Page 24 of Tell Me Where It Ends

“Can we see your room now?”

He blinks. “My room?”

“What are you hiding upstairs, Kang Shin?” I tease.

He rolls his eyes and heads toward the staircase. “Prepare to be underwhelmed.”

The top floor is quieter, the ceiling slants gently under the roof. A single door at the end stands slightly ajar, and Shin nudges it open with his foot.

I step in behind him, biting back a grin.

It’s… adorable.

Comic books are stacked neatly on a shelf—Slam Dunk, of course. Posters of vintage Lakers players line one wall. In the corner, a mini hoop perches over a laundry basket.

A few Taekwondo medals hang beside a cracked desk lamp, next to a photo of him as a teenager, grinning in hisdobok, front teeth still a little crooked.

A dusty shelf holds tiny plastic figurines and keychains from a convenience store capsule machine. His bed is simple and tidy, draped in a soft gray duvet, with a stack of books beside it—half thrillers, half sports biographies.

“This is cute,” I say, unable to resist.

He groans from the doorway. “Please don’t call my room cute.”

“But it is,” I say, wandering over to the comic shelf. “You were such a nerd.”

“Still am,” he says with zero shame. “Some of those are first editions. Handle with reverence.”

I grin at him. “Okay, I’ve seen everything I need to see here… for now. So… where’s my room?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “About that. There’s no guest room.”

I blink. “Oh.”

“You’ll sleep here,” he says, nodding at his bed. “I’ll take the living room floor.”

“The floor?” I protest. “You’ve been on my couch for a week. Your spine must hate you.”

He shrugs. “You need the privacy more than I do.”

The air shifts—heavy, awkward. I’ve got my teasing loaded and ready.

“So what’s under the bed? Love letters? Pokémon cards? Some deep, dark shame you forgot to hide?”

He smirks. “Only dust. And probably a monster. Enter at your own risk.”

I laugh, letting myself sink onto the edge of his bed. It’s soft, comfortable, and smells faintly of pine and laundry detergent.

Of Shin.

I jump up too quickly. He watches me, his gaze lingering a second too long, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

Then he gives a barely perceptible shake of his head, as if trying to dislodge a thought that has no business being there. He clears his throat, hisprofessional manager mask snapping back into place.

“Dinner’s in a few hours. Min-a’s birthday.”

I smile. “I’m looking forward to it.”

The afternoon passes in a series of quiet, domestic moments that feel like scenes from a movie I’ll never be cast in.