Page 29 of Tell Me Where It Ends
I swipe it open, my eyes still blurry.
The subject line hits like a clinical, terrifying punch to the gut:
From: Seoul Metropolitan Police Department
Subject: Final Toxicology Results
I bolt upright, suddenly wide awake. My hand hovers over the screen, shaking. What if, after all this, something went wrong? What if the universe had one last cruel joke to play? But my thumb betrays me, tapping the screen open anyway.
My eyes fly across the screen, but I don’t read it. Not really. I jump past the wall of dense, bureaucratic text—the case number, the formal address, all the official jargon—my brain hunting for the only thing that matters. And then, at the very bottom, I see it. One line. One word, stark and black against the white screen.
Final results:Negative.
I read it twice. Three times. The single word blurs and sharpens. Negative. Clear. Free.
The air rushes out of my lungs in a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob. I’m out of bed in seconds, hair a tangled mess, sprinting to the kitchen.
“Shin!”
He’s at the counter, calmly pouring coffee into two mugs as if it’s just another Tuesday.
“What—”
“It’s negative!” I wave my phone in the air like an Olympic torch. “It’s negative! Do you hear me?!”
The smallest, most infuriatingly calm smile touches his lips, as if he knew it all along. “Good.”
“‘Good’?” I nearly drop the phone. “‘Good’? Shin, this is amazing! This is I-don’t-have-to-flee-the-country-saving! This is—”
I can’t stop laughing, dizzy with a relief so profound it feels like a physical weight has been lifted off my chest. I run a victory lap around the kitchen island. And then, because words aren’t enough, I throw myself at him.
He catches me easily, one arm wrapping securely around my waist. For a moment, I just stay there, face buried in the familiar comfort of his shoulder, breathing in the scent of coffee and clean laundry.
Eight years of this quiet, steady presence in the background of my chaotic life. Eight years of him being the calm eye of my personal hurricane. And in one, adrenaline-fueled, probably-a-terrible-idea moment, I decide I’m done pretending.
Before I can lose my nerve, I lean in and kiss him.
It’s quick and clumsy, all messy relief and gratitude. For a split second, he freezes, completely still. Then his grip on my waist tightens, and he kisses me back—slowly, deliberately, as if he’s afraid I might vanish if he moves too fast.
When I draw back, my smile feels shaky.
“You…” His voice is a low, amused rumble. “You don’t get to do that and then just walk away.”
I blink. “Who said I’m walking away?”
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, and something dangerously close to hope. The pause is brief, but it’s enough to make my pulse trip over itself. Then Shin clears his throat, breaking the spell.
“Hungry?” he asks, his voice a little rough around the edges.
The question is so ordinary, sohim, that it makes me laugh for real.
We eat a celebratory feast of his mom’s leftovers, our knees brushing under the tiny table.
The rest of the day is a blur of phone calls. First, the agency CEO, all business and brisk relief. Then the PR manager, reading a statement that is a masterclass in damage control wrapped in velvet. By lunchtime, the headlines are everywhere:Actress Yoon Min-hee Cleared of Drug Allegations.
The crisis is over, but Shin doesn’t leave. And I don’t ask him to.
We end up on the couch, watching a historical drama rerun in a comfortable silence. It’s a slow, careful negotiation of this new, undefined space between us. My head eventually finds its way to his shoulder. His arm drapes casually along the back of the sofa, not quite touching me, but close enough that I can feel his warmth.