He wakes before the sun does.
The room is still blue with early morning quiet, the kind that feels suspended between night and responsibility. For a few seconds, he lies there without moving, listening to the faint hum of the refrigerator in the next room and the distant echo of a delivery truck somewhere down the street.
His body has always known when to wake.
Long before alarms.
Long before obligations.
He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling.
Last night flickers briefly through his mind.
Headlights.
A horn.
A wrist in his grip....smaller than he expected, colder than it should have been.
He exhales slowly.
"She'll be fine," he mutters under his breath.
He doesn't dwell.
Dwelling never helped anyone.
He sits up and runs a hand through his hair before swinging his legs off the bed.
The apartment is modest, but clean. Everything has a place. A small dining table sits near the window. Two chairs. Only one ever used. The curtains are plain but neatly pressed.
Near the kitchen counter sits a framed photograph.
He pauses in front of it automatically.
A woman with flour on her cheek, laughing at something off-camera. Her eyes are warm. Kind.
His mother.
He presses his thumb lightly against the edge of the frame, not touching the glass.
"Morning," he murmurs.
Then he moves.
He showers quickly.
The water runs warm but not luxurious. The apartment's heater has its limits.
He dresses simply.
Black T-shirt.
Faded jeans.
Apron folded carefully over his arm.
He grabs his keys and steps outside as the sky begins to pale.
The street is quiet at this hour.
Shops still shuttered.
Sidewalks half-empty.
The air cool and honest.
He unlocks the kitchen and steps inside.
It greets him with faint leftover warmth from yesterday.
This place has been his for years.
Not inherited.
Not gifted.
Earned.
He switches on the lights.
The fluorescent buzz fills the silence.
He ties the apron around his waist and immediately begins.
Cooking is not passion for him.
It is steadiness.
Rice is washed until the water runs clear.
Chicken is trimmed with practiced precision.
Ginger is sliced thin enough to release flavor without overwhelming.
The knife moves rhythmically against the board.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
Steam rises as broth begins to simmer.
The scent slowly fills the kitchen.
He inhales.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to confirm balance.
Salt should carry.
Ginger should lift.
Nothing should shout.
His mother used to say:
"If the food is calm, people will feel calm."
He didn't understand that as a child.
He does now.
By late morning, customers trickle in.
Office workers in pressed shirts.
Students with tired eyes.
Delivery drivers who eat fast and leave faster.
He greets them all with the same steady nod.
He remembers preferences without trying.
Less oil.
Extra scallions.
No cilantro.
He listens.
That's what makes food personal.
Listening.
Around noon, Min-jun pushes through the door without knocking.
Min-jun smells like sugar and yeast, permanently dusted in flour from his bakery down the block.
"You look terrible," Min-jun says cheerfully.
"Good morning."
Min-jun leans against the counter. "Long night?"
He shrugs. "Almost watched someone get run over."
Min-jun straightens. "What?"
"She stepped into traffic. I pulled her back."
Min-jun's eyebrows climb. "And?"
"And nothing."
"That's it? No dramatic slow motion? No thank-you tears?"
He resumes chopping scallions.
"She was drunk."
Min-jun grins slowly. "Was she pretty?"
He doesn't answer immediately.
Not because he's considering.
Because the image returns too clearly.
Her coat slightly askew.
Hair loosened.
Eyes unfocused but sharp underneath.
"She didn't look like she belonged here," he says instead.
"That's not an answer."
He wipes the blade clean with a cloth.
"She looked like someone who hasn't slept properly in years."
Min-jun pauses.
That wasn't what he expected.
"You're weird," Min-jun says finally.
"Probably."
Min-jun laughs. "Did she at least get your name?"
He thinks back.
The taxi door.
Her asking.
Him deflecting.
"No."
Min-jun groans dramatically. "You're hopeless."
"She was fine."
Min-jun studies him for a moment.
"You gave her your food, didn't you?"
He doesn't answer.
Min-jun smirks. "You always do that."
He shrugs.
"It's just food."
Min-jun shakes his head. "No, it's not."
Across the city, she is not thinking it's "just food."
She sits at her desk with a tablet in front of her, unread emails glowing softly.
Her tongue presses lightly against the inside of her mouth.
The memory answers.
Salt.
Ginger.
Warmth.
It's faint now.
But real.
She closes her eyes briefly.
Three years.
