canyon. It was a hair’s breadth. It hummed with the memory of every guided touch, every possessive arm, every desperate kiss in the rain.
Matthew’s entire being was focused on the line of heat along his left side. He could feel the dip in the mattress where Gunwook lay, could sense the sheer mass of him. The clean, familiar scent of Gunwook’s soap was everywhere, mingling with the woodsmoke and the cold, clean scent of the storm. It was overwhelming.
After what felt like an eternity, Gunwook spoke, his voice a low vibration in the dark. “Are you warm enough?”
“Yes,” Matthew whispered. Then, braver, he added, “You?”
“Mm.”
A few more minutes of breath-held silence. Then, slowly, as if moving through deep water, Gunwook shifted. He turned onto his side, facing Matthew. Matthew held his breath. He felt the weight of Gunwook’s gaze on his profile.
Then, a touch. Not hesitant, but infinitely careful. Gunwook’s hand found Matthew’s under the covers. His fingers slid between Matthew’s, locking them together. His palm was warm and slightly rough.
The contact was simple, but in the context of the shared bed, the storm, the months of buildup, it was seismic. It wasn’t a prelude to more; it was an anchor. A statement: I am here. We are here. This is enough, for tonight.
The dam of tension did not break. It settled, transformed into a different, deeper current. Matthew turned his head on the pillow. In the faint light, he could see Gunwook’s eyes, dark and unblinking, watching him.
There was desire there, yes, a banked fire hotter than the one in the hearth. But there was also a profound tenderness, a patience so vast it made Matthew’s chest ache.
Matthew turned onto his side as well, mirroring him. Their joined hands rested on the pillow between them. They didn’t speak. They just looked at each other, breathing the same air, listening to the same storm.
The intimacy of it was staggering. More intimate than any kiss had been. This was a sharing of stillness, of vulnerability, of simple, unadorned presence.
Gunwook’s free hand came up. He didn’t reach for Matthew. He simply brushed his fingertips, feather-light, across Matthew’s eyebrow, then down the slope of his nose. A mapping. A reverence. The touch stopped just short of his lips, hovering in the charged space between them. Matthew’s lips parted on a silent inhale.
Gunwook’s hand retreated, coming to rest on his own pillow, fisting slightly in the fabric, as if physically holding himself back. The restraint was more powerful than any action could have been.
“Sleep, Matthew,” Gunwook murmured, his voice thick.
And somehow, cradled in the warmth of the bed, tethered by their linked hands, surrounded by the evidence of Gunwook’s fierce, disciplined love, Matthew did.
He drifted off not with frustration, but with a soul-deep sense of safety, the storm outside nothing compared to the quiet, thrilling tempest of belonging they had built between them.
When Matthew awoke once in the deep night, disoriented, he found the geography had changed. He was curled on his side, and Gunwook’s large, warm body was pressed against his back, an arm draped heavily, possessively, over his waist. Gunwook’s breath was even and deep against the nape of his neck. They had crossed the space in their sleep, drawn by a gravity stronger than conscious will.
Matthew didn’t move. He lay perfectly still, savoring the solid warmth along his spine, the weight of the arm holding him. This was not an almost. This was an is. It was a promise of what their shared life would be: not just passion, but this profound, nightly peace. He smiled in the dark, pressed back infinitesimally closer, and let the rhythm of Gunwook’s heartbeat lull him back into a dreamless, perfect sleep.
—------
Summer returned to Hwayeong with a vengeance, a thick, green heat that draped over the village like a weighted blanket. The air shimmered over the now-thriving south field, where rows of Matthew’s specialty peppers and Gunwook’s robust cabbages stood in neat, alternating lines—a physical manifestation of their partnership.
The intimacy of the winter storm had settled into a new, deeper layer of their daily life. They shared the bed every night now, a fact so natural it was never discussed. Their touches were freer, more frequent—a hand resting on the small of a back while passing in the kitchen, a head leaning on a shoulder after a long day, lips brushing a temple in greeting or farewell.
