Page 53 of Tell Me Where It Ends
He doesn’t pause. He pushes inside me, entering me fully, finding me hot and slick—a deep, unwavering pressure that rips the breath from my lungs. I can feel every thrust in my guts like it’s a rebellion.
The wall muffles the primal rhythm of his hips. I watch his face—the lazy, arrogant smirk he usually wears is completely gone. In its place is a raw, unguarded hunger, a look that validates the same desperate, clawing need deep in my own core.
He silences any sound I might make with his mouth, his hands clamped firmly on my hips, holding me pinned against him as I cling to his broad shoulders for balance.
He breaks the kiss, his mouth crashing down on the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, biting down just hard enough to make me see stars.
A sharp gasp is swallowed before it can become a sound, my hips bucking against his in a silent, desperate plea.
His other hand slips between our bodies. He knows my body like a map he memorized years ago;his thumb finding the swollen, hypersensitive nub of my clit and pressing down, a single, perfect point of pressure that strums a high-tension wire deep in my own gut until it snaps.
A white-hot flood of pleasure rips through me, my inner muscles clenching around him in a series of violent, uncontrollable spasms. I come with a muffled, choked sob against his lips, my body convulsing. He follows a moment later, a harsh, ragged exhalation vibrating from his chest into mine as he empties himself inside me.
We stay like that for a moment, tangled together in the dark, our bodies slick with sweat, the only sound our ragged, gasping breaths. He gently lowers me to my feet, my legs so shaky I have to lean against the wall to stay upright.
He’s tucking his shirt back in when he stops, his back to me. “This is insane,” he says, his voice a low murmur. “Hiding in closets. Sneaking around. We’re thirty-one years old, Min-hee.”
“I know,” I whisper.
He finally turns to face me, and the haunted, exhausted look is back in his eyes. “I can’t do this anymore. Not here. Not in this city, in this industry that almost killed us both.” He takes a breath, andthe words that come out next are quiet, but they land with the force of a tectonic shift.
“Come with me to LA.”
I just stare at him, the words not quite computing. “What?”
“I’m serious,” he says, stepping so close I can see the raw, pleading hope in his eyes. “My drama wraps next week. My contract is up in two months, and I’m not re-signing. I’m done, Min-hee.” He takes a shaky breath, the words spilling out now in a torrent. “I already have a place there—a small house near my dad’s. We could live there. Just… figure things out.”
He tightens his grip on my hands, his desperation tangible between us. “We can disappear. Start over. Somewhere new, where our names are just names, not headlines.” His voice drops to a raw, hopeful whisper. “Remember? The house with the cherry tree.”
I just stare at him, too stunned to find my words.
But the most terrifying part is I’m actually considering it.
10b
The House with a Cherry Tree
Snow in Seoul always feels a little theatrical. Maybe it’s the city itself—a drama queen of neon and ambition—that makes even a dusting of white feel like it’s been choreographed by a world-class production designer.
The backdrop softens, the air sharpens, and suddenly, I’m not just a woman trudging through the wreckage of a scandal; I’m the villain of a winter romance. Or at least, that’s the story the city insists on telling.
That’s me. Yoon Min-hee. Currently unemployed, semi-homeless, and legally cleared—but still trending as #IcePrincess.
The universe has a wicked, ironic sense of humor.
The official police results came in last week in an anticlimactic email.Negative. I hadn’t touched anything illegal.
But by the time the government portal quietly confirmed my innocence, it was too late. The damage had already stacked in triple layers: the drug allegations, my brother selling made-up stories about our family to the media, and the agency cutting me loose. Sponsors and offers had vanished. I’m officially blacklisted.
It feels ridiculous, but I’m almost grateful they didn’t tack on a massive fine with my exit. The tabloids and gossip sites have moved on, found their next prey. I’m finally free. Except this freedom feels more like a punch to the ribs.
My old apartment is quiet in all the wrong ways—too much of me, and nothing to drown it out. No scripts. No schedules. No camera flashes. Just me. Alone.
But here, the silence feels different. Not empty—just… shared. A kind of quiet I don’t feel responsible for filling.
I drift through Suho’s apartment, half-asleep, half-aware I’m moving like someone afraid to gettoo comfortable. Alarmingly, I start to feel… okay. Not at home—but maybe close enough to unpack a single sock.
I sit by the window with my favorite mug, watching snow collect on the ledge. Just still enough to wonder if something might change, if I wait long enough.