Page 66 of From Paris to Seoul

Then, suddenly one day, the calls stopped. I knew exactly what that meant—my mom had entered one of her silent treatment phases.

I kept in touch with Ji-a and my sister regularly, though. Yae-rin told me that Mom was still freaking out, desperate to find out where I am and who I’m living with. But Yae-rin refused to give her any information, worried that Mom might do something drastic—like hire a private investigator to track my whereabouts.

As the days passed, I started to feel more and more certain.

Even without the unlimited credit card funded by my parents, no personal chef at home, or the other comforts I took for granted in Seoul, I still feel like I made the right decision. Now, I’m living off my savings (thankfully, I have enough to live a simple life for at least a few years), and it feels liberating.

This is my first taste of freedom. For the first time, I can be myself without pretending. No more trying to meet anyone’s expectations—just living for me.

I’m learning to live my own life, slowly but surely. And with that newfound freedom, I start exploring more of the city.

During one of my daily walks, I stumbled upon a small piano school just a few blocks from our apartment. From the faded sign to the weathered building, it looked like it had been there for years.

I found myself peering through the window, taking in the neat rows of pianos inside. After a moment of hesitation, I decided to step through the door.

“Irashaimase!” A woman greeted me warmly in Japanese.

In a mix of broken Japanese and English, I asked about lessons. She nodded enthusiastically, her smile encouraging, and before I could overthink it, I signed up. If I wanted to teach piano one day, I needed to experience being a student again first.

Between my lessons and hours spent practicing, music already filled most of my days. And whenever Baekhyun had breaks between shoots, we made music together—something we both love, something that felt like ours.

But living together also meant discovering new things about each other—the good and the bad.

Like how he had a habit of dodging difficult conversations, changing the subject the moment things got too serious. Or how I struggled with even the simplest everyday tasks, from cooking to doing laundry.

That evening, the rain pattered heavily against our window. I sighed, feeling unexpectedly content just being at home with him, doing laundry—this time, confident I was doing it right.

We were in our home,I realized. It still sounded strange, but this time, things were different. What happened here wouldn’t just stay here anymore.

“I’m telling you, the whites and colors need to be separated,” Baekhyun groaned after the washing machine stopped, pulling out a now light-pink shirt that was supposed to be white.

I winced. “Okay… my bad. I really thought washing everything in cold water would be fine.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not how it works.”

I sighed, holding up the ruined shirt. “Fine, lesson learned. But while we’re on the topic of things that don’t work… maybe you could actually sit down and talk about things instead of avoiding them?”

His jaw tensed slightly, but then he sighed, stepping closer. “I’ll work on it.”

I looked up at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nodded, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Yeah. But first, I think we need to get you a laundry lesson before you destroy the rest of my wardrobe.”

He landed several playful kisses as his “punishment,” and I giggled, turning back to try and dodge them.

Soon, playful kisses deepened into something more. Baekhyun’s lips trailed along my bare shoulder, and at some point, my shirt had already slipped to the floor. His hands, warm and familiar, traced over my skin, as if memorizing every inch of me.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against my skin from behind, his voice low and reverent. I wanted to turn around and see him, to embrace him, but he gave me no chance to do so.

Pinned against the washing machine in our living room, I surrendered to his caresses along my back and his touch at my core. Instinctively, I rested my upper body on the machine for support, giving him unobstructed access to the rest of me. With deliberate skill, he slipped two fingers inside me from behind, sending a delicious surge of sensation through my body.

“Baekhyun…” I murmured, my voice a mix of moan and plea, begging him to let me turn and reciprocate. I longed to reach out and touch him, but Baekhyun just let out a soft tsk-tsk behind me.

“Not yet,” he said, still pinning me facing the washing machine. “Stay put, or I’ll bring out the ‘buzzing friend’ I used in Paris—the one you liked so much.”

My cheeks burned. I really do want to use that ‘friend’ again.

His touch grew hotter as he repeatedly hit that perfect spot with his fingers. And as if that wasn’t enough, I felt something wet against my core—his tongue, kissing me from behind… down there.

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