Chapter 7 Normal for a Night
Normal for a Night
For the next few days, the world shrinks to the size of my apartment.
No news comes from the police, no reporters hover at the door. Just quiet.
And even though I’m technically on house arrest, I don’t mind. Not with Shin there—playing house like it’s his new full-time job.
A weird, dangerous thought slips into my head while I pretend to read. I picture us a couple of years from now, bickering over the TV remote—and it’s… cute.
Then my brain slams on the brakes. Me? And Shin? He’s my manager. This is wildly inappropriate. Professional-deity-of-your-choice inappropriate. Still, the thought lingers.
I glance over and find him glaring at his phone like it personally insulted him. He leans against the counter in joggers and a faded college hoodie, brow furrowed.
“You’re not calling Bora,” I say, not looking up from my book.
His head jerks up. “I wasn’t—”
I raise an eyebrow.
“…Okay, maybe I was considering it.”
“You’re going to ask my stylist to babysit me for the weekend?”
“She’s also your friend,” he counters.
“Shin.”
He lets out a long, weary sigh. “It’s not about babysitting. It’s about you not being alone. You’re under investigation, there are reporters lurking downstairs, and you’re barely eating.”
“I ate the soup you fed me.”
“That was once.”
“Three times.”
“Fine,” I say, snapping my book shut. “I’m okay now. Really.”
He looks unconvinced. I can practically see the memory flicker in his eyes: me, the bathroom, the pills.
He needs to go home that weekend for his sister’s birthday in Yangsan—and he’s terrified to leave me alone. The logic clicks. He can’t leave because of me.
And I’m going stir-crazy being stuck in here.
There’s one, incredibly reckless solution.
“What if I come with you?” The words tumble out before my brain can veto them.
That gets his full attention. “To Yangsan?”
“Unless there’s another secret family you’re visiting somewhere else.”
“Sorry, but I can’t miss my sister’s birthday,” he says, as if I’ve asked him to cancel.
“I know. You’ve been stress-cleaning for two days. I’m shocked the light switches still have paint on them.”
A sheepish smile touches his lips. “Sixteen. I can’t believe she’s turning sixteen.”
“She’s lucky to have a brother like you.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, looking conflicted. “Min-hee…”
“I want to come,” I say, and logic has already left the building.
I give him the wide-eyed, innocent look I perfected back in my idol days. “I won’t be a burden. I’ll be on my best behavior. I’ll even help with the cleaning.”
He lifts an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “You? Cleaning?”
The joke hangs in the air for a second before his smile fades, and his expression shifts. He looks away, jaw tightening slightly, as if a more serious thought has just occurred to him.
“My family—they’re great, just… a lot. Not glamorous. It’s a small town.” He trails off, searching for the right words.
“I don’t need glamorous,” I say softly. “A small town and a loud family sound kind of nice right now. I just want to go somewhere without paparazzi for once.”
He exhales, still uncertain. “It’s just different there. You might not… fit in.”
“I want to come,” I say again. “Please?”
He watches me for a long moment, his internal debate raging. Finally, he gives a single, slow nod.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “If you’re sure.”
I’m so sure that I practically sprint to pack. I want to see the world that made him. The house he grew up in, the person he was when he wasn’t cleaning up my messes.
And a fragile, hopeful part of me wants to see if there’s a place for me in that world, even just for a weekend.
***
The next morning, we set off in his car. The drive from Seoul to Yangsan takes several hours, but we don’t have much choice since I can’t take the train without causing a national incident.
He drives like he does everything else—carefully, deliberately, both hands on the wheel. He switches the radio to a jazzy oldies station and hums quietly under his breath.
“Your hometown playlist is a lot different from your Seoul playlist,” I tease.
He smirks. “You have different playlists for every outfit.”
Fair point.
The closer we get to Yangsan, the more the city fades behind us. Towering buildings give way to trees and low, rolling hills, and for a few stolen moments, it feels like life before the cameras, before all the pressure. Easy. Normal.
Shin slows in front of a two-story house with yellow shutters and flowerpots lining the steps. It looks cozy, quiet, and peaceful.
Next to the house stands a small convenience store—the kind you’d stumble across in the ‘90s, with an ice cream fridge, shelves of colorful toys, and heaps of snacks.
That must be their store.
His mother opens the door before we even ring the bell, launching herself at him with a hug that could put an Olympic wrestler to shame. “Our Shin is home!” she cries, her voice a curious, charming mix of accents.
Then she sees me. Her eyes go wide. “Oh my. You brought her. THE Yoon Min-hee?”
