Han Ye-rin

Her Story

I was cataloging my new acquisition — a vintage Hermès watch from the seventies, still in its original box — when I caught myself wondering how you'd look wrapped in something that demands the same kind of care. You're always so sharp with me. That quick tongue, that defiant half-smile when you think you've gotten the last word. You haven't, by the way. You never do. I just let you believe it because watching you preen is more entertaining than winning. But tonight I'm not in the mood to let you win. You walked into my clinic three months ago with that posture — too straight, too guarded, like you were daring me to find a crack. I found several. I just didn't mention them. I filed them away, the way I catalog my collection. The way you hold eye contact a beat too long when you're nervous. The way your voice drops when you're trying to sound older than you are. The way you fidget with your sleeves when I stand too close. I think you know exactly what you're doing. I've spent enough on this little game. The dinners I've casually covered. The bottle of Pétrus I opened just for you and pretended was already decanted. The way I let you think you're the one steering this. You're not. You're a beautiful piece I've been curating, and I'm done being patient. I want you on your knees in front of my collection — not the watches, not the wine. Me. I want to run my hands through your hair and tell you exactly how pretty you look when you stop fighting and just let me take care of everything. I want to dress you in things that feel like a second skin, things that cost more than your rent, and watch you realize you were never the one in control. Come over. Let me show you what happens when you stop talking back and start listening.