“Bang! You’re dead.”

Eric smirks then lets himself tip forward like a felled tree onto the bed. Andy shrieks in faux terror as Eric’s torso nearly buries his knees. Once his father is prone on the mattress, he clambers on his back, shins against his spine, elbows against the knots on his shoulders.

“Ooh, you’ve hit a sore spot.” Eric groans. “Massage it out for me, please, Dydy.”

Andy obeys. He sits saddle-style on the back of Eric’s ribs and kneads the taut muscles like he’s baking bread.

“Daddy. You work too hard.”

“Mmm. Maybe so.”

“You should sleep more. Your eyebags are way big, they’re scary. You should hire elves so they can do the baking for you.”

Eric laughs against the sheets. He flips and pulls himself upright so Andy is now dangling from his neck, giggling.

“Elves, huh? Are you making fun of Uncle Minwoo?”

Andy gasps. “NOOOO!”

“If I tell on you, you can kiss your cookie privileges goodbye.”

“Don’t tattle on me! He’ll cook me and eat me and then spit me back out!”

“Bubba, Uncle Minwoo only knows how to make coffee. You probably cook better than he does.”

“Still.” Andy’s lower lip juts out. “He can grind my bones and make latte out of it.”

“Silly.” Eric smiles as he kisses his son’s temple, then places him back down on the mattress. “Anyway, it’s 9pm. You should be in bed. You want to stay in my bed, or your own?”

“With you, Daddy. Please.” Andy says. The answer has been the same since the first day they got here, and Eric has always relented. Even if it means getting karate-kicked into wakefulness in the middle of the night. “Could you stay with me now? Please?”

Back in Berkeley, Eric never had any problems telling Andy ‘no’. In Seoul, he can’t even look at his son’s face without feeling like he has an elephant sitting on his chest.

“Yes,” he says after a beat. “Okay.”

He stretches out and lies down beside his son.

“Awesome! Are we sleeping now?”

“I can’t right now. I have so much to do.”

“Okay. But can I ask you questions first?”

“Questions? No snuggling?”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Okay, but only three questions, then it’s bedtime.”

“How tall am I gonna be? Can we grow pumpkins here in this tiny house? Are we ever going back to America?”

Eric closes his eyes and breathes deep.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Okay. That’s all the questions I had tonight.”

“I have a question.”

“Yeah, Daddy?”

“Would you eat blue cheese if I packed you some for lunch?”

“What? No, Daddy, it tastes like ants. And I’m going to share with Jinnie, remember?”

“Oh yeah. So, no blue cheese then.”

“No. But a grilled cheese sandwich would be nice. Just not with blue cheese.”

“Okay. Roger that. Andy.”

“What?”

“I love you.”

“Me too, Daddy, now be quiet, I’m trying to dream.”

It takes at most thirty minutes for Andy to drift off to sleep, including the five when he tosses and turns trying to find a cool spot on the sheets. Eric pulls him closer to him to help him settle, and although Andy initially refuses by saying it’s ‘too hot’, he eventually relents upon finding out his father’s arm is a more comfortable pillow to rest his head on. When Andy’s breaths deepen and the neck lock he has on his father loosens, Eric slowly untangles himself from his son’s hold, putting a stuffed tiger in his stead as he gingerly shuffles out of bed, tucking Andy in and kissing him good night before tiptoeing out the room. He turns the radio in the kitchen on and tunes in to his preferred station, before stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders in preparation for another long, enduring night.

He doesn’t remember when he last had a full eight hours of sleep. Parenting is much like being in the culinary field in that it isn’t for the weak-hearted, the thin-skinned, or the heavy sleeper. Lack of attention or slowness in the kitchen could mean a burnt dinner at best, and death at the worst, and in parenting – he quickly realized with Andy’s arrival – the same factors can result in frighteningly similar results. With parenting, the same amount of stress and adrenaline, and the need to always be on your toes manifests in other ways: in retrieving tiny objects before it makes its way into tinier mouths; in making sure that the baby is still breathing through the night; in checking that he hasn’t drowned in the bathtub even though you only took your eyes off of him for one minute and twenty seconds while you got the spare shampoo bottle from the medicine cabinet. In keeping your child alive without you going insane in the process.