But the line, that beautiful, agonizing line, remained. It was a choice now, not a barrier. A mutual, unspoken agreement that made every glance, every touch, vibrate with potential energy.
The almost-break happened on a sweltering afternoon. The heat was a physical presence, pressing down until even the cicadas seemed to drone sluggishly. They had been working since dawn, harvesting the first wave of Matthew’s prized cheongyang peppers, their fingers stained slightly green, sweat plastering their thin cotton shirts to their skin.
“Enough,” Gunwook finally grunted, straightening with a hand on his lower back. “We’ll get heatstroke. Inside.”
The house was marginally cooler, the thick hanok walls holding the sun at bay. They stood in the main room, panting, drinking deeply from a shared pitcher of cool barley tea. The atmosphere was thick, syrupy with heat and unspent exertion.
Gunwook pulled his soaked shirt over his head with a weary sigh, using it to wipe his face and neck before tossing it toward the laundry basket. He stood in just his work pants, his torso gleaming with sweat, the powerful muscles of his back and shoulders sculpted by the dim light.
It wasn’t a provocative act; it was pure, practical relief from the heat. But to Matthew, who had mapped that terrain with glances and light touches, it was a lightning strike.
The sight short-circuited something in Matthew’s careful control. For months, he had been the recipient, the one guided, the one kissed. He had asked, he had welcomed, he had consented. But he had never simply taken.
The desire, banked and tended for so long, flared white-hot. Without thinking, without planning, he crossed the room.
Gunwook turned, sensing movement, a question on his lips that died instantly.
Matthew didn’t hesitate. He placed his hands flat on Gunwook’s bare, damp chest. The feel of it—hot, solid, alive under his palms, the beat of Gunwook’s heart a frantic drum against his skin—was electrifying. He looked up, meeting Gunwook’s wide, shocked eyes, and saw the control there shatter.
This was Matthew initiating touch instead of asking.
A low, wounded sound escaped Gunwook. It was the sound of a dam cracking. All the patient waiting, the gentle restraint, the nights of holding back—it evaporated in the face of Matthew’s bold, silent claim.
His hands came up, not to push Matthew away, but to crush him closer, fingers digging into the fabric of Matthew’s shirt with a desperation that stole the air from the room.
This was Gunwook losing control briefly.
The kiss that followed was nothing like the stormy one in the rain. That had been a release of tension. This was an ignition. It was hungry, deep, and utterly consuming. Gunwook’s mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping past Matthew’s lips with a possessive growl that vibrated through both of them.
He walked Matthew backward until his hips hit the edge of the low table, the wood digging in, a sharp counterpoint to the soft, relentless pressure of Gunwook’s body. His hands were everywhere—tangled in Matthew’s hair, sliding down his spine, gripping his hips to pull him even closer, erasing every millimeter of space.
Matthew melted into it, into him, his own hands sliding over the sweat-slick planes of Gunwook’s back, feeling the powerful muscles flex and move. The taste of salt and barley tea and pure Gunwook was intoxicating.
The world narrowed to the press of lips, the slide of skin, the dizzying, overwhelming sensation of being wanted with a ferocity that bordered on devastation.
Gunwook’s mouth left his, trailing a scorching path down his jaw, to his throat. He sucked a bruise into the tender skin at the juncture of Matthew’s neck and shoulder, and Matthew cried out, his fingers clutching at Gunwook’s shoulders. The sound seemed to fracture the last of Gunwook’s restraint. His hands slid under Matthew’s shirt, calloused palms scraping over his feverish skin, pushing the fabric up.
And then, a sound. Not from them. A cheerful, piercing whistle from just outside the still-open front door.
The world crashed back in.
They froze, locked together, panting harshly against each other’s skin.
“Hellooo! I come bearing iced plum juice! A lifesaver in this infernal— oh.”
