Later, I’m at Dae’s. 

Her family’s residence in the hills of Dalmaji-gil is a masterclass in "Old Money" Korean chic. It’s a minimalist fortress of white marble and floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the Haeundae coastline.

We’re in the kitchen, a space larger than a standard apartment, where Dae is picking at a plate of Jeonbuk-juk topped with gold leaf.

“You have to apologize properly, Jay,” she says, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “You put him through so much. Now give him a treat.” 

She raises her eyebrows suggestively. 

“I’m not ready for sex,” I snap, my heart hammering against my ribs. 

“I know, I know. But you can take it a step further than a kiss.” She pokes her tongue into her cheek and demos a stroking motion in the air.

“A blowjob?” The word feels heavy and foreign on my tongue. “Dae, I don’t even know the... the mechanics.” 

“It’s like jerking off, but with your mouth. Trust me, he’ll worship you for it.” 

The thought of Jiwon looking at me with any kind of reverence sends a delightful shiver through me.

“Here,” Dae says, hopping off the kitchen stool and pulling a sleek, chilled cucumber from the Sub-Zero fridge. “Practice on this.” 

I stare at the vegetable, horrified. 

“You’ve got to be kidding—” 

“What are you two doing?” Dae’s mother walks in, the epitome of a Busan socialite in her silk loungewear. In a panic, I snatch the cucumber and shove it into my backpack. 

“Nothing, Omma!” Dae draws out. “Just studying!” 

“I was just leaving,” I announce, bowing quickly and fleeing — the errant vegetable adding phantom weight to the books in my backpack.

At home, the atmosphere is electric. “You invited Jiwon Kim over?” My mother’s voice rings through our villa. She pauses, her eyes reflecting momentary worry—she knows the weight of the Kim name—secrets long buried. Then she brightens. “We must do this right. A fusion! Swedish-Korean. And the 2018 Riesling!”

She moves through the house like a whirlwind, her silver-streaked chignon perfectly tight. She orders Smaland desserts from a boutique European bakery and directs our head chef to prepare a traditional Hanjeongsik spread that looks like it belongs in a Joseon palace. The silver cutlery, etched with our family crest, is laid out with surgical precision.

Upstairs, I am less organized. I spend an hour researching fellatio on my laptop, and thirty minutes practicing on Dae’s cucumber. My jaw aches as I memorize the nuances of suction and pressure. I file the data away: Keep teeth away. Control the pressure.

I step into the shower, letting the scalding water ground me. Steam wraps around me like a digital shield. Later, as I blow-dry my hair, I catch my reflection in the fogged mirror.

I lean closer to the glass, the heat from the shower still clinging to my skin. I’ve always viewed my body as a biological vessel for my brain—a series of systems to be maintained—but tonight, I’m looking for the "why."

I wipe the condensation from the glass to inspect the damage. The steam has flushed my skin, but underneath, there is that porcelain clarity that always makes me feel too visible.

My features are a study in delicate, almost frustrating precision—a high, straight bridge of the nose and a jawline that looks like it was carved from fine ivory. My eyes are my most betraying trait: large, obsidian orbs framed by a fringe of lashes so thick and dark they look inked. 

I let my gaze drop, assessing the rest of the "me." Too lean— I lack the sculpted masculinity of the crowd I saw hanging around him on social media. Compared to them, I’m a collection of fine, sharp lines and soft porcelain. My chest is flat and narrow, my waist tapering into a lithe 'V' frame. There is no aggression in my silhouette, just an unformed thinness that makes me look younger and far more fragile than I feel.

My lips are a soft, bruised rose color, naturally bowed and appearing far too plush for someone who speaks in cold logic. My hair, usually a chaotic midnight-dark, is damp and clinging to my forehead in silken clumps, further softening the outline of my face. I look almost ethereal, like a digital ghost that might flicker and vanish if the light hits me at the wrong angle. My features suggest an angelic purity—the kind of face that makes people lower their voices as if they’re in a cathedral.

I trace my jaw, wondering what Jiwon Kim actually sees. I’m just Jaya mess of social anxieties and algorithmic loops in a body that feels perpetually unfinished.

I suppose some might this "cute" in a fragile, unconventional way — like something to be protected and coddled.

But the look is a lie.

Jiwon has no idea he’s invited a glitch into his life. He sees "delicate," but he doesn't fully understand the jagged edges of my sensory meltdowns. I’m not a doll to be kept. I’m a high-voltage wire disguised as silk. 

And yet, as I look at my flushed lips and wide, dark eyes, I realize I want him to keep looking. I want him fixated—I want to be the only glitch in his system that he can never look away from.

I dress with quiet intent. I choose a teal Mongolian cashmere sweater—the color of a deep, restless sea—paired with loose, dark grey lounge trousers. The fabric is a sensory mercy, soft against my skin. I slide my feet into a pair of dark seamless, ergonomic Loro Piana slippers; today, my body craves the grounded, charcoal-wool comfort of home more than the rigid aesthetics of my status.

I linger at the mirror, assessing the final result. A piece of fine celadon—serene, expensive, and deceptively still stares back at me. Instinct tells me Jiwon will approve. A thrill runs through me, followed by a familiar, sharp ache of anxiety. I want to give him this—the quiet, the soft, the "enough." Because the louder, sharper parts of me can never be truly loved. 

As I descend the wide spiral staircase, the air changes. It smells of roasting pine nuts and the sharp, fermented tang of aged kimchi. Boris is emerging from the cellar.

Boris is our head butler and the only real father I’ve ever known.  He is a man of quiet, heavy history—fourth-generation Koryo-saram, his ancestors were exiled to the frozen plains of Russia under Stalin before finding their way back to the peninsula. He is a master of two worlds: he speaks Russian with a gravelly depth and Korean with the refined lilt of the Busan elite.

He uncorks a bottle of 1996 Chateau Margaux, a wine usually reserved for Lunar New Year or state visits. He looks up, his weathered face softening into a warm, proud smile. Boris is a stoic Catholic, a man who smells of frankincense and starch. I remember the secret oil he used to trace over my forehead during my childhood meltdowns and nightmares, the Russian prayers he whispered like a soft incantation against my skin. My mother called it a "superstition" and forbade the "fixing" of my mind, but I still remember the weight of his rosary beads and the way my restlessness and nightmares always fled from his voice.

Tonight, Boris doesn't pray. He simply nods, a silent blessing of the evening ahead.

The dining room is a battlefield of hospitality. A choreography of curated fusion plays out across the polished wood—slivers of Gravlax that melt like butter, a pungent dill mustard, fragrant Kimchi-jjigae bubbling softly in black stone pots. The centerpiece is the Bulgogi, its thin beef slices glazed to a mirror shine with soy and garlic, the aroma sweet and heady. The staff moves like ghosts, their efforts stringent under the terrifying, quiet approval of our head chef, every dish placed with the precision of a ceremonial offering.

Ding.

The chime cuts through the air. I am at the door in a flash, beating Boris by a second. He stops, gives a minute bow, and steps back. He understands. This is my threshold to cross.

I grip the cold brass handle. My heart is a frantic bird against my ribs. I turn the knob.

And there he is.

Jiwon Kim. He stands with the terrifying poise of a prince. His white hair is a masterpiece of intentional chaos, and his tattoos—those dark, illicit vines—coil around his forearms, mocking our refined surroundings. To the world, he screams danger. To me, he is the only thing I can see.

He smiles, and the hallway feels five degrees warmer.

Before my brain can retreat into its fortress of logic, I do the unthinkable. I ignore the distance I usually crave.

I reach out, my fingers trembling only slightly, and extend my hand toward him.

Author’s Note:

🎊We’re made it to 50 subscribers right on time! Hurray!🍾

I'll be dropping the next earlier than usual as promised!

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Pull someone else beneath the static. Let’s cross 100 by March ending! 🚪