Saturday morning I woke up at 6 AM anyway, my body trained to the running club schedule even though we didn't run on weekends. I lay in bed for a moment, staring at my ceiling, and the first thought in my head was: He held my hand.
Which was ridiculous. I was twenty-three years old, not thirteen. Hand-holding shouldn't have felt like such a monumental event.
But it had.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, half expecting a good morning text even though it was barely past dawn. Nothing yet. Which was fine. Normal. People slept in on Saturdays.
I should sleep in on Saturdays.
Instead, I got up, padded to the kitchen, and found Yoo-Na already awake with her laptop and coffee.
"You're up early," she observed.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Thinking about him?"
"Thinking about LEET prep," I lied.
"Uh-huh." She didn't look up from her screen, but I could see her smile. "There's fresh coffee."
I poured myself a cup and settled at the table with my LEET prep book—the same one I'd been working through for weeks, with my notes in the margins and highlighted sections on every page.
I opened to where I'd left off. Reading comprehension section, analyzing complex legal arguments. I read the first paragraph three times and retained exactly nothing.
My phone buzzed.
Bok-Jin: Good morning. Did you survive the roommate interrogation last night?
I tried not to smile and failed completely.
Me: Barely. They wanted every detail.
Bok-Jin: Did you tell them every detail?
Me: I told them the appropriate amount of details.
Bok-Jin: Which is?
Me: Enough to satisfy their curiosity, not enough to encourage more questions.
Bok-Jin: That sounds like a very lawyerly answer.
Me: I'm a lawyerly person.
Bok-Jin: Fair enough. What are you doing today?
I looked at my LEET book, then at Yoo-Na, who was definitely pretending not to listen.
Me: Studying. I have LEET prep to work through and I'm behind schedule.
Bok-Jin: Want company? I could study nearby. Different subjects, obviously, but parallel productivity.
My heart did that stupid flipping thing.
Me: You want to spend your Saturday studying?
Bok-Jin: I want to spend my Saturday near you. The studying is just an excuse.
Oh.
OH.
Me: Law library? 2pm?
Bok-Jin: I'll be there.
I set my phone down and found Yoo-Na watching me with undisguised amusement.
"What?" I demanded.
"Nothing. Just observing the Ji-Mang romance continuing to develop in real time."
"We're studying. That's not romantic."
"You're smiling like he just offered you the world."
"I'm smiling like someone who has a study partner. It's practical. Efficient."
"Sure it is."
Min-Ji emerged from her room, hair a disaster, wearing pajamas with cartoon cats. "Why are people awake at 6 AM on a Saturday? This is violence."
"Ji-Mang has a study date," Yoo-Na announced.
"It's not a date. It's studying."
"Studying can be a date," Min-Ji said, heading for the coffee. "Especially when it's with Hot Librarian Chaebol Guy."
"His name is Bok-Jin."
"I know. But 'Hot Librarian Chaebol Guy' is more fun to say."
I gave up and went back to my LEET book, determined to actually make progress before 2 PM.
I managed to get through exactly one practice section before my mind wandered back to last night. The dinner. The conversation. The walk home. His hand in mine. That moment outside my building where I'd thought—where we'd both thought—
"You're doing it again," Yoo-Na said.
"Doing what?"
"Staring at the same page for ten minutes without turning it."
I looked down. She was right. I'd been stuck on page 47 for way too long.
"I'm processing," I defended.
"You're daydreaming."
"Those are the same thing."
"They're really not."
Min-Ji flopped onto the couch with her coffee. "Just accept it, Ji-Mang. You're distracted because you're falling for him. It's normal. It's allowed."
"I don't have time to be distracted. LEET is in seven months. I need perfect preparation."
"You need balance," Yoo-Na corrected. "Perfect preparation at the cost of your mental health and happiness isn't actually perfect."
"When did you become a therapist?"
"When you became obviously stressed about being happy."
I wanted to argue, but she wasn't wrong. I was stressed about being happy. Because happiness felt dangerous. It felt like something that could be taken away, something that would distract me from my goals, something I couldn't afford.
But also... I wanted it. Wanted him. Wanted whatever this thing was that we were building.
