Chapter 5 – A Third Party Intervenes in the Flirtation
Park Tarim swiftly and calmly gathered his clothes and headed into the bathroom. Soon, the sound of water splashing from the shower filled the air. Muru muttered under her breath.
“Is he… mad?”
Thud. Right then, something thumped against the bathroom wall. Followed by a soft “Oww…”
“You okay?!”
Muru raised her voice, trying to cut through the sound of the water. A reply echoed back with a reverb only a bathroom could provide: “I’m fine!” Three syllables full of forced chill.
The owner of that “I’m fine” was cooling his forehead under the stream of water. The moment he turned the tap, he had slammed his head against the wall in self-loathing—and to make matters worse, it was the exact spot he had banged into a metal hook bought from Coupang the day before.
He had barely whispered “ow,” but of course, she had sharp ears.
You okay?!
You think I’m okay?! After we spent the night together and you say you’re sorry?! Would you be okay?!
But contrary to his true feelings, what slipped out of his mouth was:
“I’m fine♬”
And with that, Park Tarim sank into a pit of sadness.
At 1 Bongnim-dong, Junsan City, there was a house every local knew: Hwaran House.
The Dutch-style three-story home, perched on a gentle slope, was once a missionary’s residence. Finished with gray granite, the Western-style house had earned its name “Hwaran” from the Sino-Korean transliteration of “Netherlands.”
After the missionary was buried in a Christian cemetery, the house changed hands several times.
Its current owner, photographer Park Tarim, used the spacious house for a house-share setup, offering meals to tenants. And now, two residents of Hwaran House found themselves in a dire situation.
On the second floor, tenant Kwon Hosik stared grimly at his plate. Two slices of toast, burnt to a crisp. Breakfast had become a tragedy.
“…Tarim.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“……”
Park Tarim, who’d been nicknamed “Iron” (as in iron-for-clothes) since first meeting Hosik in middle school, sat glumly in a corner of the table. Likewise cursed with the blackened bread, next-door tenant Oh Ikyum sighed deeply.
“Oh, dear mayor…”
Hosik chewed the bitter toast and glared at Ikyum.
“Call Buddha instead. You work for city hall, not a cult. Stop saying ‘mayor’ like he’s your god.”
“To civil servants, the mayor is god, you punk.”
“Then is my god the police commissioner?”
As a five-year veteran police officer, Kwon Hosik felt sick just imagining himself saying “Dear Commissioner…” But more than that, it was the seven-day streak of garbage breakfasts from their housemate that made him nauseous.
Just as he was about to fling the charred toast, longtime friend and classmate Oh Ikyum voiced what they both felt.
“If something’s bothering you, just say it. Don’t take it out on breakfast, straightener boy.”
“It’s not straightener! It’s Tarim! Ugh, whatever. Nothing happened!!”
Park Tarim, now stripped of even his name, hunched his large frame and crunched down on the seaweed-like toast.
The two housemates, bound together by school ties and shared rent, barely suppressed their growing frustration.
When they moved in, the promise was two meals a day. They knew Tarim’s cooking skills from childhood, and when he even got certified in Korean cuisine before opening the house-share, they signed without hesitation.
For two and a half years, the two men enjoyed gourmet-level breakfasts and dinners. Missing dinner because of work was the only time they felt regret—because it meant missing Tarim’s food.
And now? This?
He said he was just going to Seoul briefly for a wedding shoot. But then he stayed out overnight without warning, and whatever happened there had turned him into a zombie for the past week.
“Tell us. What happened in Seoul?”
Kwon Hosik said it firmly.
“If you don’t, I’ll have you arrested.”
Even threatened him. But Tarim just rested his chin on one hand, mechanically chewing. Ikyum jumped in.
“Only the prosecution can arrest people. You just detain them. Tarim, confess. Now.”
But Tarim, like a closed clam, clutched a second toast slice and stayed silent.
“Why’d you stay out overnight?”
“Was it a girl?”
“What happened that night?”
“A guy?!”
“This is food?! You call this food?!”
“This is trash!”
They drummed up a whole concert of questions between themselves.
