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The first time Jisung meets Jisu, she’s sweaty, fresh off of a run. She looks him up and down — all one hundred and sixty-something centimeters of him — and somehow makes him feel even smaller.
“So you’re the arm candy,” she says, sounding curious but not unkind. She holds her hand out. “Choi Jisu.”
“You flatter me.” He shakes her hand. “Han Jisung.”
Jisu’s eyes glimmer. Her grip is, of course, stronger than his.
“Well, Han Jisung,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The next time he sees her, she’s sliding into the passenger seat of the car. The journey from Gwangju to Incheon is a long one — a little over four hours, if all goes well, and after she’s done checking the car, they set off.
The first hour passes easily. He learns that Jisu speaks three languages, is trained in four types of martial arts, and specializes in hand-to-hand combat. He also learns that they’re the same age, although she joined a year later than him.
They stop for lunch a little past Gimje, an hour and a half in. Over rice and stew, they review what’s next. There’s an apartment in Incheon rented under Jisung’s name — Jisu will stay there as long as she needs to. If anyone asks, she’s there for school, having recently transferred from overseas. The two of them are family friends from the same small town near Gimje, although Jisu’s story about returning to the country recently means that neither of them have to worry too much about those details.
There isn’t much else to cover — between the two of them, anyway. Jisung has the easy job: drive Jisu to Incheon. Accompany her to the bar. Drive back to Gwangju the next day. Everything else, Jisu must do alone.
Back on the road, Jisu seems more subdued, eyes down, like she’s looking at the glove box. It isn’t until they’re back on the expressway that she speaks.
“Ever had to use it?”
Jisung looks over, even though he thinks he already knows what she’s referring to. Sure enough, the glove box is open, her fingers tapping along the wall of the interior compartment. It’s a false back; two well-placed fingers, and the gun concealed inside is revealed with a tug. They had both checked that it was there before leaving, as procedure mandates, step three on their mental checklist after check the plate and check the tires.
There’s another gun on the driver’s side, hidden on the underside of the seat. Jisung had felt for it before leaving, and made sure that everything looked right. There are more discreet places to hide their weapons, but those are there for ease of access. Just for now. Just in case. Before they reach Incheon, they’ll have to migrate both of them to more secure locations. This, too, is procedure.
Two isn’t considered many. There are usually more, but this isn’t supposed to be that kind of operation.
To Jisu’s question, he shakes his head.
“Me neither.” Jisu sighs. “Not on a mission, at least.”
Usually, Jisung doesn’t pry. But Jisu is friendlier than his usual passengers, and they still have close to three hours to go. They’re the same age, too.
“How do you usually…do it?”
Jisu raises an eyebrow. “What, seduce men?”
Jisung laughs, a bit awkwardly. His fingers flex against the wheel. “I mean. Not like that, exactly. Just…”
“I was just teasing.” Jisu smiles slightly. “Honestly, the hard work is usually done in advance. To earn their trust, you have to establish a connection with them.” She shrugs. “It’s not always a physical connection, although that helps. What you really need is to make them feel understood, which usually means finding out everything there is to know about them.”
Trees flash by — ten, twenty, thirty — as Jisung mulls over her answer.
“So,” he says, curious, “mid-level officer working in Incheon. What do you know about this one?”
They’ve both read the documents. There’s hardly any public information on him. From the little their Incheon network had managed to gather: Lee Minho, a quiet, unassuming bachelor who rarely left his apartment. No vices, besides unwinding over a glass of whiskey after work. If he has family, he doesn’t visit. No other known relationships, hobbies, or preferences.
Privately, Jisung had thought to himself, another boring, paper-pushing government official.
Jisu tilts her head. “He’s a common type,” she says slowly, echoing Jisung’s thoughts. “Spends most of his time at his job, and the rest of his time alone. Maybe a little arrogant, or at least proud of his work. A little lonely. He’ll want to talk.”
To her, hopefully.
They share a meaningful look.
“Let’s hope so,” Jisung murmurs.
Halfway there, now. They drive on.
When the sea comes into view, Jisu rolls down her window. The wind is pleasantly warm and smells faintly salty.
“Good weather,” Jisu says, and Jisung hums in agreement.
They don’t stop again until they’ve reached their Incheon apartment. There, Jisung secures the firearms while Jisu disappears into the bathroom to get ready.
The apartment is small — it’s a studio. Still, someone has put effort into making it look lived-in. The bed is unmade. There’s an umbrella by the door and a stack of books on the desk. When Jisung opens the refrigerator, he finds five water bottles and no groceries, which may be the most realistic portrayal of a university student yet.