Three years of silence.
And one bowl changed it.
Her assistant steps into the office quietly.
"You wanted the address of a small shop on Seongnam Street?"
She doesn't look up immediately.
"Yes."
"We found one matching your description. Family-owned. Minimal advertising. Open late."
Her fingers tighten around her pen.
"Send it."
The assistant hesitates. "May I ask..."
"No."
The assistant nods and leaves.
She stares at the address on her screen.
Simple.
Unremarkable.
Her pulse increases slightly.
This is irrational.
It was a coincidence.
A neurological anomaly.
Alcohol interacting with stress.
There are explanations.
But none of them erase the taste.
Back at the shop, the afternoon rush settles.
He wipes down counters.
Stacks bowls.
Rinses utensils with mechanical efficiency.
He doesn't expect her to come back.
Women like her don't.
They move in different worlds.
His life is measured in ingredients and closing hours.
Not headlines.
He leans against the counter briefly and glances toward the window.
The street is busy now.
Cars passing.
Pedestrians crossing.
Life moving forward.
For no reason at all, he wonders if she ate.
He shakes the thought away.
It doesn't matter.
In a black sedan parked across the street, she watches the shop through tinted glass.
Her assistant offered to accompany her.
She refused.
This is not business.
This is not acquisition.
This is curiosity.
He stands behind the counter, sleeves rolled again.
Focused.
Unaware.
A customer laughs at something he says.
His mouth curves briefly.
Unforced.
Her chest tightens unexpectedly.
She didn't imagine him differently.
But seeing him here, in his element, makes something shift.
He is not trying to impress anyone.
He is not trying to survive anyone.
He simply exists.
She grips the door handle.
She could walk in.
Ask directly.
Demand explanation.
But that feels wrong.
Last night was accidental.
Walking in now makes it intentional.
And intention means admitting she wants something.
She hasn't wanted something like this in years.
The engine hums quietly.
"Drive," she says.
The car moves.
He glances toward the window just as it pulls away.
A faint crease forms between his brows.
Then disappears.
He returns to the stove.
She leans back against the seat.
Her heart beats faster than it should.
Why did she leave?
Because she is not ready.
Because if she walks inside, she risks tasting again.
And if she tastes again, she will want more.
And wanting means vulnerability.
She stares at her reflection in the window.
"I'll go tomorrow," she whispers.
This time not as hesitation.
As decision.
She returns the next evening.
Not immediately after work.
Not impulsively.
She changes first.
Removes the sharp lines of corporate armor.
Trades structured tailoring for something softer, less recognizable.
Her assistant watches carefully but says nothing when she leaves early.
This is not on the calendar.
This is not strategic.
This is personal.
The car stops one street away.
"I'll walk," she says.
Again.
But this time, she isn't unsteady.
The night is clear.
Cool.
She approaches the small storefront with deliberate calm.
The warm glow spills onto the sidewalk just as it did the night before.
Her pulse climbs anyway.
Inside, he's working.
Focused.
A customer laughs at something he says.
He doesn't notice her at first.
She steps in quietly.
The door chime rings.
His head lifts.
For half a second, there is no recognition.
Then....
There is.
Not shock.
Not awe.
Just understanding.
"You didn't step into traffic tonight," he says.
It's the first thing out of his mouth.
She almost smiles.
"No."
He studies her briefly.
She's sober now.
Composed.
Different.
But her eyes are the same.
Sharp.
Unsettled.
"You look better," he adds.
"You look the same."
He returns to the stove.
"That's usually the goal."
She walks further inside.
Takes in the space more clearly this time.
The worn wooden tables.
The slight crack in one tile near the counter.
The scent of broth thick in the air.
She chooses a seat without asking.
He doesn't question it.
He finishes plating a bowl and hands it to a waiting customer.
Then wipes his hands and faces her fully.
"So," he says.
She tilts her head slightly.
"So?"
"You found the place."
"I walk often."
He looks unconvinced.
She doesn't elaborate.
There's a brief silence.
Customers fill the space, but somehow the air around them feels separate.
She studies him.
"You cook every night?"
"Unless I close."
"That wasn't what I asked."
A faint flicker of amusement passes over his expression.
"Yeah. Every night."
She nods once.
Her hands rest lightly on the table.
Steady.
Controlled.
But her pulse is not.
"I ate it," she says finally.
