"I want you to have something of mine." He said it simply, but the weight behind the words made my chest ache, his voice rough with sincerity. "Not just music or performances or the version of me that exists for cameras. Something that's actually mine." I stared at him, overwhelmed by the gift he was offering — not just a recipe, but a piece of his history, his grief, his love for someone he'd lost.
"I don't know what to say." I admitted, my voice thick, the words feeling inadequate.
"You don't have to say anything." He turned back to the stove, but I caught the way his ears had gone pink, the way his hands trembled slightly. "Just help me stir. The noodles need to go in soon."
We cooked together for the next hour, and I learned more about Min-jun in that time than I had in all our previous interactions combined. I learned that he hummed while he cooked — old songs, mostly, things his grandmother used to sing. I learned that he was meticulous about seasoning, tasting constantly and adjusting until everything was perfect. I learned that he laughed easily when I made mistakes — like when I accidentally added too much gochugaru and we had to balance it out with sugar.
"You're not hopeless." He declared as we finally ladled the finished budae-jjigae into bowls, steam rising in fragrant clouds, his smile wide and genuine. "You're actually quite good at this. With practice."
"You're being generous." I accepted the bowl he handed me, inhaling deeply and feeling my stomach growl in response, the aroma making my mouth water. "But I'll take it."
"I'm being honest." He guided me to the small table in the corner of the kitchen, pulling out a chair for me before taking his own seat across from me, his movements courteous and attentive. "Try it. Tell me what you think."
I took a careful bite, and flavor exploded across my tongue — spicy and savory and sweet all at once, warming me from the inside out. It tasted like comfort. Like home. Like something I hadn't known I was missing until it was right in front of me.
"Oh my god." I took another bite, then another, unable to stop myself, practically moaning around my spoon. "This is incredible. This is the best thing I've ever eaten."
"It's good, right?" He was watching me eat with obvious pleasure, his own bowl momentarily forgotten, his eyes bright with satisfaction. "My grandmother's secret is the cheese. Most people don't add enough, but she always said?—"
"That cheese makes everything better?" I guessed around a mouthful, too hungry to worry about manners.
"That food should make you feel loved." He corrected gently, finally taking a bite of his own, his expression softening as the familiar flavors hit his tongue. "Cheese is just how she showed it."
We ate in comfortable silence, the simple domesticity of the moment wrapping around me like a warm blanket. It struck me suddenly how normal this felt — sitting in a kitchen, sharing a meal, existing in someone's space without performance or pretense.
"This is nice." I said it without thinking, then felt my cheeks heat at how simple it sounded, how inadequate. "I mean — this. The cooking. The eating. Just... being."
"It is nice." Min-jun agreed, his voice soft, his hazel eyes warm as they met mine across the table. "I don't get to do this often. Cook for someone who isn't the pack, I mean. Share this with someone new."
"Why not?" I set down my spoon, genuinely curious, leaning forward slightly.
"Because cooking is personal for me." He met my eyes across the table, something vulnerable in his gaze, his hands stilling on his bowl. "It's how I take care of people. How I show love. And for a long time, I wasn't sure I'd ever have someone outside the pack to share that with."
The rose pink bond pulsed warmly in my chest, and I felt something through it — hope, tenderness, a cautious sort of joy.
"Min-jun." I reached across the table and took his hand, feeling his fingers interlace with mine, warm and strong. "Thank you. For sharing this with me. For trusting me with something so important."
"Thank you for being here." He squeezed my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm, his touch gentle but sure. "For trying. For letting us in."
We sat like that for a moment, hands linked across the table, the bond humming between us. Then Min-jun's expression shifted, something more intense entering his gaze, his eyes darkening.
"Can I kiss you?" He asked it softly, almost hesitantly, like he wasn't sure of the answer, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes." I said it without hesitation, surprising us both with my certainty. I knew letting them kiss me was fast…but at the same time…these men where my soulmates…so was it really that fast?
He stood from his chair, rounding the table to pull me to my feet, his movements deliberate and sure. His hands found my waist, drawing me close, and for a moment he just looked at me — like he was memorizing my face, like he wanted to remember this exact moment, his eyes tracing every feature.
Then he kissed me.
Min-jun kissed like he cooked — patient, thorough, attentive to every detail. His lips moved against mine with deliberate care,learning what I liked, adjusting his approach based on every small sound I made. Where Tae-min had been eager and Hwan had been joyful and Jin-ho had been consuming, Min-jun was gentle. Nurturing. Like he was trying to take care of me even in this.
I melted into him, my hands sliding up his chest to his shoulders, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath my palms. His scent surrounded me — vanilla and fresh bread, comfort and safety and home. He deepened the kiss slowly, his tongue sliding against mine, and I made a sound that seemed to spark something in him. His hands tightened on my waist, pulling me closer, and I felt the careful control he always maintained begin to slip.
"Keira." He breathed my name against my lips, his voice rough in a way I hadn't heard from him before, his chest heaving. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Show me." I whispered back, my fingers curling into his shirt, and watched his eyes darken further.
He kissed me harder, his restraint cracking, and I discovered that underneath all that gentle caretaking was something fiercer. Something hungrier. His hands slid under my shirt, palms warm against my skin, and I arched into his touch with a gasp.
