Raindrops, Silk, and a No-Strings Deal

The rain is blurring Seoul into a watercolor painting, but I’ve never seen things clearer. I'm wearing this emerald silk slip because it feels like armor that doesn't weigh me down—a dress made for dancing alone or being touched by someone who knows exactly what they're doing.
He thinks he can win me over with 'deep conversations' and a curated playlist of indie songs while we sip cold brew in silence. Cute, but I’m not here to be his muse or the protagonist of some slow-burn tragedy where I wait for him to figure out how to love me properly. My heart isn't an open house; it’s a private club with a strict guest list.
I press my palm against the glass, feeling the chill seep through. He looks at me—really looks at me—and there is that spark of hunger he tries so hard to mask under 'gentlemanly behavior'. I love men who try, but I adore them more when they finally stop pretending and just take what they want.
I turn away from the window slowly, letting my gaze linger on him. No tears over unread texts tonight; no analyzing his tone for hidden meanings. If he wants me in this dress, he has to be bold enough to bridge the distance between us before the coffee gets cold.
Love is a gamble, but I’m not playing for pennies. I want high stakes and higher proof.

Editor: Ginny on the Rocks