Chapter 8 Something Worth Waiting For
Something Worth Waiting For
We get back to Seoul late Sunday night, and my apartment smells less like me and more like Shin’s mom’s cooking.
Not an exaggeration. She has sent us home with what can only be called a strategic, food-based invasion: japchae in industrial-sized containers, two giant jars of kimchi (one fresh, one aged), grilled mackerel wrapped in foil, a dozen vegetable side dishes, and a mountain of rice cakes.
Shin, apparently part-superhero, carries the three heaviest bags like they are filled with air. I stagger behind him with the one lighter bag, which already feels like a dead weight.
“This is an intervention,” I mutter, hauling it onto the counter. “Your mother has staged a malnutrition intervention.”
“You’re welcome,” he says flatly, kicking the door shut behind him.
“It’s not a complaint! It’s just… a lot.” I start unpacking, overwhelmed. “She either thinks I’m on the brink of starvation or she’s trying to bribe me into marrying you with kimchi.”
A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays a grin. “It’s the second one.”
I pointedly ignore the stupid little flip in my stomach.
We spend the next ten minutes playing a high-stakes game of refrigerator Tetris, cramming Tupperware into every possible space.
The satisfying thunk of containers fitting perfectly is followed by the audible groan of the shelves.
When we finally manage to shut the door, we step back to admire our work.
“Your fridge is going to explode,” Shin says, genuinely concerned.
“Then I’ll die happy,” I say, grinning.
I look from the ridiculously overstuffed fridge to him standing there, small, tired smile on his face, and it hits me: this is the first time this apartment has ever really felt like a home.
***
The coffee is still steaming on the table when my phone starts ringing.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Yeong-gi’s name flashes on the screen.
I sigh, torn between picking it up and letting it go to voicemail. Eventually, I give in—it’s hard to ignore that small voice in my head reminding me he’s still my family.
“Min-hee,” he says, his voice heavy with that fake sincerity he only uses when he needs something big. “I’m sorry about last time. I swear, Dad sounded worse when we talked on the phone. I’m just… worried about him, that’s why I came to find you. You know I can only depend on you.”
I don’t answer. I’ve learned that silence unsettles him more than words ever could.
“It’s not about Dad this time,” he rushes on, his pitch sliding neatly into place.
“This is a real thing. I’m talking angel investors, Min-hee.
I just need a tiny bit of seed money. This time, I’m serious.
It’s solar panels for home electricity—huge market in Indonesia and Thailand.
It’d be a shame to miss out on this opportunity because… everyone needs electricity, right?”
I inhale slowly, resisting the urge to cut through the bullshit right there. Another “big idea.” Another attempt to pull money from me, wrapped in business buzzwords. Same old song.
Across the table, Shin quietly polishes his glasses, calm and unbothered. I borrow a little of that calm, letting it steady my voice.
“Yeong-gi,” I say finally, the firmness in my tone surprising even me. “I’ll call you back.”
I end the call, with no intention of actually calling him back. It’s just easier to say that—because if I keep talking to him for another minute, I might explode.
Shin stops polishing his glasses. He looks up, pushes himself off the floor, and takes two steps toward me, tucking the cloth and glasses neatly into his glasses case.
“Your brother?” he asks, his voice quiet but sharp. “What does he want now?”
I flinch, embarrassment creeping in. “Another business venture. Angel investors. In other words, he needs money.”
Shin exhales. He doesn’t sigh at me, but for me. He sits down on the couch beside me—closer than he usually does—and turns my face toward him with a gentle hand.
“Min-hee,” he says, his gaze clear and steady. “Family isn’t supposed to be a loan.”
I shrug, suddenly feeling small and fourteen again. “I’m all he has.”
“You can’t be his safety net forever. Every time you give him money, you keep him from standing on his own.”
The phrase safety net stings more than it should. He’s right. The life I’ve built—the one I’m clinging to now—feels more like a tightrope, and they’re shaking it from below.
I twist the phone in my hand and think over his words for a while.
“I’m going to call him back,” I say, the decision settling in my bones.
“Good,” Shin says. He shifts slightly closer on the couch. “It’s time.”
I dial the number. My brother answers on the first ring.
“Min-hee? So what do you say?”
“I don’t have any money for you,” I say, cutting to the chase.
The silence on the other end is loud and immediate.
“I’m done with the loans, Yeong-gi,” I continue, my voice steady and flat. “It’s enough.”
I end the call, the line going dead immediately. My hand trembles, but this time it’s not from fear—it’s from the force of a boundary finally held.
Shin shifts closer, sliding an arm around my shoulders. His hand is warm and reassuring. “Let it go, Min-hee,” he says softly. “You’ve carried them long enough.”
***
Tuesday morning, I’m ripped from a dead sleep by my phone buzzing on the nightstand. Not a soft chime, but the harsh, insistent buzz of an email notification. What now? I thought. Every time my phone rang or buzzed these days, I flinched a little.
I swipe it open, my eyes still blurry.
The subject line hits like a clinical, terrifying punch to the gut:
From: Seoul Metropolitan Police Department
Subject: Final Toxicology Results
I bolt upright, suddenly wide awake. My hand hovers over the screen, shaking. What if, after all this, something went wrong? What if the universe had one last cruel joke to play? But my thumb betrays me, tapping the screen open anyway.
My eyes fly across the screen, but I don’t read it.
