Chapter Three #2
“Always,” Sungyoon calls back without looking up from his textbooks, and I pull the door shut behind me.
The warmth lasts about as long as it takes me to reach the parking garage.
By the time I’m behind the wheel of my car with the GPS loaded and the address Hongjoong sent glowing on my phone screen, my stomach has knotted itself into a tight, unpleasant knot.
I pull out of the garage and merge into evening traffic, watching the city slide past my windshield in streaks of neon and headlights, and I try to think about nothing at all.
It doesn’t work. My brain keeps circling back to the same handful of facts like a dog chasing its own tail.
Hongjoong’s apartment. Not a hotel this time.
His actual home, where he lives, where he sleeps, where he keeps his things.
That feels different from a neutral hotel room.
The GPS takes me across the river and into Gangnam, then further south into a neighborhood where the buildings get taller and the cars parked along the curbs get progressively more expensive.
When I pull into the underground parking garage of Hongjoong’s building I can tell immediately that I’m out of my depth.
The garage is spotless, bright white concrete with numbered spaces and a security booth at the entrance where a guard in a pressed uniform checks my ID against a list before waving me through.
I park my beat-up sedan between a black SUV and something low-slung and Italian-looking and sit there for a moment with the engine off, my hands resting on the steering wheel.
Then I get out and ride the elevator up.
Hongjoong’s floor only has one unit. The hallway is wide and quiet, carpeted in something thick and dark, and there’s a single door at the end with a sleek intercom panel beside it. I press the button and wait.
“It’s open,” Hongjoong’s voice comes through the speaker, and the lock clicks.
I push the door open and toe off my shoes in the entryway, lining them up neatly on the mat beside a row of sneakers and designer boots. Then I step inside and for a moment I just stand there.
The apartment is enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows span the entire far wall, framing a panoramic view of the city skyline that glitters against the darkening sky.
The floors are polished concrete, pale and smooth, and the furniture is sleek and modern.
But scattered among the designer pieces are unmistakable touches of Hongjoong that make the space feel lived-in instead of staged.
A neon sign on one wall that reads SEND IT in hot pink cursive.
A glass shelf near the entryway lined with detailed model cars, dozens of them, arranged with obvious care.
Bold abstract paintings in electric blues and oranges hung at slightly crooked angles.
A pair of racing gloves tossed casually on the kitchen island next to a half-empty mug.
I barely have time to absorb any of it before two enormous dogs come barreling around the corner from the hallway, their claws skittering on the polished floor as they scramble for traction.
They’re tall and impossibly lean, with long narrow faces and silky fur that streams behind them as they run, and they are heading directly for me at full speed.
I take an involuntary step back as they reach me, but they don’t jump.
They shove their long noses into my palms and against my thighs, tails whipping back and forth so hard their entire bodies sway with the motion, and one of them manages to get its face up to my chin and swipe a wet tongue across my jaw before I can dodge.
I laugh, startled, and scratch behind its ears.
A sharp whistle cuts through the chaos and both dogs immediately pull back, still prancing in place with barely contained excitement but no longer climbing me.
Hongjoong appears from the hallway, and the sight of him impacts me differently than it did in the hotel.
He’s dressed in a loose white t-shirt and grey joggers, his feet bare on the polished floor, his blonde hair unstyled and falling across his forehead.
He looks relaxed in a way he didn’t at the hotel, more settled, more himself, and something about seeing him like this, casual and comfortable in his own space, makes my chest ache with a familiarity.
“Alto, Rennard,” he says, pointing toward the living room. “Beds.”
The dogs look at him, then back at me, clearly weighing their options.
“Now,” Hongjoong adds, and they go with dramatic reluctance, casting longing glances over their narrow shoulders as they slink toward two oversized dog beds positioned near the windows.
“Russian wolfhounds,” Hongjoong says, turning back to me with a grin. “Also known as Borzois. Alto’s the lighter one, Rennard’s the one who just licked your face.”
