Chapter 15: Reckless Reunion
The flight was a twenty-four-hour blur of fitful sleep, bad movies, and a low, humming anxiety that felt like a second heartbeat. Min-ho kept touching his phone, pulling up the grainy ultrasound image, making it real. The life from her song. Their desperate, concrete-dust collision had shape now. It had a heartbeat.
He cleared customs in Buenos Aires wearing the same disguise from Seoul—black cap, black mask, a backpack slung over one shoulder. The air here was different. Thicker. Warm. It smelled of jet fuel and distant rain and something green. He hired a car, giving the driver the address Maria had texted. The city unfolded outside the window, a sprawling, sun-bleached collage of grand European architecture and vibrant, chaotic street art. Tango music spilled from a corner café. It felt alive in a way Seoul’s perfected gleam never did—messy, passionate, unconcerned with his internal drama.
The car turned onto a tree-lined street in Palermo. The houses were large, painted in faded pastels, with wrought-iron balconies spilling over with bougainvillea. They stopped in front of a butter-yellow house with a dark green door. It was vintage, clearly well cared for, with a small, wild front garden bursting with purple jacaranda blooms and red geraniums. It looked like her. Uncontained. Beautiful. A little fierce.
He paid the driver, shouldered his bag, and pushed open the low iron gate. The path was cracked terracotta tiles. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. He reached the painted green door. He took a deep breath, the air sweet with flowers and the earthy scent of damp soil. He rang the bell.
He heard footsteps inside. Quick, sharp. The door swung open.
A woman stood there. She was in her late twenties, with Maria’s same golden-toned skin and intense dark eyes, but her expression was a closed fist. Her hair was a natural, deep brown, pulled into a severe ponytail. She wore paint-splattered jeans and a faded band t-shirt. Claudia. Maria’s older sister. The lawyer. He’d seen her in photos from Maria’s social media, usually laughing.Min-ho lowered his mask, offering a polite, exhausted smile. He was about to greet her, to say hello, to introduce himself properly.
Claudia’s eyes raked over him—the rumpled travel clothes, the backpack, his famous face now pale with fatigue and stress. Her lip curled. She didn’t let him speak.
“Ugh,” she said, the sound dripping with disgust. “You’re not even fit to tie her shoes.”
She slammed the door.
The solid thud of wood hitting frame echoed in the quiet garden. Min-ho flinched, physically recoiling as if struck. He stood there, stunned. The rejection was so absolute, so visceral, it emptied his lungs. He stared at the green paint, a chip near the handle. He heard his own blood rushing in his ears, loud over the distant street sounds. For a second, he was paralyzed. The CEO’s flinty eyes had been easier than this. This was personal. This was family.
A raw, desperate energy surged through the numbness. He hadn’t flown across the world for this. He lifted his hand, finger aimed for the bell again.
Before he could press it, the door wrenched open a second time.
It was Maria.
Her long, dark red hair with its pink streaks was a wild cloud around her face, which was splotchy and tear-streaked. She was wearing an oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame. Her eyes were blazing.
She didn’t say a word. Her hand shot out, fingers curling into the collar of his t-shirt and the warm skin of his neck. Her nails dug in, a sharp, possessive pressure. She yanked.
He stumbled forward over the threshold, his bag dropping with a thump on the tiled floor. The door swung shut behind him, Claudia staring, open-mouthed, from the hallway.
Then Maria was on him. She grabbed his face with her other hand and crushed her mouth to his.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a collision. A reclaiming. Her lips were salty from tears, fierce and demanding. She kissed him with a year of pent-up frustration, with the terror of the last week, with the furious, protective love that had just heard her sister dismiss him. Min-ho’s mind short-circuited. The slammed door, the flight, the boardroom—it all dissolved into static. He lost himself in the kiss. His hands came up to cradle her jaw, his thumbs smoothing over the wet tracks on her cheeks. He kissed her back, deep and slow, trying to pour every unsaid promise, every lonely night, every desperate hope into the connection. He could taste her unique flavor beneath the salt—yerba mate and something sweet, like passionfruit.
They broke apart, breathing ragged, foreheads pressed together. Her grip on his neck softened, her fingers now just resting against his pulse.
“You’re here,” she whispered, the words cracking.
“I’m here,” he breathed back.
A loud, pointed sigh came from behind Maria. Claudia stood with her arms crossed, leaning against a wall covered in framed concert posters and childhood photos. “Dramatic entrance, hermana. Very telenovela.”
Maria turned her head, keeping her forehead against Min-ho’s. “You slammed the door in his face, Claudia. What did you expect me to do? Offer him tea?”
