The First Verse
Chapter 10 – The First Verse
If the universe had any mercy, it would have let them rest.
Just for a week.
Just long enough for Yuna’s mother to stabilize properly, for the café to earn a few decent days, for Yuna’s shoulders to stop carrying the whole world.
But mercy was rare.
And Minseok had never been a merciful man.
It began with a bouquet.
A ridiculous, expensive bouquet delivered to Second Verse in the middle of the afternoon.
Not the kind of flowers someone buys out of affection.
The kind you buy to be seen.
Tall roses.
Imported lilies.
A little card tied to the ribbon.
Yuna stared at it like it was a bomb.
Joonseo stood behind the counter, drying cups.
His hands went still.
The delivery man bowed politely.
“Han Yuna-ssi?”
Yuna didn’t move.
“Yes,” she said flatly.
“Delivery,” he said. “Paid already.”
He placed the bouquet on the counter.
The scent of flowers filled the café, overwhelming the vanilla candle.
Yuna didn’t touch it.
She didn’t even lean closer.
Joonseo watched her face.
The tightness.
The anger.
The fatigue.
The fear.
The delivery man left.
The bell rang.
Then silence.
Yuna finally reached out and picked up the card.
Her fingers were steady.
Her eyes were not.
She read it.
Then she laughed.
A sharp, humorless sound.
“Of course,” she muttered.
Joonseo’s voice was calm.
“What does it say?”
Yuna held the card out.
Joonseo took it carefully.
The message was short.
You don’t have to suffer. Call me.
No name.
But it didn’t need one.
Joonseo’s jaw tightened.
He looked up.
Yuna’s eyes were already burning.
“I told him no,” she said.
Joonseo nodded.
“I know.”
Yuna’s fingers curled.
“I threw his envelope away,” she added.
“I know.”
Yuna exhaled hard.
“And now he’s doing this,” she whispered. “Like he’s generous. Like I’m ungrateful.”
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“Do you want me to throw it out?” he asked.
Yuna hesitated.
She stared at the bouquet.
Then she nodded.
“Yes,” she said, voice flat.
Joonseo picked up the bouquet.
It was heavier than it looked.
Money always was.
He carried it to the back and placed it beside the trash.
Then he came back.
Yuna was still staring at the spot where it had been.
As if it had left a stain.
The second thing Minseok did was worse.
He didn’t come himself.
He sent people.
Two women in neat coats appeared the next day.
They sat at a table and ordered nothing but water.
They smiled too politely.
They asked Yuna the same questions in different ways.
“Is it true you used to be an idol?”
“Why did you disband?”
“Are you planning to return?”
“Is the café yours?”
Yuna answered curtly.
Joonseo watched quietly.
The women took photos.
Not obvious.
Just subtle.
A phone held at an angle.
A quick snap of the interior.
A snap of Yuna behind the counter.
A snap of Joonseo’s hands making coffee.
When they left, Yuna’s jaw was tight.
“That felt wrong,” she muttered.
Joonseo nodded.
“It was,” he said.
Yuna stared at the door.
“…What is he trying to do?” she asked.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
He knew.
Minseok couldn’t own her through money, so he would own her through pressure.
Through rumors.
Through turning her life into a story the internet could chew.
Because once people started talking, Yuna’s privacy would disappear.
And when privacy disappeared, desperation followed.
And desperation made people take deals.
Joonseo exhaled slowly.
“He’s trying to corner you,” he said.
Yuna’s face went pale.
Joonseo kept his voice steady.
“He wants you to feel like you have no choice but to accept him.”
Yuna’s hands trembled.
“But I do have a choice,” she whispered.
Joonseo looked at her.
His voice softened.
“Yes,” he said. “You do.”
Yuna swallowed.
Her eyes flickered.
“…Do I?”
The question wasn’t about Minseok.
It was about life.
It was about money.
It was about bills.
It was about her mother.
It was about how many choices a person had when the world demanded payment for survival.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
He wanted to say: I’ll give you choices.
But he remembered her rules.
So he said something smaller.
“We’ll make choices,” he said.
Yuna stared.
Then she nodded once.
Small.
Fragile.
That night, Yuna didn’t go upstairs right away.
She stayed in the café after closing.
The lights were dim.
The chairs were stacked.
The street outside was quiet.
Joonseo wiped the counter.
Same spot.
Same motion.
Yuna sat at the corner table, knees pulled close, staring at her hands.
Joonseo didn’t speak.
He waited.
Finally, Yuna broke the silence.
“Can I ask you something?”
Joonseo looked up.
“Yes.”
Yuna hesitated.
Her voice was quiet.
“Why did you become… like that?”
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
“Like what?”
Yuna’s gaze flickered.
“Rich,” she said.
The word still sounded sharp.
But not as poisonous as before.
Joonseo swallowed.
It wasn’t a question about money.
It was a question about him.
And somehow, that was scarier.
He set the rag down.
He leaned against the counter, looking at the floor for a moment.
