The winter deepened in Seoul, wrapping the city in a thin layer of frost that glittered under streetlights like scattered diamonds. Ji-eun's mornings began earlier now—before dawn, when the hanok was still dark and quiet except for the soft rattle of Soo-min's breathing from the next room. She had taken to checking on him first thing, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead, listening for the faint wheeze that sometimes lingered even after the inhaler.
That morning, the wheeze was louder.
She found him curled on his side, blanket twisted around his legs, cheeks flushed with fever. His sketchpad—filled with clumsy drawings of idols and dance poses—lay open on the floor beside him.
"Soo-min-ah," she whispered, smoothing his damp hair. "How long have you been like this?"
He cracked one eye open, trying for a grin that didn't quite reach. "Since last night. Didn't want to wake you. You looked tired when you came home."
Ji-eun's heart twisted. She helped him sit up, propping pillows behind his back, then fetched the thermometer. 38.7°C. Not dangerous yet, but enough to tighten the knot of worry that lived permanently in her chest.
"I'm calling the clinic," she said.
"Noona, I'm fine—"
"You're not." Her voice was gentle but firm. "We're going today."
Their mother appeared in the doorway, already dressed for the laundry shop, worry etching deeper lines around her eyes. "I'll open the shop late. Let's take him together."
Ji-eun nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. Another doctor's visit. Another bill. Another reminder that their small boat was taking on water faster than they could bail.
By nine o'clock they were at the neighborhood clinic—a cramped space smelling of antiseptic and old magazines. The doctor, a kind-faced woman who had treated Soo-min since he was a toddler, listened to his chest with a grave expression.
"Another flare-up," she confirmed. "We'll adjust the preventer and add a short course of oral steroids. But Ji-eun-ssi, his triggers are still there—cold air, stress, dust from the old house. Long-term, he needs better air quality, maybe a HEPA filter for his room. And regular check-ups."
Ji-eun nodded mechanically, already calculating costs in her head. The steroids alone would eat half her weekly wages.
When they left with the prescription, her mother slipped an arm around her shoulders as they walked to the pharmacy.
"We'll manage," Mrs. Park said quietly. "We always do."
Ji-eun forced a smile. "I know, Eomma."
But inside, doubt gnawed. Managing was becoming harder every month.
Meanwhile, across the river in Yeouido, Min-ho sat through another interminable board meeting. The merger talks with Lee Industries had reached a critical stage—due diligence reports, valuation disputes, endless spreadsheets projected on the screen like battle maps. His father presided at the head of the table, voice clipped, eyes sharp despite the faint tremor in his hands that only Min-ho seemed to notice.
When the room finally emptied, Chairman Han motioned for his son to stay.
"Seo-yeon's father called this morning," he said without preamble. "He wants to accelerate the timeline. A formal engagement announcement at the year-end gala would send the right signal to the market."
Min-ho's jaw tightened. "We've discussed this. The merger stands on its own merits. Tying it to a personal alliance is unnecessary."
His father leaned forward, elbows on the polished table. "Unnecessary? Or inconvenient because of your… distraction?"
The word landed like a slap. Min-ho met his father's gaze steadily. "Her name is Ji-eun. And she's not a distraction. She's the first real thing in my life in years."
Chairman Han exhaled through his nose, a sound heavy with disappointment. "Real or not, she doesn't belong in this room. Or in the board's conversations. Whispers are already circulating—some call her charming, others call her a liability. The stock dipped half a percent yesterday on nothing more than rumor."
Min-ho felt cold anger coil in his gut. "Then let them whisper. I'm not marrying for stock prices."
"You will do what's necessary for this family," his father said quietly. "As I did. As your grandfather did. Legacy isn't built on feelings, Min-ho. It's built on choices that outlast them."
The words echoed long after Min-ho left the room. He rode the elevator down alone, staring at his reflection in the mirrored walls—sharp suit, perfect posture, tired eyes. For the first time, he wondered if the armor he wore had become a cage.
That afternoon, he texted Ji-eun:
*How's your day? Miss the river already.*
Her reply came slower than usual:
*Soo-min had a bad night. At the clinic now. He'll be okay, just needs meds.*
Min-ho's thumb hovered over the keyboard. He wanted to offer help—money, connections, anything—but he knew she would refuse. Instead, he typed:
*Tell him I'm rooting for him. And tell yourself the same. You don't have to carry it all alone.*
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
*Thank you. I'll try.*
He stared at the message, chest tight. Then he made a decision.
