Chapter 35
Fourteen hours in the very back of a Boeing 777, right next to the toilets, can make anyone rethink their life choices. Especially when the lines started forming after every meal. I lost count of how many guts and butts I took to the face, not to mention the truly rancid farts.
Thanks to K-Tech pushing up my departure, this was the only seat left in economy. Sure, there were plenty of plush business-class and luxurious first-class options up front, but hell would freeze over before a multi-billion-dollar company shelled out that kind of cash for a small fry like me.
So, to the back of the plane, I went. And with every gut, butt, and fart, all I could think about was ditching this hell hole and going back home…to Jiho.
Which, honestly, was the last thing I wanted to think about.
Because the second I pictured being wrapped in his solid arms, I cried. And cried. And fucking cried.
I’m pretty sure my entire row of people thought I was having some sort of mental breakdown. But I obviously didn’t care.
I tried distracting myself with movies—even Pride & Prejudice . But Mr. Darcy’s hand flex made me think of Jiho’s hands on my skin.
I tried games. Those just reminded me of family game nights, of Jiho’s dimple and contagious laugh, echoing around me, bringing smile after smile to my face.
So, crying is what I did for nine of the fourteen hours.
Until I remembered the handful of Ambien my sister gave me, as a last-second going-away present.
I didn’t even try reading my romance book for obvious reasons. Because fuck romance. Fuck the whole I’d burn the world for you bullshit. Every world has a Kelsey, just waiting to pounce and smother the fire with her perfect naked body.
Stupid Kelsey.
I should’ve punched her four more times—just like Jiho did to Reginald. Still, I felt a very satisfying crunch under my punch. Very satisfying.
But once the pain and shock of everything wore off, I knew it wasn’t Jiho’s fault. I knew he wouldn’t have purposefully asked Kelsey into his bed.
Perfect body aside, he can’t stand her.
And for that reason alone, I should’ve stayed.
Should’ve heard him out.
Should’ve told him it was okay and moved on.
But no—all my terrible past experiences and insecurities had to burst through the floodgates, and drown out every rational part of my brain. And it scared me how easily it happened.
Am I really so weak? So fragile that I’d let someone like Kelsey Bradshaw ruin something perfect?
Apparently, yes…and no.
Because the second the plane touches down at Incheon International Airport, I come to my damn senses, turning on my phone, ready to call Jiho.
But of course, I have zip-zero service. The audacity of my American SIM card… Completely useless, like I’m not having a full-blown crisis.
Luckily, a Korean SIM awaits me at the end of this godforsaken maze. I just have to get there.
So I do, albeit impatiently and anxiously, practically vibrating out of my skin.
First, a thirty-minute taxi to the gate.
Then, another hour stuck on the plane while everyone takes their sweet-ass time getting their carry-ons.
Thirty-three more minutes at immigration, where the line moves slower than freaking molasses on a cold winter day.
Forty-two minutes at baggage claim because—surprise, surprise—my suitcases are the last ones out.
Another thirty minutes crawling through customs.
And then, finally— finally —I follow the crowd into the arrival hall, beelining to the SIM card kiosk like my life depends on it.
Which, honestly, it kind of does.
That takes another seventeen freaking minutes, but who’s counting?
Me.
I’m counting.
Still am as I find an empty seat and stare at my phone screen.
With shaky fingers, I forget everything my family told me about letting them know I landed safely.
Instead, I scroll straight to Jiho’s name on KakaoTalk —the Korean version of WhatsApp—already set up on my phone, thanks to him.
My gaze doesn’t move from his Kakao photo—the one I took of us in bed after the first time we…
I shake away the memory, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. If I’m going to call him and make things right, I can’t cry. Clear, coherent sentences are the goal here—not blubbering like an idiot over the phone.
“Okay, I can do this,” I mutter to myself, forcing my index finger to tap the call button.
A cute, catchy melody rings through the phone like something straight out of a children’s show. I’d probably dance to it if my heart weren’t trying to beat its way out of my chest.
What do I even say if he answers? He has nothing to be sorry about, but I do. I fucking ran.
Do I start with, I’m sorry?
Or, I love you?