Then he spoke.
“I didn’t start out rich,” he said quietly.
Yuna didn’t respond.
She listened.
Joonseo continued.
“My parents had a small shop,” he said. “Not here. In a smaller city. We weren’t starving, but we were always… careful.”
Yuna’s eyes flickered.
Joonseo’s voice stayed calm.
“Careful becomes a habit,” he said. “You start measuring everything. Meals. Bills. Dreams.”
Yuna’s hands tightened slightly.
Joonseo swallowed.
“When I was younger, I thought if I became smart enough, careful enough, I could protect them,” he murmured.
Yuna’s gaze lifted.
Joonseo’s voice softened.
“My father got sick,” he said.
The sentence landed like a stone.
Yuna went still.
Joonseo stared at the counter.
“Not dramatic,” he added. “Just… a sickness that cost money. And time. And fear.”
He exhaled.
“I watched my mother count coins,” he said. “The same way you do.”
Yuna’s breath caught.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“I hated it,” he whispered. “I hated that the world made her feel small just because she didn’t have enough.”
He swallowed.
“So I studied,” he continued. “I built things. I chased opportunity like it was air.”
Yuna stared at him.
Joonseo’s eyes burned.
“And when I finally made money,” he said quietly, “I thought… this is it. This is the weapon. This is the shield.”
Yuna’s voice was soft.
“And it wasn’t?”
Joonseo laughed, barely.
“It was,” he said. “And it wasn’t.”
He looked at her.
His voice turned honest.
“Money protects you from some things,” he admitted. “But it also changes the way people look at you. It turns everything into suspicion. It makes love feel… expensive.”
Yuna’s throat moved.
Joonseo swallowed.
“And it made me lonely,” he said.
The word sat between them.
Lonely.
Yuna’s gaze softened for a second.
Joonseo continued, voice quieter.
“That’s why I hid,” he said. “Because I wanted to be… normal sometimes. I wanted someone to look at me and not see a price.”
Yuna stared.
Then her gaze dropped.
“You found that here,” she whispered.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
He didn’t answer.
Because the truth was too vulnerable.
Yuna’s fingers curled.
“…Was I stupid?” she asked quietly.
Joonseo’s throat burned.
“No,” he said immediately.
Yuna looked up.
Joonseo’s voice was steady.
“You weren’t stupid,” he said. “You were human. You trusted someone who acted trustworthy. That’s not stupidity.”
Yuna’s mouth trembled.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
“I’m the one who was wrong,” he added.
Yuna stared at him.
For a long moment, she didn’t speak.
Then she whispered:
“I don’t know how to trust you now.”
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“I know,” he said.
Yuna’s eyes shimmered.
“And I don’t know how to hate you properly either,” she added, voice cracking. “Because you’ve been… here.”
Joonseo’s chest cracked.
He didn’t reach for her.
He didn’t touch.
He just let her words exist.
Because she deserved space to feel both.
The next day, Minseok arrived in person.
He came at peak quiet–mid-afternoon, when the café was empty except for a student with headphones.
He stepped inside like he owned the air.
The bell rang.
Yuna stiffened immediately.
Joonseo’s body went still.
Minseok smiled.
“Yuna-ssi,” he said warmly.
Yuna’s voice was flat.
“Leave,” she said.
Minseok’s smile didn’t move.
“I heard you were in the hospital,” he said.
Yuna’s face went pale.
Joonseo felt something cold settle in his chest.
Minseok’s gaze sharpened.
“Your mother,” he added softly. “That must have been terrifying.”
Yuna’s fingers curled.
“How do you know?” she demanded.
Minseok shrugged.
“People talk,” he said. “I worry about you.”
Yuna laughed.
“No you don’t,” she snapped.
Minseok’s smile softened.
“I can,” he said.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a folder.
He placed it on the table.
“Contract,” he said. “A simple partnership.”
Yuna didn’t touch it.
Minseok continued, voice smooth.
“I’ll pay your hospital fees,” he said. “I’ll cover your rent. I’ll fund renovations. You’ll keep your face on the brand. You’ll do a few appearances. You’ll let your story be told.”
Yuna’s breath hitched.
Joonseo felt his stomach twist.
Minseok leaned forward.
“And you’ll stop pretending you can do this alone,” he murmured.
Yuna’s jaw trembled.
“I said no,” she whispered.
Minseok sighed.
“You said no before you saw the numbers,” he replied.
Yuna’s eyes flashed.
“You’re disgusting,” she hissed.
Minseok’s smile sharpened.
“I’m practical,” he corrected.
His gaze flicked to Joonseo.
“And this,” he added, “is not practical.”
Yuna flinched.
Minseok stood.
He straightened his coat.
“Think carefully,” he said to Yuna. “I’m not offering forever.”
Then he looked at Joonseo.
His eyes narrowed.
“And you,” he said softly, “stop playing hero. You can’t compete with real money.”
Joonseo’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t respond.
Minseok smiled.
