I wait for it. I wait for the frown. I wait for the lecture on how Alphas should mate with Omegas to preserve the bloodline, or how two Alphas in one house is a recipe for disaster. I wait for him to ask who my father is, what my net worth is, what my grades are—the standard resume check that happens every time I step foot in a house like this.
Donghwa’s father just nods, looking satisfied.
"Good," he says decisively, giving my shoulder another squeeze. "Donghwa could use someone to go toe-to-toe with him for once. He’s been walking all over everyone since he was in diapers. Needs a challenge."
I stare at him. "Sir?"
"Don't just stand there in the foyer!" He waves a hand toward the living room, dismissing my confusion entirely. "Come in, come in. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Are you hungry? You look like you could eat. Donghwa, take his bag. Don't be rude."
"I got it," Donghwa sighs, stepping forward to grab my bag again.
I let him take it, too stunned to protest. I watch his parents usher us into the massive living room, chattering about dinner and heating pads, and I feel... unmoored.
No interrogation? No background check? No subtle digs about my dyed hair or my slightly-too-flashy watch?
They didn't ask who my family was. They didn't ask what my father does. They didn't ask if I’m "good enough." They just... let me in.
"Come, come!"
Donghwa’s mother doesn't wait for an answer. She hooks one arm through Donghwa’s and the other through mine, locking us into a maternal pincer maneuver that is surprisingly strong for a woman wearing that much silk.
I stumble a step, startled by the contact. My own mother treats physical touch like a transaction—a stiff hug for a press photo, a pat on the arm if I win a trophy. This woman is towing me against her side like I’m a stray puppy she’s already decided to keep.
"We have time before the food is ready," she declares, marching us down the hallway. "And I want to hear everything. Donghwa tells us absolutely nothing over the phone. It’s like pulling teeth with this boy. 'I’m fine, Mom.' 'School is fine, Mom.' You’d think he was in a secret service program instead of art school."
"I tell you the important things," Donghwa grumbles from her other side, looking resigned to being manhandled.
"You told us you bought a motorcycle via a speeding ticket that got mailed to the house," one of the sisters chimes in from behind us.
I feel a sharp elbow in my ribs. I look down to see the sister—Dohwa? Dohwi? I can’t tell them apart yet—grinning up at me conspiratorially.
"You have to spill," she whispers loudly. "Has he been a menace? Is he terrorizing the department? We need details."
"I bet he is," the other sister adds, popping up on my other side. "He was a tyrant in high school. Please tell me you havedirt on him. We need new material for sibling blackmail. The motorcycle incident is getting stale."
Donghwa throws a glare over his shoulder, his lip curling in a sneer that lacks any actual heat. "You two are vultures. Just hungry for gossip."
"Obviously," the first sister counters, unbothered. "What else are big sisters for? Humbling you is our full-time job."
I feel the corner of my mouth twitch, and then, without my permission, a real smile breaks through. It feels weird on my face—unpracticed in this kind of setting. Usually, my smiles at family gatherings are plastered on, held until my cheeks ache. This one just... happens.
"I might have a few stories," I admit, glancing at Donghwa’s annoyed profile. "He does have a reputation."
"Traitor," Donghwa mutters, though he doesn't pull his arm away from his mother.
We’re steered into a sitting room that looks like it belongs on the cover ofArchitectural Digest, but again, it’s confusingly comfortable. The ceilings are vaulted, letting in the late afternoon mountain light through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a garden that looks more like a private forest.
But my eyes are drawn immediately to the piano.
It’s a grand piano, sitting in the bay window, bathed in golden light. It’s not a shiny, black lacquer showpiece like the one in my parents' lobby that nobody is allowed to touch. This one is a warm, matte wood, clearly antique, with sheet music messy and scattered across the stand. It looks loved. It looks used.
"Sit, sit," Donghwa’s mother commands, pulling us toward a massive, cloud-like cream sofa that faces the view.
She pulls Donghwa down next to her, and I take the spot on his other side, feeling the dip of the cushions. The sisters sprawl onto the adjacent armchairs with a lack of grace that would give my etiquette coach a stroke, kicking their legs over the armrests.
Donghwa’s mother doesn't let go. She keeps Donghwa’s hand clasped in her lap, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles in a rhythmic, soothing motion. I stare at it. It’s such a casual intimacy. If I held my mother’s hand like that, she’d ask me if my palms were sweating or if I needed money.
"So," she starts, beaming between the two of us, her eyes sparkling with genuine delight. "Tell me about the semester. The classes? The professors? Are you eating well? Is the apartment too cold?"
