Chapter 28
“I don’t know what else to tell you, Hyung, except follow the goddamn recipe.” John’s face tightens with frustration on the other end of our video call. “And for the sake of my mental state, will you put on some fucking pants?”
I flick my spatula at the screen. “Your recipe is vague as shit. And no—my house, my dress code.”
John exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “I still can’t believe you have a girlfriend because this,” he gestures broadly at me through the screen, “is not game. It’s desperate and cringey as fuck.”
Like second nature, my middle finger shoots up, loud and proud. “Tell me that after I get laid tonight, and you’re stuck with your right—” I cut myself off, shaking my head. “Nope. Not finishing that thought.”
“Exactly. Fuck you.”
“I’m also going to ignore that and ask again—how much is a stupid dash of soy sauce? I need a unit of measurement here.”
John mutters, “A dash is a unit of measurement,” and I just stare at him.
“It means just a little bit, Hyung. Jesus. It’s like you’ve never done this before.”
I narrow my eyes. “Not something this complicated. It’s hard, John.”
“No, it’s not. Any man can do this.” He readjusts his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose like I’m actively draining his will to live. “Grab the thing.”
I glance around. “What thing?”
“The thing. The hard thing with the brown. The—” his voice rises with exasperation, “the fucking soy sauce, Hyung!” He sighs again, deeper this time. “Goddammit. I swear I can’t think when you’re like this.”
I grin. “Sorry, I’m taken.”
Silence. Then, a deadpan, “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” I stir my Frankenstein version of what’s supposed to be a healthier take on orange chicken with one hand, while the other grabs the soy sauce bottle and flips open the cap. “What’s next? I have the hard brown thing in hand.”
“Give it one good pump like this.” He motions with his hand like he’s trying to coax the last bit of ketchup from a bottle.
I follow his instructions, watching as a splash of soy sauce lands in the pan. “That’s it? Are you sure?”
John shrugs. “You can add more if you want. It’s all to taste.” His gaze shifts past the camera, and then, with a sudden shift in tone, he says, “Oh, hey, Morgan. How’s it going?”
I turn, still holding the soy sauce and spatula, the motion catapulting a drop of orange chicken sauce onto the wall. Just like the first time I saw her, my eyes take her in—leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, an amused smile playing on her lips.
“Hey, baby,” I say brightly. “You’re home early.”
“I’m home early,” she mirrors, eyes darting between me and phone-screen John.
“This isn’t what it looks like.”
She chuckles. “I’m hoping it’s not what it sounds like, either. If I hadn’t heard John say soy sauce, I’d be genuinely concerned.” Pushing off the wall, she closes the distance, arms looping around my neck as she whispers in my ear, “You know John can see your ass, right?”
“He knows,” John grumbles. “Please, Morgan, tell him to put on some pants. He won’t listen to me.”
She winks at the phone. “But I don’t want him to.”
John groans. “You two deserve each other. I’m hanging up. In fact, I should’ve hung up a long fucking time ago. Bye.”
“Bye, John,” Morgan calls out, while my hand around the spatula flips him off one last time for good measure. When the screen goes black, she rises onto her toes and kisses me, hungry, though I’m pretty sure it’s not for the maybe-maybe-not-orange-chicken in the pan.
Reaching behind me, I set the soy sauce and spatula on the counter before sliding my hands to her perfect ass, then putting her onto the counter too.
I rest my forehead against hers, breaking our kiss and begging Jiho Jr. to stay the fuck under the apron. He doesn’t want to listen, but something feels off.
“You okay, baby?” I ask.
“Yeah, why?” she says quickly, lunging for another kiss, but my sudden hold on her chin keeps it from landing.
“Because you kiss me like that when we’re in bed. You kiss me like that when we’re in the shower. Sometimes, at the gym and when we’re watching a movie. You even kiss me like that when I’m about to leave the house, which is playing fucking dirty, by the way. But you never kiss me like that when you come home. At least, not until you get some food in you.”
She nips at my fingers. “Maybe I’m trying to change that.”
Settling both hands on either side of her, I lean in, my mouth a hair’s breadth from hers. “What’s the reason for this change?”
“There has to be a reason?” she asks, her legs opening for me. My cock jumps at the invitation and jumps again when she snakes her arms around me, pulling my hips into her. And then grinds.
“Fuck, woman,” I grit between my teeth, ignoring every instinct to strip her naked and fuck her right here on the counter. We haven’t had a culinary rendezvous since that time in her old duplex. The urge is strong, but my love for her and her well-being is stronger. My hands grab firmly onto her hips and hold, stopping those deliciously dangerous movements. Her eyes narrow, locking onto mine as I ask again, “What’s the reason, Morgan?”
She remains silent for a moment, brows tenting, before she throws her arms around my neck, holding me like I’m about to fucking disappear. My arms follow suit, wrapping around her back.
Burying her face in the crook of my neck, she mumbles against my skin, “They pushed up my departure date. I leave on July fifth now.”
My body stiffens, arms instinctively tightening around her. July fifth. Shit, that’s less than three weeks away. My gut clenches, my mind racing to catch up, but I force myself to stay steady. The last thing I want to do is freak the fuck out when she’s teetering on that same edge. I have to be the rock that she needs.
Pulling back just enough to see her face, I brush a hand over her cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice even. “It’s fine. We’ll be fine. Like we’ve been saying this whole time, we’ll make it work.”
