Dirty Night - Chapter 13

“……”

“As you can see, I’m someone who lives and dies by appearances.”

“……”

“It’s tough work making scum look presentable.”

Gotta cover up the stench somehow.

He mutters it like it’s some kind of trade secret, voice low and almost conspiratorial. 

Not that I was expecting much, but this? This was somehow even less than nothing. It was impressive, in a way—how completely void of expectations this conversation had become.

“……”

Silence, once again.

In the quiet, a sharp, bitter scent lingers in the air. And with it, the faintest hint of curiosity.

“Is that… good?”

I’ve heard soju is bitter. But beer—beer is supposed to be decent, right?

“Aren’t drinks like that kind of outdated now?”

“‘Drinks like that’?” 

He repeats my words, twirling the blue beer can in his hand like some lazy parrot. One eyebrow lifts.

Ah. That must’ve struck a nerve.

“You didn’t get that from a convenience store, did you?”

“……”

He narrows his eyes, as if wondering how the hell I could possibly know that. I just shrug.

“My neighbor always bought her beer from the convenience store. Never this brand, though.”

I remember Moon Ah-Rang showing up late with a bag of fried chicken, swinging by the local market last minute to pick up a drink. She used to pout whenever they didn’t have the one she wanted.

“This is the essence of domestic beer,” he declares.

Patriotism at its finest.

With his chin tilted just a little too high, he waves the can around like it’s some kind of badge of honor.

“Why? You want a sip?”

He spins his wrist, the movement lazy, inviting. And incredibly annoying.

“Wanna try?”

The way he dangles it in front of me—it reminds me of Ah-rang, always waving her drink in my face, trying to tempt me into just one taste.

“What’s it like?”

I lean in without thinking, closing the space between us in an instant. 

His face stiffens. The playful movements of his fingers stop mid-air.

“Hard to say.”

Tastes like watered-down barley tea? But not the absolute worst thing in the world.

“Want to find out?” 

He suddenly extends the can toward me.

“I’m underage.”

“……Oh. Right. Underage.”

Underage. Yeah. That’s what I am.

The word rolls off his tongue, slow, deliberate, like he’s testing the weight of it.

“But I’m turning legal soon.”

“……”

“So I feel like… it should be fine?”

“Should I just try it?”

I look up at him, genuinely considering it. He lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head.

“If you say yes, will you tell me what it tastes like?”

The sheer audacity.

He leans against the railing, arms draped over the edge, his smirk settling into something both lazy and wicked. My eyes are drawn to it before I even realize.

He glances at me. Then at the beer. 

Satisfied, he smiles.

“No.”

“……”

“Minors aren’t supposed to drink.”

“That’s… true.”

The way he says it—mocking, yet so completely at ease—somehow makes it worse.

“Maybe next time.”

“……”

“If you’re gonna do something dirty, might as well learn from a real bastard.”

“……”

“So you can learn how to get screwed over, too.”

And how to survive it.

Something about the way he says it feels… off. 

I hesitate. Look up at him. 

For a second, the teasing tone, the casual arrogance—it all feels almost sinister.

“……I’d rather not.”

“Agh, my poor heart.”

His words sound wounded, but his face doesn’t match. 

Then, just like that, he lets out a quiet laugh and turns his gaze toward the city beyond, putting up a wall like he’s already decided I’m not worth the effort.

Here’s the translated version in the first person:  

—

What the hell. He keeps making things awkward. He did it last time, and now he’s doing it again. It’s irritating, to the point where it stirs up an odd sense of competitiveness in me.  

But this time, it wasn’t me who got annoyed—it was him.  

I pouted as I watched him, then mimicked his movement, lifting myself onto the edge of the railing. Leaning forward slightly, I dangled my upper body over the outside. I peeked my face out in front of him, purposefully getting in his way as he tried to avoid my gaze. His brows furrowed as he watched my reckless behavior.  

“But, you keep calling me ‘baby’ all the time… Why am I your ‘baby’?”  

