Chapter Text
**CHAPTER 34: Crushes, Confessions & Complications**
By the time the last pastry crumbs had been swept up with sugar dusted fingertips and their iced coffees had melted into syrupy slush, the girls’ conversation had loosened into something warm, unfiltered, and gloriously unserious. The kind of talk that only happened when nobody was pretending anymore.
Every few minutes, one of them would burst into laughter out of nowhere and mutter, “the car, though,” and all three would collapse again into helpless, breathless giggles.
Da-eul bumped her knee into Sa-rang’s, still laughing under her breath, while Pyeong-hwa wiped at the corners of her eyes, half from tears, half from the bright afternoon sun…all from laughing too hard to behave.
There was still a faint glow clinging to Sa-rang. Not just happiness. Something fuller. Louder. Like a woman who had been thoroughly loved recently and was no longer apologizing for it.
Chairs scraped softly as they stood to stretch. The market hummed around them in soft, living layers. Vendors calling out specials. Paper bags crinkling. Coffee machines hissing.
Somewhere nearby, someone laughed too loudly. A breeze threaded through the open aisle, lifting napkins, teasing loose strands of hair, carrying the scent of sugar, espresso, citrus peel, and warm pastry dough.
A cyclist’s bell chimed bright and fleeting before dissolving into the blur of voices.
Sa-rang’s attention drifted to a nearby vendor stall strung with glittering little trinkets. Phone charms. Novelty key rings. Tiny enamel figures that caught and scattered the afternoon light like small sparks.
One made her stop.
A small fox in a miniature crown and tailored suit, polished to a mischievous gleam.
It looked smug. Refined. A little too confident. Like it knew exactly who it was meant to represent.
It reminded her of someone.
Just enough to make warmth bloom behind her ribs.
A soft, private smile touched her mouth before she realized it.
She stepped closer without thinking. Da-eul followed her gaze and scoffed fondly.
“Look at him. Boardroom chic with a side of fairytale woodland creature.”
Pyeong-hwa reached out and lifted the charm, letting it spin lightly between her fingers, sunlight catching on the tiny crown. “Honestly? This is the official mascot of the man you married, Sa-rang-ah. That fox charm has generational wealth.”
She tilted it, inspecting the tiny details as Sa-rang looked on. “They really captured your husband’s I run a hotel empire and still look illegal doing it aura.”
Sa-rang laughed, shaking her head as she plucked it from Pyeong-hwa’s fingers, her smile lingering longer than she meant it to.
“It is stupidly adorable. I have to buy it. I am attaching it to Won’s briefcase just to sabotage his entire hot CEO image.”
“He will carry it with zero shame,” Pyeong-hwa said immediately. “Like, Yes. My wife chose this fox mini-me. Respect it.”
Something warm and foolish fluttered in Sa-rang’s chest at that. Pride. Fondness. The quiet thrill of loving a man who loved being loved by her.
She turned to the vendor, cheeks faintly flushed.
“Can I have this one, please?”
As the woman slipped it into a small paper bag, Da-eul nudged her with a knowing grin.
“Tell him it reminded you of someone devastatingly handsome. He will eat that up.”
“He will pretend it is silly and then absolutely melt in private,” Pyeong-hwa added with a smile.
Sa-rang tucked the tiny fox into her purse like a secret meant only for him, like a private joke only her heart fully understood.
“You two are a menace.”
“You love us,” they chimed together, shameless and proud.
She did. Fiercely. Gratefully. Without hesitation.
And beneath the laughter, beneath the teasing, beneath the glow of a long girls’ day and the soft sugar haze of pastries and gossip, there was still that deeper hum inside her. The quiet, molten satisfaction of a woman who had been chosen, desired, and cherished and was no longer shrinking herself because of it.
Not today.
Not anymore.
***
After another slow, indulgent lap through the market, the girls drifted toward the riverfront promenade that bordered the park, moving with the loose, satisfied energy of people who had already laughed too much and were not finished yet.
Footsteps crunched softly over gravel. Plastic bags rustled at their sides. The hum of the market thinned behind them, replaced by open air, distant traffic, and the layered murmur of people enjoying a warm afternoon.
A low stone staircase rose toward a broad overlook shaded by plane trees, their branches arching overhead like a soft canopy. The breeze off the Han River carried a cooler breath of air, brushing over warm skin and easing the lingering sweetness of sugar and espresso on their tongues.
Leaves whispered overhead with a dry, papery hush. Somewhere nearby, a child squealed in delight. Couples lounged on benches with iced drinks between them. Families shared fruit cups, juice running sticky down small fingers. A street guitarist played something gentle and hopeful, the melody drifting through the air like a thread you could almost follow.
The whole space felt lighter. Wider. Unhurried.
Airy. Open.
They settled onto a curved, tiered riverside bench tucked beneath the shade of a broad tree. The kind of seat meant for lingering. For decompressing. For continuing conversations that had already gotten too personal to abandon.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves in shifting mosaics, dappling their laps, their hands, the pale stone beneath them. The river shimmered just beyond, flashing silver where the light caught. A boat passed in the distance, its wake unfurling in slow, rippling lines that fractured the reflection into glinting ribbons.
Pyeong-hwa stretched her legs with a contented sigh. “Okay. This is a perfect place to people watch.”
“And a perfect place for us to get into trouble without even trying,” Da-eul announced, flopping down beside her with theatrical satisfaction.
The bench creaked faintly beneath their combined weight, as if registering a formal complaint.
Sa-rang groaned and swatted Da-eul’s arm. “Please behave like an adult human being for at least five minutes. I’m in my happy place.”
Da-eul gasped in mock offense. “You invited chaos the moment you showed up walking crooked and sitting like the aftermath of scandalous late-night decisions.”
That set them off again.
Laughter spilled out of them, bright and messy, echoing faintly against the stone and drifting toward the river. The kind of laughter that loosened shoulders. The kind that left warmth behind it.
For a few minutes, conversation softened into something easy. Light teasing. Inside jokes. Half-finished thoughts. The gentle comedown after a day full of confessions, empowerment, and far too much honesty.
Then.
A shift in the air.
A shadow fell across the edge of their bench.
Longer than expected.
Taller than expected.
Sa-rang felt it before she fully registered it. The faint instinctive sense of attention entering a space. The subtle change in rhythm when someone new steps into the picture.
All three women looked up.
And for a brief, suspended moment, the afternoon seemed to hold its breath.
Not silence. The street guitarist down the promenade kept strumming, his melody loose and sun-lazy. Children kept laughing somewhere near the riverbank. The wind kept blowing, stirring leaves and carrying the layered scents of roasted sugar and warm pavement.