Kim Taerae stood in the doorway, a glass jar in his hand, condensation dripping onto the floor. His eyes, wide with theatrical surprise, swept over the scene: Gunwook shirtless and heaving, Matthew pinned against the table, his shirt rucked up, both of them flushed and visibly, profoundly disheveled.
A slow, wicked grin spread across Taerae’s face. “Well. It seems my timing is, as always, either impeccable or catastrophic. I can’t decide which.” He leaned against the doorframe, making no move to leave. “Don’t stop on my account. I’ve been waiting for this finale for what feels like eons. Consider me a very invested, very quiet spectator.”
The spell was broken. Humiliation and frustrated desire warred in Matthew’s chest. Gunwook, however, didn’t jump back in shame. He moved slowly, deliberately. He pulled Matthew’s shirt back down with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the passion of moments before. Then, keeping one arm firmly around Matthew’s waist, holding him close and steady, he turned his head to look at Taerae.
His eyes were still dark with unresolved want, his breath still uneven, but his voice, when it came, was low and firm. “Not a spectacle, hyung.”
It was a gentle rebuke. A boundary drawn. This is ours.
Taerae’s grin softened, losing its edge of teasing. He held up the jar of plum juice like a peace offering. “Of course not. My apologies. The door was open, and the heat has addled my manners.” He set the jar on the porch step. “I’ll just leave this here. For your… thirst.” With a last, surprisingly fond look at them—a look that held no mockery, only deep happiness—he turned and sauntered away, whistling that same cheerful tune.
The silence he left behind was different. The frantic energy was gone, replaced by a trembling, raw awareness. They were still wrapped together, Gunwook’s arm a solid band around him. Matthew could feel the rapid, heavy thud of Gunwook’s heart against his own.
Gunwook looked down at him. His expression was a war zone—remnants of shattered control, a dawning horror at how close he’d come to losing it completely, and beneath it all, a love so fierce it burned away everything else.
“Matthew,” he breathed, the word ragged.
This was Gunwook choosing Matthew anyway. Choosing him over the frustration, over the humiliation of interruption, over the sheer, overwhelming drive of his own desire. He was choosing the man, not the moment.
Matthew understood. He reached up, cupping Gunwook’s jaw, his thumb stroking over the damp skin. “It’s okay,” he whispered. And he meant it. The almost-break hadn’t scared him. It had shown him the depth of the current they were navigating together. “We’re okay.”
Gunwook closed his eyes, leaning into the touch, his body trembling with the effort of reimposing control. He took several deep, shuddering breaths, his forehead coming to rest against Matthew’s.
“I want you,” Gunwook confessed, the words a raw scrape of sound against Matthew’s skin. “So much it feels like it’s going to burn me up from the inside.”
“I know,” Matthew said, his own voice shaking. “I want you, too.” He pressed a soft, chaste kiss to Gunwook’s lips, a promise and a reassurance. “And we will. When it’s just us, and the world doesn’t have a key to our door.”
A ghost of a smile touched Gunwook’s lips. He nodded, pulling Matthew into a proper hug, one of pure, grounding comfort this time, his chin resting on top of Matthew’s head.
They stood like that for a long time, in the sweltering afternoon quiet, the taste of plum juice and passion on the air, the line still uncrossed but now glowing with the heat of their shared, deliberate choice to wait for a night that would belong to them, and them alone.
—---
The days following Taerae’s interruption were different. The air between Matthew and Gunwook didn’t cool; it simply changed frequency. The frantic, desperate edge was gone, replaced by a profound, simmering certainty.
They had seen the cliff’s edge together, had felt the gravitational pull, and had mutually decided to step back—not out of fear, but to ensure their first time stepping over would be on their own terms, in their own time.
The wanting was now a quiet, constant hum in their shared space, a background radiation to their daily life that made every ordinary moment feel charged with significance.
They touched more openly now, with a new kind of confidence. Matthew would slide his hand into Gunwook’s back pocket as they walked to check the south field.
