DTM | Chapter 5.1

05. Traces

 

I felt suffocated. I twisted my limbs in an attempt to escape the weight pressing down on me, but it only made things worse. The oppressive heaviness grew stronger. Ugh… I’m going to die like this. Teetering at the edge of consciousness, my mind was finally dragged into reality.

“Heavy.”

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I opened my dry eyes, and the sight before me was familiar yet utterly inappropriate. Dark walls reflecting Kwon Yi-tae’s preferences, towering glass windows, a black armchair, and a side table—nothing that should belong in my officetel.

“I’m screwed.”

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It didn’t take long to realize what the weight pinning me down was. A silent scream exploded in my mind as a chill ran down the back of my neck.

The realization brought with it a flood of memories from the previous night. I’d gone to ask Yi-tae to stop with his invasive fantasies, at least until the documentary filming was over. Saying it out loud had been too daunting, so I relied on the courage granted by soju.

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But the request had barely lasted a moment before I started rambling endlessly about dreams involving Yi-tae and me… doing things. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, I’d demanded more alcohol, made a scene, and spilled it all over myself. Oh God, the humiliation. The ultimate disgrace came when Yi-tae approached to help clean me up, and I suddenly flung my arms around his neck.

Smooch. A quick kiss. I was the one who kissed him. Not the other way around—me. And to make it even worse…

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“Yi-tae, do you think I’m drunk?”

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“Just get to the point. Don’t try to lead me somewhere.”

“Some people sleep with their exes when they’re drunk, you know.”

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“……”

“It’s common.”

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Yi-tae lifted me into his arms in one swift motion. Clinging to him, I peppered kisses along his cheekbones and jawline.

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“Don’t expect gentlemanly restraint from me. Whether you’re drunk, fainted, or asleep, all I’ll think about is screwing you.”

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“Yeah, yeah, I know. My ex has a shitty personality.”

He nibbled my nose lightly before resting his forehead against mine.

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“This is the first and last time I’ll ask. Are you sure you won’t regret this?”

“I think I will.”

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“……”

“I won’t be able to live with the shame of knowing I made the first move because I couldn’t keep my hands to myself. So… yeah.”

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“I understand.”

 

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With a slight tilt of his head, Yi-tae brushed his lips against mine and whispered softly. 

 

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“Then let’s say it was me who seduced you. All the discomfort and guilt and any negative emotions, just blame them on me. All you need to do is cry out happily beneath me.”

 

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The memory made my cheeks burn with shame. Not only had I gotten embarrassingly drunk and acted like a fool, but I’d also tried to shift all the blame onto him. How am I ever supposed to face him again?

First things first, is to escape. I’ll figure out the rest later.

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I slowly peeked under the blanket. The sheets, once sticky with fluids, had been replaced with fresh ones, and my body, seemingly washed by Yi-tae while I slept, felt perfectly clean. The only problem was his arm firmly wrapped around my waist.

At least Yi-tae has always been notoriously bad at waking up in the morning. Even if he sets ten alarms in a row, he sleeps right through them. If this were the Joseon Dynasty, and Yi-tae was a king, he’d probably have been assassinated by a mysterious intruder in the middle of the night.

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That said, he has this uncanny ability to wake up the moment he hears my voice. If I mutter something about being thirsty in my sleep, he’ll stumble to the kitchen like a zombie and return with a glass of water. 

Only when I take the cup do I realize I must have said something aloud. And just as quickly as he wakes, he falls back asleep with a soft snore.

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The implication? If I keep my mouth shut, I might just manage to slip out of here unscathed.

I gingerly lifted his heavy arm with a grunt and carefully slid out of bed. My foot was just about to touch the floor when an arm coiled around my waist and dragged me back. His chest pressed against my back radiates warmth, and despair filled me as his groggy voice mumbled into the back of my head.

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“Mmm… where are you going?”

