She doesn't return the next day.
Not because she isn't thinking about him.
Because she is.
Too much.
The taste from the last bowl lingers faintly the following morning....not as flavor, but as memory.
Ginger.
Warmth.
A sense of grounding.
But when she eats breakfast prepared by her private chef, the silence returns.
Nothing.
Her tongue is quiet again.
That irritates her more than it should.
She had hoped — foolishly — that it would stay.
When she returns three evenings later, the air carries the scent of toasted sesame oil and something caramelizing slowly.
The shop is busier tonight.
She pauses outside before entering.
Through the slightly fogged glass, she sees him moving differently.
Faster.
More precise.
He flips something in a pan....flames briefly rising as alcohol burns off.
She didn't expect that.
She steps inside.
The bell rings.
He looks up.
Recognition settles immediately this time.
"You're early," he says.
"Is that a problem?"
"No."
He turns back to the stove.
She takes her usual seat, but instead of placing a bowl in front of her immediately, he continues cooking.
Two plates leave the kitchen....carefully arranged.
Pan-seared fish with crisped skin.
A glaze brushed delicately over it.
Microgreens placed with intention.
She blinks.
That is not casual street cooking.
The customers at the table whisper in appreciation.
He doesn't linger.
He moves back to the stove as if it's ordinary.
She studies him more closely tonight.
"You didn't say you cooked like that," she says once the rush slows.
"Like what?"
She gestures lightly toward the plate that just left.
"Like someone who trained."
He wipes his hands calmly.
"I trained."
She raises an eyebrow.
"You never mentioned that."
"You never asked."
There it is again.
That infuriating, steady answer.
"What did you train in?" she presses.
"Classical. Hotel kitchens. A few years."
"And now you run this?"
He nods.
"Yes."
She looks around the modest space.
"You could do more."
He doesn't look offended.
"I do enough."
That answer unsettles her.
She's used to ambition expanding endlessly.
He seems content with containment.
Tonight he doesn't bring broth.
Instead, he places a smaller dish in front of her.
Thinly sliced beef lightly seared.
A soft egg folded carefully over rice.
A drizzle of soy reduction.
A touch of chili oil.
"This is new," she says.
"You've been eating light," he replies.
"You needed something heavier."
She stares at him.
"You decide that?"
"I observe."
She takes a bite.
—
The flavor lands deeper than before.
Savory richness coats her tongue.
Egg softens it.
Chili lingers faintly at the back.
Her eyes close briefly.
He watches but pretends not to.
"It's different," she murmurs.
"You're different tonight."
She opens her eyes slowly.
"How?"
"You're thinking too much."
That's uncomfortably accurate.
She exhales.
"You shouldn't be this perceptive."
He shrugs.
"I cook for people all day."
There's no arrogance in it.
Just fact.
Over the next week, she sees more.
Some nights he prepares simple comfort meals for regulars.
Other nights, he takes reservations for small private dinners.
One evening, a well-dressed couple arrives and requests something off-menu.
He nods once.
Disappears into the kitchen.
When he returns, the plate looks like something she's seen in Michelin-star restaurants.
Delicate foam.
Precise plating.
Balance of color.
She watches him differently after that.
"You limit yourself," she says quietly when the couple leaves.
"Do I?"
"You could be in hotels again."
He pauses.
Then:
"I was."
"And?"
"I left."
"Why?"
He holds her gaze.
"Because I didn't like who I became there."
That answer lingers long after.
Then the rain comes.
Real rain this time.
Not memory.
It begins softly and grows heavier by evening.
She hesitates outside longer than usual.
The sound of water striking pavement sends a faint tremor through her spine.
Headlights blur slightly.
Her breath tightens.
She steps inside quickly.
He notices immediately.
Her shoulders are rigid.
Her eyes distant.
"Rain bothering you?" he asks.
She nods once.
"Bad night," she says quietly.
He doesn't ask which night.
He turns to the stove.
This time, he doesn't make beef.
Doesn't make fish.
Instead, he reaches for something different.
Sweet rice flour.
Red bean paste.
Ginger syrup.
He works slower tonight.
Intentional.
Steam rises from a bamboo steamer.
The scent is softer.
Warmer.
Almost nostalgic.
He places the dish in front of her.
Small rice cakes filled with red bean, lightly coated in roasted soybean powder.
A bowl of ginger tea beside it.
"This isn't on your menu," she says.
"No."
"Then?"
