20. Minji
MINJI
I’ve always liked to think I have my shit together, but honestly, what person in their early thirties really does?
No one—not even celebrities. We’re all still making mistakes as we go.
And even though I love spending time with Aaron, I know when I’m making a mistake.
Like right now. My knuckles whiten around the handle of my overnight bag as I step into Aaron’s building.
The elevator moves excruciatingly slow, even though the digital numbers change quickly.
Before I can second-guess myself, I’m standing at his door, my hand raised.
It swings open. Aaron stands there in gray sweatpants and a navy henley that traces every contour of his chest, his gold chain slightly visible under the neckline. I don’t know any other man who always looks this good. I swear, even when he wakes up, this man is gorgeous.
“Perfect timing.” His smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Come in.”
His apartment is how I would think an author’s place would be. Bookshelves tower along two walls while a writing desk commands the view by the window. Something simmers in the kitchen, filling the air with aromas of garlic and herbs.
“Something smells delicious.”
“Nothing elaborate, just testing my limited skills.” His eyes drop to my bag. “What’s this?”
“Overnight things,” I whisper.
“I thought tomorrow was our sleepover night.” His eyebrow arches.
“Not that I mind a preview. Actually, I’d vote for you staying every night until my tour starts.
I’ve been crashing at your place for the past couple of days.
It’s only right that you return the favor.
” His smile widens, and he takes a step closer, his fingers brushing against mine as he takes the bag from my hand. “Let me put this in the bedroom.”
As he disappears down the hallway, I take the opportunity to explore his living space more thoroughly.
The bookshelves are organized by genre rather than author, romance occupying the most prominent position.
I run my fingers along the spines, pausing at his own works displayed without pretension among his favorites.
“Do you want to stay with me until I leave for my book tour?” he asks, walking back down the hallway.
Yes. God yes!
“That’s… That’s a lot of nights.” I turn to face him, keeping my voice neutral.
“Six nights isn’t a lot.” He walks toward me. “I want every single one of them with you.”
I want that too.
“Aaron, I don’t know if—”
He stops with barely a breath between us, his presence like a furnace against my skin. “Hey,” he says softly. “No pressure. Just consider it. If you want to stay, we can swing by your place tomorrow for whatever else you need.”
The kitchen timer chimes, giving me an excuse not to respond.
Aaron flashes that boyish smile and retreats toward the sound, leaving me alone with thoughts I shouldn’t be having.
What’s there to consider? I want exactly what he’s offering.
But I need to play it cool and maintain some facade of hesitation.
It’s ridiculous logic, but it’s my ridiculous logic.
I can’t have him knowing how much I crave his touch.
“Food’s up,” he announces from the kitchen. “And there might be an open bottle of wine involved. For clarity of thought, of course.”
“Trying to influence my judgment with alcohol, Mr. Singleton?”
“Is it working?”
I follow the sound, finding him plating ????? (kimchi fried rice).
My heart spasms a little at the sight. The kimchi looks store-bought, but nonetheless, it’s bright crimson and glistening, flecked through a mound of perfect short-grain rice.
The eggs on top are vibrantly yellow, barely set, yolk trembling.
This isn’t the casual dinner he promised.
This is someone who wanted everything perfect, down to the last detail.
He pours us each a glass of wine, then gestures to the bar-height island, where two settings are already waiting.
My stool scrapes against the floor as I sit, rolling up my sleeves with fingers that won’t quite cooperate.
So, this is what a date looks like without subtext.
Or rather, with subtext so glaring it might as well be written in neon across the wall above the stove.
The first bite hits my tongue and I cough slightly—the kimchi’s heat blooms perfectly against the sticky rice, warming my face from the inside out. “Where did you even learn to make this?” I ask, gesturing with my chopsticks. This kimchi fried rice is so fucking good.
Aaron’s mouth curves upward, satisfaction written across his features.
“The curse of working alone is that you have time for things like YouTube cooking tutorials. I had to induce my own chaos.” He pauses, eyes flickering to mine then away.
“And I remembered back in college you said your mom used to make this, so…” He trails off, suddenly bashful. “Is it close?”
I take another bite. “It’s…” My voice catches. “Comes close to my mom’s if the kimchi was homemade.” I clear my throat. “But it’s definitely better than that place on Thirty-Sixth.”
He beams, then rests his chin on one hand and just watches me eat. Like he could spend the rest of the evening doing exactly that. When we are together, Aaron’s never been able to stay away for long, and within minutes he’s at my elbow, refilling my glass and nudging his own stool closer.
He’s always touching—a hand at the curve of my neck, a thumb knuckle against my wrist. The attention is so constant it should be overwhelming, but tonight it’s just… right. So right, I can’t even pretend to argue.
By the time we’re scraping the last bits of fried egg from the bowls, my brain is as soft as the yolks we’ve just demolished, and when he reaches for my hand, I don’t even think of pulling away.
“Come on,” he says, standing. I let him pull me from my seat, past the messy kitchen and the living room full of manuscripts and books, toward the window nook where his desk sits.
The Manhattan skyline burns, all gold squares and neon ribbons.
“It’s the best view in the apartment,” he says, sitting cross-legged on the floor, and pulls me down beside him.
I rest my head on his shoulder, the bones hard and comforting under the cotton. Aaron sits so still, his arm a steady pressure at my back, that I close my eyes and pretend this moment could stretch out for hours, or days.
After what could have been either three minutes or a full hour, I let out a breath. “Are you okay?”
His laugh is so low I barely catch it. “I’m great. I’m just… I really like this, us sitting in silence just enjoying each other’s company.”
“Oh. Not what I expected to hear.”
“I mean, I want to do all the other things you’re thinking about. So much it’s nearly catastrophic.” He shrugs. “But I also don’t want to miss this.”
I look at the city again, the perfect reflection of us trapped in the window. My hair is a mess, his lips curved in that storybook-hero smile, both of us blurry with wine.
“So…” I prompt. “You’re saying you want to savor me?”
He grins, the kind of grin that should come with an R rating. “I’m saying I want to devour you slowly. If you’ll let me.”
I turn until we’re facing each other, my knees bumping awkwardly against his thigh, and tilt my face up.
Aaron seems to know exactly what I want, smiling as he closes the gap, holding back at first, like I’m made of a soap bubble.
Then the kiss deepens, no more holding back.
Suddenly, I’m on his lap, the hunger I’d wrapped so tightly under professional layers bursting loose.
He tastes like garlic and pinot noir, like something shameless and homey all at once. I let my hands roam, up under that henley, feeling the muscle under taut skin, the warmth. Aaron’s fingers thread into my hair, pulling me closer. Every inch of me thrums with want.
When he lifts me and stands in a single movement, I can’t help but laugh, breathless and giddy.
He carries me to his bedroom, lips never leaving mine, and puts me on the bed.
“So, this is the part,” he whispers, bracing himself above me, “where one of us is supposed to say something deep and meaningful.”
“Please don’t,” I say, reaching for the hem of his shirt. “Just devour me.”
He laughs into my neck, and then the rest of the world falls away just hands and mouths, tangled sheets and shared air, all the pretense stripped naked between us.