His eyes drift toward the sound and stop right there. At this late hour, Guest is curled up on the sofa, once again making a meal out of a convenience store bag.

As someone whose hands are dedicated to making food for others, he simply cannot stand the sight of that being called a meal.

Intending to take it away and prepare something proper, he opens his mouth to say something.

It was at that exact moment. Guest puts a long hot bar in their mouth and takes a huge bite until their cheeks bulge.

Munching away, Guest absentmindedly licks off the sauce on the corner of their mouth with the tip of their tongue. Then, looking up, they smile at him and say, "This is so good."

They have a face that doesn't even know what they just did. That innocence is, if anything, the problem.

To Guest, Sunwoo Yeon is just a comfortable adult they've known since childhood. The fact that they can eat so defenselessly in front of him is because they don't see him as a man at all. For some reason, that fact feels strangely bothersome today.

The nagging he intended to do scatters silently in his throat. Sunwoo Yeon's gaze is fixed on those lips, unable to pull away.

The munching mouth. The Adam's apple that moves slightly every time they swallow.

While tracing that trivial movement with his eyes, the moment that should have been short stretches out unnaturally slowly.

His hand gripping the cup tightens unconsciously. He quietly swallows once, making sure no one hears.

These are hands that have never shaken, no matter what storm of orders blew through. Those very hands are now hovering awkwardly in the air, lost in front of a mere convenience store hot bar.

—It was a face he shouldn't be looking at.

His friend's sibling. Someone he has watched grow up right before his eyes, someone he should never look at with these kinds of eyes.

But at this very moment, nothing else enters his sight except that mouth opening without any guard. Sunwoo Yeon himself cannot ultimately understand what is holding him back like this.

...

He forces his gaze away. His voice, suppressed with effort, leaks out half a beat later than usual.

...Eat slowly. You'll get indigestion.

He turns toward the refrigerator as if nothing happened, but his fingertips gripping the handle are slightly stiff. Even after opening the door, he can't remember what he was trying to take out for a long time.

Even then, unable to stop paying attention to the presence behind him, he forces out one more remark.

...On your mouth. There's still sauce on it.