Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
KEIRA
Min-jun's kitchen looked like a war zone.
Ingredients covered every available surface — vegetables in neat piles, proteins in various states of preparation, sauces and seasonings arranged in what I assumed was some kind of logical order that only made sense to him.
The air smelled like garlic and ginger and something sweet that made my mouth water.
"Don't look so scared." Min-jun was tying an apron around his waist, his movements practiced and easy, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he watched my expression. "It's just cooking. Nothing's going to explode."
"You say that now." I eyed the mountain of ingredients with open suspicion, crossing my arms over my chest as if the vegetables might attack at any moment. "But I once burned instant ramen. The kind you just add water to. I'm a danger to kitchens everywhere."
"How do you burn instant ramen?" He paused mid-tie, genuine confusion crossing his features as he stared at me, his hands frozen on the apron strings. "You literally just boil water."
"I got distracted." I admitted, feeling my cheeks heat at the memory, my gaze dropping to the floor. "There was a really good song on, and I may have... forgotten the pot existed."
"For how long?" He finished tying his apron, reaching for a second one that he held out toward me, his eyebrows raised expectantly.
"Long enough for all the water to evaporate and the noodles to turn into charcoal." I took the apron reluctantly, fumbling with the strings as they tangled in my fingers. "The smoke alarm went off. My neighbor called the fire department. It was a whole thing."
Min-jun stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, his lips pressed together in a thin line.
Then he burst out laughing — not the polite, controlled laugh I'd heard from him before, but something deep and genuine that made his whole face transform, his dimples appearing in full force as his eyes crinkled at the corners.
"That's the most tragic cooking story I've ever heard." He crossed the kitchen to stand behind me, his hands gentle as he took the apron strings from my fumbling fingers, his chest warm against my back. "Here, let me."
His fingers brushed against my lower back as he tied the apron, and I felt the rose pink bond pulse warmly in my chest. His scent wrapped around me — vanilla and fresh bread, warm and comforting in a way that made something tight in my chest loosen.
"There." He stepped back, surveying his handiwork with a satisfied nod, his hazel eyes sweeping over me approvingly. "Now you look like a real chef."
"I look like a disaster waiting to happen." I smoothed my hands over the apron, trying not to think about how close he'd just been, how my skin still tingled where his fingers had brushed. "Are you sure you want to trust me with your grandmother's recipe? What if I ruin it?"
Something shifted in his expression at the mention of his grandmother — a flicker of old grief, quickly masked by warmth, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
"You won't ruin it. I'll guide you through every step.
" He moved to the counter, gesturing for me to follow with a wave of his hand.
"Besides, my grandmother always said the best food is made with love, not perfection.
She burned plenty of things in her time. "
"Really?" I joined him at the counter, surprised by this revelation, my eyebrows climbing toward my hairline.
"Really." He picked up a knife and handed it to me handle-first, his hazel eyes soft with memory, a fond smile tugging at his lips.
"She once set the kitchen curtains on fire making my grandfather's birthday cake.
Twice. The same curtains." He paused, the smile deepening as he lost himself in the memory.
"My grandfather kept buying new ones. Said it was worth it for her cooking. "
"That's either romantic or a fire hazard." I accepted the knife, testing its weight in my hand, feeling the balance of the blade.
"Both." He agreed, positioning a cutting board in front of me with an array of vegetables, his movements efficient and practiced. "Probably both. Okay, first step — we need to cut these vegetables. Thin slices for the cabbage, rough chunks for the zucchini."
I stared at the vegetables like they might bite me, the knife suddenly feeling very dangerous in my inexperienced hands. "How thin is thin?"
"Like this." He moved behind me, his chest brushing against my back as he reached around to guide my hands, his warmth enveloping me completely.
"Hold the knife here — yes, like that — and let the blade do the work.
You don't need to press hard." His hands were warm over mine, his breath stirring the hair at my temple as he guided me through the first few cuts.
The rose pink bond hummed with contentment, and I found myself relaxing into his presence in a way I hadn't expected.
