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Summary
By dinner, it had gone more sour than intended. Taesan had said something about Woonhak’s voice cracking when he argued, and Woonhak had gone quiet first, then awfully pink in the face, then stood up with his bowl. Eyes glossy. He tried to keep talking through it, sputtering, “I’m not mad, I just—,” but the words didn’t make it out any more after the chair scraped away from the table and the door to his room shut.