"You would," I agree, grinning at him. "You’d be like, 'If you don't understand the hydration, you don't deserve it.'"
The table erupts in laughter again. Even Donghwa cracks a smile, shaking his head.
As the meal goes on, I feel a strange, warm sensation spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the spicy food. They keep pulling me in. They don't just tolerate my presence; they actively make space for me.
When they talk about a trip they took to Italy last summer, they don't brag about the hotels. They ask if I’ve been. When I say no, instead of looking down on me, Dohwi immediately starts listing the best gelato places Ihaveto try when I go, making me promise to write them down.
When the topic shifts to movies, they ask my opinion on the latest blockbusters. When I admit I like mindless action movies over the arthouse stuff Donghwa probably prefers, nobody sneers. His dad just launches into a passionate defense ofDie Hard.
It’s disorienting.
I’m sitting here, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m waiting for someone to ask about my net worth. I’m waiting for someone to make a snide comment about "new money" versus "old money." I’m waiting to feel like the outsider, the tacky accessory Donghwa brought home to piss off his parents.
But the shoe never drops.
I look around the table. Donghwa is arguing with his mom about whether or not he needs a haircut. His dad is listening to Dohwa talk about her law firm with genuine pride. And every few minutes, one of them looks at me—not to judge, but just to make sure I’m still smiling, to make sure my water glass is full, to make sure I’m part of the joke.
I realize, with a sudden, piercing clarity, that I could be anyone right now.
I could be broke. I could be a nobody. I could have zero connections, no "Oh! Paradise" empire behind me, no fancy car outside. And they would still be piling japchae onto my plate. They would still be asking me if I like pineapple on pizza.
They don't care aboutOh Sihwan, the heir. They care aboutSihwan, the guy who makes Donghwa smile.
My throat gets tight again. I look down at my bowl, blinking rapidly. This is it, isn't it? This is what people talk about inbooks. A home. Not a house, not an estate, not a portfolio asset. A home.
I’ve spent my whole life trying to be loud enough, rich enough, and successful enough to earn a seat at the table. And these people just pulled out a chair and told me to sit down because I looked hungry.
"You okay?"
Donghwa’s voice is low, meant only for me. I look up. He’s leaning close, his shoulder pressing against mine. He’s not looking at his family; he’s looking right at me, his dark eyes scanning my face with that intensity that usually makes me squirm.
Right now, it just makes me feel seen.
"Yeah," I whisper, and for the first time all night, my voice is completely steady. "Yeah. I’m good."
I reach under the table, finding his hand on his thigh. I lace my fingers through his, squeezing tight. He squeezes back instantly, his thumb brushing over my knuckles, grounding me.
"Good," he murmurs. Then, louder, he addresses the table. "Alright, stop feeding him. If he eats any more rice cakes, he’s going to sink in the pool on Monday."
"Nonsense!" Mrs. Park cries from the kitchen doorway. "He’s a growing boy! He needs strength!"
"For what?" Dohwi wiggles her eyebrows. "What does he need strength for, Donghwa?"
Donghwa chokes on his water. I turn bright red. His father bursts out laughing.
Yeah. I’m really good.
Dinner finally winds down, ending with Mrs. Park threatening to pack me a Tupperware container the size of a suitcase to take back to campus. After a round of goodbyes that takes twenty minutes because his mother keeps hugging me, Donghwa finally extricates us.
"We’re going upstairs," he announces, grabbing my wrist. "Before my sisters decide to break out the baby albums."
"I want to see the baby albums!" I protest as he drags me toward the staircase.
"No, you don't," he says grimly. "There are naked bathtub photos. You are never seeing those."
He leads me up the grand staircase, past the gallery of ancestors, and down a long, quiet hallway on the second floor. The house is silent up here, the thick rugs swallowing our footsteps.
"This is it," he says, stopping in front of a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. "The lair."
