Chapter 9 Coming Home
Coming Home
It’s been few weeks since The Kiss?—the one that recalibrated our entire universe.
The world is slowly coming back into focus. Casting calls are trickling in—small roles, commercials—but it feels like dipping my toes into the water after being stranded on a deserted island.
During this quiet interlude, I feel restless. Sometimes I wake up and start pacing my apartment because I’ve been working non-stop since I was thirteen—shooting, recording, performing—even through weekends and holidays. Now that everything’s quiet, I don’t know what to do with myself.
Shin glances up from his laptop. “You’re allowed to take a break, you know,” he says. “Most people don’t forget how to sit still.”
“I think I might’ve,” I mutter.
He smiles and closes the laptop lid. “Then I’ll help you practice.”
So this weekend, true to his word, he’s planned a surprise—a day trip to Yangsan.
The moment we step into his family home, his mother greets me with a wide, triumphant smile, holding up a heavy ceramic dish. “I made gejang,” she announces, her tone conspiratorial. “I remembered it was your favorite.”
The spicy, briny scent—along with the forceful, motherly insistence that asks for no thanks—hits me, the kind that simply fills the room.
“You don’t have to—”
“Of course I do,” she interrupts, already ushering me inside. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days. Come, before I call your manager and complain.”
I snort and follow her gladly, one hand clinging to hers.
After lunch, Shin disappears into the garage and returns, wheeling out a brand-new bicycle—a birthday gift from Min-a’s parents, complete with a basket and a tiny silver bell.
Though her birthday was a while ago, the gift looks untouched.
Her eyes widen at the sight of it, a flash of joy lighting her face—but it fades almost instantly into hesitation.
She circles the bike, hands hovering over the handlebars, yet can’t bring herself to get on.
“The training wheels are off,” she says quietly, looking at Shin. “I’ll fall.”
“I’ll hold you,” he says patiently, but she just shakes her head, her lower lip trembling.
I watch them for a moment—the big brother coaxing his scared little sister. On a sudden impulse, I stand up. “Hey, Min-a,” I say, coming over. “I was a total klutz when I learned. Fell a hundred times. Want me to show you the secret?”
She looks at me, eyes wide and questioning. Shin looks at me, too, surprised. I give him a small, confident nod.
We spend the next hour on the quiet street in front of their house. I hold the back of the bike seat, my hand steady on her shoulder, walking—and sometimes jogging—beside her as she wobbles.
“Look forward, not at your feet,” I tell her. “Keep pedaling. Even if you wobble, just keep pedaling.” The words feel strangely familiar, like advice I should have been giving myself for years.
She falls once—a gentle scrape on the knee—and her eyes well up. I help her brush the dust off. “See? You fell, and you’re fine,” I say, with a cheerfulness I didn’t know I had. “Let’s go again.”
Shin watches from the porch steps, leaning against the railing with a quiet, unreadable expression. He doesn’t interfere—just watches us, a small smile occasionally tugging at his lips.
Then it happens. Min-a finds her rhythm. I feel the bike steady beneath my hand. My heart lurches. I take a chance and let go.
She keeps going. Five feet. Ten feet. Her initial terrified focus melts into a wide, triumphant grin before she wobbles to a stop, feet planted firmly on the ground.
“I did it!” she screams, turning to look at me, face shining with happiness.
“You did it!” I yell back, laughing.
I glance back at the porch. Shin is still watching us, but the unreadable expression is gone.
Now he has this open, warm look that makes my stomach do a little flip.
He’s not just watching his sister learn to ride a bike—he’s watching me, too.
Like I just performed a magic trick without realizing it.
I can’t help thinking how ridiculous it is that a bike lesson could feel like this. But there it is—my chest tight, my cheeks warm, and a small, helpless smile creeping onto my face.
***
The next morning, after a quiet breakfast, we head to a nearby beach.
We spread a blanket on the sand and unpack the lunch his mom prepared—kimbap, rolled omelette, a few fried dumplings, and sweet rice cakes for dessert—while the sound of the waves provides a hypnotic rhythm as we sit close, our knees brushing.
“So…” he starts, his voice casual, but his eyes fixed on the horizon. “We’re… dating, right?”
I almost choke on my kimbap. My brain, which has been happily running on food-induced autopilot, snaps to attention. “Uh… yeah? I thought the making-out-in-my-bedroom was a fairly solid indicator.”