The tenderness in his tone sent shivers down my spine, though I realized he wasn’t fully awake yet. At least things haven’t completely spiraled into chaos… not yet. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and crafted my plan to make him fall back into sleeping soundly.

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“Uh… To the bathroom.” 

I replied, feigning composure. The weight of his arm slackened immediately. I instinctively patted his forehead and cheek, like I used to.

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“Go back to sleep.”

For about five more hours, please.

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“Okay…”

His facial muscles relaxed, and his breathing grew steady once more. Only then did I let out the breath I’d been holding.

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The next step was finding clothes. The ones I’d worn were nowhere to be found. Probably sent for cleaning by Yi-tae. Wandering around naked felt like an affront to my dignity, so I grabbed a robe and slipped it on.

With a hint of hope, I headed to the dressing room. Was there any chance my old clothes were still here? The visible shelves and hangers were filled with Yi-tae’s belongings from accessories, suits, and the works.

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Standing in front of the wardrobe I used to frequent, I felt inexplicably tense. A strange sensation clung to my skin as I forced myself to open the door.

“Ha…”

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My belongings from three years ago were neatly arranged and untouched, as if they had been waiting for me. Sure, I’d seen my old mug and assumed it was just a practical item Yi-tae had taken a liking to during our relationship. But this? This was something else entirely.

For someone as tidy as Yi-tae, there had to be a reason. He wouldn’t just leave someone else’s clothes in his wardrobe without a purpose.

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Even more suspicious, the clothes smelled freshly laundered and were completely dust-free, as if they had been cared for regularly.

Standing before this preserved remnant of myself, I felt a tightness in my chest. My hands hesitated to reach out. The sight of my belongings unsettled me in ways I couldn’t fully articulate. Instead, I absentmindedly fiddled with the cuffs of the robe, trying to shake off the inexplicable unease.

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***

 

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My thumb hovered over the phone screen, twitching slightly. The confusion in my mind was visible through the hesitation in my fingertips.

 

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[010-90xx-xxxx. 26 missed calls.]

 

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The owner of the unsaved number was, of course, none other than Kwon Yi-tae. It wasn’t just the calls—he had sent an absurd number of text messages as well.

[Am I some rent boy you picked to satisfy your whims? How could you disappear without so much as a goodbye?]

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[Let’s meet today. I have something to talk about. I’ll pick you up after my schedule ends.]

[Say something. At least answer my calls.]

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[Was it bad for you last night? I thought you liked it, considering how much you came enough to soak my balls.]

 [Oh… so you’re done with me now that you’ve gotten off? I’m just a disposable toilet for Yoo Eunha now, huh?]

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 [Why are you avoiding me?]

 [You do realize we’re meeting tomorrow, right? Is this how you want to play it?]

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With messages like this, there was no way I’d willingly respond. As if my already unsettled heart wasn’t in enough turmoil.

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There were two reasons I hesitated to reply. First was my own disgust with myself. Asking him to stop the fantasies had been a pretense. My real intention had been to vent my pent-up sexual frustration.

Though I’d refused to acknowledge it while sober, alcohol had stripped away all my pretenses, exposing my base, vulgar desires. Worse, I’d tried to shift all the responsibility onto Yi-tae, as though it were entirely his fault.

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The second reason… Well, this one was even harder to admit.

If we were being honest, there should be no issue with last night. We’d had sex without any emotional strings, mutually satisfied ourselves, and that should have been the end of it. A casual “see you never” and done.

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Had I properly said goodbye instead of sneaking out while he slept, maybe Yi-tae wouldn’t be obsessively texting about how he felt like a toilet.

But the truth was, something about it all felt… off.

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Three years ago, I had erased every trace of him from my life. I sold all the things he had given me for a pittance (even if the buyer turned out to be Yi-tae himself), changed my phone number, and moved out of my studio before the lease was up. Yet at Yi-tae’s home, everything remained exactly as it had been.

