Chapter 6 Uninvited Guest
Uninvited Guest
I’m in my favorite pajamas—the ridiculously soft ones with the faint, mysterious yellow stain on the sleeve. This is it. The glamorous finale of Yoon Min-hee: Idol-Turned-Actress Edition, brought to you by existential dread and a total depletion of fucks to give.
I burrow under a blanket on the sofa. It’s warm and cozy, but my thoughts are still spinning from yesterday’s chaos at the police station.
Shin moves around the living room with quiet, military-level efficiency, a one-man force field keeping the world’s problems at bay.
I watch him hit the power button on the TV just as my face flashes across the screen. The headline underneath is subtle, subtle as a neon sign screaming, Scandal!
Sweet. Futile. Gesture.
He can kill the TV, but the phone in my pocket is untouchable. That’s a direct line to a hundred strangers analyzing my ruin like it’s a group assignment.
He perches on the edge of the coffee table. “I spoke to the agency,” he says. “They’re on standby. They’ll prep a press release once the results come in.”
Of course they would. They’re just waiting to see if I’m still a profitable disaster. I keep that thought tucked away, murmuring, “Okay.”
As usual, he doesn’t press. He starts shoving his stuff into a backpack, a clear sign the immediate crisis has passed. A weird little pang of disappointment hits me. I’m going to miss this. Our quiet ritual: misugaru on the sofa at night, pretending to care about whatever crap is on TV.
Then the doorbell screams like it has a personal vendetta against my eardrums.
I flinch.
One of the perks of fame is having almost no friends, which means almost no one knows the code to your building.
Before I can even think, Shin is at the door, tapping the intercom. A familiar, grainy face flickers to life.
“Min-hee? I know you’re in there. Just checking in.”
My lungs let out a slow hiss. Yeong-gi, my older brother, the master manipulator of guilt and occasional wallet-drainer. His “checking in” has a 99% chance of being code for: hand over cash.
Shin glances back at me. I give a weary, reluctant nod.
The door opens a crack. Yeong-gi’s smug mug appears, eyes zeroing in on Shin. “Who the hell are you?” he sneers. “This is my sister’s place. I can come whenever I want.”
Shin’s voice is calm, and his posture solid as a brick wall. “It’s her home. Private. Call first.”
Yeong-gi scoffs and steps forward. Shin stands stubbornly in the doorway like a shield. “Oh, I know you. You’re her manager—or now you’ve been upgraded to live-in bodyguard? No wonder she never picks up my calls.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks. Yeong-gi is my older brother. He’s supposed to look out for me. But apparently, family is just a great way to learn how to drown in obligation.
Shin steps fully outside, blocking him from the entrance. “Yes, I’m her manager. And you need to leave.”
“Guard dog, too?” Yeong-gi grins, leaning forward into the doorway and raising his voice. “Dad’s really sick. That’s why I came. Thought the family might… you know, see him.”
Cue the guilt card. Expertly played. My stomach clenches. Could it be true? Ambulance lights flash behind my eyes. Paramedics screaming.
Shin notices me chewing my nails. “Is he really sick?” I whisper.
He turns back to my brother, his voice low and firm. “Min-hee will call her father.” Then, with quiet finality, he shuts the door in Yeong-gi’s face. We hear a muffled curse—some shibal—followed by a dull thud as he kicks the door, and then the sound of retreating footsteps.
I take a shaky breath and hurriedly dial my dad. It rings three times.
“Min-hee-ah?” His voice is groggy, more than just sleep.
“Appa? Are you okay? Yeong-gi said you were sick.”
A wet cough. “Sick? Nah. Just had a drink… or three. Wallet’s a bit light, though…”
I hang up before tears can sneak past my defenses. “He’s fine,” I mutter. Drunk, as usual.
Shin’s jaw is still tight.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my face heating with embarrassment over my family situation. “You shouldn’t have seen that. And… you didn’t have to do that.”
“Of course I did,” he says.
“Why?”
A dozen unspoken things glimmer in his eyes. He clears his throat. “Just because.”
Warmth creeps up my chest that has nothing to do with the blanket. A playful impulse hits me, a desperate attempt to distract myself from feeling… well, feelings.
“Were you going to hit him?” I ask, teasing.
“Only if he tried to get past me,” he deadpans.
I laugh. “You’re my manager, not my bodyguard.”
He allows himself a small, smug smile. “I have a second-dan black belt in Taekwondo, actually.”
My jaw actually drops. “Are you serious?”
He nods, expression flat. “Didn’t think it’d be a relevant skill for this job.”
And then I laugh, amazed at this new discovery. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
“Didn’t want to intimidate my client,” he says, the tension finally leaving his shoulders.
I take a moment, still smiling, letting that information sink in. So that’s how he got his toned body—the realization hitting me.
But the laughter can’t last forever. My gaze drifts back to the door, and that familiar knot of frustration tightens in my chest. “I hate how he does that. Always knows which buttons to push.”
Shin’s expression hardens. “It’s emotional blackmail, Min-hee. That’s all it is.”
I blink, taken aback.
“He knows you’re dutiful,” he continues. “You know, you don’t have to entertain him just because he’s family.”
This isn’t manager-speak. It’s a line drawn for me. Just for me. No one has ever stood up for me like this—not Yeong-gi, not Dad, not even myself.
It’s too raw to acknowledge directly. So my brain does what it always does when things get too real: it pivots.
It finds a safer topic, any safer topic. And the first, most ridiculously random thing that pops into my head is a clumsy, heartfelt compliment disguised as a joke.
I look at him—the kind eyes, the warm voice, the sudden knowledge of his secret Taekwondo skills. “You should get a girlfriend,” I blurt. “Any girl would be lucky to have you.”
I catch it immediately—a faint flush spreading across his cheeks. His ears are red. “That’s… not simple.”
“Why not? Because you’re stuck with me 24/7?”
“That’s part of it,” he admits. “Besides… it’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?” I press, my curiosity piqued.
He shrugs, avoiding my eyes. “The person I’m interested in… it would be complicated.”
The air stills. “Wait—you’re interested in someone?”
He doesn’t answer. He just gives me a long, unreadable look before his gaze drops to the counter. “I said it would be complicated, Min-hee.”
“You know,” I say, leaning forward across the counter, my voice dropping a little, “in our world, a non-denial is practically a press release.”
His complete lack of reaction is, in itself, an answer.
“So,” I press, my voice softer now, sharper, “anyone I know?”
His eyes flick to mine—just for a second, but it’s the tell. “It doesn’t matter.”
“So I do know her.” A hollow, sinking feeling opens in my chest.
“Is it an actress? My stylist?” My brain starts running diagnostics, flipping through a mental database of every woman in our professional orbit.
“Min-hee,” he says, his voice a soft warning, a clear ‘do not cross’ line.
But I’m already over it. “What? Why is it a secret?”
“Because I don’t want to make things awkward.”
“Why awkward? Unless…” I stop, pieces clicking into place with a little snap. “Unless it’s someone we work with.”
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal.
Why do I care? The question is sharp and unwelcome. But my stomach does this slow, sinking thing that feels an awful lot like disappointment.
I force a laugh, brittle and fake even to my own ears. “Fine. Keep your little office romance secret.”
He smiles faintly and turns to make tea, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on my entire morning. I watch the back of his head, trying to ignore the strange heat behind my eyes. Nothing to see here. I’m just tired. Overly emotional. A perfectly rational, non-jealous explanation.
I take the mug he offers without looking and sip. Too hot. I pretend it doesn’t burn.