Driving home, Jongin walked in to, “Jongin! You’re home!” his mother screeched.

“Have you eaten?” his father asked.

“Yes.”

His mother giggled. “How is Namjoo doing? Do bring her over again. We should have another meal together.”

He should say they’d broken up to stop this farfetched lie, but he wasn’t up to it right now. His mood was taking a drastic change after Munho’s threat. The new revelation about Kim Chanu’s suicide. Namjoo’s wound-up behavior.

“I’m going to wash up.” Jongin said, started leaving, then stopped bombarded with sudden playbacks; the doctor’s words about Chanu and his mom, Namjoo and her family. She’d lost a sibling in a horrible manner. Her parents hadn’t exactly played their parts in her life.

Shifting around, Jongin said, “Good night mom, dad.”

Despite the strains and constitutions in his family he desired to break free from, Jongin was thankful to still have parents, a brother, sister-in-law, and his uncle. Climbing down the stairs Jongin retreated to his room. Resting at the foot of his bed, he stared at Namjoo’s oil painting.

She had said she’d been on a four-year program abroad, so if four out the five years of her missing was accounted for, what did she do in the one year after graduation? He wouldn’t get any answer even if he asked. That was Namjoo. Abstaining from sharing any more than necessary.

But he needed her to open up. He needed her to trust him enough to share pieces of her life with him, so he could understand her better, her point of view; how she interpreted things in order to be worth the help. Hoping to prevent things like today from happening again. Namjoo going missing for who knows how long.

The following day after work, Jongin made a pit stop at the mart. Grabbing a cart, he strolled through the aisles hoping he knew exactly what he was doing.

◘⸞⸟⸞⸟⸞◘

One moment Namjoo was dozing on her bed, the next her phone was ringing, and then the white of day was blinding her. Flinching Namjoo turned her head away, eyes shut as she swung the door open for Jongin.

Yesterday when he left, she really believed he would leave her alone. Processing her mother’s cruel refusal to Chanu that day was painful to accept. Though aware her parents had a bigger hand in his suicide, that day had always been left at a blank until now. Tomorrow she planned to contact another lawyer, one outside the city.

“What are you doing here?” Namjoo furiously blinked her stinging eyes.

“Delivery.” Her head inched back when Jongin shoved plastic bags forward. “Help me. I have some more in the car.”

Three bags dropped into her arms with a grunt. Before she knew it, Jongin already turned away to fetch those ‘more’ bags from his car.

In nano seconds she was staring at her kitchen table crammed with plastic bags full of who knows what. To her counters, more bags. Flatly staring at Jongin unimpressed by the invasion of her space.

“Are you out of your mind?” Namjoo blatantly questioned.

“Maybe you rubbed off on me.” Slipping out of his blazer he draped it over the back of a chair.

Namjoo’s head almost rolled. Blinking confused, taken aback, her brows arched. “Excuse me?”

Smartly shifting topic, he asked, “Have you eaten?”

Her stare grew terse.

“Good.” He chirped. Pulling out a wooden cutting board he set it on the table. Next came out a knife still in its plastic cover, a bag of potatoes, carrots, a package of beef sirloin, and a block of instant curry.

“What are you doing?” she asked again.

“I’m going to teach you how to cook.”

“No.” Was her immediate rejection. “I don’t need to know.”

“It’s simple.” Jongin tore the bag of potatoes open. “I made this all the time when I was still in college. I know I wasn’t far away from home, but that’s not the point. It doesn’t take long to make.”

“I said no.” Namjoo repeated. “Are you deaf?”

“Just peel the potatoes.” He dug out a peeler from one of the half dozen bags.

“What?” she questioned incredulous.

His hand stretched out offering her the peeler. Waiting. Namjoo stared. He stared. Waited. Biting down a grumble Namjoo sauntered forward, snatched the tool from him.

“I don’t need your cooking lesson for your information,” Namjoo muttered. “Or the…whatever you just brought.”

“I thought you could use some things,” Jongin explained. “Take it as a token of my kindness.”

She scoffed awkwardly gripping the peeler. Glancing out the corner of her eyes to see Jongin doing it again. Folding his sleeves up his forearms. Something about it was so damn alluring she had to stare. As he began glancing her way Namjoo hurriedly averted her attention onto the ugly potato in her grip, quickly peeling it like tomorrow would never come.

“You’re peeling too much. If you do it like that there won’t be any to eat.” He reached over to take it from her. “Here, I’ll show you.”

Shifting away, Namjoo exclaimed, “I can do it! I don’t need you to show me.”

The hell. Suddenly it was starting to get strange and she hardly wanted it to be this way. Doing her best to shake off the intensifying atmosphere Namjoo returned to her chore.

Yet her gaze rose when Jongin moved around her to the counter, organizing what he’d bought. She stared at the generous width of his back, the broad of his masculine shoulders as he decided where to position a dishrack. Then a gray pan. Soap, a sponge, a wooden cooking spoon, a set of plates and bowls. None which she would ever use. A waste of money.

“Try to eat out less and it should save you more money until you find a job,” Jongin advised. “This should be a basic start for you, so make sure to use it. If you need ideas for easy meals, search online. I saw you have a laptop.”

She hastily looked away, picking up where she’d stopped peeling the potato when Jongin glanced over his shoulder, see if she was listening.

“That’s all you did?” He gaped at the potato not half peeled.

Namjoo’s face pinked. Stuttering when he started her way, “W…well…well who asked you to come over? It’s not like I want curry.”

Grabbing the potato, his fingers lightly skimming her hand, Namjoo pulled away embarrassed. Feeling like a fool when Jongin swiftly peeled the potato without difficulty.

“Then you do it!” she spat.

Picking out her next task, Jongin handed her the cutting board and knife. “Wash these.”

She stared at the items like they were foreign.

“You should make sure they’re clean before using them.” he explained. The longer she stared the longer he waited. Finally, he asked, “You know how to wash it, right?”

Faint memories of dishes clattering, conversations overlapping, the smell of hot coffee permeating lit up. Gas stoves firing up, the smell of blue flames cooking meats of sorts, scorching the bottom of pots and pans throughout the busiest hours. Over the open counter kitchen men in white uniforms sweated as she, in an ugly brown uniform and a half apron, took orders; sliding around round tables and heavyweight customers. More meat roasting in the oven, the timer ticking down. A bearded man bursting through silver doors skillfully