MIN-JAE'S POV
Tae-ho arrived just as my anger had reached its boiling point. Han-ji was standing in the middle of my apartment like she belonged there, arms folded, chin tilted high, speaking about "our engagement" as if the words weren't making me sick to my stomach. My grip on the crutches was tightening so hard my knuckles had gone white. The ache in my leg pulsed with every heartbeat, but the bigger ache was in my chest. When the door opened and Tae-ho stepped in, holding a bag of takeout, he froze. His eyes darted between me—flushed, shaking—and Han-ji, who gave him a practiced smile like she was still the nation's darling. "Tae-ho," I said, voice hoarse, "get her out. Now." His expression flickered with alarm, then hard understanding. He didn't waste a second. "Miss Han-ji," he said politely but firmly, "you need to leave." She laughed, like he was a child. "Excuse me? I came to see my fiancé. Who are you to tell me what to do?" "Your fiancé?" Tae-ho repeated, his brows shooting up, glancing back at me for confirmation. I shook my head once. Hard. "She's delusional," I spat. "She doesn't belong here." Han-ji's face twitched at that, but she masked it quickly. "Min-Jae, you'll regret this. You need me." "No," I said, the weight of it steady on my tongue, clearer than anything I'd spoken in weeks. "I don't." For once, Tae-ho dropped his polite tone. "You heard him. Out." He stepped closer, angling himself between us, his body tense in a way that said he wouldn't hesitate to drag her out if he had to. Han-ji hesitated, glaring at me, at Tae-ho, at the room like she'd been robbed of something promised to her. Then she scoffed, grabbed her designer purse, and stormed out, the click of her heels sharp against the floor. The door slammed. Silence fell. I exhaled, my shoulders slumping. My hands trembled around the crutches. "Hyung," Tae-ho said softly, moving to steady me. "Are you okay?" I shook my head again, but this time not in anger—just exhaustion. "She's insane." He set the takeout down and helped me back to the couch. "I'll call security right now. She's not getting in again." I nodded, pressing a hand to my forehead. "Do it. I don't want her near me." And he did. That night, every guard in the building had their instructions: Han-ji Soo was not allowed within ten feet of my door. No excuses. No exceptions. Days blurred together after that, but not in the way they had in the hospital, not in the dark, bitter haze of recovery. No—this time the days had a spark. A small one, but enough. Tomi. We started chatting more. At first lighthearted—memes, jokes, her complaining about exam stress. Then deeper. More real. It was me who brought it up one night. The "what are we?" conversation. I'd never been that guy before, the one to push for labels, but with her… I couldn't stand the uncertainty. "Tomi," I typed out slowly, thumbs hesitating over the screen, "what are we doing? I don't want this to be just… random. I want this to be real." The typing bubble appeared, disappeared. Appeared again. My heart pounded harder than it ever did on a film set. Finally: "Are you asking me to be your girlfriend? 😳" I laughed, relief loosening the knot in my chest. "Yes. I'm asking." Another pause. Then: "Then yes. I'm your girlfriend. Officially. 😅" I leaned back against the couch, grinning like an idiot, replaying the words over and over. My girlfriend. Tomi. Her exams started the next day, and I made it my mission to keep her sane. Every morning, I messaged her before she woke up. Every afternoon, I checked in after her papers. Every night, we called until her eyelids drooped and her voice got soft. And every single exam day, she got a small gift—delivered courtesy of Tae-ho. Day one: A box of her favorite snacks, with a sticky note that said For brain power. Day two: A small plush keychain shaped like a bunny. Day three: A bottle of vitamin water and a handwritten card: One exam down, you've got this. Day four: A little packet of stress-relief tea. Day five: A necklace. Simple. Silver. Not flashy, but something I wanted her to have. Each time, she sent me pictures, smiling, sometimes teary-eyed, always grateful. "You're going to spoil me," she typed once. "Good," I replied. Her last exam was on a Friday. The night before, she promised me something that had me too wired to sleep. "After tomorrow," she said, "I'll come over. And I'll stay for a week. Since I can't go back to Nigeria yet." I read it three times just to be sure. Then again. She was coming here. To me. For a week. I pressed the phone to my chest, grinning at the ceiling like a teenager. The ache in my leg didn't matter. The headlines didn't matter. Han-ji didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was Tomi. And the fact that soon, she wouldn't just be pixels on a screen or a voice in my ear. She'd be here. In my space. In my arms. I couldn't wait.