I Hate Rich Guys
Chapter 5 – I Hate Rich Guys
The lie didn’t start as a lie.
At least, that’s what Joonseo told himself.
It started as privacy.
As survival.
As the instinct to keep the world from grabbing him by the collar and dragging him back into the version of life where everything came with a price tag and a rumor.
But the longer he stood behind Second Verse’s counter with an apron tied around his waist–hands smelling like milk foam and soap–the more the lie began to take shape.
Because it wasn’t just that he had money.
It was that he was letting Yuna trust a version of him that didn’t fully exist.
And every day she smiled at him like he was safe, the weight of that grew heavier.
It was raining again.
Not dramatic, cinematic rain.
Just the steady kind that soaked your shoes and made the streetlights blur.
Second Verse felt quieter on rainy days, as if the world outside had decided to leave them alone.
The only sounds were the espresso machine hissing, the radio playing an old ballad too softly, and the occasional drip from a leak near the front window that Yuna insisted wasn’t a leak.
“It’s… ambiance,” she’d said once.
Joonseo had watched the water hit the floor and thought: Even the café is crying.
Tonight, there were no customers.
Just the two of them.
They closed early because there was no point pretending the rain would bring business.
Yuna flipped the sign to CLOSED and let out a long breath.
Joonseo started wiping down tables.
Yuna counted the day’s money at the register.
Coins.
Always coins.
The same small clink that made his chest tighten.
When she finally shut the drawer, she leaned back against the counter and stared at the ceiling as if she was asking it what she’d done wrong.
Joonseo didn’t speak.
He let silence be kind.
But Yuna broke it first.
“So,” she said, voice casual in the way people try to make heavy things sound light. “Why are you really here?”
Joonseo’s hands paused.
He looked up.
Yuna wasn’t looking at him.
Her gaze was fixed on the rain streaking the window.
Joonseo swallowed.
“I’m working,” he said.
Yuna laughed.
“Don’t be funny.”
Joonseo wiped the table more slowly.
“I like the café,” he tried.
Yuna turned her head.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Another lie,” she said.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“It’s not a lie,” he said quietly. “I do like it.”
Yuna’s expression softened slightly.
Then she exhaled.
“Okay,” she murmured. “Then let me ask something else.”
Joonseo held still.
Yuna finally looked at him.
The warm café lights made her eyes look darker than they did on stage.
More human.
More fragile.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked.
The question landed in the room like a dropped spoon.
Joonseo blinked. “No.”
Yuna hummed, like she’d already known.
“Figures,” she said, counting coins again–clink, clink–like she needed the sound to keep her steady. “You’re always here.”
Joonseo’s mouth went dry. “Maybe I’m just single.”
Yuna glanced up. “Are you?”
He didn’t know what answer she wanted, so he returned the question–carefully.
“And you?” he asked gently. “Do you have someone?”
Yuna let out a short laugh. “No.”
Too quick. Too final.
Then she softened by a fraction, as if she hated how harsh she sounded. “I don’t… do that. Not anymore.”
Joonseo’s chest tightened. “Because you’re busy?”
Yuna’s gaze flickered to the stairs. “Because I don’t want complications,” she said quietly. “Because I don’t want promises that come with… conditions.”
It wasn’t an explanation. It was a reminder–one she’d already given him before.
Joonseo nodded once, slow.
Yuna’s fingers paused over the coins. She didn’t look at him when she spoke.
“You remember what I told you,” she murmured. “About men who think money makes them allowed.”
Joonseo’s throat went tight.
“I remember,” he said.
A beat.
Yuna finally looked at him–eyes tired, guarded, sincere.
“So if you’re anything like that,” she whispered, “don’t.”
Joonseo forced his face to stay calm. “I’m not.”
The lie slid into place like it had been waiting.
Yuna’s shoulders loosened.
“Good,” she said, softer now. “Then you can stay.”
And then she looked away, as if she hadn’t just granted him something that made his chest ache.
Later that night, after Yuna went upstairs to check on her mother, Joonseo stood alone in the café.
The lights were dim.
The rain tapped against the windows.
He wiped the counter.
Same spot.
Same motion.
But his thoughts were loud.
Then you can stay.
She had said it like permission.
Like acceptance.
Like a boundary drawn in chalk.
Stay, as long as you are not the thing I fear.
Stay, as long as you don’t become a rich man.
Stay, as long as you don’t make me owe you.
Joonseo stared at his own hands.
Hands that had signed billion-dollar deals.
Hands that had coded models that predicted market crashes.
Hands that now smelled like dish soap.