Life kept moving.
And yet something in the air shifted.
He stood at the top of the shallow steps leading down from the riverfront, framed by drifting sunlight and the green canopy of the trees. He had not arrived with spectacle or sound. He had simply appeared, as if the afternoon had quietly made room for him without anyone consciously noticing.
Pedestrians passed behind him. Conversations flowed around him. A skateboarder zipped past, wheels whispering over the pavement before fading into the ambient hum of the promenade.
Still, people glanced twice without realizing why.
He had that kind of presence.
Not attention-seeking. Not loud.
Just gravitational.
He was striking. Not flashy; just disarmingly handsome in the way certain men were without even trying. The kind of man who had likely grown accustomed to the reactions of people around him without ever fully acknowledging them.
Raven-dark hair, neat and disciplined, styled with precision that suggested intention rather than vanity. Wire-rimmed glasses rested on a composed face that somehow became sharper rather than softer for wearing them, emphasizing the clean line of his jaw and the quiet intelligence in his gaze.
His expression was neutral at first glance, but the longer one looked, the more layered it became. Thoughtful. Observant. Curious in a restrained, private way.
A dark suit sat flawlessly on his frame, jacket buttoned clean and immaculate. The shirt beneath was open so wide it nearly vanished from view, giving the illusion of a bare chest broken only by a fine pendant chain at his collarbone.
His sleeves were rolled back, revealing strong forearms and an ease that suggested confidence without performance.
Not cold.
Not arrogant.
Calm in a way that suggested depth rather than distance.
The fabric moved smoothly as he descended the steps toward them, catching sunlight in soft gradients that traced the line of his shoulders, the flex of his muscles, the quiet assurance in his stride.
Up close, he looked younger than expected. Late twenties, maybe, but with an ease that suggested experience.
He stopped at a polite distance from their bench, posture relaxed, hands resting easily at his sides, as though mindful not to intrude. The breeze lifted the edge of his jacket, then slipped past him toward the river, where sunlight glinted across the water in soft silver ripples.
He inclined his head in a brief, courteous bow.
“Forgive the interruption,” he said.
His voice was warm, low, steady, and deeply pleasant, lingering in the air like a note that refused to vanish all at once.
Something subtle shifted along the bench as they all stared.
“I almost kept walking.”
A small pause. Thoughtful. Deliberate.
“You all looked… very alive over here,” he said gently. “I didn’t want to break the spell.”
He adjusted his glasses with a measured, almost absent motion, eyes steady, attention fully locked on them.
“But moments like this tend to disappear if you pretend not to notice them,” he added quieter.
“I knew I’d regret not introducing myself.”
Three pairs of eyes widened for entirely different reasons.
Da-eul made a sound halfway between a gasp and a hiccup.
Pyeong-hwa sat up so quickly she nearly whiplashed herself, her hair flicking over her shoulders.
Sa-rang blinked, then smoothed instantly into composed calm. And lingering boldness.
“Are you flirting with us,” she asked lightly, testing the tone, “or is this your standard opening line?”
He glanced around the group, slightly amused, as if he already found this interaction fascinating.
Something shifted in his expression. Not quite a smile. Just enough to reveal dimples that softened his composure into something quietly dangerous.
“Would it help if I were?”
His words landed soft.
And somehow hit hard.
For half a second, no one spoke.
Then his gaze settled on Sa-rang, studying her with polite curiosity. Not intrusive, but quietly perceptive, like someone who noticed more than he ever let on.
Then he added, gentler. Softer. Sharper:
“You looked like people having a conversation worth overhearing.”
A beat.
“And conversations like that rarely happen by accident. I’m Kim Min-jae. I write for the Seoul Herald.”
Sa-rang held his gaze, careful, thoughtful.
“Are you Cheon Sa-rang?”
A brief hesitation flickered through her before she nodded.
“Yes… I am.”
His expression warmed by a single degree; just enough to feel like sunlight.
“I thought so.”
He handed them each a business card with elegant fingers, his movements unhurried, practiced. The card edges caught the light as they passed from hand to hand.
Da-eul stared at the name a moment too long, while Pyeong-hwa mouthed oh wow without sound.
“I lead human-interest and leadership features,” he continued.
“I have been covering Prince Samir’s visit and the King Hotel expansion.”
The second stretched.
“You handled last night beautifully,” he said, eyes steady on Sa-rang. “The royal dinner. Recognizing you here felt like coincidence.”
He paused.
“I don’t believe in coincidences.”
He glanced at her friends, checking he wasn’t overstepping.
Something quiet tightened between the three women as they watched him. Appraising.
“If you’re comfortable, I’d appreciate the chance to introduce myself properly.”
Pyeong-hwa smiled far too brightly, shoulders tucked in with barely contained excitement.
Da-eul didn’t smile. She lit up, like someone had plugged her directly into an electrical outlet.
“Oh, you are completely fine,” Da-eul blurted, then winced at herself. “Sorry. I meant, you just…you seem nice.”
Her breath stumbled as she nudged Sa-rang’s elbow hard, beaming an entire conversation through one shameless look.
The message was unmistakable:
Say something. He is respectful. He is hot. He is nice. He is extremely hot. Do Not waste this man.
Sa-rang shot back a single look, blinking rapidly like Morse code: Compose yourself. Immediately.
After a beat, she turned to Min-jae.
“The media and I have had a complicated history, Reporter Kim,” Sa-rang said lightly. “But introductions are harmless. These are my friends, Kang Da-eul and Oh Pyeong-hwa.”
“I would like to improve that history,” Min-jae replied smoothly. “If I may borrow a moment…I won’t take long.”
“You can take as long as you want,” Da-eul whispered under her breath.
Not quietly enough.
The faintest pause caught him, like he’d meant to look away and didn’t.
He smiled instead.
“Da-eul,” Pyeong-hwa muttered low, elbowing her discreetly.
“What?” Da-eul blinked, whispering back. “I used my inside voice.”
Min-jae’s smile held, polished and impossibly unfair. The dimples deepened as his gaze flicked to Da-eul, sharpening him into something quietly magnetic in the moment.
“You’re welcome to use any voice you like with me,” he said mildly. “I have a strong tolerance for enthusiasm.”
The words settled over the bench with effortless confidence, and an ease that suggested he meant it.
For half a second, the moment held. Something warm and unexpected rippled through their little circle: amusement, surprise, the faintest brush of intrigue.