"I'm going to study," I announced, gathering my books. "In my room. Alone. Where I can focus."
"Good luck with that," Min-Ji called after me.
I did not focus.
I tried. I genuinely tried. I worked through practice problems, read case summaries, made notes on legal reasoning strategies. But every twenty minutes or so, my phone would buzz and I'd immediately abandon whatever I was doing.
Bok-Jin: Question. If you could have dinner with any historical figure, who would it be?
Me: That's random. Why?
Bok-Jin: I'm procrastinating on an essay. Humor me.
Me: Probably Shin Saimdang. First woman to appear on Korean currency, talented artist and writer, managed to be successful in the Joseon era despite all the restrictions on women.
Bok-Jin: That's a good choice. Very on brand.
Me: What about you?
Bok-Jin: Lee Byung-chul. Founder of Samsung. I'd ask him if he ever regretted building an empire that would eventually control his descendants' lives.
Me: That got dark.
Bok-Jin: I'm in a philosophical mood. Also I really don't want to write this essay.
Me: What's it about?
Bok-Jin: Business ethics and corporate social responsibility. The irony of me writing about ethical business practices given my family situation is not lost on me.
Me: You're not your family.
Bok-Jin: Sometimes I'm not sure where they end and I begin.
Me: Then we'll figure it out together.
I sent it before I could overthink it, and there was a long pause before he responded.
Bok-Jin: Thank you. For saying that. For... being you.
Me: I'm literally just texting you about historical figures and procrastination.
Bok-Jin: Exactly.
I stared at that message for longer than I should have, trying to decode what it meant. Then I forced myself to put my phone face-down and actually work.
I managed a solid forty-five minutes of focused study before my stomach reminded me that I'd skipped breakfast. I emerged from my room to find the apartment empty—Yoo-Na must have gone to campus, Min-Ji probably had clinic obligations.
I made ramyeon because I was predictable, ate it standing at the counter, and checked my phone.
Text from my mom, sent an hour ago: Ji-Mang-ah, your brother needs money for a school trip. Can you send 80,000 won?
My stomach sank. I checked my bank account. I had 340,000 won. Rent was due in two weeks—150,000. I needed at least 50,000 for food and transportation. That left 140,000, and I still needed to save for LEET prep materials.
But my brother needed the school trip money. And Mom wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.
Me: I'll send it tomorrow when I get paid from my library shift.
Mom: Thank you, sweetheart. You're such a good daughter.
The guilt was immediate and familiar. Good daughter. Responsible eldest child. The one who sent money home while working two jobs and trying to build a future.
I loved my family. I did. But sometimes the weight of being the one who made it out, the one who was supposed to succeed for all of them, felt crushing.
I finished my ramyeon, washed the bowl, and went back to studying with renewed determination. This was why I couldn't afford to be distracted. This was why LEET mattered, why law school mattered, why every decision I made had to be strategic.
I had people depending on me.
By 1:30 PM, I'd made decent progress through my practice problems and felt slightly less guilty about taking a break to meet Bok-Jin. I changed into jeans and a sweater—nothing special, just my normal clothes—and headed to campus.
The law library on Saturday afternoon was quieter than during the week. A few dedicated students scattered throughout, the familiar smell of old books and coffee, the soft hum of the heating system.
I found a table in my usual alcove on the third floor and spread out my materials. LEET prep book, notebook, laptop, the printouts from Professor Kwon's LEET study group contact that I still hadn't called because I was intimidated.
I was deep in a reading comprehension passage when I felt someone slide into the chair across from me.
Bok-Jin, carrying his own laptop and a bag of books, wearing a navy hoodie and his glasses, hair slightly messy like he'd been running his hands through it.
"Hi," he said softly.
"Hi." I smiled despite my intention to play it cool. "You actually came."
"I said I would." He started unpacking his things. "Is this okay? Am I distracting you?"
"No. This is good. Nice, even."
"Nice," he repeated, amused. "High praise."
"I'm not good at compliments. You'll have to settle for 'nice.'"
"I'll take it."