"My mother made this when it rained."
Her breath catches slightly.
"She said thunder scared my younger brother when he was little."
He says it lightly.
But something about the memory shifts the air between them.
"She'd make this and say the sweetness would keep the lightning away."
She stares at the rice cake.
"You believe that?"
"No."
"But he did."
She picks one up slowly.
It's soft between her fingers.
She takes a bite.
—
Sweetness.
Subtle.
Earthy.
Warm.
The ginger tea follows....sharp but comforting.
Her throat tightens unexpectedly.
The rain outside feels less aggressive now.
"You made this for me?" she asks softly.
"It's raining."
"That's not an answer."
"It doesn't have to be."
She looks down at the plate again.
Her chest feels heavier tonight.
But not in a painful way.
In a full way.
"You're dangerous," she murmurs without thinking.
He raises an eyebrow.
"How?"
"You make things feel… steady."
He doesn't respond to that.
Instead, he pours her more tea.
The rain continues outside.
But the sound feels muted here.
Contained.
Safe.
She stays until closing.
Not speaking much.
Just watching him wipe down surfaces.
Stack bowls.
Move with quiet efficiency.
"You're not afraid of staying small?" she asks suddenly.
He pauses.
"Small?"
"Yes."
"This place."
He considers that.
Then shakes his head.
"Small doesn't mean insignificant."
That answer follows her home.
She doesn't realize it yet.
But she's adjusting her meetings around his closing time.
She's choosing raincoats that won't draw attention.
She's memorizing the rhythm of his knife against the board.
And when thunder strikes faintly in the distance that night, she presses her tongue lightly to her teeth and tastes ginger again.
Not strong.
But present.
And she sleeps without dreaming of headlights.
The rain doesn't stop that week.
It lingers in the city like unfinished thought.
She tells herself she's only coming back because of the taste.
That's easier to explain.
Easier to justify.
But on the fifth night in a row, even she knows that isn't the full truth.
The shop is quieter than usual when she arrives.
Two tables occupied.
Soft conversation.
Steam curling lazily from the kitchen.
He's behind the counter, sleeves rolled as always.
But tonight someone stands closer than usual.
A woman.
Mid-twenties.
Bright eyes.
Laughing easily.
She's leaning against the counter in a way that suggests familiarity.
Not flirtatious.
But comfortable.
The woman reaches over and flicks flour off his sleeve.
"You always miss that spot," she teases.
He glances down and brushes it away.
"You're here too often."
"I bring you customers."
"You bring noise."
The woman laughs.
It's light.
Uncomplicated.
She doesn't see her at first.
When she does, she straightens slightly.
"Oh.... sorry. Are you waiting?"
She doesn't answer immediately.
Her gaze stays on the woman's hand still too close to his apron.
"I can wait," she says calmly.
Too calmly.
Jaewon turns and notices her fully now.
Recognition softens his expression.
"You're early."
"I didn't realize you were busy."
"I'm not."
The woman beside him raises an eyebrow.
"Busy with me, apparently."
He sighs lightly.
"Go home."
"I will. After I take this."
She grabs a container from the counter.
"Bye, Chef," she says, deliberately dramatic.
Then to her:
"He cooks better when he's annoyed."
And she leaves.
The door chime rings.
Silence follows.
She hasn't moved.
He studies her.
"You're staring."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
She looks away first.
"Who was that?"
"Yura."
The name settles uncomfortably.
"She comes often."
"She seems… comfortable."
"She grew up two blocks from here."
That answer does not soothe anything.
"And?"
"And nothing."
He resumes chopping.
She watches the knife move.
Precise.
Controlled.
She doesn't like the unfamiliar feeling in her chest.
It's tight.
Sharp.
Not jealousy, she tells herself.
Just curiosity.
"You let her touch you," she says before she can stop herself.
The knife pauses mid-slice.
He looks up slowly.
"She brushed flour off my sleeve."
"That's not what I meant."
He studies her face carefully.
Something shifts in his gaze.
Understanding.
"You don't like that?"
Her spine straightens slightly.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
She exhales through her nose.
This is ridiculous.
Why does it matter?
She barely knows him.
"You're not exclusive," she says coolly.
His brows lift slightly.
"Exclusive?"
She regrets the word immediately.
He sets the knife down.
Wipes his hands calmly.
"I'm not involved with her."
"I didn't ask."
"You're asking now."
She looks away again.
The room feels warmer than usual.