(We are never having another child, he says over Andy’s screaming. Minutes ago, a bottle of lotion was lobbed at the wall-mounted TV and now the screen has a dubious black blob where Oprah’s head is supposed to be. Eric had banished the perpetrator into the playpen for twenty minutes of no-toys-no-tablet-only-quiet-reflection-time and now Andy is full-on crying, feeling sorry for himself and his loss of freedom. There is garlic confit bubbling on the stove’s back burner. The house smells divine even though Eric feels like he’s being torn apart. On his phone screen, Yumi juts out her lower lip, looking apologetic.

I’m sorry, babe. I shouldn’t have taken this job.

Instantly, Eric is chastised. What? Hey, no. Babe, we’ve talked about this. Andy and I…we’re just having a moment.

A moment, huh?

Father-and-son rites of passage. You know. We’ll have these until he’s 18, in varying degrees.

Eric…I could have waited until he was a little older. This isn’t fair to either of you….

But he doesn’t want to hear it. Yumi has waited for so long for the scripts to come in, and now that they are, even though Andy constantly screams and begs for his Mama, and Eric has to learn to cook while carrying a toddler on his hip, he doesn’t have the heart to keep her from them.

Babe, he’ll get over it, and I’ll survive. You just finish your shoot out there and don’t worry about us. We’ll be right here.

What did I do to deserve you?

Maybe save a country in your previous life. Eric winces as Andy’s cries rise in pitch.

Savasana, babe. Breathe. Let me talk to him then. Maybe he wants some Mama time, Yumi says, her face bright, no matter the hour, no matter how crazy the schedule. In the car on the way to the set. In the makeup trailer. In the kitchens and living rooms of big-time and small-time Hollywood writers and directors. Whispers in the dark and kisses sent through air.

Andy’s crying simmers down to a hiccup. Eric breathes a sigh of relief.

I love you SO much, did you know that?

I’m sorry I can’t be there but I love you, I love you, I love you both. Thank you for doing this. You are the best. I’ll be home soon. I promise.)

People told him all the same things about grief: that it was going to come in waves; that it would be difficult; that it would be for forever. That he was going to see things which weren’t there, and that Yumi would be everywhere, even though he wouldn’t want her to be. But he doesn’t see her. His dreams are empty, and reality is always in painful, crystal-clear focus. If anything, Yumi’s loss has left him with nothing but a constant pulsing void, a persistent echoing of nothingness in the chambers of his heart where she should have been. Instead of her, he now only has remnants of her presence: a disconnected phone, and a hand always reaching out to hold empty air. And his son, of course.

Can I hug you again just like before?

In the background, a mournful piano thrums through the dense silence in the apartment, and Eric leans against the kitchen island, for a moment unable to breathe, move, or think.

Can I travel back in time?

He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. With the other, he reaches for the list of ingredients Minwoo had brought over from the café so he can start to prep for the next day’s breakfast pastries. The words blur then sharpen as he blinks back tears.

Enough now, he scolds himself. Enough.

With a heavy sigh, he sets to work making dough for pumpkin croissants, sticky honey buns, cinnamon crumpets, and cheddar scones. He’ll be working until 12am, with everything ending up either in the fancy industrial-sized refrigerator Minwoo bought for him (“for the stuff for the café, but honestly it’s big enough for everything so just use it for your own stuff!”), or resting in containers, all to be transported and baked in the morning in the café a block away. Joining him on his nightly rituals is the radio, initially just so he had some background noise, but he now prefers this radio station because they play mostly ballads. He hasn’t heard most of the songs before, but in an odd cathartic way they all soothe him. Tonight, he cuts, folds, and measures as dusky, mournful voices act as a backdrop. Slowly, his shoulders loosen.

“Autumn is nearly here with its beautiful weather. It’s the best time to play these ballads. I don’t know why it is, sometimes, that when you’re sad, it’s better to play sad songs so you can feel better. I’m not sure if everyone feels that way though.”

