Chapter 5 Return
Return
“I think I should go back to my place,” I tell Suho.
He just nods, hands gripping the steering wheel. The drive is quiet—too quiet. I can practically hear every unsaid thing bouncing around the car like a trapped fly.
When we pull into the same old parking ground, he finally looks at me. There’s something almost… pitying in his eyes.
I hate that.
“Min-hee,” he starts carefully. “Look, I know we have history. Complicated, messy, slightly career-ending history. But if you ever need me—need anyone, actually—I’m—”
“Goodbye, Suho.”
I open the door before he can finish, because if I stay one second longer, I might say something stupid. Again.
The click of the lock echoes through my apartment when I get back, loud enough to make my guilt echo right along with it.
My phone lights up immediately—eight missed calls, eleven unread messages. All from Shin.
Fantastic.
My manager-slash-roommate-slash-accidental life-coach is probably one espresso away from a heart attack.
When I walk into the living room, Shin is exactly where I expect him—phone in hand, shoulders tense, jaw tight.
Not the calm, steady Shin I rely on, but something harsher. Rougher. The kind of serious that makes my pulse trip over itself.
His hair is slightly mussed, his hoodie wrinkled, and he looks like someone who’s been pacing for hours before deciding to sit down purely to interrogate me more effectively.
“Where were you?” His tone is low—steady, but definitely Manager Mode. “You turned your phone off.”
I freeze halfway through taking off my shoes. “I, uh… needed some air.”
“Air,” he repeats, as if the word personally offends him. “You could’ve texted.”
Okay, fair. But also: I’m emotionally compromised and dramatic by nature, so—
“I didn’t think it would take long,” I mutter.
He exhales, long and tired, rubbing his forehead like he’s mentally drafting the world’s longest resignation letter. “Min-hee, next time you need ‘air,’ maybe try opening a window.”
Despite everything, I almost laugh.
Instead, I mumble, “Sorry.”
The tension between us softens—just a little. He stands, hesitates for a beat, then steps closer and rests a hand on my shoulder. The gesture is quick, awkward, but sincere—like he’s making sure I haven’t evaporated.
“Don’t do that again,” he says quietly.
His anger isn’t loud; it simmers, a quiet, intense heat that radiates across the room. I stand frozen, watching the hard set of his shoulders, the way his gaze holds mine with something almost… magnetic. It’s confusing.
Somehow, it draws me in.
“I really know how to make things complicated,” I admit, eyes dropping to the floor.
He just sighs, his eyes still holding that familiar mix of worry and exasperation. “You’re kind of terrible for my sanity, you know that?”
He holds my gaze a moment longer than usual, and a faint, relieved smile touches his lips. Then, without another word, he turns and heads for the sofa, starting to prepare his bed for the night.
I watch him go, my heart thudding against my ribs, wondering what, exactly, has just shifted between us.
Slowly, I make my way to my bedroom. I know sleep won’t come easy tonight—my brain keeps replaying every second of the last few hours.
Still, the apartment feels a little lighter somehow, a little more like home and less like a prison—even if only because Shin is here.
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5a
Where It Doesn’t Hurt
The apartment is quiet, but my brain is loud. From the living room, I can hear the faint rustle of Shin shifting on the sofa-bed.
We’d said a clipped, tense good night an hour ago, the unspoken knowledge of our impending police visit hanging heavy in the air.
I roll over, squeeze my eyes shut, and will my body to relax. It doesn’t listen. Instead, my brain kicks off a marathon of my worst-ever decisions—complete with commentary.
Five minutes pass. Then ten.
Well… look who’s back.
Insomnia, my least favorite old friend, decides to make a guest appearance tonight. The clock glows a mocking red: 4:17 a.m.
My chest throbs with the rush of my heartbeat. I need to sleep. The storm waits for me in just a few hours—questions, cameras, and whatever judgment follows.
My thumb hovers over the meditation app Shin recommended, but I know it’s useless. My mind is a tangled mess of anxiety that no calming rain sounds can fix.