He steps around the counter.
Not close.
But closer than before.
"She's engaged," he says simply.
That stills something inside her.
"Engaged?"
"Yes."
"And she behaves like that?"
"She's loud. Not interested."
He holds her gaze.
"You look relieved."
She isn't sure when her expression changed.
"I'm not."
"You are."
She hates that he can read her so easily.
"I don't care who touches your sleeve," she says.
His mouth curves faintly.
"You cared."
The air thickens.
She stands abruptly.
"I didn't come here to discuss your… friends."
"What did you come for?"
The question lands heavier than intended.
She hesitates.
Then answers honestly.
"You."
That surprises both of them.
Silence stretches between them.
He doesn't move closer.
Doesn't retreat either.
"Why?" he asks quietly.
Because you make the rain feel smaller.
Because I can taste when you cook.
Because I feel less alone here.
She doesn't say any of that.
Instead:
"I don't know yet."
That answer feels more dangerous than confession.
He returns to the stove.
But the rhythm has changed.
Slower.
More deliberate.
He reaches for ingredients without speaking.
This time he prepares something unfamiliar to her.
Thinly sliced pork.
Fermented soybean paste.
Cabbage cooked down until tender.
Rice steamed separately.
The scent rises deeper.
Earthier.
He sets it in front of her without explanation.
She stares at it.
"This isn't what you usually make."
"No."
"What is it?"
"My father liked it."
The words fall heavier than expected.
She looks up slowly.
"You cook his favorite dish?"
"Sometimes."
The tone is neutral.
But not empty.
She takes a bite.
The flavor is stronger than before.
Fermented depth.
Savory warmth.
It lingers longer.
"Was he a chef?" she asks carefully.
"No."
He wipes the counter.
"He didn't cook."
"That's not what I asked."
He pauses.
Then:
"He wasn't kind."
The admission is simple.
Unadorned.
She doesn't push.
But she doesn't look away either.
"He drank," Jaewon continues quietly.
"Rain made it worse."
She stills.
"That's why you didn't ask me about rain."
He nods once.
She doesn't realize she's gripping the spoon tighter.
"You still cook what he liked."
"It's just food."
"That's not true."
He glances at her.
"You cook memories."
That lands somewhere between them.
He doesn't deny it.
The vulnerability lingers in the air.
She swallows carefully.
"I don't like rain because it was raining when I crashed."
There.
She said it.
The kitchen hums quietly.
He doesn't look shocked.
He doesn't pity her.
"That makes sense," he says.
That's all.
No dramatic reaction.
No sympathy performance.
Just acceptance.
And somehow that feels more intimate than anything else.
A group of customers enters loudly.
The moment fractures.
He moves back behind the counter.
She watches him laugh lightly with them.
Serve efficiently.
Adjust seasoning mid-cook.
But something inside her has shifted.
He shared something.
Not everything.
But enough.
And that feels rare.
Later, when the shop empties again, she remains seated.
"You don't talk about yourself much," she says.
"You don't either."
"I just did."
He looks at her.
"That wasn't everything."
"It's more than most people get."
He considers that.
"Then we're even."
She studies him carefully.
"You don't try to impress me."
"No."
"Why?"
"You look impressed by things that don't matter."
That stings slightly.
"Like what?"
"Money."
She exhales.
"You assume."
"I observe."
She leans back slightly.
"And what do you observe?"
"That you don't know how to sit still unless someone gives you permission."
Her pulse jumps.
"What does that mean?"
"You relax here."
She doesn't respond.
Because he's right.
And that realization frightens her more than Yura touching his sleeve ever did.
When she leaves that night, the rain has finally stopped.
The air feels clearer.
But something else lingers.
Not jealousy.
Not yet.
Possessiveness.
Soft.
Quiet.
Unspoken.
She doesn't like how Yura laughed at him.
She doesn't like how easily he shared space.
And she definitely doesn't like how relieved she felt hearing the word engaged.
That reaction bothers her.
Because it means she's stepping beyond curiosity.
Beyond taste.
Into territory.
And she isn't sure she knows how to leave once she enters.
Inside the shop, Jaewon stands still for a moment after she leaves.
He exhales slowly.
He didn't expect that conversation.
Didn't expect her to look that unsettled over something so small.
He rinses a bowl under running water.
Watches steam rise.
She said she came for him.
Not the food.
That lingers longer than he expected.
He shakes his head slightly.
And prepares broth for tomorrow.