I stare, horrified. A maid is touching him. She’s grabbing the heir to the Kang estate by the cheeks. At my house, she’d be fired before she hit the floor.
Donghwa doesn't flinch. He doesn't pull away. Instead, a genuine, soft smile breaks across his face—the kind I usually only see after we’ve had sex.
"Hi, Auntie," he says, his voice warm. He reaches up and covers her hands with his own. "I didn't forget. I’ve been busy."
"Busy starving!" She releases his face to smack his arm, hard. "Look at these wrists! Toothpicks! I knew it. I told Madam, Isaid, 'That boy is in Seoul eating convenience store garbage.' Didn't I say that?"
"She did," Donghwa’s mother agrees happily, reaching for a tea cup. "She’s been marinating short ribs since Tuesday just in case you showed up."
"I made your favorites," Mrs. Park declares, fussing with his collar. "And the spicy radish kimchi. The real kind, not that store-bought trash."
"You're the best, Auntie," Donghwa says, and he leans forward to hug her.
I watch, paralyzed. He’s hugging the help. And not a polite, distant hug—a real squeeze. It’s so casual, so devoid of hierarchy, that my brain can’t process it. It makes me feel ashamed of my own reflex to look through her.
Mrs. Park pulls back, patting his cheek one last time, before she turns her sharp, bird-like gaze on me.
I freeze. "Uh—hello."
"And who is this?" she demands, pointing a finger at me. "Another art student? He looks too healthy to be an art student."
"This is Sihwan," Donghwa says, leaning back and resting his arm on the back of the couch behind me. "He’s my mate."
Mrs. Park’s eyes go wide. Her mouth forms a perfect 'O'.
"Mate?" she whispers. Then, louder: "Mate!"
Before I can bow, before I can offer a handshake or a polite greeting, she lunges.
She grabs my face just like she grabbed Donghwa’s, her hands rough and warm and smelling of sesame oil. She pulls me down and plants a loud, wet, smacking kiss right on my cheek.
"Welcome!" she cries, beaming at me from three inches away. "Oh, finally! Someone to take care of this stubborn boy! You look strong! Good! He needs someone strong!"
I sit there, stunned, my cheek wet, staring into the joyful eyes of a stranger who is looking at me with more genuine warmth than my own mother has in a decade.
"I—I—" I stammer, my face burning.
"Eat!" She shoves a plate of rice cakes into my hands. "You eat too. You need energy to deal with him. He is a handful. Very moody in the mornings."
"I am not," Donghwa protests.
"You are!" Mrs. Park, the sisters, and his mother all shout in unison.
Laughter erupts again. Mrs. Park pats my cheek one more time, gives me a wink, and bustles off to pour the tea.
I hold the plate of rice cakes, staring down at them. My vision is blurring again. I take a bite just to have something to do, just to stop my chin from trembling. It’s sweet. It’s warm.
And I have never, in my entire life, felt more envious of another human being than I do of Kang Donghwa right now.
The rice cake in my mouth tastes like honey and sesame, but I’m having a hard time swallowing it past the lump of anxiety still lodged in my throat. I’m sitting on a couch that's probably four generations old, surrounded by people who have probably never had to check a price tag in their lives, and for some reason, they’re looking at me like I’m the interesting one.
"So, Sihwan," Donghwa’s father says, setting his tea cup down on a saucer with a delicateclinkthat sounds like a gavel banging in a courtroom. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, peering at me over the rim of his glasses. "The name Oh. Are you from the Seoul Ohs? Or perhaps the Busan branch?"
My stomach drops. Here it is. The pedigree check.
I stiffen, my hands clamming up around my own tea cup. This is the part where I have to admit that my "lineage" consists of a very aggressive real estate developer who decided to slap hisname on a chain of neon-lit hotels. I can already hear the polite, dismissive'Ah, I see'that usually follows.
"I—" I start, my voice tight.
