A full week passes without any contact from (y/n). It's a nagging thought in my mind, itching to come forward now and then. I know I'm perfectly capable of tapping her name on the screen of my phone and hearing her voice, but my stubbornness forces me to wait for her to make the next move. It isn't until after the New Year while I'm sitting in my office at nearly eleven o'clock at night, Jaehee running down the very long to-do list for the upcoming week that (y/n) flashes across my phone. I immediately answer, barely mouthing a sorry to Jaehee as I exit my office.

"Hello," I answer, suddenly clamming up.

"Jumin?" She replies. "It's (y/n)."

"I know. Sorry, I was doing some work just now."

"Oh, do you want me to call back? If you're busy I-"

"No," I interrupt. "How are you? Is everything okay?"

"What?" She laughs. "I'm fine, I just finished my work for today and I was going to ask if you wanted to meet up for something to eat. I know it's late but I figured you work as late as I do, you know?"

"Oh," I'm a little thrown off that she was thinking of me, feeling flustered as I try to answer. "I'd love to. I need to finish up a couple things then we can meet up somewhere. What restaurant is still open this late?"

"I'll message you the address. The place has really good drinks, and the food is pretty good too. Twenty minutes sound good?"

"Twenty minutes. Perfect," I smile. "I'll see you then."

"See you then." She hangs up and Jaehee is tapping her foot behind me, her neck and ears red with anger. I give her a blank expression, as if I had been on a business call and not just clearly making dinner plans to ditch her.

"I mean no disrespect, Mr. Han, but there really is a lot we have to go over and twenty minutes will not be enough time. I urge you to call whoever that was and reschedule."

"I'll come in early and stay late tomorrow," I reply flatly. Her expression says yeah, right, but she reluctantly gathers her things when we reenter my office, lingering in the doorway for a moment while I send a text to Driver Kim.

"Mr. Han," she says. "It's odd to see you drop everything for a woman. I hope she's worth it."

"Me too," I give her a polite smile, a little aggravated that she's prodding. She stays in the doorway, looking at her feet.

"I'm coming from a place of concern, Mr. Han," she continues. "You haven't been in a relationship as long as I've known you, and I am aware of how many women have treated you in the past. I know you know this, but please be on your guard. It would be foolish to put the company at stake for a woman as your father has."

"Assistant Kang," I say, my voice strong. "Your concerns are valid but I am very capable of handling my own relationships. Don't waste your time worrying about me."

She nods and we leave at the same time, a quiet ride down on the elevator. She waves goodbye and I stand by to make sure she leaves safely; I find Kim shortly after and tell him the address, hoping that my work suit is appropriate for where we're meeting. I brush my hair through with my fingers, feeling the ends sticking out reluctantly. Once we arrive I tell Kim to stick around until I call him, promising overtime for his effort. He nods and tells me to enjoy myself, a strange smile on his lips as he drives off.

The restaurant before me is brightly lit, but it's grandeur betrays the inside, where it's nearly empty. I call (y/n) and hear a phone ringing from inside the dining area; she pops her head up and scans the building with her eyes, smiling when her stare meets mine. I put my phone away and go to her, sitting down across the table.

"Sorry," I say as I take off my jacket and hang it off the back of the chair. "There was a bit of traffic on the way. I hope you weren't waiting long."

"Not at all," she smiles, looking me up and down; I do the same to her. She's in a black dress that exposes most of her back, her hair loosely pulled back, a couple pieces framing her face. I can't deny how attractive she looks, but it doesn't entirely faze me as much as it might someone else. A waitress whose voice is much too loud for the calm environment of the restaurant comes over and takes our drink orders, quickly returning with a tall glass of wine for me and a smaller glass of whiskey for (y/n). She places them opposite though, and it's an awkward exchange as we switch our drinks.

"Oh," she snickers. "I guess you can't tell who really wears the pants with you two." She laughs at her own attempt at a joke, (y/n) giving her an absolutely venomous glare as we entertain her with fake laughter. Finally she leaves us alone after she takes our orders.

"She's interesting, isn't she?" (Y/n) raises her eyebrows, taking a small sip of her drink.

"That's a polite way to put it." I take a big gulp of wine, hoping if I drink enough maybe our waitress will be more enjoyable by the time she returns. I look up from my glass to see (y/n) eyeing me, not breaking her gaze even when our eyes meet.

"What?" I ask, worried there's something on my face or my hair is more messed up than usual.

"Nothing," she smiles, looking away. She plays with one of the rings on her fingers, rubbing her thumb across the milky, round surface. "I just- I'm glad you said yes even though I asked on a whim."

"I had no reason to refuse," I reply, my eyes fixated on her hands. "I was actually hoping to hear from you soon."

She smiles at me, and I can't fight my lips tugging up at the corners too. She lets out a small laugh, drowning the sound in a sip of whiskey.

"You don't smile enough," Her cheeks are a little flushed, like she's embarrassed about what she's saying; it's very cute. "Your smile is too nice to be hidden away like that."

It was my turn to blush; I don't know why, since women in the past had flattered my every detail from head to toe. (Y/n) seemed so genuine though, and I hoped she was as honest as she made herself seem.

"Thank you." I manage to mumble, running a hand through my hair.

"Anyways," she continues. "How was your day today? How was work?"

Her question confuses me for a second; how my day went wasn't something I usually was asked or even thought about.

"Uhm," I cough, considering her question. "It was okay. I had a meeting with my father and my staff, and it went well. I haven't seen my father in a while though, so it was a bit strange."

"You don't see your father often? Doesn't he own your company?"