Tarim only let out a long sigh. Just then—
His smartphone buzzed on the table. Instinctively, Oh Ikyum grabbed it.
Park Tarim barely had time to glimpse the preview of a message from Ju Muru.
“Hey!!!”
Too late. Ikyum had already unlocked the phone and bolted into the living room.
“Give it back!”
Crash! Bang! The two men chased each other out of the kitchen. Hosik, left alone at the table, suddenly felt very lonely. As Tarim ran, Ikyum read the message aloud in a shrill voice.
“Tarim! Can we maybe talk on the phone today?! Uwaaaaa!”
“Give it back, you jerk!!”
Dodging masterfully, Ikyum spun around the living room, evading capture.
“It’s a girl! It’s definitely a girl!!”
“Ah! Hand it over!”
“Who is she? Tell me and I’ll give it back!”
“None of your business!!”
Their wrestling ended when Ikyum read the sender’s name:
“Ju Muru?!”
“Oh my god, shut up already!”
Tarim snatched back the phone and sat down at the table. Ikyum, acting like a nosy house elf, followed with rapid-fire questions.
“Ju Muru? As in the Ju Muru? Our classmate from elementary school? The one who transferred after 3rd grade?! Why her? You met her? You spent the night together?!”
Blocking out the noise, Tarim typed a calm reply:
[Sure. Call me anytime. How’s your ankle?]
Ikyum peeked again. A civil servant with zero respect for privacy.
“Ankle? What happened to her ankle? You break it?”
“What are you even saying.”
“What’s a ‘Jumuleo’?”
Hosik asked. He didn’t go to the same elementary school, so he was unfamiliar with the name. The other two, now deep in memory lane, explained.
“It’s a girl. Family name Ju. First name Muru. We used to call her Jumuleo.”
“Interesting name.”
“Not like yours is normal either, Hosik.”
“Oh, and O Ikyum is normal? Sounds like a cucumber.”
“Haha, grow up. You’re like a steamed bun.”
Tarim, watching these two act like kids, vowed even more firmly not to tell them he had randomly run into Muru in Seoul.
Another message pinged. Both guys immediately stared at the screen preview.
[It doesn’t hurt at all. Thanks to you.]
Whish! Ikyum, unable to resist his klepto urges, snatched the phone and sent a reply at lightning speed:
[But my heart hurts.]
Tarim’s scream echoed off the ceiling of Hwaran House.
Ikyum, now wearing rubber gloves, joked:
“No need to thank me. Our Tarim is in loooove~”
“You really sent that?! Are you serious?!”
“I’ll do the dishes. I’m so nice….”
Whistling like an idiot, Ikyum walked over to the sink.
This madman…!
Tarim crouched by the sofa next to Hosik, who was turning on the TV, and furiously typed and erased a dozen drafts.
[That wasn’t me just now. It was my friend 1]
[My friend was joking around 1]
[Ignore the last one. Friend sent it 1]
But whatever he wrote, it still made him seem like a guy who shows texts from girls to his buddies. He deleted everything and typed:
[Still, be careful. I’m worried.]
But it sounded too clingy. Just as he was about to erase it—
CLICK. Hosik’s finger hit send.
“You bastard!!”
Hosik laughed so hard it looked like he might die. No doubt both his roommates were insane.
He tried to delete it—but the “1” (read receipt) disappeared right away. Too late.
From the kitchen, Ikyum’s singing rang out:
“Someday, we’ll meeeet againnnn—”
Stop singing that!!
Tarim clutched his phone, knees trembling, while Ikyum just reveled in the joy of someone else’s budding romance. Hosik gently patted his knee.
“Stop the drama. You’ll chase away your luck.”
“Why isn’t she replying?”
“She will.”
“Still nothing.”
“Just wait.”
“She read it. Why isn’t she answering?”
“How can someone this clueless even function in dating?”
“What’s my face got to do with anything?”
“So you’re not denying you’re handsome. Still smug after all these years, huh?”
“Three minutes have passed. Still no reply. I messed up, didn’t I?”
“She might have her reasons.”
“What reasons?”
When a friend digs his own grave this deep, intervention becomes necessary. Hosik turned down the TV volume and gave him a soulful look.
