23. Aaron
AARON
The past five nights have been everything I hoped for and nothing as I expected.
Yes, the physical connection between us is incredible—earth-shattering, life-altering, incredible.
I trace the length of her bare arm, careful not to wake her.
I can’t help but picture how it will feel to roll over in this bed with no Minji, no subtle scent of her herbal shampoo on my pillow, no postpartum analysis of our latest true crime episode the next morning.
After we made love for the second time, I tried to talk about what happens after my tour.
Not in a pressuring way, just exploring possibilities.
She deflected with a joke about how she’d have to find another sex buddy.
When I didn’t laugh, she kissed me and said we should enjoy what we have now rather than worry about it later.
Classic Minji, always keeping one foot firmly planted in her escape route.
I’m starting to wonder if I’ve misread everything.
What if this is purely physical for her?
A convenient way to scratch an itch with someone she trusts enough not to hurt her.
The thought makes my chest constrict painfully.
I’ve written enough romance novels to recognize the signs of falling in love, and I’m exhibiting every single one of them.
Meanwhile, Minji treats our relationship like a pleasant but temporary diversion—something to be enjoyed before returning to real life.
She stirs beside me, her body instinctively curling closer to mine.
Even in sleep, she seeks my warmth, and that tiny gesture gives me hope despite everything.
Maybe I’m overthinking this. Perhaps she’s just scared.
After all, I’m the one who’s supposed to believe in love against all odds—it’s literally my job.
But believing in fictional love is easy.
The heroes in my books always get their happily-ever-after because I write it that way.
Real life doesn’t come with that guarantee, and I’m terrified that when I board that plane tomorrow, whatever we’ve built these past six days will evaporate like morning mist.
“Good morning,” Minji mumbles against my chest, her voice thick with sleep. She pulls back her eyes, fluttering open to meet mine.
“Morning, gorgeous.” I brush my lips against her forehead, breathing in the lingering scent of her shampoo. “How’d you sleep?”
“Mmm, deeply.” A yawn escapes her. “You?”
“Like a baby.”
She shifts against me. “What time is your flight tomorrow?”
“Ten.” My fingertips trace lazy circles on her shoulder, committing every curve to memory. “Should start throwing things in a suitcase today, I guess.”
“Of course.” The sheet rustles as she pulls it up, creating a barrier between us that wasn’t there moments ago.
“Minji, I—”
“Need to shower.” She’s already sliding away, feet finding the floor. “Nine o’clock meeting.”
I watch silently as she walks into my closet, picking out her clothes for today.
“You know, there’s no rule that says you have to leave just because I’m going on tour. You could stay here while I’m gone. Keep the plants alive. Make sure my apartment doesn’t get robbed.”
She exits the closet, clutching her clothes at her chest and pauses in the doorway to the bathroom. “Aaron…”
“Just think about it,” I say before she can shut me down.
“I loathe anything garden-related.” She looks down at her foot. Then I remember what happened to her and why she had to go on a leave of absence months ago. “So, no. I will not be staying to keep those plants alive.”
“I thought you loved flowers and roses.” I tease.
“I love receiving them, not growing or caring for them,” she clarifies with a smile. “There’s a difference. Besides, I’d probably kill them within a week.”
“Fair point.” I sit up, running a hand through my curls. “The offer stands, though. For the apartment, I mean. Not the plant care.”
She disappears into the bathroom without responding, and I hear the shower turn on. I lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out how to make the most of these last twenty-four hours without scaring her off completely.
By the time she emerges, steam follows her from the bathroom. I’ve poured coffee into her favorite mug—the oversized blue one with the chip on the handle—and set out toast with a thin layer of the apricot jam she prefers.
“So, last night before takeoff.”
She accepts the mug with both hands, eyes fixed on the rising steam. “I know.”
“I was thinking we could do something special. That Italian place on Eighth? Or stay in, watch that documentary series you’ve been talking about? I could attempt that risotto recipe—”
“Aaron.” The mug makes a soft clink against the marble. Her eyes finally meet mine. “This doesn’t need to be complicated.”
My stomach drops. “Complicated?”
