The blankets had formed a cocoon around her head, blocking out the cruel, judgmental light of day. Ha-neul lay motionless inside her fortress of shame, praying for either death or teleportation to a dimension where last night hadn't happened.
Her phone said 10:47 AM.
She had never slept this late in her life. Not in Seoul, not even during her darkest days of business failure. Her body apparently had decided that humiliation required extra rest.
The memories came back in fragments. Soju. Lots of soju. Sitting on his deck. Talking about Jun-ho. Talking about the business. Pointing at him and saying something about him being—she squeezed her eyes shut—perfect. Oh God. She had called him perfect. To his face.
And then nothing. A complete blank from somewhere around the third bottle onward.
But she was in her own bed. Her shoes were neatly placed by the door. Water and painkillers waited on her nightstand. A text on her phone: You fell asleep before I could answer. Maybe next time. — JW
He had brought her home. At midnight. In front of her father.
She wanted to die.
A knock on her door shattered her paralysis.
"Ha-neul-ah?" Her mother's voice, muffled through the wood. "You're awake? I heard you moving."
No, Ha-neul thought. I'm dead. This is the afterlife. Go away.
"Ha-neul-ah!"
"I'm fine!" The words came out like a frog being stepped on. She cleared her throat. "I'm fine, Omma. Just tired."
The door opened anyway.
Her mother stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between concern and barely suppressed amusement. She took one look at Ha-neul's blanket cocoon and her eyebrows climbed toward her hairline.
"Tired," she repeated. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Really?" Her mother walked in and sat on the edge of the bed, uninvited. "Because your father and I had a very interesting night. We woke up at midnight—which is not a time we usually wake up, by the way—and heard a knock on the door. Your father answered it with a baseball bat, because that's the kind of man you marry, apparently."
Ha-neul pulled the blanket higher. "Omma—"
"And there he was. The restaurant owner. The quiet one. Holding you in his arms like some kind of romantic drama, except you were snoring and your mouth was open and at one point you mumbled something about—how did he put it?—'the noodles are stealing my shoes.'"
The blanket did nothing to hide Ha-neul's groan.
"Oh yes." Her mother was definitely enjoying this now. "Your father wanted to fight him. I had to hold him back. There was a baseball bat involved. And there you were, dead to the world, smelling like a soju factory, while this poor man explained that you had shown up at his house with three bottles and demanded he drink with you."
Ha-neul wanted to die. She wanted the earth to open and swallow her whole. She wanted to move to a country where no one knew her name and live in a cave for the rest of her natural life.
"Omma, I can explain—"
"You drank three bottles of soju with a man you barely know, passed out before he could even finish his first, and made him carry you home at midnight like a rescued kitten." Her mother's face was doing something complicated—fighting a smile, losing the battle. "What exactly is there to explain?"
"He's... he's my neighbor. We were just talking. And I had a lot on my mind, and—"
"And you decided to share it with the most mysterious man in the village while drinking the cheapest soju from your own store?" Her mother shook her head, but her eyes were warm. "Baby, I'm not angry. I'm impressed. It took me six months of dating your father before I got drunk enough to tell him my real feelings. You did it in a week."
"It's not like that!"
"Of course it's not." Her mother stood, patting her knee through the blanket. "Now get up. Shower. Put on clothes that don't look like you slept in them. And take this next door."
She produced a container from somewhere—Ha-neul hadn't even seen her carrying it. Clear plastic, filled with what looked like homemade side dishes. Several kinds. Arranged beautifully.
"What is that?"
"A thank you. For bringing you home safely, for not leaving you on his deck, for not calling the police when you started talking about noodle thieves." Her mother set it on the nightstand. "It's just some banchan. Nothing fancy. But his food is so good, I feel embarrassed giving him anything. Still. It's the thought that counts."
"Omma, I can't—"
"You can, and you will. Go. Shower. Then march next door and thank him properly. And Ha-neul-ah?"
"Yes?"
"Maybe apologize for the noodle thing. He looked confused when he told us about it. Very confused."
---
Thirty minutes later, showered, caffeinated, and wearing clothes that definitely had not been slept in, Ha-neul stood in front of Jiwon's Table.
The container of banchan felt heavy in her hands. Heavy with obligation. Heavy with embarrassment. Heavy with the knowledge that she had made a complete fool of herself and now had to face the only witness.
