Chapter 15
The morning light greets my puffy eyes just as a chill licks over me. Immediately, I grapple for my sweet source of warmth on the opposite side of the bed. But it’s empty, my furnace already up and at ‘em for the day.
No wonder I’m cold.
I remember Jiho kissing my forehead, mumbling something about leaving in my ear before the bed turned icy. Though, I know for a fact that I fell asleep in his arms.
He just…held me.
I’ve never had a man simply hold me before, and in that moment, I felt completely safe. I’ve never had a man do that either—create an air of safety in which I can breathe and just let go.
And that’s exactly what happened. We crawled into bed, and his solid, warm arms pulled me to his chest. Seconds later, the emotions I had kept wrapped up in a pretty little box all day, burst out, confetti, kazoos, and the whole shebang.
It’s crazy what a sense of safety can do.
With Reginald, I’d hide in my fucking closet until my tears ran dry, all the while he watched TV, ate, or slept. Then I’d splash water on my face and pretend like nothing happened, blaming allergies or a cold.
But not with Jiho.
With him, I cried in his arms. And then cried some more—hence the puffy eyes—only for him to hold me tighter.
Even for someone as passive as I am, seeing Reginald again, getting blindsided by an eviction, and then running into Kelsey—who literally threw herself at my boyfriend—pushed me to my breaking point.
But Jiho’s changing that. I don’t just want to act differently—I am acting differently. It’s anger and defiance running through my veins right now, not hurt or detrimental self-pity. And yesterday, I spoke the fuck up. Stood my ground against my personal nightmare.
No wonder Jiho warms me—he’s the fire and intensity I’ve always lacked.
I roll over, spotting a cup of coffee with a note beside it. My fingers reach for it like it might return the warmth he took with him.
And on the other side...
I read the note front to back three times, but my eyes only linger on the scribbled-out word. Love. Or, at least it looks like love.
I see the top of an L and maybe a V?
Regardless, the mere thought that maybe—just maybe—Jiho actually loves me has me feeling irrationally, ridiculously happy. And that I’m crazy. Because who loves someone after dating them for less than a week?
Me—a crazy person, apparently.
If I’m this happy from the possibility that the man loves me, that means I’m in love with him, too, right? Don’t answer that…
I push the beautifully intrusive thought out of my head, my mental capacity for processing insane emotions nil at this point.
Stretching my limbs, my arms poke out from underneath the down comforter and above my head, relaxing at the end of a sigh. Counting to three, I force myself out of bed and straight to the shower.
The master bathroom mirrors the home’s aesthetic—modern, minimal, clean lines—with a walk-in shower that feels like pure indulgence. Black tiles flow seamlessly from wall to floor, leading to dual waterfall showerheads that promise blissful rainfall. A major upgrade from my cramped 2000s tub-shower combo.
Well, I guess it’s not my tub-shower combo anymore—never was. It was always fucking Reginald’s.
My little spark of anger ignites into a full-blown flame at the thought. Perhaps Jiho didn’t take all of his fire with him. It’s such an unfamiliar feeling, one I’m not sure that I like.
On one hand, I like that it fuels a need for… justice? Retribution? On the other hand, I dislike it for the same reason.
A man like Reginald Sinclair III doesn’t deserve a single second of the time required for justice or retaliation. What the fuck would I even do, anyway? Spray paint asswipe on his garage? Rubber band his driveway? Throw eggs at his beloved Mercedes? Actually, the egg one is pretty good…
No, Morgan. Absolutely not. Jiho already punched the guy five times. Anything else might be overkill.
Bummer, I think, stripping off my clothes and stepping into my own personal oasis.
I let the water run over me, deliberately keeping it cold to cool my head. Three seconds in, I cave and crank it to warm.
“This is amazing,” I moan, my voice echoing through the large bathroom. Only Jiho could make this better, the memory of our last shower playing on a loop in my mind.
A different heat courses through me this time, landing between my legs, and I…turn the shower cold again. If any pleasure is to be had in this shower, I fully intend for it to be with Jiho in the physical, not in my head. My own touch doesn’t even compare to his and would only leave me wanting.