A relieved grin spreads across his face. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about what that means. Professionally.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is this against company policy, Manager Kang?”
“It’s… frowned upon,” he admits. “They might reassign one of us.”
I nudge him with my knee. “Well, as long as they don’t stick you with some hot, up-and-coming young actress, I think I can handle it.”
He shoots me a look of mock offense. “Hey! I’m a professional.”
“Oh yeah?” I tease. “What about the last client you had? The idol-turned-actress? I hear she’s a real handful.”
Shin groans dramatically. “She’s a handful indeed.”
I smirk. “You like it though. Admit it.”
We both laugh, and the tension eases—but then his expression turns serious again.
“I just want to support you,” he says quietly. “But I don’t want my feelings to complicate your career.” He hesitates, his gaze still on the ocean. “And… are you okay with dating someone who makes way less than you?”
I take his hand, lacing my fingers through his. “Shin, of all the things I worry about—and the list is professionally curated and very, very long—that isn’t even on it. You trusted me when I couldn’t trust myself. You’re the safest place I’ve ever known. That’s the only currency that matters.”
A small, genuine smile finally reaches his eyes.
“Besides,” I add, leaning my head against his shoulder, “acting careers don’t last forever. You might have to be my sugar daddy one day.”
He chuckles, warm against my ear. “I’ll start saving, then.”
On that note, I suddenly snap my fingers. “That reminds me… today is Black Friday! I need to check online and buy toilet paper in bulk.”
Shin gives me an incredulous look and shakes his head. “Min-hee… you’re an actress, and they paid you two hundred million won per episode in your latest drama. And you still want to buy toilet paper in bulk?”
I shrug, ignoring him and checking out my online purchase. Old habits die hard—especially when you grow up with an alcoholic dad, an unreliable brother, and a non-existent mom, and are forced to be the only responsible one in the house.
A comfortable silence settles between us, filled only by the rhythmic whisper of the waves.
“Did you always want to be a manager?” I ask into the quiet.
He tries to deflect with a joke, a small smirk playing on his lips. “To be your manager specifically? It was my lifelong dream since I first saw you.”
I give him a completely unimpressed look. “Seriously.”
The humor fades, replaced by something more wistful. “I studied journalism,” he says, his voice quieter now. “I wanted to be a sports writer. Maybe a commentator. Slam Dunk fan and all that.”
The image of his nerdy, adorable childhood room flashes in my mind. Of course.
“So what happened?” I ask softly.
He picks at a loose thread on the blanket, avoiding my eyes.
“I needed a job after I graduated—I couldn’t be a burden on my parents.
I took an internship at the agency and paid my dues for a few years.
Managed a couple of rookie groups, some actors.
The usual grind. The work was anything but journalism. ”
He pauses, finally looking at me, his expression turning serious. “And then, eight years ago, your previous manager was reassigned. There was an opening on your team.”
I just stare at him, a little confused. “So they just… assigned me to you?”
A small, almost shy smile touches his lips. “Not exactly. The board’s plan for you was… predictable. More of the same rom-coms until your idol fame faded.”
Classic. Be a marketable idol until your late twenties, then pivot to rom-coms until your late thirties. Finally, be replaced by a younger, fresher face in the industry. Rinse and repeat.
“But I’d seen you in the practice rooms late at night,” he continues, his voice low and certain. “Long after everyone else had gone home. You weren’t just rehearsing; you were taking the scripts apart, line by line, trying to find the truth in them. I knew you were more than what they saw.”
He takes a breath. “So when the position opened up, I made a pitch. Not a career plan for you, but an argument for me. I told them you deserved a manager who would bring you challenging scripts, who saw you as a serious actress, not just a former idol. I argued that I could be that person. I fought for the assignment.”
The revelation hits me with the force of a physical blow. All this time, I thought I was just his job. His next task. I never imagined…
“You… you chose me?” I whisper, the words feeling too small for the moment.
“Everyone else saw an idol,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “I saw an actress. I thought you deserved to have someone in your corner who saw that, too.”
“You and your observations,” I say, trying to keep the mood light. “So you did notice how hard dance practice was for me… And since I couldn’t dance as well as the others, I was determined to be an actress—better than everyone else.”
The quiet conviction in his eyes hits me like a wave of validation I didn’t even know I was starving for. In that moment, it’s like a switch flips in my mind. It’s my turn—my turn to see him, to truly see the potential he’s been setting aside.