Chapter 5: The Mom Dines with the Child and the Free Spirit Floats in a Club

Who would have expected Jaejoong to treat Yumi to dinner? After their cumbersome introductions, which Jaejoong insisted cut his life span by several years, he decided to upgrade his game plan. He needed to learn more about his target, Yumi Taka, for he thoroughly enjoyed the motto: “Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer.” In fact, he couldn’t wait to discuss with Ami about his study. His research? Evaluating the impacts of this strategic plan for revenge. Now, Ami would never complain about his “silly and groundless ideologies” as Max often noted. 

The first question that spewed from Jaejoong’s mouth after they had ordered their meals at a French restaurant was: “So, what’s your ideal guy like?”


Yumi, in the midst of sipping water, almost spat all of it out and had to take a few minutes to recover from her coughing attack. “What kind of question is that?” She cleared her throat a few times.

“You don’t even know your ideal type of guy? Shame on you, shame on you!” He formed an exquisite smile, the perfect sort for a gentleman when pinpointing another’s faults.

She wanted to snatch the whole basket of bread and throw it in his face, yet she needed Jaejoong’s cooperation. Yes, she needed his help for her success. Inhaling deeply, she returned a grin. “Don’t worry. It’s not hard for me to find the one.”

Jaejoong had to control his urge to laugh, so he held tightly onto his stomach. “Is there really the one?” 

He flashed another grin, showing off his flawless, straight teeth. If only perfectly aligned teeth represented a person’s character, then Jaejoong could be on the path to a straight and honest life. Defiance, Jaejoong thought, was the key to success. 

Yumi wasn’t sure how to respond to his question; he was playful and then he was serious. How was she supposed to answer properly? Was there even the right answer for Jaejoong? Trying her utmost to please him, she bit her bottom lip and replied, “I’m not sure.”

“I’m glad you’re so open-minded. I always hate it when I have to push people out of their comfort zones.” His lips curved upwards. “Don’t you think we should believe in polygamy?”

“No!” She accidentally banged her hand on the table. “Polygamy is treacherous and illegal!”

“Calm, sweetie.” He reached forward to softly stroke her hand, making her shiver. The softness of his touch was lingering in her mind, but soon, he added, “Civilized talk doesn’t have to involve loud voices, and you . . .”


Her body had sunken in her seat. She always hated when people stared deeply into her eyes; she tended to avoid their stares. 

Jaejoong’s lips pouted seductively and his body inched closer and closer to her before mentioning, “You don’t have to . . . suck . . . up . . . to . . . me. Beautiful girls don’t lie.”

With that remark, Yumi’s cheeks flustered to cherry while her heart skipped a few too many times. Unexpectedly glancing at him, she noticed how large his navy eyes were, and how they seemed to highlight her flaws. She also felt her eyes beginning to water. She sighed, knowing that she had already promised to be strong.

Jaejoong’s smirk, on the other hand, widened upon seeing her waver. This was success, and he knew because that sip of wine he was savouring had never been so delicious in his life. It was even peppery too. Perfect for the days to come.


To Yoochun, nights were meant to be forgotten and days were meant to be overlooked. He rarely spent a moment without some sort of alcoholic beverage. The boys though he was becoming an alcoholic, yet for some reason, Yoochun always knew his limit: six glasses of red wine. 

Today, he was already at five-and-a-half glasses at his favourite bar, La Vie. He was practically there every night, showering himself with wine while wooing a lady of interest. Although he had a high turnover rate of women, he still followed his rule of never breaking a woman’s heart. For every relationship, he opened his heart to the lady, who always left him in the end. He was the only one out of the boys that had experienced every possible rejection, but none of that ever mattered to him. All that mattered were the moments where the women loved him and at one point, all of them had loved him. 

Today, he stayed single for once. A question had drained his flirty mind, and so he asked the person sitting to his right, “What does it mean to be in love?”

The roughly forty-year-old man replied, “To feel wanted and needed.”

 Wanted? Needed? Was that what I craved? 

“That’s all?” Yoochun grumbled.

“For me,” the bartender answered, “it gives me a reason to look forward to each day. I know that someone is out there . . . waiting for me, so . . .” 

“Mhm?” Yoochun looked up groggily.

I probably shouldn’t have drunk so quickly. 

The bartender continued, “If someone is waiting for me, then I need to be there to wait for her too.”

Waiting, waiting, waiting. Yoochun had been waiting for ages. Trying, trying trying. Yoochun had been trying for years. Wanting, wanting, wanting. Yoochun had wanted to be in a steady relationship for a while. Where was she when he needed her? 

Unfortunately, she had departed long ago, and there was no way for her to stay anymore. All the others were synonyms or deviations of her, yet all of them had echoed her message: I'm sorry, but I don't love you anymore. So, how many times did he have to hear that phrase until he understood it? 

Finishing his final glass of wine, Yoochun wondered why he could always stop at six for alcohol, but never stop at one for love. He only needed one. One love, one girl. Sadly, there was never a stop for this vicious cycle of loving and separating. In the end, he would be always be known as that flat character, the player. Who was to blame then? 

Lifting the empty glass closer to the dimming light, he chuckled, knowing that he could only blame the public. They treated what they witnessed as facts, and why wouldn’t they? Facts were irrefutable; beliefs were debatable. 

Yoochun then placed the glass on the counter, and tossed the exact amount he needed to pay. As he walked towards the exit, pushing the wooden door forward, he felt the icy breeze pinch at his cheeks. It was too cold that night; nevertheless, it was still a beautiful night with the round moon glistening ahead of him. Alone it was, guiding the darkened sky and the wanderers of the streets.   

Ah, if only . . . someone could be my moon.