The second you say it—“이거 뭐야?”—and look up at me with that mix of bravado and fear, something settles in my chest like a lock clicking shut.
“Baby…” I slide my hand to your jaw, warm and steady. “You’re my girlfriend. 내 여자.” I don’t blink when I say it. I don’t hedge. “No guessing. No maybe. I’m here.”
You try to turn it into a joke, because that’s what you always do when you’re overwhelmed with a big feeling, but I don’t let you run from it. Not this time. My thumb drags across your lower lip, slow. “Say it back,” I murmur, eyes on yours. “Then I’ll kiss you.”
You swallow, tiny nod. “Your girlfriend.” That’s it. The gravity changes in the room.
I kiss you like a promise—and like a problem I don’t want to solve. Gentle first, then deeper when you sigh into my mouth. Your fingers curl in my shirt and I pull you into my lap like you belong there (you do). The world outside the curtains—neighbourhood noise, a distant bus —goes fuzzy. I can feel your heartbeat through your chest to mine, rabbit-fast, and it sends a shot of pride through me so hard I have to laugh against your sweet lips. “Look at you,” I whisper. “My girl. My y/n.“
You whisper, “탬,” and my control thins to silk. “Don’t,” I breathe, forehead pressed to yours, smile wrecked. “Say my name like that and I won’t stop.”
I don’t stop anyway. Why would I?
I kiss you the way I dance—tempo shifts, control, then the slip. Mouth to mouth, then I angle to your cheek, your jaw, the hollow just under your ear that makes your breath catch. “여기 좋아해?” (You like it here?) You nod, a little gasp, and I file it away: cartography of you, y/n. You like it when I grab your waist. You melt when I slide a hand up your spine. You go quiet when I kiss the soft place under your ear, and you claw at me (God, yes) when I mouth the side of your throat. “Hickeys?” I murmur, smile curving. “Say yes.”
“Yes,” you breathe, small and dangerous. “Good girl.” I keep it tasteful—slow, claiming, not too dark—and then I kiss where I’ve marked, soothing. “Mine,” I tell your soft skin, not because I need to hear it, but because maybe you do. “내 사람.”
You’re shy to dance with me, always, even though you love to dance—so I don’t ask. I just put on a slow song (yeah, “1 of 1” is queued next, because of course) and stand, keeping your small hands in mine, pulling you up into me. “No choreography,” I say, mouth against your temple. “Just this. Just us.“ We sway in my living room, your cheek under my chin, my palm sliding lazy circles at the small of your back. I feel you unclench minute by minute, your shoulders dropping, your breath syncing with mine. “You feel that?” I whisper. “That’s us. No shoe dropping. Just us.”
You tip your head back to look at me and I’m a goner. I kiss you again, slower now, like I’m sipping something expensive. When you smile into my mouth, I lose the plot and laugh. “누나… 진짜 미치겠다.” (Noona… I’m actually going crazy.) I mean it like worship.
I make you ginger tea in the kitchen without letting go for long—my fingers never leave your hip, your wrist, the hem of your shirt, like I have to keep you tethered. You sit on the counter, legs open, and I step between them, bracing one hand on the cupboard, the other around your waist. You’re watching me, eyes soft, and the urge to take care of you hits hard. “Had dinner?” I ask. You shake your head. I’m already on it—garlic, eggs, rice, quick and warm. “Not your nationality‘s treasure, but chef’s kiss,” I tease, feeding you the first bite with the chopsticks. You roll your eyes, pretending not to be charmed, but you take the bite and hum, and now I’m grinning like an idiot because your happy sounds are my new drug. “Better than being cool,” I say when you catch me smiling. “I’d rather be yours.”
On the couch again, I tuck my hair behind my ear—your “Korean long” comment lives rent-free in my head—let you card your fingers through it. You always do when you’re half-shy, half-feral. “Touch me,” I murmur, guiding your hand to the nape of my neck. “Like that.” Your nails scrape lightly and I shiver, eyes closing. “Christ, y/n.” I open them again because I want to see your face when I say this next part. “I know your past. I heard you. I’m not leaving. Stop looking for the exit when I’m trying to walk in.”
You go quiet, but the kind of quiet that means you’re listening. So I keep going, softer. “You think you’re hard to love.” I kiss the slope of your cheek. “But all I know how to do is want you.” Another kiss at your jaw. “Want you when you’re loud, when you’re quiet, when your stubborn Virgo-brain is manifesting the moon.” A smile against your skin. “I’ve been eating grapes under tables for years and didn’t even know why.” (You laugh, that snort you do when you’re trying not to, and I beam like I won something important.) “Turns out it was you.”
You pull me closer and I don’t make you say thank you with words. I let you say it with your mouth. I kiss you until you stop bracing for goodbye.
We drift toward the bedroom because gravity says so. Not rushed. I keep checking your eyes, your breath, your yes. I’m a menace, yeah—but I’m careful with what I care about. At the edge of the bed, I pause and tip your chin up with one finger. “Color?” I ask softly. (You roll your eyes at me, but the way you relax says it lands.) “Blue,” you whisper, and then you’re pulling me down.