The crude cup I had made, the placement of items I had organized, even my old clothes. They were all still there. It was as if everything had been left untouched, waiting for me to return at any moment.

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A quiet ripple disturbed the stillness of my heart. Nostalgia clung to every corner of his home, drawing my eyes to things I couldn’t tear myself away from.

It felt like stepping back in time, reliving the moments we had shared. I lingered far too long in his house, unable to break away from the feeling.

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The realization gnawed at me: if just seeing remnants of the past could leave me this shaken, what had been going through Yi-tae’s mind as he held onto my things for three years?

It made him seem as if he still… had feelings for me.

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I had assumed his reappearance was purely out of spite, a way to settle old scores. But now, it felt as though he had been waiting for me all this time, despite the immense pride of the Kwon Yi-tae I thought I knew.

I didn’t know how to deal with him. I couldn’t even define what Yi-tae was to me anymore. Part of me wanted to sever all ties and leave the past behind, while another part found his messages sitting in my inbox not entirely unwelcome.

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Had I truly let go of everything related to him? Or was there one tiny piece of me that still held on?

I placed my hands on the keypad, ready to type a reply, but nothing came to mind. After a moment’s hesitation, I locked the screen and tossed my phone aside.

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***

 

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In the end, the phone lay abandoned in the corner of the bed until the alarm blared the next morning.

Flashes of light exploded intermittently, bright enough to hurt the eyes. The incessant sound of the camera shutter filled the room, accompanied by a mix of directives and compliments from the photographer.

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Kwon Yi-tae stood in front of a black-draped backdrop, dressed in a striking red suit for the photoshoot. The black turtleneck beneath his jacket subtly outlined his chest muscles, while the tailored suit accentuated his broad shoulders and long limbs.

He wasn’t doing anything extravagant and yet every shot exuded an alluring energy. Watching him easily embody the director’s vision without fumbling was fascinating.

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He was a natural, no doubt about it. Of all the actors I’d admired over the years, none matched Kwon Yi-tae’s external perfection. I stared, entranced, until those jet-black eyes unexpectedly turned to meet mine.

Our gazes locked. Startled, I flinched. Yi-tae’s eyes narrowed in response, but the photographer interpreted the expression as perfect emotional depth, firing off a barrage of shutter clicks.

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“Writer Yoo, what’s with your face?”

A light tap on my shoulder startled me. Go Hyeong-woo, who had been pulling out his camera, looked at me with a puzzled expression.

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Embarrassed, I brushed my cheek lightly. My fingers caught on the edge of the oversized bandage I’d hastily stuck on.

Last night, amidst the turmoil in my head, I hadn’t paid much attention to my body. Only during a late-night shower had I noticed the aftermath. My skin bore the unmistakable marks of Yi-tae.

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My entire body looked as if it had been devoured. Hickeys and bruises painted my skin in shades of red and purple. Even my left cheek was marred by a glaring bruise, the kind that could prompt strangers to ask if I’d been in a fight.

In frustration, I’d donned a rarely-worn black turtleneck to cover my neck and slapped on the bandage to mask the most prominent bruise.

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“I drank too much and took a spill.”.

“How much did you even drink? Did you go to the hospital?”

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“It’s not that bad. It’ll fade in a few days. Doesn’t hurt either.”

I waved off Hyeong-woo’s concern, signaling him to drop the subject. Any prolonged conversation would only lead to more lies, and I wasn’t particularly good at lying.

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Meanwhile, our team quietly resumed filming. Hyeong-woo, now holding his camera, mumbled to himself, “Man, he’s good-looking.”

It was likely a genuine expression of admiration for Yi-tae. Kim PD playfully tapped Hyeong-woo’s shin, reminding him to keep his voice low so it wouldn’t be picked up on the mic.

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I spent the time interviewing Yi-tae’s hair, makeup, and wardrobe stylists, hoping to glean something usable for the broadcast. Unsurprisingly, their answers were all variations of the same theme; praising Yi-tae.