He runs a finger along the inside of one of the kitchen cabinets, and notes that it’s dustless. Recently cleaned.
They need to be at the bar by five. It’s just past four. He rolls his shoulders and prepares himself for the drive.
On Thursdays, Lee Minho usually arrives around six. The plan is to get there before him, get some food, and wait. According to Jisu, getting there early gives them time to scope out the area, pick a good spot, and determine their entry and exit strategies.
If all goes well, Jisu won’t need the exit strategy, and Jisung will be back in Gwangju by this time tomorrow.
“Remember,” Jisu says, “if anything goes wrong, you leave.” She adjusts her hair one last time. “I’ll meet you back at the apartment when I’m done taking care of things.”
Before exiting the car, she turns to him. “Ready?”
As he’ll ever be. But Jisung’s part is simple — sit, observe.
“I feel like I should be asking you that,” he says.
Jisu opens the car door with a smile. “I’m always ready.”
So of course things go south immediately.
Jisu enters first, which means that she’s the first to see.
She tugs him in closer under the guise of leaning against his arm, whispers out of the side of her mouth: “That’s him. Don’t look.”
Jisung blinks. Tries to ignore the reflexive urge to do exactly that.
They pick a table close to the entrance. It’s sunny outside — it will be for another hour or two. Light jazz is playing. The bar is visible in his peripheral vision, and even without turning to look directly at him, Jisung can tell that their target is sitting there, alone.
“Change of plans,” Jisu says. “I’m going to go talk to him. You stay here.”
“Do you know what he’s doing here so early?”
“No idea,” Jisu says lightly, like they’re discussing what to order. “Maybe he got off work early. Maybe someone tipped him off about me. I need to figure out which it is.”
Sounds dangerous. Jisung swallows, hands instinctively going to his pockets, patting to make sure that the car keys are still there.
“Do you need me to do anything?”
The answer is obvious, but he asks anyway. Besides the keys, he has nothing else on him. Jisu, on the other hand, is armed — has at least four weapons hidden on her person.
Jisu shakes her head. “Remember what I said,” she says softly, before slipping out of her seat.
She sends him a plate of their snacks — nuts, olives, cheese. Uneasiness makes his stomach queasy, but he forces himself to eat some of it, because sitting alone and doing nothing would look even worse. There aren’t that many people in the bar to start with, and he stands out enough in his casual shirt and pants. The last thing he wants or needs is to attract more attention to himself.
Every once in a while, he glances over at Jisu. It doesn’t look like things are going poorly, but it doesn’t seem like they’re going well, either.
Sure enough, Jisu returns with her drink after another few minutes.
“I’m asking if we should abort just now,” she informs him immediately, tapping on her phone screen. She pops an olive into her mouth. “He didn’t seem receptive at all. And he keeps looking over here.” Her forehead creases. “He just did it again.”
Jisung takes a deep breath. “Do you think he suspects anything?”
“I don’t think so,” Jisu says. She sounds puzzled. “He asked where we were from, and I told him. But when I tried to take the conversation anywhere from there…he seemed uninterested. I tried a few different things, but I could tell he had already pulled back. He wasn’t even looking at me.”
“Okay,” Jisung says. “Do you think he was suspicious? Or just curious?”
“Neither,” Jisu says bluntly, tucking her phone back into her pocket. “And I don’t see a point in wasting our time risking additional exposure.”
She stabs a cube of cheese with her toothpick. “I paid already. Let’s finish this platter and head out.”
Jisung nods. Then frowns. “Did you order another drink?”
“What?”
They both watch as the bartender delivers the glass to their table.
“From the gentleman at the bar,” he says, and Jisung raises his eyebrows. It seems like Lee Minho is more interested in Jisu than he had let on. It makes sense. Round-cheeked, likeable — if anyone could get their target to lower his guard, it would be Jisu.
Of course, that’s when the bartender clarifies —
“Not for the lady.”
His skin prickles. The next words roll over him, incomprehensible. An impossibility.
“For the gentleman.”
The only eyes wider than his own, Jisung thinks, must be Jisu’s.
Maybe Lee Minho is smarter than he seems. Maybe this is a test. Maybe the safest thing to do would be to head out, immediately, and not look back. But. If it isn’t — if he isn’t — if —
Occam’s Razor. The simplest answer is often closest to the truth.
