“This really beats the last dessert I had,” I mumble to Jason through a mouthful of chocolate and strawberries. “My mom brought home pastries and I grabbed one, thinking it was fruit or something—but really it was sausage! With corn! And some kind of weird sugary sauce.”

“Sausage bread masquerading as a normal pastry,” Jason says, dropping his spoon. He shakes his head in disappointment. “The worst.”

“Why do Koreans have to put hot dogs in everything?” I say, scooping up another spoonful of creamy panna cotta.

“And cheese,” Jason adds. “They love adding cheese to everything. Cheese ramyun.”

“Cheese kimbap.”

“Cheese dak-galbi.”

“Cheese sausage.”

He laughs. “Can you add extra cheese sausage to your cheese sausage?”

“Of course! This is Korea. You can get a cheese-cheese sausage-sausage.”

We both burst out laughing, and for a second I let everything else melt away. There’s no DB or Mina, no scheming or final chances. It’s like Jason and I are just normal friends with normal lives, drinking coffee and eating fancy desserts. But then the second’s up and my laughter dies. I’m not sure how far DB’s no-dating rule extends, but I’m willing to bet it would frown upon a trainee giggling and eating pastries with a DB superstar. I look away, self-conscious, reaching up to wipe the sweet sauce from my mouth with my napkin.

Before I realize what he’s doing, he reaches out and grabs my wrist. I freeze, my eyes flicking to his. He’s looking at my lips. Oh my god. Is he going to…? But he can’t!

“What’s that on your napkin?”

Huh? He tugs the napkin out of my hand and flattens it against the table. Oh So he definitely wasn’t going to… My cheeks flush.

“That’s nothing,” I say, trying to grab the napkin away. He pulls it out of my reach, and I sigh, giving in. “They’re just doodles. I like to sketch outfits and stuff when I’m bored.”

“Outfits?”

“Yeah, outfits. I grew up in, like, the fashion capital of the world. I was always looking at people’s clothes.”

He says nothing, his eyes skimming over the napkin. I suddenly feel vulnerable, like he’s going through my closet.

“Did you really draw these?” he says. His voice is surprised but not unkind. “They’re good. Really good.”

When he looks at me, his face is open. Genuine. Maybe even a little impressed. I feel like he’s about to ask me to sketch him or something. Which, no. I swipe the napkin from him and ball it up, swiftly dunking it into his coffee.

His mouth drops open. “You did not just do that.”

“It’s nothing. Just some silly outfits. And that coffee is way too sweet. I’m saving you from getting diabetes.”

He pulls out the sodden napkin with two pinched fingers and groans. “How sad. Perfectly good coffee, ruined by your doodling.” He pauses. “That’s not a bad line, actually.”

I offer him a fresh napkin. “Maybe you should write it down,” I joke. “You know, if DB ever decides to let any of you write your own lyrics.”

I expect him to crack another joke, but his face is serious. He laughs gruffly, dropping the wet napkin on the table. “You don’t know the half of it.”

A dark look crosses his face, one I’ve never seen on him before. All traces of his charming, firecracker energy fade for a moment and his shoulders slump forward, subdued.

“Jason? Are you okay?”

He opens his mouth like he’s about to answer, but before he can, the high-pitched squeal of a microphone interrupts him.

A group of four boys have taken the stage next to the piano. One of them is tapping a mic and grinning directly at us. I recognize him. In fact, I recognize all of them. It’s Jason’s band, NEXT BOYZ, and the guy holding the mic is Minjun. International superstar and the guy who ate fried chicken out of my purse.

“Calling Jason Lee and his lady friend to the stage,” Minjun says, his voice breezy and mischievous as it reverberates around the room. “Café rules. If you want free drinks, you have to sing onstage.”

Everybody cheers. It’s only then that I realize the piano music has stopped and the whole room is buzzing. People are whispering behind cupped hands and shooting curious, starstruck glances in our direction (curious for me, starstruck for Jason, I’m sure), just like I’d been doing earlier with Dohee and Chanwoo. I spot Yujin sitting back in her corner booth with her mom and Akari. She catches my eye and winks.

Jason slips an arm around my chair and grins lazily at me, all traces of his shadowy expression gone. “Eh, ignore them, Rachel. Minjun just wants to get me back for leaving the noraebang early after the party the other night. I’ll pay for our drinks.”

I glance back at Yujin, who’s gesturing discreetly to her phone and tilting her chin toward the stage. I turn to Jason, understanding dawning on me. This is why Yujin brought me here. Not just to make a viral video. To make a viral video with Jason. It’s now or never.

Mustering all the courage I can, I grab Jason’s hand. The room erupts into even more frantic whispers, and his eyes widen in surprise as I stand, flashing him a smile. “Come on. Everyone’s already talking. We may as well give them something to talk about.”

For one gut-punching second, I think he might not follow me. Then he smiles back and stands. “You know what they say, Werewolf Girl.” His hand grips mine, and my heart sputters into a series of somersaults as I pull him toward the stage.

The whole café is cheering and whistling. Then Minjun hands me a microphone with a bemused expression as the other NEXT BOYZ members are stamping their feet and catcalling in front of the stage.

“We’re all rooting for you,” he says with a wink.

Jason grabs a mic from another stand. He glances at me from across the stage. “You ready for this?”

I look for Yujin’s face in the crowd. She gives me a thumbs-up and turns her phone toward the stage.

I gulp. Cameras on. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Three twenty-five,” he says, turning his face away from the mic so only I can hear him.

I frown in confusion, and he nods down at his shoes.

“That’s how much these cost me. Three hundred twenty-five dollars. I let you go last time, but I’ll expect full payment if you ruin these, too.”

I can’t help but laugh right into the mic, my shoulders starting to relax.

The audience quiets down as the pianist begins to play the opening chords of a familiar ballad. Everyone in the café lets out a collective sigh. It’s a Chung Yuna classic. A love duet from the eighties that makes me tear up instantly. A sudden memory rushes into my mind of Umma and Appa slow dancing to this song in the tiny blue kitchen of our New York apartment. I remember sitting under the table watching them, and knowing, even as a kid, that that was what it looked like to live from a full heart. Between Appa’s late nights at the boxing gym and his clandestine law classes and Umma working through the weekend to get back on tenure track, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen them dancing like that.

Jason starts to sing the first verse. His voice is a lot like his arms. Strong but gentle, a melody that feels like it’s wrapping you up in a warm embrace.