Cheryl
Love? Psshh. Why did he call her that?
I sighed, sitting up in bed. The light from my bedside lamp flickered on, and I reached for my sketchpad and pencil. My fingers began tracing lines, this time sketching something different but still unmistakably him. The memory replayed in my head—Mr. Han lightly tapping my chin after reminding the interns not to cause trouble. My cheeks warmed at the thought.
He’s the only man who’s ever shown me genuine kindness. It’s okay to feel… different around him, I repeated, echoing my therapist’s words.
Still, I instinctively shoved the sketchpad under my duvet when a knock sounded at the door.
“Coming,” I called, getting out of bed.
When I opened the door, there he was.
“Mr. Han,” I said softly, stepping aside to let him in.
“Hey,” he said,