He keeps looking over here, Jisu had said. But she hadn’t been here, because she had been up at the bar. And if Minho hadn’t been looking at her…
Jisu must think it at the same time that he does. Lowly, urgently, she says to him, “We have two choices. One, we leave. They’ll pick someone else. Two, you go up to the bar and talk to him.” She frowns, before her expression smooths out. “I know you’ve received the basic field operative training, so. It’s technically an option. But if you don’t think you can muster up…ah, with another man —”
“That won’t be a problem,” Jisung mutters, and Jisu’s mouth clicks shut.
It’s true. He’s never given much thought to things like gender, and the like. It’s an absurd situation to be in, but the fact that Minho is a man doesn’t make his decision any easier or harder.
The apartment, he thinks, determination faint but growing. Jisu’s student identity. Even the car. Everything would have to be scrubbed. All those months of work, all meaningless now. Unless.
He can do it, he thinks. They’ve come this far. There were bound to be hiccups, but now that the opportunity has been practically handed to them, he refuses to be the one who turns it down.
“Okay.” She studies his expression. “In that case, think of it as a first date.”
His heartbeat kicks up a notch, which is ridiculous. He knows it’s not a date.
“You’ll be nervous. It’ll show, which is fine. It might even help. Try to lean into it. Make him feel like he’s the one making you nervous.” She holds a hand out. “Keys?”
“Keys?” He echoes.
“If I need to drive back.”
For if they end up —
He yanks the cord on those thoughts, cutting them off abruptly. His first reaction, instinctive, is denial. “I wouldn’t — I’m not —”
Jisu sighs. “I won’t leave without you. Not today, like this. But you might drink, and then I’ll have to drive us back anyway.”
Fuck, Jisung thinks. She’s right.
Unable to resist, he turns his head slightly, trying to catch a glance at this target of theirs. Sure enough, there he is — still there, still the same. Still looking.
Their eyes meet for the first time. Interest, so obvious that even Jisung can read it from his gaze. Anticipation, too.
Shock is a physical thing, Jisung realizes. It reverberates throughout his entire body.
When he hands Jisu the keys, she pats him on the arm. “I’ll be right here. If you ever feel uncomfortable or unsafe, just look at me. We can go whenever.”
“Okay,” he says. He inhales sharply. “Okay. I’ll — I’m gonna. Go.”
Each step makes the feelings in his stomach more solid, more real. He’s there in what feels like a few seconds, and then Minho turns to look at him, and — he’s attractive, even more so up close, which shouldn’t matter at all, except that it does. Time slows down, like the cliché. This man is into him? It feels like a joke.
The punchline never comes. They look at each other until Jisung realizes Minho is waiting for him to say something. Announce his presence. Acknowledge him. There’s no one else near them. Even the bartender is on the other side of the bar. Still, Minho tilts his head, looks at him like he’s been doing all night, and says nothing.
Jisung clears his throat. “I wanted to — um.” He stutters. Fuck. “You sent me a drink.” Double fuck.
At least Minho doesn’t look bothered. “I did. I hope you don’t mind.” He smiles. “Would you like to sit?”
Jisung sits. The drink that he brought with him remains untouched, and he worries over that, tries to figure a way to continue the conversation.
Basic field operative training covers hiding, deflection, and lying, in that specific order. Right now, hiding isn’t an option. Neither is deflection. And training definitely doesn’t cover how to lie to pretty men in bars who send you expensive drinks.
Jisu had told him to play into his nervousness, use it to his advantage. He takes a deep breath and tries again. “Thank you.”
Minho seems to relax a bit. “Your friend insisted she was single, so I assumed…well.”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the implicit question is clear.
“It was definitely unexpected. Um.” Jisung has to swallow past the lump in his throat — apprehension, and something else, too. “But…not unwelcome.”
This time, Minho’s eyes glow. He turns to him fully, angles himself in Jisung’s direction. “I’m glad.”
He smiles, and something turns over in Jisung’s stomach. The line between the best lies and the truth is razor-thin, and he doesn’t know which side he falls on when he says, quietly — “Me too.”
It’s not perfect. He fidgets. He stutters more. He doesn’t actually drink what Minho got him. Somehow Minho doesn’t seem to mind. Or he’s just an incredible actor.
“Any preferences?” Minho asks, and when Jisung shakes his head no, he asks the bartender for two glasses of water, instead, and doesn’t let Jisung apologize.
“I didn’t know what you liked, so I just ordered my favorite,” he admits. “I figured if you rejected it, I’d just drink it instead.”
Jisung bites his lip. “Do you do that often? Send people drinks?”