It was a genuine question, one I’d been wondering about for a while. He was caught off guard. A rare moment of vulnerability.  

For a second, the city lights behind me disappeared, and all he could see was my face. I was smiling—eyes curved, lips curled up, like the pale moon hanging behind me.  

It felt like spring had arrived early. My laughter, blooming like flowers, scattered through the cold wind that rustled my hair. Like a painting unfolding on a dark canvas, I stood before him.  

I wasn’t sure if he even realized it, but his pupils were shaking. The faint glint in his eyes flickered like city lights in the distance.  

Time, fleeting as it was, stretched into infinity. He stared at me like an idiot for a long time. My cheeks, kissed by the cold, were tinged pink, and the soft baby hairs on my face caught the light.  

His hand holding the beer can slackened.  

Drip.  

Half-finished beer spilled over the railing.  

‘Mister.’  

‘Mister,’ huh?  

It was absurd. A goddamn ridiculous word. But somehow, hearing it for the first time—this cursed word—didn’t sound so bad. It pissed him off, but he didn’t entirely hate it.  

That was the moment it hit him.  

‘Ah, fuck. I’m screwed.’  

“Then why am I an mister to you?”  

He swallowed down a curse, barely managing to get the words out. A perfect poker face.  

My bright smile froze. My lips parted slightly in surprise, a small puff of breath escaping into the cold air.  

“Well… because you are?”  

“……”  

“It’s not like I can’t call my father ‘father.’ So why wouldn’t I call a mister ‘mister’?”  

And with those soft lips, she spoke.  

She was right. Absolutely right.  

But damn, it hit like a punch to the gut. The kind of truth that was so pure, it made me speechless.  

For a brief moment, time came to a halt.  

A biting winter wind passed between us.  

I saw his pupils tremble.  

Idiot.  

His harsh features, so different from his actual personality, made me drop my guard.  

And that’s when it happened.  

The tension snapped like a string, and my body tilted outward.  

I only realized it when it was too late.  

Oh. Oh.  

As I tipped over, my stomach dropped.  

For a split second, I grasped what was about to happen.  

Just as the vertigo hit me, a force yanked me back.  

A strong grip caught my waist, jerking me away from the fall.  

It was like something pulling me out of quicksand.  

At the same time, my arms instinctively latched onto the source of that strength.  

My cheek slammed into a solid wall—no, not a wall. Something firmer. Tighter.  

“Ah…”  

When I came to my senses, I realized where I was.  

In his arms.  

I was pressed against his chest, looking up.  

He stood there, hands raised in surrender, as if to say he wasn’t even trying.  

Thud.  

The beer can he had been holding fell, rolling away with a crisp sound.  

His silk shirt was thin, and his body radiated warmth, like the middle of summer.  

His chest was broad—too broad for my arms to wrap around completely.  

“Ah…”  

“……”  

Dangling in his arms, I met his gaze.  

I couldn’t speak.  

My mind went blank.  

‘Get a grip, Yoon Da-Bi. He’s just a thug with a decent face.’  

I repeated it to myself like a mantra, but it wasn’t working.  

“T-thank you.”  

“I should be thanking you.”  

Barely managing to stammer out my gratitude, I saw him smirk and motion toward his chest with a nod.  

“……”  

That’s when I realized what position I was in.  

Like a cicada clinging to a tree, I was stuck to him.  

Flushing in embarrassment, I quickly pulled away, but he patted his chest, looking almost… disappointed?  

He seemed to savor the lingering warmth, inhaling slightly, as if catching a scent.  

His nose twitched toward where I had just been, and I gave him a look.  

“……”  

What the hell was that?  

He only shrugged.  

I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what expression to make.  

The warmth of our breath mixed in the cold air, making the night feel… less like winter.  

My gaze dropped to his slippers.  

His gaze, on the other hand, stayed fixed on my flushed face.  

We stared at each other for a long time.  

Our breaths—hot, uneven—exchanged in the still air.  

Then, suddenly, he spoke.  

“It’s kinda hot. Wanna go get some ice cream?”  

That winter, he declared summer.