Seasoned crab with the shells already cracked and arranged neatly on a wide platter, the meat glistening with sauce. Braised pork ribs glazed dark and still steaming, piled high on a serving dish. A bowl of white radish kimchi, bright and crisp. A stone pot of rice with the lid slightly ajar, letting out curls of steam. Side dishes in small ceramic bowls, pickled vegetables and seasoned spinach and dried anchovies. And at the far end of the table, a small round cake topped with fresh strawberries, their red skins glossy under the kitchen lights.
Every single one of my favorites. Every one.
I stare at the table and my chest constricts so tightly I can’t breathe for a second.
Hongjoong pulls out a chair and gestures for me to sit. “Do you still like these?” he asks, his tone casual, like this is a perfectly normal thing to do.
I sink into the chair because my legs don’t feel entirely reliable. “I’m surprised you remember,” I say quietly.
Hongjoong settles into the chair across from me and picks up his chopsticks. He meets my eyes across the table, his expression open and steady.
“I didn’t forget anything,” he says.
I look away. My throat is tight and I don’t trust my voice, so I pick up my own chopsticks and reach for the crab.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. The food is excellent, clearly ordered from somewhere expensive, and I’m hungrierthan I realized. I crack a crab leg and pull the meat free, dip it in the sauce, and the flavor is so good that for a brief moment I can almost pretend this is just dinner with an old friend. Almost.
Then Hongjoong sets down his chopsticks and leans back in his chair, and I know what’s coming before he opens his mouth.
“So where did you disappear to?” he asks. His voice is light but his eyes aren’t. “I’m a little hurt, honestly. I thought we were friends, and then you just did a vanishing act.”
I keep my eyes on my plate. I pick up a piece of rib and put it in my mouth and chew slowly, buying time.
“I tried to contact you for years after graduation,” Hongjoong continues. “Called, texted, asked around. You never answered, never returned any of it. Nobody seemed to know where you went.” He pauses. “It was like you just ceased to exist.”
I swallow the rib and take a sip of water. “It wasn’t personal,” I say carefully. “I just had things to figure out after high school. Life got away from me.”
Hongjoong lifts an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And after? It’s been fifteen years, Jae. That’s a long time to be figuring things out.” He picks up his water glass and turns it slowly between his fingers. “I tried reaching out long after high school too, you know. Even went to your parents’ place once. They said they didn’t know where you were either.”
My jaw tightens. Of course they said that. They probably meant it, too, given that I’d cut them off by then. “I just needed to move on,” I say, and I don’t elaborate.
Hongjoong watches me for a long moment, then sighs through his nose and sets his glass down. “Fine.” He’s quiet for a beat, then says, “I’m surprised, though. I never imagined you could stomach this kind of career.”
My gaze jerks up to his, sharp. “Why? Because I’m better than this?”
Hongjoong doesn’t flinch. He tilts his head slightly, considering me, and then says, “No. Because sex was the one thing you always seemed to be reserved about, even when you never balked at anything else.” He shrugs one shoulder. “We did a lot of stupid shit together in high school. You were always the first one over the fence, the first one to pick the lock, the first one to tell a teacher to go to hell. But when the guys would start talking about hooking up, or when someone would try to set you up, you’d go quiet. It seemed like the one thing you weren’t casual about.”
I set my chopsticks down and fold my hands in my lap under the table where he can’t see them gripping each other. “Things change,” I say stiffly.
Hongjoong stares at me. His expression going from easy warmth and cooling into a more guarded stare, I can see him noting the wall I’ve thrown up between us, the way I’ve shut down every avenue of conversation that might lead somewhere real. He holds my gaze for another second, then picks up his chopsticks again.
“I guess they do,” he says, the words landing quietly between us on the table alongside all the food he remembered I loved.
We eat the rest of the meal in relative quiet after that, the conversation retreating to safer ground. Hongjoong asks me about my neighborhood, whether I still follow soccer, whether I’ve tried the new barbecue place that opened near the river. I answer in short sentences and ask him nothing in return, which I can tell irritates him even though he doesn’t say so. He just watches me with a steady, patient look between bites, like he’s taking notes on all the ways I’ve changed. I keep my eyes on my plate and eat more than I should because the food really is incredible, and because chewing gives me an excuse not to talk.
When we’ve both slowed down and the serving dishes are mostly empty, Hongjoong pushes his chair back and stretcheshis arms overhead, his t-shirt riding up to expose a strip of tanned stomach. I look away and stand, gathering my plate and his before he can protest, stacking them with the side dish bowls and carrying the whole pile to the kitchen sink. I turn on the tap and rinse them under the warm water, scraping the leftover sauce and rice into the disposal with my fingers, the repetitive motion settling me. It’s a habit I can’t break. Every client’s place I’ve ever been to, if there are dishes in the sink I end up washing them. Sungyoon says I have a compulsion.
I dry my hands on a towel hanging from the oven handle and walk back out into the living area.
Hongjoong is standing near the windows with his hands in his pockets, the city skyline glittering behind him through the glass. Alto and Rennard have migrated from their beds to flank him on either side, their long bodies pressed against his legs, but his attention is on me. He watches me come around the corner of the kitchen island with a watchful, predator-sharp awareness, his weight settled back on his heels, shoulders loose. He looks every inch like an alpha who knows exactly what he’s waiting for and is content to wait as long as it takes.
I stop a few feet away from him and fold my arms.
“Can we start now?” I ask.
Hongjoong gives me another one of those pointed looks, the kind that says he has opinions about my eagerness to skip past every human interaction and get straight to the transactional part of the evening. But he doesn’t voice them. He just lifts one hand from his pocket and makes an open-palmed gesture, a go-ahead, an as-you-like.
I reach for my top button.
