Chapter 31
Absolute, unadulterated death.
It’s the only description I can think of as the hangover-amplified sound of a closing door blasts through my ears, pulling me back to the land of the living.
Immediately, I take stock of my pounding head and nauseous, burning stomach. I know I’m in bed, lying on my back, but I’m almost certain I’m in a grave with a tombstone at my head:
Here lies Morgan, the mid-thirties bitch who thought she could drink with the twenty-somethings. And died.
Ugh.
I must have been more stressed about my move than my self-awareness would let my subconscious admit.
Fuck you, self-awareness. This is all your fault.
My eyes squeeze shut like it’ll help at all. I know I need to move, more or less crawl to the bathroom to… I don’t know, find a time machine, go back to last night, tie myself up, and lock myself in the closet.
No Morgan. No over-indulging on whiskey sours. No puking—
The hazy memories from last night come rushing back in utter clarity, immense embarrassment right on their heels. Lots of tears. Lots of vomit. Lots of words.
Shit, what did I say?
Something about Damien? Something about a choice? Whatever it was, Jiho’s frowning, conflicted face comes back to me, clear as the sobriety I checked at the nightclub’s door.
With any strength I can muster, I let out a frustrated groan, amending my former headstone to:
Here lies Morgan, the biggest idiot in the fucking world. And died from said idiocy.
Jiho…
I need to fix this.
Ask him to forget anything and everything I said to make his face look like that. But how? Beg? Bake his favorite cookies? Flash him a boob or two?
Honestly, that last one would probably work.
Slowly, I reach a hand to his side of the bed, finding it empty. “Jiho?” I barely manage, my throat sore from all the bile. But there’s no answer.
I’m alone.
Shitfaced me doesn’t happen often. Honestly, I can count on one hand the number of times I indulged like I did last night, with a spike during the three toxic years Reginald ruled my life.
Other, even worse memories come rushing back in the form of my ex—dumping me in my old guest room with a trash can and calling it a night. Oh, and yelling at me when I found my way to the bathroom to…regurgitate. Showers helped—they not only masked the intrusive sounds of sick with white noise, but the warm water helped with the pain.
God, a shower sounds nice right about now. And a toothbrush. Both of which are conveniently located a short distance away in the bathroom. I just have to get there first.
Double ugh.
Very slowly—I mean glacially —I turn onto my side, quickly regretting the horizontal movement as a fresh wave of nausea crashes into me. The regret only deepens when I force myself upright into a seated position, then to my feet.
One step at a time, I shuffle to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me and flicking on the lights—promptly dimming them to the lowest possible setting. My head might actually explode, and the last thing I need is to catch a glimpse of my hungover reflection.
With both hands braced on the counter, I fumble for my toothbrush and toothpaste, scrubbing the minty freshness over my teeth and tongue until my mouth, at least, feels like a new person.
Discarding my toothbrush back in its shared home with Jiho’s, my head turns in the direction of the shower, and my stomach turns with it.
Fuck, I can’t turn my head. This is going to be a happy-happy-joy-joy day, and I can only blame myself.
Triple fucking ugh.
When the nausea finally eases, I drag myself to the shower, flip on the rainfall, and step in once the water turns warm. I sink to the floor instantly, hoping it’ll rinse away at least some of the embarrassment and queasiness clinging to me.
But only a few seconds pass before I hear the door swing open and feel his presence without even needing to turn my head. The way Jiho shifts the very air I breathe is enough for me to know he’s nearby.
He stays silent, waiting. Watching to ensure I’m at least somewhat okay.
“I know you’re there,” I croak out, the words echoing around the bathroom. “I’d look at you, but if I move my head even an inch on its x -axis, I might puke again. You saw enough of that last night.” Extending my hand past the shower’s threshold, reaching for him, I add softly, “But you can come here.”
He moves, feet padding across the tile, slow and steady in his grounded presence—like he was carved from the earth just to make people like me feel safe and secure. Hand slipping into mine, warm and strong, I let myself breathe a little deeper.
Then he steps into the shower, settling behind me—shorts still on—his legs on either side of mine and arms gently guiding me to lean back against him.
My breath hitches, and I instantly melt, my head falling back, resting on his solid shoulder.
His voice, low and soft, tickles my ear. “How are you feeling, baby?”
“Like death incarnate,” I mumble, grateful he can’t entirely see my face. “I’m so embarrassed you saw me like that. It’s not really a version I wanted you to meet. I’m just stressed and… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says softly, kindly, as his hands find my shoulders, slick with soap, working gentle, soothing circles into my skin. And yeah, that alone might be enough to bring me back from the dead. “And there’s no reason to be embarrassed. We’ve all been there. I was pretty close last night, myself. One more drink, and I would’ve been riding the porcelain bus right along with you.”
He keeps massaging, now along my back, and I can’t help the soft moan that escapes me. My hands find purchase on his toned thighs, afraid I might melt straight into the tiles.