I’m a stupid, idiotic, crazy woman—please take me back?
In the end, it doesn’t matter, because the song keeps playing and playing and playing until silence meets my ear.
The tiny ounce of hope left in my chest falls straight to the floor, shattering into a thousand pathetic little pieces.
If I were any other woman, I might give up here and now. Go somewhere and lick my wounds with a pint of ice cream or a bottle of wine.
But this is about Jiho, the love of my damn life.
I’ve said it before—I can’t breathe without that man next to me. Since I walked away, my body’s been robbed of the precious air only he can provide. Like every breath I’ve taken since has been stale and wrong.
Missing something vital.
I need his air—my air.
So, it’s a good thing I’m not any other woman.
It’s an even better thing I’m the most stubborn woman on the planet, because I hit the call button again. The eternal song plays, then silence. Again. Eternal song, then silence. Again.
I really am a stupid, idiotic, crazy woman because I call five more times, hoping he left his phone in another room. Or, maybe he’s asleep, considering the time change. Or…
Or…
Or, he’s done.
Or, I broke his heart to the point of no viable reparations.
His heart’s a vegetable, and it’s my fault, and now I’m not worth it.
My hand falls from my ear, defeat in every long, deep breath I take. Somehow, I pick up my head, raising it just enough to put away my phone and take in my surroundings.
It’s the afternoon here, the airport crowded with weekend goers and comers. All chatting in a language I barely understand. The signs say things both in English and Korean, but they mean nothing, pointing me in different directions.
Where the hell am I supposed to go? Wasn’t a driver supposed to collect me? I didn’t see anyone holding an M. Asterman sign within the group of chauffeurs at the terminal exit.
Just add it to the list of this series of un-fucking-fortunate events.
I’ll have to dig through my emails, find my hotel’s address, and then choose a taxi or take the subway. But I’m from Texas. We don’t have taxis—we have giant trucks and Uber. And our subways come in either foot-long or six-inch varieties.
“Uuugh ,” I groan, resting my face in my hands. I’m all alone on the opposite side of the world, and so far, my grand adventure sucks ass in the truest sense.
A sob fills my throat, but I swallow it when I hear someone ask, “Neo gwaenchanha?” Are you okay?
I don’t answer, unsure if the question is for me or someone else.
But the person asks again, closer and louder. “Neo gwaenchanha?” Are you okay?
With my hands still covering my face and that low register, I can only assume the voice belongs to a man. A coworker once told me that while Korean people are outrageously kind to foreigners, they usually don’t talk to strangers. So, of course, I’d be the one foreigner to attract the one Korean who does.
“No, I’m not okay.” I sob in muffled English, not knowing how to answer in Korean.
The stranger-talking stranger asks, ”Wae?”
Why?
Does he understand me? Because he just asked me why.
If he does, I should just say it’s nothing. What stranger wants to get emotionally dumped on? It’s like asking how someone’s day is going—expecting a fine and instantly regretting it when they give you a full-blown TED Talk on their emotional state. Not because it’s annoying, but because there’s no script for how to react.
So, I should get up, say thank you for asking, and be on my merry way, to inevitably get lost in Seoul.
But, like I said earlier, I’m stupid, idiotic, and crazy.
I ramble instead, leaning into my own TED Talk and dumping everything on this poor stranger who may or may not even understand what I’m saying.
“Why? Because I ruined everything. I let someone get between me and my wonderful boyfriend, and I ran like a coward. I didn’t even give him a chance to explain. I’m a freaking mess—and because I’m a mess, I made a mess of this too. And now I’m here. In Korea. Alone. Not knowing where to go or how to get there, and wishing I could turn right back around and go home. I tried to call him—tried to fix it—but he didn’t answer. And now I’m terrified that he’s done. That I waited too long, and there’s nothing left to fix.”
Taking a breath, my hands drop from my face, but my eyes stay fixed on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” I continue, chuckling softly. “I didn’t mean to say all that… I’m just…sorry.”
The man says nothing, instead moving closer, his shoes coming into view. A new wave of sadness washes over me. Jiho has those same shoes. I bought them for him as a just-because gift. He loved them.