Gunwook would wrap both arms around Matthew’s waist from behind, chin on his shoulder, as they reviewed planting charts. These were not chaste gestures anymore; they were slow, deliberate declarations.
A silent language that said, This is mine, and I am his, and we are waiting, but not for long.
It was this new, unapologetic language that Gunwook’s parents began to witness.
Matthew was invited for Sunday dinner, as had become their custom. The Park household was bustling, full of the good-natured chaos of food preparation. Matthew was in the kitchen with Gunwook’s mother, Mrs. Park, diligently learning how to shape the perfect mandu. Gunwook and his father were outside, starting the grill for the bulgogi.
From the window over the sink, Mrs. Park had a clear view of the yard. She watched as her son placed a hand on the small of Matthew’s back when he stepped outside to bring them more charcoal—a simple, guiding touch, but her eyes, sharp and loving, saw the way Gunwook’s hand lingered, his thumb making a small, unconscious sweep against the fabric of Matthew’s shirt before letting him go.
She saw the way Matthew leaned into the touch, just for a fraction of a second, like a flower tilting toward the sun.
She didn’t comment. She just smiled, a small, private thing, and placed another dumpling wrapper in Matthew’s flour-dusted hand. “Your pleats are getting better, Matthew-yah.”
Later, during the meal, Mr. Park, in the middle of a boisterous story about a misbehaving calf, gestured with his chopsticks. Gunwook, listening, had his arm draped casually along the back of the bench behind Matthew.
As Mr. Park reached the story’s climax, Gunwook’s hand drifted down, his fingers lightly brushing the nape of Matthew’s neck, an absent, comforting stroke. Matthew, who had been laughing, stilled for a heartbeat, a faint blush rising on his cheeks before he relaxed into the touch.
Mr. Park didn’t miss a beat in his story, but his eyes, crinkled with laughter, flickered between his son and Matthew. He gave a nearly imperceptible nod, as if confirming something to himself.
After dinner, they were all sipping tea, relaxed and full. Matthew, feeling warmly emboldened by the family’s easy acceptance, reached over and picked up Gunwook’s empty teacup along with his own to take to the kitchen.
As he leaned across him, Gunwook’s hand came up, not to take the cup, but to gently grasp Matthew’s wrist. It wasn’t a grab; it was a hold. A silent thank you, or perhaps just a need for connection. He looked up at Matthew, and the look they shared—a universe of understanding and simmering patience—lasted a second too long for a simple cup retrieval.
A soft, knowing chuckle came from the head of the table. Mr. Park was watching them over the rim of his own cup, his eyes sparkling. “You know,” he said, his voice warm and devoid of any judgment, “when Gunwook’s mother and I were first married, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other either. Drove my own mother half-mad at the dinner table.” He winked at his wife, who swatted his arm playfully, her cheeks pink.
Gunwook immediately released Matthew’s wrist, his own ears turning red. “Appa…”
“What?” Mr. Park said, all innocent exaggeration. “I’m just stating a fact! It’s a good thing. A healthy thing.” His gaze softened, moving from his flustered son to Matthew, who was standing frozen, cups in hand. “It’s good to see my son so… settled. It looks good on you both.”
The acceptance was so simple, so profound, it stole Matthew’s breath. This wasn’t Taerae’s theatrical teasing. This was a parental blessing, woven into casual conversation. It was an acknowledgment that saw their love not as a spectacle or a secret, but as a natural, welcome part of the family landscape.
Mrs. Park reached over and patted Matthew’s arm. “Don’t mind him. He’s an old romantic. But he’s right.” She smiled, her eyes gentle.
That evening, walking back home under a canopy of stars, the silence between Matthew and Gunwook was filled with the echo of those words. It feels right.
“They know,” Matthew said softly, his hand finding Gunwook’s in the darkness.
“They’ve probably known longer than we have,” Gunwook replied, his voice a mixture of embarrassment and deep contentment. He squeezed Matthew’s hand. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“Bother me?” Matthew stopped, turning to face him. In the starlight, Gunwook’s features were soft. “It feels like… coming up for air. Like I don’t have to hide a piece of myself in the one place that’s become my home.”
