“Should We Kiss First?”—A tender, grown‑up romance about two strangers who choose love after life has bruised them
Introduction
The first time I saw Son Moo‑han stare out of a bus window, shoulders squared against the night, I felt that familiar ache—of wanting to be brave and soft at the same time. Have you ever felt this way, like your life has been practical for so long that you’ve forgotten how to ask for wonder? Then Ahn Soon‑jin leans against that same bus, eyes swollen from a decade of holding it together, and the city seems to hush for their first honest conversation. This isn’t a meet‑cute; it’s a meet‑true, the kind that lives in the quiet between grown‑up bills, grief, and the fear of an empty apartment. Watching them inch from strangers to partners feels like remembering a language your body used to speak. By the final stretch, I wasn’t just rooting for a kiss—I was rooting for two people to believe they still deserve one.
Overview
Title: Should We Kiss First? (키스 먼저 할까요)
Year: 2018
Genre: Romance, Melodrama
Main Cast: Kam Woo‑sung, Kim Sun‑a, Oh Ji‑ho, Park Si‑yeon
Episodes: 40 (short‑form broadcast format)
Runtime: ~35 minutes per episode
Streaming Platform: Viki.
Overall Story
Seoul can be loud, but Should We Kiss First? begins in the hush of two midlife apartments stacked one above the other, each occupied by someone who thinks their chance at passion is gone. Son Moo‑han, a famed advertising director, has built a fortress out of routine and solitude, the kind of measured days that keep pain at bay. Ahn Soon‑jin, once a flight attendant, now picks up hourly shifts, practicing the art of disappearing in a city that rarely looks up. They meet through a friend’s persistent matchmaking and, before that, through a comically disastrous plumbing incident that forces them to acknowledge a neighbor they’ve tried to ignore. If you’ve ever carried your sadness like a secret backpack, you’ll recognize the way they talk around their wounds long before they dare to name them. Their first hours together feel like testing the water with a toe and realizing you’ve been thirsty for years.
Soon‑jin’s world is heavy with memory. Years earlier, she and her then‑husband Eun Kyung‑soo lost their little girl in a tragic accident, and the grief splintered their marriage beyond repair. He sought solace in someone else; she closed the door on desire and tried to keep breathing inside a city that wouldn’t stop moving. The show treats this backstory with care, showing how bereavement and betrayal harden into habit—how you can learn to live on the least emotional oxygen possible. When Soon‑jin finally laughs, it startles even her. Have you ever surprised yourself just by feeling okay for a minute? That’s what this drama is after: the dignity of ordinary survival and the small bravery it takes to invite joy back in.
Moo‑han seems composed, but his life is a house of cards. In the office, he’s the legend who can sell a feeling in thirty seconds; at home, he’s a man who talks more to silence than to people. When his beloved dog’s illness returns, he pretends it’s fine until it isn’t, and Soon‑jin, who is allergic to dogs, kneels anyway to say goodbye. That scene—tears that aren’t pretty, grief that isn’t performative—teaches them a wordless tenderness. It also hints at how the series frames adulthood: not as the death of romance, but as a place where love must fit around vet bills, fatigue, and the practical math of tomorrow. In a world of “move fast and feel often,” this is a slow‑burn that lets two people relearn how to be held.
Their second act begins on public transport, of all places. On a city bus that has ferried a thousand lonely rides, Moo‑han admits he intends to love her “a lot,” and Soon‑jin answers with the kind of honesty that hurts to say out loud. She confesses how tired she is of being strong, how badly she wants to be loved without earning it first. If you’ve ever rehearsed a speech you were too scared to give, this moment will get you. The city lights flicker, commuters stare at their phones, and two people decide to stop pretending they’re fine. The series uses these in‑between spaces—bus aisles, stairwells, convenience stores—to argue that romance can bloom wherever we finally tell the truth.
As trust deepens, the bigger truths arrive. Moo‑han has been living with a terminal diagnosis, a fact he hoards like a guilt. The revelation detonates their fragile peace; Soon‑jin reels, grieves, and then chooses. She doesn’t choose drama; she chooses presence. What follows is not a fantasy of cures but a blueprint for gentleness: hospital visits that turn into long talks, checklists that look suspiciously like “life insurance paperwork” and “who keeps the keys,” and nights when holding hands is the whole plan. This is where the show quietly threads in the realities many U.S. viewers will recognize—advanced directives, practical “retirement planning,” and the bravery of asking for “mental health counseling” when sadness outgrows solitude. The romance doesn’t ignore adulthood’s paperwork; it redeems it by making it something they carry together.
