Chapter Twenty-Three #5
Because I am a Kang. Because my grandfather sits on committees that decide whether their hotel expansions get approved. Because insulting me is insulting a bloodline that predates their money by three centuries.
So, they smile.
"Thank you for having me," I say, slipping into my coat. I button it slowly, letting the silence stretch. "The meal was excellent. And the conversation was... illuminating."
"We were delighted you could make time for us," Mrs. Oh says, her voice tight. She steps forward, smoothing invisible lint from her sleeve. "It’s rare to see young men of your generation taking courtship so seriously."
She chokes a little on the word courtship.
"We believe in doing things properly," I lie, flashing a sharp, brief smile.
I glance at Sihwan. He’s standing by the door, clutching his overnight bag like a lifeline.
The decision not to stay the night was an easy one to make on my part, but Sihwan looked almost unsure if he could accept my lifeline out of here when I suggested we needed to get back before early classes in the morning.
He hasn't looked at his parents since we left the table. He’s staring at his shoes, his shoulders hunched, radiating a chaotic mix of relief and residual shame.
"Sihwan," Byungho grunts.
Sihwan’s head snaps up. "Yes, Father?"
Byungho stares at him. For a second, I think he’s going to double down, maybe throw one last insult to reassert his dominance before we leave.
He opens his mouth, his eyes flicking to me, then back to his son.
He sees the way I’ve positioned myself—slightly in front of Sihwan, blocking his direct line of sight.
Byungho closes his mouth. He clears his throat, looking away.
"Drive safely," he mutters. "The roads are winding."
It’s a concession. A pathetic one, but a concession nonetheless.
"We will," I answer for him.
I place a hand on the small of Sihwan’s back. It’s a possessive gesture, deliberate and heavy. I feel him jolt under my touch, his muscles tense and rigid, but he doesn't pull away. If anything, he leans back into it, just a fraction of an inch, seeking the anchor.
"Goodnight," I say.
We turn and walk out the double doors.
The night air washes over us, crisp and clean, scrubbing the scent of lilies and burnt sugar from my nose. The valet has the car waiting, engine idling, the headlights cutting through the dark driveway.
Sihwan walks fast. He practically sprints down the steps, tossing his bag into the back seat and diving into the passenger side before the valet can even offer to open the door. I tip the guy—probably too much, but I’m in a good mood—and slide into the driver’s seat.
The moment the door thuds shut, sealing us in the quiet, leather-scented sanctuary of the coupe, Sihwan deflates.
He slumps forward, putting his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. He lets out a long, shuddering breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his lungs for three hours.
I don't say anything. I just put the car in gear and drive, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as we leave the palace of insecurity behind.
The silence in the coupe is heavy enough to choke on.
Usually, silence with Sihwan is a victory. It means I’ve stunned him into shutting up, or I’ve worn him out, or he’s too busy glaring at me to formulate an insult. But this silence is different. It’s brittle. It’s the sound of a man waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I keep my eyes on the road, navigating the winding descent from the hills with one hand on the wheel.
Beside me, Sihwan is practically vibrating.
He’s staring out the passenger window, his reflection in the glass looking hollowed out.
He’s waiting for it. I can feel it rolling off him in waves of sour, anxious pheromones.
He’s waiting for me to laugh. He’s waiting for me to crack a joke about the gold flake in the soup, or his mother’s obsession with hair dye, or the way his father tried to crush my hand like a insecure frat boy.
He thinks I’m going to use the ammunition his parents just handed me to tear him apart.
I shift gears, the engine growling low as we hit the highway back toward the city.
Sihwan flinches at the sound. He’s picking at the cuticle of his thumb, tearing the skin until it looks raw.
Idiot.
I sigh, short and sharp through my nose. I take my right hand off the gear shift. I don't look at him. I don't make a production of it. I just reach across the center console and cover his hand with mine.
Sihwan freezes. His entire body goes rigid, like he expects me to twist his wrist or shove him.
I don't. I just wrap my fingers around his hand—his palm is sweaty, his skin hot—and squeeze. It’s not a gentle, romantic caress. It’s a grounding grip. A physical anchor. I’m here. You’re here. Stop spiraling.
He stays frozen for a long three seconds. Then, slowly, the tension bleeds out of his frame. His shoulders drop. His hand relaxes beneath mine, his fingers curling tentatively to grip me back.