Gunwook lifted their joined hands, pressing a kiss to Matthew’s knuckles, a gesture that was both old-fashioned and intensely personal. “You never have to hide. Not with me. Not with them.”
The following week, Mr. Park showed up at Matthew’s gate not with a container of food, but with two long, sturdy planks of seasoned oak. “For the bed frame,” he stated, hefting them.
“That old yo on the floor is fine for one, but for two grown men…” He shook his head, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You need proper support. Gunwook-ah! Come help your old man!”
And so, under Mr. Park’s direction, they built a bed. A real, raised bed frame that would lift their shared sleeping space off the floor. It was a project that felt wildly symbolic.
As they measured, sawed, and hammered, Matthew was acutely aware of the subtext. Gunwook’s father wasn’t just building furniture; he was building a foundation for his son’s life with Matthew. He was offering a blessing in the form of joinery and sturdy oak.
Mrs. Park arrived later with a brand-new, thick yo mattress and a set of crisp, cotton bedding. “For the new bed,” she said, her eyes dancing as she took in their sweaty, sawdust-covered forms. She didn’t offer to help put them on. She simply left them folded neatly on the porch, a silent gift of intimacy to be unwrapped later, in private.
That night, they lay side-by-side in their new bed, the sturdy frame solid and silent beneath them. The room smelled of fresh wood and clean cotton. The space felt different—more intentional, more permanent.
They were no longer two people sharing a makeshift sleeping mat. They were partners in a bed built for them, with the explicit blessing of family.
Gunwook turned on his side, facing Matthew. He didn’t reach for him with the desperate heat of before. He simply looked at him, his gaze tracing the lines of Matthew’s face in the moonlight filtering through the window. “My parents love you,” he said quietly.
“I love them, too,” Matthew whispered back, his heart full. “And I love their son. So much it terrifies me sometimes.”
Gunwook’s hand came up, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair from Matthew’s forehead. “Don’t be terrified,” he murmured. “We have a strong bed. And a strong family around us.”
He leaned in, closing the final distance, and kissed Matthew—a kiss that was neither frantic nor chaste, but deep, slow, and filled with a promise that was no longer of if, but of when.
A promise that sat comfortably now in the space between them, in the house they shared, in the village that embraced them, waiting for the right moment to blossom fully, nurtured by the profound, unshakable certainty of their love.
—---
The call came on a pristine autumn morning, the kind where the sky was a dizzying, cloudless blue and the air held the perfect, crisp balance between the fading warmth of summer and the promise of woodsmoke.
Matthew was on his knees in the herb garden he’d cultivated beside the porch, the earthy scent of rosemary and thyme clinging to his fingers. Inside, Gunwook was humming off-key, the sizzle of kimchi and rice in the pan a familiar, comforting soundtrack.
When his phone buzzed with the Vancouver area code, a chill unrelated to the weather skittered down his spine. He answered, wiping his hands on his pants. “Mom?”
“Matty.” His mother’s voice, warm but edged with a tension he hadn’t heard in months, crackled down the line. “How are you, sweetheart?”
They exchanged pleasantries, but the weight of the unspoken pressed down. Finally, she took a breath. “Your father and I… we’ve been thinking. It’s been nearly a year and a half. We’ve booked tickets. We’re coming to see you.”
Joy, sharp and immediate, bloomed in Matthew’s chest. He wanted them to see his house, his garden, his sun-dappled life. But then she continued, her tone carefully light. “And we can talk about… what’s next. Dr. Amir at the hospital was asking after you. There’s a residency position in community health opening up. It’s not the ER. It’s quieter. It could be a good… step back. Back to your life, Matty.”
Back to your life. The words landed like stones in the soft soil of his present. His life was here. The silence stretched, filled with the distant sound of Gunwook’s humming, the rustle of the persimmon tree, the deep, anchoring beat of his own heart that had finally found its rhythm.
