Chapter 7 Normal for a Night #2
I jump up too quickly. He watches me, his gaze lingering a second too long, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
Then he gives a barely perceptible shake of his head, as if trying to dislodge a thought that has no business being there. He clears his throat, his professional manager mask snapping back into place.
“Dinner’s in a few hours. Min-a’s birthday.”
I smile. “I’m looking forward to it.”
The afternoon passes in a series of quiet, domestic moments that feel like scenes from a movie I’ll never be cast in.
Min-a shows me her favorite puzzles with a focused intensity. Shin hunkers down over his laptop, catching up on work, but even his professional focus feels different here—softer.
Seeing his parents move so naturally through their home, I feel like an outsider peeking into a life I can only imagine.
By evening, the house hums with a gentle energy.
His mom bustles in the kitchen, preparing japchae, bulgogi, and seaweed soup.
A small strawberry cream cake with a single, hopeful candle rests on the counter.
Min-a wears a crooked paper crown and clutches a new school backpack—Shin’s gift.
My own small gift, a cute pencil case, sits quietly next to the table.
The dinner is a warm, loud, happy blur. The table overflows with food and laughter. Shin’s father tells a story about Min-a trying to teach Mandu, the cat, how to use chopsticks.
His mom keeps sneaking more japchae onto my plate, ignoring my polite protests. We all sing “Happy Birthday” loudly and horribly off-key as Min-a, her cheeks flushed pink, makes a serious wish and blows out the candle in one breath.
For a few hours, I am not Yoon Min-hee, the actress caught in a scandal. I am just a guest. The night feels like a fragile bubble of ordinary, perfect life, and I am terrified it might burst.
After dinner, a comfortable quiet settles over the house as his parents turn in early. Min-a, looking sleepy but content, comes over to me in the living room.
“I like you when you’re not doing crazy things,” she says, with total, unfiltered sincerity. Her words, so blunt and honest, take my breath away.
She’s seen the news. She knows.
“Min-a,” Shin begins to warn gently, but I shake my head slightly and give her a small, genuine smile.
“Thanks,” I murmur, my voice a little thick. “Me too.”
She doesn’t reply. She just leans her head lightly against my arm for a moment. That small, wordless gesture feels more validating than any praise I’ve ever received. After a quiet moment, she wanders off to her room, and Shin stands to start gathering the empty dishes.
“Let me help,” I say, rising too.
“You’re a guest,” he protests.
I roll my eyes. “Then let me be the best guest you’ve ever had.”
We do the dishes shoulder to shoulder in the small kitchen, our arms brushing now and then. Side by side, we fall into an easy pattern—simple gestures that feel unexpectedly comforting. He rinses, I dry.
At one point, reaching for the same plate, our hands touch. Time seems to stretch just long enough for the heat of his skin to register. We both pull back a second too late, and the moment cracks with a laugh that sounds a little too forced from both of us.
Back upstairs, I linger in the doorway of his room, suddenly unsure what to do with myself. He turns and hands me a fresh towel and one of his oversized T-shirts to sleep in.
When I come out of the bathroom—hair damp, face bare, swimming in his shirt that smells like him—he is already on the living room floor with a pillow and a thin blanket.
I pad over quietly and give his shoulder a gentle poke.
“Hey,” I whisper.
He looks up.
“Switch with me.”
He frowns, a deep line forming between his brows. “Min-hee.” That single word is a boundary, a gentle protest. And I am about to bulldoze right over it.
“I am not sleeping in your comfortable bed while you suffer on the hardwood floor. Come on.”
He groans into his pillow. “There’s no way I’m letting you sleep on the floor.”
“Then I’ll share the bed with you.”
He rolls over, his face flushing a dark red even in the dim light. “You’re going to drive me insane.”
“Already doing that,” I say, a small, triumphant smile on my face. “I’ll wait in your room. If you’re not in there in five minutes, I’m coming out to drag you.”
With that, I walk into his room and flop dramatically onto the bed. A few minutes of silence pass.
Then, the mattress shifts.
I roll to my side. He lies stiffly beside me, on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling as if it holds the secrets to the universe.
“See?” I whisper. “Not so scandalous.”
He doesn’t reply at first. Then, softly, “You smell like my shampoo.”
I become aware of the space between us.
Or the lack of it.
Moonlight filters into the room as I glance at my wrist—the handmade bracelet Min-a gave me, plastic beads spelling out my name… almost right. It says MIN-HI.
“I’m really glad I met your family,” I whisper.
He chuckles softly, eyes meeting mine. “You are?”