He slipped out of his jacket with unhurried ease, the soft rustle of fabric catching in the river breeze as he laid it across the top tier of the bench. Time seemed to hold its breath like the air itself had paused to watch.
The cut of his shirt revealed the lines of his build more clearly: lean muscle, calm strength and the subtle promise of very good decisions beneath those clothes.
Sa-rang glanced away first, composure settling back into place.
A hush fell over the bench as Pyeong-hwa went perfectly still, eyes bright with fascination.
And somewhere to the right, Da-eul appeared to have forgotten blinking was a normal human function.
The girls stifled a collective mix of coughs and low laughter, energy fizzing just under the surface.
“Reporter Kim…” Sa-rang shot her friends a fondly exasperated look, then turned back to him, half-apologetic.
“You’ve caught us at the tail end of a very spirited conversation. We’ve been deep in girl talk all afternoon. Consider this… lingering momentum.”
Min-jae’s mouth curved; subtle, restrained, like he found the situation more entertaining than alarming.
“Momentum can be a powerful thing. I’ll do my best not to waste it,” he said calmly.
Sa-rang flicked a glance at her friends. Pyeong-hwa was still staring at him, eyes wide, before turning to mouth silently at her and Da-eul:
WHO is this guy?
Da-eul squinted at him, unabashed.
“Respectfully… you do not look like a journalist. You look like the story.”
A faint smile touched his mouth, then stayed a beat too long, as if it surprised even him.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He replied lightly. “But I prefer writing about people, not headlines. The human parts matter more to me…I’d rather tell stories than become one.”
A brief pause.
“But I understand the confusion.”
The silence stretched again, softer this time, charged but curious.
Somewhere on the river, a boat horn sounded low and distant. The girls exchanged a synchronized look that said we are absolutely talking about this later, then refocused attention back on him.
Min-jae set down his phone and a slim leather notebook, arranging them with deliberate care, giving the three women comfortable space before opening it with a quiet, precise motion.
The women caught the edge of half a sketch. Not a full drawing. Just enough to register.
Deliberate. Soft. Beautiful.
“Did you draw that?” Da-eul asked, leaning in… wonder softening her voice like she’d forgotten to be funny for a second. “It’s lovely.”
Min-jae looked at her as though the rest of the bench had briefly fallen away. Not obvious but not entirely hidden either.
“Lovely,” he echoed quietly. The word landing warmer than necessary.
He cleared his throat softly, but his attention didn’t quite leave her. His voice dipped, lower now.
“It helps me remember people,” he said simply. “Words can lie. Expressions are more honest.”
His gaze lingered on her.
Almost like he was testing his theory in real time.
The air shifted, subtle but real.
Even Sa-rang felt it, like something fine and precise had just entered the space.
Before anyone could respond, his phone buzzed softly against the bench, the vibration barely disturbing the wood. He glanced down and silenced it with a single, economical tap. The screen briefly lit with a familiar headline.
Pyeong-hwa noticed first.
“Wait… is that the article we just read earlier?”
Min-jae paused, then angled the phone slightly so they could see.
PRINCE SAMIR’S SEOUL VISIT SPARKS TALKS OF KING HOTEL EXPANSION
Subheading: Mrs. Gu turns heads in scarlet as diplomatic dinner concludes.
“Ah,” he said lightly. “You read it? I filed it this morning.”
All three women blinked.
Sa-rang’s brows lifted. “You wrote that?”
“Guilty,” he replied, a smile in his voice. “I know you think I don’t look like a journalist. But I promise…I am one.”
He paused.
“This was part of the broader coverage of the dinner. I wanted to include the full context, not just the optics.”
Sa-rang smirked softly at the word optics but let it pass.
Da-eul made a small, impressed noise.
“That was… actually a really nice article.”
A soft smile touched his mouth, appreciative, understated.
“I’m glad you liked it. Some moments deserve to be recorded with care.”
Pyeong-hwa nodded. “You did. It was fair.”
Sa-rang added, gentler, “I’m not used to seeing such flattering coverage in the media. Thank you, Reporter Kim.”
Min-jae bowed his head slightly and slipped his phone into his pocket; no flourish, no lingering on the praise…just a clean, professional ease that somehow made the moment warmer.
Da-eul shifted closer, even more attentive.
Pyeong-hwa folded her hands like she was waiting for something important.
“So,” he continued easily, tapping his notebook with one fingertip, “that ties into what I was hoping to discuss with you, Cheon Sa-rang-ssi.”
His voice settled into something warm but resonant.
“My last series focused on Korea’s next-generation successors: sons and daughters preparing to inherit family conglomerates.”
“Not the headline heirs. The reluctant ones.”
A quiet pause.
“The pressure they carry is… extraordinary. People like your husband understand that weight.”
The words lingered for a beat, soft as the river light pooling across the stones. Something thoughtful moved behind his eyes before he continued.
Sa-rang felt her posture sharpen, her attention narrowing.
“Anyway,” Min-jae continued, shifting his focus back to her with quiet intent. “I’m working on a new piece. Next-generation heirs live under a microscope. Success is assumed. Mistakes are amplified. Love is rarely part of the narrative, except as a liability.”
A leaf spiraled down between them and landed near Da-eul’s shoe. She nudged it absently, eyes never leaving him.
“People like to write about power,” he continued quietly. “But I’m more interested in what it costs.”
Pyeong-hwa whispered, “Oh, he’s deep.”
“And tall,” Da-eul whispered back.
Sa-rang reached behind them and pinched both their waists at once.
“Ow—!”
Min-jae’s lips softened in faint amusement.
“No need to whisper. I promise, I don’t bite.”
“Are you sure?” Da-eul said quietly under her breath, turning her head away like she was shielding herself from the sun.
Sa-rang’s fingers twitched; she nearly pinched her again.
He glanced at Da-eul and his mouth curved faintly, like he found the question entirely acceptable. Still, he pressed on, smooth as water over glass as he turned back to Sa-rang.
“Your presence at the dinner last night,” he said evenly, “and the public response that followed… sparked an idea I haven’t been able to put down.”
Sa-rang held his gaze. “All right,” she said calmly. “I’m listening.”
He didn’t speak right away and looked as though he were choosing what not to say.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her friends openly staring at Min-jae…as if a webtoon character had casually joined their table.
And honestly, with the wire-rim glasses, the composed charm, that smooth, understated voice; he had a quiet Clark Kent effect. Unassuming at first glance. Disarmingly devastating up close.
Min-jae folded his hands loosely over his notebook.
“Most people reduce your husband to a story about power struggle. Strategy. Succession.”
A softer note threaded into his tone.
