4. Playing Dirty
Playing Dirty
Natalia
The restaurant Rafe chose is exactly the kind of place that makes you stand up straighter the moment you walk in.
Seoul does elegance well, luxury without noise, simple beauty.
The kind of room where everything matters, including where you sit.
I see it in the way Rafe's eyes flick around the table, calculating. He puts Ronan beside me without comment, casual as anything, making sure there’s a clean buffer of bodies between me and Kiri.
Subtle, truly.
Ronan smiles and pulls out my chair for me, polite and easy. I thank him sweetly and settle in while Kiri takes the seat across from me. He doesn’t look bothered. That’s the first thing I notice, and I hate that I notice it.
He sits back, one arm loose along the back of Rithy's chair, expression unreadable. No tension in his shoulders now. No visible struggle. No desperate little slips like in the elevator. Just Kiri Chhim, broad and calm, leather jacket gone, black shirt fitted perfectly over his chest, rings catching the candlelight when he reaches for his water. Cool and careless, like I didn’t just spend the last hour spiking his blood pressure with strategic thigh exposure.
Pretending I’m any other woman at any other dinner. Fine, we can both pretend.
Dinner starts civilly. Wine is poured. Plates arrive like art installations, I snap pictures and post so fast Kasia gets whiplash watching me.
Rafe asks what I’ve been up to, and I talk about my following, keeping it light and controlled.
Numbers, campaigns, engagement rates, audience growth.
I deliver it with a little shrug, like it’s nothing at all, like I haven’t been building something glittering out of being underestimated.
Kasia asks questions because Kasia always knows when to give me room to shine.
Rafe listens with that quiet intensity of his, interested in the mechanics even if he still looks mildly terrified by influencer culture as a concept.
Rithy jokes that I could probably sell expensive dirt if I put it in the right lighting.
“I could,” I say. “And I bet you’d buy it.”
Rithy grins. “Probably.”
Kiri doesn’t laugh. He looks at his glass.
Takes a drink, then sets it down. That’s it.
No comment or even a glance. No visible reaction at all.
The bastard. A year ago, he would have had something seductive or full of teasing to add.
He’d have said, “You’re dangerous with a camera, the internet doesn't stand a chance against that smile.
" He would have made it sound like a joke and then gone quiet in that way that made it not a joke at all.
Now he just sits there like a man carved out of marble, letting the conversation pass around him.
Kasia swoops in smoothly when the silence starts to get awkward, talking about work, about patients and cases that stick with her, grounding the table with quiet competence.
Rafe turns toward her immediately, his whole face changing in that ridiculous way it does around my sister, all his intense severity melting at the edges.
It’s embarrassing to witness. Sweet, but embarrassing.
Ronan launches into a story about his new drum kit next, eyes lighting up as he explains the sound, the way it fills a room differently, how one tom has this deeper resonance he’s been chasing for months.
Words that make no sense to me at all. But still, I lean in like he’s revealing the latest online drama.
I ask questions. I tell him it sounds incredible.
I make him feel interesting because it is interesting, and because I know how much it matters to musicians when someone actually listens.
Ronan practically blooms under the attention.
Across the table, Kiri remains still, maddeningly detached.
He eats, drinks, answers when spoken to. He smiles at the right moments, reserved and polite, like someone doing the emotional equivalent of signing a receipt. I hate him.
Then Rafe asks him about some bass he’s been hunting down, and the table perks up.
Musicians hear “rare instrument” and suddenly everyone has religion.
Kiri’s posture changes by a degree, just enough to remind me that this is where he lives, inside strings and wood and tone and all the things he pretends are less complicated than people.
He describes it in that even voice of his.
Vintage body. Custom pickups. A specific weight he likes because it sits against him right onstage.
He talks about the sound like it’s something physical, something with shape and bite.
Rafe nods along. Rithy argues that it might be too clean for the new set, that the polish will flatten the grit in his guitar riffs instead of giving them something to bite against. Ronan jumps in about rhythm sections and space. Even Kasia listens, polite and warm.
Everyone except me.
I stay cool, uninterested, focusing on my plate like the conversation is happening somewhere far away.
Ice queen, perfectly executed. I don’t ask a single question.