 

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“Kwon Yi-tae’s lips are naturally pigmented, so he only needs light lip balm. His eyebrows already look perfectly drawn and suit his features, so we just brush them lightly. His skin tone is bright, so we toned it down for today’s shoot, but his skin is so flawless that even meticulous touch-ups aren’t necessary. Honestly, I feel like I finish too early—it’s almost disappointing!”

“Oh, and his hair—he has so much of it! His scalp is so healthy he could bleach it ten times over, and it’d still be fine. Idols bleach their hair a lot during comebacks, right? Everyone would probably envy his hair. Hohoho! It’s so perfect that sometimes I think, ‘Wow, even his skull is flawless!’ Can I talk more about him?”

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“Tailoring is a must for Kwon Yi-tae. His long legs make it hard to find off-the-rack sizes that fit well. For suits, we usually match the shoulders and chest, but then the waist needs adjustments. Also, his right pant leg has to be slightly larger—it’s tricky with standard sizes, so alterations are unavoidable.”

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Without even asking, they showered Yi-tae with flattering anecdotes. While I didn’t intend to tarnish his image, part of me, the broadcasting professional, still wished for something spicier to capture the audience’s interest. Of course, anything potentially harmful would likely get cut by his agency anyway.

I tried a different angle. 

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“From a personal perspective, not a stylist’s, what’s Kwon Yi-tae like as a person?”

Their unanimous answer?

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“He doesn’t talk much.”

Apparently, Yi-tae rarely spoke. He was usually glued to his tablet, either reading scripts or perusing texts entirely in English. His aura was so unapproachable that no one dared to discuss anything unrelated to work with him.

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“Couldn’t he act a little kinder?” 

I muttered, heading back to the studio where the photoshoot was ongoing. The set had changed in the meantime. The backdrop now featured a rough, industrial look with concrete walls and creatively arranged steel pipes. Yi-tae, now in streetwear, reviewed the monitor with the staff. Nodding at the director’s guidance, he resumed shooting.

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“Ah—ahhh! Watch out!”

A dull thud rang out, followed by the sound of metal crashing down. The steel pipes behind them began to topple in a chaotic cascade toward Kwon Yi-tae. Someone shrieked, their voice sharp with panic, and I scrambled up from my crouched position.

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In the split second before disaster struck, Kwon Yi-tae moved, quick, and decisive. He twisted his body, narrowly dodging the brunt of the impact. One of the pipes skimmed his shoulder before crashing to the ground.

Thud. Thud. Clang..

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A moment of silence, then the director abandoned the camera and ran toward him. That was all it took for the entire studio to descend into uproar. Fortunately, despite the cacophony of crashing pipes, Yi-tae emerged unscathed, save for a slight scratch on his outfit. 

Only after confirming his safety did I release the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

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“Who the hell cut the cable ties?!”

The accident clearly was clearly intentional. But with so many people bustling around the set, finding the culprit seemed impossible.

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The shoot was postponed to inspect the set and ensure Kwon Yi-tae was okay. 

Meanwhile, our team’s camera followed closely behind him.

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“Where’s Writer Yoo?”

Amid the chaos, this lunatic had the audacity to start calling for me in front of the cameras. It was only a few minutes ago that he’d nearly gotten his skull cracked open, and yet there he was, unfazed, not a single change in expression. Shouldn’t he be looking for a doctor instead of me? A bewildered camera operator responded, “Excuse me?” 

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“Writer Yoo!” 

At that time, Kwon Yi-tae called again, spotting me. He turned in my direction, his voice louder and clearer this time. Afraid of what nonsense might spill from his mouth, I quickly raised my hand and rushed over.

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“Here! I’m right here! If this is about the script, we can definitely find a narrator to make it more immersive, and we already have an announcer who works with us regularly.”