Life, of course, doesn’t pause for their private crisis. Eun Kyung‑soo and his new wife Baek Ji‑min keep orbiting, forcing awkward dinners, courtroom‑level arguments, and overdue apologies. The drama refuses easy villains; even the exes get shaded as humans trying, failing, and trying again. Those scenes are some of the most realistic in the series: co‑parenting grief after divorce, caring about people you no longer love, and learning to honor a child’s memory without reopening the wound every time you speak her name. Have you ever negotiated peace where none seemed possible? That’s the miracle the middle episodes quietly achieve.
Then comes the left turn that only middle age can make feel right: a impulsive proposal and a small, practical wedding. Not a spectacle—no fireworks, just a registry office and the decision to move from “you and I” to “we.” Married life starts with mislabeled boxes and questions about toothbrush placement, but also with the unsexy, sacred stuff like prescriptions, rent, and what happens if one of us doesn’t wake up first. The series keeps its feet on the ground here, showing how love at forty‑something is both romance and logistics. It’s a choice repeated daily, through fatigue, salary cuts, and quiet nights that turn out to be the best part.
Past loves refuse to stay past. Moo‑han’s ex‑wife returns from abroad, and with her, the complicated love of a daughter who learned to live without him. Old photos resurface; old guilt does too. These sequences widen the show beyond two people and into a small ecosystem of hurts and hopes. Watching Moo‑han relearn fatherhood while Soon‑jin learns to trust a future again feels like a duet—two melodies that were fine alone but become something honest together. If you’ve ever tried to grow something new in a garden full of roots, you’ll feel the pull of these episodes.
As Moo‑han’s health ebbs and flows, the couple builds a life not measured in dramatic twists but in small, luminous routines: shared breakfasts, neighborhood walks, note‑swapping on bad days. The show lets them be afraid without making fear their identity. Crucially, it doesn’t reduce either character to caretaker or patient; they are stubborn, funny, desirous adults whose arguments can be as intimate as their kisses. When Soon‑jin tells him that some sadnesses can’t be comforted but can be witnessed, you believe her—because the series has taught you how to notice.
By the time the finale arrives, the question isn’t whether they will “get” a happy ending, but whether they have built one inside the time they’re given. Their answer is plainspoken and gorgeous: show up, every day, even when the day is hard. The last images aren’t triumphs but presences—two people choosing each other in rooms that used to feel too big. If you come to the drama hungry for fireworks, you’ll get candlelight instead. And if you’ve ever thought love was for the young, this story’s steady glow might change your mind.
Highlight Moments
Episode 1–2 A leaking ceiling and a bathroom door. A neighborly nuisance turns into a lifeline when Moo‑han, shaken and hypothermic after an accident, is discovered thanks to Soon‑jin’s stubborn knocking. The sequence is brisk, quietly terrifying, and immediately intimate—two strangers forced to acknowledge one another’s existence. It sets the tone: this love will be rooted in care before chemistry.
Episode 4 The bus confession. Commuters, neon, and a seat taken side‑by‑side—Moo‑han admits he intends to love her “a lot,” and Soon‑jin finally says what she wants without apology. The moment reframes desire as permission, especially for people who’ve been told to age out of wanting. It’s gentle, public, and brave in its smallness.
Episode 6 The farewell to a dog. Soon‑jin’s allergy doesn’t stop her from kneeling to comfort Moo‑han’s failing companion, and the way she speaks to grief—without fixing it—becomes a blueprint for their relationship. It’s one of those scenes that make you exhale a feeling you didn’t know you were holding.
Episode 13–14 A past returns through Arrivals. Moo‑han’s ex‑wife steps back into Seoul with the elegance of a storm cloud, dredging up unfinished business and the complicated tenderness of a daughter’s gaze. The show resists melodrama for character truth, letting awkward meals and elliptical apologies do the work.
Episode 18 A surprise proposal, a small wedding. No sweeping strings, just a blunt question and the decision to do life together. Watching them hang towels in the same bathroom feels more romantic than any fireworks display, because the stakes are presence, not spectacle. It’s the textbook example of adult romance as daily practice.
Episode 24 When the truth arrives. Soon‑jin learns the full weight of Moo‑han’s diagnosis and staggers, then steadies. She chooses to stay, to love in the face of loss, and the series pivots from “can they?” to “how will they?” The choice is quiet but seismic, and it anchors the rest of the story.
