“I wasn’t going to give you a speech.” I step closer, careful not to crowd her. “I was going to apologize.”
“You don’t need to say sorry. We just got swept up in the moment and to not fall further down the abyss of sexual tension, it’s best if I go home.”
I reach for her hand, but she pulls back. The elevator feels like it’s descending too quickly, my stomach dropping with it.
“Sexual tension?”
Minji fixes her gaze on the floor numbers as they light up in sequence. “What else could it be, Aaron? We’ve known each other for a week.”
“Two weeks,” I correct her. “With a decade-long intermission.”
She shakes her head, a strand of hair falling across her face. I resist the urge to tuck it behind her ear.
“That’s not how time works.” She looks at me. “You can’t just pick up where we left off when there was nothing to pick up in the first place.”
I don’t know why she is trying so hard to forget about us. About what we had going on in the past. The elevator reaches the lobby with a soft chime. When the doors slide open, Minji steps out immediately, her heels clicking against the marble floor as she heads for the exit. I follow, quickening my pace to catch up.
“Minji, wait. Please.”
She stops, her back still to me, shoulders rigid. The lobby is quiet, just a few late-night guests passing through. When she finally turns, her expression is a battlefield of conflicting emotions.
“I don’t feel the same way as you do. I don’t get swept up in the thoughts of happily ever after; those don’t exist. I’m not looking to be in a relationship. Let’s just keep this professional. Thank you for inviting me out, but I’m going to call it a night. Please pass on my apologies to Axel for leaving early.”
I stand frozen in the lobby, watching her walk away. Why is she making this so fucking hard?
“Would you like me to call a car for you, ma’am?” the concierge asks.
“Yes, thank you,” she replies, still not looking back.
I should let her go. She’s made herself clear and pursuing her now would only make things worse. But something about the rigid line of her shoulders, the way her fingers clench around her clutch, tells me she’s lying to both of us.
I catch up to Minji in three quick strides. “Let me at least see you home.”
She doesn’t turn around. “I can manage.”
“I’m sure you can.” I glance at the concierge, who’s suddenly very interested in his computer screen. “But I invited you here. Let me finish what I started.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction. “Just the ride.”
The concierge announces our car will arrive in three minutes. We wait without speaking, maintaining twelve inches between us like there’s an invisible force field. My fingers twitch with the memory of her waist, and I can still taste her on my lips. The minutes tick by. The car pulls up, glossy black, and the uniformed driver hops out to open the door for us.
“Thank you,” she says, settling into the back without looking at me.
I slip into the backseat beside her, making sure to keep enough distance.
The city becomes a blur of lights and rain-spattered glass, moving past in silence.
“I meant what I said up there.” I break, finally, because the silence is too sharp to bear. “About not wanting to hurt you. About wanting more.” She stares out the window, not even bothering to dignify it with a response. I deserve that. So, I try a different tactic. “You know, statistically, people who claim to hate romance novels are actually the ones who secretly want a happy ending the most.”
Her eyes flash to me, incredulous and angry. “Is that what this is? A seduction technique? Psychoanalyze your way into my pants?”
“Not that I would object to being in your pants again,” I deadpan, which only seems to make her jaw tense more.Wrong move, Singleton. “But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Good. Because I’m not interested. In romance. Or in you.”
That almost makes me laugh, because for someone so uninterested, she can’t stop looking at my mouth. “Fine.” I lean back, turning my face to the window. “I’ll keep my mouth shut for now.”
She doesn’t respond, but her fingers soften where they rest on her clutch. The rest of the ride is taut enough to snap a violin string. All I can do is count the city blocks, listening for the tiny sounds she makes—a single exhale, the rustle of silk on the seat, the faint click of her teeth when she bites the inside of her cheek. After what feels like hours, the car curves onto her street.
