The Towel
It was Wednesday night at eleven. I was in the final stretch of a deadline. The character illustration for a magazine interview was due tomorrow, so I’d been glued to the monitor for hours. The chef’s hands needed perfecting—the precise angle of the fingers gripping the knife, the way steam curled upward from the background. I was chasing those last elusive details.
The weather had turned strange. It was April, yet the temperature had plummeted. Rain fell beyond the window, thin and hushed. Streams of water slid down the glass, smearing the studio lights into soft, glowing streaks.
Save. Merge layers. I emailed the final file to the client. Done.
I leaned back in my chair and stretched, feeling the stiffness in my neck and the deep ache in my shoulders. I’d already pushed through Haeun’s PT session earlier; adding an all-nighter on top of that had my body filing a formal complaint.
A shower was necessary. I stepped into the bathroom and turned the tap. Hot water cascaded over my neck and shoulders, melting the knots in my muscles. I closed my eyes and let the steady rush of sound fill my head.
Ten minutes later I emerged, toweling my hair as I walked into the living room. The doorbell rang. Eleven-thirty at night. At this hour?
It rang again, short and urgent. I moved to the door and checked the intercom screen. It was Yoon Seojin.
But not the Yoon Seojin I knew. A white bath towel was all she wore. Her shoulders glistened with moisture. Damp strands of hair clung to her face. She was barefoot, not even wearing slippers.
I opened the door.
“Seojin?”
“Siwoo, I’m sorry,” she said, voice tight with urgency. She was breathing hard; she must have run the short distance from her place.
“Yuri’s running a fever and I don’t have any medicine. I was hoping you might—”
“Come in.”
I ushered her inside. The door closed behind us. Under the living room lights I finally saw her clearly. One bath towel, covering her from just above the breasts to mid-thigh. She had obviously stepped straight out of the shower. Her skin shimmered with water. Droplets clung to her shoulders and pooled in the delicate hollow of her collarbone. Water slid from her hair, tracing slow paths down her skin.
The towel’s upper edge was folded right above her chest. Soft curves peeked from within. The gentle swell of her breasts rose slightly above the fabric, skin luminous with moisture.
“Where’s the fever reducer… Ah, just a moment.”
I turned to the bathroom cabinet, pulled out the medicine box, and found the children’s syrup. Thank goodness. I’d bought it when my nephew visited and came down with a fever.
“It’s children’s syrup. The dosage for five-year-olds should work, right?”
“Yes, that’s perfect. Thank you.”
Seojin stepped closer, reaching out to take the bottle. That was when the towel slipped.
More precisely, she had been clutching the top of the towel against her chest with one hand. When she extended that same hand for the medicine, the grip vanished. The folded edge came undone. The towel slid downward in slow motion.
Time stretched, unreal. It could not have taken more than two seconds for the fabric to glide past her chest, her stomach, and pool at her feet. Yet I remember every frame.
Below the collarbone, moisture-kissed skin glowed beneath the soft lighting. Then her breasts were revealed. Yoon Seojin’s breasts were soft, natural curves—neither too full nor too modest, sloping gently. Her nipples stood erect, whether from the lingering water or the cool air, a delicate shade of pink. Beneath them lay the soft plane of her belly, faint traces of childbirth visible yet somehow only adding to her beauty. The elegant line of her waist flowed into her hips. And then the towel reached the floor.
“Ah—!”
Seojin hastily covered herself with her arms, shrinking inward. Her face burned scarlet. In turning away she revealed the graceful lines of her back, waist, and hips instead. Damp hair clung to half her back.
“S-sorry—”
“No, I—just a second—”
I turned as well, staring at the wall. My heart hammered. Fuck. Calm down, Han Siu.
“I’ll get you a towel.”
I fetched a large one from the bathroom and held it out without looking, arm extended behind me. Her hand took it. Fabric rustled as she wrapped it around herself.
“…I’m decent.”
I turned back. Seojin stood clutching the fresh towel with both hands. Her face was still flushed to the tips of her ears. Her eyes glistened—not with coming tears, but with the bright sting of embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry, Siwoo. I rushed out without thinking…”
“It’s all right.”
This time I set the syrup on the table so our hands wouldn’t touch. Seojin picked it up. She should leave—Yuri was waiting. But she didn’t move. She simply stood in the living room, gripping the towel, barefoot, the scattered droplets on the floor catching the light.
“Seojin?”
“…”
“You should get back to Yuri—”
“Siwoo.”
She looked at me, and her eyes had changed. Beneath the shame lay another emotion I couldn’t name. My heart understood it before my mind could.
“Earlier… you saw, didn’t you?”
“…I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
Her voice had lowered, stripped of its usual bright warmth.
“It’s been a long time.”
“Pardon?”
“Being looked at like that… by someone.”
Seojin lowered her head slightly. Wet hair veiled half her face. Her collarbone showed above the towel, and a single droplet slid from its hollow before disappearing inside the fabric.
“It’s been so long. No one has looked at me that way.”
“Seojin—”
“Your eyes are different. At the café, and just now.”
I couldn’t deny it. I had looked. At the curve of her waist in that apron. At her hands preparing espresso. And when the towel had fallen moments ago.
An apology rose to my lips, but I knew she didn’t want one.
Seojin took another step closer. The scent of shampoo drifted from her—floral, like lavender. The warm, clean scent of skin fresh from the shower on a rainy night.
“Siwoo.”
She took my hand. Both of hers enveloped my left one. Damp fingers stroked the back of it, then slowly guided my palm to her cheek. Warmth met my skin—still heated from the shower, soft and slightly moist. The gentle curve of her face transferred its heat entirely into me.
She closed her eyes.
“…It’s been a long time.”
A whisper. I felt the faint movement of her lips against my palm.
