The Korean restaurant they’d found online thankfully suited everyone’s tastes. According to Seo Sa-heon—who had successfully cleared every last dish of soy-marinated crab, grilled fish, and abalone pot rice—it was perfect. The others, too, cleaned their plates. Watching them made Seo-eul oddly proud. He tried to scoop some of his food over for Sa-heon but was caught mid-act, and only managed to finish his own grilled deodeok after Sa-heon had eaten everything in front of him.Even at the counter, there was a bit of commotion.When Seo-eul went out with the bill, he unknowingly handed over his personal card. Unfortunately, it was the same color as the corporate one, and the VJ filming right next to him didn’t notice either. The mistake came to light when a junior writer, confused that there was no record of the transaction despite the staff report saying the corporate card had been used, called to check.The confusion spread among the staff. Just as Seo-eul was about to leave, he realized what had happened—the payment notification that should’ve gone to production had, in fact, been sent to his own phone.After apologizing all around and re-paying properly, Seo-eul came out and held up the card to the three following behind him.“I resign. I’m clearly not cut out to be treasurer.”After the shell game incident with the staff, the corporate card had naturally ended up in Seo-eul’s hands. Since he’d doubled their budget with that victory, everyone had agreed to let him handle the spending. But for him, it was just a burden.Luckily (or unluckily), he’d made a blunder on the very first day and immediately tried to step down—but the others wouldn’t allow it. So the card went back into his wallet. To avoid mixing them up again, he moved his personal card into another slot, checked the receipt, and said,“We’ve only spent seventy-two thousand won so far, so… we can just use it comfortably. Two hundred for two weeks is plenty.”That’s right.The production team had originally set the limit at one million won.Since two of the four cast members were notorious big eaters, the amount had been calculated generously. The staff wanted to film ordinary daily-life footage, not the stingy vlog Yoon Hyuk had joked about. The situation had simply spiraled; now, at least, they were temporarily flush with funds.Seo-eul immediately opened his memo app and entered the expense, just in case. If they ever went over budget, there was a terrifying penalty waiting for them.“Now we just need to hit the mart.”Back in the driver’s seat, he set the navigation to the nearest grocery store.Once everyone had buckled up and they were on the road, Ye Ju-yeol, his voice full of excitement, chatted while looking out the window.“Wow, honestly? Until I got here, it didn’t really feel real, you know? But now that we’re playing games together, ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ eating out, even grocery shopping… it finally does. Doesn’t it feel kinda like a family? Right?”…Did it?He wouldn’t know. Seo-eul had never shared that kind of daily life with his real family.If anything, it reminded him more of doing things with a friend. Or, more precisely—with Seo Sa-heon.Still, hearing Ju-yeol talk about being a family less than a day after meeting was oddly fascinating. He glanced at the rearview mirror. Yoon Hyuk, phone in hand, was staring pointedly at the back of Ju-yeol’s head. For some reason, that sight stuck in Seo-eul’s mind.“Yeah, you’re right. Feels like a family.”So he played along.It wasn’t a word that came naturally to him, but with a bit of effort, he could make it sound warm enough. It wasn’t quite acting—just… a similar muscle. Thinking about how strange that was, he smiled and asked the back seat,“So how did you two meet?”They still had some time before arrival, and it seemed like something worth knowing. Yoon Hyuk answered first.“Back in middle school. Second year. We happened to be in the same class, and he was my first desk partner.”“Oh, so you got along from then on?”“Nope. We fought every time we made eye contact.”“……?”That threw him off.They seemed so close now that he’d assumed they’d been friends from the start. To fight just from looking at each other—how much did they hate each other back then?Maybe it was normal for boys that age, but Seo-eul, who’d barely attended school enough to fill attendance sheets, couldn’t relate. No one had ever dared pick a fight with him—not with Seo Sa-heon standing beside him.“He was in the final stage of eighth-grade syndrome. If you even looked at him, he’d bite—literally. Every day he’d pick a fight: ‘What are you looking at?’ That kind of thing. He’s human now.”