"It really isn't," Donghwa argues, picking up his chopsticks and stabbing a piece of beef with unnecessary violence.
"It is!" his father chimes in from the head of the table, looking delighted. He’s abandoned his cardigan for the meal, sleeves rolled up, looking less like a high-powered legal scholar and more like a dad who’s just happy to have a full table. "Remember when he was six? He told us he was running away to live in the garden shed because Dohwa stole his crayons. He packed a bag."
"I remember!" His mother claps her hands, laughing. "He packed three pairs of socks and a bag of dried squid. He lasted twenty minutes before he came back inside because he missed the cat."
I choke on my rice. I look at Donghwa—six-foot-three, tattooed, smells like a winter storm, currently the most intimidating Alpha on campus—and try to picture him pouting in a garden shed with a bag of dried squid.
"I was making a statement," Donghwa defends himself, though the tips of his ears are turning a suspicious shade of pink. "It was a protest against tyranny."
"It was a tantrum," Dohwi corrects, dropping a piece of egg roll onto his rice bowl. "Eat your egg, grumpy."
"I don't want the egg."
"Eat. The. Egg."
Donghwa scowls, looking for all the world like a sullen toddler, but he picks up the egg and eats it.
I watch them, my own chopsticks hovering halfway to my mouth, and I feel a weird, warm pressure building in my chest. It’s loud. It’s chaotic. Everyone is talking over everyone else, plates are clinking, and the air is thick with the smell of braised meat and unadulterated affection.
It’s the polar opposite of dinner at the Oh household. My dinners are quiet affairs. The only sounds are the scrape of silver on china and my father asking about quarterly projections. If I act out, I get a lecture on dignity. If I pout, I get sent to my room.
Here, Donghwa pouts, and his family just loves him harder for it.
"Sihwan, settle this," Dohwi demands, pointing a chopstick at her brother across the table. "Does pineapple belong on pizza? Donghwa says it’s a culinary abomination, but I say the acidity cuts the fat."
I blink, mid-chew. I was expecting a question about the current stock market trends or maybe my stance on fiscal policy. Instead, I’m being asked to adjudicate a pizza topping debate.
"Uh," I swallow, glancing at Donghwa. He’s looking at me with a bored expression, but there’s a flicker of challenge in his eyes. "I mean... I like it? The sweetness works."
"Ha!" Dohwi slams her hand on the table triumphantly. "See! Taste! He has taste! You’re just a snob, Donghwa."
"He has terrible taste," Donghwa drawls, stealing a piece of braised beef from my bowl before I can stop him. "He listens to EDM at eight in the morning."
"EDM is good for cardio!" I protest, batting his hand away with my own chopsticks.
"EDM is noise pollution," his father chimes in, but he’s smiling. He looks at me, eyes crinkling behind his glasses. "But I have to agree with Sihwan on the pineapple. It’s refreshing."
"Ugh," Donghwa mutters to his father.
"So, Sihwan," his mother interjects, smoothly bypassing the pizza war as she uses her own spoon to scoop a massive helping of japchae onto my rice. I stare at it. In my house, you serve yourself. Putting food on someone else’s rice is intimate. It’s... mothering. "Donghwa tells us you’re focusing on Brand Management. Is that what you enjoy? Or is it just the sensible choice?"
I stiffen instinctively. This is usually the trap. This is where adults ask if I’m doing it for the family business, and if I sayanything other than "Yes, I live to serve the corporation," I get a lecture.
"I... well, my father wants me to take over the marketing division eventually," I say, reciting the script. "So it makes sense to—"
"No, no," she interrupts gently, waving a hand. "I didn't ask what your father wants. I asked ifyouenjoy it."
I pause. The table goes quiet, but not in a heavy way. They’re just... waiting. Listening.
"I like the psychology of it," I admit slowly, testing the waters. "Figuring out why people want things. How to make them feel something just by looking at a logo or a color palette. It’s... it’s like a puzzle."
"A puzzle," his father repeats, nodding thoughtfully. "That’s a wonderful way to put it. It’s distinct from the artistic side, isn't it? Donghwa creates the image, but you create thedesirefor it."
"Exactly," I say, surprised he gets it so quickly. Usually, people just call it 'sales.'
"That’s a talent," Dohwa says, leaning her chin on her hand. "Donghwa can paint a masterpiece, but he couldn't sell water to a man in a desert. He’d just stare at the guy until he felt awkward and left."
"I would not," Donghwa argues, though he’s busy piling more kimchi onto my plate.
