Chapter Twenty-Five #8
"It is!" his father chimes in from the head of the table, looking delighted. He’s abandoned his cardigan for the meal, sleeves rolled up, looking less like a high-powered legal scholar and more like a dad who’s just happy to have a full table.
"Remember when he was six? He told us he was running away to live in the garden shed because Dohwa stole his crayons. He packed a bag."
"I remember!" His mother claps her hands, laughing. "He packed three pairs of socks and a bag of dried squid. He lasted twenty minutes before he came back inside because he missed the cat."
I choke on my rice. I look at Donghwa—six-foot-three, tattooed, smells like a winter storm, currently the most intimidating Alpha on campus—and try to picture him pouting in a garden shed with a bag of dried squid.
"I was making a statement," Donghwa defends himself, though the tips of his ears are turning a suspicious shade of pink. "It was a protest against tyranny."
"It was a tantrum," Dohwi corrects, dropping a piece of egg roll onto his rice bowl. "Eat your egg, grumpy."
"I don't want the egg."
"Eat. The. Egg."
Donghwa scowls, looking for all the world like a sullen toddler, but he picks up the egg and eats it.
I watch them, my own chopsticks hovering halfway to my mouth, and I feel a weird, warm pressure building in my chest. It’s loud. It’s chaotic. Everyone is talking over everyone else, plates are clinking, and the air is thick with the smell of braised meat and unadulterated affection.
It’s the polar opposite of dinner at the Oh household. My dinners are quiet affairs. The only sounds are the scrape of silver on china and my father asking about quarterly projections. If I act out, I get a lecture on dignity. If I pout, I get sent to my room.
Here, Donghwa pouts, and his family just loves him harder for it.
"Sihwan, settle this," Dohwi demands, pointing a chopstick at her brother across the table. "Does pineapple belong on pizza? Donghwa says it’s a culinary abomination, but I say the acidity cuts the fat."
I blink, mid-chew. I was expecting a question about the current stock market trends or maybe my stance on fiscal policy. Instead, I’m being asked to adjudicate a pizza topping debate.
"Uh," I swallow, glancing at Donghwa. He’s looking at me with a bored expression, but there’s a flicker of challenge in his eyes. "I mean... I like it? The sweetness works."
"Ha!" Dohwi slams her hand on the table triumphantly. "See! Taste! He has taste! You’re just a snob, Donghwa."
"He has terrible taste," Donghwa drawls, stealing a piece of braised beef from my bowl before I can stop him. "He listens to EDM at eight in the morning."
"EDM is good for cardio!" I protest, batting his hand away with my own chopsticks.
"EDM is noise pollution," his father chimes in, but he’s smiling. He looks at me, eyes crinkling behind his glasses. "But I have to agree with Sihwan on the pineapple. It’s refreshing."
"Ugh," Donghwa mutters to his father.
"So, Sihwan," his mother interjects, smoothly bypassing the pizza war as she uses her own spoon to scoop a massive helping of japchae onto my rice. I stare at it. In my house, you serve yourself. Putting food on someone else’s rice is intimate. It’s.
.. mothering. "Donghwa tells us you’re focusing on Brand Management.
Is that what you enjoy? Or is it just the sensible choice? "
I stiffen instinctively. This is usually the trap. This is where adults ask if I’m doing it for the family business, and if I say anything other than "Yes, I live to serve the corporation," I get a lecture.
"I... well, my father wants me to take over the marketing division eventually," I say, reciting the script. "So it makes sense to—"
"No, no," she interrupts gently, waving a hand. "I didn't ask what your father wants. I asked if you enjoy it."
I pause. The table goes quiet, but not in a heavy way. They’re just... waiting. Listening.
"I like the psychology of it," I admit slowly, testing the waters. "Figuring out why people want things. How to make them feel something just by looking at a logo or a color palette. It’s... it’s like a puzzle."
"A puzzle," his father repeats, nodding thoughtfully. "That’s a wonderful way to put it. It’s distinct from the artistic side, isn't it? Donghwa creates the image, but you create the desire for it."
"Exactly," I say, surprised he gets it so quickly. Usually, people just call it 'sales.'
"That’s a talent," Dohwa says, leaning her chin on her hand. "Donghwa can paint a masterpiece, but he couldn't sell water to a man in a desert. He’d just stare at the guy until he felt awkward and left."
"I would not," Donghwa argues, though he’s busy piling more kimchi onto my plate.
