Page 17 of Tell Me Where It Ends

My heart does a confused little stumble in my chest. Slowly, carefully, he eases us both down onto the sofa until his chest is a warm, solid presence against my back, anchoring me.

I close my eyes. The panic in my chest finally begins to ebb, replaced by a profound sense of calm that feels entirely, dangerously unprofessional.

“Shin…” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

He just tightens his hold, a soft, sleepy hum in response. I let myself lean fully into him, the tension bleeding out of my muscles for the first time in days.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. “You don’t need the pills tonight.”

His voice is gentle, but tonight it carries something else—something personal. Not the manager who handles my schedule and PR, but the man who remembers I like my chips a little stale and always sleep with socks on. The one who sees everything I think I hide.

His breathing is a low, even rhythm against my back, a steady metronome. My own frantic heartbeat begins to slow, matching his. My thoughts, which were screaming a minute ago, are now just a dull murmur. The freefall stops.

And just before I drift off, a single, clear thought surfaces:Oh. So, this is what safe feels like.

***

I’m not surehow long I sleep—maybe an hour, maybe two—but I jolt awake with a gasp, my heart pounding.

For a split second, I don’t know where I am. Then it all comes rushing back. The sofa. The weight of an arm around me.Shin.

He’s already up, dressed, and moving quietly around the kitchen.

My brain boots up, and the first file to load is a memory. Me. Shin.Cuddling.

Oh god.

We have cuddled all night. With my manager.My manager.I have a sneaking suspicion that this exact situation belongs in a manual titledThings You Definitely Shouldn’t Do at 4 a.m. A wave of panic starts to rise, but strangely, a deeper part of me feels… calm.

There are bigger monsters to fight today.

“Morning,” he says. His voice is even, but the exhaustion beneath it is impossible to miss. He sets down a plate of toast and a mug. The rich scent of coffee slices clean through my anxiety.

“Eat something,” he adds, sounding perfectly normal—like nothing happened last night.

I eat in silence, my mind a frantic teleprompter scrolling through approved answers for the police.‘I was at a private gathering.’ ‘I don’t recall the details clearly.’Each one sounds flimsier than the last.

When I come out of the bathroom, Shin is in full manager mode, checking his watch and running me through the plan one last time.

The city is just waking up as we leave, the sky a soft, bruised purple. In the car, Shin drives in focused silence.

“Don’t overthink it,” he says eventually, as if he can hear the frantic monologue in my head. “Just tell the truth. It’s enough.”

I nod, even though my stomach feels like it’s trying to tie itself into a bowline knot.

The moment our car slows near the station, chaos erupts—a supernova of camera flashes against the windows. Shouts hit the glass—my name, questions, accusations.

How do they always know? Is there a Bat-Signal for celebrity misery?

Our agency’s legal counsel, Mr. Roh, waits at the curb, his face a calm, unreadable mask.

“You ready?” Shin asks.

I nod again with a long sigh. Shin nods back and opens his door, then mine.

“I’m sorry for the concern I’ve caused,” I say to the ocean of reporters, bowing quickly as rehearsed. “I will cooperate fully with the investigation.”

My voice is steady, but my heart is a war drum against my ribs. I start walking, head held high, into the storm.