What happens next isn’t a movie montage. It’s two people learning each other. It’s my mouth finding the places that make your back arch, and your hands finding the places that make my breath stutter. It’s me worshiping your tummy—yes, the one you say you hate—kissing it slow, telling you, “이 부분… 내가 제일 좋아해.” (This part… I like it the most.) It’s you going quiet and a little wet-eyed for a second, and me kissing that expression away. It’s your pretty eyes blowing wide when I tell you, plain and honest, “You’re exactly my type,” and then prove it with patience and a little menace, the kind that makes you gasp my name and clutch at the sheets. It’s the kind of heat that feels like home, where I don’t have to posture and you don’t have to pretend.
After, I do the small things that say more than speeches. Warm cloth. Water. My hoodie—“territorial behavior,” you accuse, smiling, as you tug it on; I shrug, unashamed. “Facts.” I press a kiss to your temple. You burrow into me, thigh over mine, your hand on my chest like you’re testing if I’m still there. I am. I always am.
You’re not a morning person. So I set your alarm, then set another for me two minutes earlier so I can wake you with kisses instead of a siren. I put water on the nightstand and a note under the glass where you’ll find it: No more ‘what are we.’ We are. A stupid little heart because I’m younger and cocky enough to get away with it. When you roll, half-asleep, to hide your face in my neck, I whisper, “내 사람.” (My person.) You answer in your drowsy native tongue that melts my spine and I have to bite my lip like a teenager.
Sometime around 3 a.m., you stir, the old fear flickering across your face like a shadow of a bad dream. I feel it happen. I always do. My hand rubs slow circles on your back, my mouth finds your hairline. “Shh,” I murmur. “I’m not a ghost. I don’t disappear.” You breathe out, long and shaky, and I press your palm to my heartbeat. “See? Still here.”
Morning in our city is grey-blue and soft. I slip out just long enough to grind beans, make your coffee exactly the way you like it, leave it where your hand will find it before your eyes fully open. I crawl back under the covers, cold hands on your warm waist, and you squeal, smacking my shoulder. I take the hit, laughing, and then I’m kissing you good morning like I promised—sweet, unhurried, plenty. “좋은 아침, girlfriend,” I murmur into your smile.
You squint at me. “We’re really doing this?”
I tip my head, pretend to think. Then I nod like a judge. “Yes. Sentence: unlimited kisses, public hand-holding, me singing badly in your kitchen, jealousy rights when men stare too long, and…” I lean in, drop my voice. “The right to tell me when you need gentler, and the right to demand when you want rougher.” Your eyes spark; I kiss the corner. “All appeals denied.”
You tug me close by the hoodie strings and kiss me like you mean it. I groan, happy and gone. “Look what you did,” I complain softly, but I’m already rolling over you, bracing on my forearms, hair falling around us like a curtain. Your fingers push it back, and I swear I could live in this exact moment forever.
We spend the day the way new lovers do when the question mark is gone and the exhale finally arrives. We walk along the river with your hand in my pocket and mine around your waist because I like you tucked into me. You point out dogs; I point out sunlight in your hair. You make fun of my playlist until I put on the exact song you were going to request and pretend it was your idea. We read horoscopes at a café; I scoff at mine and take yours dead seriously. We plan trips we haven’t booked and dinners we haven’t cooked. At crosswalks, I press kisses into your hair; in shop windows, I watch you watching yourself and mutter, “우와… 진짜 예쁘다,” (wow… you’re really beautiful) like it’s new information every time.
And every time that old doubt tries to creep in—when a car door slams too loud, or your phone lights up and you hesitate like you’re bracing—I’m there. A hand on your lower back. A look that says I see you. A kiss you feel in your knees. “No exits,” I remind you, grinning. “I’m already inside.”
That night, when we’re back at my place and you curl into me on the couch, I pull a folded page from the coffee table and slide it into your hand. It’s messy, written between dance drills and thoughts of you:
You asked me what this is. It’s me waking up and wanting your face before sunlight. It’s me dancing better because you exist. It’s me worshiping the tummy you think I shouldn’t love and loving it more out of spite. It’s me learning your native pet names and your favorite noodles and the exact pressure to put on your hips when you’ve had a day. It’s you, all of you. It’s home.
You read it, then look at me like I hung the moon, and I have to hide my face in your neck because I’m younger and pathetic for you. You laugh, that bright sound, and tug my hair. “Come here,” you say, and I do, because there’s nowhere else I’m ever going.
Later, in the dark, I trace the outline of your lips with my thumb and whisper the truest thing I know in both languages, so there’s no way you can miss it. “You’re my only one. 진짜 1 of 1.” You smile without opening your eyes, say, “I know,” and tuck your cold toes under my calf like you own me.
And when sleep finally takes you, I stay awake a little longer, kissing your forehead, memorizing the peace on your face, thinking how insane it is that a man can pray for something his whole life without a name for it—and then one night in a club, there you are, laughing like trouble, tasting like forever, asking me a question I get to answer every day:
