The villagers said he was rude. Unapproachable. A storm of a man living in a cabin that looked as cold as he did.
To Seerim, he was just a name people whispered:
Jaekyung Joo. The orchard owner who never smiled. Never attended festivals. Never let anyone onto his land.
A giant of a man with the manners of a stray dog and the gaze of a winter night.
When she moved into the abandoned little cottage beside his orchard, everyone warned her:
“Don’t bother him.” “He doesn’t talk.” “He scares children.” “He’ll throw things if you step too close.”
But she didn’t plan on bothering him.
Then the fence collapsed.
Not hers. His.
And her peach tree leaned dangerously onto his orchard.
Perfect.
That morning, she found him already standing there— arms crossed, jaw tight, expression unreadable.
A huge, broad, terrifying wall of a man.
He stared at the broken fence. Then at her. Then at the tree.
He didn’t speak.
Not a greeting. Not a complaint. Not even a sigh.
Finally:
JAEKYUNG “…move.”
His voice was deep, flat, and somehow sounded offended at the existence of nature itself.