Chapter 16: What We Choose to Hold
Seo-Ah
The hospital room had quieted after the initial flurry of visitors and nurses. The IV machine hummed softly beside the bed, the only sound filling the otherwise still space. Min-Jun was asleep again, his brow more relaxed than it had been when she first arrived.
Seo-Ah had not moved far. She sat at the edge of the chair, elbows on her knees, watching him—not as the CEO, not as the arrogant son of the chairman, but as someone who had simply been too tired for too long.
She'd offered to leave several times. The nurse had encouraged it too, suggesting she take a break. But every time Min-Jun stirred, he seemed to look for her. And each time his hand found hers, something settled in her chest—something heavy and warm and terrifying.
She stood and gently tucked the corner of his blanket near his shoulder. The wound on his forehead had been cleaned and stitched. His skin was still pale under the hospital lights, but at least the color was returning slowly.
"You don't have to do this alone anymore," she murmured quietly, not expecting him to hear.
But Min-Jun's voice, dry and faint, caught her off guard.
"I'm not," he said hoarsely.
She froze, eyes meeting his.
His gaze held her for a long moment. There was no mask on his face now—no cold front, no sharp sarcasm. Just tired eyes and quiet vulnerability.
---
Ji-Hyun
Outside the hospital room, Ji-Hyun paced the hallway in her heels, clutching her coat tighter around her. She'd stepped out under the pretense of answering a phone call, but the truth was bitterer.
She hadn't expected the sight of Seo-Ah by Min-Jun's side to rattle her so deeply. She had always known the Lees saw her as a perfect match—refined, educated, born to politics. Her family, her background—it all lined up too cleanly.
But perfection was not intimacy. It was not honesty. It was not the way Min-Jun had looked at Seo-Ah.
Ji-Hyun leaned her back against the cold wall and let out a slow breath.
She had been raised to win with grace, to never show jealousy. But for the first time, she wondered if this wasn't a battle she was already losing.
---
Min-Jun's Family
The sound of footsteps and familiar voices stirred Seo-Ah again. Chairman Lee entered the hospital room first, flanked by Min-Jun's mother and grandmother. They wore elegant coats, their faces drawn with concern—but it was his grandmother who moved fastest.
"Oh my sweet boy," the elderly woman said as she reached the bed, her voice thick with emotion. "You scared us half to death."
Min-Jun tried to sit up but winced.
His mother came to his other side, brushing her hand over his cheek. "Don't try to move. Let the nurses handle it."
Chairman Lee stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed. "You should have taken the car. Walking around alone like you're some nobody—what were you thinking?"
Seo-Ah stiffened, unsure whether to leave or remain invisible.
But Min-Jun's voice was calm, if raspy. "I was thinking that I needed air."
"You could've been killed."
"And yet, here I am," he replied with a faint smile.
Chairman Lee didn't smile back. He glanced toward Seo-Ah then, noting her presence. "Miss Seo-Ah, was it?"
She straightened. "Yes, Chairman."
"She's been here since I arrived," Min-Jun said before his father could speak further. "She stayed with me the entire time."
His mother looked surprised. His grandmother looked... delighted.
Chairman Lee's gaze narrowed, but he said nothing more.
Then Ji-Hyun reentered the room, her smile practiced but sharp. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
"You're not," Chairman Lee said quickly. "Come in."
Ji-Hyun came to the bed and set down a wrapped fruit basket. "I brought something to help your recovery."
Min-Jun's expression remained neutral. "Thank you."
The air in the room shifted—tension gathering like a storm beneath polished small talk.
His grandmother sensed it, and with a gentle clap of her hands, she said, "Why don't we give Min-Jun some rest now? He's clearly exhausted."
Seo-Ah rose quietly, about to excuse herself too, but Min-Jun caught her wrist.
"Seo-Ah stays."
Everyone paused.
Chairman Lee's eyes narrowed slightly. Ji-Hyun looked between them, her mask momentarily cracking.
But Min-Jun didn't explain. He didn't need to.
His mother gave Seo-Ah a small nod of gratitude before guiding the others out. Ji-Hyun was the last to leave, her heels clicking against the tile.
When the door closed, the silence felt heavier.
---
Later That Evening
The sun dipped low outside the hospital windows. Min-Jun stirred again, stronger this time. He turned his head to look at her.
"You stayed."
Seo-Ah nodded. "I said I would."
"You didn't have to."
"I know."
He studied her, quiet for a moment. Then: "I'm not my father. I'm not going to live his life."
Seo-Ah's voice was soft. "I never thought you would."
He swallowed. "It's just... hard to say no to someone who's always built your world."
