“He’s got it bad for you,” Dae says, falling into step beside me with a smug smirk.

“No, he doesn’t,” I argue, even as my heart performs a traitorous leap.

“Jay-ah. Look at his eyes. You’re autistic, not blind.”

I shoot her a look—the one I use to signal a hard boundary. The one that says enough. It rarely works with Dae; she treats my boundaries like suggestions.

“I’m serious,” she continues, undeterred. “The way he looks at you? It’s like you’re the only person in the room.”

“Stop,” I say, my voice flattening into a firm, mechanical tone. “This conversation is... uncomfortable.”

She raises her hands in a mocking gesture of surrender. “Okay, okay. Relax.”

“I don’t even like him. He stares too much. It’s rude,” I retort, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder.

Dae doesn’t argue, but she gives me that knowing look—the one that sees right through my carefully constructed facade.

Three days pass. I finish Phantom Blade on the second day, devouring every panel. On the third, I reread my favorite chapters, savoring the line work and the way the artist captures the subtle tension between the leads. Now, the manhwa lies untouched on my desk, a quiet weight of obligation.

I’m restless. The steamier scenes have me thinking about Jiwon in ways that feel like a sensory overload. I’ve always known I was attracted to men, but my desires have lived exclusively in ink and pixels—abstract, untouchable. In reality, I’ve never felt a "spark." Until now.

But Jiwon is dangerous territory. His family background is chaebol royalty with a dark edge—wealth built on ruthless deals and influence that bends the law until it snaps.

Dae is certain he likes me, but I don’t read subtext well. He needs to learn physical boundaries, certainly, but during our last meeting, he seemed... relatable.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought. I don't trust the way his attention lingers, or the unspoken weight in his gaze. What does a man like him want with someone like me? Friendship? A fling? Or something more intimate? It’s too many variables.

I have to return the book, but I can’t go alone. I need a buffer. I call Dae.

“Hi!” she chirps.

“I need you to come with me to return Jiwon’s book.”

“Why? Afraid he’ll bite?”

The joke makes my stomach twist with a strange, fluttering heat. “Please?” I ask, my voice a monotone but persistent.

She groans. “Fine. I’ll pick you up in an hour. Dress like you actually want to be there.”

I hang up and immediately dial Jiwon. My palms are already damp.

“Hello, Jay-ah?” His voice is low, resonant, and far too familiar.

“I’ve finished the book. Send your address. I’m coming over.”

There is a beat of silence. I count the seconds. One. Two. Three. Four. “Really?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He gives me an address near Busan Central—a neighborhood of glass towers and silent, expensive air. I memorize it instantly, etching it into my mind like a script.

A minute later, my phone pings. It’s a KakaoTalk location pin followed by a dancing peach emoji. Is he excited to see me, or just happy to have his property back? I sit on the edge of my bed and reach for How to Navigate Social Dynamics, - top drawer, worn and abandoned for the longest time. I open it to the first chapter. Jiwon makes me feel off-balance, like I’m walking into a room and the door has disappeared behind me.

I need scripts. And I need Dae.

The drive across Busan feels shorter than usual, mostly because my mind is stuck in a loop of pre-rehearsed phrases:

1. “Thank you for the loan. The art was impressive.”

2. “Your home has a very modern aesthetic.”

3. “No, thank you, I don't require a drink.”

I mouth them like a glitching AI while Dae weaves her cherry-red Porsche through traffic. She’s wearing a leaf-green halter dress and ivory stilettos—confidence in human form. I’ve opted for a cream Ralph Lauren turtleneck and walnut-brown chinos. It’s my "social armor."

We pull under the porte-cochère of The Lattice, a tower of granite and ego. A valet jogs forward, and I climb out carefully, smoothing my sweater. The lobby smells of eucalyptus and "old money." I repeat my lines under my breath all the way up to the 38th floor.

The door opens before we can even knock.

Jiwon stands there, barefoot on polished concrete. He’s wearing black lounge shorts and a long-sleeved Henley that clings to the heavy muscle of his shoulders. His bleached hair is damp, and the scent of aquatic cologne and warm skin hits me like a physical force. Tattoos crawl up his neck, disappearing into his collar.

For one dizzying second, his green eyes light up—a sharp, brilliant flare intended only for me.

“H-Hi,” I say, my voice failing me. Script. Use the script. Any script! I panic. “It is... uh... eleven degrees today. Low humidity. Pleasant.”

Jiwon’s lips twitch into a soft, private smile. “Accurate and punctual. Come in, Jay.”

Dae breezes past him. “Do you have anything stronger than water? I’m parched,” she calls out, already scouting the kitchen.

“Help yourself,” he sighs, amused. Then, turning to me, his voice drops an octave. “Would you like something, Jay-ah? I've got Yuja-cha, or camomile tea, if you want to try something different.”

I shake my head and follow Dae, desperate to maintain a three-foot radius of safety. The apartment is a temple of minimalism: charcoal walls, matte-black fixtures, and floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Busan coastline.

“Your apartment is... nice,” I blurt out, looking at a painting instead of him. Why couldn't I remember any script I'd crammed on the way here?

"Thanks," he responds, my father set everything up before I got here," he answers with a soft smile.

I turn to face him, Phantom Blade clutched with both hands. He starts to take a step closer, and I thrust it toward him, stopping his movement. “Thank you for lending me. Good read,” I say, the words coming out as one long, staccato blur.

Jiwon takes the book, his fingers carefully avoiding mine to respect my space. “I’m glad you liked it.” He tilts his head, his gaze intensifying. “Would you... like to see the rest of my collection? I have several first editions."

“First editions?” My interest spikes, overriding my internal alarm. My hands flutter at my sides, a rhythmic movement I can't quite suppress.

Jiwon’s smile widens, looking genuinely pleased. “This way.”

He leads me down a dimly lit hallway. Behind us, I hear the clink of ice as Dae watches us, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she starts a livestream for her followers.

I follow Jiwon, marvelling at how broad his shoulders are, the way they taper to his narrow waist. Focus, Jay, Focus! 

I had assumed his collection would be housed in his study, but as he pushes open a heavy door at the far end of the hall, my heart hammers against my ribs. It isn’t a study. It’s his bedroom—an intimate, dimly lit space that smells overwhelmingly of him. The books are there, displayed on custom oak shelving, but they feel like a secondary detail compared to the large, perfectly made bed and the absolute silence of the room. Behind us, I hear the Dae’s carefree voice in the kitchen, a reminder of the safety I just walked away from. I step over the threshold, my pulse thrumming in my ears, suddenly realizing that my scripts for "socializing" don't quite cover what happens when the door clicks shut in a man's most private sanctuary.