Chapter 4b My Lover, Kim Suho
My Lover, Kim Suho
My fingers type before my brain can object.
I’ll be there in a few minutes, I write, and press send.
The stupid, stubborn, nostalgic part of me—the part that still thinks a grand gesture can fix a train wreck—takes over.
Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe it’s just another way to end my career (as if I haven’t already racked up a few). But my life has always been a highlight reel of things left unsaid, and I’m not adding this to the collection.
A single thought cuts through the haze: Shin.
I hesitate. He deserves honesty. He deserves more than this. But if I tell him, he’ll try to stop me. He’ll look at me with that quiet, disappointed expression that’s worse than yelling. And I can’t face that look while chasing a ghost.
If I wait one more second, I’ll lose my nerve. So I leave without a word and switch off my phone. I’ll deal with the fallout later—the family motto, in practice.
The hallway stretches endlessly, too still, each step echoing like a drumbeat of bad decisions. I tug a cap low, mask my face, shove my hands deep into my coat pockets. My legs feel like wobbly rubber, but I walk faster anyway, ignoring the dull ache in my throat.
By the time I reach the parking garage, it’s a concrete cavern—cold, empty, smelling of rubber and oil.
And there he is. Leaning against his black SUV, looking impossibly calm, as if he’s stepped straight out of a movie I should’ve stopped rewatching years ago.
Suho.
Same black hoodie, same messy hair under a cap, mask pulled just enough to reveal the defiant curve of his mouth. As if he’s daring the universe to catch us. I hate that it still works—my heart flipping like a traitor.
He doesn’t move as I approach, just watches me, eyes tracking every step. I stop a few feet away, a chasm of unspoken history between us.
“You came,” he says softly.
“You texted.”
His lips quirk into a teasing grin. “And you answered. Imagine that.”
I don’t know what to do with that, so I cross my arms, a flimsy attempt at self-preservation. “What do you want, Suho?”
He gestures toward the passenger door. “Just a drive. I promise.”
My brain screams no. My body, a complete traitor, opens the door and slides inside anyway.
The car smells entirely of him—his cologne mingled with the sharp, clean scent of leather. Dangerous. Intoxicating. The scent of every bad decision we’ve ever made together.
He gets in silently and pulls out of the garage—no music, no dashboard lights, just the hum of the engine and the ache between my ribs.
I don’t ask where we’re going. The destination doesn’t matter; the itinerary is always the same cycle of chaos and disaster.
A few minutes later, his phone vibrates with a Kakao message, which flashes on the GPS screen.
Sender: Da-hye. His co-star. No text—just three red heart emojis. I feel that familiar sting.
He sees the message but says nothing. My brain repeats the mantra: He’s not my boyfriend. He can text whoever he wants. The same flimsy act of indifference, protecting my feelings.
“So,” he finally says, breaking the silence, “heard you had a wild night. Did you laugh until your ribs hurt? I hear you get crazy hungry after nights like that.”
I shoot him a look that could curdle milk.
He laughs softly. “Too soon?”
I turn to the window. Namsan Tower glimmers in the distance. We’re heading toward his place. Of course we are.
“What do you want?” I repeat, sharper this time.
Instead of answering, his smirk returns. He reaches across the console and takes my hand. Sparks hit my skin instantly. “Gwenchana,” he says gently. “You’ll survive this. You always do.”
I snatch my hand back. “Not this time. Do you have any idea how serious this is?”
He goes quiet, jaw tight. “Did the agency do anything?”
“They’re furious,” I say, a bitter laugh escaping. “I think they might drop me.”
He curses under his breath. “Who were you with? At the club. Friends?”
“Drop it.”
“Min-hee.”
“You think you’re the only detective in town?” I snap. “It doesn’t matter who handed me the cigarette. I was stupid enough to take it.”
“It looked like a set-up.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I can find out,” he says, low and dangerous. “Give me a name.”
“No.”
That stops him.
“I don’t want your help,” I say tightly. “You showing up to play vigilante isn’t going to fix this.”
“I’m not trying to fix it. I just hate seeing you like this.”
“Then don’t look.”
He flinches, and the silence that follows is sharp. I break it, voice raw.
“You came all this way to see me, right? Well, here I am. Miserable. Completely screwed. Congratulations.”
“Stop it.”
“No, really. Is this what you wanted? To play hero for a night? Act like we’re twenty again and no one’s watching?”
“That’s not fair,” he says quietly.
“Neither is this,” I shoot back. “You disappear for months, then show up the second my life implodes, like my disaster is a show for you.”
My voice cracks. But I don’t care.
“We’ll go to your place, make the same mistakes, and I’ll hate myself more tomorrow. I don’t need that right now.”
He stares, then turns his gaze back to the road. “I wasn’t going to take you to my place,” he murmurs.
“Then where?”
“Sokcho. Yangyang. Anywhere quiet. Somewhere without headlines.”
I exhale a breath lodged in my chest for days. “And then what? Pretend we’re okay?”
He gives a small, sad smile. “Pretend we never had to lie.”
That… gets me.
He keeps driving, turning onto a narrow street by the river—a place we used to go when we were rookie idols, when the future still felt like a distant dream.
He cuts the engine and folds down the backseats, transforming the space into a tiny, private cave. He gestures for me to climb in. I hesitate, then do. He slides in after me, the car suddenly smelling entirely of him. His smile is soft, gentle—the one he reserves for moments like this.
“Remember that time,” he says quietly, “we sat here eating convenience store sandwiches and planned our acceptance speeches for the Asian Music Awards?”
I laugh. “You had tuna stuck in your teeth.”
“And you had mayonnaise on your chin.”
“And you still kissed me.”
He smiles, eyes full of memory. “Yeah. I did.”
The air shifts. I turn to face him. “Why did you really want to see me?”
He reaches for my hand, thumb stroking my knuckles. “I’m not sure,” he says. “But I have to.”
The fight drains from me. I rest my head against his shoulder, inhaling his scent. Outside, the night is quiet. For a moment, the world shrinks to the confines of the car. He looks younger, softer. In his face, I see my past—the hopeful, fearless girl I used to be.
“Don’t you have a shoot soon?” I ask, breaking the quiet.
He yawns, stretching. “Yeah. In a… few hours, actually.”
“You?”
Reality hits. I power on my phone. Notifications explode across the screen. My chest seizes.
One name repeats over and over.
Kang Shin.
What have I done?
? Go back to the apartment to see Shin.
Turn to page 54
? Stay with Suho a little longer.
Turn to page 130
? Skip both and go alone.
Turn to page 217