Page 27 of Tell Me Where It Ends

And that is what breaks me. I blink, my throat tightening as an unexpected tear slips free. He is just… there. Watching, really seeing me—the kid behind the polished celebrity—and not looking away.

His voice softens, low and careful. “Do you remember that night after theBaeksang Awards? The year you lost forCity of Tides?”

The memory hits me like a punch. Of course I remember. I nod slowly, unsure why he is bringing up one of my most public disappointments now.

“How you had to sit there with that perfect smile,” he goes on, his eyes locked on mine, “while the rest of the cast went up to accept their awards, one by one?”

“You were silent in the car on the way home,” he says. “Just staring out the window, trying so hard not to let a single tear fall. Everyone else on the team saw the actress who lost. All I could see was someone trying so hard not to break in front of anyone. That was the night I knew… I’d do anything to keep you from ever feeling that alone again.”

I give a small, uneven laugh, half from sadness, half from the absurd closeness of him seeing me like this.

“You notice everything, don’t you?”

He smirks but doesn’t let go of my hand. “Someone’s got to.”

Slowly, he pulls me in until my head rests on his chest. It feels like coming home to a place I’ve never been before.

“You’re not alone now, Min-hee,” he murmurs into my hair, his voice thick with something I can’t name. “You don’t have to carry it all by yourself anymore. Let me help.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. I just nod against his shirt, letting fifteen years of held-back tears slip free, crying quietly for the little girl who thought everything was her fault.

He holds me, one hand moving in a slow, steady rhythm over my back, until the storm inside me finally quiets.

“Rest now,” he says, a quiet smile in his tone as he holds me steady.

I do. Eventually. Held safely in his arms, I drift off feeling more seen than I ever have in my life… and wondering what the hell I am getting myself into.

8a

Something Worth Waiting For

We get back to Seoul late Sunday night, and my apartment smells less like me and more like Shin’s mom’s cooking.

Not an exaggeration. She has sent us home with what can only be called a strategic, food-based invasion:japchaein industrial-sized containers, two giant jars ofkimchi(one fresh, one aged), grilled mackerel wrapped in foil, a dozen vegetable side dishes, and a mountain of rice cakes.

Shin, apparently part-superhero, carries the three heaviest bags like they are filled with air. I stagger behind him with the one lighter bag, which already feels like a dead weight.

“This is an intervention,” I mutter, hauling it onto the counter. “Your mother has staged a malnutrition intervention.”

“You’re welcome,” he says flatly, kicking the door shut behind him.

“It’s not a complaint! It’s just… a lot.” I start unpacking, overwhelmed. “She either thinks I’m on the brink of starvation or she’s trying to bribe me into marrying you withkimchi.”

A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays a grin. “It’s the second one.”

I pointedly ignore the stupid little flip in my stomach.

We spend the next ten minutes playing a high-stakes game of refrigerator Tetris, cramming Tupperware into every possible space. The satisfying thunk of containers fitting perfectly is followed by the audible groan of the shelves. When we finally manage to shut the door, we step back to admire our work.

“Your fridge is going to explode,” Shin says, genuinely concerned.

“Then I’ll die happy,” I say, grinning.

I look from the ridiculously overstuffed fridge to him standing there, small, tired smile on his face,and it hits me: this is the first time this apartment has ever really felt like a home.

***

The coffee is still steaming on the table when my phone starts ringing.