Chapter Two
The gym empties out slowly after the post-work rush dies down.
My last client of the day, a college kid training for her first half-marathon, waves goodbye as she heads for the locker rooms, and I wipe down the equipment we used before tossing the disinfectant wipes in the trash.
My shoulders ache. Three back-to-back sessions will do that, especially when the middle one was a guy who needed me to spot him on every single set because he kept trying to ego-lift weight he had no business touching.
I grab my gym bag from behind the front counter, sling it over one shoulder, and push through the front doors into the evening air.
The sun’s mostly gone, just a thin band of orange light clinging to the tops of the buildings across the street, and the temperature has dropped enough that the sweat still drying in my hair makes me shiver.
Hyunwoo is leaning against his Maserati in the parking lot, one ankle crossed over the other, scrolling through his phone with his thumb.
He’s changed since this afternoon. The slacks and casual button-down are gone, replaced by a perfectly tailored dark navy suit that fits him like it was sewn directly onto his body.
The top two buttons of his dress shirt are undone as usual, exposing the gold chain resting against his collarbones, and his hair has been restyled, swept back off his forehead.
His gold watch catches the last of the evening light as his thumb moves across the screen.
I look down at myself. Gym-issued sweatpants.
A faded t-shirt with a protein shake stain on the hem from where I spilled my shaker bottle during my break.
My hair is flat against my skull from sweating through three sessions, and I’m pretty sure I smell like rubber mats and someone else’s body odor.
“You look nice,” I say flatly as I approach.
Hyunwoo glances up and grins, pocketing his phone. “I always look nice.” He pushes off the car and pulls open the passenger door for me with a little flourish, like he’s a chauffeur and I’m some VIP. “Get in, I’m starving.”
I drop into the passenger seat and toss my bag into the footwell.
The leather interior smells like Hyunwoo’s cologne, faintly woody underneath it.
He rounds the car, slides behind the wheel, and pulls out of the lot without telling me where we’re going, which is typical.
Hyunwoo operates on a need-to-know basis when it comes to plans, and apparently I never need to know.
I lean my head against the window and close my eyes for the drive, half-dozing while Hyunwoo hums along to whatever’s playing through the speakers.
When the car slows and I open my eyes, my stomach drops.
The Grand Central Hotel rises in front of us, a towering glass structure that reflects the city lights across its surface like a mirror.
The entrance is canopied, lined with luxury cars, a red carpet runner leading from the curb to the revolving doors.
A valet in a crisp uniform is already approaching the driver’s side.
“You’re kidding me,” I say.
Hyunwoo shifts into park and kills the engine. “What?”
“Hyunwoo.” I gesture at the building, then down at myself. “Look at me.”
He glances over, gives me a once-over that lasts about half a second, and shrugs. “You look fine.”
“I look like I sleep in a dumpster behind this place.” I hiss at him as the valet opens his door. “You should have told me we were going somewhere like this. I would have at least put on jeans and a clean shirt.”
Hyunwoo steps out of the car and hands the valet his key fob with a polite nod, then comes around to my side as I climb out reluctantly.
The valet greets me with a smooth “Good evening, sir,” and not a single flicker of judgment crosses his face, but I can feel it anyway.
Standing next to Hyunwoo in his tailored navy suit, I feel like a stray that wandered in off the street.
Hyunwoo snorts, not even bothering to look over as we walk toward the entrance. “Do you even own anything formal?”
I smack him on the shoulder. Hard enough that he actually stumbles a step sideways, his dress shoes scuffing on the pavement. He’s still grinning when he catches his balance.
“Alright, alright. Hold on.” He holds up a hand to the valet, who’s about to pull the Maserati away. “Give me one second.”
He jogs back to the car and pops the trunk. I watch with narrowing eyes as he pulls out a garment bag. Not a plastic dry-cleaning bag, either. The kind that comes from high-end tailors, with a logo embossed in gold on the front. He walks it back to me and holds it out.
“Here. I had an extra on hand.”
I stare at the bag. Then at him. Then back at the bag.
“An extra,” I repeat.
“Something I picked up recently.” His expression is completely innocent, which means he planned this. “It’s my size, so it might be long in the leg on you, but it should fit otherwise. We’re similar enough through the shoulders and chest.”
