Page 21 of Tell Me Where It Ends

“Why awkward? Unless…” I stop, pieces clicking into place with a little snap. “Unless it’s someone we work with.”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

Why do I care?The question is sharp and unwelcome. But my stomach does this slow, sinking thing that feels an awful lot like disappointment.

I force a laugh, brittle and fake even to my own ears. “Fine. Keep your little office romance secret.”

He smiles faintly and turns to make tea, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on my entire morning. I watch the back of his head, trying to ignore the strange heat behind my eyes. Nothing to see here. I’m just tired. Overly emotional. A perfectly rational, non-jealous explanation.

I take the mug he offers without looking and sip. Too hot. I pretend it doesn’t burn.

7a

Normal for a Night

For the next few days, the world shrinks to the size of my apartment.

No news comes from the police, no reporters hover at the door. Just quiet.

And even though I’m technically on house arrest, I don’t mind. Not with Shin there—playing house like it’s his new full-time job.

A weird, dangerous thought slips into my head while I pretend to read. I picture us a couple of years from now, bickering over the TV remote—and it’s… cute.

Then my brain slams on the brakes. Me? And Shin? He’s my manager. This is wildly inappropriate. Professional-deity-of-your-choice inappropriate. Still, the thought lingers.

I glanceover and find him glaring at his phone like it personally insulted him. He leans against the counter in joggers and a faded college hoodie, brow furrowed.

“You’re not calling Bora,” I say, not looking up from my book.

His head jerks up. “I wasn’t—”

I raise an eyebrow.

“…Okay, maybe I was considering it.”

“You’re going to ask my stylist to babysit me for the weekend?”

“She’s also your friend,” he counters.

“Shin.”

He lets out a long, weary sigh. “It’s not about babysitting. It’s about you not being alone. You’re under investigation, there are reporters lurking downstairs, and you’re barely eating.”

“I ate the soup you fed me.”

“That was once.”

“Three times.”

“Fine,” I say, snapping my book shut. “I’m okay now. Really.”

He looks unconvinced. I can practically see the memory flicker in his eyes: me, the bathroom, the pills.

He needs to go home that weekend for his sister’s birthday in Yangsan—and he’s terrified to leave me alone. The logic clicks. He can’t leave because of me.

And I’m going stir-crazy being stuck in here.

There’s one, incredibly reckless solution.