“I… that’s great, Mom. I can’t wait for you to come,” he said, his voice strangely tight. “We’ll talk about everything when you’re here.”
After he hung up, he stayed kneeling in the dirt, the sun warm on his back but a cold knot of anxiety twisting in his stomach. Gunwook appeared in the doorway, a dish towel slung over his shoulder, his keen eyes missing nothing. “Everything okay?”
“My parents are coming,” Matthew said, forcing a smile. “In two weeks.”
Gunwook’s face lit with genuine pleasure. “That’s wonderful! We’ll have to prepare. Appa will want to have a proper feast. Eomma will clean this place from top to bottom.” Then he saw the shadow in Matthew’s eyes. He stepped out onto the porch, crouching down beside him. “What is it?”
“They… mentioned a job. Back in Vancouver.” The words felt like a betrayal, saying them aloud in this space. “They’re wondering if I’m ready to go back.”
Gunwook went very still. The dish towel slipped from his shoulder. For a terrifying second, Matthew saw a flash of raw, unguarded fear in his eyes—the same fear that had once been jealousy, now deepened into the terror of potential loss.
But then Gunwook blinked, and his expression settled into a mask of careful neutrality, though his hand found Matthew’s, gripping it tightly, as if to physically tether him to the earth. “What did you tell them?”
“That we’d talk when they’re here.”
Gunwook nodded slowly. He brought Matthew’s dirty hand to his lips and pressed a firm kiss to his knuckles, a gesture of possession and reassurance. “Then we’ll make sure they see. They need to see.”
The following two weeks were a whirlwind. The village, upon hearing the news of the Canadian parents’ visit, mobilized with a quiet, efficient purpose that left Matthew breathless. It was no longer just his and Gunwook’s life on display; it was the heart of Hwayeong itself.
Mr. and Mrs. Park took charge of “Operation Good Impression.” Mrs. Park orchestrated a deep clean of Matthew’s house that put Taerae’s first-day efforts to shame. Every surface gleamed, the windows sparkled, and the scent of citrus vinegar and fresh laundry hung in the air.
Mr. Park, with Gunwook and a conscripted Yujin in tow, repaired the last sagging section of the compound fence and whitewashed it until it gleamed bone-white in the sun.
Taerae appointed himself Director of Aesthetics and Social Coordination. He bullied Jiwoong into creating a “Best of Hwayeong” gift basket for the visitors, filled with local honey, wild persimmon syrup, and packets of the most photogenic heirloom seeds.
He also, with Hanbin’s help, organized a “casual, impromptu” gathering for the weekend after the parents arrived. “They need to see your context, darling,” Taerae declared. “Not just your handsome farmer, but the ecosystem you thrive in.”
Hanbin, with gentle sensitivity, helped Matthew practice phrases he might need for deeper conversations about his future, his tone always supportive, never pushing.
Even Yujin, in his own way, contributed by reluctantly agreeing to wear a “nice shirt” for the dinner and to “not scowl the entire time.”
Through it all, Gunwook was Matthew’s anchor. He didn’t press for answers Matthew didn’t have. He simply worked beside him, his presence a constant, steadying force.
But Matthew saw the subtle signs of his own stress: the way Gunwook’s sleep was more restless, the way he would sometimes stop and just stare at Matthew across the garden, his gaze intense and searching, as if memorizing him.
The day arrived. Dressed in clean, presentable clothes that felt oddly constricting, Matthew and Gunwook drove to Incheon.
The sight of his parents emerging from the international gate—his father looking tired but smiling, his mother’s eyes scanning the crowd anxiously until they landed on him—sent a wave of such powerful, conflicting emotion through Matthew that he swayed on his feet.
Gunwook’s hand, firm at the small of his back, steadied him.
The greetings were tearful, hugs tight and long. Matthew introduced Gunwook as “my neighbor, who has taught me everything.”
