a/n:  early update since i missed this past weekend. i hope you're all doing well and staying safe (and healthy!). 

this chapter is more relaxing and later hints toward new opposition in the book, so i hope you enjoy it!

take care,

krissy

___

NOVEMBER 2017 

BREAKING: SUICIDE OF SOUTH KOREAN SINGER SEO JUNHO POINTS TO BRUTAL PRESSURE OF ENTERTAINMENT

1:32 PM. 24-year-old singer-songwriter Seo Junho was found unconscious at a private hotel in Seoul on Monday and died in the hospital. Police are treating his death as suicide.

The news comes two days after the reported vandalism of a merchandise store belonging to Junho on Garuso-gil. Three suspects were identified by the police, who did not disclose any identities but confirmed rumors that the perpetrators were over-obsessive fans, commonly known as saesangs.

There is no indication as to what Seo had been burdened by, but recent events concerning the notorious Junho-Jihoon rivalry strongly suggest that being a celebrity added to the pressure.

The South Korean entertainment industry fosters a cut-throat work environment in which every colleague is a competitor and only the strongest survive. The public sets high standards of behavior and physical appearance, and uses social media to pass instant judgment.

In response to the news, #JIHOONISOVERPARTY was the #2 worldwide trending tag on Twitter, denouncing what had become the international-acclaimed career of Ryu Jihoon. The star has come under intense fire and has not yet made a statement.

Though the reasons for Seo's decision are not clear, the loss of one of the industry's most popular acts reveals some of the dark underbelly beneath the entertainment industry's gorgeous façade.

___

PRESENT DAY

EOMMA WINCES AND spews criticism in satoori on Seungho's video chat.

"Wah, so that's how you're living," she marvels. "Look at the amount of trash in your living room...soju bottles?That's dangerous for the carpet, you know that, right? Oh, did you try the new detergent brand I texted you about?"

"Eoh." The bottles clink in my grip as I toss them out hastily. "I bought it last week. I sent you a picture, remember?"

"Eoh, really?" She cranes her neck as if it will help her see better. "Where's Seungho?"

"Doing his laundry!" he shouts from the other room.

My mother shifts with surprise in front of the camera. "He heard me."

"Eomma, you're yelling," I tell her flatly.

She blinks, offended. "No, I'm not."

"You're raising your voice," I correct myself.

She just shoots me a stubborn look.

It's Sunday morning. Sunlight pours through the patio and the kitchen window, flooding our apartment in daylight and, unfortunately, highlighting the mess of video game controllers and fried chicken boxes strewn across our living room. Seungho's iPad is perched on the island counter, calling through to eomma, who's squatting outside our Busan house picking through soybean sprouts.

I haven't visited Busan since Christmas time, which was nearly a year ago. While most families seek out remodels to bump up the value of their house or even rearrange furniture, eomma has done neither, allowing my house to sit as it did over twenty years ago. Only the television has upgraded...to a clunky silver-rimmed one from the early 2000s. The same lace-edged tablecloth is sprawled across our low eating table, the jars still hold the same yellow wildflowers, and the linoleum floor kitchen is still lined with the same array of pink, green, and blue plastic bowls. I remember eomma would always have big fluffy piles of fresh-picked chives lying there, ready to be chopped and tossed with some gochujang and sesame oil.

Today, eomma is wearing a pastel-pink sweater as she picks the yellowed parts off kongnamul. The sun over there makes it look like there's a bronze halo around her dark hair, which she's pulled back into a tangled knot at the base of her neck. She dyes her hair once a month to keep her graying hairs hidden. Even now, despite the dark circles ringing her eyes, the crow's feet, and the slow sag of her cheeks, she looks like a woman in her forties. Her heart-shaped face mirrors mine, those almond eyes turned upwards, lashes thick and low as she squints at us with scrutiny.

Often, I find myself admiring her beauty. It's a kind of quiet, strong beauty that takes the right eyes to see. Like the beauty of thunderclouds. I've always hoped that if I inherited anything other than her temper, it was her beauty.

Seungho's gray laundry basket rattles against the floor as Seungho joins me at the counter. "Eomma," he begins, "you should know I strategically scheduled by laundry time so that I would do it during this call. Proof I do my laundry."

I roll my eyes. My mother wrinkles her nose in disgust. "But you still dress like you haven't washed your clothes in two years, don't you."

"I dress perfectly fine," Seungho protests. "I bought new shoes yesterday."

"With what money?" she snaps, then considers him pitifully. "Tell me who the hell is looking at your shoes when they talk to you."

