Chapter 8: The Pout Wars
The silence in Min-ho’s penthouse was a different species from the one in the studio. Here, it was a living thing, thick and expectant, humming alongside the panoramic view of Seoul’s electric veins. The grand piano stood mute in the corner, a silent witness to the melody he’d written for her. He stood by the window, a crystal tumbler of amber whiskey cool in his hand, not drinking, just holding it like an anchor.
The soft click of the door. Maria’s boot heels on the polished concrete floor. She didn’t say anything. She dropped her bag by the entryway, walked past him to the sleek kitchen island, and began to unpack a small leather pouch.
He watched her reflection in the dark glass. The efficient, familiar ritual. The cured gourd, the bombilla, the careful mountain of yerba. The quiet click of the kettle. She was creating a small, steaming universe of normalcy in the center of his tension.
She brought the prepared mate over, setting it on the low coffee table with a soft tok. She stood before him, her gaze tracing the rigid line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. His expression was still etched with the residual acid of the afternoon—the professional smile he’d worn for hours had dissolved, leaving something bitter and real underneath.
“You look,” she said, her voice a low murmur in the quiet room, “like you’ve been sucking on a warhead.”
He didn’t answer. Just took a finally deliberate swallow of whiskey, letting the burn distract from the tighter one in his chest.
Maria sighed, a soft, exasperated sound. She left the mate on the table, steaming and ignored. In two fluid steps, she closed the distance between them, turned, and simply sat down in his lap.
Min-ho stiffened, his free hand flying out to brace against the back of the sofa to keep them both upright. The whiskey sloshed dangerously in his glass. He looked down at her, his eyebrow arching high in a silent, pointed question. What are you doing?
Maria answered with a smile. It wasn’t coy or seductive. It was pure, unadulterated mischief. She framed his face with her warm palms, her thumbs smoothing over the stubborn furrow between his brows.
Then she attacked.
It was a systematic, relentless campaign of affection. She started at his forehead, planting a firm, comical kiss there. Then his temples, left and right. Each closed eyelid received a press of her lips so gentle it made his breath catch. She dotted kisses along the sharp line of his cheekbone, the stubborn clamp of his jaw, the slight, sulky downturn of his mouth. She kissed the tip of his nose, his chin, the space just below his ear. They were quick, featherlight, incessant. A rainfall of softness against his hardened exterior.
Min-ho tried to stay serious. He clenched his jaw, tightened his grip on the couch. This was childish. He had a right to his mood. The image of Yose’s hand on her, the perfect, fierce synchronicity of their bodies moving to that primal rhythm… it had hooked into him like a barb.
But Maria was inexorable. She made a silly, exaggerated mwah sound with each kiss, her breath warm and sweet against his skin. She nuzzled his neck, her nose tickling him. A laugh, totally involuntary, bubbled up in his chest and escaped as a choked huff. He tried to suppress it, turning his face away.
She followed, her lips finding his cheek again. “Still sour?” she whispered against his skin, before resuming her assault.
Another laugh, less contained. The tension in his shoulders began a gradual, undeniable thaw. A smile, reluctant and small, tugged at the very corners of his mouth—the corners she had just kissed. Seeing it, Maria redoubled her efforts, now peppering kisses across his smiling lips themselves, making it impossible for the smile not to widen.
Finally, he broke. A real, full-bodied laugh rumbled out of him, deep and surprised. He was melting, utterly disarmed, the bitter jealousy dissolving under the warmth of her ridiculous, persistent affection. He dropped his forehead against hers, his shoulders shaking with helpless mirth. “Alright, alright! Truce!”
Maria pulled back just enough to see his face, her own grin triumphant. “There he is.” She wiped a mock tear from the corner of his eye. “I was worried I’d lost him to the Lemon King.”
He sighed, the last of the rigidity leaving his body. He set the whiskey glass on the floor and wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her snugly against him. The city lights painted soft colors across her skin. “He was just… very convincing. The dance.”
“It’s called acting, Bet. You’re good at it, remember?” She traced his lower lip with her thumb. “Besides, you’re the one who gets to dip me. He just gets to argue with me.”
