Chapter 28 Elise #2
As if summoned by the complaint, Joon-gi stumbles up the stairs to the rooftop five minutes later, hair artfully mussed, shirt half-untucked, carrying a bottle of soju like it’s a trophy. His cheeks are already flushed, eyes bright with alcohol and mischief.
“Before anyone says anything,” he announces loud enough for half the restaurant to hear. “I’m not apologizing for being late, I brought my own alcohol, and I’m definitely not splitting the bill.”
Gun snorts. “I see you dressed yourself again.”
“Like usual, Gun-woo, you don’t understand the latest fashions,” he says, gesturing to his button-down shirt and board shorts. “The ladies love a man with confidence.”
“It definitely takes confidence to walk out of the house dressed like that.”
“And yet it’s never stopped women from falling at my feet,” he says cockily. “Now, are we celebrating anything specific, or just the fact that we’re all still breathing?”
“Still breathing works,” I pipe up. “That seems worthy of a celebration in itself.”
We order an absurd amount of food—bulgogi that sizzles on a hot plate, grilled squid that makes Gun’s eyes light up, kimchi pancakes that arrive freshly made.
The banchan appears in waves, small dishes of pickled vegetables and seasoned sprouts crowding the table until there’s barely room for our elbows.
I find myself stealing bites off Gun’s plate without thinking. He lets me, pushing the best pieces of squid toward my side of the table with his chopsticks.
“You have your own food, Goyangi,” he points out, yet his tone is affectionate.
“Yours tastes better.”
“It’s literally the same dish.”
“Disagree.”
Priscilla watches us with barely concealed amusement. “You two are so nauseating.”
“Thank you,” Gun and I say in unison, which only makes her laugh.
Halfway through the meal, Joon-gi’s attention shifts to a table of American tourists near the bar—three young women in slinky dresses, laughing over cocktails.
“Cuties,” he breathes reverently, already half out of his chair.
Gun doesn’t even look up from his food. “Don’t.”
“I have to. It’s my life’s calling.”
“Your calling is getting rejected in three languages?”
“Your faith in me is inspiring.” Joon straightens his shirt, runs a hand through his shaggy hair, and saunters over with the confidence of a man who’s had just enough soju to believe he’s irresistible.
The three of us watch in fascinated horror as he leans against their table, flashing his most charming smile and launching into what is presumably his best pickup line in English.
The tallest woman looks him up and down, says something we can’t hear, and then all three of them burst into laughter.
Not the good kind. More like the kind that makes Joon’s smile falter and his ears go red.
He retreats back to our table in defeat, dropping into his chair with a theatrical sigh while the rest of us lose it.
“What did she say?” Priscilla gasps between a giggle.
“She asked if I was lost and got dressed in the dark,” Joon mumbles into his soju glass.
“Told you,” Gun says with a shake of his head.
“He did try to warn you,” I point out.
“You’re all terrible friends,” Joon declares, but he’s grinning too. “The worst. I’m finding new friends.”
“Good luck with that,” I say, stealing another piece of squid from Gun’s plate.
“It’s not so bad.” Priscilla frowns as she stares at him. “You get points for having swag.”
The laughter flows easier after that, encouraged by soju and the strange comfort of sitting with people who know exactly what kind of monsters we are and choose to pass the banchan anyway.
Joon regales us with increasingly ridiculous dating stories.
Priscilla offers quirky commentary on Korean drinking culture that makes Gun nearly choke on his beer.
“We should start a PI agency,” Joon announces suddenly, eyes bright with bad ideas. “Think about it—we’ve got all the skills. Surveillance, intimidation, breaking and entering...”
“Murder,” Gun adds helpfully.
“That’s more of a specialty service.”
Priscilla raises her glass. “Elise would shoot the clients.”
“Only the annoying ones,” I protest.
“So all of them,” Gun murmurs into his beer.
I respond by elbowing him in the ribs.
The night stretches on, warm and easy and uncomplicated in a way that feels almost foreign. When Gun’s hand finds mine under the table, fingers interlacing automatically, I don’t pull away.
Instead, I lean my head against his shoulder and let myself feel it. This strange, cobbled-together family we’ve built from betrayals and tested loyalties and the kind of love that doesn’t ask permission.
It’s messy and imperfect and probably doomed in a dozen different ways.
But it’s ours.
After dinner at the rooftop bar, we decide to hit up a karaoke lounge.
Disco lights strobe in seizure-inducing patterns, and speakers blast that could wake the dead.
