Chapter 24
Within seconds of the punching bag hitting the floor, the door swings open, revealing a wide-eyed Morgan. Her honey browns dart between me and the bag and then to my hands.
Before I decided to picture the bag as my grandfather’s face, I at least had the sense to wrap my knuckles. They may feel like I just Hulk-punched a brick wall, but at least the skin isn’t broken. One less thing for Morgan to worry about, considering she probably already thinks I’m spiraling again.
Which I’m not. Just pissed beyond goddamn reason.
I’ve never been more thankful for the language barrier. The things he said about her—had I not walked out when I did, I would’ve actually punched his fucking face.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Why, Jiho? He’s an old, controlling bastard.
You ask such good fucking questions.
Besides the fact that he’s ancient and a punch from me would probably kill him, my parents would never forgive me. Disrespect towards elders is the Korean equivalent of a cardinal sin. Sure, collectively as a family, we don’t like my grandfather—but respecting him is ingrained in us. Reflexive. Automatic.
It’s why no one said shit when he called Morgan unworthy. Why no one spoke up when he told me I’m the biggest disappointment of his life. Why we all just sat there, nodding and placating, when he threatened to disown us if I didn’t break it off with her that very second.
And why I just stood there like a fucking coward, letting it happen.
Fuck me. I deserve to feel like a piece of pusillanimous shit.
My eyes meet Morgan’s, scanning me from head to toe, standing there looking beautiful in her short, daisy-printed sundress, most likely assessing me for another panic attack.
Considering the one I had earlier this week, I’ve technically hit my quota for this quarter. Not that she’s aware of my quarterly-scheduled breakdowns. She’s still worried—because she’s Morgan, and she’s good, and she loves me.
And she sure as hell doesn’t deserve a spineless coward.
“I’m not panicking,” I reassure her, chest still heaving from beating the shit out of my grandfather-by-proxy for the last fifteen minutes.
“Really?” she asks, cocking a brow. “Because I’m pretty sure that bag’s supposed to be hanging on that hook over there.”
God, I love her. Even while I’m drowning in shame, she still makes me smile. “Yeah, baby,” I murmur, running the back of my wrapped hand over my sweaty forehead. “I’m just pissed. Pissed at him and even more fucking pissed at myself.”
Her face softens as she closes the door behind her and walks toward me. Taking one of my hands, she starts to unwrap it. “Now, why would you be pissed at yourself?”
I grimace, turning my head, my gaze landing on a weird, wet spot on the floor. I don’t know what the hell it is, but I focus on it like it has all the answers.
How do I explain that I feel fucking pathetic? That I disgust myself? That maybe she should leave me, because a woman like her deserves a man who stands up for her—no hesitation, no shame, no goddamn excuses.
I stare harder at the spot. What the fuck is it? Sweat? Mandu pee? Liquid shame? My goddamn self-respect? I have about five more possibilities in mind, but Morgan’s sudden nudge to my chin erases all of them. She’s doing exactly what I do for her—telling me to look at her.
To face her.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet her eyes. They’re patient. Understanding. Calming.
“Morgan…” Her name barely makes it past my lips, my voice cracking like the pathetic excuse for a man that I am. I should at least be strong for her now and offer an explanation. I should tell her that none of what he said matters, that his words are nothing but meaningless dust in the wind, and I don’t give a single flying fuck what he thinks.
But I can’t.
Because some fucked-up part of me does care. And that’s the worst part.
She doesn’t rush me. Just keeps her eyes locked on mine while her hands continue unwrapping my knuckles. The tightness eases as the fabric peels away, but it does nothing for the knot in my chest.
“I should’ve said something,” I force out, the confession dropping from my mouth like a stone into deep water. Heavy. Sinking. Dragging me under.
Morgan nods as the first wrap falls to the floor, moving automatically to the next one. Still looking at me. Still listening.
A dry, humorless laugh escapes me. “I should’ve told him to shut the fuck up. That he was wrong about you—about us.” The words twist like knives in my throat, and I inhale sharply. “But I just stood there like some dumbass coward, letting him say all that shit, and I didn’t do a goddamn thing.”
Pausing, Morgan sweetly urges me on. “Keep talking, baby. Or even scream if you have to.”
But I can’t scream. Not when everyone’s still upstairs. Not when he might hear and gain even a sliver of fucking satisfaction.
“Don’t worry,” Morgan adds quickly. “I sent everyone packing. Well, Michelle did. So, you can scream if you want to.”
I smirk, a small chuckle forming in my chest, the weight easing just a little. “I swear we can read each other’s thoughts sometimes, but I don’t need to scream, baby.” Instead, I squeeze her hands three times—our silent conveyance of I love you. Then, finally, I admit the thing I’ve only ever let exist in my head. “I hate that part of me still gives a shit about his approval. That some sick, twisted part of me still hears him in my head, telling me I’m a failure. Telling me I’ll never be enough unless I do exactly as he says. That loving you—choosing you—makes me a traitor to my family.” My throat tightens, swallowing hard. “And I hate most that for even one fucking second, I let his words have power over me.”
