Page 35 of Heart and Seoul (Seoul 1)

Incheon looks like a scene out of a Marvel movie. The buildings are sleek and rounded. Tall, statement buildings. Dozens of cranes, heavy machinery, and scaffolding fill the skyline. It’s a manufactured place and none of it seems entirely real. Maybe if I stretched out a hand, it’d pierce the computer-generated image and I’d stumble forward to find myself in my apartment back home.

“There you are.” A voice slices through the silence like a whip.

Electricity arcs up my spine. I know that voice. It might be the only familiar one in all of Korea other than Boyoung’s, and so I shouldn’t be surprised when I spin around and find Choi Yujun standing on the first landing of the wide stairs that lead up to the entrance of the club. I am, though, and my return greeting sticks in my throat.

“We met at the airport,” he says, as if I could ever forget. His long legs cover the stairs two at a time and he’s in front of me, within dimple-poking distance, even before I can blink. He’s dressed in black slacks and a silky shirt whose top two buttons are undone. A hint of his clavicle peeks out. I scrape my teeth along my lower lip and wonder when collarbones became sexy.

“I remember,” I reply, a little too breathlessly. You’re not eighteen, remember, Hara? “Choi Yujun. You gave me a ride home.”

“You’re supposed to call me Yujun, remember?” He grins and the left dimple winks into existence. I’m glad I’m still holding on to the railing. “And take me out for a giant steak dinner.”

I’d forgotten that. The news of my father’s death followed by the funeral and then the discovery of the five photos had shoved everything else out of my brain. I’d forgotten my mother, Boyoung, and this man. Thinking back, though, I never would have called him because Yujun from Seoul was as much a mirage as the images that flash along the exterior of Club Dance—a dream. Perfect but not real.

But he is real and he’s standing in front of me looking so delicious that my hands start sweating and my skin starts to pebble with goose bumps despite the hot, still air. A light, bubbling sensation replaces the rock in my stomach and the corners of my lips are curving upward of their own volition.

“I was unpacking,” I blurt out, realizing belatedly that it’s my turn to speak. I don’t know what it is about this man that renders me so dumb. It’s his looks, I guess? And his charm, which he wears like a garment that was made just for him. And the smile and the height and the way his eyes dance when he looks at me, as if I’m interesting and delightful. “I brought too much stuff,” I finish weakly. This is not a good excuse. I’ll think of one tonight, hours later when I replay this humiliating exchange in my head a thousand times.

He’s an angel because he doesn’t call me on the bullshit but instead asks, “Are you enjoying the show?”

“The show?” I repeat because my brain cells have their tongues on the ground and things are slow upstairs. All right, Hara, get your act together. Stop acting like you can’t understand his perfect English and reply in full, cogent sentences. “Right. The show. It’s good.” What a lie. I can’t remember a single song that was played.

He cocks his head. “You sound uncertain.”

“No. No. It was good. Really good.” Everyone inside is jamming out. It isn’t that the music isn’t good. My head isn’t in the right place.

“If you’re leaving, my chauffeur services are available. I’m driving myself today. Taxis at night can be unpredictable.”

“I’m not leaving,” I say in a hurry. “I was catching a breath of fresh air. This place is incredible.”

Yujun doesn’t let this half-truth slide. One side of his mouth quirks up. “Is it the cranes or the airplanes that you like the best?”

“Cranes,” I quip. “I’ve got a thing for construction and heavy machinery.”

We share a smile at my silliness. Hints of Yujun’s dimples appear like tiny crescent shadows, and I lean a little closer, feeling the weight of the past three days ease a bit. Silence stretches between us and it should be uncomfortable but instead makes it easier for me to be standing here in this place I thought would feel like home but isn’t in any way familiar. The expression on his face is fond and admiring and seems to be saying that he understands me. Or, at the very least, sharing this space, this moment, pleases him. We aren’t the only two people here in Incheon or at this complex, but I don’t notice anything but him. My entire vision is of his long legs and broad shoulders, his glossy black hair with the side part, his dark eyebrows, straight nose, and full lips. My lungs are full of something warm and pleasant. My hand rises and I’m on the verge of doing something stupid like poking my index finger into the divot on the side of his cheek when a newcomer pops up and saves me.

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