"You would," I agree, grinning at him. "You’d be like, 'If you don't understand the hydration, you don't deserve it.'"
The table erupts in laughter again. Even Donghwa cracks a smile, shaking his head.
As the meal goes on, I feel a strange, warm sensation spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the spicy food. They keep pulling me in. They don't just tolerate my presence; they actively make space for me.
When they talk about a trip they took to Italy last summer, they don't brag about the hotels. They ask if I’ve been. When I say no, instead of looking down on me, Dohwi immediately starts listing the best gelato places I have to try when I go, making me promise to write them down.
When the topic shifts to movies, they ask my opinion on the latest blockbusters. When I admit I like mindless action movies over the arthouse stuff Donghwa probably prefers, nobody sneers. His dad just launches into a passionate defense of Die Hard.
It’s disorienting.
I’m sitting here, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m waiting for someone to ask about my net worth. I’m waiting for someone to make a snide comment about "new money" versus "old money." I’m waiting to feel like the outsider, the tacky accessory Donghwa brought home to piss off his parents.
But the shoe never drops.
I look around the table. Donghwa is arguing with his mom about whether or not he needs a haircut.
His dad is listening to Dohwa talk about her law firm with genuine pride.
And every few minutes, one of them looks at me—not to judge, but just to make sure I’m still smiling, to make sure my water glass is full, to make sure I’m part of the joke.
I realize, with a sudden, piercing clarity, that I could be anyone right now.
I could be broke. I could be a nobody. I could have zero connections, no "Oh! Paradise" empire behind me, no fancy car outside. And they would still be piling japchae onto my plate. They would still be asking me if I like pineapple on pizza.
They don't care about Oh Sihwan, the heir. They care about Sihwan, the guy who makes Donghwa smile.
My throat gets tight again. I look down at my bowl, blinking rapidly. This is it, isn't it? This is what people talk about in books. A home. Not a house, not an estate, not a portfolio asset. A home.
I’ve spent my whole life trying to be loud enough, rich enough, and successful enough to earn a seat at the table. And these people just pulled out a chair and told me to sit down because I looked hungry.
"You okay?"
Donghwa’s voice is low, meant only for me. I look up. He’s leaning close, his shoulder pressing against mine. He’s not looking at his family; he’s looking right at me, his dark eyes scanning my face with that intensity that usually makes me squirm.
Right now, it just makes me feel seen.
"Yeah," I whisper, and for the first time all night, my voice is completely steady. "Yeah. I’m good."
I reach under the table, finding his hand on his thigh. I lace my fingers through his, squeezing tight. He squeezes back instantly, his thumb brushing over my knuckles, grounding me.
"Good," he murmurs. Then, louder, he addresses the table. "Alright, stop feeding him. If he eats any more rice cakes, he’s going to sink in the pool on Monday."
"Nonsense!" Mrs. Park cries from the kitchen doorway. "He’s a growing boy! He needs strength!"
"For what?" Dohwi wiggles her eyebrows. "What does he need strength for, Donghwa?"
Donghwa chokes on his water. I turn bright red. His father bursts out laughing.
Yeah. I’m really good.
Dinner finally winds down, ending with Mrs. Park threatening to pack me a Tupperware container the size of a suitcase to take back to campus. After a round of goodbyes that takes twenty minutes because his mother keeps hugging me, Donghwa finally extricates us.
"We’re going upstairs," he announces, grabbing my wrist. "Before my sisters decide to break out the baby albums."
"I want to see the baby albums!" I protest as he drags me toward the staircase.
"No, you don't," he says grimly. "There are naked bathtub photos. You are never seeing those."
He leads me up the grand staircase, past the gallery of ancestors, and down a long, quiet hallway on the second floor. The house is silent up here, the thick rugs swallowing our footsteps.
"This is it," he says, stopping in front of a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. "The lair."
He pushes the door open and flips a switch.
I step inside, expecting... well, I don't know. Maybe a minimalist shrine to brooding? A sleek, black-and-chrome dungeon befitting the "Prince of Darkness" persona he wears at school?
What I find is a disaster zone. A very expensive, very large disaster zone.
The room is massive—easily twice the size of my apartment’s living room—but it feels small because every available inch of space is occupied. It doesn't feel empty or sterile like the guest rooms in my house. It feels like someone has been living, breathing, and creating in here for twenty years.
"Jesus," I breathe, stepping over a stack of art books. "Do you ever throw anything away?"
"It’s organized chaos," Donghwa defends, shutting the door behind us and leaning against it.