I run my thumb over his knuckles, once, twice. The sour scent of his distress spikes, then begins to fade, replaced by the faint, underlying sweetness of his natural scent trying to break through the anxiety.
We drive like that for the next twenty minutes. Hand in hand, doing seventy down the expressway. I don't say a word. I don't have to.
When I pull up to the curb outside his apartment building, the city lights are reflecting off the wet pavement. It’s late. The streets are quiet.
I put the car in park and the engine cuts out, plunging us into sudden stillness.
I withdraw my hand. The loss of contact is immediate; Sihwan flexes his fingers, looking down at his lap like he misses the weight.
"Well," I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. "We survived."
Sihwan lets out a breathy, humorless laugh. He reaches for the door handle, then hesitates. He sits there for a moment, staring at the dashboard, chewing on that abused bottom lip.
Usually, this is the part where we part ways. Or, if we’re in a mood, the part where I invite myself up and he pretends to be annoyed about it until we’re naked. But tonight, the dynamic is off-kilter. The hierarchy has been rattled.
Sihwan turns his head. He looks exhausted. The gel in his hair is starting to fail, a few strands falling over his forehead, making him look younger.
"Do you..." He clears his throat, his voice rough. He looks away, then forces himself to look back at me. "Do you want to come up?"
I blink.
In all the weeks we’ve been doing this—fighting, fucking, bickering—he has never asked. Not once. It’s always been a demand, or a resignation, or a chemical necessity. This is an invitation. And underneath it, I hear the silent plea: I don't want to be alone right now.
I unlatch my door.
"I thought you'd never ask," I say.
We ride the elevator in silence. Sihwan leans against the back wall, eyes closed, head tipped back against the metal. He looks like he’s gone twelve rounds in a boxing ring. When the doors slide open on his floor, he pushes off the wall with a groan and leads the way.
The lock clicks shut, sealing the heavy silence of the apartment, and that’s all the permission I need.
I don’t give him a second to start overthinking, to start replaying the highlight reel of insults his parents just projected onto him. I drop the bag from my shoulder, hook an arm around his waist, and walk him backward until his shoulders hit the wall of the entryway.
Sihwan gasps, a sharp intake of breath, but he doesn't fight.
I press into him, crowding his space, and capture his mouth.
Usually, kissing Sihwan is a contact sport.
It’s teeth and tongue and a battle for dominance, him pushing back just as hard as I push in.
But tonight, he’s soft. He melts against the plaster, his hands coming up to clutch loosely at the lapels of my coat, his mouth opening for me with a pliability that sets my teeth on edge.
It’s submission, but it’s the wrong kind. It’s not the hot, heavy yield of him wanting me; it’s the slump of a man who’s been told for three hours that he’s not enough.
I deepen the kiss, tasting the lingering bitterness of the espresso he drank in the car and the underlying spice of his scent, muted now by exhaustion. I kiss him until I feel him sigh, a long, shuddering exhale that vibrates against my lips.
When I finally pull back, I don't go far. I stay in his space, my hips pinned against his, trapping him there.
Sihwan blinks his eyes open. He looks wrecked. His pupils are blown wide, but there’s a dullness there, a shadow cast by his father’s voice calling him deficient, his mother calling him bulky. He’s looking at me, but I can tell he’s waiting for the critique. He’s waiting for me to agree with them.
I hate it.
I lift my hand, sliding my palm up the column of his neck. His pulse is thrumming there, fast and erratic. I hook my thumb under his chin, tilting his head up until he has no choice but to look me dead in the eye.
I brush my thumb over his bottom lip—swollen from how much he’s been chewing on it, and now red from my mouth.
"Stop it," I say quietly.
Sihwan frowns, confusion flickering in his gaze. "Stop what?"
"Stop listening to them. They're still in your head."
He flinches, his gaze darting to the side. "They aren't wrong. You saw it. I just... I sat there and took it. Like a child."
"You sat there and took it because you have respect for hierarchy, even when the people at the top don't deserve it," I correct him. My voice is low, rougher than usual. "That's not weakness. That's discipline."
He starts to shake his head, a self-deprecating scoff building in his throat, but I press my thumb into his lip, silencing him.
"Listen to me."
I wait until his eyes lock back onto mine.
"You know why I picked a fight with you that first week?" I ask.
Sihwan blinks. "Because I was annoying you?"