I don’t look at him once. I take a slow sip of wine while he talks about tone and fretwork and all the little sacred details he would have once sent me voice notes about at two in the morning.
If he notices, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps talking, smooth and measured. Totally unbothered.
Rithy breaks away from the bass talk by launching into a story about a new riff he’s been working on, something that locks in with Rafe’s melodies in a way he’s clearly proud of.
He talks with his hands, animated, describing how it threads underneath the piano line and then lifts it, how it makes the chorus feel bigger without overwhelming it.
Rafe perks up immediately, leaning forward, excitement cutting through the careful politeness of the table.
They start talking over each other, already half-building the sound in their heads, debating where it would hit hardest in the set.
I smile and take them both in, the spark between them easy and genuine. “I’d love to hear that at soundcheck tomorrow,” I say, meaning it. “I like seeing how things come together before they turn into something magical.”
Rithy grins, pleased. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s like seeing the photo before the filter.”
Rafe points at me. “That’s actually accurate.”
“I am, sometimes.”
“If it's related to social media,” Kasia says into her wine.
I kick her lightly under the table. Across from me, Kiri’s gaze finally flicks up.
Quick, dark, and gratingly unreadable. It lands on me, then moves away before I can catch it properly.
There he is, just watching, then not watching, like I’m a fire he refuses to warm his hands over.
It makes something mean and petty in me sharpen its nails.
Because it’s clear now what he’s doing. He's not going to make this easy for me.
He's not going to sit across from me looking wrecked while I punish him in front of everyone.
No, Kiri has decided to be cold. Distant.
He's probably even convinced himself he's being mature.
Which is rich from a man who once spent a whole day arguing with me over whether my voice sounded sexier when I was sleepy or angry. Fine, let him act like nothing matters.
I can act better.
The dinner moves on. The wine softens the edges of the table, everyone loosening around the carefully placed tension.
Kiri remains polite, contained, almost boring in his control.
If I didn’t know better, I’d believe him.
But I do know better. I see the way he avoids my mouth when I speak.
I see the way he looks at Ronan when Ronan makes me laugh, he isn't exactly jealous but he's a shade too still.
I see the way he answers Rafe while his attention sits somewhere else entirely, like one part of him is tracking me against his will.
Then the moment comes, quiet and unassuming, exactly the kind that does the most damage.
“Could someone pass the kimchi?” Kiri asks.
His gaze stays on the dish, but I’m already moving before anyone else reacts.
“Sure.”
His eyes lift and there it is again. That stillness.
I pick up the dish and lean forward just enough to make it necessary, inevitable.
Close enough that the neckline of my top shifts and the perfume at my throat probably reaches him before the kimchi does.
He reaches for it. I don’t let go right away.
My fingers remain on the edge of the dish as his close around the other side.
My nails, perfectly manicured and glossy under the restaurant lights, drag just slightly along his finger as he takes it. Barely enough to be felt.
His expression stays flat, almost bored, as if my touch means nothing.
As if he didn’t once beg for a copy of a picture of my hand wrapped around a cocktail glass because he said my nails looked like trouble and he'd love to pretend my hand was wrapped around something else.
I'd laughed at the comment back then and the urge to do the same now bubbles up, but I shove it down.
He takes the dish from me with steady hands.
“Thanks,” he says.
Thanks. One word. I wish I'd thrown the kimchi at his head.
Then I see it. The muscle in his jaw jumps once, a tiny, brutal tell.
His fingers tighten on the dish before he sets it down.
I look up at him then, finally, for the first time all night, and give him the smallest smile.
Sweet, private, just between us. The kind that says, yes, I did that, and yes, I saw that too.
His eyes hold mine and for one second, all that coldness thins.
There’s heat under it, buried and furious.
Then he looks away first. He turns back to Rafe and says something about the set list like nothing happened at all.
Unbelievable. Truly unbelievable.
I take my seat again, composed, untouchable, already moving on in the conversation while my heartbeat thuds hard enough to frustrate me.
Across from me, Kiri is quiet, calm. Still playing indifferent so well I might have believed it if I hadn’t felt the tremor he tried to kill before it reached his hand.
Oh, kochany.
Cold looks so good on you.
I wonder how long you'll stay frozen when I start playing dirty.