You can do this, she told herself. You've faced down investors. You've fired people. You've survived your ex-boyfriend stealing half your business. You can survive one awkward conversation.
She opened the door.
The bell chimed. The restaurant was empty—between lunch rushes, the quiet hour when even the fishermen had gone back to sea. Ji-won stood behind the counter, wiping down the surface with a cloth. He looked up when she entered.
Their eyes met.
And Ha-neul's carefully prepared speech evaporated like soju on a hot summer day.
"I brought you food," she blurted out, thrusting the container toward him. "My mother made it. As a thank you. For last night."
He set down his cloth and took the container. His face was perfectly neutral. "You don't need to thank me."
"I absolutely need to thank you. For the soju. For listening. For—" She swallowed. "For carrying me home at midnight. In front of my father. Who had a baseball bat."
Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement? She couldn't tell.
"Your father is very protective."
"He's never used that baseball bat. It's a decorative baseball bat. But yes. Protective." She took a breath. "I'm so sorry. For everything. For drinking too much. For passing out. For making you carry me. For whatever I said about noodles—"
"The noodles?"
"My mom said I talked about noodles stealing my shoes. I don't remember. I don't want to remember."
There was a pause. When she peeked up at him, Ji-won was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Then he spoke.
"You walked part of the way."
She blinked. "I did?"
"Through the square. You were doing fine until the zelkova tree. Then you stopped, sat down on the bench, and announced that the ground was moving."
Ha-neul closed her eyes. "No."
"Yes. You also said the moon looked suspicious and that you didn't trust it."
"NO."
"I agreed with you. The moon did look suspicious." His voice was perfectly deadpan. "Then you fell asleep on the bench. I waited ten minutes. You didn't wake up. So I carried you the rest of the way."
She wanted to die. Right there, in his restaurant, she wanted the floor to open and swallow her whole.
"How far?" she whispered.
"Just to your door. Your father was waiting with his baseball bat."
"Oh God."
"He asked if I was the one who had been drinking with you. I said yes. He asked if you were okay. I said yes. He asked if I wanted to come in for tea." A pause. "I said no."
Ha-neul stared at him. "You met my father. At midnight. While carrying his unconscious daughter. And he offered you tea?"
"Your mother was behind him. She seemed more amused than concerned. She kept saying something about how romantic it was. Your father did not agree."
Of course she did. Her mother was probably already planning the wedding and picking out names for grandchildren.
"I'm never drinking again," Ha-neul announced. "Ever. I'm joining a monastery. I'm moving to a mountain and becoming a hermit."
"The mountain doesn't have soju?"
"That's the point."
Ji-won picked up the container she had brought, examined it, and set it behind the counter. "Tell your mother thank you. The banchan looks good."
"I will." She turned to leave, then stopped. "Ji-won-ssi?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For real. For not leaving me on the bench. For not letting my father kill you with his decorative baseball bat. For... for listening, I guess. Even if I don't remember what I said."
He looked at her for a long moment. The amusement was still there, but underneath it, something warmer. Something almost soft.
"You're welcome, Ha-neul-ssi."
She fled.
---
The store felt like sanctuary after that conversation.
Ha-neul threw herself into work, organizing shelves she had already organized, sweeping floors that were already clean, doing anything to keep her mind off the fact that she had made a complete spectacle of herself in front of the one person in the village she actually wanted to impress.
Customers came and went. She barely noticed them. Her brain was on a loop—carried me at midnight, suspicious moon, noodles stealing shoes, called him perfect, baseball bat—and no amount of retail therapy could break the cycle.
At three, the door chimed.
She looked up.
Ji-won stood in the entrance of Hado-mart, holding a small basket. He moved through the aisles with the same quiet grace he brought to everything, examining shelves, picking up items, placing them in his basket. Completely casual. Completely normal.
Completely terrifying.
Ha-neul watched him from behind the counter, heart pounding, trying to look busy with the cash register. He wasn't looking at her. He was just... shopping. Like a normal person. In her store.
He approached the counter with three items: a bottle of water, a pack of gum, and a single banana.
"Just these," he said, setting them down.
She scanned them with trembling fingers. "That'll be... um... forty-eight hundred won."