Quietly, I slip out of bed. Shin is asleep on the sofa, his face peaceful in the dim light, one arm tucked under his head. Waking him feels like a federal crime, but desperation is a powerful motivator. I know he still has the sleeping pills. My pills. Confiscated for my own good.
The thought of patting him down to look for the pills feels deeply, deeply wrong. So I am left with one option.
“Shin…” I whisper, hating the thought of disturbing his peaceful sleep. “Can I have the pills? Please.”
His eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep. The usual calm alertness is gone, replaced by a softer, gentler concern.
“No,” he says. His voice is a quiet rumble, kind but absolute.
I frown. “Why not? I can’t sleep. I’m going to look like a zombie tomorrow, and you’ll have to field calls about my ‘emotional breakdown.’ Just one, Shin. Please? For the sake of PR.”
He’s fully awake now, sitting on the sofa. He has the same focused look he gets when studying a new contract—like I am a problem with too many complicated, broken clauses that he is determined to solve. I’m half-convinced he’s about to prescribe chamomile tea.
But then, without a word, he reaches out and takes my hand.
His touch is warm. Calming. Unnervingly so. This is NOT in his job description… isn’t it? Clause 4, subsection B: Manager is to provide logistical and emotional support.
I’m pretty sure unauthorized hand-holding at 4 a.m. is a breach of contract. Never mind that—he gives a gentle tug, a silent command, guiding me toward the sofa.
My brain is still rebooting from the hand-holding when he closes the distance, pulling me into a hug that feels both impossibly gentle and terrifyingly new.
My body goes rigid. My entire nervous system lights up with a single, flashing neon sign: BOUNDARY brEACH. ABORT. ABORT.
Our entire professional relationship is built on a foundation of platonic, hands-off distance, and he has just shattered it. What kind of new HR violation is this?
My brain scrambles for a protocol: Step 1: Breathe. Step 2: Don’t make it weird. Step 3: Try not to melt into his arms.
But he just holds me. His arms wrap around me so gently it’s like he’s afraid he might damage the merchandise—which, frankly, is what he’s paid to protect.
For a moment, the world—the police, the scandal, my imploding career—just fades away. All I can feel is the solid warmth of his body and the comforting scent of him, like clean laundry and familiarity.
Then, a low whisper breaks the spell. “Stay here with me.”
My heart does a confused little stumble in my chest. Slowly, carefully, he eases us both down onto the sofa until his chest is a warm, solid presence against my back, anchoring me.
I close my eyes. The panic in my chest finally begins to ebb, replaced by a profound sense of calm that feels entirely, dangerously unprofessional.
“Shin…” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
He just tightens his hold, a soft, sleepy hum in response. I let myself lean fully into him, the tension bleeding out of my muscles for the first time in days.
“I’m here,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. “You don’t need the pills tonight.”
His voice is gentle, but tonight it carries something else—something personal. Not the manager who handles my schedule and PR, but the man who remembers I like my chips a little stale and always sleep with socks on. The one who sees everything I think I hide.
His breathing is a low, even rhythm against my back, a steady metronome. My own frantic heartbeat begins to slow, matching his. My thoughts, which were screaming a minute ago, are now just a dull murmur. The freefall stops.
And just before I drift off, a single, clear thought surfaces: Oh. So, this is what safe feels like.
***
I’m not sure how long I sleep—maybe an hour, maybe two—but I jolt awake with a gasp, my heart pounding.
For a split second, I don’t know where I am. Then it all comes rushing back. The sofa. The weight of an arm around me. Shin.
He’s already up, dressed, and moving quietly around the kitchen.
My brain boots up, and the first file to load is a memory. Me. Shin. Cuddling.
Oh god.
We have cuddled all night. With my manager. My manager. I have a sneaking suspicion that this exact situation belongs in a manual titled Things You Definitely Shouldn’t Do at 4 a.m. A wave of panic starts to rise, but strangely, a deeper part of me feels… calm.
