The firewall at Jiwon’s apartment is tighter than I anticipated. Whatever tripped when the screen went black sealed cleanly. No error logs. No re-entry point. Just silence.

I don’t have the time it will take to crack it. So I pivot. 

Information from the Kim residence should be enough to devise a solid plan.

It takes me a week to dig up everything on today’s merger at the Busan Central Casino headquarters. This isn’t just a business deal; it’s a power play. If it works, the Kim Group moves past the domestic market and into the global gaming scene. The foreign investors want one thing: Jiwon. He is the bridge. Western-educated. Fluent. Controlled. The polished heir who can sit across from Europeans and Americans and make old Korean money look modern.

It’s happening today. My plan is clean, absolute.

I tell Mum I’m with Hoon and Dae studying for midterms. I let my private ride drop me off, then double back and catch a bus to the outskirts of the city. I get off in the industrial edges of Gangseo, where the Busan sprawl dissolves into marshes and shipping yards. There’s an abandoned transit station about an hour’s walk from the main road—remote, quiet, and empty.

I shoulder my backpack and begin the trek through the salt-heavy air.

I reach the stop just after 18:45, fifteen minutes before the Kim meeting starts. I sit on the splintered wooden bench, prop up my laptop, and tap into their security feeds. The signal is weak out here, but I manage to pull a visual. No audio.

I look up. Over the delta, the sky is turning a dark, bruised purple with the incoming rain. I angle the screen against my bag and start to watch.

The boardroom looks less like a meeting and more like a throne room. Dark wood. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Busan’s coastline. Men in tailored suits sit rigid, hands folded, eyes sharp. At the head is Chairman Kim. At his right, Jiwon. Two seats down, Woo-sik, looking discontented.

Jiwon is composed. Dressed in a navy blue suit. White silk tie. His bleached hair was styled with deliberate restraint. He stands,  bows slightly before speaking, he looks controlled, elegant, and dangerous in his calm.

This isn’t a vote.

It’s a coronation.

Ten minutes into the final discussion, I call him.

This was my ultimate test. Would he choose me over the merger? 

He glances at his phone on the desk when the screen lights up. I don’t expect him to answer, but he reaches for it instantly.

I deliver the script I’d practiced for days.

“I… I need you,” I whisper. I let my breath hitch naturally, let the metal framework of the underpass echo behind me. The wind helps. “I got sick of waiting for the driver at college, so I decided to take the bus. I took the wrong bus. I tried to walk back but got lost. My card won’t work. My payment app’s down. I can’t call a cab. Jiwon, I don’t know where I am.”

Silence.

Absolute.

Through the feed, I see it—his jaw tightening. His eyes shifting once toward the exit.

Boardroom or underpass.
Legacy or Jay.

“Stay where you are, I’m coming to get you,” he says.

No irritation.
No calculation.
No pause.

He’s probably sending his chauffeur, I tell myself.

Then I see him turn to his father. They exchange words. The investors shift uncomfortably in their seats, exchange glances. Woo-Sik glares.

Chairman Kim’s face hardens instantly. Even pixelated, the fury radiates. In Korean corporate culture, leaving mid-board meeting is not just disrespectful, it is defiance. It signals fracture.

Jiwon stands, bows briefly. Formal. 

Then he walks out.

He does not look back.

My breath stutters.

No fucking way.

Thunder cracks across the sky as if the weather itself objects. By the time I shut my laptop, the first sheets of rain slam into the bus shelter roof. Within minutes, the storm turns violent. Wind howls through the empty road. The countryside smells of wet asphalt and distant sea salt carried from Busan’s coast.

The rain doesn’t fall.

It attacks.

I sit alone under flickering fluorescent light, looking like something abandoned. The temperature has dropped and I’m freezing despite my jacket. An hour has passed since I called Jiwon. My phone drops to five percent. No signal bars. The storm swallows everything. 

Should I be worried? Even if my phone died, he could still find me with the tracker, right? I try to push back the fear.

Maybe he turned around.
Maybe his father forced him back.
Maybe this was arrogance on my part.

Lightning splits the sky again. I hug myself, shivering slightly. Maybe I should call Dae.

Then I see him.

A figure running through the downpour.

Jiwon.

He slows when he sees me, relief hitting his face so hard it almost looks like pain. He doesn’t stop to catch his breath. He walks straight toward me.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

His hands lift instinctively toward me—then stop mid-air.

He remembers.

He lets them fall.

He’s drenched. Completely. His bespoke suit is ruined. The silk shirt clings to his body, transparent against his skin. His bleached hair hangs over his forehead, water streaming down his temples. He is shaking from the cold and adrenaline.