“Never.” Minho’s glass sparkles in the evening light, empty. He laughs, a soft exhale, and traces its rim with his finger. “I come here because it’s close to work. There aren’t usually that many other people at this hour.” He looks at Jisung. “And then you walked in.”
Jisung can feel himself turning pink. “You can’t mean that.”
“Why not?”
Why not? If things were different, Jisung thinks, there is no way he would have ever approached Minho. Never in a million years. If this was real, no amount of alcohol would have padded his confidence enough to come over, flirt back. Minho had the kind of face that Jisung could only dream up. The most he’d be able to accomplish would be furtive glances from across the bar, inspiration for his overly indulgent imagination.
But this isn’t real, he reminds himself. Minho isn’t some stranger; he works for the government, and Jisung isn’t here to just flirt with him.
His enthusiasm dims a little. “We don’t even know each other.”
Minho seems to notice the change in his tone. He nods. “That’s fair. I’m Minho. I was born in Seoul and moved to Incheon for this job. I like cats, seafood, and walking along the pier. I’m good at cooking, and bad at figuring out when I’m being rejected. So if that’s what you’re doing, you’ll have to tell me directly.”
“There.” Minho smiles, just a little awkwardly, at him. “Now you know me better than some of my coworkers do.”
Endearing. Jisung is endeared. It’s terrible news. Besides the very small, obvious thing — besides the whole point — Minho is surface-level perfect. Jisung closes his eyes for a second and tries to collect his thoughts. Minho had introduced himself. Now he needs to do the same.
There’s paperwork for a Jisung from Gimje, so he doesn’t think too much about offering up his name.
“Jisung,” he says in return. “What kind of seafood?”
Minho stares at him for a second. “What kind?”
“Yeah.” Jisung wants to ask about the cats, too, but that’s not — it wouldn’t be helpful. For the mission. “You said you liked seafood. Anything in particular?”
“Fish, obviously,” Minho says slowly. “Any kind of preparation. There’s a restaurant close by that does grilled clams really well. Blue crab, too. Lots of good seafood stew places, if haemultang is your thing.” He shrugs. “These days I prefer making fish stew at home.”
“Ah, right,” Jisung says. “You said you were a good cook.”
“I’m decent.” Minho smiles. “The fresh fish helps. I catch it myself when I can.”
“You fish?”
It’s hard to associate someone like Minho with an act as casual as fishing. It also just so happens to be something that Jisung has been thinking about doing for a bit. Another point in Minho’s favor.
Minho nods. “Yeah.”
A little stunned, Jisung files this new piece of information away in his mind, next to the image of Minho in his suit and tie, drinking a glass of whiskey.
“Huh.” He blinks at Minho. “I’ve always wanted to learn how.”
“It’s not that hard to pick up.” Minho lifts Jisung’s drink to his mouth. “Especially if you have a good teacher.”
Are you offering? Jisung tastes the question, swallows it down. It’s too much, too soon. Instead, he asks, “Really?”
“So I’ve heard.” Minho smiles, drinks. His throat bobs as he swallows. “I’m self-taught.”
“Of course you are,” Jisung mutters. His cheeks feel hot. “Cooking, fishing…is there anything you can’t do?”
“Sure.” Minho hums. “I don’t have the highest tolerance.”
Jisung’s eyes fall to the two glasses of whiskey in front of him — one empty, the other halfway there. Then he looks back at Minho.
“You don’t have to drink all of it,” he says, feeling sorry again.
“It’s good whiskey.” Minho shrugs. “I don’t mind. I’ll just go slow.”
“No, I meant.” Jisung swallows. It’s a bad idea. He says it anyway. “I’ll help you finish it.”
He reaches over and lifts the glass. “Cheers.”
It is good whiskey. Smooth down his throat, warm in his stomach. That, and the way Minho looks at him afterwards.
So maybe it gets easier after that, once the whiskey is finished and the sun starts to set. It’s not his fault, Jisung thinks, that it coincides with the sun going down and the candles coming out. The ambience helps, but the truth is that talking to Minho is just easy. Their tastes overlap in every casual dimension Jisung suggests. Food, music, movies. He doesn’t even have to lie.
Soon enough, it’s completely dark outside. Minho grows even more handsome under the warm glow of the flame, light caressing his face as it dances across it. It’s very distracting, having to look at him.
Jisung tells him that, and Minho laughs out loud. Trying and failing to regain his composure, he asks him, “and what am I distracting you from?”
“From you,” Jisung says, then frowns. It made more sense in his head.
