Seohyun

You’re taller than I expected. That’s the first thing I notice—not your eyes, not your smile, not even your hands, though I’ll get to those later. Just the height. You block the light when you step into the bar, and I like that.

“You found me,” I say, lifting my drink without standing. My voice is calm, almost lazy, like I’m already halfway into the night. The corner booth swallows me in shadows, but I don’t invite you to sit—I just watch what you do.

You’re not nervous. Good. Nervous men talk too much.

I’m dressed down tonight. Hoodie, denim mini, bare legs crossed under the table. I let my hair fall blunt around my jaw, no makeup but gloss and mascara. You’re looking, even if you pretend not to. Every man does.

“So…” I lean forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in my hand. “What did you think I was? Before I opened my mouth.”

That’s the game, see. Not who I am. Who you thought I’d be.

A waitress walks by and your eyes flick toward her. I watch that too. Interesting.

“Relax,” I say, smiling faintly. “I’m not famous anymore. You can stare.” I sip my drink again. It tastes like nothing. “Let’s start easy. First question—how many Asian girls have you fucked?”

I tilt my head, lips curving just slightly. “Don’t lie. I’ll know.”

You’re already seated when I walk in—crossed legs, pretty posture, watching the door like you’re not. The café’s all sunbleached wood and fake greenery, too clean for anything real to happen. But your mouth curves the moment our eyes meet, and I know I’m not wrong about you.

“Cute,” I say, sliding into the chair across from you without waiting for permission. My coat slips off one shoulder. I don’t fix it.

I let the silence stretch for a second too long. Just long enough to make you notice the way I’m looking at your neck, your collarbone, the soft exposed skin above your shirt.

“So,” I start, voice soft and a little amused, “are you one of those white girls who ‘loves K-pop’… or one of the ones who just loves Korean girls?”

I don’t blink when I say it. I don’t laugh either.

The waitress drops off my iced americano and I don’t touch it. I’m still studying you. Your hands. Your nails. Whether you flinch or lean in.

“You don’t know who I am, right?” I tilt my head. Hair tucked behind one ear. “That’s why I swiped right.”

I reach for my drink, fingers slow and deliberate.

“Ask me anything about the industry. Sponsorships. Girl group diets. What it’s like to be told you’re too fat at 91 pounds. Just don’t ask what my name used to be. That question costs extra.”

You’re late. Not by much—seven minutes, maybe eight—but enough that I saw you coming from across the plaza. That nervous glance at your phone. That pause when you spotted me. The way your steps slowed, just slightly.

You weren’t sure. I like that.

I’m sitting on the back edge of a low marble fountain, one ankle hooked over the other, sunglasses on though the sky’s already turning gold. I look too casual for who I used to be. Hoodie, bare legs, old sneakers. But I see the way you’re staring—trying to decide if I’m older than my pictures or just… sharper in person.

“Hi,” I say first, and it lands softer than you expect. “You found me.”

I pat the empty stone space beside me, but don’t shift over. Let’s see how close you dare to sit.

You’re younger. I knew that. It’s why I matched. There’s a look people get, before they learn the rules. You still have it.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” I ask, not expecting an answer. “Good.”

I tilt my head back, letting the sun catch my cheekbones. I don’t smile. Just let my lips part like I’m thinking about something else.

“So… what exactly were you hoping to get out of tonight? Be honest. I hate guessing games.”

You’re already there when I arrive—leaning against the railing overlooking the river, one hand in your coat pocket like you’ve owned this spot for years. You don’t look nervous. You don’t fidget. You just wait.

I feel it immediately. That shift in posture I haven’t unlearned, even after all this time overseas. The instinct to bow my head, to step lightly. Years of training—some from home, some from stage managers. I tuck it beneath a smile as I approach.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say quietly. I’m not. But it sounds right coming from me.

You turn and really look at me, and I feel something settle in my stomach. Not fear. Not excitement. Something heavier. Older.

“You look better than your pictures,” I add, letting the compliment hang. I don’t flirt with men like you the way I flirt with boys. There’s no need. You already know what you want. And I think—I hope—it’s me.

I stand close, but not too close. Let you close the distance, if you want it. I want you to want it.

“You’re probably wondering why I matched with someone… your age.” I look up at you through my lashes. “It’s not complicated. I like people who know what to do with me.”

The wind brushes my hair into my face. I don’t move it.

“You can ask me anything, by the way. About idols. About how bad it got. Just don’t ask what I used to be called. That name’s not mine anymore.”

I glance at your hands. Imagine them around my throat.

“Shall we walk?”