Chapter Twenty-Five #4
I flush so hot I feel like I’m radiating heat. I’m completely overwhelmed. This isn't the cold, judgmental reception I spent three hours sweating over. This is... aggressive validation.
"I—uh—" My brain reboots, defaulting to the strict etiquette training my mother drilled into me with a terrifying intensity. I snap my heels together and bow. A full, ninety-degree, respectful bow. "It is an honor to meet you. I am Oh Sihwan."
I stay down for a second, staring at the polished floorboards, wondering if I can just stay here until the floor swallows me.
"Oh my god," one of them coos.
"He’s polite," the other whispers loudly. "Donghwa, he bows! He has manners! Where did you find him? Did you steal him?"
I straighten up, blinking rapidly as they beam at me. They look like they want to put me in a display case.
"He’s adorable," the sister named Dohwa decides, nodding firmly. "Handsome and respectful? That’s the genetic jackpot right there. Good job, little brother. I didn't think you had it in you."
"I thought for sure he’d pick someone difficult," Dohwi adds, grinning at me. "You know, someone moody and silent like him. Two brooding males in one house would be insufferable. But look at this one! He’s bright! He shines!"
He shines?
I feel like I’ve stepped into an alternate dimension. My own parents look at me like I’m a disappointing investment return. These women are looking at me like I’m the best thing since sliced bread, and all I did was stand here and bow.
"Thank you," I manage to stutter, my voice cracking slightly. "You’re... very kind."
"Kind? We’re honest," Dohwa says, waving a hand. "You're such a cutie pie!"
I chance a desperate look at Donghwa, silently pleading for help, for an explanation, for something.
He’s standing a few feet away, leaning against the newel post of the stairs with his arms crossed. He’s not helping. He’s not even trying to help. He’s watching me flounder with a smirk that is so smug, so entertained, that I want to wipe it off his face with a pillow.
He meets my gaze, one eyebrow arching perfectly as if to say, I told you so.
"What on earth is all that noise?"
The voice floats down from the second-floor landing, melodic but commanding, cutting through the sisters' giggling fit.
"Donghwa? Is that you?"
I stiffen, my spine snapping straight again. This is it. The matriarch. I brace myself for a woman made of ice and etiquette, someone who will look down her nose at my dyed hair and wonder why the help is standing in the foyer.
I look up, and my breath hitches.
A woman appears at the top of the stairs, and she is stunning.
She has Donghwa’s face—the same high, aristocratic cheekbones, the same elegant brow—but softened by time and a radiant, glowing warmth.
She’s wearing a long, silky gown that seems to float around her like water as she moves, shimmering under the chandelier light.
She spots Donghwa standing amidst the chaos of his sisters, and her face transforms.
She shrieks.
It’s not a dignified, high-society greeting. It’s a sound of pure, unadulterated joy.
"My baby!" she cries out, and then she is practically flying down the stairs, the silk of her gown billowing behind her.
I blink, stunned, as she reaches the bottom floor and launches herself at him. Donghwa, who usually looks at physical affection like it’s a contagious disease, actually leans into it. He catches her, letting her wrap her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder.
"You’re home!" she gasps, pulling back to cup his face in her hands, her eyes shimmering with tears. "Look at you! Oh, I missed you so much. Why didn't you text? I would have had the chef start dinner earlier!"
"I’m okay, Mom," Donghwa says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. "I’m here."
"And you!"
Another voice joins the fray. I look up again to see an elegant older man descending the stairs at a more measured pace, though his smile is just as wide.
He’s wearing a cardigan and a pair of old-fashioned spectacles that he pulls off his nose and tucks into his pocket as he reaches the bottom step.
"There you are, son," he says warmly, bypassing the handshake I expected and pulling Donghwa into a firm, two-armed embrace. "Welcome home."
I stand there, clutching the strap of my bag, feeling like I’ve accidentally walked onto the set of a family sitcom.
It’s... a lot.
They surround him instantly, a tight circle of fawning affection.
"How was the drive?" his father asks, clapping a hand on Donghwa’s shoulder. "The roads weren't too bad up the mountain?"
"Did you eat?" his mother interrupts, smoothing his hair back from his forehead, her eyes scanning his face with intense, frantic love.
"You look tired. Are you sleeping enough?
Is the city too loud? I told the staff to prepare the heated blanket in the annex, I know how your back gets when you drive that motorcycle. "
"I took the car, Mom," Donghwa mumbles, looking overwhelmed but oddly resigned to the love-bombing. "And I ate. I’m fine."