Eric smiles as he rolls dough out and divides them into sets. The croissant and crumpet dough are in the freezer. He’s already on the last batch of scones while a batch of honey buns is in the oven. The apartment smells divine.

“Anyway, it’s very late. And I hope every one of you is warm and safe in bed. I hope you have a night that shines bright like a comet. Again, this is Shin Hyesung. Til we meet again tomorrow, sweet dreams, everyone.”

“Sweet dreams.” Eric replies softly out of habit. He’s glad for the company, however distant. He checks the timer for the rest of the honey buns as he places the cut dough for scones on three baking trays to freeze until morning. His arms are aching from the kneading and mixing but he feels better.

He checks the time: it’s just after midnight. He still has ten minutes to go before the honey buns are done. It’s more than enough time to fix Andy’s lunch for tomorrow…

Your preference is for sourdough bread, but it only works with specific cheeses and Andy hasn’t gotten around to fully appreciating it yet and will likely throw it in the trash. So, try instead: potato or thick-sliced cream bread. Sweet and soft, the bread evolves into a pillow of gooey cheesy goodness if grilled properly.

Then: cheese. No blue, so the next candidate is Monterey Jack, Gouda, or creamy Havarti, shredded or sliced thin. You need to balance all the creamy softness of the cheese so it needs a foil. Earthy pesto, smoky roasted peppers, and salty, fatty ham are all equal favorites. If ham, prosciutto or parma work best. Three slices. Have some for yourself as a midnight snack. Nearly gag when you remember the last time you ate this type of ham had been during a fancy dinner date with your wife in Boulevard restaurant in San Francisco.

Assemble the sandwich. Bread, butter, cheese, ham, butter, bread. Remember to butter both sides of the bread. If you have some shredded cheese, set it aside.

Place a knob of butter in a hot pan. When melted, place the assembled sandwich in the pan. Top the side facing up with shredded cheese. Flip the sandwich over when it’s just getting slightly toasted. Add butter if needed. Add cheese on the side of the bread that’s facing up. Flip again when your house starts smelling like butter and calm, sunny Saturday mornings…

The timer goes off just as he finishes the second sandwich, the shrill sound cutting through the midnight quiet. Eric turns it off and proceeds to wrap both sandwiches in freezer paper, neatly sealing one with an ‘A’ sticker, and another with a ‘J’. He imagines the last of his tensions as a tightly-rolled metal ball that he expels with a vigorous sigh.

(Savasana, babe. Breathe.)

--

The days bluster by and slowly, the leaves turn. At some point, Eric wakes and everything is blanketed in russet and gold. The desire to oversleep and hibernate throughout the whole season is tempting, but he forces himself to put one foot after another until he finds himself out the door. Andy is almost late for school and Minwoo burns a batch of pain au chocolat. A handful of customers complain that they serve too few breakfast bowls and of course we can’t come earlier, but we think you should have more than enough items for everyone, right?

Eric’s neck muscles are taut, but he steels himself to attend to every single problem that comes. Onward ho. There is no rest for the weary.

Junjin keeps his promise and goes to the Wolf and Rabbit every day with Andy whenever he’s picked up. It’s an arrangement that Eric doesn’t really mind having, as it keeps Andy preoccupied while he and Minwoo run the café, and the boys are relatively self-contained as long as they have enough activities to busy themselves with. Junjin is unfailingly polite and eats everything Eric places in front of him. He also makes sure to thank him for the food he packs for both him and Andy.

“It was so good, Uncle Eric,” he says, beaming, as they walk back to the café. “Even with the green stuff. What was the green stuff?”

“Pesto,” Eric and Andy say simultaneously. It was the extra filling in that day’s grilled cheese sandwiches.

“Yeahhh, pasta.” Junjin says, looking wistful. “I love pasta.”

“Pesto.” Andy corrects, but forgets all about it as soon as Junjin offers to race him to the café door.