At five o'clock, he left the office early—an almost unheard-of occurrence—and drove to Insadong. The coffee house was quiet; Ji-eun was behind the counter, wiping it down with slow, mechanical strokes. When she saw him through the window, surprise flickered across her face, followed by something softer.
He waited until the last customer left before stepping inside.
"You didn't have to come," she said, but there was no real protest in her voice.
"I wanted to." He set a small paper bag on the counter. "For Soo-min. My assistant found this—special asthma-friendly mask with a HEPA filter layer. And some herbal tea that's supposed to help with breathing. No caffeine."
Ji-eun opened the bag, eyes widening at the sleek packaging. "Min-ho… this is too much."
"It's not charity," he said quickly. "It's just… I know what it's like to watch someone you love struggle and feel helpless. I couldn't fix my mother's illness. But I can do this."
She looked up at him, eyes glistening. "Thank you."
He reached across the counter and brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. "Let me walk you home tonight. No river—just home."
Ji-eun hesitated only a moment. "Okay."
They closed the shop together. Outside, the air was sharp with cold; their breaths fogged between them as they walked. Min-ho kept his pace slow, matching hers, hands in his pockets to resist the urge to reach for her.
At the hanok gate, she paused. "Do you want to come in? Just for a minute. Soo-min would like to meet the man who keeps stealing his noona's evenings."
Min-ho's heart lifted. "I'd like that."
Inside, the house was warm, smelling of simmering doenjang jjigae and laundry fresh from the dryer. Mrs. Park looked up from the kitchen, surprise giving way to cautious welcome when Ji-eun introduced him.
"Welcome, Min-ho-ssi," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "Thank you for walking Ji-eun home."
Soo-min was propped up in the living room on a nest of cushions, looking pale but curious. When Min-ho stepped in, the boy's eyes widened.
"You're really tall," Soo-min blurted.
Min-ho laughed softly. "I get that a lot." He crouched to Soo-min's level. "I heard you're a dancer. That takes strength."
Soo-min shrugged, embarrassed but pleased. "I try. But my lungs don't always cooperate."
Min-ho nodded seriously. "Mine didn't either when I was your age. I had bad asthma until I was twelve. Doctors said I'd never play sports. I proved them wrong—mostly because I was stubborn."
Soo-min grinned. "Noona says I'm stubborn too."
"Then you'll win," Min-ho said. He pulled the mask and tea from the bag. "These are for you. The mask might help when you practice. And the tea tastes better than it sounds."
Soo-min took them carefully. "Thanks, hyung."
The word—hyung—hung in the air like a gift. Min-ho felt something crack open inside his chest.
Mrs. Park served tea in mismatched cups. Conversation stayed light—Soo-min asking about Min-ho's office ("Do you have a robot assistant?"), Min-ho asking about Soo-min's favorite choreography. Ji-eun watched from the doorway, arms crossed, a small smile playing on her lips.
When it was time to leave, Min-ho bowed to Mrs. Park. "Thank you for having me."
"Come again," she said simply. "Any friend of Ji-eun's is welcome."
At the gate, under the bare branches of the persimmon tree, Ji-eun turned to him.
"You didn't have to do all that," she whispered.
"I wanted to." He stepped closer, voice dropping. "I want to be part of this. Not just the river nights. The real parts. The hard parts."
Ji-eun searched his face. "It's messy. We're messy."
"I know." He lifted her hand, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. "And I'm still here."
She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek—quick, shy, but deliberate. "Goodnight, Min-ho."
He watched her disappear inside, heart pounding harder than it had in years.
Back in his penthouse, Min-ho stood by the window overlooking the glittering Han. His phone buzzed—his father.
*Board meeting tomorrow. Seo-yeon will attend. Be prepared to discuss the engagement timeline.*
Min-ho stared at the message, then set the phone face-down.
For the first time, the empire he was supposed to inherit felt less like destiny and more like chains.
He thought of Soo-min's stubborn grin, Mrs. Park's quiet strength, Ji-eun's soft kiss on his cheek.
And he knew—with a certainty that steadied him—he would break those chains before he let them pull him away from her.