"You’re too thin," she decides, fretting over the collar of his henley. "We’ll fix that this weekend. I’ll have them make the galbi-jjim you like."
I watch them, and suddenly, my throat feels incredibly thick.
It’s a physical sensation, a heavy, aching lump that makes it hard to swallow. I’m staring at this scene—the tears in his mother’s eyes, the genuine warmth in his father’s smile, the way his sisters are still hanging off his arms—and it hits me like a punch to the gut.
They just... love him.
There’s no "Did you crush the competition?" There’s no "Why aren't you wearing a suit?" There’s no scanning him for flaws or calculating his market value. They’re just happy he’s here. They’re looking at him like his presence is the only gift they need.
I think of my own homecoming last week. My mother checking her watch because I was three minutes late. My father asking about my GPA before he even asked how I was feeling. The way affection in my house is a currency you earn, not something given freely.
My chest tightens, a hot, stinging sensation pricking at the corners of my eyes. I have to look away, staring at a potted orchid near the door, blinking rapidly to clear the sudden blur in my vision.
I didn't know families could be like this. I thought this kind of warmth was something made up for movies. But here it is, right in front of me, radiating off them in waves so strong I can feel the heat of it from five feet away.
It makes me feel small. It makes me feel incredibly jealous. And mostly, it makes me want to turn around and walk out the door before I do something humiliating, like burst into tears because a stranger hugged her son.
I’m trying to blend into the wallpaper—which, upon closer inspection, is actual hand-painted silk and probably costs more than my mom's entire art collection—when Donghwa’s mother finally pulls back from her son.
She wipes a smudge of lipstick off his cheek with her thumb, beaming, before her gaze drifts past his shoulder and lands squarely on me.
I freeze. This is it. The assessment.
"Oh," she says, blinking her long, elegant lashes. She tilts her head, her smile dimming just a fraction into polite curiosity. "And you’ve brought a guest? I didn't realize we were entertaining."
I open my mouth to apologize, to explain that I’m just the ride, or the baggage handler, or whatever excuse will get me out of here with my dignity intact, but the sisters beat me to it.
"He’s not a guest, Mom!" Dohwa chirps, practically humming with glee.
"He’s a mate," Dohwi finishes, grabbing Donghwa’s arm and shaking it. "Donghwa bonded him! Look! He brought home a bonded mate!"
The silence that falls over the foyer is absolute.
Both parents freeze. They turn in unison, staring at me with wide, unblinking eyes. It’s like being in the spotlight of a police interrogation, except the cops are wearing bespoke loungewear.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, sweating through my cashmere. My mother’s voice screams in my head: Manners, Sihwan! Don't just stand there like a slack-jawed idiot!
I snap into motion. I drop my bag and bow—a deep, ninety-degree fold at the waist, hands stiff at my sides.
"It is an honor to meet you," I say, my voice coming out a little strangled. "I am Oh Sihwan, from the Visual Design department. I apologize for the intrusion on such short notice."
I stay bowed, staring at the polished floorboards, waiting for the verdict. I’m waiting for the "Oh." The disappointed sigh. The polite but chilly dismissal because I’m not from one of the Five Families or whatever secret club they belong to.
"Really?" Donghwa’s mother breathes.
"Yeah," Donghwa’s voice answers, sounding bored but undeniably fond. "Really."
"Oh!"
I hear the rustle of silk, and then, before I can even straighten up, I’m being assaulted.
"Oh, how wonderful!"
She doesn't shake my hand. She doesn't nod politely. She steps right into my personal space and wraps her arms around me, pulling me into a hug that smells like expensive jasmine and maternal warmth.
I go rigid. My arms flail uselessly at my sides like a broken wind-up toy. My own mother hasn't hugged me since I was six, and even then, it was usually for a photo op. This woman is hugging me like I just returned from war.
"Welcome to the family, darling," she coos, patting my back with a gentle, rhythmic hand.
"Oh, look at you. You’re shaking! Don't be nervous.
We don't bite. Well—" She pulls back, keeping her hands firmly on my shoulders, her eyes sparkling with mirth.
"Donghwa bites, obviously. But the rest of us are very civilized. "
I blink rapidly, my brain misfiring. "I—uh—thank you? Ma'am?"
She laughs, a bright, bell-like sound, and cups my cheek with a warm hand. She tilts my face this way and that, examining me like I’m a piece of fine china she’s delighted to find in her cabinet.