“I think that misses the most important part…what actually changed him.
Sa-rang’s expression tightened, attentive.
The pause lingered.
“You.”
The word landed without flourish. Not dramatic. Not performative. Simply precise.
He let the silence breathe.
“That’s… not what I expected you to say.” Sa-rang replied with surprise.
“Allow me to be direct. I’ve observed men raised to inherit power. Before you, your husband was seen as capable, detached, never smiled, and unlikely to want power.”
The words hung in the air.
“Gu Hwa-ran was widely assumed to be the natural successor. Gu Won was not expected to reach for the crown.”
Something thoughtful flickered behind his eyes.
“And then he met you. And something shifted. In his choices. He’s a different man.”
Then quieter, almost to himself. “I’ve seen that kind of change once before. It doesn’t happen without cost.”
He tilted his head slightly, clearing his throat.
“From where I stand, Cheon Sa-rang-ssi, your husband did not rise despite love.”
A pause.
“He rose because of it.”
Then he quoted her words back to her from the press conference during DanceGate, his voice warm in a way that felt both respectful and deeply human:
“The only frivolous thing here today is the idea that love and leadership can’t coexist.
That line stayed with me. It was one of the few honest things I heard that day.”
Her breath caught just slightly. The memory now quieter, gentler, no longer edged with the tension of that day itself.
He opened his notebook briefly, then closed it again, as though deciding she deserved more than notes.
“Leadership reveals itself best when no one is watching,” he added quietly.
“And the way he looks at you… tells me more about his leadership than any earnings report ever could.”
The afternoon light had softened to honey by the time he finished.
“I’m calling the series The Leadership of Love,” he said gently. “I would like you and your husband at its center.”
Sa-rang felt her breath ease out; quiet, almost rounded at the edges, as if something inside her had clicked into place.
“I’m… honored,” she said, meaning it. “Truly. But I don’t know.”
He nodded. “I understand.”
The moment thickened.
“I only wanted to make the pitch and request permission to speak further. When and if you’re ready. No pressure.”
Respectful. Gracious. Polished.
Sa-rang studied him.
He was unlike the journalists she had dealt with before. The ones who spoke in cold angles and sharper questions, who treated her life like an arrangement of headlines waiting to be twisted for spectacle.
Min-jae did not feel like that.
There was a steadiness to him. An intensity but also honesty in the way he seemed to regard people. A sense of purpose that felt controlled and deliberate.
The faint scent of clean cologne lingered when the breeze shifted closer and she felt her shoulders loosen on their own.
The river breeze tugged a strand of hair across her cheek; she brushed it back as she met his gaze again… open, patient, waiting for her to respond.
“I don’t mind speaking further,” she said finally. “I’m sure my husband would be willing to hear you out.”
Min-jae inclined his head in quiet acknowledgment; a small, refined bow that somehow felt more personal than formal.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
When he lifted his gaze again, his eyes lingered…not too long, not too bold. Steady, respectful, but with the quiet certainty of someone who didn’t enter people’s lives casually.
The moment hovered, balanced on the edge of departure, like a conversation deciding whether it was finished or just beginning.
***
He didn’t leave.
Instead, he tapped one finger lightly against his closed notebook, the soft tap landing in the hush between passing footsteps.
“If I may…there’s something I should add,” he said, tone shifting to thoughtful. “Part journalist’s note… part human observation.”
Sa-rang straightened just a little. The guitarist down the promenade softened into a slower tempo, notes trailing into the warm afternoon.
“When you married into the Gu family, most people assumed you would disappear behind that name. Or be torn apart for not belonging to that world.”
All three women exchanged a quick, instinctively protective look.
“I know they tried,” Min-jae said simply.
His eyes met hers again, with the clear gaze of someone who observes for a living and doesn’t speak lightly.
“I’ve followed you online. You handle pressure without losing yourself. Most people break under far less.”
A breath left him: quiet, admiring, sincere. Not the polished journalist but the person underneath.
“That is why your presence last night mattered,” he continued. “We’re watching someone navigate power, scrutiny, and expectation without surrendering her identity. That’s uncommon.”
Sa-rang blinked, surprised by the sincerity. A quiet warmth settled in her chest.
A brief pause.
“And beside a man raised for privilege who changed as a person and leader after he fell in love with you. That kind of behavioral shift is not accidental.”
Da-eul and Pyeong-hwa went still beside her. The air sharpened with focus.
A lull settled around them, as if even the river had paused to listen. Sunlight filtered through the leaves overhead, dappling Sa-rang’s hands like quiet punctuation as she considered his words.
Min-jae tilted his head, thoughtful, and reached into his bag.
A small paperback appeared in his hands: edges softened, cover gently curled, the kind of book that lived with a person, not on a shelf.
He opened it to a marked page, his thumb gliding over the line as if greeting an old friend.
The pages whispered faintly in the breeze, it made the moment feel deliberate rather than accidental.
“I keep a book with me…not out of sentiment,” he said, voice low but easy. “It reminds me of what people underestimate.”
He lowered his gaze to the page and read, voice steady, deep and low, beautifully measured:
“‘Love isn’t the loudest force…but it’s one of the few forces powerful enough to override self-interest. It outlasts everything else.’”
He closed the book gently.
“I’m not interested in power.”
A quiet followed.
“I’m interested in what’s strong enough to reshape it.”
“Cheon Sa-rang-ssi, enduring love is statistically uncommon. Which makes it worth documenting when it shows up.”
The three of them held their breath.
“Oh… wow,” Pyeong-hwa whispered.
Da-eul looked struck; as if Cupid had fired an arrow straight at her and Buddha had immediately blessed the impact.
Even Sa-rang felt something shift inside her chest. She did not smile, but her expression loosened.
It was not flattery that moved her.
It was the precision.
He was not romanticizing love.
He was describing it like a phenomenon he had analyzed… and possibly lived through.
He had articulated something she had never heard put that way. The phrasing caught her a bit off guard.
“Like a case study,” she murmured, her voice softer despite herself.
“You speak about love like someone who’s paid a cost for believing in it.”
The silence landed.
He did not answer.
He only adjusted his glasses, the motion calm, his expression unreadable.
“Hmm.”
A quiet exhale escaped him.
“I—…”
Then, with the composed certainty of someone who prefers to never over-explain himself:
“I have taken enough of your afternoon,” he said lightly, inclining his head.
“Thank you for trusting me with the conversation.”
Da-eul, who had been staring at him nonstop, shook her head far too fast.
“Oh—no, no, it’s okay. Totally okay. Please… take more.”