His parents were politely effusive in their thanks, but Matthew saw the assessing look in his father’s eyes as he took in Gunwook’s tall, solid frame and the easy way his hand hadn’t left Matthew’s back.
The car ride to Hwayeong was filled with his parents’ chatter about the flight, about Vancouver, about people Matthew barely remembered.
They fell silent as the cityscape yielded to forest, their eyes wide at the deepening greenery, the increasing quiet. “It’s still… the same and remote,” his mother finally said, her voice thin.
“It’s peaceful,” Matthew corrected gently, his eyes meeting Gunwook’s in the rearview mirror.
When they pulled up to the house—the white fence gleaming, the garden a tapestry of autumn golds and deep greens, the blue house looking loved and lived-in—his mother gasped. “Oh, Matty. It’s beautiful.”
The tour was an exercise in surrealism. Showing his parents his compost bin, his chicken coop (a proud, if noisy, achievement), the gnarled apple tree now firmly established.
They nodded, asked polite questions, but their eyes held a bewildered distance. The interior of the house, with its single yo mattress and low table, seemed to confirm their unspoken fear: their son was camping in the past.
That first evening, Gunwook excused himself after dinner to go home, giving them family time. The moment the door closed, the air changed.
“Matthew,” his father began, leaning forward. “This is… charming. Really. You’ve done an incredible job. But son… this is. A hiatus. You’re a brilliant doctor. You have a career, a future.”
“My future is here, Dad,” Matthew said, the words feeling both true and terrifying.
“With… him?” his mother asked softly, her eyes darting to the door through which Gunwook had left.
“Yes.” The word was a rock, solid and final.
They looked at him, and for the first time, he saw not just concern, but a dawning realization that the son they had sent away to heal might have transformed into someone they no longer fully recognized.
Two days later, Taerae’s “casual gathering” took place at the Parks’ home. If Matthew’s parents had found his own home quaint, the bustling, warm chaos of the Park household was a cultural immersion. The long table in the yard groaned with food—Mrs. Park’s kimchi, grilled meats, endless banchan, and dishes contributed by everyone.
And everyone was there.
Kim Taerae held court, charming Matthew’s mother with fluent English and dramatic stories of Matthew’s early farming disasters, carefully edited to highlight his growth. “He’s a natural! A complete visionary! If he’d been born here, he’d be running the agricultural cooperative by now.”
Kim Jiwoong, handsome and serene, spoke with Matthew’s father about the economics of rural life, his own story of leaving a glamorous career lending a quiet credibility. “It’s not about running away. It’s about what you run toward. Matthew ran toward life.”
Sung Hanbin, with his effortless warmth, engaged both parents in conversation about the local school, the community, drawing parallels between nurturing students and nurturing the land. He subtly emphasized Matthew’s work with the children during the harvest festival. “He has a gift for connecting, for teaching. The children adore him.”
Han Yujin, surprisingly, was the quiet trump card. Shyly, he showed Matthew’s father the engine of Mr. Park’s old truck, which Matthew had helped him troubleshoot. “Matthew-hyung is smart. He figured it out when no one else could,” Yujin mumbled, earning a surprised and proud look from Matthew’s father, a surgeon who appreciated practical intelligence.
And then there was Gunwook and his family. Gunwook himself was a revelation. He wasn’t the silent, intimidating figure Matthew had first mistaken him for.
He was respectful, attentive, moving through the gathering with a quiet confidence, filling drinks, explaining dishes, his eyes constantly finding Matthew with a look of such open, unguarded affection it was a language in itself. He didn’t cling; he simply existed in Matthew’s orbit, a planet to his sun.
Mr. Park, with his booming laughter and endless toasts, kept calling Matthew “my other son.” Mrs. Park fussed over Matthew’s mother, wrapping her in a kindness that transcended language. They didn’t just accept Matthew; they celebrated him. They showcased him as a cherished part of their own family.
Matthew watched his parents throughout the evening. He saw his mother’s initial stiffness melt as Mrs. Park pressed another delicious bite into her hand.