“I don’t remember you being that drunk,” I say, arching into his touch.
His hands pause briefly before inching to the base of my spine, thumbs pressing in. “Do you remember anything?”
It’s fight, flight, or freeze, and of course, I freeze, my body tensing.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
“If I say no, can we just leave it there?”
He murmurs low into my ear, thumbs pressing deeper. “You already know the answer to that, but I need you to relax, baby. You’re always safe with me.”
Right.
He’s right.
Jiho’s my safe place—my home—and I don’t need to fight, flee, or freeze with him. I breathe deeply, my ribs pressing against his solid chest, exhaling slowly. “I know, and I feel safe. What exactly did I say?”
He chuckles, kissing my temple, hands gliding to my thighs, massaging up and down. “You said a lot last night, but two things stuck with me. One—you want me to come to Seoul. And two—you feel like you’re a choice…but never the choice.”
Oh God, no.
I shut my eyes, the heat of his words pressing down with red-hot embarrassment. “I knew I said something stupid, but not like that. Damien told me you could come if you wanted to, and I guess it stuck in my drunk brain.”
Jiho scoffs, cursing, “Fucking Damien. He’s lucky he’s such a good barber.”
“I think he was trying to help in his own weird way.” Forcing myself to take another deep breath, I continue, “Look, baby. Would I like you to come? Of course. But I know what that means for you. Giving up everything, especially not being here for your parents when they rely on you so much.”
My voice catches at the end, fighting what my insecurity wants me to accept. That, like always, I’ll never be first.
His hands still near my hips, fingers digging in like I might slip away. “You don’t get to decide what I’m willing to give up, Morgan. That’s not your call—it’s mine. And yeah, my parents rely on me, but they also want me to be happy.” He presses a soft kiss to my shoulder, his breath warm against my skin. “You make me happy. There is no version of my life or future where you’re not enough.”
The words knock something loose in me, my stupid insecurity along with it. Not just because they’re sweet, or kind, or what I want to hear. But because they’re deliberate—calm, steady, certain.
I’ve spent years learning to expect the pullback, the letdown. Feeling like love was a prize I had to win, or a seat I had to earn.
Jiho doesn’t hedge, though. He doesn’t retreat. He says I’m enough like it’s a fact, not a consolation prize. But even as his words wrap around me, I can’t help but wait for the other shoe to fall.
“So…you’ll come with me?” I whisper, the tiniest thread of hope in my voice.
He squeezes me tighter, swallowing down pain of his own. “No, baby. I can’t. Not right now. As much as I want to say fuck it to my business, family, everything, I can’t. Not without becoming the kind of man who runs from the things and people that need him.”
My heart clenches. There it is—the part I knew was coming.
The heartbreak I thought I’d braced for.
But it still hurts in that quiet, breath-stealing way.
Then his hands are on my face, turning me gently until I’m looking up at him through the mist and steam, his eyes soft but unwavering. “But listen to me. Just because I can’t come with you doesn’t mean you’re not the choice. You are and have been since the day we met. This—us—it’s never been second place.”
I open my mouth to argue, to call bullshit, but he doesn’t let me, rushing on, “I wish I could be selfish and go. And maybe one day, I will. I’ll come visit and never leave. But right now, my life’s here. It’s not about choosing anything or anyone over you—it’s about holding space for both. So, while you chase your dreams, I’ll be here building something strong enough for you to come back to.”
A tear slides down my cheek before I can stop it, and he kisses it away. “How long have you been mine?” he asks, his forehead pressed to mine. “I know you’ve been counting.”
“Forty-three days,” I whisper.
“And I’ve loved you for forty of them. Since Al’s. Since I realized it was you or no one. That hasn’t changed, and it never will. You’re my first choice, Morgan. My only choice.”
My lungs finally, finally expand again, like I stopped breathing without even knowing it. “Okay,” I say. “Okay. I believe you. And I trust you. Thank you for taking care of me.”
He kisses my temple, brushing a damp curl from my cheek. “I’ll always take care of you. Even when you’re in Seoul. If you need me, I’ll be on the next fucking flight. Just promise me one thing?”
“Anything,” I say, smiling despite myself.
“Just…don’t get wasted without me again. I can’t have you running around Seoul, freaked out and thinking strangers have snakes for hair.”
I gape at him, scandalized. “You talked to Elaine?”
“Oh yeah, baby,” he says with a slow, smug grin. “I talked to Elaine.”
Groaning, I drag a hand down my face. “I’m going to kill her.”
“Give her a couple more hours,” he chuckles. “She’s on her twelfth rewatch of Frozen. She may already be dead.”
A laugh bubbles out of me, surprising and warm, and I let it carry me through the fog, still clinging to my brain. Jiho pulls me closer under the stream of water, his lips finding mine.
And just like that, my heart feels a little steadier—something only Jiho Park can do. Even if we’re headed to different cities, somehow, we’re still moving toward a future that belongs to us.