Page 15 of Tell Me Where It Ends

“I think I should go back to my place,” I tell Suho.

He just nods, hands gripping the steering wheel. The drive is quiet—too quiet. I can practically hear every unsaid thing bouncing around the car like a trapped fly.

When we pull into the same old parking ground, he finally looks at me. There’s something almost… pitying in his eyes.

I hate that.

“Min-hee,” he starts carefully. “Look, I know we have history. Complicated, messy, slightly career-ending history. But if you ever need me—need anyone, actually—I’m—”

“Goodbye, Suho.”

I open the door before he can finish, because if I stay one second longer, I might say something stupid. Again.

The click of the lock echoes through my apartment when I get back, loud enough to make my guilt echo right along with it.

My phone lights up immediately—eight missed calls, eleven unread messages. All from Shin.

Fantastic.

My manager-slash-roommate-slash-accidentallife-coach is probably one espresso away from a heart attack.

When I walk into the living room, Shin is exactly where I expect him—phone in hand, shoulders tense, jaw tight.

Not the calm, steady Shin I rely on, but something harsher. Rougher. The kind of serious that makes my pulse trip over itself.

His hair is slightly mussed, his hoodie wrinkled, and he looks like someone who’s been pacing for hours before deciding to sit down purely to interrogate me more effectively.

“Where were you?” His tone is low—steady, but definitely Manager Mode. “You turned your phone off.”

I freeze halfway through taking off my shoes. “I, uh… needed some air.”

“Air,” he repeats, as if the word personally offends him. “You could’ve texted.”

Okay, fair. But also: I’m emotionally compromised and dramatic by nature, so—

“I didn’t think it would take long,” I mutter.

He exhales, long and tired, rubbing his forehead like he’s mentally drafting the world’s longest resignation letter. “Min-hee, next time you need ‘air,’ maybe try opening a window.”

Despite everything, I almost laugh.

Instead, I mumble, “Sorry.”

The tension between us softens—just a little. He stands, hesitates for a beat, then steps closer and rests a hand on my shoulder. The gesture is quick, awkward, but sincere—like he’s making sure I haven’t evaporated.

“Don’t do that again,” he says quietly.

His anger isn’t loud; it simmers, a quiet, intense heat that radiates across the room. I stand frozen, watching the hard set of his shoulders, the way hisgaze holds mine with something almost… magnetic. It’s confusing.

Somehow, it draws me in.

“I really know how to make things complicated,” I admit, eyes dropping to the floor.

He just sighs, his eyes still holding that familiar mix of worry and exasperation. “You’re kind of terrible for my sanity, you know that?”

He holds my gaze a moment longer than usual, and a faint, relieved smile touches his lips. Then, without another word, he turns and heads for the sofa, starting to prepare his bed for the night.

I watch him go, my heart thudding against my ribs, wondering what, exactly, has just shifted between us.