"Yes, he does. He began the company before I was even born. But I run my own branch while he runs the entire company as a whole." I explain.

"Oh, that's kind of cool," she smirks. "So you were set from before you were even born."

"That's not true," I almost interrupt her. "I worked as hard as everyone else in the company for my position, and as much as it may seem, my success is of my own doing. My father wouldn't hire me just because I'm his son."

She raises her eyebrows, and I'm embarrassed that I defended myself so quickly.

"I'm sorry-"

"It's okay," she smiles, her eyes crinkling in the corners. "I'm sorry I assumed. You said you haven't seen your father in a while?"

I admire how she drops my overreaction and doesn't push me any further. Her question is a bit prodding but I am the one who brought up my father in the first place.

"Yeah," I breath. "He upset me the last time we met, so I've been avoiding him."

"That's too bad," she frowns, and I can see she's deciding whether or not to poke further, until a different waitress returns with steaming plates in hand. She sets them down and leaves us be; (y/n) raises her glass to me and I raise mine too, clinking them together and taking a sip as we eye each other.

"Do you always toast before a meal?" I ask, remembering our last date.

"Yeah," she laughs a bit. "My dad used to do it all the time, so I guess I picked it up too."

Her explanation is somehow so endearing that I find myself blushing over it, trying to hide my expression by taking a bite of the meal in front of me.

"Are you close with your father?" I tread after I finish chewing, trying to gauge her reaction. Her eyes are cast downward, the slightest hint of a smile on her lips.

"Yes," she says quietly. "My dad and I are very close. He's my best friend."

"That's great," I say. "Not many people our age get to be so close with their parents. I guess you and I are lucky."

She nods almost solemnly, finishing the last of her drink and quickly calling the waitress over for more. I spend a moment curiously watching her; her eyes refuse to meet mine and she's downing the whiskey much faster than she was two minutes ago, and it clicks in my head that despite the way she's talking about him, her father is dead.

"I- I'm really sorry, (y/n)-"

"What for?" She smiles, her eyes pained.

"Is your father..." I trail off, unable to find a tactful way of saying it.

She nods. "Yeah, he's uh... he isn't around anymore. Sorry for being weird about it."

"What?" I scoff, confused. "Don't be sorry. I'm the one who couldn't take a hint."

She giggles, ringing out her hands and taking a big breath, looking up at the ceiling for a moment, gathering herself.

"Sorry. Sorry," she laughs, finally looking at me in the eyes. "It's hard and complicated and weird, you know? There are days I can talk about him for hours without a problem and then there's days where I can't even see the word 'father' on accident without losing my mind."

Her hand is laid flat on the table, her ring shining a little in the light. It's milky but translucent, a little prismatic in the right light.

"Is that moonstone?" I tentatively reach for her hand, raising her fingers towards me. She creases her eyebrows as I run my thumb across the smooth surface.

"Yes. My dad actually gave that to me, before he died. He got it in India before I was born..." She answers, her voice soft.

"That's funny," I smile at her, genuinely, as I gently place her hand down. "My mother loved moonstone; our entire house was practically covered in it when I was a boy. And just this past Christmas, my father tried to give me the engagement ring he gave her- it doesn't look like this, though... it's more over the top. She loved things like that."

Her expression is deep and I realize I've rambled on. I begin to apologize but before I can, she covers my hand with her own.

"How old were you when she passed?"

I'm hesitant to answer just because I said a little too much, but her thumb grazing my palm practically drags the words from my lips.

"I had just turned eight."

"Was she sick?"

"You could say that," I almost chuckle. "She left on her own accord, which was how she did everything. I guess in the end it was almost fitting in a dark sort of way."

"Were you upset?" She asks, her hand still warm and encouraging on mine. I don't know what it is, but for some reason I go on.

"I never cried about it. Even at the funeral, the only time I ever saw my father cry, I didn't feel anything. I didn't know how to feel so I just felt nothing."

"I'm sorry that happened to you, Jumin," she says, squeezing my hand before pulling away. "I know it was a long time ago, but... I don't know. I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize," I reply, my fingers feeing cold. "It was almost twenty years ago. She was never much of a mother to me, anyways."

"That doesn't mean you can't feel about it still," she frowns. "I don't think I'll ever be at peace with either of my parents' deaths, but one thing I've learned about loss is that the only way to ever heal is to let yourself feel about it. I don't know if that makes sense."

"(Y/n)," I frown. "Your mother, too?"

"Listen, Jumin," she leans into the table, magnetically pulling me as well. "I'm not talking about me, I'm just saying; I care about you, and I know what it's like if it was twenty years ago or yesterday afternoon. I know what it's like to be angry at them for dying, and what it's like to think I've found peace only to have it crashing down. I know about loss and no matter how much you play up the cold, above it all demeanor, you're human and our pain is the same."

We stare at each other for an impossibly long moment, and I ultimately feel overwhelmed by her words and her fathoms deep gaze. I quickly stand from my chair, excusing myself. I desperately search for the restroom and lock the door behind me once I step inside, clutching the bowl of the sink to hold myself up. I rest my forehead against the glass of the mirror, squeezing my eyes shut tight and counting before I open them, looking at myself. I'm shaking a bit; the weight of everything seemed to be resting on my shoulders and I was powerless. I turn the faucet on and splash cold water on my face, realizing how flushed I am as the chill runs through my whole body. After a few minutes to get myself together, simply pushing the unpleasant feelings away, I take another deep breath and return to the table; when I come back, though, the chair (y/n) had just been sitting in is empty. On the table sits the check, paid, one word scrawled across the thin white paper, the pen haphazardly thrown on the table.

Sorry.