They ate in silence, the sounds of utensils clinking against plates filling the quiet dining hall. The spice from the sauce still lingered on Beom's tongue, a pleasant warmth that contrasted with the cool water he occasionally sipped. He glanced up at Yaroslav, who was steadily working through the meal with his usual composed demeanor, though Beom noticed he was taking frequent sips of water to combat the lingering heat. He's still suffering from the spice, Beom thought with a small, amused smirk, though he didn't say anything to tease him this time.
Just as Beom was about to reach for another piece of shrimp, Yaroslav's deep voice cut through the silence. "Your hair has overgrown," he said, his tone casual but direct, his sharp eyes lifting from his plate to meet Beom's.
Beom blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the comment. He raised a hand to his head, running his fingers through the dark strands that had grown a bit longer than usual. He hadn't paid much attention to it lately; everything had been a blur since the surgery and the recovery period. Is it really that bad? he wondered, his fingers lightly tugging at the ends.
"Has it?" Beom finally asked, feigning nonchalance, though his mind was already racing. Why would he even bring that up? It's not like he's been paying attention to my hair... or has he?
Yaroslav nodded, his expression as stoic as ever, though his gaze lingered on Beom's hair for a moment longer than necessary. "It's not bad," he added, as if sensing Beom's hesitation. "But it could use a trim."
Beom huffed softly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "What, you a barber now?" he teased, though there was a faint pink tint to his cheeks that he hoped Yaroslav wouldn't notice. Of all the things to comment on, he picks my hair?
Yaroslav shrugged, unfazed by Beom's sarcasm. "I could trim it for you," he said simply, as if offering to fix a leaky faucet or tighten a loose screw.
Beom stared at him, unsure if he was serious or joking. He tilted his head slightly, studying Yaroslav's face for any hint of amusement, but the man's expression remained unreadable. "You? Cut my hair?" Beom asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Why not?" Yaroslav replied, his voice calm, as if this was the most natural suggestion in the world. He picked up a piece of crab and cracked it open with ease, not even looking at Beom as he continued, "It's not difficult. Just a pair of scissors and a steady hand."
Beom let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, no thanks. I'll pass. The last thing I need is to walk around with a lopsided haircut."
But as he said it, his thoughts betrayed him, wandering to what it would actually be like to let Yaroslav cut his hair. The idea was absurd, yet oddly intimate. Why would he even care about my hair? Beom wondered again, glancing at Yaroslav, who was now completely focused on his food.
He's always so serious, so composed, Beom thought, his gaze softening slightly. Yet here he is, talking about my hair like it's something he's genuinely concerned about. Is this his way of... caring? Or is he just trying to distract me?
The thought lingered as Beom twirled a piece of shrimp in the leftover sauce on his plate. He didn't know what to make of Yaroslav sometimes. One moment, he was distant and impenetrable, and the next, he was saying things that made Beom's heart skip a beat, even if he didn't want to admit it.
"Well, if it bothers you so much, maybe I'll just grow it out," Beom said finally, a playful edge to his voice as he leaned forward slightly. "See how long it can get before you start complaining."
Yaroslav raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smirk. "Do what you want," he said, his voice low and even. "But don't blame me when it starts getting in your eyes."
Beom rolled his eyes, but he couldn't suppress the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. What's with this guy? One minute, he's stoic as a statue, and the next, he's making comments about my hair like some overbearing... boyfriend? No, stop. Don't go there.
Shaking off the thought, Beom reached for another piece of sausage, determined to focus on the food rather than the strange warmth bubbling in his chest. Still, as he chewed, he couldn't help but steal another glance at Yaroslav, wondering—not for the first time—just what was going on in that enigmatic head of his.
As Beom sat there, absently poking at the remaining food on his plate, his thoughts began to drift far from the dining table and the faint banter between him and Yaroslav. The warmth from the spice in the sauce lingered on his tongue, but it couldn't melt the growing lump in his throat. His mind wandered to a place he hadn't allowed it to go for a while—home.
They probably think I'm dead by now, Beom thought, his grip tightening slightly on his fork. Mom, Beom-sook... what must they be going through? His chest ached at the thought of his mother sitting alone, staring at the clock or the door, hoping for a miracle that he might walk in. And his sister... Beom-sook probably hasn't slept properly in weeks. She's always been the stronger one, but this? This would break her.