There are bigger monsters to fight today.
“Morning,” he says. His voice is even, but the exhaustion beneath it is impossible to miss. He sets down a plate of toast and a mug. The rich scent of coffee slices clean through my anxiety.
“Eat something,” he adds, sounding perfectly normal—like nothing happened last night.
I eat in silence, my mind a frantic teleprompter scrolling through approved answers for the police. ‘I was at a private gathering.’ ‘I don’t recall the details clearly.’ Each one sounds flimsier than the last.
When I come out of the bathroom, Shin is in full manager mode, checking his watch and running me through the plan one last time.
The city is just waking up as we leave, the sky a soft, bruised purple. In the car, Shin drives in focused silence.
“Don’t overthink it,” he says eventually, as if he can hear the frantic monologue in my head. “Just tell the truth. It’s enough.”
I nod, even though my stomach feels like it’s trying to tie itself into a bowline knot.
The moment our car slows near the station, chaos erupts—a supernova of camera flashes against the windows. Shouts hit the glass—my name, questions, accusations.
How do they always know? Is there a Bat-Signal for celebrity misery?
Our agency’s legal counsel, Mr. Roh, waits at the curb, his face a calm, unreadable mask.
“You ready?” Shin asks.
I nod again with a long sigh. Shin nods back and opens his door, then mine.
“I’m sorry for the concern I’ve caused,” I say to the ocean of reporters, bowing quickly as rehearsed. “I will cooperate fully with the investigation.”
My voice is steady, but my heart is a war drum against my ribs. I start walking, head held high, into the storm.
And then, Shin’s hand finds mine.
It isn’t dramatic. He doesn’t look at me. Just a quiet, grounding hold that keeps me from falling apart. I grip back—probably harder than I should.
Inside the station, the world goes cold and quiet. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The air smells of disinfectant and burnt coffee. We are led into an interrogation room that feels designed to make you confess.
“Ms. Yoon,” the lead detective begins, his voice neutral. “A formal report was filed regarding suspected marijuana use at a location you visited. The report included a video…”
The words hit me like a physical blow. A formal report. This isn’t just online gossip anymore. This is real. The floor seems to tilt beneath my feet.
The questions start—a relentless, professional chipping away at my story. They ask about the party, the video, the people. Mr. Roh interrupts occasionally with a dry legal point.
Through it all, Shin sits nearby, his focus absolute. Whenever I falter, I glance at him, and he meets my eyes with a quiet, steadying nod. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. Just leans forward an inch—a solid presence in my peripheral vision—and it’s enough.
Then comes the part I’ve been dreading: the sampling. An officer hands me a small plastic cup and gestures toward the women’s restroom.
My eyes find Shin instinctively, a flare of pure, childish panic in my chest. He can’t follow me, of course, but he gives me a single, firm nod. You’ve got this.
There are few things more humbling than handing a cup of your own warm urine to a stranger in uniform. A new low, even for me. All my years of media training—learning how to sit and smile perfectly—culminate in this.
Next, they take a nail clipping, the sharp little snip of the clippers echoing in the quiet room.
When it’s finally over, I feel hollowed out, scraped raw.
We are led out a side entrance. A few reporters are still there, flashes exploding again, but this time, I don’t flinch. I just feel Shin beside me, radiating calm, his warmth pressing softly through his coat.
The second the car door closes, sealing us in silence, the adrenaline drains away, leaving me shaky.
“You did well,” Shin says softly.
A breath I didn’t know I’m holding escapes me in a ragged gasp. Tears prick my eyes, hot and sudden. Before they can fall, Shin reaches across the console and takes my hand again, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.
“Let’s get your favorite jjamppong for dinner,” he says, a small, tired grin on his face. “My treat.”
The tears retreat. Does this count as a date? The question pops into my head, uninvited and entirely unprofessional. I shove it down immediately, but a real smile—my first in days—breaks through.
It’s a small victory, a single bright spot in the wreckage. And for now, it’s enough. All we can do is wait for the test results.