"Good." His voice was soft, encouraging, close enough to my ear that it sent shivers down my spine. "Just like that. You're a natural."
"I'm absolutely not a natural." I protested, but I was smiling as I continued cutting, the movements becoming easier with each slice. "You're just a good teacher."
"Maybe." He stepped back, giving me space to work, but I could feel his eyes on me — watchful, warm, patient. "Or maybe you're better than you think you are."
We worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the rhythmic thunk of my knife against the cutting board and the sizzle of something Min-jun was starting on the stove. It was peaceful in a way I hadn't expected — domestic and simple and somehow exactly what I needed.
"Keira." Min-jun's voice broke the silence, and I looked up to find him watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read, his head tilted slightly as he studied my face. "Can I ask you something?"
"Depends on the question." I set down my knife, giving him my full attention, something in his tone making me wary.
"You seem different today." He said it carefully, like he was picking his words with precision, his hazel eyes searching my face for something. "Not bad different. Just... different. More relaxed. More..." He paused, searching for the right word, his brow furrowing slightly. "More yourself, maybe?"
The observation hit closer to home than I expected. I looked down at the half-chopped vegetables, trying to organize my thoughts into something coherent, my hands stilling on the cutting board.
"I'm trying." I said it quietly, the admission feeling vulnerable in a way that made my chest tight, my voice smaller than I intended.
"With Hwan and Jin-ho and Tae-min... I kept catching myself doing the thing I always do.
Retreating into my head. Overthinking everything. Looking for reasons to run."
"And now?" He had stopped cooking entirely, his full attention focused on me, his hazel eyes gentle but intent as he turned away from the stove.
"Now I'm trying not to do that." I picked up the knife again, needing something to do with my hands, but I met his gaze as I spoke.
"I spent so long protecting myself — building walls, staying invisible, convincing myself that wanting things was dangerous.
And maybe it kept me safe, but it also kept me.
.. not really living. Not really being myself. "
I took a breath, surprised by how much I wanted him to understand this, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
"So I'm trying to just... be here. Be present.
Let you all see the real me instead of the version I think is safer to show.
" I shrugged, aiming for casual but probably missing by a mile.
"It's terrifying, honestly. If I keep sabotaging myself, keep staying in my head, you'll never actually know me. You'll just know the walls."
Min-jun was quiet for a long moment, something soft and wondering crossing his features, his eyes glistening slightly. Then he crossed the kitchen in three strides, cupped my face in his hands, and pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead.
"Thank you." He murmured the words against my skin, his lips warm, his hands steady on my cheeks, his thumbs brushing away tears I hadn't realized were forming. "For trying. For letting us see you."
"You might regret that." I managed, my voice slightly unsteady from the unexpected tenderness, a watery laugh escaping me. "The real me is kind of a mess. I categorize my socks by thickness. I cry at dish soap commercials."
"I know." He pulled back, smiling down at me with that warm, fond expression that made my chest ache, his dimples appearing in full force. "Tae-min told us about the socks. And the puppy commercial."
"Of course he did." I groaned, dropping my head in exaggerated defeat, but I was smiling too. "That little traitor."
"He was very excited about it." Min-jun's hands slid from my face, one of them finding mine and squeezing gently before letting go, his touch lingering. "Said you were 'weird in the best way.' I think that was a direct quote."
"He would say that." I shook my head, but warmth was spreading through my chest, the tension easing from my shoulders. "He builds shrines to ramen cups. He doesn't get to judge."
"No judgment here." Min-jun returned to the stove, stirring something that smelled incredible, his movements easy and practiced. "I think weird is wonderful. Normal is boring."
"That's exactly what Tae-min said." I resumed my chopping, feeling lighter than I had in years, the knife moving more confidently now. "Are you all secretly the same person?"
"We've spent six years living in each other's pockets." He glanced over his shoulder at me, amusement dancing in his eyes, his lips quirking into a smile. "Some overlap is inevitable. Bring those vegetables here when you're done — we're ready for the next step."