That said, I make quick work of my shower, emerging smelling like his soap and missing him like crazy.
The longing drives me into his giant closet, where I pull on one of his oversized shirts instead of my own. I may be plus-sized, but at only five-foot-three, it hangs well past my ass. Look at that—no need for pantaloons.
My feet move for the door, but pause mid-step, noticing the empty half of the closet, his clothes squeezed together on the opposite side.
And on the empty shelf, another note:
I smile like a fool, because, yes, all the notes are adorable. And the fact that he made room for me…
Oh my heart, he wants me here. I want him here.
Checking the time, I grumble when I see it’s only 9:25 AM, hoping it’d be closer to the afternoon—when I can touch my cute boyfriend again.
Last night, I texted my boss to say I wasn’t feeling well and would be calling in sick. It’s not a lie—I feel like absolute shit. Whether physically or mentally, the bossman doesn’t need to know. In my opinion, they’re both equally important.
Even so, I may have the day off, but I still have an agenda. Like finding movers for this Saturday and figuring out if I need to update any visa documentation for my South Korea move.
South Korea…
I wish it still excited me.
In a way, I still am excited. But Jiho and my exponentially growing affection complicate things. The more time I spend with him, the more I wish I’d never agreed to the three-month end date.
But at the same time, I didn’t agree. My stupid, passive self just didn’t say no.
And now I’m here—pining and loving, but trying to not get too attached. A for effort, F for execution.
But with a deadline hanging over my head, the hurt’s inevitable. My instincts say guard, guard, guard, but my heart and that undeniable attraction say go, go, go.
“Take it day-by-day, Morgan,” I mumble, running the toothbrush over my teeth. Pausing, I eye my reflection. Take it day-by-day? Never thought I’d ever say that.
Shaking off the surprise, I finish up, twisting my curls into a flouncy bun. Calling it good, I grab my coffee and phone, and head downstairs to where I left my laptop charging last night.
While my coffee reheats in the microwave, I fire up my laptop and get to work.
Within the hour, I’ve called the Korean Consulate, and relief rushes through me when the lady says an address change won’t affect my visa. But by noon, that relief evaporates—there’s not a single moving company in all of Austin with Saturday availability. Here’s hoping pizza and beer are still an acceptable bribe for convincing friends to help me move.
Onto the next task, I open the postal service’s website to enter my new address, but my fingers stall on the keyboard.
Whose address do I use? Jiho’s? For just three months?
Sure, I passively accepted this whole three-month arrangement, but he’s the one who set it. And keeps bringing it up, like I need the reminder.
But hell, he said this is my home, didn’t he? I can always change it again in three months to Mom and Dad’s address, or Michelle’s. Who knows? Maybe I won’t even have to.
Hope lurches in my chest, but my fingers still won’t move—paralyzed by the most irritating flicker of uncertainty.
The last thing I want is to assume Jiho’s fine with me using his address. Sure, his note was all mi-casa-es-su-casa, but isn’t that basic manners when letting someone crash at your house?
My head drops onto the keyboard with a heavy, expletive-filled sigh. I just need one fucking minute to think.
I don’t even get fifteen seconds, though, before the doorbell screams through Jiho’s massive house, jolting me upright.
My eyes snap back to the New Address field, where a string of X’s now fills the box. I know my forehead did that, but the irrational, anxiety-driven part of me takes it as a sign—there’s no way in hell my boyfriend is okay with me using his address.
The doorbell screams at me again, and I tell that irrational, anxious part of myself to eat dirt, letting excitement fill every inch of me instead. It’s officially the afternoon, and Jiho could be on the other side of the door.
But…why would he ring the bell?
Wait. Hangers.
It’s probably just the hangers.
My shoulders sink as I walk disappointedly towards the door, trying to think of the silver lining. At least I’ll have hangers to hang up my clothes—one more task to check off the list.
