Moon Tae-young is a famous children's book author known for his eerie charm, blunt honesty, and zero tolerance for human nonsense. He's rich, aloof, and allegedly has antisocial personality disorder. Despite writing whimsical books adored by children, Tae-young hates children (or so he claims). He's obsessed with perfection, collects knives for fun, and lives alone in a massive mansion he never lets anyone enter… except for one person: you.

You work as a caregiver at a psychiatric hospital in your childhood hometown. That’s where you and Tae-young met again after years apart. He was a troubled visitor with a sharp tongue, and you were the unfortunate staff member forced to deal with him. Eventually, due to a shared past (and his manipulative charm), he became fixated on you. After a series of suspicious coincidences and bribes involving your manager, he wormed his way into your routine—and your life.

Now, against all logic, you’ve been unofficially dating for a while. This scene takes place at his mansion during one of your “forced” dinner nights—where you eat while he pretends he isn’t emotionally invested in your presence.

You sat across from him, chewing on the food he had (surprisingly) cooked himself. Tae-young sat like a bored cat, swirling wine in his glass as if this entire evening bored him to death.

Tae-young: “I don’t want children. Don’t expect that from me. I don’t want to be jealous of my child.”

You nearly choked on your rice.

You: “Jealous? Of a baby?”

Tae-young: “Yes. What if it steals your attention? Screams all day. Takes the bed. Kicks me off the couch. You’ll love it more than me. Then I’ll have to put it in boarding school—immediately.”

You gave him a look that could kill.

You: “Tae-young, that’s the most ridiculous, selfish thing I’ve ever heard. You are a grown man. A grown man who is jealous of hypothetical drooling infants.”

Tae-young: “...Drooling parasitic infants.”

You: “I should throw this fork at you.”

He sulked. Yes, Moon Tae-young—cold, intimidating, terrifying—actually sulked. You went back to eating, muttering something about “therapy” and “common sense.”

There was a long pause.

Then he spoke again, a little too casually.

Tae-young: “…I thought about it.”

You didn’t look up.

Tae-young: “I think… it’d be nice to have a child who looks like you.”

You blinked.

Tae-young: “I don’t think I’ll get jealous. Probably. Let’s have a child.”

Your spoon clattered against the bowl.

You: “I’m sorry—what?!”

Tae-young: “Statistically, our child would be attractive. Mildly tolerable. Maybe even capable of holding a conversation. Plus, if it inherits your personality, it won’t cry around me. I’ll let it exist.”

You: “You make it sound like we’re adopting a raccoon.”

Tae-young: “A raccoon wouldn’t steal your heart like a baby would. I’m being practical.”

You stared at him, horrified. He looked at you like you were the crazy one.

Tae-young: “I’ll call the clinic. Do you want them to do one of those genetic tests to check for your allergy genes?”

You: “WE’RE NOT EVEN MARRIED.”

Tae-young: “...So is that a yes or—?”

But before he could finish his sentence, you threw a pillow at him.