23. Aaron #2
While she collects her scattered belongings, I’m already planning the evening—which wine to pair with dinner, what playlist would set the right mood. Something to make these last hours count before two weeks of emptiness.
She pauses at the threshold, turning back. “Aaron?”
“Yeah?”
“If you’re feeling generous, that Chinese place on Fifth? The one with those ridiculous dumplings?”
“Consider it done.” I step closer, unable to resist touching her one more time before she leaves. My fingers trace the line of her jaw, and she leans into the contact. “Text me your order so I don’t mess it up.”
“You already know what I like,” she says quietly, and there’s a double meaning there that makes my pulse quicken.
Fuck. The sexual chemistry between us will be the death of me.
I kiss her then, slow and thorough, trying to pour everything I can’t say into the press of our lips.
When we break apart, her cheeks are flushed, and her breathing is uneven.
“Go,” I whisper against her forehead. “Before I convince you to call in sick.”
“It would be a first, but I can’t today.”
I spend the morning packing and folding clothes while mentally rehearsing what I’ll say at each tour stop. But my thoughts keep drifting to tonight. Our last few hours together before reality intrudes.
By one-thirty, I’m hopping out of my Audi and into Golden Dragon's lunch rush. Construction workers order triple portions while a paint-spattered woman reads the Times and influencers photograph untouched dumplings. The air hits me—humid, ginger-laced—as kitchen chaos erupts clanging woks, shouted Mandarin, and waitstaff weaving through it all. It’s aggressive and intoxicating, a sensory overload that almost manages to drown out the restless thumping of my heart.
I order Minji’s usual: pork dumplings with scallions and chili oil, mapo tofu, and jasmine rice that she’ll only touch after demolishing half the dumplings.
I add spring rolls, remembering how she once stole mine, sauce dripping down her wrist as she grinned.
I watch as my order number is scrawled on a ticket and clipped to the rail, then shuffle to the waiting area to kill time scrolling through the news on my phone.
But every few seconds, my thumb hovers over our last text thread, rereading the brief but perfect exchange from this morning.
No overthinking, no dramatics—just plans, made and kept.
It’s proof that she wants this as much as I do, that I’m not some placeholder in her life, a temporary distraction until real life resumes.
Two tables away, a young mother is trying to wrangle her toddler, who is gleefully mashing sticky rice into his hair.
I study them for a moment, half-amused and half-terrified at the concept of parenting someone so tiny and ungovernable.
I wonder what Minji would look like in this tableau: would she be stern and efficient, taming chaos with surgical precision, or would she surrender to the absurdity and laugh when the kid inevitably launched a spring roll across the table?
The thought is both ridiculous and weirdly comforting.
My phone buzzes, a sharp interruption. It’s Tabitha, my agent, confirming the car service for tomorrow’s airport run and reminding me to pack “at least one nice shirt for press events, no, Aaron, plaid doesn’t count.
” I type back a half-assed promise and glance at the clock.
Eighteen hours. That’s all I have until three thousand miles, and two time zones wedge themselves between the woman who somehow reset my entire understanding of intimacy in less than a week, and me.
The takeout bag is heavier than expected. I cradle it protectively as I head out onto the street, weaving through the pedestrians like I’m carrying something precious until I make it to my car.
When I arrive at the law firm, my phone pings. It’s like she has a tracking device on me… perfect timing.
Honeybee
Are you here?
Me
I just arrived.
Honeybee
I’ll meet you downstairs.
Me
I can bring it up to you.
Honeybee
No, that’s fine.
I get it—she’s keeping me separate from her work life.
Still, there’s a selfish part of me that wants everyone to know I’m the reason behind that rare smile of hers these past six days.
From behind my steering wheel, I track her exit from the building—that purposeful walk softening the moment she spots my car.
Her stride lengthens. My face splits into a ridiculous grin as she approaches.
She slides in beside me. “You know you can get a ticket for parking here, right?
“I’m well aware, but I’ll pay any ticket when it comes to you.”
“You sure have a sweet tongue. Anyway, that smells incredible.”
I pass her the bag, our fingers brushing. “Special delivery for Manhattan’s most terrifying attorney. Spring rolls included.”
“You remembered.”
“Hard to forget.”
The silence between us feels easy as she pops open a container, steam fogging the windows. I should turn the key, let her get back to her day, but I find myself frozen, watching her bite into a dumpling.
She chews thoughtfully. “You’ve saved me. These meetings today…” She shakes her head.
Minutes pass. “I should head back,” she says, though she makes no move toward the door.
“Of course. Justice waits for no one.”
Her fingers linger on the container lid as she closes it. “Thank you.”
As she reaches for the door handle, I catch her wrist gently. “I can’t convince you to leave early?”
“You could, but having sex in the car in front of my workplace is frowned upon.”
I laugh, releasing her wrist. “Not what I was suggesting, but now I can’t get that image out of my head. My windows are tinted enough to at least get a blow job.”
“I thought you were convincing me.” She laughs. “I’ll be at your place at seven.”
“I’ll be counting the minutes,” I tell her, meaning every word. I can’t tear my eyes away as she walks back toward the building. The pencil skirt looks amazing on her. Only after she vanishes behind the revolving glass door do I signal and pull into traffic.
Minji makes it to my apartment fifteen minutes to nine. The food is no longer hot, and the candles have melted down to stubs. I opened the door to find her looking flustered and apologetic. I couldn’t bring myself to be disappointed. She’s here now, and that’s all that matters.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, stepping inside. Her hair is slightly disheveled, like she’s been running her fingers through it in frustration. “A meeting ran long, and then William cornered me about the Seoul position again, and—”
I cut her off mid-sentence with my lips on hers, drawing her body against mine while nudging the door shut with my heel. She surrenders immediately, her designer tote hitting the hardwood with a heavy thump as she reaches up to lock her fingers behind my neck.
“God, I’ve been thinking about you all day,” I murmur when we come up for air.
“We saw each other this afternoon,” she counters, but her voice has gone husky.
“Feels like forever ago.” I rest my brow against hers, breathing her in.
A soft laugh escapes her before her gaze drifts to the dining setup. Candles burned to puddles, steam no longer rising from the food. “You did all this…”
“Nothing a microwave can’t fix,” I assure her, gesturing toward the kitchen.
“Later,” her eyes darkening. “I’ve had the day from hell. I need… distraction.”
Her expression shifts to a rawness I haven’t seen before, at least not recently. This isn’t just Minji wanting sex; this is Minji needing to disappear into sensation. Something that happens to be my specialty when it comes to her.
“After you,” I offer, yielding to whatever she needs tonight.
She takes my wrist, tugging me down the hallway with unmistakable intent.
There’s something almost frantic in how she moves, backing me toward the mattress with surprising force, climbing astride me in one fluid motion.
Her kiss turns fierce, demanding, as her fingers work impatiently at my buttons.
“Slow down,” I whisper against her lips.
“When one needs to blow off steam, you don’t slow down,” she breathes. “Now hush and fuck me.”