She blushed, then added, almost shy, “You’re kinder than you let people think you are. Surprisingly thoughtful, Reporter Kim… that’s rare.”
Min-jae paused. Just briefly. And for the first time his composure didn’t reset immediately.
“You make people feel like they’re worth paying attention to.” Da-eul smiled.
A beat.
“You’re a true romantic at heart,” she finished softly.
His head tilted slightly, warmth flickering across his face, an almost charmed look as he took in her glowing expression. Brief. Real. Almost like he hadn’t meant for it to show.
“Only around people who make me want to be,” he said quietly.
The words landed softer than expected.
Like something he hadn’t planned to say out loud.
Like he might think about having said it later.
His gaze lingered on Da-eul another moment before easing away, composure settling back into place, but not quite as seamlessly as before.
She looked right back at him, eyes wide and bright, the moment between them tightening like a thread pulled taut.
Sa-rang’s brows shot up as she glanced between her best friend and the handsome journalist.
Wait.
A flicker of… something?
Not quite interest.
Not quite nothing.
Pyeong-hwa, oblivious to the charged beat, broke in brightly, “We were just saying your series idea sounds really meaningful.”
Sa-rang turned, open-mouthed. “No, you were not.” She pinched them both.
They yelped.
Min-jae hid a smile behind his hand, clearly hearing everything.
Then a silent conversation of nudges, elbowing, eye signals, and exaggerated reactions followed amongst the women.
Da-eul finally lifted a hand. “We have questions, Reporter Kim, if you are going to interview our friend.”
He turned to them politely. “Of course. What would you like to ask?”
***
The energy gathered like a shared secret, mischief building faster than any of them could pretend to control.
Min-jae remained still, attention anchored on them, as if genuinely interested in what they might decide.
The three women immediately leaned in, whispering in a rapid, conspiratorial huddle that involved aggressive nodding, dramatic pointing, and at least one whispered “No, YOU.”
“Rock, paper, scissors,” Da-eul whisper yelled.
Hands shot out.
Rock.
Paper.
Scissors.
Pyeong-hwa won.
She shot Min-jae a quick, self-conscious glance, then squared her shoulders like she was stepping into a spotlight.
“So, um… how long have you been in journalism?” Pyeong-hwa started.
Sa-rang sat back. It was a safe question. Classic move.
Min-jae looked faintly amused. “Almost twelve years.”
Pyeong-hwa nodded, emboldened. “And what made you want to specialize in human-interest stories?”
Before he could answer, Da-eul cut in, already shifting forward.
A phone chimed somewhere behind them, too cheerful for the half-baked interrogation at their table.
“Sorry, but I have a much more important question.” She squinted at him with exaggerated seriousness.
“You said twelve years. Is that… straight-out-of-college twelve, or… started-as-a-prodigy-at-sixteen twelve? Because you have this…I don’t know…webtoon aura. Youthful, possible super-hero. Like you were drawn by someone with a crush.”
It was the most delicately chaotic attempt at asking a man’s age anyone had ever attempted.
The corner of Min-jae’s mouth lifted, subtle, warm, entertained.
“Straight out of college,” he said lightly. “Though I started young in journalism.”
“It’s the dimples.” Pyeong-hwa nodded with solemn conviction.
Da-eul leaned in, fearless now. “So, you must be… how old, twenty-something?”
Sa-rang murmured softly under her breath, already bracing for secondhand embarrassment.
But Min-jae only raised a hand, easy and gracious. “It’s fine.” He adjusted his glasses with elegance. “Thirty-three.”
The answer landed with effortless confidence. A little older than they’d assumed, still younger than them. Somehow, that only made him more intriguing.
“So, Reporter Kim,” Da-eul pressed on, eyes bright, “may I ask another question?”
He looked at her with easy patience. “You seem determined to.”
“Your glasses,” Da-eul blurted. “If you take them off, do you turn into a completely different person. Superpowers, maybe?”
“These are not serious questions, Da-eul.”
Sa-rang groaned under her breath, but Min-jae only laughed; low, warm, unbothered.
“Sometimes,” his mouth curved. “But I prefer to keep my secret identity intact. My editor claims the glasses make me look more credible.”
Then he paused, reached into his upper suit pocket for a cloth, and slipped off his glasses, cleaning the lenses with unhurried ease.
A subtle shift.
A soft reveal.
Without the frames, his features came into sharper focus, more handsome than any of them had expected.
Even Sa-rang had the brief, traitorous thought: Oh… wow.
He smiled slowly, gaze steady, as he leaned a fraction toward Da-eul like he was sharing a private confidence.
He lowered his voice conspiratorially:
“Between us… is my editor right, Da-eul-ssi?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. Focused. Like he was watching for her real answer.
Da-eul’s blush erupted like a heatwave.
“Oh, yes. You’re gorgeous. I mean…your glasses are gorgeous. The rest of you is…fine. Good. Great. Whatever. You look… very credible.” she finished, defeated. Then, like an afterthought, “and… kind.”
She turned to Pyeong-hwa, and whispered urgently,
“Look at his hands. Veins. There is no way this man is just a journalist. Mortal Kombat? Secret agent? I refuse to accept a mundane explanation.”
Sa-rang choked, shaking her head apologetically.
Pyeong-hwa slapped her arm lightly. “Da-eul! He can hear you.”
“I… can,” Min-jae laughed; full and warm.
“Mystery tends to survive first impressions. You’d be surprised what people imagine.”
When he slipped his glasses back on, the effect somehow intensified this time.
He looked at Da-eul again, sincerity softening his tone.
“You’re very kind,” he said, voice warmer. “And honestly… very charming. Mortal Kombat is tempting, but archery is my actual vice. I prefer targets that require focus.”
“Kill me,” Da-eul whispered.
Min-jae caught it. Something amused, almost appreciative, flickered in his eyes.
“I’d rather keep you alive,” he said lightly. “You’re far too bright a presence to lose.”
The atmosphere shifted.
Charged.
Curious.
Complicated.
Somewhere nearby, a street performer hit a dramatic note, as if scoring the moment.
Sa-rang felt the shift as her gaze moved between the two of them. There was something oddly fitting in the way the moment settled, though she could not have explained why.
And then Da-eul’s brain-to-mouth filter failed spectacularly.
“…Are you married?”
Silence.
Da-eul froze like she’d just heard her own voice echo from outside her body.
“I—NO—WAIT—I didn’t mean. It just…”
“I was married once,” Min-jae said quietly.
Da-eul’s face drained and flushed at the same time. “I’m… sorry.”
“I’m not.”
Just that.