Her lips press together, eyes searching mine. “Jiho—”
“No, listen.” Cupping her jaw, I tilt her face toward me. “Korean Thanksgiving—I’ll be there. Christmas, Lunar New Year. Even fucking Valentine’s Day if you want. Then, in March or April, when the cherry blossoms bloom. That one, I’m really not missing.” My mouth curves into a smile, hoping hers will follow, hoping to ease even a fraction of this shitstorm. “You and me, under the blossoms. We’ll make a whole day of it. A week, even. Hell, a fucking month.”
“Can you be away for a month?”
I shrug. “I’m long overdue for a vacation. I’ll have to check with my boss, though.” Pausing for effect, I add, “Oh wait, that’s me, and I say it’s fine.”
Morgan’s expression softens with a small chuckle, but it’s tinged with an all too familiar sadness. “You’re such a dork.”
“But you love me.”
“But I love you.” She sighs, her face falling as her hands run down my chest, fingers clutching the fabric of the apron. “I’m scared, Jiho. What if things change between us? What if they—”
“They won’t, baby.” The words catch at the base of my throat, tight and dry, my own fear not quite wanting them to leave. “I’ll make sure of that. Do you trust me?”
She closes her eyes, breathing me in as if trying to commit this moment—this exact feeling—to memory. I do the same, holding her tighter, thinking that if I keep her close enough, maybe time will slow down—just enough to make this moment last a little longer.
“Yes.” It’s a simple answer, but it’s all I need.
I press a lingering kiss to her lips. “Then we keep doing what we’ve been doing and make the most of the time we have.”
Morgan nods, but her grip on me doesn’t loosen. Neither does mine as our mouths collide, her soft whimper only deepening our kiss. That sound—it’s enough to make me forget everything for a moment. The already ticking countdown in my head. The fact that the woman I love will be thousands of miles away in less than a fucking month.
John’s right about one thing—I’m desperate.
Desperate to remember every single second with Morgan. Every little fucking thing about her. My hands roam over her body like they don’t already know every glorious inch of her by heart.
She’s warm beneath my palms, soft, real.
Here.
Now.
But not for long.
The thought slams into me like a punch to the gut, spurring me on.
Morgan gasps when I break away, only to trail kisses along her jaw to the sensitive spot beneath her ear.
“Jiho…” My name tumbles from her mouth, breathy, needy, and I swear, my name on this woman’s lips is the sweetest fucking sound in the world.
“I’ve got you, baby,” I murmur against her skin, my lips tracing a slow path down her throat. She tilts her head back, giving me more, and I take it, tasting her, savoring the way she shivers against me.
Her legs tighten around my waist, nails dragging up the back of my neck, making my blood run hot. Groaning, I press into her, the hard edge of the counter digging into my thighs, but I don’t give a shit. All I care about is the way she’s holding onto me like I’m the only thing keeping her steady.
Her hands find my face, pulling me back to her lips, and this time, the kiss is different, filled with her own desperation. Her own fear and longing.
“I love you,” she whispers between kisses, her breath mixing with mine, her lips swollen from the way I’ve been devouring them.
I don’t hesitate. “I love you, too.”
Her lips tremble against mine, and for a second, I think she might cry. But then she kisses me again—harder, deeper—like she’s trying to make sure I never forget.
As if I ever fucking could.
I can’t take it anymore, filled to the goddamn brim with the need to be inside her. To remind myself again that she’s mine, and no amount of distance can change that.
My fingers grapple for the waistband of her pants, easily unfastening the buttons and sliding down the zipper. “Lift your hips, baby,” I growl. “I need—”
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Morgan and I jolt from the blaring alarm, the lust clearing from our eyes to find smoke all around us.
Smoke?
To have smoke, there needs to be a fire—
“Shit, the food,” I shout over the noise, racing to the stove. Sure enough, the food’s on fucking fire. “Shit. Baby, get back.” Grabbing a towel, I smother the flames, then move to the smoke detector, fanning the smoke away until the ear-shattering alarm stops.
Morgan moves for the windows, opening them one by one, before returning to my side and looking at the stove. “I thought I smelled something burning.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Hey now, this is your fault, sir. My brain tends to go all mushy when you kiss me. When you start doing other things, it just melts into nothing.”
She doesn’t even know what that did to my ego.
As if the food might spontaneously combust, Morgan carefully walks to the stove, assessing the charred remains of our dinner. “What were you making, anyway?”
“Orange chicken,” I say, sidling up next to her. “I asked John if he could make a recipe for a decent, healthier version.”
“Aw, baby. That’s so sweet. Thank you.”
I gesture to the remains. “For what?”
She shrugs. “It’s the thought that counts.” A dissatisfied grunt rumbles out of my throat. “Fine, maybe I’ll thank John,” she quips, reaching for my phone, “because he’s calling again.”
Before I can snatch it from her hands—because fuck John—Morgan answers. But her brows furrow the moment someone starts talking.
After a minute, she says, “I understand. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask after she ends the call and hands the phone to me.
“That was Jina, not John. Apparently, Kelsey’s replacement bailed last second, and she’s wondering if you could fill in.” She pauses, looking me up and down. “You have a yoga instructor certification? I thought you hated yoga.”
My hand rubs at the back of my neck, slightly embarrassed. “I do hate it, but it’s good to have as a personal trainer. I have other certifications— Wait. You said yes? Baby, why? What about dinner?” I gesture to the still-smoking remains and wince. “Never mind.”
“Can’t say no to your sister, remember? And we can try the recipe again when we get back.” She grabs my hands, gently lacing her fingers with mine. “Come on, the class starts in fifteen minutes.”
I smile so goddamn wide I’m sure I look crazed. Morgan fits seamlessly into my life and family, like a found missing puzzle piece.
Fuck, and now John’s right about another thing—I’m cringey as fuck.
But I already accepted that—a well-established fact at this point.