Page 35 of Tell Me Where It Ends

I look at him—this man whose care has never wavered, who never makes me guess or play emotional games, whose quiet steadiness feels like a home I can finally trust.

I cup his face and kiss him, slow and deep, everything we’ve been through and everything we’re hoping for caught in that one moment.

As the first light of dawn begins to paint the sky, I rest my forehead against his, letting the quiet stretch between us.

Thoughts of the agency board, the hallway encounters with new clients, and the inevitable search for a manager who’ll never quite understand my love for bad historical dramas floats at the edges of my mind. But for the first time, it doesn’t feel heavy.

The professional chaos, the headlines, the auditions—they’re all coming, sure. But it doesn’t matter. Not now. Not with him here, hand in mine.

He might not be my manager anymore.

But he’s mine.

***

5b

Falling Into the Fire

“So… what now?” he asks again once we’re back in the front seats, the engine humming back to life.

I keep my gaze fixed on the glowing dashboard. If I look at him, whatever fragile bit of common sense I have left will evaporate.

Home. The word feels like a trap. It means facing Shin’s quiet, devastating disappointment.

“I don’t know,” I admit, my voice barely a whisper. “I just… can’t go back.”

Suho gives a slow nod, a rare softness smoothing the sharp lines of his face. “My place, then.”

The drive through the rain-slicked streets of Seoul is silent and tense. Every red light feels like an opportunity to bail, a chance to tell him to turnthe car around. My brain, a professional in the field of bad decisions, runs through the Official Yoon Min-hee Guide to Self-Sabotage.

Step one: run away from your problems. Bonus points for hurting the one person who has been unconditionally kind to you.

Step two: run directly into the arms of the one person who is a guaranteed human dumpster fire.

Step three: willfully ignore the possibility that he is currently seeing someone else.

And yet, here I am, in his car, heading straight for the scene of the crime.

We pull into the underground garage of his fortress-like building in Hannam-dong, automatically tugging on masks and hoodies. In the elevator, the silence is thick enough to choke on.

He swipes his card, and the door opens to the apartment I remember—spacious, muted grays, leather furniture, and that faint, unmistakable cologne of his… mixed with something lighter. Floral.

I don’t ask. My brain, a professional conspiracy theorist when it comes to Suho, has already connected the dots.

He glances at his watch and lets out a low, frustrated groan. “Shit. I have to run for the shoot,” he says, already moving toward the door. He grabs a spare access card from a small bowl on the console and presses it into my hand. “You can crash in the bedroom if you’re tired.”

I take it, raising a brow. “You keep spares for guests?”

“You’re not a guest.” His smirk is effortless. Then he disappears into the bathroom to freshen up.

A few minutes later, the door swings open again.

“Do I look like shit? We barely slept,” he asks, ruffling his bangs.

Any creature with eyes can see he never looks like shit. Far from it. But the temptation is too strong.

“A little better than shit. Like… premium, limited-edition shit, if you will.”