“Hey!” 

I stop walking, knowing the voice without looking.

Jiwon falls into step beside me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He’s wearing a black hoodie today, hood down, bleached hair in soft, messy waves up front, cut shorter at the back. The faint edge of his tattoos peeks out from the collar of his white t-shirt, dark ink disappearing beneath fabric.

“Hi,” I answer, making a conscious effort not to stare.

“Where are you headed?” he asks.

“I have Advanced Linear Algebra at nine,” I reply. “Room 403. Engineering building.”

“You always answer like that,” he says, amused. “Like you’re logging data?”

“Everything is data,” I mumble and start walking again. He follows suit, close enough that I feel the heat from him.

A breeze moves through the courtyard, carrying the scent of early spring—salt from the sea, fresh greenery, something floral planted intentionally to look effortless. Busan is warmer than Seoul this time of year, but the air still has teeth.

I adjust the strap of my Loewe Puzzle bag, grounding myself in the familiar weight against my side. 

“So,” Jiwon says, hands tucked into his pockets, as if restraining himself from reaching out to grab my hand, “when can we talk?”

I glance at him. “We are talking now.”

He tilts his head and makes a cute face. “You know what I mean.”

I do.

The kind of talking where eye contact lingers too long.
The kind where silence says more than words.
The kind that leaves me counting afterward.

“I found a place,” he continues. “Rooftop café. No crowds. Too cold for most people this time of year.”

My steps slow down.

“Which one?” I ask carefully.

“The one above the humanities annex,” he says. “Glass walls. Heated floor. They do ridiculous desserts.”

My stomach tightens. 

“That’s my place,” I say.

He turns fully to me. “You’re joking.”

“Yeah, I like it this time of year too,” I add. “Maximum privacy.”

For a second, neither of us speaks.

Then he exhales, laughing under his breath. “Shit!”

“Shit, what?” I ask.

“We seem to like the same things?” he says, “ Café spots, tattoos…” his voice trails off lightheartedly, I know he’s smiling flirtatiously without looking.

I don’t answer. My tongue lost function when he said tattoos. I’m in full visual, hands moving. I struggle to latch back to now. I grind my jaw, squeeze my eyes shut to get back.

He studies my face, then softens. “We can go somewhere else.”

“No,” I say too quickly. I clamp down on the word, regulate my tone. “Lunch… rooftop, fine.”

His smile is slow. Careful. Like he’s learned not to rush animals that might bolt.

“Okay,” he says. “Lunch.”

“Fine.”

We stop at the crosswalk. I focus on the red light. Don’t look at the tattoos. Don’t look.

Jiwon glances at me sideways. “Are you stressed?”

“No,” I say immediately.

He hums. “You’re giving me 'ones'.

“That’s not even a thing.”

“It is,” he counters. “You go monotone. Your shoulders lock, and you stop blinking.”

I swallow, relaxing my shoulders. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t push. That’s new. Appreciated.

“Catch you later,” he says as the light changes.

“Later.”

He peels off toward the law building, hands raised briefly in a lazy wave. He glances back once, like he expects me to disappear if he doesn’t check.

I watch him go longer than necessary, a hollow opening in my chest that feels suspiciously like anticipation.

Then the thought hits. Worry and anxiety, second nature.

He’s going to get bored with me. Me and my “ones”.

—

The rooftop café is pristine.
Floor-to-ceiling glass. Pale wood. Brass fixtures are polished until they gleam. Heat radiates subtly from beneath the stone floor, engineered comfort disguised as simplicity. Only one other table is occupied—a female sophomore hunched over her Apple tablet, grey woolly scarf wrapped around her neck.  She barely registers us.

Jiwon orders without asking.
Two vanilla mascarpone lattes.
Low foam.
Perfect temperature.
He remembers everything I like.
That thought does something dangerous to my nervous system.

We sit across from each other. Not touching. Not distant. A precise, tolerable space.

“Do you come here with D and H?” Jiwon asks. His voice is a low hum, vibrating against the tabletop.

“Alone.”

“Why?”

“It’s an escape from them,” I reply, the honesty slipping out before I can filter it.

Jiwon lets out a disbelieving gasp, a soft puff of air that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I thought they were your anchors. Your inseparable trio.”
“They are,” I say, looking into the swirling latte art. “But sometimes, I don’t need anyone. I just need to be.”

That sobers him a little. He leans back, his eyes searching mine with a sudden, quiet intensity. He is pondering my words like they are a riddle he desperately needs to solve. I drop my lashes and take a sip—sweet, familiar, grounding—wondering if my craving for solitude has just ruined the fragile "us" before it even begins.

