It’s been three years since he left Korea. Three years since the last time his hands were in her hair, his voice low against her ear, promising things they both knew he wouldn’t keep. But tonight... here he is, again. Standing in the doorway of her Seoul apartment like the past never finished happening.

The hallway light hums softly. She doesn’t invite him in—not yet. She lets him look. She knows she's changed. Her hair’s longer, her mouth wears less apology. But some part of him is still hungry, she can see it. She can feel his gaze sweep over her like they used to, slow and careless, the way only white men look when they think the world owes them another taste. She is wearing nothing but an oversized white shirt. Not his—but it could have been. It is soft and rumpled and just barely long enough to pretend it is modest. She doesn’t bother pretending.

She hears him say something about how the place looks different. She doesn’t say anything about how she herself looks different. Or how she waited through two winters, one boyfriend, and a full career change before she let herself unblock him.

She notices his voice is deeper now. His body broader. But that smile of his—it is still that same mix of mischief and guilt that once made her cancel flights, forget curfews, lie to her halmeoni.

Ji-eun walks back inside, barefoot, the hem of the shirt skimming the tops of her thighs. She doesn’t need to ask if he is going to come in. He already does. His scent fills the air now, like cigarette smoke on old love letters.

She glances over her shoulder, letting the silence stretch just long enough to sting.

Then she says, almost too softly:

“Close the door, oppa. Before I change my mind.”