Legend [YEONBIN] ✓

thirty-two ; soobin

Yeonjun took me back to his apartment.

I should have declined. I wanted to keep running until the city and all my problems were far behind. But I was too tired.

Tomorrow, I’d figure out what to do about the bead Yeonjun had returned to me. Tomorrow, I’d wonder if my mother would ever forgive me. Tomorrow, I’d worry about the mess I’d made of my life.

Tonight, I was too exhausted.

Yeonjun unlocked his front door, holding it open for me to walk through. Neither of us had spoken in what felt like hours. I wondered if I even knew how anymore.

The entranceway was small, littered with shoes, and barely big enough for both of us to stand. Yeonjun toed off his sneakers and bent down to place them neatly beside the shoes lined up by the door.

I stared stupidly at the knotted bows of my oxfords. My whole body ached. Just the thought of bending down to untie them hurt. I flexed my hand, still sore, but already mostly healed.

Without a word, still kneeling, Yeonjun untied them. I watched as he carefully undid the knots of my right shoe. He pulled on the heel and I dutifully stepped out, resting my hand on his shoulder. I left it there. Holding on to the warmth of him against my palm.

It lent my a balance when my whole world was tilting. Who would have thought such a simple gesture could feel so intimate?

Yeonjun moved to my left foot. His fingers danced over my skin, light as air but twice as soft. I took my time stepping out. I wanted to concentrate on only this. On Yeonjun’s hands pulling on my ankle until it lifted. On his careful fingers holding my heel, sending tingles racing up my calf. Too soon, he was done, taking my shoes and meticulously placing them beside his.

Then he stood until we were face-to-face in the entrance of his apartment. For three breaths neither of us moved. Maybe because once we did we’d have to face the trials we’d just run from.

A series of rapid-fire barks broke the moment. A tiny ball of fluff ran down the hall, making a beeline toward me. Yeonjun scooped the small dog into his arms before she reached her target.

“Tofu, stop it,” Yeonjun chastised.

“Dogs hate foxes,” I mumbled.

Yeonjun took Tofu down the hall. I heard a door close, muffling her barking.

“Where’s your halmeoni?”

“She must be downstairs, closing up,” Yeonjun said. “Sit. I’ll be right back.”

I glanced around the living room. A lumpy couch took up the middle of the space. Photos crowded the walls, which were yellowing with age. And there was a stain on the bamboo mat covering the floor.

I loved it.

I could spend all day looking at this space that measured less than my bedroom, but held so many signs of life.

I glanced at the front door and the bright yellow bujeoks that framed it. I stood halfway out of my seat. Goose bumps rose on my arms.

Yeonjun returned, holding a basket filled with random first-aid supplies. He followed my glance
.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” He tore half a dozen down in one swipe.

“Thanks,” I said, then gestured at the basket. “What’s all this for?”

“Your shoulder,” Yeonjun answered.

“I don’t need it. Super gumiho healing.”

“I know,” Yeonjun said with a sigh. It seemed his calm had been a facade as well. Now, with nothing to do, he looked as tired as I felt.