Chapter 22
“How the hell is that a bellhop, John?!” Ted yells from our team’s side of the couch the following Saturday.
It’s a joint Asterman-Park-plus-John game night. Macho Men’s the team name, and Pictionary’s the game. Guys versus girls—the Game Goddesses. And the girls are winning by a fucking landslide.
John scowls, squinting at the easel, where a poorly drawn stick figure with a hat, a bowtie, and a suitcase in his stick hand is… I don’t fucking know. Skipping? Falling? Shitting? Maybe shitting—there’s something drawn beneath him that sure looks like it.
Pointing to his artwork, John fumes, “Here’s the hotel dude, and he’s hopping over a bell, Ted. I don’t know how much clearer it could possibly be.”
Ted huffs, his face turning a second shade of red. The first shade appeared when my dad pulled the word kaleidoscope .
I translated it for my old man, but turns out he’s never seen a fucking kaleidoscope in his entire life. Michelle, being the Game Master—the one who dictates rules that aren’t actual rules—allowed a one-sentence, Korean-written explanation.
My dad drew a telescope. Honestly? Close enough.
Thankfully, Mandu’s here too, curled up in his standard dumpling-like ball against Ted. The dog’s a fucking genius, because the level of Ted’s agitation and the number of pets received has an astounding, positive relationship.
“I knew we should’ve had co-ed teams,” Ted gripes, his hand immediately finding the soft fur behind Mandu’s ears. “I could’ve had Jina on my team.” He gestures wildly with his other hand toward her drawing, where an actually recognizable bellhop stands, complete with a little luggage cart. “Now that’s a bellhop.”
Jina beams, sticking her tongue out at John. “Thanks, Ted.”
“You’re welcome,” Ted says quickly before turning back to John…and me. “Instead, I get stuck with Tweedle Dumb and Dumber over here.” His eyes flick toward my dad. “Hyung-chul not included. Us old men need to stick together.”
“Dad, stop being rude,” Morgan scolds, but no offense taken—especially as I crack the fuck up. John and I have been called worse. Way worse.
“What Tweedle Dumb and Dumber?” my dad asks.
“He called Jiho and John stupid, Appa,” my mom answers, an entirely entertained grin on her face.
My dad nods with an understanding, “Ahhh.” Then he chuckles, which quickly snowballs into a full belly laugh, slapping his knee. “Yes, Ted. John and Jiho Tweedle Dumb and Dumber.”
And that’s all it takes. Within seconds, everyone’s fucking losing it—shoulders shaking, hands clutching stomachs, the room filled with unrestrained, contagious laughter. Mandu joins in, too, letting out a happy little bark like he’s in on the joke.
My eyes follow my favorite laugh—Morgan’s laugh.
God, Morgan.
Her smiling face, tears in the corners of her honey-brown eyes. The way she tosses her head back when she laughs, curls bouncing, a perfect mix of chaos and sunshine. Yellow, indeed, baby—radiant like the goddamn sun.
And she loves me.
Morgan Asterman loves me.
I’ve had a full week to let it sink in, to ingest it in every possible way. Through whispered words, through our bodies tangled together, through silence, just holding on. And through moments like this—laughing until we can’t breathe.
My chest might fucking explode with the love I feel for the magnificent, heart-stealing creature across the room.
“Asterman family is so funny,” my mom chimes in through her easing laughter. “You all come to my home for four day July party.”
“Fourth of July, Eomma,” Jina corrects, wiping a tear from her eye. “And that’s still so far away.”
“Ah, yes. Fourth of July party. Far, but big holiday. People must plan, Jina.” Patting Barbara on the back, she adds, “You come?”
Barbara gasps, clapping her hands together excitedly. “Oh goodness, we would love to. Thank you, Sook-ja.”
Ted claps Hyung-chul on the shoulder. “I’ll bring beer and brats.”
“What is brats?” he asks.
“Okay, okay,” Michelle—of fucking course—calls over the room, bringing the attention back to the game. “It’s the Macho Men’s turn to—”
But the doorbell rings, cutting her off as the sound echoes through the room, though not as sharply as it used to. With more people here and Morgan’s furniture filling the space, the edges of the sound are softer, absorbed into a home that feels fuller. Warmer.
Pushing to my feet and heading for the door, a slow heat spreads through my chest at the thought. Morgan brings happiness into my life in every way possible. In the big ways, like actually fucking loving me. And in the small ones, like turning my house into a home, piece by piece, with furniture and family.
Once the sound dissipates, I call out, “Sorry, Michelle. It’s probably the food.” We all somehow came to a unanimous decision on Chinese for tonight. “Don’t stop on my account. It’s Ted’s turn, anyways.”
“I’ll help you,” Morgan calls back, and I pause, waiting for her to catch up. Interlacing her fingers with mine, she adds in a whisper, “I need a break from… that .”
I chuckle because—same.
Her fingers tighten around mine, squeezing three times, and when her eyes flutter up to meet mine, I already know what’s coming.
“I love you,” she murmurs, just for me. She says it every chance she gets, and I eat that shit up. So does my dick.
Morgan’s always had the power to turn me rock-fucking-solid in an instant. But now, with the added I love yous , I’m a goddamn animal. Can’t keep my hands off her. The only reason I’ve managed to put any space between us tonight is because, well… Ted kind of scares me.
The moment we turn the corner, out of sight from the living room, I take my chance. Grabbing Morgan by the shoulders, my hands gently push, her back hitting the wall with a soft thud, a little gasp slipping from her lips.
“Baby, what are you doing?” she whispers.
