Aren’t we all.
I concede with a nod, watching her lift a glistening piece of tuna to her lips. “What if I promise to disguise any details? Different names, locations, circumstances? Though if we’re being honest, my manuscript is already complete—I’m just adding texture to characters based on my editor’s notes.”
Her chopsticks pause midair. I catch the microscopic furrow between her brows, the slight tightening around her mouth—subtle shifts most would miss, but I’ve made a career of noticing these things, the tiny facial telegraphs that betray inner thoughts. The consideration flickers across her face, then extinguishes just as quickly.
“Rule number three,” she declares, bypassing my question entirely. “Nothing between us appears in your work. Not disguised, not reimagined. Nothing.”
The phrasing catches my attention, she’s anticipating something between us worth writing about.
I reach for my sake cup. “That’s quite a demand. Most writers mine real life for material.”
“Those are my terms,” she says, voice crisp as the nori beneath her fingertips.
The chef slides a new dish between us—uni perched on rice like tiny golden sunsets. I watch Minji’s eyelids flutter closed as she takes her first bite. This woman is still as gorgeous as the first day I saw her. Minji’s looks are mesmerizing as she’s always been. The high cheekbones that catch the light at just the right angle, giving her face a sculpted elegance that no amount of contouring could replicate. Her warm brown eyes are what I’ve always found most striking—slightly monolid with an upward tilt at the corners that gives her a perpetually knowing look, like she’s privy to secrets the rest of us haven’t discovered yet. When she’s amused, those eyes narrow just slightly, a subtle crinkle at the corners.
I’ve always been drawn to the perfect symmetry of her features—the straight bridge of her nose, the defined curve of her jawline, the way her full lips press together when she’s considering something important. She has a single beauty mark, almost imperceptible, just below her left eye that I used to trace with my thumb when we’d lie in bed talking about nothing and everything.
The soft glow of the restaurant lighting softens her features, highlighting the natural flush across her cheeks that deepens when she catches me staring.
“What?” she asks, dabbing the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Is there something on my face?”
I smile, caught in the act. “Just appreciating the view.”
Her eyebrows arch slightly—another feature I’ve always found captivating, the way they frame her expressions so perfectly. “The view? I’m not a landscape, Aaron.”
“No,” I agree. “You’re far more complex and interesting.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. It’s that almost-smile that gets me every time—theone that suggests Minji Lee might actually be enjoying herself despite her best efforts not to. “So, back to what I was saying. My terms…”
“I’ll play by your rules, but with one stipulation.”
Her chopsticks click against the ceramic as she sets them down. “Go on.”
“No lawyer-speak when I ask about your cases or divorce strategies. I need your genuine perspective, not what the Bar Association recommends you say.”
She tilts her head. “It’s fiction you’re writing, Aaron. Does authenticity really matter?”
“The most convincing fiction is anchored in reality.” My voice drops as I lean closer. “Readers can smell fabrication a mile away. I swear my readers might have built-in detectors for bullshit.”
“So, these novels of yours, are they drawn from life?”
“From emotional truths,” I clarify. “I may not have lived every scene, but I know the undertow: wanting someone to really see you, the fear of being fully known. How love can be both medicine and poison.”
“Which wins out more often? The healing or the harm?”
“In my books? Healing sells better.” I meet her eyes. “In reality? The jury’s still out.”
“Have you always dissected things this way?”
For someone who doesn’t want me to probe into her business, she’s certainly interested in mine. “I’ve always been observant,” I continue, “but isn’t this breaking rule number one?”
Her lips curve into something close to a smile. “It’s not breaking rule number one when the information is readily available. Anyone who reads your About Me page will know.”
“So you have read my bio?”
“Research.” She pauses. “Know thy enemy and all that.”
I laugh, the sound genuine enough to make a nearby diner glance our way. “Is that what I am? Your enemy?”