“This kind of thing. The warmth of someone’s hand.”
She had been alone. Raising Yuri, running the café, smiling brightly for everyone. Alone. Even the simple warmth of another person’s hand had become a distant memory.
I didn’t pull away.
When she opened her eyes, her brown irises shone close to mine. The living-room light reflected in them, and inside that reflection I saw my own small face.
“Is this all right?” I asked. I wasn’t even sure what I was asking about.
She nodded and, still holding my hand, stepped closer. Less than ten centimeters separated us now. Her breath brushed the skin beneath my chin.
“Siwoo.”
“Yes.”
“Stay still.”
She rose onto her tiptoes. Her face lifted. Our lips drew near… and met.
They were soft. Neither dry nor wet, simply the natural texture of someone fresh from the shower. The kiss held no force. No pressure, no hunger. Just contact.
Yet that lightest touch traveled through me from crown to soles.
One second. Two. Three.
She drew back. Our eyes met again. Moisture had gathered in hers—not tears exactly, but something long submerged rising to the surface.
“…It’s been a long time, so I’m clumsy.”
She smiled, small and trembling.
I saw that smile, and something inside me gave way.
My hand moved. Not the left one still cupping her cheek, but the right. It settled at her waist over the towel, palm following the curve.
She drew in a sharp little breath.
“Siwoo—”
I leaned in. This time it was me. The kiss deepened. My lips covered hers; she parted them slightly. Our breaths mingled—lavender and mint toothpaste. Her hand clutched the front of my shirt, not pushing me away but holding on. Fabric bunched between her fingers, knuckles tight.
The kiss grew deeper still. Her tongue brushed my lower lip, soft and curious. I answered. Our tongues touched. She made a small sound, closer to a trembling exhale than a moan.
My right hand slid around her waist. Through the thin towel I felt the heat of her body, fresh from the shower. When my hand moved to her back she pressed closer. The soft weight of her breasts met my chest through one layer of fabric, transmitting their shape and warmth.
“Siwoo…” she whispered between kisses. Her voice shook—whether from emotion or something deeper, I couldn’t tell.
We stopped. I rested my forehead against hers, steadying my breath.
“Seojin.”
“Yes.”
“Yuri… is waiting.”
Reality returned like cold water. Yuri. The fever. The medicine.
Her eyes widened.
“Oh god, I’m sorry, Siwoo—Yuri’s—”
“Go quickly.”
She hurried to the entrance. Still barefoot. I pulled a pair of my slippers from the shoe cabinet.
“Wear these.”
She paused. Looked at the slippers. Looked at me. Then gave a small smile.
“…Thank you.”
She slipped them on, opened the door, and ran to the apartment next door. I heard the door to 202 open and close.
I stood at the entrance, staring at the closed door. The feeling of her lips lingered on mine. Lavender lingered in the living room. The warmth of her cheek lingered in my palm.
I closed the door and sank onto the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
What have you done, Han Siu? She was the neighbor. The woman next door. A mother.
Seojin’s words kept repeating. It’s been a long time. The warmth of someone’s hand.
Three years. I hadn’t touched anyone for three years either. Not a cheek, not a waist, not a pair of lips. Three full years.
She had called herself clumsy because it had been so long. But it wasn’t clumsiness. It was caution. The fear of breaking again. The fear of being abandoned again.
I was the same. Fuck. Exactly the same.
I picked up my phone. Should I message her? What could I possibly say? Are you okay? How’s Yuri? What was that earlier? Everything sounded wrong.
I stared at the screen for a long time before replying.
I set the phone down and lay back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Rain tapped gently against the window—thin, quiet April rain. The sensation of her lips refused to fade. I hoped it never would.
When that thought rose, I knew. The wall had begun to crumble.
Three years ago I had sworn never to reach out again. Never to take anyone’s hand, never to let anyone take mine. Not after the woman who had cheated with my friend. Not after Lee Sua.
Yet tonight I had placed my palm against the cheek of the woman next door. She had risen onto her tiptoes and pressed her lips to mine. And I had pulled her back in, deepening the kiss.
I still didn’t know what it meant. Beginning? End? Both?
I stared at the ceiling. The rain showed no sign of stopping. Sleep seemed impossible tonight, not while the scent of lavender still lingered in the living room.
Small water marks dotted the living-room floor where she had stood barefoot. They trailed toward the bathroom and toward where I had stood. I could have wiped them away in seconds, but I didn’t. If I erased them, tonight would become nothing more than last night.
Leaving them made her presence remain. Stupid rationalization. I knew it even as I thought it.
I walked into the studio and looked at the note she had left on my desk a few days earlier.
Always grateful for the home-cooked meals. — Seojin
It had been only a note then. Now it looked different. Same paper, same handwriting, same single line. Yet entirely changed.
This was what it meant for a wall to crumble: the same scenery becoming something new. A space that should feel empty no longer feeling empty at all.
I knew nothing about the person Yoon Seojin had married, or how that marriage had ended. I had never asked. All I had was the warmth of her cheek against my palm tonight, and the tremor in her voice when she said it had been a long time.
It was everything. And it was not little.
I had seen tonight what a person’s face looked like when years of forgetting another’s touch began to unravel. What her next expression would be depended, at least in part, on me. That realization carried weight.
And for the first time in three years, I didn’t want to run from it.
I lay down in bed. The rain continued. Somewhere beyond the sound of it, Yuri was sleeping. Seojin would be lying beside her, once again simply a mother.
Tomorrow I would get the slippers back. That was ordinary life. Tonight would fold itself quietly into that ordinary life—unseen, but not gone.
I closed my eyes. The scent of lavender still lingered in the living room. I would probably stay awake until it faded. Only then, perhaps, would sleep come.