“I’m sorry,” I say, sticking to the script. “I couldn’t reach Dae or Hoon.”

He doesn’t scold me.

“Were you busy?” I ask, forcing it.

A short laugh escapes him, swallowed by the wind. He is shivering hard now.

“Somewhat. We had a merger today.” He wipes rain from his eyes, smiling. “My dad’s going to kill me.”

My stomach twists.

“But you’re worth dying for, I guess.”

The words are casual.

Too casual.

“Aren’t you glad I got that bracelet. I knew exactly where you were,” he adds quietly, his eyes holding mine with meaning.

There is no performance in it.

No theatrics.

Just fact.

Rain continues to drench him.

“You’re soaked,” I murmur. I reach out, pinching his shirt sleeve and tugging him towards me under the bus shelter.

“Yeah. I ran the last mile. Traffic was frozen.” He exhales sharply. “I didn’t want you thinking I wasn’t coming.”

The data settles inside me.

The variables collapse.

He chose me.

“The car will be here in a minute. Cold?”

I shake my head, unable to speak. 

“Thank you for coming," I mumble. Guilt tears at my soul.

He smiles, fighting the cold. 

“Jiwon, I-” I meant to confess then. I hated myself for doing this, but headlights cut through the downpour. It’s his chauffeur-driven sedan. The tires screech to a stop against the wet asphalt.

“Let’s get out of here.” He says. 

I insist we go to mine. It’s closer, and I can’t stand seeing Jiwon shiver. My guilt piles by the minute. I need him warm.

When we step through the door, the air in the foyer is still and formal. Usually, this is a sequence of precise moving parts: the house staff takes my coat, they slide my shoes away, and they step me into my home slippers before I move an inch. It’s the rhythm I live by.

But today, I break it.

The staff stares openly in shock as I override the protocol. I kick off my shoes, discard my jacket on the floor, and walk upstairs barefoot with Jiwon in tow. I don't look back to see their dismay; I just feel the cold wood of the stairs against my soles, a sharp departure from the routine.

I sit on the edge of the bed and let the climate-controlled warmth of the room sink into me. I lean back against the padded headboard, my body heavy. I wait for him to emerge from the bathroom, my heart racing with a steady, pulsing dread.

I have to confess. I feel like shit.

I jump slightly when the bathroom door opens. Steam spills into the bedroom as he steps out. A white towel hangs low on his hips. His skin is flushed pink from the heat, droplets sliding slowly down defined muscle. The patterns on his skin scream for touch. Without the armor of a suit, he looks younger. Less heir. More man.

My pulse spikes violently.

“I’m sorry,” I begin. “I wasn’t in danger. I wanted to see if you’d leave something important to come.”

He goes still.

“You knew about the merger? How?”

“I hacked the Kim residence. And the casino feed.”

Silence.

Then his brows lift slightly. Not anger.

Interest.

“You can do that?”

“That’s not the point.”

He steps closer but stops at a distance he knows I can tolerate. He sinks into the bed beside me.

“A test,” he says softly. “You put a multi-billion-won merger through a stress test.”

“I needed to know the probability of your sincerity. It was low on paper.”

“And now?” His voice drops. “What’s the data say now?”

“The data says I’m an idiot.”

He laughs. Low. Warm. The sound fills the room.

“You’re not an idiot,” he says. “You’re meticulous.”

His eyes shift to my lips.

He doesn’t touch me.

He leans in slowly, giving me space to retreat.

I don’t.

His mouth brushes mine first—barely there. Testing. Waiting.

Heat detonates through me.

I grab his towel at the hip, grounding myself in fabric rather than skin. He understands instantly. His palms brace on either side of my head against the headboard, caging me without contact.

He kisses me again.

Deeper.

Slow.

His lips are warm, tasting faintly of mint and him. My breathing fractures. 

His tongue traces the seam of my mouth, asking.

I open.

The kiss turns urgent, hungry, the knowledge of his sincerity fuelling my need. My fingers tighten in the towel, pulling him closer without touching bare skin. His body inches closer, heat radiating, careful not to overwhelm.

I gasp, pulse racing.

He tilts his head and kisses me deeper still. His breath syncs with mine, a steady, rhythmic pulse that overrides the noise in my head. The world narrows until there is nothing left but the heat of him, the press of his lips, and a sudden, sharp desire to explore this enigma—Jiwon.

No more doubts. No more tests. No more calculations.

Just him.

And the undeniable fact that he ran through a storm for me.

His towel loosens in my hands.

The fabric slips half an inch.

I feel the shift.

Heat rushes straight through me.

If I look down, there may be no going back.

Author's Note:

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Thank you for reading and staying with Jay and Jiwon.