“I expected you to have some sense! This is the guy who left you crying in a hotel corridor for a year!”
“He’s here now,” Maria said, her voice low and final.
“Because you’re pregnant! Don’t be naive, Maria. This is damage control, not true love.”
Min-ho gently disentangled himself from Maria, stepping slightly forward so he could look Claudia directly in the eyes. He was tired down to his bones, but his gaze was steady. “It’s both,” he said, his voice quiet but clear in the sun-drenched hallway. “The pregnancy moved the timeline. It didn’t create the feeling. I was coming for her anyway. The contract is signed. I’m on hiatus for two years. My life is in Seoul is on pause. My life is here now.” He glanced at Maria, then back at Claudia. “I know what I cost her. I live with that. You don’t have to like me. But you don’t get to stand between us.”
Claudia stared at him, her jaw working. She looked from his determined face to Maria’s defiant one. She uncrossed her arms, throwing her hands up in frustrated surrender. “Fine. Be stupid together. Estela! He’s here!” she yelled deeper into the house before turning and stomping down the hall, disappearing around a corner.
A moment later, Estela, the eldest sister, appeared. She was calmer, softer around the edges than Claudia, with kind eyes and a warm smile that seemed genuine despite the circumstances. “Min-ho. Welcome. I’m Estela. Please, ignore Claudia. She’s been the designated worrier since Maria told us. Come in, you must be exhausted.”
Maria finally released her hold on him, lacing her fingers through his instead. Her hand was small and warm. She led him from the tiled entryway into the heart of the house.
It was a beautiful chaos. The living room was flooded with afternoon light from large windows that opened onto a balcony. The walls were a gallery of Claudia’s vibrant, abstract paintings alongside shelves crammed with vinyl records. Handwritten lyrics were scattered across a grand piano, held down by empty mate gourds and cups of dried pens. A guitar leaned against a sofa buried in embroidered cushions. The air smelled like old paper, oil paint, and that distinctive, grassy scent of yerba mate. It was the absolute antithesis of his sleek, silent penthouse. It was alive. It was her.
“This is… you,” he said, his voice full of wonder.
“It’s a mess,” Maria said, a little self-consciously.
“It’s perfect.”
Estela brought him a glass of cold water. “You’ll stay in the guest room. It’s down the hall. Maria’s room is next to it.” She said it matter-of-factly, leaving no room for debate about sleeping arrangements. “You two have a lot to talk about. We’ll be in the studio out back if you need anything.” She gave Maria a significant look—be smart—and followed Claudia’s path.
Suddenly, they were alone. The tension from the doorway bled away, leaving behind a heavy, intimate quiet. The sounds of the city filtered in—a distant siren, the faint pulse of music from another house, the chatter of birds in the garden.
Maria turned to him, really looking at him for the first time. She saw the deep shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. “You look terrible.”
He let out a half-laugh, rubbing his neck where her nails had left tiny crescent marks. “You kissed me like you wanted to start a fight.”
“I did,” she admitted, not smiling. “I was so angry. At her. At the world. At you for taking so long. But mostly just… scared. Seeing you there, it all just…” She shook her head, words failing.
He reached for her again, drawing her into a proper hug this time, his arms wrapping fully around her. She buried her face in his chest, her fists clutching the fabric of his shirt. He rested his chin on the top of her head. They stood like that for a long time, in the sunlit, chaotic room, holding each other up.
“I saw it,” he murmured into her hair. “The picture. The heartbeat.”
She tilted her head back to look at him. “It’s real.”
“I know.” He splayed one hand gently against her stomach, over the soft fabric of the hoodie. There was no curve yet, just the warm, familiar shape of her. “Hi,” he whispered, so low it was almost inaudible.
A single tear escaped and tracked down her temple into her hairline. “What happens now?”
“Now,” he said, kissing her forehead, “we go one day at a time. I learn Spanish. You teach me how to drink that bitter grass tea. We fight with your sister. We write terrible lullabies. We figure it out.” He pulled back to look at her. “But first, I really need to sleep for about a hundred years. And I need to see where you keep your toothbrush.”
She smiled then, a real one, that lit up her whole face. It was the smile from her music videos, the one he’d fallen for on a screen a million miles away. She took his hand. “This way.”
She led him down the hall, past doors cracked open to reveal more art, more music, more life. She showed him the simple, sun-yellow guest room. Then she paused outside the next door, pushing it open.
Her room. A larger version of the living room’s beautiful disorder. A rumpled bed with silk sheets, a desk buried under more lyrics, a balcony overlooking the neighborhood. Her scent was everywhere—warm vanilla and her perfume.
“My toothbrush is in there,” she said, nodding to the attached bathroom. “You can borrow it. For now.”