Not sharp. Not defensive.
Factual. Unapologetic. Settled.
His eyes landed on Da-eul for a brief second, expression kind and unbothered.
Sa-rang nearly slid off the bench. Pyeong-hwa made a mortified noise and hid her face. Da-eul blinked, embarrassed, like her soul had briefly disconnected from her body.
“Breathe,” Sa-rang muttered, grabbing her arm.
When he looked back at Da-eul again, there was no teasing in it. No laughter at her expense.
What spread across his expression was gentler than that. Careful. Only a steady, almost considerate warmth. Like her sincerity had unexpectedly disarmed him.
Min-jae’s voice softened slightly when he spoke:
“Da-eul-ssi…you don’t need to apologize,” he said gently. “Curiosity is human.”
Then he turned to Sa-rang, a quiet smile warming his face.
“You and your friends,” he said lightly, “are remarkable women.”
Sa-rang covered her face with both hands.
“I apologize on behalf of all of us.”
“No need,” he replied, rising with an easy grace and offering a small, respectful bow. “I’m most at ease around people who are expressive, sincere, and unapologetically themselves.”
He stepped back with a faint smile.
“Ladies. This has been genuinely refreshing.”
He started toward the steps, then stopped and glanced back.
“Take care, Da-eul-ssi,” he added gently. “And if more questions occur to you… I’m easy to find.”
Then he turned and walked away, broad-shouldered and unhurried, the river breeze threading through his dark hair.
For a moment, all three women remained still, the world settling into a softened hush as he disappeared into the sunlight. Something subtle remained in the space he left behind.
Sa-rang felt it settle in her chest like a warm weight.
It wasn’t his appearance that lingered.
It was the way his words briefly sharpened her sense of herself; like a mirror she hadn’t known she wanted.
He had spoken directly to the parts of her she was still learning to own without apology.
Her strength.
Her dignity.
Her place beside Gu Won.
Her right to remain whole in a world that had once tried very hard to shrink her.
She had not realized how deeply she wanted someone outside her grandmother, her friends, or her husband to see her that way.
Not to flatter her.
Not to romanticize her.
Just to affirm her.
To say, quietly and without spectacle:
You did not disappear. You rose.
But it was not Min-jae’s attention or validation that sent heat blooming through her. That was already fading.
It was the sudden, aching wish that Gu Won were here to witness her now. The way he would tilt his head. The soft pride in his smile. The brush of his thumb along her cheek that always said, without words, I knew you could.
The realization unfurled bright and certain in her mind:
Won would be so happy for me in this moment.
He had seen her this way first. As someone luminous. Deserving. Fully herself.
Heat spread through her, slow and grounding, as she rose and took a few steps forward.
Her hand moved before she consciously decided to.
She slipped her phone from her bag and typed:
Sarang: Thinking of you.
Sarang: And the woman you always see in me.
Sarang: I felt her today. ❤️
Send.
Her phone buzzed almost instantly.
Husband: Thinking about you far too much.
Husband: And I’m in love with the woman you felt today.
Her chest tightened in a way that was almost grateful.
Until—
Da-eul obliterated it with a slap to the bench so forceful a passing cyclist swerved in alarm.
“That unreasonably fine, glasses-wearing, dimpled man built like good decisions in a suit, with a velvety smooth voice. Oh. My. GOD.”
***
Laughter burst out of them, bright and unrestrained, the kind that left their cheeks warm and their ribs aching.
“Before anyone says anything,” Da-eul declared, fanning herself dramatically, “he is too young for me. Relax.”
“You were flirting like the age gap was hypothetical,” Pyeong-hwa shot back.
“I’m a married woman with a child,” Da-eul insisted, pressing a hand to her chest. “It’s been one of those days. I was simply… admiring. From a respectful. Responsible. Emotional distance.”
“A very enthusiastic distance,” Sa-rang muttered, snorting.
“My boyfriend is younger too,” Pyeong-hwa added smugly. “Hoobae men keep life exciting.”
Da-eul scoffed, then cracked. “…Okay,” she admitted, laughing, “but he is really hot, isn’t he?”
A street vendor shouted a cheerful price nearby. A group of teenagers whooped over something on a phone, their laughter skidding past like sparks.
For a split second, the three of them just stared at each other.
Then they all lost it at once.
“He’s hot,” Pyeong-hwa said immediately.
“Painfully hot,” Da-eul added. “Those dimples should come with a public safety warning.”
“Objectively hot,” Sa-rang agreed, wiping at her eyes. Then, breezy and loyal,
“But not hotter than my husband. Let’s be clear. My man is still the standard. Undefeated.”
They collapsed into laughter again.
Gradually, the noise around them filtered back in — footsteps, distant chatter, the soft rush of the river.
Da-eul’s laughter faded first.
She let out a quieter breath, rolling her shoulders back, her tone shifting.
“…But jokes aside,” she said, tilting her head,
“he was actually really nice. Like, genuinely nice. And funny. Not trying too hard.”
A brief pause.
“And he was smart,” she added. “And sweet. In a low-key way. Not showy. Just… sincere.”
Sa-rang looked at her a little more closely this time.
Pyeong-hwa nodded slowly. “Yeah. He felt… perceptive. Really insightful. And nice.”
Her gaze flicked to Sa-rang…a quick, knowing look that said you’re seeing this too, right?
“…You know he was kind of into you,” she added under her breath.
Da-eul scoffed… too fast. “Into me? Please.”
She waved a hand like the idea wasn’t even worth considering.
“He probably just thought I was embarrassing and was being polite.”
“I don’t think so,” Sa-rang said calmly, creasing her brows. “He was looking at you… differently.”
Da-eul went quiet for a moment.
“Men like that don’t look at women like me,” she said lightly. “Not in this life.”
A crooked grin tugged at her mouth.
“If this were another life? Maybe. But this one?” She shrugged.
“That kind of man doesn’t exist in my real life. I’m someone’s exhausted wife. Someone’s mom. Someone who buys groceries in bulk and shops second-hand.”
Sa-rang hesitated.
“I get why you think that,” she said gently.
“I know you’re a mom. I know you’re married. I know you carry a lot.”
Then, softer:
“But you’re still beautiful. Still charming. Still fun. Still warm… you’re still someone a man could notice.”
Pyeong-hwa nudged her. “Da-eul. You are not invisible just because you own a rice cooker and attend parent-teacher conferences. You’re very crush-able.”
Da-eul smiled faintly, leaning back against the bench and tipping her face toward the sky.
“Yeah… it’s been a while since I’ve had a crush,” she murmured, almost shy. “Actual butterflies.”