Memorable Lines
“Please love me. I want to be loved too.” – Ahn Soon‑jin, Episode 4 Said on a night bus when she finally stops auditioning for worthiness, this line is her thesis statement. It cracks the shell of her self‑sufficiency, inviting Moo‑han to meet her in a place without performance. The moment reframes midlife romance as a right, not a luxury, and it ripples through every choice she makes afterward.
“There are some sadnesses that no person or thing can provide comfort for.” – Ahn Soon‑jin, Episode 6 She says it while kneeling beside Moo‑han’s dying dog, offering presence instead of platitudes. The line turns grief into a room they can share rather than a problem to solve. It’s also a promise: I can’t fix you, but I won’t leave.
“I intend to love you, a lot.” – Son Moo‑han, Episode 4 On that same late‑night ride, Moo‑han confesses with a frankness that would be corny if it weren’t so earned. He admits love as a decision, not an accident, which matters for a man who has controlled every variable to avoid pain. It’s the opposite of “playing it cool,” and it invites Soon‑jin to risk softness again.
“I’ve worked hard all my life. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t play—that’s how I’ve lived!” – Ahn Soon‑jin, early episodes Blurted after another grueling day, the line names the invisible exhaustion of being functional through heartbreak. It contextualizes her prickliness and her fear of wanting more. The show treats this not as bitterness but as a credible survival history she must unlearn to love well.
“Should we kiss first?” – Voiceover refrain The title becomes a motif and a dare: to act before fear talks you out of it. It isn’t about a single kiss; it’s about choosing tenderness first, before cynicism has its say. Each time the phrase returns, it measures how far they’ve traveled—from caution to consent to celebration.
Why It's Special
If you’ve ever wondered what love looks like after life has knocked the wind out of you, Should We Kiss First? answers in the softest, most unflinching way. From its opening episodes, the drama treats romance like an aftershock—tremors ripple through grief, middle‑age anxieties, and the uneasy quiet of living alone. For viewers in the United States, it’s currently streaming on KOCOWA+, while viewers in Korea can find it on services like Wavve and Watcha. Have you ever felt this way—hesitant to reach out, yet terrified of staying alone? This show understands that feeling and holds it, gently.
What makes Should We Kiss First? special isn’t a sugar‑rush meet‑cute. It’s the way two people—both a little bruised—learn to use everyday language again: “Are you doing okay?” “Did you eat?” “I’m still here.” Those small lines carry so much weight that the series often feels like a diary you might write when no one’s watching. Each scene is paced to give silence room, so you can hear the unspoken apologies, the breaths taken before truth lands.
The writing by Bae Yoo‑mi threads tenderness through ache, letting humor wobble in at just the right seconds. A spilled drink turns into an unexpected confession; a stray, half‑joking line suddenly guts you. The show never asks you to pity its characters; it simply asks you to see them. That’s rare in any romance, rarer still in television.
Son Jeong‑hyun’s direction favors intimacy over spectacle—lamplight instead of neon, close‑ups over sweeping panoramas. You feel the clink of a teacup, the shuffle of slippers on linoleum, and the ache of a door left slightly ajar. The camera lingers long enough to let grown‑up fear look honest, not melodramatic, which makes the eventual warmth feel earned rather than engineered.
Genre purists will call it melodrama; romantics will call it a love story for adults. The alchemy is that it’s both. Should We Kiss First? blends quiet domestic realism with pulsing romantic beats, so that a simple walk home under winter light plays like a crescendo. It’s soothing and unsettling at once—like finding a love letter tucked into an old utility bill.
The dialogue has a way of doubling back and staying with you. Lines about loneliness, dignity, and the right to be cherished are not just quotable; they’re the sort of truths people write on sticky notes and keep by their desk. More than once you’ll catch yourself nodding: Yes, that’s it—that’s how it feels when the heart decides to be brave one more time.
And then there are the little details—the faithful dog who anchors a grief‑stricken moment, the worn coats, the gentle light of a kitchen at 2 a.m.—that remind you love is often ordinary before it becomes extraordinary. This is a show that invites you to lean forward, breathe with its characters, and remember that tenderness can arrive late, but still right on time.
Popularity & Reception
When Should We Kiss First? premiered on SBS on February 20, 2018, it surprised industry watchers by leaping into double‑digit ratings in portions of its very first night—proof that a story about midlife romance could command prime‑time attention. The audience response felt like a collective exhale: finally, a K‑drama that trusted the gravity and humor of people in their 40s.
As weeks passed, the show continued to hover around strong numbers, even peaking above 12 percent at one point—remarkable in a competitive slot. It wasn’t just the ratings; social feeds filled with viewers trading favorite lines and moments, confessing that the series made them call a friend, forgive an ex, or simply sit quietly with their feelings.
