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She kicks her pumps off neatly in the hallway, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for her to come in from the night through his front door. Slips past him—
Her voice registers without conscious effort. He is—even now—hyperaware of her presence.
“You haven’t changed your dressing yet, have you?”
He glances briefly to his hand, the thumb slanted up. Imagines the ridge of the wound swaddled there.
“No,” he says. It comes out softly, because she has softened something deep within him. “I thought I’d get it done tomorrow.”
She hums, noncommittal. Sets both her handbag and the plastic shopping bag she’s carrying down on the table at their shins.
“I’m not particularly dexterous,” she says, a kind of preface, splaying her fingers for emphasis. “So you’ll have to help me out, a little.”
He looks at her.
It isn’t a question, exactly; mostly he just wants to look at her.
The corners of her mouth lift slightly.
He watches her lean down, pull out two cans of beer. A pharmacy bag. “Personally, I found having company over after my ordeal to be very comforting. I’m hoping…” and her eyes are on his again, “…that it can help you, too.”
He lets himself smile.
It’s painful, in maybe a good way. “Thank you.”
They stand like that a rather long while.
§
Her fingers are cool, and very gentle.
He could grow used to this, her hands on his, his hand not quite in her lap, but brushing.
“Hold that down?”
He does, thumb to his own pulse.
Starved bird jumping arrhythmic.
He swallows thickly. “Is this…hard, for you?”
She pauses. He studies her face, the minute shifts in her expression.
He could make a life out of looking at her. “I hate being touched, but for the most part, I’m fine with touching. And besides—” she stops herself, resumes the slow work of the dressing. In sotto voce: “Besides, it’s you.”
The thrum of his blood stops—spikes sharply. He wonders if she can feel it; he’s mostly heart by now, loud and gauche down to the smallest capillaries.
“Stay,” he blurts, and doesn’t look away, even though he knows his eyes are very naked. “I…” his throat stings, suddenly choked, dry. The rest comes out in a rasp. “Stay. Tonight. Whenever you have nightmares.”
The doorbell rings before she can give him an answer.
§
Jang Hae Ryong pauses in the doorway. “I see you’re here, too. Lawyer Han.”
Her face smooths. Young Goon wishes Jae Sik had had the foresight to stick one of his weapons in her handbag.
But then, it’s come full circle, hasn’t it? Himself and Jang Hae Ryong, a woman he loves.
The knives in the kitchen.
“You sure got out early.”
“Life doesn’t always go as planned,” the man says, and there’s something truly ugly, truly revolting to the defeated way he carries himself.
Young Goon’s jaw works. He breathes in through his mouth.
Exhales sharply. “Why are you here?”
Hae Ryong looks between them, gauging, maybe, how much it’s wise for him to say with her present. “I came here to apologize.”
Young Goon leans against the sink, arms folded over his chest. An I’m listening posture.
Tae Joo’s face remains impassive.
“When I came home and found you in my house, I panicked. I thought of everything that could be ripped from me. I imagined it being ripped.” His hands clench, unclench at his sides. He looks—caged. Tired. Guilty. “That’s why I called in the boys. I am sorry. I didn’t—I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Is this supposed to persuade me?”
“No. I came here to apologize. That’s my apology. What you do with it…”
Tae Joo scoffs. “That’s laying it on rather thick, don’t you think?” She levels him with a look that could easily ice the tropics. “Say what it is you really want to say. What you want.”
Hae Ryong’s hands spasm. Clench. He breathes out through his mouth. Forces his hands half-open. “Let’s bring down the Jang Society together. If it’s your proposal, Do Chi Gwang would accept it. The world—”
“The world? Why should I care about the world? You are the bastard who killed my mother.”
“I took my risks coming here—”
Young Goon feels as if his head’s caught fire. “What risks?”
“If I am on your side, what do you think they’ll do to me?” He’s trying for earnestness; in any other situation it’d be laughable. “I might end up in a quiet place, sharing a grave with my daughters. Even so, I’m trying to help you.”
“Then turn yourself in. And we’ll catch them, together.”
Murderer and victim regard each other. Hae Ryong steps closer…closer…
Closer.
Young Goon wraps his good hand around the handle of a knife.
“Pity,” Hae Ryong says. “If you’d just said yes, we could’ve all gotten out of this alive.”
“If I kill you…” Young Goon says, “I can’t prove my father’s innocence. That’s the sole reason I didn’t shoot you earlier.” His molars ache from pressure. “Now be thankful and fuck off.”
And then—again—the doorbell is ringing.
§
“Pick me up around nine,” Tae Joo says.
“Will you be needing anything?”
She thinks about it for a moment. “No. I’ll just stop by home for a change of clothes before going to the office.”
Jae Sik nods. Then, after a momentary pause, he reaches somewhere deep inside his suit.
“Hard knife,” he says, and she struggles not to smile too broadly. His English is awful in the loveliest way. “Just in case.”
“Thank you,” she says, and after a Goodnight, then, watches the door shut softly behind him.
Young Goon’s sitting at the far end of the sofa, elbows on his knees. He hasn’t looked at her since Hae Ryong left. “I think I really would’ve killed him.”
“I know,” she says. She crosses the room. Thinks about it—thinks better.
Sits down next to him, regardless.
Thigh to thigh.
Seamed. “Young Goon. Look at me.”
He does, brown eyes blown dark, dark. Something inexpressibly fragile sundering in them. “I…”
She covers his folded hands with hers. Traces his knuckles, the unbroken lines of his thumbs.
“Don’t take the couch,” is all she says.
It takes him a moment: then he laughs.
Hoarse—
But he laughs.
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fin.