When the second wrap falls to the floor, Morgan reaches up and cups my cheek, her thumb wiping away a tear I didn’t even know was there. Fuck. I hope this comes across as emotional maturity and not some man-damsel in distress.
Morgan’s brows tent with concern. “Power over you in what way? Convincing you to leave me?”
“Fuck no,” I say instantly. “Not even God himself could convince me of that.” Taking her hand from my cheek, I kiss her palm. “Convincing me that I am a fucking failure. That I don’t deserve you.”
Her face drops into a scowl, and that knot in my chest pulls tighter. But instead of walking away, she fishes something out of her back pocket and hands it to me.
Nodding to the folded paper, she says, almost in a bemused way, “I didn’t understand a word of what he yelled at you and your family, but apparently, it doesn’t matter. Your grandfather’s quite eloquent with his insults. And persistent, considering he had this professionally translated into English.”
My hands shake as I take it, unfolding the paper—shit, a letter—and separating the English version and the original Korean one. The translator softened the language, but the intent is still clear. It’s more or less the same shit he spewed in the living room, except with the added offer to pay her to leave me. My question is, with what fucking money? Considering I’m the one who takes care of him, mine.
Cursing, I tear both letters into pieces, letting the shredded paper scatter to the floor. “Fuck him,” I bite out. “I’m done.”
But the second the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a lie.
I’ll never be done. Not when his voice is carved into me. Not when I’ve spent my whole fucking life trying to be something that would earn his approval.
That thought lingers until Morgan grabs my hand, squeezing it tight. “Come on, I have an idea.”
I follow her blindly—hell, I’d blindly follow this woman anywhere—as she guides me toward the back corner of my home gym and into the small massage room.
Letting go of my hand, Morgan gestures to all of me. “Okay, sir, take off your clothes.”
Despite the self-disgust rolling through me like a fucking bulldozer on demo day, a sliver of humor breaks free. “Hold your horses, woman. At least buy me dinner first before you try to get me naked.”
She rolls her eyes, scoffing, “I’m not trying to get you naked. I’m trying to give you a massage.”
“Shame.”
“What?” she quips, folding her arms, popping a hip. “You don’t want a massage?”
“Daniel’s coming tomorrow for our weekly session, but,” my smirk widens into an expectant grin, “he’d never agree to a happy ending.”
“And I will?” she asks, raising a brow.
“I don’t know, Morgan. Will you?”
Morgan’s eyes lower to my bulge, already throbbing at the possibility that, yes—our girlfriend might just give us both a happy ending. And this just proves that dicks do in-fucking-deed have minds of their own. Because, be it emotional turmoil, an argument, impalement, or loss of limb, my dick would still get hard for this woman. Unless my dick’s the lost limb.
“That depends,” she offers.
I take a step in her direction, but she retreats one. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Fucking love hard-to-get—a lighter version of cat-and-mouse. Except I’m a tiger, not a goddamn house cat.
A fucking tiger?
It’s only a sarcastic thought, a prime coping mechanism of mine, but it slams into me, clashing against the thick wall of shame surrounding me. It doesn’t fit. Not with the way I let that old bastard sink his hooks into me. A fucking tiger wouldn’t have stood by and did nothing. Wouldn’t let a frail old man’s approval dictate his worth. He would’ve attacked, swift and lethal.
But then I look at Morgan.
She’s watching me, waiting, her smirk teasing, her stance easy but ready. Daring me, not to prove myself to her, but to remember who the hell I am and exactly how goddamn far I’ve come.
A woman who holds me up, even now. Supplies the strength I can’t quite summon on my own. Pulls me back from the ledge, grounding me in something real—something that matters more than my grandfather’s twisted view of me. His meaningless view of me.
And for the first time tonight, I feel it—the weight in my chest fully easing. The spark of something sharp and alive pushing back against the darkness.
My smirk returns, curling at the edges of my mouth.
“Oh?” My voice is steadier now, stronger. Not quite whole, but getting there. I tilt my head, watching her just as closely as she watches me. “On what, baby?”
Morgan’s lips twitch. “On whether you choose to be a good boy, take off your clothes, and,” she points to the massage table, “get on the table.”
I grin, slow and cheshire, peeling off my shirt and then my pants, deliberately savoring the burn of her drinking me in. I pause on the last layer, meeting her roaming gaze with an unspoken question.
Morgan shrugs. “Up to you. But it might be a happier ending without the briefs.”
I smirk. “Boxer briefs, baby. Other acceptable terms include meat pouch and dangler docks. Briefs are tighty whities—which I’ll start wearing if you’re into that.”
She snorts, shaking her head. “Just take off your panties and get on the table. Face down.”
“Boxer briefs,” I mumble, obeying and sliding off my boxer briefs. Glancing down at my fully erect dick, I add, “Yeah… That’s going to hurt.”
Morgan hums, clearly enjoying this. “Good thing you like a little pain, then, isn’t it?”
I better be getting that happy ending.