The room felt colder despite the heat of the food. Beom stared at the table, his vision blurring slightly as his emotions threatened to spill over. It's almost Christmas, he thought bitterly, his heart sinking further. I should be at home, helping Mom put up decorations, teasing Beom-sook about her ridiculous holiday plans, and eating her over-seasoned cookies while pretending they're good. That's where I should be—not here, not with him, not in this twisted situation.
A pang of homesickness washed over him, sharp and unrelenting. He could practically see the scene in his mind: his mother in the kitchen, humming softly as she prepared something warm and comforting, her hands busy but her smile bright. Beom-sook would be in the living room, tangled in a mess of fairy lights and garlands, muttering under her breath about how she always had to do everything herself. The familiar warmth of their small home, the laughter, the arguments over who would hang the star on the tree—it all felt like a distant dream now.
But now? What do I have here? Beom thought, his jaw clenching as he stared blankly at his plate. A cold, unfamiliar house. A kidnapper who acts like we're... what, friends? Whatever this is, it's not normal. And it's not home.
His thoughts turned darker as he considered how long he'd been gone. Do they even have hope anymore? Or have they accepted that I'm never coming back? The idea of his mother crying herself to sleep, of Beom-sook scouring every possible lead to find him, was almost too much to bear. A sharp, involuntary gasp escaped his lips, and he quickly lowered his head, pretending to adjust his napkin to hide the tears threatening to spill.
Why me? Why did this have to happen? he thought bitterly, his chest tightening with frustration and sorrow. All I want is to go home. To sit with Mom, to hear Beom-sook nagging me about something stupid, to feel like myself again.
He glanced at Yaroslav again, a flare of resentment sparking in his chest. Does he even care about what he's taken from me? My life, my family, my freedom? Does he think cooking me a meal makes up for all of this? Beom bit the inside of his cheek, trying to suppress the rising anger. I don't care how calm or normal he acts—he's still the reason I'm stuck here. He's the reason my family might be crying themselves to sleep tonight.
The thought of Christmas approaching only made it worse. It's supposed to be a time for joy, for family, for togetherness. Instead, I'm trapped here, pretending like everything's fine while my heart is breaking.
Beom's gaze fell to his hands, clenched tightly in his lap. I don't know how much more of this I can take, he thought, swallowing hard. I just want to go home. To tell them I'm alive. To feel like myself again.
But as much as he longed for that, the reality of his situation weighed heavily on him. Escape wasn't an option—not yet, at least. For now, he was stuck in this strange, oppressive limbo, teetering between anger, despair, and the faintest glimmer of hope that someday, somehow, he might find his way back to the life he'd been ripped away from.
As Beom sat back in his chair, his eyes following the rhythmic movements of Yaroslav cleaning up the dining table, an unusual thought surfaced in his mind, one that he hadn't dared to confront until now. It's so surprising, he thought, his fingers nervously brushing against the edge of his plate. Ever since he trapped me here, he hasn't... he hasn't tried to make love to me. Not once.
His brows furrowed slightly as he considered the implications. Why hasn't he? Is it because of the surgery? Beom's gaze flicked downward, his hand subconsciously brushing over his stomach where the scar still felt tender under his clothes. The thought of his own vulnerability made him feel exposed, raw. Or is there another reason? Could he actually be... respecting my boundaries? No. That can't be it.
The idea gnawed at him, refusing to let go. Why would someone like him—someone who has no problem kidnapping me, holding me against my will—suddenly decide to respect something as personal as that? Beom's chest tightened as he recalled the numerous times Yaroslav could have easily crossed that line but hadn't. It left him feeling unsettled, as if there were layers to Yaroslav he hadn't yet begun to understand.
But what if it's not respect? What if it's just strategy? Waiting for the right moment? Beom clenched his fists under the table, the thought sending a chill through him. What if he's just biding his time, waiting until I'm fully healed and unable to resist? Or worse—until I let my guard down?
Yet, despite his fear, there was another, quieter voice in the back of his mind, one he hated himself for even acknowledging. But he hasn't tried anything. Not once. Even when I thought he might. Even when I... Beom swallowed hard, unwilling to finish the thought. He shook his head, trying to dispel the confusing swirl of emotions. Why am I even thinking about this? Why am I trying to figure him out? He's my captor. That's all I need to know.
But the questions wouldn't stop. What if it really is the surgery? Beom pressed his lips together, his eyes narrowing slightly as his mind spun in circles. What if he's waiting because he doesn't want to hurt me physically? That would mean he's... concerned about me? No, stop. Don't go there, Beom. You can't afford to start humanizing him.