He dropped his backpack inside the guest room, then followed her into her bathroom, a tiny space covered in colorful tiles. She handed him a new toothbrush from a drawer. “I bought it yesterday,” she said quietly. “Just in case.”
As they stood side-by-side brushing their teeth, a ridiculous, intimate
“Just in case.”
As they stood side-by-side brushing their teeth, a ridiculous, intimate mirror of domesticity, Min-ho caught her eye in the glass. Foam clouded the corner of her mouth. He spat, rinsed, and wiped his face with a towel that smelled like her. The simple act felt more transgressive than any stage performance.
“You bought a toothbrush,” he said, his voice rough from the flight and the crying and the kissing.
“I bought a lot of things.” She rinsed, patting her face dry. “Prenatal vitamins. Ginger candies. A book of baby names in Spanish and Korean.” She leaned against the doorframe, watching him. “I’ve been preparing for a possibility. Now you’re a fact.”
He followed her back into the hallway, the worn floorboards creaking under their weight. The house was settling into evening. Golden light slanted through the high windows, catching dust motes dancing in the air. From somewhere deeper inside, he could hear the muffled, rhythmic bass of Claudia playing music in her studio.
Maria stopped at the threshold of the guest room. His backpack sat lonely on a woven rug.
She didn’t look at it. Instead, she took his hand. Her fingers were warm, her grip firm. She turned and led him, not to the guest room, but into her own.
The space wrapped around him. It felt like stepping inside her mind. A half-written song on the desk, a sweater draped over a chair, the indentation of her body on the left side of the bed. The balcony doors were open, letting in the distant, plaintive notes of a bandoneón from a neighbor’s radio.
She turned to face him, their joined hands hanging between them. “I don’t want to be apart from you anymore.”
The simplicity of the statement dismantled him. It wasn’t about passion or drama. It was logistics. It was geography. It was the bone-deep weariness of separate rooms after so many months of separate continents.
Min-ho, dazed by the sudden shift, the sheer normalcy of her declaration amid the chaos, blinked. “You want me to sleep with you tonight?”
Maria laughed, a soft, breathy sound that curled in the quiet room. “I want you to sleep with me as long as you stay here,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Every night.”
Relief, warm and solid, washed through him. He didn’t have to negotiate this. The offer was given, clear and without ceremony. Min-ho smiled, a real one that softened the exhaustion on his face. “Okay.”
They both lay down on the bed, atop the silk covers. The mattress dipped, accepting his unfamiliar weight. He shifted, and she turned onto her side, facing the balcony. He moved closer, fitting himself against the curve of her back. He wrapped an arm around her waist, his hand splaying low over her stomach again. He pulled her gently into the cradle of his body, hugging her.
Her hair tickled his nose. He breathed in. Vanilla. Ink. Her.
Her hand came up to cover his, lacing their fingers together over the place where their child slept. She let out a long, shuddering sigh, her entire body softening into his. The bandoneón downstairs played a melancholy line that resolved into something quieter, sweeter.
The bandoneón downstairs played a melancholy line that resolved into something quieter, sweeter. Min-ho felt the melody seep into his bones, a lullaby woven from city sounds and her steady breathing against his arm. He slept deeper than he had in years.
He woke to the soft grey of pre-dawn. A thin light seeped around the edges of the balcony doors, silhouetting the potted plants. His body registered the warmth first. The solid, comforting weight of Maria spooned against him. Then the insistent, rigid ache of his own arousal, pressed firmly into the curve of her lower back.
She shifted in her sleep, a soft murmur escaping her lips. Her hips pushed back instinctively, grinding against the hard line of him. A jolt of pure, undiluted lust flashed through his groin, burning away the last vapors of sleep.
He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into the soft give of her flesh through the thin cotton of her sleep shorts. He pulled her tighter against him, a low groan rumbling in his chest. She was awake instantly. He felt the shift in her breathing, the sudden tension in her limbs.
Maria turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were dark pools in the dim room, wide and searching. In them, he saw the same desperate hunger from the hotel corridor, now mixed with a year’s worth of lonely nights and the raw, terrifying hope of the future. The control they’d carefully maintained, the gentle reunion, snapped like a dried twig.
He moved his hand from her hip, sliding it up her side to cup her jaw. His grip was firm, possessive. He turned her face just enough and crushed his mouth to hers.
This kiss was different from the desperate clash at the door. It was deep, hungry, and overwhelmingly wet. He tasted sleep and her unique, sweet flavor. His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming it. She whimpered into him, her hand coming up to clutch the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his hair.