Joon-gi claims the microphone before we’ve even settled into the leather couches, scrolling through options with the gravity of a man choosing his last meal.
“This one,” he declares, selecting what appears to be the most emotionally devastating K-ballad in existence. “This is the song of my soul.”
“Your soul is drunk,” Gun points out from his corner of the couch.
“My soul is always drunk, my friend. It’s what makes me relatable.” Joon clutches the microphone like a lifeline as the opening notes swell. “Now shut up and feel my pain.”
What follows is simultaneously beautiful and ridiculous.
Joon’s voice is actually decent when he’s not trying to be funny, hitting notes that have no business coming from someone who showed up already tipsy.
But the way he gazes intensely at the TV screen, hand pressed dramatically to his chest, ruins any possible sophistication.
Priscilla records the whole thing on her phone, absolutely cackling.
“Your turn,” Joon gasps when the song ends, shoving the microphone at Priscilla and me. “Duet. Make it memorable.”
Priscilla scrolls until she finds something upbeat and vaguely empowering. A pop anthem that’s probably about heartbreak but sounds like a party. She takes the first verse, voice confident but sweet, while I hang back trying to remember the last time I sang anything.
When my part comes in, I lean into the lower register, letting my voice go sultry and rough. Priscilla breaks character halfway through the chorus, laughing so hard she can barely keep up. By the end we’re both just shouting the words and dancing so off-beat, it’s perfect.
“Sexy!” Joon calls out. “Our two American cuties singing like legends.”
“Like legends?” Gun asks. “Elise sounded like nails on a chalkboard.”
“Hey!” I say. “You’re supposed to pretend I’m doing a good job.”
“Goyangi,-ne, I love you. But singing is not your forte.” He grins at me with a cocked brow as if daring me to object.
I don’t. He’s completely right.
I sounded like a cat being drowned.
“Gun, you’re up,” Joon says.
“I don’t sing.”
“Everyone sings. It’s karaoke. That’s literally the point.”
“Pass.”
It takes another round of shots and increasingly creative threats before Gun finally caves, snatching the microphone with a glare that promises retribution. He selects something I’ve never heard before—a rock song, all gravelly vocals and driving bass.
When he starts singing, the entire booth goes silent.
His voice is rough and low, like gravel that’s been crushed into thousands of pieces. He doesn’t look at any of us, simply staring at some fixed point past the TV screen, completely unselfconscious.
It’s raw and real and completely unexpected.
When the song ends, none of us speak for a beat too long.
“Damn,” Priscilla finally whispers. “That was… actually good.”
“Right?” Joon nods sagely. “Leave it to Gun-woo to be an undercover superstar.”
I watch Gun’s face as he quickly shrugs off the praise and returns to his seat.
“You’re always surprising me,” I murmur, propping my chin in my palm.
He meets my eyes, his expression amused. “You keep coming back for more.”
The rest of the night blurs together in the best way—voices going hoarse, bottles emptying, laughter echoing off the mirrored walls.
We cycle through ballads and rock anthems and embarrassing pop songs from a decade ago. Joon attempts a rap and fails spectacularly. Priscilla and Gun do an awkward duet that mostly involves them arguing over who’s off-key.
By the time we stumble out into the neon-lit street, my throat is raw and my face hurts from smiling.
A server had taken a photo of the four of us earlier—Joon making peace signs, Priscilla mid-laugh, Gun’s arm slung casually around my shoulders, me leaning into him with genuine happiness written across my face.
We look like people who belong together.
Like a family that chose each other instead of being born into obligation.
Outside, Seoul hums with late-night energy. Joon disappears into the crowd with a theatrical bow, probably in search of more alcohol or another chance at redemption with tourists. Priscilla hugs me tight before heading toward the subway, her “take care of yourself” muffled against my shoulder.
Then it’s just Gun and me, walking through streets we once prowled as enemies, his hand warm in mine.
“Good night?” he asks as we wait for a taxi.
I think about Priscilla’s bittersweet smile, Joon’s ridiculous energy, Gun’s unexpected voice filling the karaoke room.
About found family and second chances and the strange grace of being fully known and still wanted.
“Yeah,” I say, squeezing his hand. “Really good night.”
The taxi pulls up, and as we slide into the backseat, I catch my reflection in the window. I look content. Not quite perfect and put-all-the-way-together—that’s still too fragile, too new—but content.
Like maybe this is what healing looks like.
Like maybe we’re going to be okay.