“See you soon,” he said.
Then he walked out.
The bell rang.
The door closed.
The café felt colder.
Yuna stared at the folder.
Her hands shook.
She didn’t open it.
But she didn’t throw it away either.
That frightened Joonseo more than anything.
Because it meant Minseok’s pressure was working.
Yuna swallowed.
“I hate him,” she whispered.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“I know.”
Yuna’s eyes filled.
“But my mom…” she choked.
The sentence broke.
Joonseo felt his chest burn.
He stepped closer.
Not touching.
Just close enough.
Yuna looked up at him.
Her eyes were desperate.
“Tell me what to do,” she whispered.
The request hit him like a weight.
Because this was the moment he could take control.
The moment he could decide for her.
The moment rich men loved.
But he remembered her rule.
You don’t get to decide for me.
Joonseo swallowed.
“I can’t tell you what to do,” he said softly.
Yuna’s face crumpled.
“Then what good are you?” she snapped, voice breaking.
The words weren’t cruel.
They were desperate.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“I can give you options,” he said.
Yuna blinked.
Joonseo’s voice was steady.
“One,” he said, “we reject him. Completely. We endure. We find another way.”
Yuna’s eyes flickered.
“Two,” he continued, “we take his deal. And you live under his shadow.”
Yuna’s jaw trembled.
“Three,” Joonseo said quietly.
Yuna’s gaze sharpened.
“What’s three?”
Joonseo inhaled.
He felt the secret box in his closet like a heartbeat.
The lightstick.
The photo cards.
The years.
He looked at her.
His voice softened.
“We stop letting rich men be the only ones with power,” he said.
Yuna stared.
Joonseo continued.
“We make this café… work,” he said. “Not with pity. Not with contracts. With people.”
Yuna’s brows furrowed.
“How?”
Joonseo swallowed.
Then he did the thing he had avoided for months.
He opened a drawer behind the counter.
He pulled out a small, worn photocard.
Yuna stared.
Her own face looked back at her–idol Yuna, smiling under stage lights.
Yuna went still.
Her breath caught.
Joonseo held the photocard carefully.
“I was your fan,” he said.
The confession was quiet.
But it shook the air.
Yuna stared at him.
Her eyes widened slowly.
“No,” she whispered.
Joonseo nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “For years.”
Yuna’s throat moved.
“Then why–” her voice cracked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
“Because I didn’t want you to feel like you owed me,” he said softly. “Because I didn’t want to turn you into… a memory I owned.”
Yuna stared at the photocard.
Her hands shook as she reached out.
She touched it.
Like it might burn.
Joonseo continued, voice low.
“I know how fans work,” he said. “I know how community works. I know how… people rally when they feel something real.”
Yuna’s eyes filled.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“We don’t need Minseok,” he said. “We need a first verse.”
Yuna blinked.
“What?”
Joonseo’s voice softened.
“Second Verse is this café,” he said. “But the first verse… is the reason people cared in the first place.”
He tapped the photocard gently.
“You,” he said.
Yuna’s breath hitched.
Her eyes flashed.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t use me like that.”
Joonseo shook his head.
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m asking you to let yourself be seen–on your terms.”
Yuna stared.
Her jaw trembled.
“…On my terms,” she echoed.
Joonseo nodded.
“No pity,” he said. “No sob story. No contracts. Just… truth.”
Yuna’s eyes filled.
She looked down at the photocard.
Then she whispered, almost to herself:
“I don’t know if anyone still cares.”
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
“I do,” he said.
Yuna’s breath hitched.
Joonseo’s voice softened.
“And I’m not the only one,” he added.
Because he had seen it.
The way Hana still came.
The way a couple had promised to return.
The way even strangers looked twice when they realized who she was.
Yuna stared at him.
Her eyes shimmered.
“…So what are you suggesting?” she whispered.
Joonseo swallowed.
“A small event,” he said. “A café night. Acoustic. Low-key. Just you. Just songs you want to sing. No company. No stage pressure. No cameras if you don’t want.”
Yuna went still.
Her breath caught.
“You want me to sing,” she whispered.
Joonseo nodded.
“Only if you want to,” he said.
Yuna’s eyes trembled.
“I haven’t sung in months,” she whispered. “Not… properly.”
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“Then sing for yourself,” he said.
The café was quiet.
Yuna’s fingers curled around the photocard.
Her mouth trembled.
Then she whispered, barely:
“What if I fail?”
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
“Then we fail,” he said.
Yuna looked up sharply.
Joonseo held her gaze.
“We’re already here,” he murmured. “We’ve already survived worse.”
Yuna’s breath hitched.
Her eyes filled.
And then–slowly–she nodded.
Small.
Fragile.
But real.
“…Okay,” she whispered.
Joonseo exhaled.
A first verse.
A second chance.
Not bought.
Not forced.
Just built.
Hand by hand.
And somewhere in the quiet café, beneath the weight of bills and threats, a forgotten melody stirred awake.