“You understand what I’m saying.” Something in her voice shifts. “We should keep this—”
“Simple? Casual? Just a fling that ends when I board that plane?” The words taste bitter. I can’t believe she is building back up these walls the night before I go on tour. Fuck.
“What’s gotten into you this morning?”
“You’re already planning your exit strategy, aren’t you? You’re going to ghost me again after I get on that plane. After everything we’ve—”
“Hold on.” A laugh escapes her. “If you’d let me finish… I was going to suggest we keep this going. Texts, calls, maybe I could even fly out to see your San Francisco event. I checked, and it falls on a weekend.”
“Really? I thought you would tell me not to worry—”
“And I’m still going to tell you not to worry about it.
If you keep wanting to put a label on us, it’s not going to work.
I enjoy you and your company, let’s just give whatever this is more time.
” She smiles. “I’m not running away again, but you constantly wanting a label this early on will make me want to run. ”
“Fair enough.” I mean, I can’t blame her.
“Aaron?” She tilts her head, studying me. “You okay with that?”
“Yeah,” I manage, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.“Of course. No labels, no pressure.”
She looks relieved, and that’s what hurts the most—her visible relaxation at having successfully navigated away from anything too serious.
I look down at her mug, needing a moment to compose myself.
She’s talking about visiting me in San Francisco, but it’s to just scratch an itch, to maintain the physical connection without risking the emotional one.
“You sure? You’ve got that look.” She leans against the counter, suddenly too perceptive.
“What look?” I glance up at her.
“The one you get when you’re plotting a major character development. All broody and intense.”
“Professional hazard. Always thinking about the next storyline. So, San Francisco? You’d really come?”
She nods, her expression softening. “I checked your tour schedule while you were asleep last night. San Francisco is on a weekend, so I could fly out Friday and leave that Monday. That gives us two full days together.”
“That’s two weeks from now.” I start doing some mental calculations. “I can survive two weeks if I know I’ll see you.”
“It’s just a visit.”
“Just a visit,” I step closer to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “No expectations.”
“Liar,” she playfully whispers.
“Okay, maybe some expectations. And I’m sorry for cutting you off. I thought you were going to want to end things.”
She leans into my touch, her eyes closing briefly. “I can’t end something that hasn’t begun yet. But apology accepted.”
She’s absolutely right, and the realization lands heavy in my chest. I need to stop running ahead, stop inventing a script for her that fits the ending I want.
I’m a writer—of course I want the climax to come early, the grand confession, the page-turning sweep of emotion.
But I need to remember this is her story too.
I want insta-love, while she is taking on a whole new meaning to slow-burn.
Minji is a masterclass in restraint; she never says anything she doesn’t mean, never lets a word slip past her filters unless she’s absolutely certain it can’t be used against her.
Why would she suddenly turn into the kind of woman who spills her guts after five days in my bed?
Just because I want her to, just because I have a pathological need for certainty.
I want to laugh and punch myself in the face at the same time.
So I decided to give her space right now.
No more heavy-handed declarations, no more desperate grabs at emotional intimacy.
If she wants this to be a slow burn, I’ll pace myself.
I’ll hold on to the moments I get and stop panicking about the ones I don’t.
She sets her mug down and moves a little closer to me.
She hesitates—God, I see it, the exact moment she considers retreating—but then she closes the distance, letting her forehead rest gently against my shoulder.
For several seconds, we stand like that, both breathing slowly like we’re syncing up for the first time.
And maybe we are. Maybe this is how it starts.
I pull her against me, savoring the way she fits perfectly in my arms. “I’m going to spend all night making this up to you,” I press my lips to her temple. “How do you want to spend our last night before I leave?”
Her fingers dip into my collar and pick up my gold chain as she leans in. “Let’s just stay here tonight. You and me.”
“Perfect timing. I’ve been practicing that perilla leaf soup you mentioned.”
“God, that sounds amazing.” The smile fades as she glances at her watch. “I should run. They’re all waiting for me.”
“I could swing by your office later? Seven-ish?”
She shakes her head. “I’ll come straight here. Might be stuck there awhile though.”
“No problem.” I keep my voice light despite the sinking feeling.