Jonghyun started staying out even later from that point on. If he wasn’t consumed with work, he was going out with other teachers for drinks. He never said who, but it didn’t matter; I’d never met any of his colleagues any way. I wasn’t worried about it. In fact, I made myself busy with work also—I wanted to avoid Key as much as possible until I figured out my feelings more, so as a reward, I gave myself the next two weeks off from wedding planning. He had text me the day after the dinner to see “how everything went,” though it took me nearly an hour to come up with the simple reply “Awesome. Thanks,” to which he swiftly returned: “Yah~! What about the main course?” I knew what he was talking about. But he was the last person I wanted to talk about that with.

            I tried to talk to Jong about it, but every time my face got serious, he would have some excuse to leave; something always conveniently came up to distract him. In truth, we really didn’t talk anymore about anything—and my guilty conscience would not allow me to believe anything else but that it was my fault. That he sensed the things I didn’t have the courage to say. That he knew.

            Unfortunately, I couldn’t avoid seeing him, Key that is, that next Friday; we had an appointment with the photographers that could not be rescheduled. Neither of us had cars, so we took separate buses and met there at 2:30—Key, fashionably late as always. He looked exceptionally nice today, and I didn’t know if it was fate messing with my head, or if he just felt like dressing up on a whim, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him when I saw him descend the steps and come towards me with that generous smile.

            “Hey, Messy,” he said, “I thought maybe you’d stand me up today, so I came prepared to handle your business for you.”

            “Stand me up? You’re the one who’s late,” I say.

            “Yeah? Well, you’re the one who’s fallen off the face of the earth. Why are you so hard to get a hold of these days?”

            “I’m busy. Just busy.”

            He scoffed, and I could tell that he didn’t believe this anymore than I did. “Well, Ms. Busy, let’s get going. You’re late already.”

            I smothered a laugh. We were always late because of Key, but he would never stop blaming his own lateness on me.

            The entire time we sat in front of the desk, side by side, I was distracted by his proximity. I remembered the way he felt when he’d stood behind me at the kitchen sink—and I wanted to feel that again. I remembered the way he smelled, the way his arm felt as it brushed against mind, causing my skin to prickle with heightened sensation. But most of all, I can’t help but remember what Jonghyun said later that night—that Key wasn’t gay. And I felt suffocated by all of it. In fact, I was finding it extremely hard to breathe. I felt a little short of breath. Woozy. I had no idea what the man across from me was saying... hadn't for the past twenty minutes.

            “…and that’s the difference between the six packages. So, what do you think?”

            I catch Key looking at me in my peripheral vision, and hear him ask in an expectant whisper, “Ray?”

            “Hm?”

            He smiled nervously. “What do you think?”

            “Ah… it sounds lovely,” I replied in haste.

             “Er—just a minute, please,” Key then told the photographer before turning to me, his voice hushed. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

            I shook my head. “I’m fine…”

            “You look flushed.”

            “I’m fine. Really…”

            “What do you think about E and F?”

            “E and F…?” I honestly had no idea what he was talking about.

            This must have been obvious; Key put his wrist up to my forehead, felt a moment for signs of fever, then dropped his hand to mine, locking our fingers together. “Your hands are sweaty. You want me to take care of everything?”

            “I-I’m okay,” I say again, blushing at his touch, which only made him more convinced that I was sick.

            Key turned to the photographer. “The E-package will be great. I’ll come by later with the deposit but I need to get her home first, if you don’t mind.”

            “Normally I wouldn’t make a reservation without down payment first, but it’s just so refreshing to see,” he replied, marking something in his notes as Key helped me stand to my feet.

            “Oh?” Key asked, only giving him half of his attention. “What is?”

            The man smiled. “Why, a man taking such good care of his bride. It’s sweet to see kids your age act this way. You must really love each other.”

            As we left the studio, I found it ironic that Key felt the situation expeditious enough not to correct him.