He broke the kiss, trailing his mouth down her jaw to her throat. His other hand, still on her hip, slid upward, pushing the oversized hoodie she still wore up her torso. He found the soft swell of her breast beneath her thin camisole. He squeezed it, his palm engulfing the fuller, heavier weight of it.
She let out a sharp, ragged moan, arching her back into his touch. “Min-ho…”
“Are you okay?” he breathed against her neck, his voice gravelly with sleep and need. He rubbed his palm over her nipple, feeling it pebble tightly through the fabric.
“They’re sensitive,” she gasped, her own hand coming up to cover his, not to push it away, but to press it harder into her flesh. Her words were a shaky command. “Because of… everything. But don’t stop. Squeeze them harder. Please.”
The “please” undid him. He shoved the hoodie and camisole up roughly, exposing her breasts to the cool morning air. They were fuller, the areolas darker. He stared for a hungry second before lowering his head. He took one taut nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, scraping his teeth over the sensitive peak.
Maria cried out, her back bowing off the bed. “Yes, fuck, just like that.”
He worshipped her breasts with his mouth and hands, switching between them, biting and licking and squeezing as she writhed against him. He could feel the wet heat of her through both their shorts, a seeping dampness that matched his own precum soaking his boxers. He needed to be inside her. Now.
He rolled her onto her back, coming over her. The faint light caught the tears glistening in her eyes, the wild spread of her red and pink hair on her pillow. He kissed her again, a messy, devouring kiss.
“I need you,” he growled against her lips. It wasn’t poetry. It was a base, animal truth.
“Then take me,” she answered, her voice raw. She hooked her legs around his hips, pulling him down. “Fuck me. I don’t want gentle.”
He didn’t need telling twice. He yanked her sleep shorts and his own boxers down just enough. He positioned himself at her entrance, slick and hot and ready. He pushed inside her in one brutal, unyielding stroke.
They both gasped, a synchronized intake of breath that filled the silent room. She was incredibly tight, her walls clenching around him with a shocking, fierce intensity. He buried his face in her neck, pausing for a second, overwhelmed by the sheer feeling of being sheathed inside her after so long.
“Move,” she begged, her nails digging into his shoulder blades. “God, please move.”
He drew back and slammed into her again. The bedframe knocked softly against the wall in a sudden, rhythmic protest. He set a punishing pace, each thrust a reclamation. This was the frustrated energy of the boardroom, the helpless anger of the slammed door, the terror of the ultrasound, and the dizzying hope of her text all channeled into the relentless drive of his hips.
“Is this—,” he grunted, pounding into her, “—what you wanted? When you pulled me through that door?”
“Yes,” she hissed, her eyes screwed shut. “Just like this. Harder.”
He obeyed, his balls slapping against her skin with every deep plunge. The room filled with the sounds of their union: the slick, wet noise of their joining, the ragged pull of their breath, the creak of the bed, her choked sobs of pleasure. He slid a hand between their sweat-slicked bodies, his fingers finding her clit.
She shattered instantly. Her internal muscles clenched around him in violent, rhythmic pulses, her cry muffled against his shoulder as she bit into his skin to silence herself. The intense pressure tipped him over the edge. With a final, deep thrust, he came, a raw shout torn from his throat as he emptied himself into her, his whole body shuddering with the release.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight fully on her, his face buried in her hair. They were both slick with sweat, breathing in shattered gasps. The bandoneón from the neighbor’s house was silent now. The only sounds were their slowing heartbeats and the first birds beginning to chirp in the garden.
Gradually, he softened inside her. He rolled off, but immediately pulled her into his side, her head on his chest. They lay there, tangled and sticky, as the room lightened from grey to pale gold.
“Claudia is going to kill us,” Maria murmured, her voice hoarse. “The bed was loud.”
“Let her try,” Min-ho said, his own voice wrecked. He traced idle patterns on her bare shoulder. The reality of what they’d just done, with no protection, with her pregnant, settled over him. It felt inevitable. Right. A second, more profound claiming.
A soft knock sounded at the door. They froze.
“Maria?” It was Estela’s voice, cautious. “Everything okay in there? We heard… a noise.”
Min-ho met Maria’s gaze. A slow, conspiratorial smile spread across her swollen lips. She called out, her voice miraculously steady. “Everything’s fine, Estela! I just… stubbed my toe on the bed. Really hard.”
A beat of silence from the hallway. “Okay…,” Estela said, disbelief coloring the word. Her footsteps retreated.
Maria looked up at Min-ho, her eyes dancing. He started to laugh, a quiet, disbelieving chuckle that shook his chest. She joined him, their laughter muffled against each other’s skin, a secret shared in the growing dawn.