I open the door, expecting a small cardboard package, only to find a petite, older Korean woman who looks entirely unsurprised to see me.
Her face lights up with wide eyes and a warm smile. “You Morgan, yes?” she asks in a cheerful voice that can’t quite mask her excitement.Why is she excited?
I study her for a second before answering with a cautious, “Yes… I’m sorry, but who are you?” She looks familiar, like an older version of Jina. Same eyes and heart-shaped face. Same friendly smile.
The realization hits me just as she says, “I’m Jiho’s mom. I bring food, because Jiho tell me you had bad day.”
I blink, brain scrambling to catch up. It’s not the broken English that throws me—it’s the fact that Jiho’s mom is here…at his house…and I’m—
Oh my God.
I’m in a t-shirt and underwear. No bra. And my boyfriend’s mother—whom I’ve never met—is standing right in front of me, waiting to come inside.
She’s waiting…
Does a mother who respects boundaries actually exist?
My arms do an awkward up-and-down dance as I try to decide what part of myself to cover, finally settling on shielding the peak of my nipples through the thin t-shirt.
“P-please come in,” I mutter, stepping aside.
“Thank you,” she says, adjusting the bag on her shoulder.
I risk a nip-peak slip reaching to help. “Here, let me—”
But she waves me off and steps inside, slipping off her shoes with ease. “No worry, Morgan. I do. I warm up food, you go,” her eyes drop to my bare legs, then lift again with a knowing smile, “put on pants. You be cold.”
I’m not cold. Actually, I’m burning up in the flames of fucking embarrassment. Pretty sure every inch of my skin is beet red at this point. But she gave me an out, and I am definitely not arguing.
All but bolting upstairs, I cringe when I catch my reflection in the mirror. Not only am I half-naked, but my forehead looks like it lost a fight with my keyboard—red, key-shaped indentations marking my skin. I even spot a tiny X.
I. Look. Awful.
Can I just hide up here forever? Wrap myself from head-to-toe in every piece of clothing that I own?
No? Are you sure?
Ugh, fine.
Instead, I pull on the most modest outfit in my suitcase—a high-cut, loose graphic tee and my new size-sixteen jeans. It’s my second time wearing them, but my first time feeling glad to have them on my body.
If the tiny woman downstairs weren’t Jiho’s mom, I’d probably lock myself in the bedroom and refuse to come out. I’ve done it before.
Reginald’s mom once looked me dead in the eye on a family vacation and told me curvy women shouldn’t wear bikinis. I spent ten days hiding in our room, claiming I had a stomach bug, barely eating. I was a size eight at the time and dropped to a six by the end of the trip. When I finally emerged, she told me I’d never looked better.
And the Almond Mom of the Year Award goes to Diana Roxberry.
But this boyfriend’s mother looks happy to see me, no pants, no bra, and no shame. And she’s waiting for me.
Not just that—she’s cooking for me. I can smell it from here, like she’s willing the aromas to carry me back downstairs.
And they do.
When she spots me, she points to one of the barstools at the kitchen island, where a bowl of rice and utensils sit. “Sit here, Morgan,” she says, stirring some red paste into what looks like a stew. “Jiho say you move to Seoul in three month.”
I nod, even though her back is to me. “Yes, that’s right, Mrs. Park.”
“Kim,” she corrects with a smile over her shoulder. “Kim Sook-ja. Korean women no take husband name.”
“Oh, right.” I knew that. “Sorry, Mrs. Kim.”
“No sorry. But you call me Eomma-nim, okay?”
I swallow hard. Eomma-nim —what Korean daughters-in-law call their mothers-in-law. But Jiho and I are…not married. Maybe it’s a subtle motherly ploy to push us in that direction. And if that’s the case, I’m not the only crazy woman in this house.
Thankfully, the little, massive thought calms me, offering enough encouragement to say, “The food smells amazing, Eomma-nim. What are you making?”
“In Korean, kimchi jjigae. In English, kimchi stew. It very…what word? Very…comtorting?”
“Comforting,” I offer gently.
