Chapter Twenty-Five #6
"Mrs. Park, watch the tea!" Donghwa’s father warns, but he’s laughing.
Mrs. Park ignores him entirely. She practically sprints to the coffee table, slams the tray down with a clatter that sends tea sloshing over the rims, and launches herself at the couch.
"Young Master!" she wails, grabbing Donghwa’s face in both of her hands. "Look at you! You finally came home! I thought you forgot about us!"
I stare, horrified. A maid is touching him. She’s grabbing the heir to the Kang estate by the cheeks. At my house, she’d be fired before she hit the floor.
Donghwa doesn't flinch. He doesn't pull away. Instead, a genuine, soft smile breaks across his face—the kind I usually only see after we’ve had sex.
"Hi, Auntie," he says, his voice warm. He reaches up and covers her hands with his own. "I didn't forget. I’ve been busy."
"Busy starving!" She releases his face to smack his arm, hard. "Look at these wrists! Toothpicks! I knew it. I told Madam, I said, 'That boy is in Seoul eating convenience store garbage.' Didn't I say that?"
"She did," Donghwa’s mother agrees happily, reaching for a tea cup. "She’s been marinating short ribs since Tuesday just in case you showed up."
"I made your favorites," Mrs. Park declares, fussing with his collar. "And the spicy radish kimchi. The real kind, not that store-bought trash."
"You're the best, Auntie," Donghwa says, and he leans forward to hug her.
I watch, paralyzed. He’s hugging the help. And not a polite, distant hug—a real squeeze. It’s so casual, so devoid of hierarchy, that my brain can’t process it. It makes me feel ashamed of my own reflex to look through her.
Mrs. Park pulls back, patting his cheek one last time, before she turns her sharp, bird-like gaze on me.
I freeze. "Uh—hello."
"And who is this?" she demands, pointing a finger at me. "Another art student? He looks too healthy to be an art student."
"This is Sihwan," Donghwa says, leaning back and resting his arm on the back of the couch behind me. "He’s my mate."
Mrs. Park’s eyes go wide. Her mouth forms a perfect 'O'.
"Mate?" she whispers. Then, louder: "Mate!"
Before I can bow, before I can offer a handshake or a polite greeting, she lunges.
She grabs my face just like she grabbed Donghwa’s, her hands rough and warm and smelling of sesame oil. She pulls me down and plants a loud, wet, smacking kiss right on my cheek.
"Welcome!" she cries, beaming at me from three inches away. "Oh, finally! Someone to take care of this stubborn boy! You look strong! Good! He needs someone strong!"
I sit there, stunned, my cheek wet, staring into the joyful eyes of a stranger who is looking at me with more genuine warmth than my own mother has in a decade.
"I—I—" I stammer, my face burning.
"Eat!" She shoves a plate of rice cakes into my hands. "You eat too. You need energy to deal with him. He is a handful. Very moody in the mornings."
"I am not," Donghwa protests.
"You are!" Mrs. Park, the sisters, and his mother all shout in unison.
Laughter erupts again. Mrs. Park pats my cheek one more time, gives me a wink, and bustles off to pour the tea.
I hold the plate of rice cakes, staring down at them. My vision is blurring again. I take a bite just to have something to do, just to stop my chin from trembling. It’s sweet. It’s warm.
And I have never, in my entire life, felt more envious of another human being than I do of Kang Donghwa right now.
The rice cake in my mouth tastes like honey and sesame, but I’m having a hard time swallowing it past the lump of anxiety still lodged in my throat.
I’m sitting on a couch that's probably four generations old, surrounded by people who have probably never had to check a price tag in their lives, and for some reason, they’re looking at me like I’m the interesting one.
"So, Sihwan," Donghwa’s father says, setting his tea cup down on a saucer with a delicate clink that sounds like a gavel banging in a courtroom. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, peering at me over the rim of his glasses. "The name Oh. Are you from the Seoul Ohs? Or perhaps the Busan branch?"
My stomach drops. Here it is. The pedigree check.
I stiffen, my hands clamming up around my own tea cup. This is the part where I have to admit that my "lineage" consists of a very aggressive real estate developer who decided to slap his name on a chain of neon-lit hotels. I can already hear the polite, dismissive 'Ah, I see' that usually follows.
"I—" I start, my voice tight.
"His father owns the Oh! Paradise Hotel Group," Donghwa cuts in.
He says it casually, leaning back against the cushions and picking a piece of lint off his jeans, like he’s talking about the weather. He doesn't add qualifiers. He doesn't say 'The tacky resort chain' or 'New money.' He just puts it on the table.
I brace for impact. I watch Donghwa’s father, waiting for the flinch.