He handed her a five-thousand won note. She fumbled the change. Coins scattered across the counter.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled, scrambling to pick them up. "I'm not usually this—I mean, I just—the morning has been—"
"You're fine."
She handed him his change. He took it, put it in his pocket, and made no move to leave.
"Is the banana for later?" she asked, because she couldn't stop herself from talking. "For cooking? Or just... eating?"
"The banana is for eating." He paused. "The gum is for fresh breath. The water is for hydration."
"Right. Good. Smart. Very healthy choices."
Another pause. His eyes met hers, and that amusement was back—stronger now, unmistakable.
"I heard," he said quietly, "that someone in this village had a problem with noodles stealing their shoes. I wanted to make sure my shoes were safe."
Ha-neul's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"You're making fun of me."
"I would never."
"You absolutely would. You are. Right now."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just a concerned citizen, worried about noodle-related crime."
She stared at him. This man—this quiet, mysterious, guarded man—was teasing her. Actually teasing her. About the most embarrassing moment of her entire life.
And somehow, impossibly, she found herself laughing.
"You're terrible," she said. "You're absolutely terrible."
"I prefer 'mysterious and perfect.' I believe that's what the soju said."
She threw a pen at him. He caught it—of course he caught it, because he was apparently also an athlete—and placed it gently on the counter.
"See you later, Ha-neul-ssi." He picked up his banana, his gum, his water. "Try to stay awake this time."
He walked out before she could respond.
Through the window, she watched him cross the square and disappear into his restaurant. And despite everything—the embarrassment, the humiliation, the absolute certainty that she would never live this down—she was smiling.
---
The rest of the day passed in a warm haze.
She texted her mother: He liked the banchan. Thank you.
Her mother responded immediately: Did you apologize for the noodles? Did he say anything about the baseball bat?
She didn't respond to that.
At five, her father stopped by to check on her. He didn't mention the baseball bat. He didn't mention midnight. He just asked if she needed help with anything and bought a pack of cigarettes he didn't smoke. Ha-neul loved him so much it hurt.
At six, Kang Mija came in to buy rice and spent twenty minutes gossiping about everyone in the village. She also asked, very casually, if Ha-neul had "made friends with the restaurant owner yet." The entire village knew. Of course they knew. Nothing stayed secret in Hado-gae.
At seven, the light began to fade, painting the square in shades of gold and rose.
At seven-fifty, Ha-neul started closing up. Counting the register, wiping the counters, straightening the shelves one last time. The store would close at eight. She was looking forward to going home, eating dinner, and collapsing into bed without any soju involved.
At seven-fifty-five, the door chimed.
Ji-won stood in the entrance.
He wasn't carrying a basket this time. He was carrying two bottles of soju—good soju, the expensive kind, not the cheap stuff from her store. In his other hand, a small bag that looked like it contained snacks.
"I'm closing," she said automatically.
"I know." He walked to the counter and set down the bottles. "I'm not here to buy anything."
"Then what—"
"I thought we could try again." His voice was quiet, careful. "Drinking, I mean. With you awake this time." He paused. "If you want. No pressure. But I have questions too."
Ha-neul stared at the soju. Then at him. Then at the soju again.
"You want to drink with me. Again. After last night. After the noodles. After the baseball bat."
"I want to talk with you," he corrected. "The drinking is just... social lubrication."
"Did you just say 'social lubrication'?"
"I've been in the city."
She laughed. She couldn't help it. The absurdity of the situation—this man, this mystery, standing in her store with expensive soju and a bag of snacks, asking to have a conversation like normal people—was too much.
"Ji-won-ssi," she said. "I have to close the store. I have to count the register. I have to—"
"I'll wait."
"On the deck? Again?"
"Unless you have a better idea."
She looked around the store. At the shelves she had stocked, the floors she had swept, the small space that was slowly becoming hers. Then she looked at him—at the careful hope in his eyes, the way he held the soju like an offering, the slight tension in his shoulders that suggested this cost him something.
"Give me ten minutes," she said.
He nodded once and walked out.
Through the window, she watched him cross to his restaurant, disappear inside, and emerge a moment later with two glasses. He settled onto the small deck behind his building, placed the soju and snacks on the table, and waited.
Ha-neul finished her closing routine in record time.