Words tumbled out that Kwon Yi-tae hadn’t asked for. And there was only silence that followed. His eyes were unusually cold and stinging as they met mine. I should have replied yesterday.

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If I’d just handled this sooner, we wouldn’t be standing here, on set, with a camera rolling, locked in a standoff for everyone to see. Sensing drama, the camera operator zeroed in on hiim, capturing his face more passionately.

He hooked his fingers under the collar of his turtleneck as he pulled at the fabric in irritation.

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“Explain yourself.”

His voice was clipped, impatient.

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“…I just meant, for your scenes, maybe another narrator would be—”

“Eunha, stop beating around the bush.”

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“Ah….”

“Tell me what I need to hear.”

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His use of my name, stripped of any formality, made my heart sink. Kwon Yi-tae wasn’t even thinking about the cameras. I knew I had to say something, but my lips refused to part. If I tried to bullshit my way out of this, he wouldn’t play along. If I told the truth, that glaring red light on the camera would capture everything.

He raked a hand through his styled hair. His eyes, sharp and smoldering, all but screamed that his patience was wearing thin.

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I had to do something, whether shoving my shoe down his throat or sticking my fist in his mouth, before more words spilled out of his mouth. I opened my mouth, barely able to compose my mind which was a jumble of panic and confusion.

“I-I’ll explain everything. But first…”

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I gestured desperately at the camera crew. The moment I furrowed my brows in silent pleading, Kwon Yi-tae let out a sigh and reluctantly waved them off as if he had no choice.

…In all honesty, I was a little surprised. The Kwon Yi-tae I knew would’ve turned straight to the camera and said, “Go ahead. Explain why you fucked me and ran.”

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“I did what you wanted, so start talking.”

“…Talk about what?”

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“You ran off without saying a word.”

“That’s….”

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“You ignored my calls and texts. Every time we made eye contact this morning, you acted like I didn’t exist in case I would say something.”

“….”

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“Is it fun, making me look like a fool?”

There was nothing I could say except that I was sorry. Pressed down by his fierce energy, I kept my mouth shut and watched him. Kwon Yi-tae let out a short, frustrated breath.

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His firm gaze, sharp and unyielding at first, began to waver the longer he looked at me. Even without a single word, just standing there, I could feel the icy tension in him begin to shift.

I didn’t let the opportunity slip. Reaching out, I lightly traced a fingertip over the back of his hand. His eyelids twitched slightly at the unexpected touch.

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“I was just overwhelmed.”

“…….”

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“You, of all people, should understand my position.”

I had only one option, to soothe him. Anyone else might not get it, but you should. No matter how angry you are at me, you can’t just throw me under the bus. It was a tactic I’d used plenty of times back when we were dating.

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It didn’t always work, but if the fight was about us—if it was personal—it never failed. Even our classmates used to joke, calling me “Kwon Yi-tae’s handler.” And just like that, as if on cue, the sharp edge in his demeanor started to dull.

“Stay where I can see you.” 

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He said curtly before turning away.

The camera director, who had been watching from a distance, approached as if he’d been waiting for the right moment.

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“What did Kwon Yi-tae say?”

“Please cut out the part where I talk to him.”

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“…Did something happen between you two?”

“I borrowed money from him. If Kim PD finds out, I’m done for. Please, I’m begging you.”

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“You borrowed money? What kind of situation is this…?”

The camera director repeated the question, as if doubting his ears. Honestly, I couldn’t even believe what I had just said. He scolded me, asking why I hadn’t come to him if the situation was so urgent. Clearly, he was worried that personal issues between Kwon Yi-tae and me might disrupt the program.

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“The amount was pretty large… I’m not sure if you heard, but Kwon Yi-tae and I went to the same college, so he helped me out a bit.”

The camera director gave me a side-eye and shook his head. His expression said it all: in his career, he had never encountered a writer quite like me. That look stung, filling me with an inexplicable sense of injustice.

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