The reminder worked, soothing the raw edge. He kissed the pad of her thumb. “I know. It’s stupid.”
“It’s human.” She studied him for a moment, an idea lighting in her eyes. “We’ve been in studios and these sterile boxes for weeks. We’re making music about feeling alive, but we’re not living in it.” She shifted in his lap, facing him more fully. “Let’s go out. Just us. Tonight.”
Min-ho’s guard instinctively started to reassemble. “Maria, you know we can’t just—”
“Use the blog,” she interrupted, her voice eager. “It’s the perfect excuse. ‘Ivy experiences Seoul nightlife with her guide, BET.’ A little cultural exchange. We film some snippets—the food, the lights, the vibe. It’s content. It’s promotion. And it’s a reason for us to be out there, breathing the same air as everyone else.”
The idea was audacious. Dangerous. And incredibly tempting. To walk beside her not as hidden ghosts, but with a thinly veiled, sanctioned purpose. To be almost-normal, if only for a camera’s benefit.
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, erasing the last shadows of the afternoon. He leaned in and kissed her, properly this time—a deep, lingering kiss that tasted like resolved tension and daring possibilities. When he pulled back, his eyes were bright.
“I have the perfect place to go.”
The whiskey forgotten on the floor, Min-ho moved with a purpose that felt like shedding a skin. He pulled Maria to her feet, his hands lingering at her waist. “We need to look the part. Casual, but intentional. Like we meant to be filmed.”
He led her to his expansive, walk-in closet, a curated museum of streetwear and tailored silence. Maria watched, amused, as he navigated the racks with a stylist’s swift eye. He pulled out a soft, charcoal-gray hoodie for himself, its fabric worn to a perfect softness. For her, he selected a vintage black bomber jacket, slightly oversized, its lining a surprise flash of acid green.
“Here,” he said, tossing it to her. “It’ll look good on camera against the neon. And it smells like me.”
Maria caught the jacket, burying her nose in the sleeve. It did. It smelled of his cedar-and-clean-skin scent, a subtle claim. “Possessive,” she noted, her voice muffled by the fabric. But she was already shrugging off her own top, pulling the bomber on. It swallowed her frame in a way that felt both protective and deeply intimate.
He handed her a black beanie next. “For your hair. The red is a beacon.” She gathered her vibrant streaks, tucking them away until only a few pink tendrils escaped near her temples. The transformation was startling. She looked like a local, a cool, anonymous artist lost in the city’s flow.
Min-ho swapped his tailored pants for distressed black jeans and battered high-top sneakers. He grabbed a sleek, compact camera from a drawer—not his phone, something more professional but discreet. “Estela’s idea,” he explained, checking the battery. “Better quality for the blog. Looks more legitimate.”
They stood before the full-length mirror, a pair of shadows in the low light. Two people, not idols. The city’s glow bled through the windows, etching their outlines in blue and gold. For a suspended moment, it felt unbearably real. “Ready?” he asked, his reflection’s eyes holding hers.
“More than ready,” she breathed. “I need air that isn’t recycled.”
He pocketed the camera, took her hand, and led her not to the private elevator down to the garage, but to a service entrance. A concrete stairwell, stark and echoey, their footsteps a rapid percussion as they descended five flights. It emerged in a narrow alley fragrant with spilled soju and fried food, the mechanical heartbeat of ventilation systems thrumming through the walls.
Seoul’s night air was a shock—cold, electric, saturated with the layered scents of garlic, sewage, exhaust, and the sweet, greasy perfume of street vendors. Maria inhaled deeply, as if drinking it. The sheer chaotic vitality of it was the antithesis of the sterile studio. Min-ho kept her hand in his, his grip firm, and they melted into the river of people on the main street.
He led her through a labyrinth of side streets, away from the blinding tourist thoroughfares. Their destination was a vinyl bar, its entrance marked only by a single, buzzing peach-neon sign shaped like a record. He pushed a heavy, unmarked door open, and a wall of warm, analog sound hit them—a deep, crackling jazz trumpet over a hip-hop beat.