His brows draw together slightly.
"The soup."
He waits.
"And?"
Her throat tightens unexpectedly.
This is harder than expected.
"It tasted."
The words feel fragile.
Almost ridiculous.
But she doesn't look away.
He doesn't react immediately.
"Tasted?" he repeats carefully.
"Yes."
He studies her face.
He isn't mocking her.
He isn't dismissing it.
He's thinking.
"You said you couldn't."
"I couldn't."
"And now?"
She presses her tongue lightly to the inside of her mouth.
The faint memory responds.
"Now I can. A little."
He leans back slightly against the counter.
"Maybe you were just hungry."
"No."
Her answer is immediate.
Certain.
Something in her tone makes him pause.
"Three years," she says quietly.
"I haven't tasted anything in three years."
The kitchen noise fades around them.
He absorbs that slowly.
"That's not normal," he says.
"I know."
He folds his arms loosely.
"And you're sure it wasn't the alcohol?"
She shakes her head.
"I tried again this morning."
"And?"
"Nothing."
That makes him blink.
He considers the stove behind him.
The broth simmering gently.
"Maybe it was timing."
"Maybe," she agrees.
But they both know she doesn't believe that.
He turns back to the stove and lifts the lid from the pot.
Steam rolls upward.
"Sit," he says.
"I am sitting."
"Stay seated."
There's something grounding in the way he speaks.
She doesn't argue.
He ladles broth into a bowl.
Adds rice.
Slices chicken with careful precision.
Sprinkles scallions across the top.
This time, he carries it to her deliberately.
Sets it down.
Not as charity.
Not as accident.
Intention.
"Eat," he says.
Her breath slows.
This is different.
Not leftover.
Not given casually.
Prepared for her.
She lifts the spoon.
Hesitates only a fraction.
And takes a bite.
—
The world sharpens again.
Cleaner.
Brighter.
The salt spreads more clearly this time.
The ginger follows with warmth that curls gently at the back of her throat.
Her eyes widen slightly.
She swallows.
Takes another spoonful.
This time, she doesn't freeze.
She lets it happen.
He watches her carefully.
Not smiling.
Not tense.
Just attentive.
"It's stronger," she murmurs.
"I adjusted the salt."
"You knew."
"I guessed."
She lowers the spoon slowly.
Her fingers tremble slightly.
"You didn't ask why."
He shrugs.
"You said three years."
That's enough explanation for him.
She studies him.
"You're not curious?"
"I am."
"And?"
"You'll tell me if you want to."
The simplicity of that response hits harder than she expects.
No pressure.
No digging.
Just space.
Space feels dangerous.
Because space invites attachment.
She finishes half the bowl.
Sets the spoon down.
Her chest feels warmer now.
Fuller.
"Why didn't you tell me your name?" she asks.
He dries his hands with a towel.
"You didn't ask last night."
"I did."
"You were drunk."
"And now?"
He meets her gaze evenly.
"It's Jaewon."
The name settles somewhere deep.
"Jaewon," she repeats softly.
"And you?"
She hesitates.
He doesn't seem like someone who follows headlines.
But the world has a way of leaking into small spaces.
"Does it matter?" she echoes from last night.
His mouth curves faintly.
"Fair enough."
She stands slowly.
The bowl is half-empty.
"I'll come back," she says.
It's not dramatic.
Not a promise heavy with meaning.
But it is deliberate.
He nods once.
"Then I'll cook."
That should feel simple.
But it doesn't.
It feels like an agreement neither of them fully understands yet.
She walks toward the door.
Pauses.
Turns back slightly.
"Thank you," she says.
"For pulling."
He doesn't respond immediately.
Then:
"Watch the road."
She smiles this time.
Small.
Real.
And leaves.
He stands there for a moment after the door closes.
Then shakes his head lightly and returns to the stove.
But his movements are slightly less mechanical now.
More aware.
He ladles broth carefully.
Balances the seasoning.
And for reasons he doesn't examine, he sets aside a portion before closing.
Just in case.
Outside, she stands on the sidewalk longer than necessary.
Her pulse is steady.
Her tongue still holds the echo of ginger.
Three years of silence.
Broken twice in two nights.
That is not coincidence.
That is not stress.
That is something else.
And she wants more.
Not aggressively.
Not recklessly.
Just steadily.
The hunger is quiet.
But it is growing.