The Suggestion
It had been a week of endless meetings for Ashling. PowerPoints, numbers, skeptical stares from gray-haired executives who thought she was a child playing dress-up in the big leagues. She returned home late most nights, too drained even to change into pajamas before falling asleep.
So when Kwang knocked on her door Friday evening, leaning in with that grin that always seemed one heartbeat away from mischief, she was ready to snap.
But then he said, "Let's go out."
She blinked from her desk, where a half-drunk cup of coffee had gone cold. "Out? As in, out out?"
He nodded. "Street food. Midnight market. No suits, no titles, no drama scripts. Just you, me, and tteokbokki."
Ashling's instinct was to protest. Crowds meant eyes. Eyes meant whispers. She'd spent years guarding her privacy. But the weariness in her bones shifted into something lighter, and before she could stop herself, she was reaching for her jacket.
"Fine," she said. "But if a fan mob tackles us, it's your fault."
Kwang winked. "Then I'll shield you with my superior height."
Neon and Steam
The Jongno night market buzzed like a living thing. Neon signs flickered, smoke curled from griddles, vendors shouted prices over sizzling oil. The April air was crisp, tinged with chili and sugar.
Kwang wore a black cap pulled low, hoodie zipped high, his hands stuffed in his pockets. To anyone else he was just another tall man in Seoul.
Ashling, beside him in jeans and a loose blouse, felt anonymous for the first time in weeks. No cameras, no boardroom eyes. Just strangers brushing past, chasing their own hunger.
"First stop," Kwang declared, steering her toward a stall where skewered fish cakes floated in steaming broth. "Odeng. You can't survive Seoul without odeng."
Ashling arched a brow. "I thought the rule was kimchi."
"Kimchi is a birthright," he said solemnly, handing her a paper cup of broth. "Odeng is a lifestyle."
She laughed into the rising steam, sipping carefully. The broth was salty, comforting. "Not bad."
"Not bad?" he repeated, mock offended. "That's a compliment from the Ice Princess herself."
She rolled her eyes. "Careful, I might demote you to driver instead of husband."
Sticky Fingers
They wandered from stall to stall, trying everything. Spicy tteokbokki that made Ashling's lips burn, crispy hotteok that dripped molten brown sugar down their fingers, skewers of charred chicken brushed with garlic sauce.
At one point, Ashling fumbled with a particularly messy bite, sauce streaking her lip. Kwang leaned in without thinking, thumb brushing gently at the corner of her mouth.
Her breath caught.
The touch lasted only a second before he cleared his throat, looking away. "You're hopeless."
"Hopeless?" Her voice was thinner than she liked. "You're the one feeding me napkin-less food."
"Lesson one of Seoul," he said, grinning sideways. "Street food is meant to be messy. If you leave clean, you did it wrong."
She shook her head, but her smile betrayed her.
The Hoodie
By the third stall, the night had grown colder. Ashling rubbed her arms, regretting not bringing a thicker jacket.
Kwang noticed immediately. Without a word, he tugged off his hoodie and draped it over her shoulders.
She looked up, startled. "What about you?"
"I'm warm-blooded," he said casually. "Besides, it looks better on you."
The hoodie smelled faintly of his cologne, clean and woodsy. She pulled it tighter, hiding the sudden heat in her cheeks.
Soju and Secrets
They ended up at a folding table outside a fried chicken stall, a green bottle of soju between them. The owner poured them shots, grinning at their mismatched height and his hoodie drowning her frame.
"To bad decisions," Kwang said, raising his glass.
Ashling clinked it with hers. "To contracts that don't make sense."
They drank, the burn sharp but clean.
As the bottle emptied, their words loosened.
She told him about her time at AIM in Makati, the professors who had called her "too sharp for comfort," the first time she'd pitched a campaign and been laughed out of the room—only to see her idea stolen and repackaged months later.
He told her about his first acting gig, a commercial for laundry detergent where he'd been scolded for folding towels "too stiffly." About the nights he'd wondered if he was just a pretty face, never an artist.
Somewhere between the third and fourth shot, she laughed so hard at his impression of an overzealous director that people at nearby tables turned to stare. She didn't care.
The Almost-Kiss
They walked home slowly, weaving through quieter streets. The neon faded, replaced by the hum of street lamps.
Ashling's steps wobbled slightly, more from the soju than the heels. Kwang reached for her elbow, steadying her.
Their hands lingered. Fingers brushed, then twined together naturally, without thought.
She froze at the warmth of his palm. He squeezed lightly, as if to say, it's okay.
Her heart raced. She glanced up. He was watching her with that soft smile that always threatened to undo her.
For a moment, the world narrowed to just that—his hand, his smile, the charged air between them.
Her lips parted, breath hitching.
But then she laughed nervously, pulling back slightly. "We should… get home."
Kwang didn't push. He only nodded, their hands still linked as they turned the corner toward the quiet house with its wide garden.
Back inside, Ashling slipped off her shoes and handed him his hoodie, folded neatly.
He took it, brushing her fingers deliberately as he did. "Thanks for coming out."
She managed a smile, her voice soft. "Thanks for… showing me Seoul."
He held her gaze for a long second, then leaned forward just enough to brush a quick kiss against her temple.
"Next time," he whispered, "it won't be unplanned."
Her heart thudded loud enough she was sure he could hear it.
When she finally closed her bedroom door, hoodie scent still clinging to her, Ashling leaned against it and pressed a hand to her racing chest.
For the first time since the contract began, she wasn't thinking about months or deadlines.
She was thinking about tomorrow.