Chapter 6: Red Wine Sins and the Stain Salt Dilemma
Lukas had finally been tucked away in the guest room. The heavy oak door muffled his last, tearful mutterings about "Hans-Werner" and the "light requirements of tropical houseplants," until finally, nothing but a deep, steady snore could be heard. In Min-ho's ultra-modern kitchen, which was normally as sterile as an operating room, a deafening silence suddenly descended. The only sound was the distant ticking of a designer clock and the faint hum of the wine cooler, stoically keeping the next ten-thousand-euro vintage at the ideal temperature.
Clara felt her head swim slightly. The red wine—which she had drunk like water in her nervousness—was now revealing its full, treacherous effect. She just wanted to get away. Away from this man who watched her with dark eyes so intense, it felt as though she were the only riddle he ever wanted to solve.
"I... I should probably go too," she stammered, trying to slip past Min-ho, who leaned against the kitchen island like an immovable barrier. But her feet didn't quite obey her. She tripped over the edge of the thick rug, lost her balance, and instinctively reached for the nearest thing to steady herself: Min-ho's shoulder.
And that's when it happened. The nearly full wine glass in her other hand tilted. Splash.
A deep red, almost black stain spread across Min-ho's snow-white, tailored shirt. It looked like a bleeding wound expanding right over his heart.
"Oh mon Dieu! Merde!" Clara gasped, her eyes flying wide. Immediately, her brain switched into panic mode, mixing languages like a wild cocktail. "Aigoo, what have I done? Damn it all, this can't be happening! C'est une catastrophe!"
The shock chased away the drunkenness for a moment, but the linguistic barriers in her head had already crumbled. Without thinking, she stepped closer, deep into his personal space. Her fingers, nimble but slightly shaky, began frantically unbuttoning the top of his shirt. "I'm so sorry, truly, je suis désolée! This has to come out now... salt... we need salt or mineral water... palli, palli, otherwise the shirt is ruined!"
Min-ho caught his breath. He didn't move an inch. He was frozen, looking down at the crown of her head. He heard her multilingual stammering, which sounded like an exotic melody to him, saw the fine hairs at the nape of her neck, and felt the incredible warmth of her fingertips on the bare skin of his chest. Every point of contact felt like a small electric shock.
He grabbed her wrists to stop her nervous movements. His hands were large and cool, but his grip was firm. His voice was suddenly deep, husky, and dangerously quiet.
"Stop it, Ji-soo," he said, and her name sounded like a prayer in his mouth. "I don't care about the shirt. It doesn't matter."
Clara froze and slowly looked up at him. Her eyes were glassy, her pupils dilated by the dimmed kitchen lights. "It's not irrelevant..." she whispered almost inaudibly, back in German. "I always break everything. First the elevator back then... and now your expensive shirt... I'm a catastrophe."
Min-ho pulled her a step closer until not even a sheet of paper could fit between their bodies. He could feel the heat radiating from her. He felt her heart beating—it was racing in a wild rhythm, just like his had three years ago in the total darkness of the stuck elevator. He released one hand from her wrist and placed it gently at the back of her neck.
"You're not a catastrophe," he murmured, leaning in slowly. "You're the only thing in this room making sense right now."
His lips were only millimeters from hers. Clara was already closing her eyes, her breath mingling with his. It was the setup for the "déjà-vu" of the century...
"SO! THE MODEL IS SLEEPING LIKE A BABY!" Mr. Kim's voice suddenly boomed through the kitchen. "He didn't want to let go at first, he really thought I was this Hans-Werner guy, he nearly strangled me, but— OH!"
Mr. Kim froze in the doorway. His gaze traveled in slow motion from Clara's hands on Min-ho's half-open shirt to the two faces that were nearly touching.
"Hoppla... am I interrupting?," Kim asked with a mix of absolute horror and burning curiosity. "Should I leave you two alone? Or should I... uh... get some stain salt? I think we have one of those miracle spray cans in the cleaning cupboard!"
Clara jumped back immediately, as if she had received a ten-thousand-volt electric shock. She frantically fixed her hair and stared at her shoes with burning cheeks.
Min-ho, however, remained in the same position for a moment. He closed his eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and then slowly turned toward Mr. Kim. His gaze was so full of murderous intent that the room temperature seemed to drop instantly.
"Kim..." Min-ho squeezed out through clenched teeth. "Your timing is truly... world-class. Really. If we ever make a movie about missed opportunities, you're getting the lead role."
"I'll just... go look for the salt then... very quietly..." Kim muttered, backing away into the hallway.
Min-ho turned back to Clara, but the magic had vanished. Clara cleared her throat nervously. "I... I should go check on Lukas too. So that 'Clara'—I mean, so that I'm there tomorrow morning when he wakes up."
Min-ho nodded slowly. In his head, he reordered the puzzle pieces. Clara. Lukas called her that constantly. To Min-ho, it now made sense: Clara was her European name, her "Schätzchen" name, while Ji-soo was her name for business in Korea. He swore to himself in that moment that he would be the one to whisper both names so often she would forget there ever was a Lukas.