I rub my brow with a wince. "Eomma, please..."

"Well," begins Seungho adamantly, "I will tell you this girl has been eyeing me in lecture and all she can do is look at my shoes when I ask her a question."

"Then don't ask her questions," shoots back eomma. "That's a sign that you should be paying attention."

"No, like, I'm asking her a question about her, because I'm nice like that, but she just—"

"Aigoo, you know how much your tuition costs and you're still spending your class time flirting with a poor young lady—"

"I'm not flirting, I'm just..."

I zone out as they go on. Seungho barely woke up twenty minutes ago and scrambled for his hamper when his tablet started ringing. Oh, fuck, Nari, I forgot. He's wearing gray tracksuit with poorly patted-down hair, like a seven-year-old that just hobbled out of bed to make his earliest class. I sigh.

"What about Minseok?" The subject shifts, and so does eomma's tone. Sweet Minseok. "How's he doing? I'm thinking of coming next week. Oh, look—" The camera rattles as she walks into the house. A bag rustles. "Remember Yeongsoo-ssi? Well I got these lovely cakes I can't eat anymore because of my blood pressure, so I thought I would bring them up...you think Minseok will like them?"

"Don't mention him," says Seungho absently, rubbing his eyes.

She pauses. "Why not?"

Oh, no. I stiffen, unable to bear her face when she finds out her golden prospect of a son-in-law no longer has a place in our family's future.

Beside me, Seungho leans forward. "You won't believe it, he and Nari—"

I jab his shoulder.

"Ow—"

"Eomma," I interrupt, squinting my eyes, "are you coming up to visit us or him?"

"Why? Did you two fight?" She shoots me a dark look as she squats back outside the house. The lighting looks harsh now, not quite so forgiving. "Aish, why won't you just treat him like a man when he's already so busy? He'll be earning more than you once he finishes his training, you know, and you know how much I don't like seeing Eunmi living all nicely in Jeju because Jihoon was such a hotshot—"

"Yah," I exclaim, unable to help myself. "Can we not make this about Jihoon's family?"

She tilts her head as she goes on with the kongnamul. "I'm just saying," she answers simply. Then she turns her eyes on me. "Forget it. I'll drop it for now. I'm coming up to Seoul for you two, not Minseok, alright?"

"Oh, yeah," mutters Seungho with a roll of his eyes, turning away to pop open the fridge. I roll my lips in, wondering how to break the news to her in person.

The chances of her reacting well are not high. Must be my bad luck, because Eomma's visits always stir drama.

___

THE NEXT FEW days are unusually quiet.

Minseok doesn't call as he said he would, which only makes me more anxious. I keep telling myself that this is a good thing, that radio silence is exactly what I want and need, but with each day I don't see him, the louder my questions roar in my head. How could you show up to my place like that? Why didn't you just tell me if my job bothered you? Or was your ego too fragile for that? Hm?

Oh, God. Maybe what I really want is for him to reach out so that I can curse him out again.

Work has been keeping me late nearly every night, though, which means less time to drink and less time to think. Both of which are good. At least for now. I don't think I can handle thinking after what happened when I was with Jihoon, a hiccuping mess under his gentle stare.

On Wednesday, I'm trying to render a mock of Seolhee's newest costume design when a call comes. I don't glance at it before answering—it goes directly to my earbuds.

"Eoh, this is Yoo Nari."

"Hey, Yoo Nari," teases a gentle voice. "Do you have some free time?"

I blink, leaning away from my desk. Blue spots appear in my vision. When did my office get so dark?

"Jihoon?"

"Eoh, it's me," he says with amusement. "Did you not look at the caller ID, or did you already lose my number?"

I smile. "Sorry. Didn't look." A progress bar pops up as the image renders. "I was in the zone."

"Have you eaten?"

"Hm? No. What time is it?" I narrow my eyes at the time on my monitor, then pause. It's past nine already?

"Almost ten," he answers.

"Have you eaten?" I ask.

His laughter sounds strained. "No. I just got off at Dal.komm. Junhee's the one who told me."

I squint my eyes. "Told you what?"

"Well, I called him to grab food, but he already ate. He said to ask you because you were cooped up in your office all day." There's a rustle on the other end, then a soft beep. "Was he right?"

I sigh, then drag both hands over my face. "Yeah." It sounds muffled—I don't even know if he can hear me. "Fuck. I've been trying to render this thing for the longest time. It's taking fucking forever. And then I was going to look over a few storyboards, email Kaede, and then prep for this meeting next morning—"

"Nari—"

"Yah, why does time go by so fast when you have to do something?" My eyes widen defensively. "Is this fair?"