But the man clears his throat and mutters, “To be honest, your boyfriend sounds like an insufferable asshole.”
My eyes go wide at the exact same moment my heart stops. That low, gravelly voice—God, I’d know it anywhere.
My breath stutters as I slowly lift my head, and there they are. That pair of beautiful, dark eyes I’ve memorized day in and day out. Eyes that have looked at me with love, with heat, with heartbreak. Eyes I never thought I’d see again.
It can’t be.
There’s no way it’s…
“Jiho?” I whisper, barely believing what I’m seeing.
“Morgan, baby, I—”
Nothing else registers besides the sound of my name on his lips, pulling me to my feet and straight into his arms.
And like he always has, Jiho catches me.
He buries his face into my neck, and I feel his breath, hot and shaky, ghost across my skin and sink straight into my rampant heart.
“You’re here,” I sob into his shoulder.
He echoes softly, “I’m here,” pulling back just enough to look at me. Just enough to breathe me in, his warm hands cupping my face, not quite believing he’s here either.
And then he kisses me.
God, he kisses me—desperate and determined. Like we’ve been apart for years and not hours. Like he’s trying to erase everything that went wrong in our little world, replacing it with us and with our future.
And I kiss him back with all that I have. Every sob I did and didn’t swallow on the plane. Every second I spent doubting myself. Every stupid, aching moment I spent thinking I’d lost him.
I pour it all into that kiss—into him.
Once it slows, my hands rest over his, holding on. But he keeps his face close, pressing his forehead to mine.
“I’m sorry, Morgan,” he whispers.
“Don’t apologize. What happened with Kelsey wasn’t your fault.”
“I’m not talking about that,” he says, firm but gentle, thumbs brushing the apples of my cheeks. “I’m talking about everything before. How I made you feel like you were second place and a choice. How I should’ve shown you the truth—what exactly you mean to me—instead of telling you. Had I done that, this wouldn’t have happened.”
I swallow hard, my heart thudding painfully. “You were trying—”
“I was trying to protect myself. I was trying to stay in control of my life, thinking I could have everything. But you are everything, and the moment you walked out that door, I realized I lost it all.”
A tear falls from his eye, and I wipe it away, asking, “What are you saying, Jiho Park?”
“That you bring color into my world, baby. Bright yellow colors, and I fucking love it. That it’s you or no one else, and without you, I have nothing.” His warm hand moves to my waist, pulling me closer. “And I’m saying that…I’m also just a boy, standing in front of a girl, asking her to love him.”
A smile tugs at my lips, but I try to hide it—that soft, reluctant kind of grin I know he loves. The one I always give him when I want to drive him crazy. “Is that Notting Hill, but backward?”
“You better believe it, babycakes.”
That silly name sinks into my chest. The name he used to call me before it changed to baby. The name I pretended to hate.
My fingers trace the line of his jaw. “But, what if the girl may or may not accidentally and unintentionally say racist things sometimes?”
Jiho flashes a smile, his dimple appearing as his laugh fills the air between us. “Last I checked, an insufferable asshole and an unintentional racist make quite the pair. Almost like soulmates, but with an E, because,” he gestures to the airport, “we’re in Seoul. You know, Seoulmates.” A beat, his cheeks turning an adorable shade of red. “Fuck, never mind.”
My smile breaks through with a chuckle, unable to hold it back any longer. “If you kiss me right now, I’ll forget you ever called me that.”
“What, my soulmate?” he asks, his grin faltering.
I shake my head. “No, because I’m definitely your Seoulmate with an E, and you’re mine.”
“Then what?”
“Babycakes. You know I hate that name.”
A smirk tugs on a corner of his mouth as he leans in, lips hovering over mine. “No, you don’t.”
“No… I don’t,” I breathe just before he kisses me. Deep and steady. The kind of kiss that rebuilds us, piece by piece, into something stronger.
Something unbreakable.
Something overflowing with love.
Something that is everything.
Because it’s simple, really—we’re each other’s everything.
He’s not just my boyfriend or my lover. Not just my Seoulmate with an E.
He’s my home.
Whether in Austin, Seoul, or anywhere else in the world, as long as I’m with Jiho Park…
I’m home.