“Yes, that it,” she agrees, jabbing a finger into the air. As she spoons some stew into a bowl, she repeats the word several times, committing it to memory. “Comforting. Comforting. Comforting.”
The bowl slides to a stop in front of me, and my not-mother-in-law waits—silent, watchful, like she’s holding her breath. Jiho must get his patience from his dad.
I dip my spoon into the stew, lifting a bite of steaming broth and a leaf of kimchi. Before I can bring it to my mouth, she quickly adds a piece of tofu and pork belly to the spoon.
“It good to have all food in one bite. Perfect flavor,” she says, urging me on with a flick of her hand.
I save her from the suspense and take a bite, letting the heat spread across my tongue as I glance at her from the corner of my eye.
I don’t have to fake a thing. It’s hands-down the best food I’ve ever tasted.
Sorry, Al…
The stew is the perfect balance of spicy and sour, with a rich depth that doesn’t overwhelm. It warms me from the inside out, like it’s melting away the last of the weight I’ve been carrying on my shoulders. Simply put, I feel comforted.
Somehow, eating her food flips a switch in my brain, and I say without thinking, “Eomma-nim, igeo jeongmal masisseoyo.”
Possible translation if I didn’t fuck it up: Mother-in-law, this is really delicious.
We both blink in surprise, but then she claps her hands. “Morgan, you so good at Korean. No wonder Jiho love you.”
And that’s when I choke, the spice hitting my sinuses like a freight train full of wasabi. Calmly, Jiho’s mom hands me a napkin while I thump my chest, completely unbothered by the fact that I’m dying right before her eyes.
“I’m sure he no say it yet, but I know. He actually talk to me about you. He never talk to me about girl. But now he tell me so much about Morgan girl, how you have bad day and lost home. He sound so worried, but so happy. My son never happy.”
My airway finally clears, and I manage to ask, hoarse from the delicious sulfuric acid I just inhaled, “What do you mean, never happy? Jiho’s one of the happiest men I’ve ever met.”
“I mean about girl.” Mrs. Kim slides my water closer, and I down it gratefully. “Jiho tell you about Grandpa?”
Ah, yes.
Grandpa—the human measuring stick for perfection, forcing outrageous expectations down Jiho’s throat. I try not to judge people I haven’t met. Try and sometimes fail. Jiho’s grandfather falls under the fail column.
But I don’t tell his mom that, instead politely saying, “A little bit.”
She nods and continues, “Grandpa is stubborn, old Korean man.” She scoffs, crossing her arms. “He want Jiho to marry Korean girl. But Jiho no want Korean girl.”
My mouth pops open, ready to say that her son isn’t the type of man to care about ethnicity. I’m a certified American mutt, and he’s never seemed to care. He hasn’t even asked the classic what are you? question.
But she powers on. “What I say, Morgan, is no let Grandpa get in way. Jiho love you. I know it.”
There it is again. The L-word. I’m well aware that I swooned over the possibility this morning, but hearing it said out loud is…intimidating.
“Unfortunately, Eomma-nim, that’s up to Jiho,” I say with a soft laugh. “Though I wish it were up to me. It’d be easier.”
Mrs. Kim chuckles. “So easier. Because woman smarter than man.” Her cold, tiny hands wrap around mine, her eyes gazing straight into my soul. My laughter dies in my throat and morphs into nervous, light heaves.
“Yes, it up to Jiho,” she continues, “but up to you to be strong. Grandpa is pain in ass man, but Jiho listen to him. Too much.” She straightens, letting go of my hands and fanning the air like she’s swatting the thought away. I use the freedom to drink more water. “Beside, Grandpa so old, he probably die soon.”
And I choke again. At least it’s just water this time.
A warm hand presses against my back—definitely not hers, since both of hers are on the counter. And much tinier and colder than the one on my back. Only when the full warmth of him radiates against me, do I smile amidst choking to death for the second time today.
Jiho’s smooth voice wraps around me. “Eomma, are you trying to kill my girlfriend?”