He laughs. "It's going by fast because you're moving too fast. Take a break."

"I can't. If I take a break I'll be up until six."

His voice is a stubborn murmur. "It sounds like you're going to be up until six anyway." Then, louder: "I'm going out for jjajangmyeon. You're still crazy about that, right? Do you want the extra danmuji?"

"You don't have to come up. Don't come up. Go to bed." I groan. "You're gonna distract me."

"Say that to the food. I'm getting Kang Ho Dong."

"No. Stop."

I hear him smile. "See you soon." Before I can protest, the line clicks off. 

___

I FIND HIM poking curiously around the floor's lobby, dressed in burnt umber, a hefty plastic bag with dark stains in one hand. Kang Ho Dong Noodle, reads the bag, bearing the cartoon of a round-faced man with his mouth open in a surprised O.

At the sight of me, Jihoon raises the bag with an expectant raise of his brows. Even from behind the glass doors separating him from the office space, I can smell the mouth-watering scent of thick black bean sauce. It's enough to get my stomach growling. Oh, God. There's no way I'm going to work after this.

A defeated smile curls my lips as I slide my keycard along the side panel. "You shouldn't have."

He slips through the doors with a quirk of his brow. "Extra danmuji. And a few beers."

I laugh as our footsteps echo in the dark. "I can't be prepping a meeting buzzed."

"They're beers, Nari. Not shots of whiskey." He pauses, considering me. "But that's probably a bad thing for you—"

More laughter. "Fuck off—"

"Ow. I swear, Nari, your shoulder is as sharp as—"

"I know. We've been over this."

"Yeah, unfortunately."

We step into my office—It's separated from the other cubicles in a large, sparsely furnished room backed by a glass wall. The only light in here is a flimsy beam from my desk lamp and the blaring ultraviolet of my monitors, still finishing up a rendering process before they can sleep. Through the glass, Gangnam unfurls like a living, breathing thing, a tangle of fiery traffic and glowing night life. Jihoon's eyes glimmer with color as we pause at the table in front of my desk.

Plastic rustles. We unload four containers—two with sauce, the other two with noodles—and then...

I peek inside, eyes bugging out of my head. "Holy shit."

Jihoon laughs. It's more of a quiet chuckle as I dig past napkins to unearth a massive container of golden yellow radish.

"Jihoon-ah." I look with defeat to him. "This is overkill."

"What?" He glances at me as he breaks chopsticks. "You said you wanted extra."

"Yeah. An extra container."

He laughs in a way that tells me he knows what I'm talking about. "That is an extra container."

"No, I meant the small ones. You know. I mean, fuck. This thing is enormous."

"So save it." He smiles as he mixes noodles with sauce. "It'll last you a while," he adds, then nods at the papers spilling across my desk. "You can eat it with lunch or dinner. Or if you can't make time for a break, at least munch on it. You have a fridge in the lounge, right? Just keep something running in your system."

"Jihoon..."

He stabs the second pair of chopsticks in my bowl. Ready. "Nari."

I sigh and give up. The lamplight warms his skin in a really comforting way. With the view of Gangnam spilling behind us, this feels like Busan, when I leapt up the stairs after eomma dozed off with a pot of late-night cheese ramen. Back then, it was Jihoon who joined wearily after working himself to the bone dancing, preparing himself for the day he would leave. I wonder how different the boy in dark sweat-soaked sweats is from the young man in the oversized coat in front of me.

I shake my head and pull up swivels for us. "Why were you at Dal.komm so late?"

"They're opening a new store in Yongsan-gu," he says, sliding me my bowl. "I'm doing some marketing designs for them, which isn't bad, but they wanted some last-minute content ready to go by tomorrow morning. To send to print."

"Design, huh?"

He doesn't answer. We just sit there, the bowls between us, waiting for him to find his words. By the way he's staring at his food, I can tell something is weighing on him. His lashes are thick over heavy eyes, his brows furrowed, so unlike the dreamy look he had when we were young, when the thought of moving to Seoul and performing had him on cloud nine.

"I don't know, Nari." He tilts his head and takes up his chopsticks. "I'm grateful, but..." He shakes his head and frowns at me. "I don't know. I mean, for you, this is it, right? This is where you want to be."

"What do you mean?"