He had built systems.
He had built wealth.
He had built an entire world.
And yet, the hardest thing he’d ever built was this:
A version of himself she could trust.
A version of himself that wouldn’t break her.
The next day, Yuna was quieter.
Not distant.
Just… thoughtful.
She moved around him like she was testing new boundaries.
Sometimes she’d talk.
Sometimes she wouldn’t.
But there was a shift.
A softness.
Like she’d decided he wasn’t dangerous.
And that decision frightened him.
Because danger didn’t always announce itself.
Sometimes danger was a gentle thing.
A warm cup.
A familiar seat.
A man who showed up every day.
Near closing, a young couple walked in.
They were dripping rainwater, laughing, cheeks flushed from cold.
“Do you have hot chocolate?” the girl asked.
Yuna blinked.
“We… can make something like it,” she said.
Joonseo watched her hesitate.
Hot chocolate wasn’t on their menu.
The couple looked like the type to leave a bad review for inconvenience.
Joonseo stepped forward.
“I can do it,” he said.
Yuna shot him a look.
“You can?”
He nodded.
He found cocoa powder in an old tin hidden behind coffee beans.
He warmed milk.
He stirred slowly, keeping the heat low so it wouldn’t burn.
He added a small dash of cinnamon the way his mother used to.
When he handed the cups to the couple, their eyes brightened.
“Oh my god,” the girl said, taking a sip. “This is so good.”
Yuna blinked like she hadn’t expected praise.
The couple sat by the window, whispering and laughing.
As they sipped, the café felt–briefly–alive.
Yuna watched them with a strange expression.
Something like longing.
Something like grief.
When the couple left, they bowed politely.
“Thank you,” the boy said. “We’ll come again.”
The bell rang.
The door closed.
And the café was quiet again.
Yuna stood still.
Then she exhaled.
“…They won’t come again,” she said softly.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
“Maybe they will,” he said.
Yuna shook her head.
“You don’t understand,” she murmured. “People always say they’ll come again when they feel guilty.”
The words were so tired, so familiar, that they made his throat burn.
Joonseo stepped closer.
He kept his voice gentle.
“I’ll come again,” he said.
Yuna looked up.
Her eyes flickered.
Then she scoffed.
“You’re weird,” she muttered.
Joonseo’s mouth twitched.
“I told you.”
Yuna stared at him.
For a second, her lips softened.
Not a smile.
Not yet.
But something close.
“…Why?” she whispered.
The question came out smaller than before.
Not accusing.
Not defensive.
Just… wanting to understand.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
He could have said a hundred things.
He could have said: because I loved you first.
Because your voice saved me.
Because you were the only thing I ever waited for.
Because when the world felt too loud, you were the song I played until I could breathe.
But he couldn’t.
Not yet.
So he said the simplest truth he could survive.
“Because you deserve someone who doesn’t leave,” he murmured.
Yuna’s breath caught.
The café was too quiet.
The rain outside kept falling.
Yuna stared at him like she was looking at a door she was afraid to open.
Then she looked away quickly, blinking too hard.
“…Don’t say things like that,” she whispered.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“Why?”
Yuna’s voice trembled.
“Because if I believe you,” she said, “and you leave too… I’ll hate myself.”
Joonseo’s heart clenched.
He stepped back.
Not because he wanted distance.
Because he respected the edge of her fear.
“I won’t,” he said softly.
Yuna’s shoulders shook faintly.
She didn’t answer.
But when she turned around and started cleaning the counter again–
same spot,
same motion–
Joonseo noticed her hands weren’t shaking as much.
That night, he walked home through the rain.
His hoodie damp.
His shoes soaked.
But his chest warm with something dangerous.
Something that had nothing to do with markets.
Nothing to do with AI.
Nothing to do with billions.
It was the feeling of being wanted in a small way.
Not as a savior.
Not as a rich man.
Not as a fan.
Just as Joonseo.
He stepped into his apartment.
He stood in front of the closet.
He stared at the storage box.
Lightsticks.
Photo cards.
Proof of a devotion he hadn’t confessed.
He thought of Yuna’s voice:
I hate rich guys.
He thought of her eyes:
Then you can stay.
And he realized something with quiet dread.
If she ever learned who he really was–
it wouldn’t just break the lie.
It might break the thing he was beginning to love.
So he closed the closet.
He left the secrets in the dark.
And he went to bed with the taste of cinnamon hot chocolate lingering in his memory.
Sweet.
Simple.
A warmth that didn’t ask for anything.
A second verse beginning, even as the first still ached.