Page 52 of Tell Me Where It Ends

And just like that, I remember the feeling: my burning cheeks, my pounding heart, and the stupidly electric air in the room.

The very first spark of the wildfire that would eventually burn us both down.

“Well, you found her,” I say, softer now. “The dancing disaster.”

I take his hand. His fingers are steady, a little rough around the edges, and they slip into mine like no time has passed at all. My chest aches.

He chuckles. “You had the looks of a star and the rhythm of a malfunctioning robot.”

I snort. “Good thing I switched to acting.”

The playful moment lingers—but something shifts. Just for a second. A flicker.

Not just the memory of being seventeen and carefree. But everything after: stolen hallway moments, clumsy teenage dates, broken promises. It all hums between us, right there in our joined hands.

He reaches up, brushes my cheek with his thumb. “I missed this,” he says quietly. And I know he doesn’t mean the place. He means us. Before the headlines. Before the mess.

“Me too,” I whisper.

I don’t know who leans in first. Maybe both of us.

His lips find mine—soft, searching.

Not desperate. Not rushed.

A kiss that remembers. That forgives.

That still wants.

A faint sound down the hall—metal on tile. Cleaning crew.

We freeze.

Panic jolts through me, but he doesn’t even blink. He grabs my hand, pulls me along, and yanks open the nearest door.

It’s not a practice room. It’s a small, forgotten vocal booth, no bigger than a closet, smelling of dust and ozone from old audio equipment.

He pulls me inside, and the heavy, soundproofed door clicks shut behind us, plunging us into near-total darkness.

My back is pressed against the wall. He’s in front of me, his body a solid wall of heat, caging me in. We can hear the squeak of the cleaning cart’s wheels, the low murmur of voices getting closer, muffled by the thick door.

The risk, the danger, the sheer, stupid recklessness of it all, is a potent, intoxicating aphrodisiac.

My hands find their way under his sweatshirt, my fingers splaying across the warm, hard planes of his back. He groans, the sound a low, guttural vibration against my mouth as he deepens the kiss.

The cleaning cart squeaks past our door, the voices fading. But we don’t stop. The moment of danger has broken something open between us.

A thin, judgmental sliver of cold hallway light cuts through the small, square window in the door, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air—a tiny, private spotlight on our terrible, beautiful secret.

He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against mine, our breathing ragged. “Min-hee…” he breathes, his voice wrecked.

“Don’t talk,” I whisper, my fingers fumbling with the button of his jeans.

This is a reclamation. An exorcism. We are taking back this building, this space that made us and broke us, and we are making it ours again, if only for a few stolen, reckless minutes.

My hands are on his belt, his are at the hem of my skirt, pushing the fabric up over my hips. There’s no time to fully undress. One ridiculously practical thought flashes through my mind:thank god I wore a skirt.

He lifts me, my back immediately slamming against the scratchy foam of the wall, my legslocking around his waist. The rough denim of his jeans is an abrasive friction against my bare thighs.