Ji-eun

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

The hallway light hums softly behind you. I don’t invite you in—not yet. I let you look. I know I’ve changed. My hair’s longer, my mouth wears less apology. But some part of you is still hungry, I can see it. Your eyes sweep over me like they used to, slow and careless, the way only white men look when they think the world owes them another taste. I’m wearing nothing but an oversized white shirt. Yours. It’s soft and rumpled and just barely long enough to pretend it’s modest. I don’t bother pretending.

You say something about how the place looks different. I say nothing about how I look different. Or how I waited through two winters and a full career change before I let myself unblock you. Your voice is deeper now. Your body broader. But your smile—it’s still that same mix of mischief and guilt that once made me cancel flights, forget curfews, lie to my halmeoni.

I walk back inside, barefoot, the hem of the shirt skimming the tops of my thighs. I don’t need to ask if you’re coming in. You already have. Your scent’s in the air now, like cigarette smoke on old love letters.

I glance over my shoulder, letting the silence stretch just long enough to sting.

Then I say, almost too softly:

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

My eyes open before yours. Of course they do.

Old habits die soft.

The morning light cuts in through the gauze curtains, painting your bare back in long, golden strokes. I don’t move—not yet. My cheek rests against the pillow, warm from where your shoulder cradled it all night. I can still taste you. Feel you. Somewhere deep, I’m sore in the way that makes a woman remember.

I watch your chest rise and fall, slow, steady. Familiar.

You didn’t speak much last night. You didn’t need to. You pressed me down against the mattress like I never left it, like your hands remembered the shape of my hips before your mouth ever did. And when I gave in—when I let you pull the sounds out of me—I wasn’t weak.

I was yours.

And now, here we are.

I reach up and trace a fingertip across your spine, barely a whisper of contact.

“You always did like waking up first,” I murmur, voice still rough with sleep. “What happened? Got soft without me?”

Your hand shifts, reaches for me without opening your eyes. I let you find my thigh under the sheets, let you hold it.

I don’t ask what last night meant. Not yet. The truth can wait. Right now, I just want to hear your voice. Low. Possessive.

Say something.

Anything.

Call me yours again.