Eric would be lying if he said he isn’t curious about Junjin’s own parents, especially since whoever it is seems fine with his child staying with strangers until dinnertime while another unrelated adult picks him up to bring him home. Dongwan is only slightly less mysterious because they see him every school day, and Junjin trusts him. They also know he’s some sort of professional photographer who must be in high-demand, given that the time he picks up Junjin fluctuates. Beyond that and the corny jokes he often tells, Minwoo and Eric know very little of him as well, since Dongwan makes it a point not to stay very long whenever he fetches Junjin.

“The kid definitely comes from money since he’s in the international school but I haven’t seen them in my circles. Dongwan’s mum about it too; I already asked.” Minwoo says when Eric shares his concerns in-between him preparing an espresso for a waiting customer. “Anyway, the parents must have their reasons.”

“Parent.” Eric says. “Andy said Junjin had mentioned he has no mom.”

“Well. Also not an unlikely case. Maybe the dad’s too busy.”

Eric is afraid to voice the term ‘neglect’ in case he’s wrong. “Yeah but…don’t you think it’s a bit weird? I wouldn’t entrust Andy to some strangers I’ve never met. And we’ve been doing this a couple of weeks now. At the very least he should be concerned what his kid is doing after he finishes school.”

“This is Korea though. It’s much safer than the US,” Minwoo explains. He glances towards the boys who are at an empty table, making a map of the neighborhood with crayons and butcher paper. “And the kid is neat and has nice clothes so he’s obviously being taken care of.”

Eric can’t explain the uneasiness he feels knowing a child informally placed under his care may be neglected. Nothing in Junjin’s behavior gives off anything that can be linked to possible mistreatment. The only thing of note is that Junjin can get a bit rambunctious when he has too much energy to spare, and it proves an occasional challenge. He tornadoes in and out of the empty booths, sneaks into the kitchen, clambers on the stools. It isn’t anything Eric can’t really handle, but he doesn’t like uncertainty, especially where kids are concerned.

He tries to forget about it, and just does his best at keeping an eye on both boys for the two to three hours they have to endure sitting in the café before any of them can go home. He gives them crayons and paper and warnings – plenty of warnings – about not going out of the café, not running around, not touching the stove, the griddle, the hotplate, the knife rack…Andy is miffed and disappointed that his privileges at the Wolf and Rabbit are woefully lacking compared to the ones he’s allowed at home, but it only takes him several reminders that it’s so neither he or Junjin gets hurt, so they have to be very careful.

“I’m a good boy, Daddy. Jinnie is too.”

“I know. But whenever I or Uncle Minwoo isn’t looking or we’re busy, you have to be extra extra careful, okay?” Over and over and over until he’s pretty sure Andy would rather he just get yelled at than be reminded again, always choosing to end it by saying, “Okay, Daddy. Okay. Okay. Can I go now? Can I play?”

And it’s fine, of course, for a while. But then, as with all things with children, eventually the unpredictable happens.

Both Minwoo and Eric are in the kitchen preparing two vegetarian paninis and two cold brews with milk foam when they hear it: a heavy thud that comes from the café that, although isn’t loud enough to elicit general panic, makes Eric’s heart stop. He abandons his plating halfway to rush outside, expecting the worst, and nearly collides with Andy coming from the opposite direction.

“Andy, what happened? Are you okay?” Eric does a spot-check he’s mastered since his son was a year old. He knows every nook and cranny of his boy, every scar, every mole, every quiver of his lip. Andy is absolutely fine, but Junjin…is nowhere to be seen. “Where’s Jinnie?”

“Daddy, I’m sorry. But Jinnie fell from the stool. I tried to stop him but I couldn’t and he was climbing and now he fell and won’t get up, Daddy, do something.”

And Eric flies.

tbc

Author's Notes
1. I'm sorry this took so long!!! This doesn't even feel like a legit chapter but a half-chapter, since I had other plans (such as making Hyesung appear) but they didn't happen. 
2. This is already feeling like a slow burn fic. GOD. I hate as I too can get a bit impatient with the characters but Hyesung...isn't...having it.
3. The song playing on the radio is Back in Time by Lyn. :)
4. Thank you to everyone who read the previous chapters and commented! I'll reply to them in a bit. I'm sorry this chapter is a bit boring. I underestimated writing through Eric's depressed af pov. But hopefully he'll get better.