Page 30 of Bearly Out Loud

His hand was still on her waist. Her face was tilted up, close enough that he could see the streetlight catching her mouth, her breath making small clouds in the cold air, her eyes holding his like she’d made a decision and was waiting to see if he’d make the same one.

“No.”

She nodded once. Her gloved hand came up and straightened his collar—a small, deliberate gesture that had nothing to do with his collar and everything to do with putting her hand on his chest.

“Goodnight, Dojin.”

“Drive safe.”

She stepped away. Walked to the corner. Hailed a cab with the effortless authority of someone who’d been navigating Manhattan since she was old enough to go out alone. Before she got in, she looked back over her shoulder.

“The wildflower honey was the best one.”

The cab pulled away. The street went quiet. Dojin stood on the corner of Bleecker and Seventh with his hand still warm from her waist and the taste of sake.

His phone buzzed.

Reo:How was the “creative inspiration space”

Dojin:How do you know about that

Reo:I run security. I know when you take the elevator to the rooftop on a Saturday with a civilian. How was it?

Dojin:It was fine.

Reo:You were up there for three hours. Then you went to dinner. Then you walked through the West Village at 11 PM. In February.

Dojin:You tracked me.

Reo:I track you EVERY DAY. Today was more interesting. Scale of one to “I should order more consoles”?

Dojin looked at the street where the cab had been. The space where Nari had stood. The way the streetlight fell on the spot where she’d straightened his collar and he’d stopped breathing for a full second.

Dojin:Order the consoles.

Reo:Ordering. Anything else?

Dojin:She talked about her grandfather.

Reo:And?

Dojin:And I told her about Hana.

A long pause. Reo’s response, when it came, had none of his usual dry precision. Four words, stripped of everything except what mattered.

Reo:That’s a big deal.

Dojin pocketed his phone. Started walking uptown.

The wildflower honey was the best one.

He walked twelve blocks before he realized he was smiling.

SEVENTEEN

DOJIN

Rain on the studio windows. Early March—the city caught between seasons, winter loosening its grip but spring not yet committed. A gray, dripping morning that made everything feel suspended.