"You're passionate about this. About that." He's smiling as he nods at my monitors, but it doesn't touch his eyes. I'm starting to wonder how often the expression is real. "Right? Like, this is the path you're meant to be on."

"Eoh." I nod. His gaze holds mine intently, as if each word that leaves my mouth matters. For some reason, all I can think about is how weird this is, because it's so familiar. We've been in this same place, in this same setting, questioning what we want. What was it Junhee said during his interview? "You feel like your path isn't at Dal.komm. Right?"

Jihoon laughs. It's a breathless sound. "I know it's not. But there's nothing I can do about it. So I don't know if it's just me. Maybe I'm just bad at adjusting or accepting that this is how things are now."

He doesn't have to add more for me to understand. This is how things are after Junho.

I still don't know what happened between him and Junho. As far as I know, he never released a public statement about Junho's death, and the public shamed him into oblivion until they were satisfied with his disappearance. He turns away, and suddenly that year—this past year—is all I want to know about. Are you okay? Did you heal? Did you speak to his family?

We eat in silence for a while, letting our thoughts run. He scratches his nose and frowns into space, his eyes soft and troubled. I don't know why the sight bothers me so much.

"Jihoon," I begin curiously.

His voice is quiet, and his eyes meet mine belatedly. "Hm?"

"What was it like? Your year off. In Jeju."

He pauses. Then the corners of his eyes crinkle up in a slow smile. "It was nice."

"Yeah?"

"Eoh. It was really nice. Being with eomma. Living quietly." But there's no trace of happiness in his eyes. Only sadness. "I woke up to sunlight all over my room every morning. Birds chirping, the sea nearby. Everything had this glow. And the flowers, too. My mom grew pots of these bright yellow ones. With small petals and strong stems. They were sweet smelling. Kind of reminded me of you."

"Because I'm sweet?"

"No."

I roll my eyes.

"They were strong," he answers instead. "I saw them perking up in the wind every morning before I crossed the street to my mom's sik dang. It's a small restaurant, all furnished in wood that's light-colored. You know that nice shade when milk turns coffee really light? Like that...and then me and eomma would just sit at the table by the cash register and have seolleongtang with soft rice." A smile softens his face as he studies me. "It's her favorite. It would've been your favorite. If you were there."

It's difficult to breathe. The silence is so thoughtful, so intimate I'm scared I'll disturb it. I see a layer peeling away from him, this wall carefully lowering for me. The years that raised us have been hard. I know loss like the back of my hand. And I hear it in Jihoon's voice, too, woven deeply into his words.

"I don't know, Nari," he sighs, tilting his head. "I was happy...but I wasn't. I lost something after what happened."

Silence falls. Jihoon has sunken deep into the past, just as I do when my mind drifts to Minseok. To all the what-ifs. Jihoon's lashes flutter as he glances away, as if it's difficult for him to hold himself together.

Something tells me his wounds drive much deeper than just the loss of his career. Than the guilt of being Seo Junho's rival. Something tells me there is more. There's another side I don't know, a side that torments him. Time changes people, a voice whispers.

Some part of me wishes to comfort him the way he did for me yesterday. "Jihoon."

"We should clean up." His voice is gentle. But his eyes don't meet mine. "It's getting late."

I don't push. He rises to gather the trash before I have a chance to reply. Maybe it's my imagination, but I feel as if the shadows are thicker around his face, highlighting this thinness I haven't seen before. Maybe in another world, in another time, I might have smoothed my fingers over the creases and urged him to sleep better.

But today, I remain quiet. Things are different now, after all.  

___

ON THE MONITORS, the renders finish. Jihoon waits for me as I fire off a final email and gather a few papers. Everything else I push tomorrow—I was planning to come in early, anyway. By the time I'm able to switch off the desk lamp, it's midnight.

I expect the building to be empty. But when we step out an elevator to the ground floor lobby, a harsh voice interrupt the silence. No, two voices—one of them a smooth, low voice that carries the thickness of age. He speaks softly but harshly to a security guard.

"...asked you a simple question. Or should I call your boss? You tell me."

"But it's after hours—I mean, I can..."

Jihoon tenses. Fear flashes across his eyes.

I stare dumbly at him. "What's—"

Before I can finish, he tugs me through a nearby door into the stairway.

Now I'm alarmed. He presses his hands against the door and peers out the window, where a faint shaft of light illuminates the dark.

"What?" I whisper. I crane my neck to get a look, but he tugs me away from the door before I can. "What?" I whisper louder. "Why are we hiding?"

Footsteps approach. I catch a pair of figures approaching the elevators, but Jihoon moves in front of me, hiding me in shadow as he watches. "Uh," he begins lamely, meeting my eyes. "They don't really like me."

"What the hell," I murmur with a laugh, staring up at him. "Are we in a spy movie? It's okay. It's not like we're going to talk to them."

"No, Nari, they really don't like me—"

"It's okay." I wiggle my brows. "I'm a second degree black belt."

He smiles with a roll of his eyes, but it fades into fear just as quickly. "Shh."

We listen from the darkness. Perfectly still.

"...just security," echoes a young voice. "I stand out there—I don't know any names. Just faces."

"Then pay more attention," snaps the aged voice, dripping with criticism. "I would expect the security here to have some sense. Your staff are already dealing with the move of the new doctor's office quite poorly."

"Well that's—I mean—" The guard laughs nervously. "I'm not really in the position to understand—"

"Do employees need a key up?"

"...What?"

Their footsteps pause at the elevators, profiles clear as day through the door's window. Jihoon draws closer to me

"A key to the elevators, a key," the man repeats, exasperated. "Or is it free access?"

"No."

"No what?"

"No key is needed," he finishes hastily. "I—"

"Where's Dal.komm?"

My heart stops.

"Uh..." The guard's voice lowers. "I believe that would be floor fourteen."

The man doesn't answer. He must have pressed the elevator button, waiting. I look to Jihoon. He appears calm, but I can tell from his eyes that he's genuinely afraid.

In the distance, a soft bing sounds. Elevator doors slide open.

The security guard's feet shuffle as the aged man clears his throat. I imagine him tugging the lapel of his suit with stony, sharp-edged focus. "If anyone finds out I was here—"

"I understand," interrupts the guard, then laughs with a nervous calm. "Don't worry."

A beat passes. "Give me your keys."

"Wh-Wha-What?"

"The master keycard," he snaps. "If I'm going to the office, I need keycard access into it, don't I?"

"Ah, yes. Here..."

A jangle of keys. The man releases another annoyed breath through the nose. Then the elevator doors close, and silence reigns in the lobby as the elevator soars upward.

The security guard kicks the doors with a thump. "Son of a bitch..." He shudders and shuffles away.

A beat of silence passes. Finally, Jihoon pulls away, his eyes finding mine in the dark. He looks as if he's about to say something, but he decides against it, instead of guiding us out of the stairway.

The marble floors are empty. The security guard must have retired to his spot by the entrance, unseen from where we stand. An eerie blue glow from the night lights underlines the quiet fear etched in Jihoon's skin.

"Jihoon," I whisper.

His eyes wander to the climbing number on the leftmost elevator. Seven. Eight. Nine.

"Jihoon," I push. My voice feels too loud—I lower it to a whisper. "Jihoon-ah. What's wrong?"

He surges to the elevator button so quick his coat billows. Doors to the second elevator slide open for him immediately. I stare, dumbfounded, as he sends a glance my way. "I'll be back."

"But—"

The doors slide shut.

I frown as his numbers climb. Two. Three. Four. "What the hell..."

Who was that man? And why is Jihoon so concerned about him—hiding in the stairway, only to rush into an elevator after him? I consider going up to see what's going on, but that's probably a bad idea, isn't it? If anything, the man could be Jihoon's boss, taking care of urgent work business, maybe something even confidential. But then—

They really don't like me.

I have to laugh. There were plenty of people in Busan who disliked Jihoon—he was that kid who strode into class late, eyes low, and parked himself at the furthest seat, only to get called up for zoning out...and then, to make it worse, brooded his way into holding his hands up for punishment. It can't be that bad, can it?

With a reluctant glance at the elevators, I leave the building and wait outside, hands stuffed deep in my coat pockets.

Outside the office building, a wide cobblestone expanse guarded by thin trees rolls out onto the sidewalk. Our street is lined with cafés and chimaek places all squashed beneath other office complexes. The city glows with color as taxis rush past, no doubt tracing familiar routes from quiet neighborhoods to vibrant nightlife.

The stench of car exhaust tickles my nose. My eyes wander to the curb, where a black Maserati sprawls.

Maserati?

I cross the cobblestone clearing to get a better look. Sure enough, the car's gleaming ebony pelt shimmers in the reds and greens of traffic, its engine rumbling, dormant. I make out the faint silhouette of a suited man in the driver's red leather seat. Waiting.

A shiver dances down my spine. My mouth forms a familiar name. "Seo Jaeseok?"

"Yes?"

I jump.

As if I summoned him out of thin air, Seo Jaeseok approaches from my office building, dressed in a deep blue suit with an expensive tie tucked neatly into a matching waistcoat. Light fills the crow's feet wrinkles etched beside his eyes—the ghost of a smile rarely used. I realize new things, too. The thin frame of his glasses. The wink of his watch, so alike his son. The unforgiving set of his mouth and the harshness of his brows.

When he sees my surprise, though, recognition softens his features. He's holding papers in his hand, and now he slips them smoothly into the inner pocket of his suit.

I have a flash of us meeting years ago. Back then, I was a fresh college graduate, eager to try my luck at an array of promising companies. I had just signed the lease for the apartment where I live now, Seungho was about to receive his diploma back in Busan, and Minseok was moving into graduate school housing with a couple roommates—a year before he accepted his dad's money for a posh new one.

"Ah," he begins approvingly, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Yoo Nari."

I dip my head and smile. "Eoh, how are you?"

"Doing as well as I can," he answers, studying me. "Working late?"

"As always." I glance at the office building. Nearly all its glass walls are dark. "But what are you doing here?"

His gaze follows mine nonchalantly. "Running a few checks. I'm here on behalf of my son. His training program sent him here to complete hours at the relocated office."

My heart stops. I blink, then lean forward. "What?"

"He didn't tell you? Minseok will be on the twelfth floor beginning next week. In fact, he and his peers will be touring the office space tomorrow afternoon."

The world tilts. You have to be kidding me. "Ah." A nervous laugh leaves me. I level Jaeseok a relieved gaze, as if I've remembered something. "He did mention it. I guess I forgot it was happening so soon."

Did this happen after we broke things off? Did he already know he was moving to my office? Even worse...was this intentional? The questions seem to bother me more than I think, because Jaeseok pauses, reading conflict.

The concern in his voice seems warm. "Is this is a problem?"

My gaze flies to him. "Oh, not at all. Actually, we talked about this." My lips tilt into a smile. "It's just been a long day."

He nods as if turning over the words in my head. Does he know we broke things off? Minseok was never close with his dad—always spoke of him like the connection was a weight on his shoulders he'd rather not think about. I doubt he expresses his relationship concerns with him.

"Well," says Jaeseok quietly, considering me with a faint smile in his eyes. "Goodnight."

My head dips. "Goodnight."

I watch as he follows the path down to the sidewalk. The driver looks up abruptly as Jaeseok approaches, waves a hand, and prompts the same young man from that day at SNU to open the back door for him. Jaeseok disappears into the shadows. Then the headlights flash, and the Maserati melts into distant traffic.

My mind spins. Was Seo Jaeseok the snippy man who demanded the keys into the Dal.komm office? And was Jihoon chasing after him? But why? It makes no sense...and Jaeseok is a district attorney, a man with strong connections that hardly needs to snoop around corporate of a coffee shop chain in the middle of the night.

"Nari!"

I look up, distracted, as Jihoon jogs to a stop in front of me, gathering his breath. He looks out of sync, his coat billowing around him, his hair out of place as it falls into frazzled eyes.

"Hey. Sorry." His gaze searches my face. "You okay?"

I study him, unable to shake growing dread. "Do you know Seo Jaeseok?"

"Who?"

"Seo Jaeseok. The man that was just here. Didn't you run up to find him?"

Jihoon's eyes hold mine for a second. Then he sighs and runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the ends a little. "Can we not talk about this?"

"He's Minseok's dad." I can't tear my gaze away as he looks up, an oh-no type of look falling over his face. "We talked earlier. He came out saying he was here to check his son's new office on the twelfth floor." My heart pounds. "Please tell me you running up and him showing up here aren't related."

"Your ex is working in this building now?"

"Yes. Maybe. I don't know." This can't be happening. "Can you tell me why I had to hide in a stairway like I did something wrong?"

"It's complicated," says Jihoon, breathless. "I'm sorry for running off. But it doesn't involve you, so I don't want to get you twisted up in all of it, okay?"

"Twisted up? Are you in danger?"

"What? No. I'm fine."

"Sure you are."

"Nari." His eyes turn gentle as he draws closer. "I'm okay," he insists, and then he smiles, as if he knows the sight will calm my heart. "Everything is fine. It's late, which is probably why you're freaking out. Okay? I promise."

I pull in a stubborn breath, gaze narrowing. His smile softens.

"Come on," he says with a nudge. "Let's go home."