Rain came suddenly that evening—sharp, silver needles falling from a heavy sky. Tara rushed out of her office with her sketch folder over her head, shoes splashing through puddles. Her phone buzzed with another notification from the gossip blogs. She ignored it, heart sinking lower with each new headline.
> “The unknown girl still silent.”
“Sangwoo’s team refuses to comment.”
She hadn’t asked for any of this. She wasn’t a celebrity. She was just an Indian girl in Seoul, working quietly, trying to build her dream.
She turned into a narrow lane, the rain soaking through her clothes. Then, headlights flashed—too bright, too close. She froze. The car stopped inches away, water spraying around her.
The driver door opened. A man stepped out, black umbrella shielding him.
And for a moment, the world blurred around her.
Sangwoo.
Even drenched and hidden under a hoodie, she knew those eyes—storm-dark, sharp as glass.
“Are you trying to die in the rain?” His voice cut through the downpour.
Tara stepped back. “You—what are you doing here?”
He didn’t answer. He simply reached forward, holding the umbrella over her. His fingers brushed her wrist, cold and steady. “You’ll get sick.”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, pulling her hand away. “You shouldn’t be here. People—people already think—”
“I don’t care what they think,” he interrupted. His jaw flexed, raindrops sliding down his cheek. “You shouldn’t have to hide like this.”
“Because of you!” she snapped, frustration finally spilling out. “My inbox is full of hate messages. My boss almost fired me! You should care!”
For a second, she thought she saw guilt flicker across his face. But then, it was gone—replaced by that same unreadable calm.
“Get in the car,” he said quietly.
“No.”
“Tara.” His tone deepened—stern, controlled. “It’s dangerous here. Cameras follow me. They could follow you. Get in.”
She hesitated. Something about the way he said her name made her chest tighten. Against her better sense, she slipped into the passenger seat.
The car smelled faintly of cedar and rain. The silence stretched, heavy.
After a few minutes, she said softly, “You shouldn’t have sent the flower.”
He looked at her, eyes narrowing slightly. “You knew it was from me?”
“Who else?”
He turned away, smirking faintly, one hand on the wheel. “Then maybe I wanted you to remember me.”
She exhaled sharply. “You don’t even know me.”
“I don’t have to,” he murmured. “I already do.”
Something in the way he said it—low, certain—made her pulse stumble. She turned to look out the window, pretending not to notice the heat rising in her face.
---
When the rain eased, he stopped near her apartment. “You live here?”
“Yes. Don’t come again,” she said quickly, fumbling for the door handle.
He leaned closer, his voice a whisper near her ear. “You shouldn’t tell me that. It only makes me want to.”
She froze. His tone wasn’t cruel—but it wasn’t gentle either. It was dangerous, like a spark too close to flame.
Her heart pounded as she stepped out, clutching her folder like a shield.
---
Inside her small apartment, she stood by the window, watching as the car’s taillights disappeared into the rain.
She told herself she wouldn’t see him again.
She told herself this was just a coincidence.
But somewhere, deep inside, she knew—
this wasn’t the end.
It was only the beginning of something she couldn’t escape.
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Comments
📰📜Pɧ§ÍMÎŚŤ ŘËÂĐÉŘ📖📚
is she this dense or oblivious that she gets into strangers car,she accepts flowers from him where is ur 6th sense girl ...u are easiky harrasssed and manipulated 😭
2026-02-11
0
📰📜Pɧ§ÍMÎŚŤ ŘËÂĐÉŘ📖📚
its more dangerous of how u know her name 🙁
2026-02-11
0