She huffed a quiet laugh.
“It felt like stepping into someone else’s drama. Not my story. Just… a borrowed scene.”
She exhaled, half-amused, half-wistful.
Without a word, Sa-rang looped her arm through Da-eul’s while Pyeong-hwa reached over to lace their fingers…a silent, steadying chorus at her sides.
The bench creaked beneath their collective lean, like it, too, was in support.
“It was really nice,” Da-eul whispered.
***
The excitement of the day did not disappear. It simply shifted, settling into a quieter, more intimate space. The kind where friendship wraps around you like a blanket and makes room for whatever comes next.
And beneath it all, Sa-rang’s heart was still thrumming with something gentler. Deeper.
Something she was not ready to set down yet.
Especially not now.
A steady, molten heat hummed beneath her ribs. The sweet ache she only ever felt when she missed her husband.
Gu Won.
She carried it with her as she hugged the girls goodbye, as the market lights flickered behind her, as she walked home through the soft Seoul evening, the sky lavender above her head.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, a fragment of the reporter’s words flickered, then moved on.
Leadership. Love. Endurance.
Not as pressure.
As a quiet, private pride.
A taxi slowed at the curb before she even raised her hand.
She did not overthink.
Did not plan.
Did not hesitate.
The door opened with a soft click.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
Sa rang slid in, her heart already answering.
“King Hotel, please.”
The city blurred past her window, neon signs, evening traffic, storefront lights softening into night. She kept one hand curled around the little fox charm in her purse, thumb brushing over the crown.
By the time the taxi pulled into the hotel driveway, her pulse had steadied into something warm and sure.
She missed her husband.
And she wanted him to know.
The doors opened into the King Hotel’s quiet evening bustle, marble floors gleaming, guests drifting through like gentle currents.
She spotted Sang-sik near the private elevator, tablet in hand, mid sentence with a staff member as she approached.
He turned, saw her, and straightened so quickly the pen in his breast pocket wobbled.
They stepped into the elevator together.
“Mrs. Gu,” he said, tone warm beneath the formality they only used in settings like this. “He will be sorry he missed you.”
She smiled. “Is he here? I thought maybe…”
“He is still in the boardroom,” he whispered, sympathetic. “He has been in there since early morning. Investor review with the royals.” A tiny wince. “It is one of the long ones.”
Sa rang let out a breath. “Ah. Poor him.”
“And poor me,” Sang sik added lightly. “But mostly him.”
It earned a quiet laugh from her.
“Do you want to leave him something?” he asked gently, already leading her to his office.
She nodded.
Inside, his space was perfectly immaculate.
She set the tiny fox charm at the center of his desk and left a short note beside it:
For my favorite fox. A little something to keep you company until I can. I love you. — your wife.
Sang sik glanced at it, and the corner of his mouth lifted.
“He will like that,” he said simply. Then, softer, “…he has been missing you today.”
Color rose to her cheeks. “I have been missing him too. Tell him I stopped by?”
“Of course,” he said, as if it were obvious. “I will.”
She squeezed his arm lightly in thanks and slipped out.
***
The room was dark, the sheets cool against her legs. Haru’s soft breathing puffed against her hip, the faint thump of his tail the only other sound in the quiet.
And then her phone buzzed.
Low. Soft. Inevitable.
A warm tremor curled at the base of her spine.
She didn’t check the screen.
Her body already knew.
She slid her thumb across the phone and breathed his name like an exhale she’d been saving.
“Won-ah.”
A low breath came through the line, warm enough to skim the edge of her ear like a touch. The kind that sounded like he’d been holding it all day.
“There you are,” he murmured.
She checked the clock, 1:03 am.
His voice: rough, tired, warm…rolled straight through her.
“Hi honey,” she whispered. “You sound tired.”
“Hey, baby. Yes, very. I didn’t think you’d still be awake,” he said, that sleepy smile already threading through his tone.
“I thought I’d be leaving a message.”
She smiled into her pillow, toes curling under the blanket.
“I was waiting.”
A quiet laugh; soft, deeply affectionate; slipped through the line. The kind he only ever made for her.
“Thank you for waiting,” he said.
As Sa-rang adjusted the phone on her pillow, Haru lifted his head from where he’d been curled at her side.
Won’s voice rumbled through the speaker: warm, low, familiar.
Haru’s ears perked.
A tiny boof escaped him.
Sa-rang chuckled low, stroking his back. “He knows your voice.”
Won exhaled, softer than a whisper, warm enough that she felt it brush her cheek.
“Tell him I’ll be home soon.”
Haru grunted, settling closer.
A hush fell over them for a bit.
Then—
“Sang-sik told me you stopped by.”
She smiled into the dark.
“I… just wanted to see you. Even for a second.”
A breath came through the receiver, heavier now.
She could picture him pressing his thumb to his brow, eyes closing, leaning back in that hotel chair like the sound of her steadied him.
“I wish I’d seen you,” he said quietly. “God, I wish I had.”
Her heart pulled painfully at the honesty.
“I left you something,” she said.
“I know,” he murmured. “I found it on my desk. I saw that little fox and all I could think was… she came. Here. For me.”
Then he added, gentler:
“Thank you.”
Warmth spread through her chest.
“You liked it?”
There was a soft rustle, him shifting, settling into the bed, letting the moment wrap around him.
“I loved it. He’s cute. Brought him back to my suite,” Won said. “He’s staring at me right now like he knows all my secrets.”
She giggled, a little breathless.
“He does and he’s judging you,” she teased.
“He is,” Won agreed solemnly. “He looks exactly like he’s saying, ‘Why aren’t you with your wife right now?’”
She covered her mouth, half laughing, half melting.
“Won…”
Another breath, deeper, warmer… the kind that always made her pulse jump.
“I miss you,” he said simply.
The room felt smaller suddenly, as if it were holding the moment with her.
“I miss you too.”
She hesitated, voice softening like a hand smoothing over his cheek.
“You’re doing such great work. I’m so proud of you… and the president you’ve become.”
There was a silence… the warm kind, dense with feeling.
She heard a faint shift of fabric on his end, like he’d leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
Then Won inhaled once, slow and tight, like her words reached somewhere under his ribs.
When he spoke again, everything in his voice had changed:
Lower.
Richer.
More intimate.
“That means more to me than anything I heard today.”
His voice thickened, sincerity pulling through every word.
Her breath stuttered.
“You know that, right? From you… it matters.”
Something warm and weighty pressed against her chest.
She felt the air shift on her end; as if he’d leaned forward, elbows on his knees, phone pressed close, wanting her to hear him clearly.