Not really. I jump past the wall of dense, bureaucratic text—the case number, the formal address, all the official jargon—my brain hunting for the only thing that matters.
And then, at the very bottom, I see it. One line.
One word, stark and black against the white screen.
Final results: Negative.
I read it twice. Three times. The single word blurs and sharpens. Negative. Clear. Free.
The air rushes out of my lungs in a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob. I’m out of bed in seconds, hair a tangled mess, sprinting to the kitchen.
“Shin!”
He’s at the counter, calmly pouring coffee into two mugs as if it’s just another Tuesday.
“What—”
“It’s negative!” I wave my phone in the air like an Olympic torch. “It’s negative! Do you hear me?!”
The smallest, most infuriatingly calm smile touches his lips, as if he knew it all along. “Good.”
“‘Good’?” I nearly drop the phone. “‘Good’? Shin, this is amazing! This is I-don’t-have-to-flee-the-country-saving! This is—”
I can’t stop laughing, dizzy with a relief so profound it feels like a physical weight has been lifted off my chest. I run a victory lap around the kitchen island. And then, because words aren’t enough, I throw myself at him.
He catches me easily, one arm wrapping securely around my waist. For a moment, I just stay there, face buried in the familiar comfort of his shoulder, breathing in the scent of coffee and clean laundry.
Eight years of this quiet, steady presence in the background of my chaotic life. Eight years of him being the calm eye of my personal hurricane. And in one, adrenaline-fueled, probably-a-terrible-idea moment, I decide I’m done pretending.
Before I can lose my nerve, I lean in and kiss him.
It’s quick and clumsy, all messy relief and gratitude. For a split second, he freezes, completely still. Then his grip on my waist tightens, and he kisses me back—slowly, deliberately, as if he’s afraid I might vanish if he moves too fast.
When I draw back, my smile feels shaky.
“You…” His voice is a low, amused rumble. “You don’t get to do that and then just walk away.”
I blink. “Who said I’m walking away?”
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, and something dangerously close to hope. The pause is brief, but it’s enough to make my pulse trip over itself. Then Shin clears his throat, breaking the spell.
“Hungry?” he asks, his voice a little rough around the edges.
The question is so ordinary, so him, that it makes me laugh for real.
We eat a celebratory feast of his mom’s leftovers, our knees brushing under the tiny table.
The rest of the day is a blur of phone calls. First, the agency CEO, all business and brisk relief. Then the PR manager, reading a statement that is a masterclass in damage control wrapped in velvet. By lunchtime, the headlines are everywhere: Actress Yoon Min-hee Cleared of Drug Allegations.
The crisis is over, but Shin doesn’t leave. And I don’t ask him to.
We end up on the couch, watching a historical drama rerun in a comfortable silence.
It’s a slow, careful negotiation of this new, undefined space between us.
My head eventually finds its way to his shoulder.
His arm drapes casually along the back of the sofa, not quite touching me, but close enough that I can feel his warmth.
Later that night, I’m in my room when a KakaoTalk message lights up the screen.
Suho: Congrats on the police result.
I look at his name, and for the first time, I feel… nothing. Not anger, not nostalgia. Just a quiet finality. He’s a ghost from a past life. And I’m done being haunted. I swipe the notification away without replying.
A soft knock sounds at my door. “Yeah?”
The door opens, and Shin leans in. He’s closed the door behind him. His eyes hold mine with a new kind of weight that makes my stomach do a slow, lazy flip.
“About earlier…” he starts.
“What about it?” I ask, my heart starting to beat a little faster.
He crosses the room with the unhurried confidence of a man who has already made his decision and stops just inches in front of me. “I’ve waited a long time for this,” he says quietly. “So let’s at least do it right.”
My breath catches. He brushes a loose strand of hair from my cheek, his fingertips trailing down my neck. My pulse jumps under his touch. Then both hands frame my face, thumbs stroking the corners of my mouth.
And then his lips are on mine.
This isn’t the gentle, questioning kiss from this morning. This one’s a statement. It’s deeper, hungrier—his mouth moving against mine like he’s finally done waiting.
My fingers fist in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between us. He shoves his glasses aside, too impatient to care, and finds my mouth again. A low sound vibrates from his chest into my mouth, sending a hot shiver down my spine.
In the back of my mind, a frantic, buzzing thought: Oh my god, I’m making out with my manager. But then a second, much louder thought: Why does this feel so good?
When we finally pull apart, my lips are swollen and my breathing’s uneven. His eyes look impossibly dark without his glasses.
“Better,” he murmurs, his forehead pressed to mine.
I manage a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Better.”
He doesn’t pull away, not right away. He just stays there, his thumbs stroking my cheeks as if to soothe the fire he just started.
The air between us is thick with eight years of unspoken words—all of them finally answered without a single one being said.
He’s no longer Shin, my manager, my best friend. He’s Shin, my man.
He leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead—a promise, a full stop, and a new beginning all at once.
“Get some sleep,” he whispers, his voice still rough.
And then he turns and slips out of the room, the door clicking softly shut behind him, leaving me in a silence that feels anything but empty.
I lie back in bed, my skin still buzzing where he touched me, my lips tingling. I think about the way he kissed me like he’d been starving. Maybe he had. Maybe this is why we waited eight years.
Because this wasn’t just a kiss. It was the start of something worth breaking every single rule for.