Jinho woke up — slow, heavy-lidded — to the smell of old wood and something sweet, like vanilla or maybe just someone's shampoo. His head throbbed from the weight of yesterday. He blinked. The room was dim, curtains drawn, a single lamp glowing softly on the nightstand. His phone buzzed — once, twice — then went silent. He didn't reach for it.
> He sat up — carefully — and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet touched the carpet — soft, thick, the kind that swallowed sound. He ran a hand through his hair, rubbed his temples, tried to remember what happened after the kiss. Nothing clear. Just flashes of Clara's fingers in his hair, the way she said _"I'm here"_ before she left.
> He stood — unsteady, but not falling — and walked to the window. Pushed the curtain aside. The driveway was empty.
he didn't mind, just went to his bathroom to shower.
After that, he went out of his room but everything was silent except for the voice coming from the kitchen, he knew the voice is Mrs Lee's so he decided to go ask her how he got home yesterday.
Jinho walked in — shirt half‑tucked, hair still damp from the shower, eyes scanning the room like a man looking for a missing piece.
> *Mrs. Lee* was at the sink, scrubbing a pot with more force than necessary.
And there — standing at the stove, back turned, stirring a pot of porridge — was *Bobae*.
Bobae.
> The girl who'd vanished two weeks ago, after Jun‑pyo takes sides with her.
She didn't turn.
Didn't glance his way.
Just kept stirring — slow, steady — like she hadn't heard him enter. Jinho froze.
She's here._In the kitchen._Cooking._Like nothing happened.
He almost spoke — almost called her name — but caught himself. Swallowed the urge. Forced his face into a mask of indifference.
Instead, he walked straight to Mrs. Lee — voice casual, almost bored:
"Mrs. Lee, who brought me home last night?"
Mrs. Lee didn't look up. "Clara did, Master Jinho."
"Clara?" He frowned. "Why?"
"I don't know but she brought you home yesterday. You were… not yourself."
"Where was Jun‑pyo?"
"He was… occupied. (Mrs Lee replied) "Occupied?" he asked with a questioning face but didn't get a response.
Jinho's jaw clenched. He didn't turn around. Didn't look at Bobae. Just stared at Mrs. Lee — like if he stared hard enough, she'd give him the answer he wanted.
But she didn't.
She just wiped her hands on her apron and said, quietly:
"Miss Bobae is staying here now just as a servant please don't add salt to her injury, this poor girl is hurt already please don't vent your anger on her. Mrs Lee pleaded him.
Jinho's fingers curled into fists.
The word hit him like a slap.
He turned — slowly — and walked toward the door.
he didn't look at Bobae, didn't acknowledge her.
Just kept walking — until he was halfway out the kitchen — then stopped. Turned and said — voice low, cold:
"Bobae. Meet me in my room. Tonight. Nine o'clock. I have questions." She didn't answer. Just kept stirring —lost in her own thought.
Jinho waited — two heartbeat, then walked out.
The door swung shut behind him.
Mrs Lee exhaled — slow, shaky.
"That went well," she muttered.
Bobae finally turned — eyes dry, expression troubled. and looked at Mrs Lee with a cold gaze.
> "He's scared," Mrs Lee said, voice soft. "He doesn't know how to handle this." and also I think he likes you it's obvious.
bobae frowned. "He's been scared since the day he claimed you as his. He just didn't know it yet."
Bobae smiled — small, sad — and stirred the porridge one last time.
"Tonight," she whispered. "Nine o'clock. He wants answers. I'll give him one."
"What answer?" Mrs Lee asked. bobae turned off the stove.
"I don't know, Lets hear the question first.
"3 hours later"
She arrived at his door exactly at 9 o'clock.
No hesitation.
Just turned the handle — slow, deliberate — and pushed it open.
> He was sitting on the edge of his bed — shirt unbuttoned, hair half‑dried, barefooted — staring at the floor like it held all the answers.
He didn't look up when she entered.
"Close the door," he said, voice low.
She didn't.
Just stood there — in the doorway —her eyes sharp as knives.
"I'm not closing it," she said, voice calm, even.
He finally lifted his gaze — slow, heavy — and stared at her.
"You're late," he said. "I'm not late. I'm _early_.
He stood — slow, deliberate — and walked toward her — until he was standing so close she could feel the heat of his skin, smell the soap on his neck, see the pulse beating in his throat.
"Why are you here?" he asked, voice rough.
"Because you asked me to be."
"I asked you to meet me. Not to walk into my room like you own it."
> She smiled — small, bitter — and stepped closer — until her chest brushed his.
> "I don't own it. But I'm not afraid of it. I'm not afraid of you. And I'm not going to play your game — where you pretend you're the victim and I'm the villain."