“Hey, shut it! Don’t tell them that stuff…! I was just crazy back then! And you threw a desk at me too!”“I threw it because you threw a chair first.”“You told me to get out!”“Yeah. It was cleaning time.”“……”Ju-yeol went silent, apparently out of comebacks. The contrast between that image and how he looked now was impossible to picture. Sure, teenage boys could be rowdy, but still—that different? Half surprised, half amused, Seo-eul murmured,“You two were rougher than I thought…”“Us? Hm. I mean, wasn’t everyone at that age?”“I guess so.”“We just got close after that. Our paths lined up, we went to the same high school. I debuted first by luck, and he got big later.”“Ah.”Seo-eul thought back to when he was fifteen. He’d been filming a historical drama that aired in prime time, sweating miserably through the summer heat. The memory that stood out was the endless rash on his neck and shoulders. Wearing layer after layer of hanbok that trapped the heat made him feel like he was roasting alive. Even for someone with a low body temperature, filming a period drama in summer was brutal.Right.That was what felt off.Looking back, he realized he had almost no memories of hanging out with kids his own age. Just endless sets, waiting in vans, clutching scripts and crying quietly—then standing before the camera and feeling that rush. Those were the only things that made up his childhood.Not that it had been miserable. He knew better than anyone how valuable that opportunity was. Even if he could go back, he’d still run straight to set. Acting had been his whole life—his only thing.So there was no reason to mourn what he hadn’t had. Accepting that conclusion left him strangely distant. Then he remembered his final shoot—the time he froze and couldn’t deliver the line he’d memorized over and over.His gaze drifted. The black lens of the in-car camera stared back at him. Seeing that unblinking circle made the nape of his neck prickle. The vague unease he’d been pushing down crept up his back.What can you even show them now?It felt like someone behind the lens was asking that.He recognized the hint of mockery in it and turned his head away. He knew ignoring it wouldn’t solve anything, but for now, he had no answer to give. Maybe it was just burnout—or maybe…“……”Lost in thought, he tapped the steering wheel with his fingers. Then he felt a gaze. He didn’t even need to look to know who it was. “What?” he asked, and got a baffling response. The uneasy thoughts scattered at once.“Seo-eul. Why are you pretending you didn’t?”“Huh?”“You threw a shoe at me too.”A shoe? At Seo Sa-heon?That was so absurd that he blinked in disbelief. The two in the back seemed to think the same—their bodies leaned forward within the limits of their seat belts, clearly intrigued. Apparently, throwing chairs and desks was normal, but Seo-eul throwing a shoe was new.“When did I throw a shoe? At you?”“Yeah. When we were in second year. You were playing some prince or whatever.”The timing fit. It was impressive he remembered the role. A shoe, though? The faintest memory tugged at him until Sa-heon supplied the missing keyword.“My birthday.”“Ah…”Then it came back.“Right.” Seo-eul nodded, then quickly protested with an indignant face. Throwing a shoe? That wasn’t even distortion—it was a full rewrite of history.“Hey, that’s not throwing a shoe. I just said if you didn’t want it, you could toss it.”“Same thing.”“No, seriously… I gave you shoes for your birthday and you got mad, said you didn’t need them. I was so offended.”It had been during a shoot in Busan, down in Gijang. He’d thought he could return in time for Sa-heon’s birthday, but the schedule got delayed. So, as soon as his own scene ended, he secretly took a taxi to Seoul. Looking back, he had no idea what he’d been thinking.He’d just wanted to be the first to say happy birthday. Maybe he’d wanted to hand over the shoes he’d worked so hard to find.After five straight hours of travel, he arrived at Sa-heon’s house—only to face a furious Sa-heon. Not knowing why, they’d argued until both were hurt. Finally, he’d thrown the shoes onto the ground and walked away.He hadn’t imagined that would someday be described as throwing a shoe.Sa-heon, shameless as ever, continued,“You took a taxi from Busan to Seoul in the middle of the night just to give me shoes—how was I not supposed to be mad?”“Wouldn’t most people be touched…?”If it were him, he would’ve been. Remembering the date, traveling that far just to hand over a gift—it should’ve been touching. Shaking his head in disbelief, Seo-eul sighed. Sa-heon turned to the window and murmured quietly,“I hated it.”“……”“I just wanted you to sleep comfortably at your lodging instead.”

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