I take the garment bag from him, feeling the weight of expensive fabric through the covering. “I’m suspicious about how conveniently prepared you are for this. Almost like you knew I’d show up looking like a gym rat.”
“You always look like a gym rat, Yuggie. I just came prepared for the inevitable.” He waves the valet on to park the car and steers me toward the entrance with a hand on my back. “Come on, you can change inside.”
The hotel lobby gives off an air that makes you instinctively straighten your posture.
Polished marble floors so shiny I can see my own unfortunate reflection in them.
Towering floral arrangements on pedestals that are taller than I am, bursting with white lilies.
Crystal chandeliers casting warm golden light over everything, making even the air look expensive.
I clutch the garment bag tighter against my chest and try not to touch anything as Hyunwoo leads me toward the restrooms.
The restroom is nicer than my entire apartment.
I’m not exaggerating. Individual stalls with actual wooden doors, not the flimsy metal partitions with gaps wide enough to make eye contact with the person next to you.
Marble countertops with individual sinks.
Soft ambient lighting that makes your skin look good.
There’s a small basket of individually wrapped mints and hand towels rolled into neat cylinders beside each faucet.
I lock myself in one of the stalls and peel off my sweatpants and worn t-shirt, stuffing them into my gym bag.
The suit inside the garment bag is a deep charcoal gray with a subtle herringbone pattern woven into the fabric.
When I pull the jacket on, the lining slides against my bare arms like water.
Cool and smooth and clearly expensive. The fabric’s never been within fifty meters of a washing machine and never will be.
The pants are long, as predicted. They pool around my ankles, and I have to roll the waistband twice to keep them from sliding down my hips. The shirt is fine through the chest, but the sleeves are too long, so I push them up to my forearms and hope it looks intentional.
I come out of the stall to find Hyunwoo leaning against the marble sinks, arms crossed, waiting. He looks up from his phone as the stall door swings open.
I hold my arms out and do a slow spin. “Well? How do I look?”
Hyunwoo’s eyes scan me from head to toe. His mouth curves into a smirk.
“Come here,” he says, beckoning with two fingers.
I step forward and he’s on me immediately, reaching for my collar where it’s folded under on one side. His fingers work it flat, then smooth down the front of the jacket, pressing out the wrinkles with his palms. His fingertips brush against the sides of my neck as he adjusts the lapels.
He steps back, tilts his head, and frowns. “Hold on. The pants are uneven.”
He pushes the jacket up to see where I’ve clumsily rolled the waistband, the fabric bunched unevenly and creating a lopsided silhouette that makes me look like I got dressed in the dark. Which, to be fair, the stall lighting wasn’t great.
Hyunwoo crouches down slightly and goes to work on the waistband, his fingers folding the fabric neater and more evenly so the pant legs hang at the same length.
His knuckles press against my stomach and hips through the thin material of the dress shirt as he works, and I shift my weight, looking up at the ceiling.
“You know, I am capable of dressing myself,” I mutter.
“Evidence suggests otherwise.” He straightens up and frowns at the shirt, which is billowing out unevenly from my hasty tuck job. Without any warning or hesitation, he reaches his hand straight down the front of my pants.
I jerk. “What are you—”
“Hold still.” His fingers slide along my lower abdomen, smoothing the bunched shirt fabric flat against my skin, then work their way around to my sides. His hand is warm through the thin material, and I can feel each individual finger pressing the shirt down against my hip.
“Stop that, it’s weird,” I grumble, swatting at his hands.
He completely ignores me, using one hand to hold me still by the hip while the other tucks the shirt in around the back, his fingers dipping below the waistband and smoothing the fabric against the small of my back.
His knuckles drag along my spine and I squirm again, but his grip on my hip tightens and keeps me in place.
“If you’d stop moving, I’d be done already.”
“If you’d stop putting your hands down my pants in a public restroom, I’d stop moving.”
He snorts but doesn’t stop until the shirt is tucked in neatly all the way around and the suit sits properly on my frame. Then he steps back, looks me up and down one more time, and nods with an approving expression.
“Very presentable. You clean up nicely when someone dresses you.”