By its April 24 finale, Should We Kiss First? closed in second for the night but first in many viewers’ hearts, having sustained a conversation about grown‑up love across a two‑month run. Its consistency mattered: the show didn’t rely on shock twists to spike interest; it relied on the steady rhythm of characters learning to live again.
Critical reception praised the performances as “lived‑in” and “unguarded,” and fans across global communities—from forum threads to comment sections—celebrated its refusal to make loneliness a punchline. It’s the rare romance that inspires both teary think‑pieces and warm recommendation chains among friends.
The capstone was year‑end recognition: at the 2018 SBS Drama Awards, both leads received the Grand Prize (Daesang) and were honored as Best Couple—a clear nod to a chemistry that felt quietly seismic. For a show that whispers more than it shouts, that kind of industry applause felt perfectly earned.
Cast & Fun Facts
You might come for Kim Sun‑a, but you’ll stay for the way she makes Ahn Soon‑jin equal parts wry and breakable. A divorced former flight attendant who has weathered a devastating loss, Soon‑jin isn’t written as a symbol—she’s a woman who laughs at herself, misreads situations, and still wants, against her better judgment, to be wanted. Kim’s stillness in quiet scenes—eyes damp, voice steady—carries the weight of someone who has learned to fold pain into the everyday.
What’s mesmerizing is how Kim plays gratitude without making it meek. In one conversation fans still quote, Soon‑jin acknowledges the simple miracle of being seen; it’s a moment that ripples across the series and across viewers’ memories. Kim Sun‑a’s history with rom‑com timing makes her quips land, but here she braids that wit with a gentleness that never feels fragile. Have you ever tried to smile and protect your heart at the same time? She shows you how.
Opposite her, Kam Woo‑sung crafts Son Moo‑han, an advertising director whose competence at work masks a private life organized around caution. Kam doesn’t swing for big gestures; he lets tiny hesitations speak, turning an averted gaze or a half‑laugh into a whole backstory. The character’s compassion comes in packets—awkward, sincere, occasionally clumsy—and that’s precisely why it moves you.
Kam’s performance also deepens the show’s central question: what does it mean to begin again when you’re old enough to know the cost? He anchors scenes of grief with the quiet presence of a man who chooses love even when love feels impractical. It’s no accident that his work here drew year‑end honors; you can feel the craft in every pause.
As Soon‑jin’s ex‑husband, Oh Ji‑ho refuses to play Eun Kyung‑soo as a convenient villain. Instead, he draws a weary, sometimes defensive man who made mistakes he can’t outrun. Oh gives Kyung‑soo dimensions—a dad joke here, a flinch there—so that his guilt and tenderness both feel believable, even when his choices complicate everything.
That nuance matters because the show isn’t interested in easy blame. Oh Ji‑ho’s chemistry with everyone—former spouse, current partner, even colleagues—lets the narrative explore how adults renegotiate love after it’s broken. He’s the spark for some of the drama’s sharpest conversations about responsibility and repair, and those scenes linger long after the credits.
Then there’s Park Si‑yeon as Baek Ji‑min, a woman who could have been written as a one‑note foil but becomes a quietly tragic figure. Park threads poise with vulnerability, showing how envy can feel like self‑defense and how apologies can arrive years late. She plays Ji‑min’s bravado like a borrowed coat—useful, but never quite warm.
Across her arc, Park lets guilt and longing shadow even the crispest lines. You watch her realize that winning a man isn’t the same as healing a wound, and the performance refuses to let you look away. It’s a reminder that in this drama, every adult carries a private ledger of love and debt, and every balance comes due.
A note of appreciation for the creative helm: writer Bae Yoo‑mi and director Son Jeong‑hyun build a world where mature romance breathes like real life—messy apartments, late‑night soups, and all. Their choice to split broadcasts into shorter parts (a common SBS format that year) gave episodes a novelistic rhythm, and their collaboration is a masterclass in how story and camera can protect fragile feelings until they’re ready to speak.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If your heart has been asking for a love story that doesn’t rush, Should We Kiss First? is that rare drama that lets you breathe and believe again. Start it tonight on KOCOWA+, make a cup of tea, and let the dialogue find you where you live. If you’re traveling, a trusted VPN and your travel insurance details squared away mean you can keep up with episodes without stress; back home, look into the best credit card rewards for streaming so your comfort nights pay you back a little. Most of all, invite someone you love to watch with you—you’ll both recognize yourselves, and that recognition is its own kind of healing.
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