> He flinched — just a little — like she'd hit him.
> "You think you're the victim?" he said, voice cracking. "You think I'm the bad guy here?" yes, you see me as a trash, as a maid who is still breathing just to do house chores. she yelled at him.
> "I think you're the one who's too scared to admit you're jealous," she whispered. "Jealous that your brother chose me. Jealous that I chose him. Jealous that I'm standing here — in your room — and you're the one who feels like the intruder."
> He grabbed her wrist roughly and pulled her toward him.
"Don't talk to me like you know me," he growled.
"Then stop acting like you don't know yourself," she shot back. "
He let go — sudden, furious — and stepped back.
"That's not true."
> "Isn't it?" She crossed her arms. He didn't answer.
> Just stared at her — eyes dark, mouth open, breath ragged — like she'd ripped the mask off his face and left him naked.
> "I'm not here to answer your questions," she said, voice quieter now — but sharper. "I'm here to tell you — you don't have the right to ask them. Not like this. Not like I'm some prisoner you can interrogate. Not like I owe you anything." it's your father's money not yours and I will pay back.
She turned — slow, deliberate — and walked toward the door.
"Where are you going?" he demanded.
"Back to the kitchen," she said, hand on the knob.
He lunged — fast — and slammed the door shut before she could open it.
"Don't walk away from me," he said, voice low, vibrating with rage.
"Then don't make me," she whispered, turning to face him — eyes blazing.
He stared at her — stunned, silent — like she'd ripped his heart out and held it up for him to see.
> "Say something," she whispered
> He swallowed — hard — and opened his mouth. I see you've grown wings.
"No," she said, voice soft.
> "I'll be in my room. If you want to talk — really talk — come find me. But don't come looking for me like I'm a problem you need to solve. I'm not a puzzle, Jinho. I'm a person. And I'm done letting you treat me like a ghost.
> She opened the door — stepped out — and closed it behind her.
He stood there — alone — heart pounding, hands shaking, throat burning — staring at the closed door like it was the last thing keeping him from falling apart.
Then he heard it.
> A soft rustle from the hallway. The creak of a floorboard. The whisper of fabric against wood.
> *Clara.*
> He didn't turn. Didn't call out. Just waited — breath held — until she stepped into the room.
> She didn't knock. Didn't hesitate. Just walked in — barefoot, hair tied back, wearing one of her old shirts, sleeves rolled up, buttons undone just enough to show the curve of her collarbone. She carried a tray — steaming mug of black coffee, a slice of toast, a single aspirin.
> "You're awake," she said, setting the tray on the nightstand. "Good."
> He didn't speak. Just watched her — the way her fingers trembled slightly as she poured the coffee, the way her lips pressed together like she was holding back a thousand words.
> "Eat," she said, pushing the toast toward him. "You'll need it."
> He ignored it and swallowed hard. "Why are you doing this?"
> She finally looked at him — eyes dark, steady, unblinking. "Because someone has to."
> "I don't need a nanny." He set the toast down and called "Clara…"
> "Don't." She cut him off. "Don't say my name like it's a weapon.
> He opened his mouth — To argue but she didn't allow him.
"You kissed me," she whispered. "Last night. You didn't have to. You could've pushed me away. You could've pretended it never happened. But you didn't."
"I was drunk."
"Liar." She touched his cheek — fingertips brushing his stubble — and he froze. "You've been running from me for years. But you can't run forever."
> He didn't pull away. Just stared at her — at the way her lashes fluttered when she blinked, at the tiny scar above her left eyebrow, at the way her lips quivered slightly, like she was afraid to say too much.
> "Why now?" he asked, voice rough. "Why after all this time?"
> "Because I'm tired of waiting," she said, voice steady. "Because I'm tired of watching you love another person. Because I love you — even when you don't love me.
> He swallowed hard. "You shouldn't." you're my sister, you are ten years older than me.
> "Too late." She smiled sadly and beautiful. "I already do."
> He reached up — slow, hesitant — and took her hand. Held it. Fingers intertwined. "Clara…"
> "Shh." She pressed a finger to his lips. "No more talking. Not yet. Just… stay. Let me stay. Let me be here. With you."
you can't be with me Clara.... I don't have feeling for you, I'm sorry. jinho declared to her.
you don't like me! why? she asked, jinho we've been together for years before I traveled out with your brother is it because I didn't tell I was leaving?
but jinho nodded in disagreement. then why? she asked in the midst of tears. is it because of that girl? is it because of that maid ugh? jinho talk to me. why her? why will you choose her when she's just a maid, she's just here to pay off her fathers debt...
before Clara could finish her statement jinho already left the room.