“What is it?”  A sleepy Minseok draped himself over your shoulder to look down at today’s black-wrapped box.  He took your daily gift with equanimity, often even more excited for you to open the gifts than you were.  

When he had first arrived, he was quiet and polite, neat almost to a fault (after a few days of telling him that he wasn’t there to be the maid, you gave up and allowed him to clean and rearrange everything to his liking), but had very much kept physically to himself.  

That hadn’t bothered you--after all, he was a lynx hybrid, not a wolf--you knew that he tended toward needing a while to warm up to people.  But since that day that he had returned home to a dumbfounded you, sitting on the couch, mentally unable to process good news, he had become a lot more comfortable with skinship.

Meanwhile you were just glad that he had agreed to let you take him into your home, because now you could barely remember life without him.  Yes, you had to be extra quiet to prevent neighbourly snitchery, but you hadn’t realized how much you craved companionship until you sat down on your bed one night, and tried to come up with a plan to help him get on his feet and live on his own.

An impromptu shower had kept him from hearing you cry.  

“Kitten,” Minseok purred softly into your ear, “Where is your mind?  I want to see what’s in the box.”

“Hm?  Oh, right...the box,”  you said, distracted by the feel of his rumbling chest pressed against your back.  For your sanity’s sake, you almost missed the days that he kept you at arm’s length, as it seemed as if every new day he found some way to torture you with his closeness.  But you knew that you couldn’t read too much into it.  It was his feline nature, it had nothing to do with you, aside from the fact that you made him comfortable.  Opening it, you were confused for a bit, before you saw a small, cream card, with embossed black calligraphy.  “Heukdwaeji.  Jeju black pork.  It looks like the belly.”  Gently sighing, you put it aside.  

“What’s wrong?” Minseok queried, his voice soft, as he shook you gently.  “You don’t like it?”

“Oh, no, it’s not that,” you said, shaking your head ruefully.  When your secret admirer had started sending you things, it had felt like a dream--like you were in a fairy tale, but now that Minseok was here...you were starting to feel guilty.  Somewhere out there was a kind, thoughtful, considerate, sensitive man who thought enough of you to bring beauty into your life, and here you were, taking his heartfelt sincerity, while developing illicit feelings for your new roommate.  Faithless.  Hopeless.  Shameful.”  “I’ve always wanted to try heukdwaeji,” you said quietly.  “How do you feel about ogyeopsal?” 

“Very positively,” he said brightly, leaning over your side to grin up at you.  

“Okay,” you said, unable to contain your smile at his happiness.  “Minseoksshi…” you started tentatively, turning so that you faced him, and could speak undistracted by the inadvisably close contact.  “What do you think of these?  Of my having a secret admirer?”

“Hm?” he said, peering into the box, looking as if he could practically eat the meat raw.  As if your question had just made its way into his mind, he froze, before looking back at you.  “I...don’t know…  I never really thought about it…  Why?  Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“No!  Yes…  I don't know…  I’m thankful, every day, for every gift, but…”

“But,” Minseok prompted softly when you drifted off and stayed silent.

“But, sometimes I wonder...what’s taking so long?  Why hasn’t he shown himself to me?  Sometimes I worry…”

Familiar calloused fingertips reached up to gently your temple.  “What do you worry about, kitten?”

Avoiding his eyes, you looked down.  “Sometimes I just worry…  If he takes too long, what if someone else comes along and shakes my heart?”  A moment passed, and then you felt the warm press of rough fingertips between your brows.

“Stop frowning,” he said softly, his large eyes gentle.  “Whatever is going to happen will happen, so don’t worry about it too much, alright?  Just live life as it comes.  You’ll be with the one who was meant for you, alright?”

Oddly enough something about his quiet assuredness struck a chord in you, and you relaxed.  

As your brow smoothed under his touch, he smiled.  “There you go.  You had better go to work now, or you’re going to be late.”  

Looking at the time, you cursed under your breath, rushing out of the door.  “See you tonight!”

“Bring me back some mocha bread!”

***

“Guess what!” you said when you arrived home that evening.

“You won the lottery, and you’ve decided to blow it all on catnip and soccer tickets!”

“No, that’s your fantasy,” you dismissed.

“Manifest the future that you want,” he quipped.  

“Anyway,” you said, rolling your eyes, “It completely slipped my mind, but I have a three day weekend!”

“Three days in a row?! We should celebrate!”  A sudden growl rent the air, and he put a restraining hand over his stomach, face reddening in embarrassment.

“I guess I’ll celebrate by feeding my hungry roommate.”  Looking at the clock, you grimaced.  “I don’t have time to make the banchan if we want to eat quickly.  How about you set up the grill, and I’ll run down to Side-Jobs Ajumma for what we need?”

“Call,” he grinned, and you looked away, trying to ignore how cute his crooked smile was.  “I want maneuljjong bokkeum! 

