“Where are you staying?” Munho persisted revving the engine. “I’d rather drop you off at home than let you take a public commute. Muggings are rampant these days. It’s not safe for a girl to be anywhere alone.”

“Does it look like I have money?” Namjoo snapped then felt his eyes scrutinize her.

“You’re still a lone female.”

“Don’t be chivalric with me.” she chided.

He sighed exasperated. “Fine. I’ll drop you off at the subway, but promise you’ll call me.”

“Don’t expect me to sign a verbal guarantee.” Namjoo crossed her arms.

“I’m asking kindly,” Munho spoke through tension, “and as your fiancé.”

At this she rolled her eyes. Her refusal to let him win must have sent his blood soaring because he no longer spoke with her. For the rest of the drive, they were left soaking in thick silence. And Munho drove below the speed limit to intentionally extend the minutes, which had several cars beeping their horns at them. A driver even flicked him off as he sped past. Namjoo shot Munho a laser-like beam glare from the corner of her eyes.

Prick!

Then he braked at the side of the entrance to the underground subway. “My mother is co-hosting a dinner party this weekend. You should at least come to save face since you skipped the engagement.”

“I’ll think about it.” she grumbled irate he had to mention this.

Knowing her answer meant an obvious no, Munho pressured, “Your attitude won’t change the elders’ minds, Namjoo. If their feelings about the engagement hasn’t changed in the last five years, it’s not going to change now. Your father, especially. Don’t oust the only family you have left.”

Leaning over the gear shift, Namjoo sneered into his face, “You can stick your obligations six feet deep, Munho. You and I don’t care about each other.”

Pushing the door open she half stepped out hearing him go, “You don’t know me, Namjoo! I waited –” she slammed the door in his face and stomped off.

Everyone and their assumptions about her was making her sick! She wasn’t a teenager anymore. She wasn’t here for them to push and shove her around. She no longer had to listen to their orders. Pretend to feel the same as the majority. Fit in with the rest.

Kim Namjoo was now hard as steel. No one could tear her down if she didn’t let them.

She was her own person.

Namjoo didn’t go straight home. She went right to the courthouse and rode the elevator to the third floor. Walking right up to the name plate in black with gold lettering on the desk. Reading it this time: Secretary Ma.

The woman looked her up and down. Kindly smiling a bit too pretentiously. “Yes? How can I help you?”

“Is Prosecutor Kim Jongin in?” Namjoo impatiently inquired.

“He’s currently in court right now,” Secretary Ma explained.

She desperately glanced at the closed door a way from the secretary’s desk. Closed. Might as well be locked to keep the prosecutor’s files secure when he wasn’t in.

“All right then. I’ll just come back next time. Have a good day.” Backing up, Namjoo left the office.

Three men and a woman joined her on the ride to the lobby. Crammed into the back in the small box, Namjoo was left staring at their backs. Taking note of their wear. Formal appearances. Blazers, suits, matching jacket and skirt, stockings, heels. Even if not expensively branded materials these people were dressed appropriately. Secretary Ma’s outfit even consisted of a fancy blouse and perhaps a solid black skirt, matching heels. Primary colors was always a smart choice to go for.

One comparison to her outdated jeans and sneakers and Namjoo could hear her mom chanting “Dressing appropriately in public is doing others a favor.” Bringing to memory Secretary Ma scanning her outfit.

Namjoo laughed a baffled scoff which had heads turning to glance at her. Running her tongue against the inside of her cheek, Namjoo really wanted to spit at the floor. Madam Kim wasn’t wrong for once.

At the opening of the elevator, Namjoo shoved her way through. Never minding the murmurs from the prettily dressed men and woman, Namjoo ran out into the chill of late winter. Feeling the fresh cold air wash across her dry face, turning it irritably itchy.

True, she was scrubby. Hadn’t given a scant about her appearance on return. Realizing a teeny too late it probably did matter. Hailing a cab Namjoo directed the driver to the mall where she finally went shopping for new clothes and furniture.

◘⸞⸟⸞⸟⸞◘

Packing up for the day, Jongin slipped into his trench coat and opened the door of his office. Secretary Ma turned at the sound of him stepping out.

“Heading home?” she asked.

“For an extended lunch. Be back tomorrow at six,” Jongin explained. “Don’t stay too late.”

The elder woman smiled. “Oh,” she stopped him on his trek out, “jeans, coat, no girl just came.”

“She did?” he asked surprised.

“I told her you were in court,” Secretary Ma told.

He sighed relieved. “Good job.”

“Then, have a good evening. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”

Jongin was weary on his way to the subway. In case he might run into the no-nonsense girl. What if she was hiding around the corner, waiting to jump on him? Clutching his briefcase close he scurried through the security gates toward the rush of noise. A late crowd blooming. Over-timers traveling home in the late afternoon. Blending into the group, Jongin waited for the earth-shattering noise of the train and luckily, made it home in one piece.

His mother was in the kitchen, apron knotted around her body, and wielding a spatula. “Jongin! You’re home!”

“I’m home.” He mumbled his reply.

Hurrying toward the border of the kitchen to peer at him, she exclaimed, “I went shopping earlier and bought you an outfit for this weekend. It’s on your bed. Go try it on and see if it fits.”

He tried not to sigh a heave. “All right.”

Heading downstairs he headed toward his bedroom passing his uncle glued to his gaming computer. Sahyeon gave him a raise of hand in greeting without the turn of his head. Going right into his room Jongin found the said matching suit laid flat out on his bed. A clean white dress shirt was still folded in its plastic cover.

His mom was really intent on going to the dinner party, wasn’t she? His family eager to hook him up with connections he didn’t really care for. For his profession they claimed. Was it? Or did his parents want to boost their family’s reputation?

Jongin didn’t bother trying on the new suit. Heading upstairs he walked into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and announce, “It fits.”

Whirling around, his mother, all expectant. Then her eyes flashed disappointed that he wasn’t wearing said suit.

“It’s fine, mom.” Jongin assured. “It fits.”

“But did you try it on at least?” she nagged.

“It’ll fit.” He reiterated.

Her brows did that thing, creasin