We settled into working—him on his laptop, me on my LEET prep. It was surprisingly comfortable, having him there. The quiet company, the occasional glance up to find him focused on his screen, the sense that we were both working toward our respective futures but doing it together.
After about an hour, he looked up. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"What's your backup plan? If law school doesn't work out."
The question hit harder than it should have. "There is no backup plan. Law school has to work out."
"But if it doesn't—"
"It will."
"Ji-Mang—"
"I can't afford a backup plan, Bok-Jin. I have family depending on me, tuition to pay off, a future to build. Law school isn't just a dream or a goal. It's survival." I heard the edge in my voice and tried to soften it. "Sorry. I know that sounds dramatic."
"It doesn't sound dramatic. It sounds honest." He closed his laptop. "Can I tell you something?"
"Of course."
"I'm jealous of you."
I almost laughed. "You're jealous of me? The broke student working two jobs who eats ramyeon for every meal?"
"Yes. Because you know what you want. You have a clear goal and you're fighting for it with everything you have. I don't have that. I have expectations and obligations and a path that was chosen for me before I was born."
"You could choose something else."
"Could I, though? Without losing everything—my family, my inheritance, my entire support system? I don't know." He leaned back in his chair. "Sometimes I think about what it would be like to just... walk away. Start over somewhere else, build something that's actually mine. But then I remember that I've never had to worry about money or housing or any of the things you deal with every day. And I don't know if I could survive that."
"You could," I said quietly. "You're stronger than you think."
"Maybe. But I'm also scared. And I don't know what that says about me."
We sat in silence for a moment, and I realized this was what made our connection feel so real. Not just the attraction or the hand-holding or the almost-kiss. But this—the honesty. The vulnerability. The fact that we could admit our fears to each other.
"Can I tell you something?" I asked.
"Always."
"I got a text from my mom this morning. My brother needs money for a school trip. And I immediately said yes, even though it means I'll be short on rent money and won't be able to save as much for LEET prep this month." I picked at the corner of my notebook. "And the worst part is, I resent it. Not him, not my family. Just the situation. The fact that I have to choose between their needs and mine. That I can't just... be a normal college student worrying about grades and relationships and stupid stuff."
"That doesn't make you a bad person."
"Doesn't it? I'm literally resenting my little brother needing money for a school trip."
"You're resenting a situation where you have to be responsible for everyone at age twenty-three. That's different."
I wanted to believe him. "I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I'm going to disappoint everyone. My family, my professors, myself. You."
"You could never disappoint me."
"You don't know that."
"I do, actually." He reached across the table and took my hand. Right there in the library, in full view of anyone who might walk by. "You're doing your best in an impossible situation. That's all anyone can ask."
I looked at our joined hands, at his fingers laced through mine, and felt that dangerous warmth spreading through my chest again.
"This is probably a bad idea," I said. "Us. Whatever this is."
"Probably."
"Your family is planning your future. My family needs my money. We're from completely different worlds."
"All true."
"And yet I can't seem to stop wanting this."
"Me neither."
We sat there, holding hands across the study table like teenagers, and I realized I'd made my decision. Maybe not consciously, maybe not logically, but I'd made it.
I was choosing this. Choosing him. Choosing the happiness and the risk and whatever complications came with it.
Even if it was stupid.
Even if it hurt later.
Even if it was the most impractical, illogical, dangerous decision I'd made in my very practical, logical, carefully planned life.
"Okay," I said.
"Okay?"
"Okay, let's do this. Whatever this is. Let's figure it out together."
His smile was brilliant, relieved, genuine. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. But I need to pass LEET and get into law school and not completely destroy my future in the process."
"Deal. And I need to figure out how to be my own person while managing my family's expectations without burning every bridge I have."
"Also a reasonable goal."
"We're very practical people."
"The most practical. Extremely pragmatic."
"Is that why we're holding hands in the library instead of studying?"
"This is strategic relationship maintenance. You said so yourself."
He laughed, and I loved the sound of it—free and unguarded and real.
We eventually went back to studying, still holding hands across the table, and it was ridiculous and impractical and made focusing significantly harder.
But also?
It was exactly what I needed.