“I like that,” he whispers, his gaze dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second. “I like that you’re so honest. It’s rare.”

“So, this is where you’ve been hiding.” A silky smooth, disinterested voice cuts in as heavy footsteps approach, rhythmic and predatory. I watch Jiwon’s shoulders lock into a defensive line.

The man who spoke is a walking editorial of cold elegance. Tall, broad-shouldered, and draped in a beige designer suit. His jet black hair is sleeked back with lethal precision, face sculpted, angular, cold, and handsome in the way only a man who knows power can be. His eyes don't just look; they dissect.

“Woo,” Jiwon spits. The word is clipped, dripping with a malice that turns the air icy. “What do you want?”

“Dad heard,” Woo-sik says lightly, stopping short of the table, adjusting a cufflink, “that you stirred up the Black Crane.”

My chest tightens. Black Crane? Sounds dangerous..

“And all before the final payment,” Woo-sik adds, his voice sharpening to a lethal edge. “Over a… comic book?”

Jiwon’s jaw works, a muscle leaping in his cheek. “Manhwa,” he corrects, his voice a low growl.

Woo-sik scoffs, a dry, mocking sound. “Barely six months in the family business and you’re already fucking things up badly. Jiwon-ee, I don’t think you’re ready for this.”

Jiwon leans forward, his eyes burning. “Did Dad ask you to tail me, or are you just bored of sitting at the casino playing errand boy?”

Woo-sik’s eyes glint—a flash of pure, predatory ego—before they slide toward me. He stops. His eyes narrow, tracing my mouth, the line of my throat, my shoulders, my face. Curious. Lingering.

“And who is this?” he asks.

“I’m Jay,” I answer. Unblinking, unafraid.

“I see you don’t waste time gathering your pickings,” Woo-sik directs at Jiwon, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Back off,” Jiwon warns, his voice vibrating with a physical threat.

Woo-sik chuckles, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m just looking. He’s… cute.”

He leans down, his hand rising, fingers splayed as if to brush the hair from my forehead. It’s so sudden. I freeze, shut my eyes, and flinch, waiting for the pins and needles that would accompany the graze.

Jiwon doesn’t hesitate.
He rises like a shadow, and the punch is a blur of controlled violence. Crack. Woo-sik staggers back, the impact snapping his head to the side. The silence of the café is shattered by a sharp gasp and a small squeal from the girl at a corner table. Blood blooms at the corner of Woo-sik’s lip, a stark, violent red against his pale skin.

“You try to touch him again,” Jiwon says, his voice terrifyingly quiet, “and you won’t walk away in one piece.”

The espresso machine hisses. Staff stand frozen. The world narrows down to the two of them in a silent face-off.

Finally, Woo-sik wipes the blood at the edge of his lip with his thumb, stares at the stain before laughing softly. A dark, humourless sound.

“Still reckless,” Woo-sik murmurs. His gaze flicks to me one last time—calculating, memorizing, like he is recording my face for a future debt. “Dad won’t like this.”

“The fuck he won’t!” Jiwon replies.

“ Bye, Jay,” Woo-sik smirks at me, then walks away, shadow vanishing through the automatic doorway.

Jiwon turns to me instantly. The violent being is gone, replaced by a man looking at a fragile glass ornament he is afraid he's cracked.

“Jay. I’m sorry he tried to touch you. Are you okay?”

I notice my hands are shaking. I don't want him to see it, so I shove them deep into my pockets. “I don’t know,” I say honestly.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, his face clouding with guilt. “Woo-sik is… my cousin. He’s a dick.”

I look at him, and the pieces of the puzzle finally click into a terrifying, beautiful picture. “So you fought a rival gang for ‘Phantom Blade’? For me?”

Jiwon watches me, searching for fear, for judgment, for a reason to run. He tries to look contrite, but the fire in his eyes tells a different story. I let a small, breathless smile break through.

“You’re just as crazy as the rumors say.”

“Scared?” he asks, his eyes watchful.

I shake my head and take a long, steadying sip of my latte. The sugar hits my system like a drug.

He smiles and sits back down. A small sigh of relief escapes him.

“So,” I ask, looking up at him. “Are you in trouble now?”

“I can handle myself,” he replies, a smirk finally returning to his face.

I hope so. Because as we leave that rooftop café and step into the biting evening air, I feel a shift in the tectonic plates of my life. I know exactly how far he has gone to get close to me. I wonder, with a delicious, terrifying ache in my stomach, how much further he will go to stay there.

I am not thinking about the Black Crane or the blood on the floor.

I’m thinking about the hollow ache I’d feel if he ever decided to stop choosing me.