He saw his father’s analytical gaze soften as he watched Gunwook seamlessly fetch a sweater for Matthew when the evening chill descended, draping it over his shoulders without a word, his hand resting there for a moment too long to be casual.
The war inside Matthew raged. The filial piety, the desire to make his parents proud, to return to the safe, known path—it was a powerful tide.
But against it was the solid shore of his life here: Gunwook’s hand on his shoulder, Taerae’s sparkling laugh, Jiwoong’s steady nod, the taste of food grown in his own soil, the profound peace of belonging.
Then on the day before their departure, Matthew’s mother walked with him through his garden one last time. She stopped at the herb bed, the one he’d been tending when they called. She bent and pinched a sprig of rosemary, bringing it to her nose. “You always killed my houseplants,” she said, her voice thick.
“I know,” he said. “Here… I learned to listen. The soil taught me. He taught me.”
She looked at him, really looked, and he saw the moment she finally saw not her struggling son, but a man, grounded and whole. “You’re happy,” she stated, tears in her eyes. “Truly, deeply happy.”
Later, his father found him in the newly organized shed, where Matthew’s medical textbooks now sat on a shelf next to gardening manuals and seed catalogs. His father ran a finger along the spine of an old pharmacology text. “You haven’t gotten rid of them.”
“No,” Matthew said. “I just… redefined their context.”
On their last morning, as his parents packed, a commotion erupted outside. Old Man Park from down the lane had twisted his ankle badly in a ditch. His daughter came running, panic in her eyes.
Without a second thought, Matthew grabbed his old, half-forgotten medical kit and ran.
His parents watched from the porch as their son, in a muddy field, calmly and competently assessed the injury, stabilized the ankle with a makeshift splint, and directed Gunwook and Yujin on how to carefully carry the man to a car for the hospital.
He was calm, authoritative, in control. But it was different from the hospital. There was no sterile panic, no grief hovering at the edges. There was simple, necessary care for a neighbor. He was healing, but on his own terms.
When he returned, breathing heavily, dirt on his knees, his parents were waiting. His father put a hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t hesitate.”
“He’s my neighbor,” Matthew said simply.
His mother took his dirty hands in hers. “This place… it hasn’t just healed you, Matty. It’s remade you.”
At the airport, the goodbyes were different. The tension was gone, replaced by a bittersweet acceptance. His father pulled him into a fierce hug. “You have a family here. A good man. A purpose. We see that now.”
His mother cupped his face. “Be happy, my son. That’s all we ever wanted. We’ll visit. And Vancouver… will always be there. But your home is here.”
As their plane disappeared into the sky, Matthew felt not loss, but a profound release. The war was over. He had chosen, and he had been chosen in return.
Weeks later, under the bare branches of the apple tree, with Gunwook by his side and the entire found family gathered in the Parks’ yard, Matthew made an announcement. He had met with the regional health council.
“With their support,” he said, his voice clear and sure, his hand clasped tightly in Gunwook’s, “and with Gunwook’s family agreeing to lease me the small building next to the store… I’m going to establish a rural health clinic for Hwayeong and the surrounding villages. Part-time, to start. I’ll be the resident doctor.”
The reaction was not shock, but a joyous, deafening eruption of approval. Taerae whooped. Jiwoong smiled, already planning the pharmacy shelves.
Hanbin clapped, thrilled for his schoolchildren to have steady care. Yujin even cracked a smile. Mr. Park roared with laughter and pulled Matthew into a back-slapping hug. Mrs. Park wept happy tears.
Gunwook said nothing. He just looked at Matthew, his eyes shining with a pride so fierce it was like a physical warmth. In that gaze, Matthew saw his past, his present, and his future—not a retreat from medicine, but a reconciliation.
He would heal again, but here, among the soil and seasons and the people he loved.
He would tend to his community as tenderly as he tended his garden, with Gunwook steadfast by his side, their roots now inextricably intertwined in the rich, forgiving earth of home.