Minjae arrived five minutes early. He stood in front of the modest two-story building that housed his parents' small restaurant on the first floor and their living quarters above. He had bought the building under a different name, long before promotions or rumors. To them, it was a lucky listing at a kind price.
He glanced up. Those curtains up on the second floor window, they moved just a bit. Maybe his mom peeking out. Or his dad, acting like he wasn't looking. Then there was this warm smell drifting over from the alley nearby. Garlic mixed in with sesame oil and some pork belly cooking up. He took in a slow breath. Let those smells he knew so well just kind of wrap around him like always. He let out a sigh. So yeah, this thing was really happening.
The door chimed as he stepped in.
"You're early," his mother said brightly, already in her apron and halfway through plating a simmering pot of galbijjim. Her hands moved with quiet confidence, familiar rhythm.
"I thought you said this was just family," Minjae said, tilting his head slightly.
"I never said that," she replied innocently, with a tiny gleam in her eye. "I said it was a celebration."
Minjae narrowed his eyes. "You invited them."
"I invited your coworkers. Very polite girls. Very punctual too, from what I recall." Her smile deepened. "You didn't say no."
"I didn't get a chance."
"You never do. You're worse than your father," she teased, nudging him lightly on the shoulder.
The front door chimed again. Minjae turned as Seori entered, dressed modestly but neatly. She blinked when she saw him and gave a soft, awkward smile.
"Hi," she said, voice low.
"Hey," he replied, voice barely above a murmur, the words feeling oddly heavy.
Before anything else could be said, Yura appeared behind her, holding a wrapped bottle of plum wine.
"Special delivery," she said cheerfully, the bottle swaying slightly in her hands. "Hope this isn't too much."
"I brought fruits," Yuri added, stepping inside last. "I wasn't sure what kind of dinner this would be."
Minjae's mother beamed. "A real one. You all came just as I hoped. Now go wash your hands and help me carry dishes upstairs."
The three women moved in tandem, accepting aprons without protest. Minjae was promptly handed a tray. His fingers brushed the polished wood, warm from the oven, grounding him in the moment.
By the time the table was fully set in the upstairs dining room, it looked like a feast meant for a festival day—grilled fish, japchae, steamed eggs, banchan of every variety. The six plates were laid out evenly, as promised. He caught the subtle way Seori's hand lingered on the table edge, Yuri's gaze flicked toward him, and Yura's smirk hinted at mischief restrained.
His father arrived quietly from the study, offering each girl a polite nod.
"Thank you for coming," he said, voice low but steady.
They all sat down there. Minjae could feel this weird, surreal feeling settling over everything. His mom was chatting away with Yura about those fermented sauces. His dad sat listening quietly while Yuri talked about her hometown. Seori kept glancing his way every now and then. She bit her lip each time their eyes met. Even the little clatter of chopsticks on the ceramic bowls seemed louder, more intimate somehow.
Things were going along midway through the dinner. The talk had turned to stuff about the company. That's when his mom leaned over close. She said quietly, "They're serious, you know."
Minjae looked up right then. He felt caught off guard by that soft certainty in her voice.
"They love you. They aren't confused," she added, carefully choosing each word as if laying them on a scale.
He said nothing, letting the words float between them, heavy and warm at once.
She wasn't in any hurry. "But don't make them wait too long," she went on. Then she scooped up another bite of rice, acting like it was nothing special. He caught how her eyes wrinkled just a bit at the edges when she grinned, amused at her own blunt way of putting it.
A little later, dishes all cleared away. Dessert came out—cinnamon punch and those tteok things with red bean paste. His dad motioned for Minjae to head to the balcony.
"I won't pry into what's happening," his father started off, voice steady, carrying that calm authority of a man who's been through a lot but doesn't judge much. "But your mom's right on this. They're good women. Saw that clear enough tonight."
Minjae looked out over the quiet street in the neighborhood. Streetlights glowed soft, bouncing off puddles from the rain earlier. Some car engine hummed way off in the distance, the vibration coming right through the balcony railing. It all seemed normal enough. But unreal too, in a way.
"You've always carried things alone. Whatever it is—don't let it keep you from living," his father said finally, each word deliberate.
"…I'm trying," Minjae replied after a long silence. His chest felt heavier than usual. He didn't know if it was relief or apprehension.
His father nodded once. "That's all I ask."
Inside, the women chatted freely with Minjae's mother, who'd warmed to them as if they were her own. Seori asked about his childhood, her curiosity gentle but attentive. Yura was already scheduled to learn a family recipe, and she wore a grin that spoke of quiet excitement. Yuri helped with tea, methodical, serene, her calmness grounding the room.
Minjae hung back in the hallway just a bit more. He soaked up their laughter, that gentle clink of dishes, the way their voices mixed all warm and easy. Thing is, he picked up on the patterns now, like some kind of rhythm he hadn't really caught before. A harmony going on without him. It didn't need him in it.
Back inside, his mother passed over a plate, covered up nice.
"Take this home. Leftovers," she said, her eyes soft like that. The little move felt more real than any of the talk they had shared.
He glanced at the three women. They clustered by the entryway now, chatting low among themselves. He noticed Yura leaning in a touch toward Seori, Yuri messing with a napkin in her fingers, Seori's eyes darting his way quick and then off. Comfortable, that's what they seemed. Like a family they put together themselves, borrowed for a while.
His mother leaned in and whispered, "It's not a matter of who, you know. It's whether you'll let yourself be loved at all."
He paused. He felt the words sink, brushing against the walls he had built for so long. Then quietly, he said:
"I know."