Page 8 of Tell Me Where It Ends

“Going to take a shower,” he announces.

I nod, my mind drifting back to the grenade on the cushion. The bathroom door clicks shut.

The second he leaves, my self-control evaporates. I snatch up my phone. No new messages. No follow-up. Did Suho leave? Is he waiting in his car in the basement parking lot, growing impatient? The thought sends a familiar spike of anxiety through me.

Steam curls out from under the bathroom door. A few minutes later, when it opens, my head snaps up instinctively.

And my brain short-circuits.

Shin steps out, barefoot, his dark hair damp and clinging to his forehead. He’s wearing nothing but a single white towel wrapped loosely around his hips.

His glasses are off. He starts scrubbing his hair with a smaller towel, completely oblivious to the fact that my entire worldview is tilting on its axis.

This is Shin. My manager. The man who schedules my dental appointments and vets every social media draft. He’s not supposed to have…that. That V-shaped torso. That subtle, intriguing scar just below his ribs. Or biceps that look strong enough to snap a paparazzo’s camera.

When does he even have time to work out??

Between managing my chaotic schedule and preventing my latest self-sabotage?

He finishes with his hair, tosses the towel aside, and catches my stare. He raises a single, perfect eyebrow. “What?”

My mouth is dry. I whip my head back to the muted TV, cheeks burning. “I—Nothing.”

He shrugs and disappears back into the bathroom, emerging a minute later in a plain gray T-shirt and sweats. Normal Shin is back.

Except the image of Not-Normal Shin is permanently seared into my mind.

I try to force the thought away as he sits beside me again, pulling a thick folder onto his lap like a shield.

“Okay,” he says, voice all business. “Let’s talk about what’s next.”

And just like that, the spell is broken. Reality—with its ugly hashtags and impending legal doom—crashes back in. My chest tightens.

“First, you’re off social media,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I don’t want to take your phone, Min-hee. Can I trust you to stay off it? It’ll be better for your mental health.”

I manage a numb nod.

Then, after a beat, “Shin,” I say, my voice a traitorous squeak. “What if I actually get arrested?”

He shakes his head, expression firm. “I spoke to the lawyer. You haven’t been charged. The police will likely call you for questioning in the next few days.”

Another nod. I feel like a bobblehead of despair.

“You’ll be tested. We can voluntarily submit a hair sample,” he continues calmly. “Being proactive helps. The test typically only detects habitual use, so the risk for you is low. This might be the fastest way to clear your name.”

“And the video?” I whisper.

“The team’s trying to get it taken down, but…” He trails off. I finish for him.

“Once it’s out there, it’s out there forever.”

A heavy silence hangs between us.

“I’m scared,” I admit, the words barely audible.

Shin doesn’t answer right away. He sets the folder aside, turning his whole body toward me. “I know,” he says, voice impossibly gentle. “But you’re not finished. This isn’t how it ends for you.”

“How can you possibly know that?”