* * *

            He took me home regardless of my persistent protests. I was embarrassed, but honestly I really wasn’t feeling well, though it wasn’t a fever or anything of that nature; it was something much different. I felt unable to manage myself around him, unable to think or process or find a moment’s peace apart from an overriding sense of guilt and confusion.

            I was even more embarrassed when he insisted on tucking me in bed. I felt like a real idiot. Didn’t he know I would just get out of bed when he left? What was I even doing? Why was I allowing him to lead me this way? I was secretly relieved to be done with the photographer—I had no idea what we’d talked about anyway, but I trusted Key’s judgment more than my own, so I really didn’t find it worrisome that I remembered nothing.

           He put his hand back up to my forehead, feeling yet again for signs of warmth. Something about his nurturing hand made my heart stop.

           “Breathe,” he said in calm whisper, his hand still affixed to my head.

            I do as he says and take a small breath.

            “You are slightly warm, you know,” he said, but I know it’s only because my skin hasn’t stopped flushing since earlier that day. “I’m going to go get you some medicine, okay?”

            “I don’t need medicine,” I tried to say. I take his hand the way he took mine earlier. I suddenly forgot how messy the room is; only that he is standing in it. My bedroom. And me, in bed. I want so desperately to pull him down onto myself, to feel our bodies close again. “Will—will you stay? Just for a minute longer…”

            He offered me a small smile and sat on the edge of the bed, our hands still joined together. “Sure, Messy. I’ll stay.”

            I suddenly feel no desire at all to get up from the bed, or to put on pretenses that I am not sick. I don’t feel like doing anything but being with him this way. I rolled onto my side, my face near his thigh, and the minute I closed my eyes I felt his other hand sweep back a lock of my hair across my temple; his touch was delicate and slow, but it caused my heart to race wildly, until all at once I pressed the tip of my nose against the seam of his pants, clenching my eyes tightly against the knowledge of what I was doing—I was so desperate to touch him, to be touched by him. I longed to be close to him in any way possible.

            Key squeezed my hand in his and at first I thought it was a means to dismiss the closeness of our bodies, but when he leaned over me and kissed the crown of my head I began to wonder if I was mistaken. “Raina,” he said, his voice somewhat broken and hesitant, “you need to take care of yourself, okay?”

           “Okay,” I answer systematically. I hadn’t the courage to be completely honest. Instead, I pressed into his legs even more, feeling the warmth of his body against mine. I recognized the scent of him from the other day; something about him is intoxicating—be it a purely pheromonal phenomenon or something greater. Either way, I am undeniably drawn to him like bees to honey, like birds to nectar, like water to dry, thirsty roots—like a woman to a man…

            “Key, I—” I started to say, even though I had no idea what to say after it.

            I could tell he really wasn’t listening to me anyhow. He was too concerned on other things, perhaps; his mind seemed preoccupied. Almost worried even. Was it because of my strange behavior? Was he upset with the closeness I was now trying to assume? He seemed a little shaky; perhaps I'd scared him with my forwardness. Now I felt like an even bigger idiot than before.

            Ashamed, I pulled back, resettling my head back on the pillow. “I’m… tired,” I eventually say, simply to get his questioning eyes off of mine. I feel at any moment I’m going to explode a scattershot of unwise sentiments and secrets. If he doesn’t leave now, I may regret something much worse than the things I already do… 

            “Okay. What should I get you at the store?”

            “Don’t get me anything.”

            He frowned. “Well, tell me anyway, and I’ll have Jong get the things on his way home from work.”

            “I don’t need anything. Just… I want to sleep. Please.”

            Key hesitated a moment, our hands still joined. “All right. Let me know if you change your mind? I’ll have my phone on me—”

            “I… I’m fine. Really. I don’t need you to take care of me.” The words came out harsher than I intended them, and I can tell that they hurt him a little by the speed at which he drew back his hand.

            “Okay, I’ll go pay the photographer then. You can at least mark that off your list of things to worry over.”

            I nodded in return, thinking to myself: oh, if only life's problems were so easily fixed by crossing them off of a list…