“Donghwa-yah,” Leela sighed.

It was a few weeks since she got back from Paris, all rested and back to her normal self, and she was at the café with her hoobae, the one who called during her sleep for help.

Donghwa grinned. “Neh sunbae?” he asked innocently. Yes senior? (Not the actual translation, but I’m sure y’all know what it means)

“Dhang-shee-neun nae coh-oohm-eob-shi sseul bae-oohl pil-yo-ka-eet-da,” she said, her gaze level. You need to learn to write without my help.

“Sunbaaaaee,” he whined.

“Yah,” she said, still with her steady facial expression, “Na-neun kee-peum-gwa hahm-kae jak-eob-eul hahm-kae sa-yong-ha-ji ahn-hae, dhang-shee-neun al-go-een-neun-dae.” Hey, I don’t mix work with pleasure, you know that.

“Ree-ee,” Heeyoung said, suddenly appearing at their table to refill their mugs with coffee, “Keu-ae-gae hyu-shee-keul jae-kohng-hae. He just admires you.” Lee-ee, give him a break.1

Leela sighed once more. She knew the barista was sweet on her hoobae: Heeyoung just wasn’t obvious about it, she never was about her crushes…Meanwhile, Donghwa just gave the two of them a blank stare, because he didn’t speak English and had no idea what Heeyoung just said.

“Yeah well he still needs to learn to write without me,” the journalist grumbled, “I can’t always help him with his work, and this constant meeting up is annoying.”

“Keu-reo-na dhang-shee-neun neo-moo cha-kae,” the younger woman teased, wal