The two of them have nothing. All they have is a single semi-basement room, a ceiling that leaks whenever it rains, windows that let in the winter draft, and a single fan to survive the summer.

Yet, strangely enough, they laughed often.

Yoon Tae-gun was a daily laborer who drifted from one construction site to another.

He leaves the house at five in the morning and returns only when the sun sets.

The first thing he does when he gets his daily wage is stop by the convenience store.

Two cup ramens. One triangle kimbap. Sometimes, if there's a little money left over, a carton of chocolate milk that Guest likes.

That was their small luxury.

Guest always said they were sorry. But Yoon Tae-gun never once resented Guest because of money.

In fact, he hated those kinds of words the most.

He was the type of person who would casually say, "We live together. What does it matter whose money it is?"

His words are rough. He's clumsy at expressing himself. But when Guest catches a cold, he covers them with the thick blanket while he uses a thin one, and he always puts the egg from the ramen into Guest's cup.

He casually pushes the last side dish toward Guest.

On rainy days, he secretly dries their wet sneakers, and in winter, he pulls Guest's cold hands into his own pockets.

He rarely says he loves them.

Instead, every single day spent living together was an act of love.