The older man’s eyebrows shoot up. He nods slowly, looking genuinely thoughtful.
"Oh! Paradise? The ones with the resort on Jeju?
I read a case study on their expansion strategy last quarter.
Aggressive vertical integration." He looks at me with new appreciation.
"Your father built that from the ground up in the nineties, didn't he? That’s a logistical beast to manage. "
I blink. "Uh. Yes, sir. He... he likes to stay hands-on."
"Fascinating," he murmurs, looking impressed. Not condescendingly impressed. Actually impressed. "To scale that quickly without losing operational control is rare. You must have grown up right in the thick of it."
"Something like that," I manage, a little breathless.
He didn't ask about our social standing. He didn't ask if we’re members of the right country clubs. He asked about the work.
"And how did you two meet?" Donghwa’s mother interjects, leaning in with that same bright, predatory curiosity his sisters have. "Donghwa is so solitary. I can't imagine him approaching anyone first."
I choke on my tea.
How did we meet? Well, ma'am, I tried to bully your son because I was insecure about my own masculinity, he humiliated me in soccer, and then we hate-fucked at a house party.
"We’re in the same department," I say quickly, wiping my mouth with a napkin. I feel Donghwa’s hand brush my shoulder, warm and solid, grounding me. "Visual Communication Design. We... share a lot of classes."
"Sihwan is the department representative," Donghwa adds smoothly, lying by omission. "He’s very involved. We ran in the same circles because he’s always organizing events."
"I tried to show him the ropes," I lie, sweating. "You know. As a junior. Mentoring the freshman."
Donghwa snorts into his tea cup. I kick his ankle under the table.
"Mentoring," Donghwa agrees, his eyes dancing with amusement as he looks at me. "He was very... persistent. He insisted on paying attention to me even when I was trying to be invisible."
"Aww!" Dohwa coos, clasping her hands. "A senior taking the lonely freshman under his wing! That’s like a drama plot!"
"It was exactly like a drama," Donghwa mutters, smirking at me.
"And you’re an athlete too?" Dohwi asks, eyeing the width of my shoulders again. "I see the way you’re sitting. You have posture. Donghwa slumps like a wet noodle."
"Hey," Donghwa protests.
"I swim," I say, waving a hand dismissively. I shrink back a little, the old reflex kicking in. My father always told me not to talk about swimming unless I had a gold medal to show for it. 'Nobody cares about second place, Sihwan.' "It’s just... for the university team. It’s nothing major."
"Nothing major?" Donghwa straightens up, his casual demeanor vanishing. He looks at his sister, his voice turning serious. "He’s the ace of the team. He’s practically the captain."
I look at him, startled. "Donghwa, I’m not—"
"He trains every morning at five a.m.," Donghwa continues, talking over me, addressing his parents directly. "While I’m still asleep, he’s already done three thousand meters. I went to his meet last week. He won the 200-meter freestyle by half a pool length. He smoked everyone."
My face heats up. I didn't know he paid that much attention. I thought he just came to the meet to mock me or ogle me in a Speedo. I didn't know he was actually... keeping score.
"Really?" His mother looks delighted. "Oh, I love swimming! It’s such a beautiful sport. But the discipline! Five a.m.?" She shudders delicately. "I can’t even function before ten."
"It takes a lot of mental fortitude," his father notes, nodding approvingly. "To maintain that kind of schedule alongside a design degree? That’s not 'nothing,' son. That’s character."
"I... I guess I just like the water," I stammer, looking down at my hands. "It clears my head."
"He’s fast," Donghwa says softly. I look up, and he’s not looking at his parents anymore. He’s looking at me, his dark eyes heavy and sincere. "You should see him in the water. It’s the only time he stops fidgeting. He looks... natural."
The room goes quiet for a second. It’s not an awkward silence. It’s a warm one.
"Well," Mrs. Park says loudly, breaking the spell as she refills my tea cup. "A swimmer! That explains the appetite. Eat more rice cakes! You need the carbs!"
"Yes, eat!" Dohwa chimes in. "We need you strong if you’re going to drag Donghwa out of his cave."
"We should come to a meet," his mother decides, clapping her hands. "Honey, write that down. When is the next one? We’ll bring a cheering section. We can make signs!"
"Please don't make signs," Donghwa groans, dropping his head back against the couch.
"We’re making signs," Dohwi whispers to me with a wink. "Glitter ones."
I sit there, holding my tea cup, and feel something inside me unclench. A knot I didn't even know I was carrying—the fear of being too loud, too new, too much—starts to loosen.
They aren't judging me. They aren't weighing my value. They’re just... listening. They think my dad’s business is interesting. They think my swimming is impressive. They think I’m interesting.