I brace myself. Instead, she grabs both my hands, her smile bright enough to light up the porch. “Waaah, you’re even prettier in person! And so tall! Are you hungry? Of course you are, you’re too skinny—”
“Eomma…” Shin groans, pure embarrassment in his voice. I can’t help but smile, letting out the breath I’d been holding anxiously—a wave of homespun warmth I hadn’t realized I’d been craving.
I spend the next few minutes braced for awkward questions about the scandal, the polite distance people usually adopt around celebrities.
But it never comes.
This easy, uncomplicated acceptance seems to be a family trait. His dad is a quiet man who greets me with a firm handshake and finds me a pair of slippers that actually fit.
His mom, a whirlwind of energy, is already bustling in the kitchen. “Here, bap mura!” she calls not long after we put our things down, setting out an impressive spread of banchan on the table: pan-fried pollock, grilled eel, salted squid, kimchi, and seaweed.
I tilt my head, confused by the unfamiliar phrase. Shin leans over, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks. “She means bap meogeora—’let’s eat,’” he whispers. “Her dialect’s a mix of a few things.”
I nod, hiding a grin. It feels like I’ve been dropped into a family variety show—one I’ve only ever seen on TV.
Then she brings out the main dish: gejang—raw marinated crab—and I practically drool.
We all sit, and for a few minutes, the only sound is the happy, focused silence of a good meal. I finish a whole crab with my hands and ask for another bowl of rice. Shin looks at me like I’ve sprouted a second head.
“Don’t start,” I warn him. This is the first time in years I haven’t been mentally counting calories, and it feels incredible.
His parents and sister are watching me, probably wondering who this random actress is, crashing their weekend and devouring all their food.
But his mom just smiles. “There’s more in the fridge,” she says. “You can take it back to Seoul.”
Over lunch, I learn three important things:
Shin’s Seoul accent disappears here;
They have a family cat, Mandu, who rules the house like a furry mob boss;
His little sister, Min-a, remembers everything.
“You used to be in Moonlight Girls,” she says when I enter her room, not even looking at me. “You wore a blue ribbon on the 2016 MCountdown stage. Your mic pack was crooked.”
“Wow. That is… shockingly accurate.”
“She remembers everything,” Shin says from the doorway. “Be careful.”
“Where’s my gift?” Min-a demands suddenly, spinning to face him. Shin gently catches her small, pounding fists. “Hey, we talked about this. Gifts come after you blow out the candles. There’s cake, remember?”
Min-a nods and calms down, returning to her bookshelf. I watch the way he is with her—the endless, quiet patience—and an odd, fluttering warmth stirs in my chest. I clear my throat, mostly to distract myself from my own thoughts.
“Can we see your room now?”
He blinks. “My room?”
“What are you hiding upstairs, Kang Shin?” I tease.
He rolls his eyes and heads toward the staircase. “Prepare to be underwhelmed.”
The top floor is quieter, the ceiling slants gently under the roof. A single door at the end stands slightly ajar, and Shin nudges it open with his foot.
I step in behind him, biting back a grin.
It’s… adorable.
Comic books are stacked neatly on a shelf—Slam Dunk, of course. Posters of vintage Lakers players line one wall. In the corner, a mini hoop perches over a laundry basket.
A few Taekwondo medals hang beside a cracked desk lamp, next to a photo of him as a teenager, grinning in his dobok, front teeth still a little crooked.
A dusty shelf holds tiny plastic figurines and keychains from a convenience store capsule machine. His bed is simple and tidy, draped in a soft gray duvet, with a stack of books beside it—half thrillers, half sports biographies.
“This is cute,” I say, unable to resist.
He groans from the doorway. “Please don’t call my room cute.”
“But it is,” I say, wandering over to the comic shelf. “You were such a nerd.”
“Still am,” he says with zero shame. “Some of those are first editions. Handle with reverence.”
I grin at him. “Okay, I’ve seen everything I need to see here… for now. So… where’s my room?”
He scratches the back of his neck. “About that. There’s no guest room.”
I blink. “Oh.”
“You’ll sleep here,” he says, nodding at his bed. “I’ll take the living room floor.”
“The floor?” I protest. “You’ve been on my couch for a week. Your spine must hate you.”
He shrugs. “You need the privacy more than I do.”
The air shifts—heavy, awkward. I’ve got my teasing loaded and ready.
“So what’s under the bed? Love letters? Pokémon cards? Some deep, dark shame you forgot to hide?”
He smirks. “Only dust. And probably a monster. Enter at your own risk.”
I laugh, letting myself sink onto the edge of his bed. It’s soft, comfortable, and smells faintly of pine and laundry detergent.
Of Shin.