“Yeah,” I say, not looking away. “They make me feel… like a normal person again. Like I can breathe, even when everything else feels like it is falling apart.”
A soft silence settles between us. I can’t help but grin a little, despite the lump in my throat.
“You’re lucky, you know. That family of yours. I’m… jealous.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” I admit, turning my gaze to the ceiling.
“The chaos, the noise, the warmth… just being able to belong somewhere without worrying that everything’s about to go wrong.
Eating homemade food. Not being afraid to come home—to my family home, I mean—and not knowing whether my dad is okay or getting worse.
Having someone to talk to when things get rough. ”
He shifts slightly, brushing his fingers against mine, the gesture casual but grounding. I feel my face heat up.
“You have me.”
I freeze, unsure what to say, but feel something shift inside me.
Then the words I’ve been holding in for years start spilling out.
“When I was a trainee, my mom left,” I say, voice tight. “I was sixteen. She just… disappeared. To Jeju, apparently. No letters, no calls—nothing. My aunt told me afterward. I thought maybe she’d come back, but she never did.”
I swallow, trying to ignore the lump in my throat. “It feels like she abandoned me… like I am left to figure out how to survive on my own. And at the same time, I feel like I have to take care of the rest of my family, because they… aren’t exactly reliable.”
I let out a long, shaky breath before adding, “Then trainee life itself is brutal. The only thing that keeps me sane is the sisterhood I have with the other girls at Jellypop. I think… maybe I find a new family there, one that could replace the broken one I am left with.”
He stays quiet beside me—doesn’t offer a quick filler reaction or a pep talk. He just listens, letting me go on and on.
“We used to be inseparable. Late nights practicing, sharing dorm snacks, crying over bad reviews. But now… it feels like that’s all falling apart too. We’re not really close anymore, not like we used to be. Just surface-level stuff.”
I let out a short, dry laugh. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this.”
“You don’t have to give me a reason,” he says softly.
He tilts his head slightly, smirking despite the seriousness of my confession. “So… you’re jealous, huh? Wait until you see the family photo album—I had a bowl cut all through middle school because my mom insisted she could cut my hair better than any salon.”
I laugh, imagining Shin in that haircut. I make it my personal mission to check out that photo album before we leave tomorrow.
Then his hand, which has been near mine, moves deliberately, lacing his fingers with mine. He doesn’t offer a simple platitude. Instead, he shifts, turning slightly to face me in the dim light.
“I’ve watched you for eight years, Min-hee,” he says, voice low and steady. “I’ve seen you build walls so high and push yourself until you break. I’ve seen you shoulder more than anyone should. I… I just never understood what you were carrying.”
His thumb brushes lightly over my knuckles, quiet and warm. “But now I see. You weren’t being impossible. You were just a kid, trying to survive the only way you could.”
And that is what breaks me. I blink, my throat tightening as an unexpected tear slips free. He is just… there. Watching, really seeing me—the kid behind the polished celebrity—and not looking away.
His voice softens, low and careful. “Do you remember that night after the Baeksang Awards? The year you lost for City of Tides?”
The memory hits me like a punch. Of course I remember. I nod slowly, unsure why he is bringing up one of my most public disappointments now.
“How you had to sit there with that perfect smile,” he goes on, his eyes locked on mine, “while the rest of the cast went up to accept their awards, one by one?”
“You were silent in the car on the way home,” he says.
“Just staring out the window, trying so hard not to let a single tear fall. Everyone else on the team saw the actress who lost. All I could see was someone trying so hard not to break in front of anyone. That was the night I knew… I’d do anything to keep you from ever feeling that alone again. ”
I give a small, uneven laugh, half from sadness, half from the absurd closeness of him seeing me like this.
“You notice everything, don’t you?”
He smirks but doesn’t let go of my hand. “Someone’s got to.”
Slowly, he pulls me in until my head rests on his chest. It feels like coming home to a place I’ve never been before.
“You’re not alone now, Min-hee,” he murmurs into my hair, his voice thick with something I can’t name. “You don’t have to carry it all by yourself anymore. Let me help.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. I just nod against his shirt, letting fifteen years of held-back tears slip free, crying quietly for the little girl who thought everything was her fault.
He holds me, one hand moving in a slow, steady rhythm over my back, until the storm inside me finally quiets.
“Rest now,” he says, a quiet smile in his tone as he holds me steady.
I do. Eventually. Held safely in his arms, I drift off feeling more seen than I ever have in my life… and wondering what the hell I am getting myself into.