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The Airbnb instructions were deceptive. At the #3786 bus stop, go straight until the first light and then take a right, the email had said. Continue for three blocks until you reach Ahjussi’s Chicken. From there, it is a short walk up a hill to a house with the number.
Short walk my ass.
“What number did you say your house was?”
I look at my phone. “Fifteen, I think.”
“Hmm.” He peers over my shoulder and his warm lemony scent drifts into my lungs. I try not to sniff like a dog but it’s hard.
“That’s about halfway up. Not so bad. Let’s go.” He climbs out. Park Minho has the bags waiting, and before I can grab one, Yujun has his hands wrapped firmly around the handles.
“I’m not getting that away from you, am I?” I sigh, even more regretful that I packed so unwisely because when I was stuffing the hundredth item into the suitcase, I was thinking of how easy it would be to roll into my apartment, but now that someone else is shouldering the burden, guilt creeps up my neck.
“No.” He smiles, and a shallow right dimple and a shadow of a dot on the left appear, but they have the same deadly effect.
I wrinkle my nose and force myself to turn away. Briefly, I entertain the image of me wrestling the bags out of his clasp and carrying the unwieldy things up the mountain like a trophy over my head. In reality, I’d fall down and cut myself on the asphalt, and then he’d take me to the hospital, all the while politely declaring it was his fault. To save myself that humiliation I avoid the wrestling match. “Can I at least carry the small bag?”
“No.” He starts walking.
Beside me the driver, Park Minho, makes a disgusted sound. I don’t know if he’s madder at Yujun or me. Probably me.
“It’s not my fault,” I say quietly, but I’m not sure Park understands me.
“Coming?” Yujun calls back.
“Yep, saying goodbye to your friend.”
That generates a grunt. I give the driver a little wave and scurry up the stairs after Yujun.
“I’m going to owe you some giant steak dinner,” I say as we make it to the second level of stairs. I’m out of breath and he hasn’t broken a sweat. He doesn’t look very muscular under the suit—he has sort of a swimmer’s build, lean and trim—but apparently there’s more to him than meets the eye. Unlike the information about the landmarks, this isn’t data that I need in my memory bank. He probably has abs and defined arm muscles. I could climb him like a tree and he’d not sway even an iota. Does he have calluses on his hands from lifting weights? I rub my lips together and try to remember. His grip had been firm and warm and—
“I accept.”
“What?” My mind was distracted by the endless possibilities of what his body actually looked like without clothes and I’d missed what he said.
“I accept your offer of a giant steak dinner.”
“Oh, okay.”
This is definitely one of those polite things people say so as not to make their companion uncomfortable, but my silly mind immediately starts creating the fantasy date, which is a good thing because it takes my mind off the long climb and I don’t even realize how my thighs are burning until we stop in front of a gate. Under the dim light attached to a post, his brow glistens. Of course it makes him more attractive. I need to get away from him or I’ll spend my two weeks in Seoul chasing this boy around instead of reconnecting with my father.
“Hand me your phone,” Yujun orders.
“Why?” But I do as he asks because my mind doesn’t seem to have any control right now.
He takes a photo of his own phone screen and hands mine back. “There. Now you have my number. You can save it as Yujun from Seoul.”
“You’re the only Yujun I know.”
“You are the only Hara I know.”
We stare at each other for far too long under that amber light. It’s okay to be charmed, I tell myself. It’s okay that your heart is beating a bit faster than normal. That your feet feel light and that there’re butterflies in your stomach. You’re not falling for a dimple, a show of strength, and a few compliments. It’s the entirety of the circumstances. You’re here in Seoul, your birthplace. You’re about to meet your birth father. This—him—it means nothing.
“Call me when you’re settled so that we can have the steak you owe me.”
He squeezes my hand and then starts the descent. His hands are in his pockets. His dress shoes make small tapping noises against the asphalt. I hear a faint tuneless whistling. Nothing. It means nothing.
Resolutely, I turn to the gate and press the buzzer. “It’s Hara Wilson,” I say into the intercom. “I’m here about the rented room.”