Minho is laughing again. His smile is nice — his eyes crinkle up when he’s laughing for real, mouth open, teeth visible. Jisung can’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed. Not when Minho is laughing like that. He’d say even more ridiculous things to coax it out again.
It’s a bit silly, realizing he has a crush by — what, seeing someone’s teeth? Ah, well. There are worse things to be turned on by. If they were in a different kind of bar, Jisung thinks, somewhere with neon light strips along the wall instead of candles, crammed together on too-close bar stools instead of the ones they were currently in, this would be the moment. Lean in, one hand on the shoulder — is this okay? — then closer still. Locking it in would be a no-brainer. Hot guy, cute laugh, insane chemistry.
The vision is a little harder to shake off than it should be. Jisung doesn’t even do that. Putting out on the first date. Putting out at all. He’s never wanted to either, though. He’s never met Minho before.
Belatedly, he reminds himself: Not a date. It doesn’t do much at this point. Maybe Jisu was right to be worried.
When he realizes that Minho is looking at him, his thoughts pivot back to the present.
See? A distraction — a welcome one — from his own thoughts.
Minho’s eyes glimmer in the candlelight. “What are you thinking about?”
“You,” Jisung says honestly. “I feel like I’m dreaming.”
Incredibly, Minho ducks his head, twin rosy spots appearing on his cheeks. “That makes two of us.”
The urge to put a hand to those cheeks is stronger than ever. Just to make sure Minho is real.
“Do you believe in soulmates?” Jisung blurts out, then instantly regrets it. It’s not meant to be a line, even though it sounds undeniably cheesy. The idea has just been tiptoeing around in his mind, hovering in the background, solidifying with every moment he tucks into the file labeled Lee Minho. There’s so many. They’ve been talking for hours; the file is overflowing. And now he’s said it, this silly childhood dream of his, out in the open.
Minho looks at him from underneath his eyelashes. They’re long, unfairly so, and they frame his already-bright eyes, making them look bigger than they are. As if they need more decoration. As if they aren’t alluring enough without those eyelashes of his, long and fluttering and pretty.
“Not previously, no.”
Ah. Something in his chest quivers. Jisung bites his lip, but even that isn’t enough to stamp down his smile. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair?”
“You’re making fun of me,” Jisung says, a little embarrassed at having to say it out loud. “I was…I was being serious.”
Minho cocks his head. “So was I.”
Jisung’s throat dries up. For a moment, he can’t speak.
“Oh,” he croaks. It’s all he can manage for a second, a dream turned real-life. He looks away, tries to calm his racing heart. The bar has just about emptied out; he hadn’t even noticed.
Minho notices him looking and calls for the check. He’s smiling, clearly pleased with himself, and when Jisung offers to split the tab, he shakes his head.
“Don’t worry about it,” Minho says, with a careless wave of his hand. “It’s on me. I ordered the drinks anyway.”
“At least let me know how much it was,” Jisung protests. He reaches into his pocket, where he still has some cash leftover from the road. “I can —”
When Minho sees the bills, he doesn’t even let Jisung look at the receipt. “Does this even make sense?” He huffs, folding the receipt over and pushing Jisung’s money back. “Let me pay. I want to.”
After another back-and-forth, Jisung acquiesces.
“Can I have the receipt, at least?” He asks, a little petulantly. “If I promise to only look afterwards?”
Minho sighs. “If you’re really curious.” He places it in Jisung’s hand. “Or…”
He looks back up at Jisung, face open and vulnerable. “I’m here every day. You can buy the drinks next time.”
Oh. Oh.
“That was smooth,” Jisung says faintly. “Was that your plan all along?”
Minho shakes his head. “I told you,” he says, soft. Hopeful. “I’ve never done this before.”
Jisung’s stomach twists itself into knots. It’s a good thing that Minho wants to see him again. It means that he’s doing well. Succeeding at his job.
It is a good thing, he tells himself. He gets to see Minho again.
“Next time,” he promises, before he leaves.
Jisu drives them back. Soon, she’ll need to cram years’ worth of knowledge into a matter of days, to try and make his job easier. They’ll need to spin up an identity for Jisung in Incheon — a job, his educational background — and conduct a handoff of sensitive information and contacts in the city. At least the apartment and the car are already in his name.
This is a good thing, he repeats to himself. By the time they get back, he’s almost managed to convince himself.
He unfolds the receipt in the apartment. Just as he’d suspected, the total is eye-watering. When Jisu glances at it, she whistles, impressed.
It’s not the only set of digits on the receipt. Along with Minho’s number, a message.
Same time next week?