Chapter 2: The Temperature Test
The rooftop garden was a shock of curated wilderness, a silent riot of cherry blossoms against the steel-gray skyline. Emery found him not on a medical bed, but stretched on a teak lounger by the infinity pool, water beading on his bare shoulders. “Your chart said ‘potential vertigo follow-up’,” she said, her voice flat. “It didn’t mention sunbathing.”
Minho turned his head, sunglasses hiding his eyes. A slow smile spread. “The sunlight is therapeutic. And my temperature feels… elevated.” He reached behind his head, casual. “Check it.”
She remained rooted, kit in hand. “I have a thermometer.”
“I want you to use your lips.” The request hung in the fragrant air, absurd and intimate. Emery felt a familiar, frustrating heat rise in her cheeks. This was the game, polished and reloaded.
“That’s not a medical procedure.”
“It’s a diagnostic one,” he countered, sitting up. The water slid down his chest. “You told me I didn’t fool you. So don’t be fooled. Humor the patient.” He was challenging her again, erasing the line between care and something else entirely. The memory of his fingers on her wrist pulsed between them. She took a deliberate step forward, then another, until she stood over him. She knelt, bringing their faces close. She could see her own reflection in his dark lenses. “This proves nothing,” she whispered.
“It proves everything.” His voice was low. He didn’t move. The scent of chlorine and his skin filled her senses. It was a standoff. Her professionalism screamed to walk away, but the raw, ridiculous honesty of his gambit held her. She leaned in, a fraction. His breath hitched. The victory was instantaneous, and it was hers. She stopped a hair’s breadth from his skin. “Your pulse is racing, Mr. Park,” she said, her lips almost brushing his jaw. “But you’re not sick. You’re just starved for a real reaction.” Before she could pull back, his hand shot out, capturing hers. Not her wrist this time. Her fingers. He laced his with them, a shocking, gentle anchor. “Then give me one,” he said, the playful mask gone. His thumb traced her knuckle, a silent, aching question.