She nodded. "But you've built your own."
He blinked, eyes glistening faintly.
"I don't know what this is between us, Seo-Ah. But when I woke up... I was afraid you wouldn't be here."
Her breath hitched. She sat beside him again, their hands brushing.
"I'm here, Min-Jun. I'm still here."
_____________
The black car that pulled up to the private entrance of Lee Tower wasn't flashy, but it was unmistakably part of the company's fleet. Seo-Ah sat stiffly in the back seat, her hands clutching her tote bag on her lap, the silence around her punctuated only by the occasional click of the turn signal.
Min-Jun sat beside her, his arm resting against the window, his body still stiff from the hospital. He had insisted on being discharged early, much to the dismay of his mother and doctor. Seo-Ah hadn't been surprised—he was the type to claw his way out of a sickbed rather than appear weak. But when he'd looked at her, eyes tired but steady, and said, "Come with me," she hadn't hesitated.
The driver rolled to a stop at a secured elevator entrance, and a suited man bowed lightly before pressing the code that would take them straight to the penthouse. No questions asked. No words exchanged.
Seo-Ah followed Min-Jun silently into the elevator, her heart thudding a little too fast for her liking. It wasn't just the grandeur of where they were going—it was the knowledge that no one else had ever been invited there. That, perhaps, she was stepping into a space that even the Chairman had never touched.
When the elevator doors slid open, the world changed.
The penthouse was… still.
Not cold. Not sterile. But still, like a museum after hours.
Everything was immaculate—dark hardwood floors gleamed beneath soft recessed lights, and floor-to-ceiling windows opened to a sweeping view of the Seoul skyline, painted in twilight. The furniture was modern and masculine, every line clean and intentional. But it was the absence of clutter, of personality, that struck Seo-Ah most.
No framed photos. No books on the coffee table. No jacket carelessly tossed on a chair.
It was a beautiful place. And achingly lonely.
Min-Jun leaned slightly on the wall as he kicked off his shoes, letting out a faint exhale. "It looks worse when it's this quiet."
Seo-Ah stepped in, hesitating just past the threshold. "It doesn't look bad. Just… untouched."
He glanced at her, and for a moment, she saw something flicker behind his expression. Then he nodded toward the hallway. "Your room's on the left. Mine's on the right. There's a guest bath too. You'll find whatever you need."
"You didn't have to set up a room for me."
"I wanted to." He paused. "And I didn't want to be alone."
That last part wasn't said with drama. It came out simple, flat, almost surprised at itself. And it settled in her chest like a secret she wasn't sure she should have heard.
She moved past him slowly, her eyes catching on subtle details—the leather-bound notebooks stacked with precision, the faint scent of cedar and something sharper, uniquely his. The apartment wasn't unlived-in; it was simply lived in by someone who didn't allow himself to leave a mark.
"Do you need anything?" she asked gently, turning back to him.
Min-Jun shook his head. "Just… sit with me. If that's okay."
They ended up in the living room, the skyline washing silver light across the floor as the city lit up below. He sat stiffly, one hand pressed to his ribs, and she curled beside him on the other end of the long sectional. The silence between them was comfortable in a way she hadn't expected.
"I used to imagine what your place would look like," Seo-Ah said, surprising herself.
He arched an eyebrow. "Did I disappoint?"
She smiled faintly. "No. It's very… you. Perfect lines. Pristine. Just missing a touch of chaos."
He smirked, the gesture still a bit tired but real. "Is that your polite way of saying it's cold?"
"I said chaos, not warmth." Her eyes flicked to his. "Warmth… I think it's here. Just hidden."
Min-Jun stared at her then, and something in his gaze went soft. Unarmored.
"It was safer."
Seo-Ah watched him in the quiet that followed. In the hospital, she'd seen a man stripped down by pain. Here, she was seeing something far rarer—a man in his sanctuary, willingly lowering the drawbridge.
"I'm not here because I feel obligated," she said softly. "I chose to stay. I'm choosing to be here."
He opened his eyes, locking on hers. "I know."
A pause stretched between them, charged and open.
Then Min-Jun reached across the space between them and gently took her hand. His fingers curled around hers—not with urgency, but with purpose. As if grounding himself.
"I don't know how to do this," he said quietly. "I don't know how to be with someone without hurting them."
She didn't flinch. "Then let's figure it out slowly. Together."
The look in his eyes darkened with emotion. Not sadness. Not gratitude. Something deeper. A kind of recognition.
Outside, the city pulsed with distant light and motion. But inside, behind the high glass and thick walls, there was stillness.
Seo-Ah didn't move away. And neither did he.