My hand runs along her jaw, tilting her face closer to mine. “Taking advantage of the opportunity.”
“But they’ll hear.”
“Not if we’re quiet,” I say, keeping my voice low.
Stepping in, my body flush with hers, another gasp rings from her throat. But it turns into a soft moan the moment my mouth claims hers, desperate, like I’ve been starved of her taste for days instead of just a few hours.
My hands roam freely, fingers splaying over her waist, sliding down the generous curves of her hips.
She melts into me, pressing closer, her hands finding my hair and curling into the strands, pulling me in like she can’t get enough. Like she feels it too—the constant, persistent craving.
Her breath is warm against my lips when I pull back just enough to look at her. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Oh, I think I do,” she says, teasing, her lips curving into a smirk as her fingers twirl around my hair. I’ll have to smooth it down before our reappearance, or everyone will know.
Fuck it, I want them to know.
Her hands trail from my hair to my chest, pushing gently with a frustrated sigh. “But as much as I’d like to escape behind closed doors, this is not the time.”
The doorbell rings again, and I hear an annoyed, “What’s taking them so long?” from Michelle in the other room.
Followed by, “Oh, honey, even I know what’s taking them so long,” from Barbara.
Morgan cocks a brow. “See what I mean?”
“Fine,” I concede. “But later, I’m making up for every second I’ve had to keep my hands to myself.”
She gives me a quick peck. “I look forward to it. Maybe we can reenact that dream of yours.”
“Again?”
“As you’ve said, it was a very good dream.”
Groaning, I contemplate saying fuck it to game night, throwing Morgan over my shoulder, and running to my office.
But Ted shouting, “Hey, love birds, I’m starving over here,” throws a figurative bucket of ice-cold water on me, deflating both that grand idea and Jiho Jr.
I peel off the wall, take Morgan’s hand again, and walk the remaining six steps to the door, opening it with my free hand.
“Sorry about that,” I mutter to the delivery guy in my best attempt at feigned apologetics. But I keep my eyes on the ground, digging into my back pocket for my wallet. “What’s the total again?”
Morgan clears her throat. “Jiho, it’s not the food.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, flicking my eyes to who I thought was the delivery man with my delicious, greasy-as-fuck sweet and sour chicken.
Only to meet a pair of stern, black eyes, I know all too well.
I freeze. A deep, instinctual kind of panic—one that’s been drilled into me since childhood—claws up my spine. My body straightens on reflex, shoulders snapping back as if this decrepit, frail Korean man is the scariest drill sergeant on the planet. And in a way, he fucking is.
“Harabeoji?” I mumble, the word a little choked.
My fingers tighten around Morgan’s hand like a vice. I need the grounding, need the reminder that I’m not a kid anymore—or even a young man. I don’t have to shrink under his expectations. I’m my own person now. An adult with the freedom to live my fucking life how I want and with whom I want.
I scream that logic silently to myself over and over again. But my chest still locks up like I’m waiting for a lashing. Like I’m a fucking child again, trying my best to find somewhere to hide for the simplest infractions. A bad grade from one of the private academies I attended during summers in Korea. Staying out too late at the PC rooms with my friends. Speaking Korean incorrectly as I learned to balance my bilingual brain.
Morgan squeezes my hand back just as tightly, dragging my frame of mind to her.
Dammit.
Fucking Kelsey tried to get rid of Morgan, and that alone sent me spiraling. But compared to my grandfather? That was a goddamn warm-up. Child’s play.
“Yeogiseo mwo haseyo?” What are you doing here? I ask, my voice strained, throat dry.
Instead of answering, his eyes drop to mine and Morgan’s clasped hands, his expression hardening like he just caught me vandalizing a Buddhist temple.
His face sours, lips pressing into a puckered sneer. With his wrinkled skin and deep-set frown lines, he looks like a giant raisin. A fucking judgmental raisin.
Then, trailing his gaze back up to mine, he gives Morgan a brief, dismissive glance before saying, in clipped Korean, “If you aren’t going to invite me in, at least introduce me to the woman.”
The woman. Not your girlfriend. Not Morgan. Just the woman.
I swallow hard. “Yes, sir,” I say quickly—too quickly—my instinct to obey, still buried deep in my bones.
God, I fucking hate myself right now.
I turn to Morgan, switching back to English. “Morgan, this is my grandfather. You can call him…”
Shit. What should she call him?
The automatic answer is Harabeo-nim, the overly formal title, but a spiteful part of me—the same part that’s sick of always falling in line, of always nodding and bowing and pleasing—wants her to call him Mr. Park. Or hell, by his first name. That might be insolent enough to give the old man a fatal heart attack.
Problem fucking solv—
Nope. Not going down that rabbit hole.
But before I can decide for her, Morgan does it for me.
“ Harabeo-nim, cheoeum boepgetseumnida,” she says smoothly, her tone polite yet cheerful.
My mouth falls open at the same time my grandfather’s eyes widen.
Did she just—?
In Korean?
Not just in Korean—in the ultra-respectful version.
And then she finishes with, “ Aneuro deureoosipsio. ”
Fuck, she’s inviting him inside.
I love her. I love her so goddamn much. Seriously, if she weren’t directing all that respectful, adorably accented Korean at my grandfather, I’d be dealing with another pre-dick-ament right now.
But the last thing I want is the ultimate fucking party shitter stepping foot inside my house.
Morgan gently nudges me aside, widening the door. And when my grandfather shuffles in with the slow, deliberate movements of a man who expects to be accommodated, it’s crystal fucking clear.
I never really had a choice.