Page 116 of Heart and Seoul (Seoul 1)

“I told you not to cry,” Wansu says rather unexpectedly. “When I left you on the street, I told you not to cry. Adults don’t like criers and I worried if you cried that they wouldn’t take you, they wouldn’t love you. I laid my hand on your tiny chest and prayed that you wouldn’t be a crier. And I vowed I wouldn’t cry either.” Wansu’s tongue is so thick and the words are heavy like lead, and it’s hard for me to make out what my mother is saying.

A keening noise escapes Wansu, and suddenly it’s too much. I fling out an arm, searching for the door. I find it and push it open. Someone yelps and jumps out of the way. I make it to the hallway before collapsing. My heart is broken and full at the same time.

“Everyone out. Park Minho, get everyone out.”

Two strong, warm arms close around my shoulders. A large hand comes up to cup the back of my head and press it against a solid chest covered in crisp white cotton. Yujun doesn’t tell me it will be all right. He doesn’t say that my mothers’ reconciliation should make me happy. He doesn’t tell me to stop crying. He just holds me.

He’s always been so good, so perfect, so present whenever I’ve needed him, from the time that I showed up at the airport to the night we sat in front of the Han River for hours and he held my hand in silence to this moment right now.

“Why is doing the right thing so hard?” I blubber.

“It’s like asking why everything that tastes good is fattening,” he replies.

I choke out a laugh. “This is going to be terrible.”

“No. We’ll figure something out.” Yujun tips my head up and kisses my swollen eyelids. “Our fates are tied together.” Kiss. “There will be a solution.” Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

My hands find his shirt buttons. His fingers tug at my blouse. I don’t know exactly where we are, but I don’t care. An earthquake could take place, an air raid siren could go off, and I still wouldn’t relinquish my hold on Yujun. My fingers scrape across the base of his spine. He shudders and clutches me closer. His tongue sweeps inside my mouth, rousing every nerve ending inside me and awakening some I didn’t know existed. I slide my palms under his shirt and up his bare back. His muscles clench and flow under my grip. He lifts me suddenly and swings me around until my butt lands on a solid surface. I regret wearing pants today. His fingers dig into my thighs as he pulls me close.

“Yujun-ah, please come out. The press is downstairs. They are waiting for a statement.” Wansu’s voice breaks through the fog of arousal.

Yujun stops moving for a second. Just for one second, but it’s long enough for me to come to my senses. I push him off me and slide off the counter. He brought me into a bathroom. How convenient that the bathrooms at IF Group are unisex, I think mundanely as I button my shirt up.

“Your hair is a mess,” I tell Yujun, gazing at the back of his head reflected in the mirror. He’s turned into a statue—Coitus Interruptus would be the title of his sculpture. His head is bent and his shoulders are slumped forward. He still looks delicious—more so because his shirt is hanging out and I can see a tiny sliver of flesh around his waistband. His body is so fine that it’s criminal. A shiver courses down my spine.

He shoves a frustrated hand through his hair, lets out a low curse before straightening. He avoids eye contact with me as he goes about repairing the damage I made. He wets his hands and pats down his hair, buttons his shirt, tucks everything away. I lean against the counter and watch the show. It might be the last one I’ll ever see. There is something wildly erotic about seeing Yujun put himself back together. When he’s done, he wipes his hands dry and then reaches for the door.

“Meet me at the river. Nine p.m.” And then he leaves.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Yujun is standing by the bench when I arrive. There’s a bag at his feet. My heart sinks. A gift? I should’ve known. Koreans give gifts all the time. Why wouldn’t a breakup include one, too?

“I didn’t bring anything,” I say when I reach him. I’m always empty-handed.

He smiles, that devastating half smile with the tiny divot punctuating his expression. “Perhaps it’s not for you.”

I let out a reluctant chuckle. He can always make me smile. “How bold of me.”

He grins, but he can’t hold it for long. The strain pulls the corners of his lips down. His two dimples wink out and when they’re gone it’s as if all the light in the night sky has been snuffed. I hate it.

---