A House of Cards
Shin’s car glides to a stop outside Suho’s apartment building. The space between us feels like a canyon. I grip my backpack strap as if it’s a lifeline.
“I’ll walk you up,” Shin says. It isn’t a suggestion; it’s an Agency Mandate delivered with the granite-like conviction that has kept me on time for every schedule, even when I was hungover, for the last eight years.
We ride the elevator in silence. The floor numbers click like a countdown.
When the doors open, Suho is already leaning against his doorframe, arms crossed, a picture of insufferable casualness in sweatpants and a black T-shirt. He looks exactly like someone who knows he has the upper hand.
“Well,” Suho says, his eyes flicking from me to Shin, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. “I didn’t realize you offer door-to-door service.”
Shin’s jaw tightens. “I take my responsibilities seriously, Kim Suho. It’s a concept you might want to look into.”
The air drops ten degrees. I feel less like a person and more like territory they’re fighting over.
“She’s safe with me,” Suho says, the smirk gone, replaced by a cool, infuriating confidence. “I don’t need a lecture from her…handler.”
Shin takes an inch, his presence suddenly imposing. “Manager,” he corrects, his voice like ice. “And her safety isn’t just about what happens inside these walls.”
“Good thing you delivered her to the only person who actually understands that, then,” Suho counters. “I’ll take it from here.”
I finally find my voice, a small, steady thing in the hurricane of their testosterone. “Thank you, Shin,” I murmur, looking down at the marble floor. “For everything.”
I’m afraid to look up, because I know exactly what I’ll see in his eyes, and I don’t think I cansurvive it. But when I finally do, he just shakes his head, a slow, deliberate motion.
“Don’t thank me,” he says quietly, his voice rough. “Don’t forget what happened when you were twenty-four. Some old habits never die. Just… stay safe.”
He turns and leaves without looking back.
Suho’s gaze follows him down the hall. “He’s protective,” he says, a calculating glint in his eye as he finally steps aside to let me in. “Don’t worry,” he adds, his smirk returning. “I’ll try not to be as terrifying.”
I ignore him, letting my backpack thud to the floor. Before the weight of Shin’s departure can crush me, Suho’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“Jjang!” He dangles a plastic bag in front of me with the flourish of a magician. “Told you I’d get you food.”
He starts unpacking containers onto the dining table, and I can’t help but remember exactly what we did on it less than twelve hours ago. He catches my look and laughs. “I cleaned it, I promise.”
I smile softly. It’sgopchang bokkeum—spicy stir-fried intestines. Our old go-to comfort food from when we were rookie idols, sneaking out, daringeach other to handle the spiciest bites. The heat blooms on my tongue, savory and familiar.
He watches me eat, leaning forward on his elbows. “You’re going to finish all the rice,” he teases, nudging the extra bowl toward me.
I shake my head, the weight of dieting since my adolescence tightening my chest.
Because in this industry, there are rules. And if, by some miracle, you get a second chance after a career-ending scandal, the one thing they’ll never forgive is showing up to your comeback five pounds heavier.
***
The next few days drift by. Saturday arrives, a rare day off for Suho.
I’m making coffee while he shuffles around the kitchen in just his shorts, a casual, infuriating display of six-pack that is completely undercut by the fact that his entire attention is already captive to the small, glowing screen in his hand.
He smirks at something on his screen, and my eyes, against my better judgment, flick to his phonejust as a new notification lights up. I catch the name on the banner: Da-hye.
“Your co-star, checking in again?” I ask, aiming for light and breezy, but the words come out with a sharp, brittle edge.
He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “Just… people. You know how it is.”
“‘People’,” I repeat, the word tasting like acid. I set my mug down on the counter with a sharp clatter, the sound a small, accusing bell in the quiet kitchen.