I wipe my jaw with the back of my hand and look at the two dogs, who are now draped across their beds in poses of elegant suffering, watching us with mournful eyes.
“They’re beautiful,” I say, and I mean it.
They’re striking animals, all long legs and flowing coats and aristocratic bone structure. “Very much like you. Fast and elegant.”
Hongjoong’s grin widens and the dimple deepens, and I look away before it can do any more damage.
My hands move toward my shirt buttons on instinct. It’s automatic at this point, the muscle memory of a hundred client meetings, the understanding that I’m here for a specific purpose and the sooner I get to it the sooner it’s over. My fingers find the top button and start to work it open.
Hongjoong’s hand closes around my wrist. Not hard, just firm enough to stop me.
“Not so fast,” he says, laughing. He steers me by the shoulder, turning me away from the entryway and toward the open kitchen. “There’s no need to rush into anything. Come sit down, we can catch up a little bit. Be human for a minute.”
I’m not sure what to do with that. Catching up is not in my job description. But Hongjoong’s hand is warm on my shoulder and he’s already guiding me forward, so I let him, and when he leads me around the kitchen island toward the dining table I stop walking.
The table is set for two. And it’s covered in food.
Seasoned crab with the shells already cracked and arranged neatly on a wide platter, the meat glistening with sauce.
Braised pork ribs glazed dark and still steaming, piled high on a serving dish.
A bowl of white radish kimchi, bright and crisp.
A stone pot of rice with the lid slightly ajar, letting out curls of steam.
Side dishes in small ceramic bowls, pickled vegetables and seasoned spinach and dried anchovies.
And at the far end of the table, a small round cake topped with fresh strawberries, their red skins glossy under the kitchen lights.
Every single one of my favorites. Every one.
I stare at the table and my chest constricts so tightly I can’t breathe for a second.
Hongjoong pulls out a chair and gestures for me to sit. “Do you still like these?” he asks, his tone casual, like this is a perfectly normal thing to do.
I sink into the chair because my legs don’t feel entirely reliable. “I’m surprised you remember,” I say quietly.
Hongjoong settles into the chair across from me and picks up his chopsticks. He meets my eyes across the table, his expression open and steady.
“I didn’t forget anything,” he says.
I look away. My throat is tight and I don’t trust my voice, so I pick up my own chopsticks and reach for the crab.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. The food is excellent, clearly ordered from somewhere expensive, and I’m hungrier than I realized.
I crack a crab leg and pull the meat free, dip it in the sauce, and the flavor is so good that for a brief moment I can almost pretend this is just dinner with an old friend. Almost.
Then Hongjoong sets down his chopsticks and leans back in his chair, and I know what’s coming before he opens his mouth.
“So where did you disappear to?” he asks. His voice is light but his eyes aren’t. “I’m a little hurt, honestly. I thought we were friends, and then you just did a vanishing act.”
I keep my eyes on my plate. I pick up a piece of rib and put it in my mouth and chew slowly, buying time.
“I tried to contact you for years after graduation,” Hongjoong continues. “Called, texted, asked around. You never answered, never returned any of it. Nobody seemed to know where you went.” He pauses. “It was like you just ceased to exist.”
I swallow the rib and take a sip of water. “It wasn’t personal,” I say carefully. “I just had things to figure out after high school. Life got away from me.”
Hongjoong lifts an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And after? It’s been fifteen years, Jae.
That’s a long time to be figuring things out.
” He picks up his water glass and turns it slowly between his fingers.
“I tried reaching out long after high school too, you know. Even went to your parents’ place once.
They said they didn’t know where you were either. ”
My jaw tightens. Of course they said that. They probably meant it, too, given that I’d cut them off by then. “I just needed to move on,” I say, and I don’t elaborate.
Hongjoong watches me for a long moment, then sighs through his nose and sets his glass down. “Fine.” He’s quiet for a beat, then says, “I’m surprised, though. I never imagined you could stomach this kind of career.”
My gaze jerks up to his, sharp. “Why? Because I’m better than this?”