The interior was all low ceilings, warm wood, and the soft glow of shelf lighting illuminating thousands of record sleeves. It was crowded but not oppressive, a hum of conversation under the music. Min-ho nodded at the bartender, a man with a severe haircut and a sleeve of tattoos, who gave a nearly imperceptible lift of his chin in return. A regular. A known shadow in a quiet place.
He guided Maria to a small, round table in a corner, partially obscured by a speaker column. “They don’t care who you are here,” he murmured, leaning close so his lips brushed her ear. “They just care if you like the music.”
Maria’s eyes were wide, taking in the shelves, the other patrons—a mix of older audiophiles and young, stylish couples. “It’s perfect,” she said, the words full of genuine awe. He pulled out the camera, powered it on, and set it on the table, its red recording light a tiny, winking eye. A prop. A permission slip.
He ordered them two bottles of local craft beer. When they arrived, condensation beading on the glass, he raised his. “To cultural exchange,” he said, the ghost of his public smile playing on his lips, but his eyes were private, dancing.
“To not dancing for once,” she countered, clinking her bottle against his. The beer was crisp, slightly bitter, perfect.
For an hour, they were just that. A couple on a date. He filmed snippets—her laughing as she flipped through a crate of obscure 80s Argentine rock, her pointing at the selections with excitement. A close-up of their hands on the table, his thumb stroking her knuckle. A slow pan across the room, the music swelling. He explained the history of the neighborhood to the camera, his voice a low, comfortable rumble. She described the similarities to a dive bar in La Boca, the same sense of shared, hidden passion.
The camera gave them a bubble of sanctioned normality. It was a performance of authenticity that somehow, paradoxically, allowed for the real thing to breathe. His guard, usually a visible armor, lay in pieces at his feet. He laughed openly at her impressions of their choreographer. She rested her head on his shoulder during a slow, soulful song, her fingers laced with his under the table.
It was while they were leaving, the cool air hitting their warmed skin, that the bubble wavered. They were in a quieter street, walking toward the main road to hail a cab, the camera off now in his pocket. A group of four girls in their late teens, giggling and clutching shopping bags, rounded the corner.
Min-ho’s body tensed a half-second before recognition dawned on one girl’s face. Her eyes went from casual glance to wide, disbelieving shock. Her phone was in her hand instantly. Not a scream, not a rush, but a frozen, hyper-focused intensity. She elbowed her friend, who gasped.
“Bet?” one whispered, the name a hissed question in the night air.
Min-ho didn’t break stride. He simply tightened his arm around Maria’s shoulders, tucking her face against his chest, and smoothly altered their path, crossing the street with a calm, determined speed. He didn’t run. He moved like water, purposeful and unhesitating.
“Was that—?” Maria started, her voice muffled against the soft wool of his hoodie.
“Don’t look back,” he instructed, his voice low and even. He hailed a passing cab with a sharp whistle, its brakes hissing. He bundled her inside, slid in after her, and gave his building’s address in a firm tone.
In the backseat, rolling away from the shrinking figures on the sidewalk, the adrenaline hit. Maria’s heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. Min-ho stared straight ahead, his jaw working. He pulled out his phone, his fingers flying over the screen. He was typing in the group chat with the members and their management.
Spotted leaving Bar Vinyl in Hongdae. With a friend. Casual. Might be online in 10. Pre-empt with the blog clip tomorrow. No big deal.
The responses started pinging back immediately. Ji-hoon: Understood. Yose: The footage good? Jae: Hyung on a date! followed by a string of emojis.
Min-ho locked the phone, sinking back into the seat. The illusion of normalcy had been paper-thin, and the city had just torn it. He looked at Maria, her face pale in the passing streetlights. The fear in her eyes wasn’t for herself, he realized. It was for him. For the consequences he would face.
He reached for her hand again. It was cold. He enveloped it in both of his, warming it, his touch saying everything the chaotic silence could not. The penthouse, their sanctuary, was only minutes away. But the world outside had just proven how small it could make even the largest, brightest city feel. The momentum of their perfect night had crashed into the unmovable wall of his reality, and the echo of it vibrated in the space between their clasped hands.