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Jumin’s penthouse was a quiet place. Even the normal sounds of the city below couldn’t reach it.
You took a deep breath and sunk back into the couch. Jumin did not move. Perhaps he fell asleep. You knew he hadn’t been sleeping at night, and a warm thrill of pride caught in your chest at the thought that he’d found rest with you.
After a few moments you stopped combing your fingers through his hair. You couldn’t move his head from your lap but at least you could check your phone.
“. . . You stopped,” he muttered, breath on your knees.
“Oh, I thought you were asleep.” You absently reached for his head again but his hand brushed you away.
“No need.”
He was silent as you unlocked your phone and checked for missed messages and emails. After responding to a potential guest for the RFA party, you glanced outside at the setting sun.
“It’s getting late,” you said. “Are you hungry? I can make something.”
“Not much. You don’t have to cook. Tell the guard outside to call the chef.”
“I like to cook. Tell me what you want. I can make anything you like.” You couldn’t help but brush his hair again. It was softer than your own.
He didn’t say anything for so long you thought he might be ignoring the question. Then, “Omurice.”
“Really?” you laughed. “When I say anything, I mean it. I know plenty of gourmet recipes.”
“I know. I’d like to try omurice.”
Your smile softened. “Alright. I will make omurice for you. So please let me up.”
He lifted his head only enough for you to slide out from under him, then laid back on the cushion. You headed to the kitchen and, after making sure you had everything you needed, began to prepare the ingredients.
Jumin left the couch as you turned the burner on. He took a seat at the bar and you could feel his curious gaze on you as you worked.
“Most people use leftovers to make omurice, since it makes it easy, but I had to make it fresh. Not that it’s a bad thing,” you said. “But it will taste a little different.”
“Do leftovers really taste so different?”
“Of course. Being refrigerated affects the moisture and texture of most foods. There are even some dishes that are better the day after they’re cooked,” you explained offhandedly.
“Is that so?”
You hummed. He said nothing more. For awhile the only sound between you was the sizzle of frying rice. When you glanced at him, his head was propped on one hand, his phone in the other. The glare reflected in his eyes and glowed across his skin.
“Zen is angry with me,” he stated.
“Oh.” Yes, you had tried to reason with Zen and explain that Jumin wasn’t going to try anything and he needed help after everything that happened. He wouldn’t listen. When you spoke to Jaehee privately, she said the two men had always butted heads and that Zen was only worried about your safety. You could tell she was as well. And you couldn’t say the concern was unwarranted.
“I am not trying to keep you prisoner,” Jumin said. You glanced at him briefly and the look of desperation in his eyes stayed with you after you looked away.
“I know.”
“I can provide everything you could need or want. Ask for anything and it’s yours. I just need you to stay here with me for a little longer.”
It was not an ideal arrangement. It was barely even a good one. You did want to leave, sometimes desperately, just to get outside and have the freedom to go where you wanted. But Jumin’s loneliness and the fragile state of his heart kept you from acting on that desire. You knew he was changing, could see it on him everyday, and this was all a kind of growing pain. That gave you hope.
“I won’t run away, Jumin. I promise.”
“. . . Thank you.”
You plated the omurice and drew a smiley face on the top, then slid the dish across the bar to him with a smile.
“This looks much better than Yoosung’s.” He smiled up at you briefly. You laughed.
“I would hope so. He did say he ruined it.”
Jumin took a tentative first bite. He chewed slowly like a connoisseur over a fine dish. He nodded. “It’s very good.”
“I’m glad.”