“I know I’m doing the right things,” he continued softly. “I just want to make sure I’m protecting what matters most… you.”
The vulnerability in his voice hit her low in the chest.
“And then you say something like that,” he continued softly, “and suddenly it feels like I can breathe again.”
She closed her eyes.
“I love you…so much,” he exhaled, almost a groan of tenderness.
“I love you too, Won-ah.”
Her breath trembled, heat blooming behind her knees.
“Now,” he murmured, gentling the moment, “how was your day? Talk to me.”
She pressed her face into the pillow, a small giggle escaped before continuing.
“It was… interesting. Loud, chaotic, fun. Girls’ time,” she teased. “Grown and sexy. Typical us.”
A quiet laugh slipped through the line, low and familiar, the kind that always softened something in her chest.
“Grown and sexy…I bet you were.” He teased back, voice slightly rough.
“And,” she added lightly, like it barely mattered, “we met a reporter today.”
There was a small pause on the other end. Not long. But long enough for her to feel his attention shift.
“A reporter,” he repeated, voice steady. Then, gentler, protective without trying to be:
“Did they bother you?”
“No,” she said softly. “He came up to us by the river.”
She shifted slightly under the covers, phone tucked closer to her cheek.
The memory came back with a soft warmth. Sunlight on the water. Breeze. Laughter lingering in the air.
“He was very composed,” she continued. “Observant. Interesting.”
A low sound left him, thoughtful and restrained.
“Mm.”
“He pitched a series,” she went on more softly.
“About us. About how love shapes the way you lead.”
Another pause followed. This one carried weight.
“About us,” he echoed quietly. “Huh, what did you think?”
She turned slightly onto her side, voice loosening, easing into him.
“He was perceptive,” she said. “Felt like someone who really pays attention to people.”
Silence for a second. Not empty. Full.
“So,” Won said lightly, “You met an intellectual.”
Her lips curved slowly.
“Something like that. You would like him.”
A quiet huff of a laugh brushed the line.
“If you say so. Sounds like someone who thinks he’s clever.”
She could hear the soft lift of his smile through the line. Subtle. Warm. Amused.
“Well,” he murmured. “I will do it if you want.”
Then a pause. A shift in his breathing. The unmistakable sound of his mind turning over one specific detail.
“…What does he look like?”
Her laugh slipped out, warm and wicked.
“Jealous again, honey?”
“Not yet,” he murmured. “That depends on how he looks at you.”
Heat curled beneath her skin. She grinned into her pillow, kicking her feet lightly.
God, she loved him like this.
“Honestly? He’s very attractive.” She teased. “But not my type.”
He let out an amused breath
“Not your type?” Won murmured. “Then tell me… what is your type?”
She softened her voice, lowering it like a secret meant only for him.
“I have a very specific weakness. Dangerously sexy. Ridiculously handsome. Annoyingly perfect. Devastatingly competent. Chaebol heir. ”
The space between them tightened.
“You know,” she whispered. “My exact type. You.”
A quiet scoff brushed the line.
Smug. Amused. Entirely unthreatened.
“If that’s your standard,” Won said softly,
“he never stood a chance.”
Her breath hitched. She brought the phone closer to her mouth, like it might shorten the distance between them.
“Won-ah,” she breathed, smiling despite herself,
“when it comes to you, no one stands a chance.”
A hush settled between them.
Warm. Deep. Intimate.
The kind that felt like him leaning closer without moving.
“…Good.”
Just one word.
Calm. Certain.
Possessive in the way only a man who knows he is truly loved can afford to be.
The low hum of the air conditioner filled the quiet between their breaths.
“Besides,” she added after a moment, “he wasn’t looking at me much anyway. I think he might be low-key into Da-eul.”
“Huh.” His hum deepened, a little amused, a little curious. “Interesting.”
Then, softer, warm in a way that wrapped around her like his hands on her waist:
“Well, I am into you. And there is nothing low-key about it.”
Heat spilled through her chest.
“You’re dangerous.”
“Uh, huh…Sarang-ah.”
“Yes?”
“Next time you come to the hotel…”
His voice slid down into that velvety register that always made her thighs tighten.
“…don’t just drop by.”
Her pulse kicked.
“What should I do?”
She rolled onto her side, the sheet sliding higher over her waist as the fabric whispered against her skin. The bedside lamp cast a warm spill of light across her pillow, softening the edges of everything.
A restrained breath brushed the line, the kind he only let slip when he was thinking about her too vividly.
“Wait for me,” he murmured.
“In my office. In my chair.”
A pause. Heavy. Intentional.
“Let them pull me out of whatever meeting I’m in,” he continued, his voice darkening.
“And whisper to me that you’re already there. Waiting.”
Her breath hitched.
“I want the first thing I see when I walk in to be you,” he said quietly.
“And baby?”
“Yes,” she exhaled out.
“Don’t wear anything you don’t want me to take off.”
A slower exhale followed, low and controlled.
“And the second I close that door… I will forget every ounce of self-control I’ve been pretending to have.”
Her lips parted on a sound she did not fully catch.
“I’ll drop to my knees in front of you…”
Another breath; heavy, controlled, devastating.
“…and I want you looking at me like you already know what’s going to happen.”
Her thighs tightened.
“And trusting me enough to let me take my time,” he whispered, quieter, “…when I put my mouth exactly where you need me to.”
Her breath rushed out of her, soft, helpless, undone.
“…okay…”
The word barely held together.
“Okay,” he echoed, like the sound of her agreement settled somewhere deep in him.
“I’ll call you in the morning, baby.”
“Goodnight, Won.”
“Goodnight. Sleep well, my love.”
His voice dropped.
“Dream of me.”
The call ended, but the feeling of him did not.
She lay there smiling at nothing, heart humming, butterflies fluttering in her belly.
A minute later, her phone buzzed.
A message.
A photo lit her screen:
Won sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, tie loose, shirt open just enough to show the warm skin at his collarbone.
His hair was mussed like he’d been dragging his hands through it. Yet, he looked unfairly handsome for that time of night.
He wasn’t looking at the camera… he was looking down, half-smiling in that soft, private way he only did for her.
And the fox charm?
Balanced on his knee, like he’d been holding it a moment before the photo.
Casual. Intimate. Hers.
Husband:
Thanks for leaving my little friend behind.
Thinking about the woman who dropped him off.
Come claim us both when I get back.
Her body lit up.
And the warmth of him stayed, blooming through her chest like a hand she could still feel long after the quiet settled again and her head hit the pillow.