“Okay.”

“And saewoo jeon!“

“Alright.”

“And ogingoechae muchim!”

You laughed, reaching up to scratch behind his ears.  “As long as she has it--anything you want.”

He padded silently behind you as you walked to the entryway to put on your shoes.  When you turned, he already had your coat out and ready for you to slip your arms into, and you stood still, looking on with amusement as he bent his head to zip your jacket, before taking off the scarf that he normally wore from the coat rack, to wrap it securely around your neck.  Last came the fuzzy knit toboggan with the poof on top. You hated that hat.  It had been a Christmas gift from your manager—juvenile, something that you would never buy.  But you loved the way his eyes shone when the little poof cheerily bounced about. 

So, you wore the hat.  “Am I properly bundled, do you think?” you sniped as you squirmed your way out of where the scarf wrapped around your mouth, and bent down to pick up your reusable shopping bag.

“Mittens?” he asked hopefully.

“Don’t push it.”

Sighing, he nodded with disappointment.  “Right.”  You had already pivoted with an arch look, and reached for the doorknob, when, “Ah, that’s right!  One more thing.”

You turned just in time to see him pulling his beaten-up black leather wallet from the back pocket of his jeans—lucky wallet—before he deftly flipped it open with one hand, hooked the sides with his thumbs, and carelessly pulled out whatever his hand grabbed before handing it to you.   “Why are you giving me money?”

He rolled his eyes.  “How long are we going to keep doing this?  I live in your home--”

“You’re already paying almost all the bills except for rent!”

“And?”

“And…” you faltered.  

He quirked a brow.

“Give me a moment.”

He was silent.  Then, “Moment’s up,” as he came closer.

“And...and,” you said, voice pitching up, “It’s not your job!”

“Oh?” He tilted his head.  “No?”  His voice was dangerously soft.  “Then...what is my job?”

“To...to…” your eyes darted around, mind spinning and still coming up with nothing useful.

“To...what?  To look pretty?  To lie about?  To accept pets and scratches, and soft words? To mindlessly take...whatever you have to give...whenever you want it?”

It was hard to think as he slowly drew closer, trapping you between the heat that radiated from his body and the cold door.  “I just...I just…” Now you had to lift your head to meet his eyes, “I just...want you to be comfortable…  I don’t want to take advantage of you…  I don’t want you to feel responsible for things that aren’t--”

“My job.  You’ve said,” he said quietly, nodding down at you.  “You’re right, this isn’t my job.”

Distrusting his words, given his tone--sensing that you weren’t out of the proverbial woods yet--you didn’t dare take your eyes off of him.

Coming closer, closer, Minseok leaned over you, his hand reaching around to quickly slide into the back pocket of your jeans, tuck the money inside.  “It’s my pleasure.”

His words lingered in the shell of your ear as he backed up, smiling down at you as sweetly and innocently as a boy.

Finding that your voice did not seem to be in working order, you just nodded, blindly groping for the doorknob before opening the door, and slipping outside.

“Oh, and some pajeori, and bugeo gui please!” he said, brightly, holding open the door..

“Would it kill you to eat a vegetable?!” you nagged reflexively.

“Maneuljjong,” he reminded you patiently, as if they counted.  “Besides...”  He pointed to the black-tipped ears on the top of his head turning to and fro to catch every passing sound.

“Nice try.  That might influence your tastes, but you still need to eat vegetables like everyone else.  I know.  I looked it up.”

“Rude,” he grumbled. 

“I’ll bring some enoki and maneul and yangpa jangajji.”  You ignored his nose wrinkle of distaste, and left.  

The side jobs ajumma was a middle-aged single mother who lived with her three children a few apartments down.  She did a bit of everything--a bit of sewing, a bit of cleaning, a bit of babysitting--whatever she needed to do to make ends meet after her husband died--but it was her banchan that really kept her afloat.  Everyone in the neighbourhood knew that if you needed banchan, she was the woman to see.  Despite the relatively small size of her apartment, she had no fewer than three industrial sized fridges, with practically any banchan you could want--and her prices were reasonable, too.  

Knocking on her door, you took a step back and waited.  She had a bad knee from a childhood accident, and sometimes it took her a while to get to the door.  

She opened the door and smiled, beaming as you gave her a polite bow before ushering you inside.  “No, no, no, enough of that--come in--come in!  How have you been?”

“Fine,” you answered, smiling back at her enthusiasm.  “I won’t take up too much of your time--I was just wondering if I could buy some banchan?”

“Of course!” she said, slapping her hands together, and ushering you over to her clear-topped floor fridges, so that you could see inside.  “What are you having?”

“Ogyeopsal.”

“Oh, fancy!  Is it a special occasion?”

“N-o,” you faltered.  “I just came into some heukdwaeji, as a gift, so…”

“Really?” she asked, gesturing to the fridges, indicating that you should choose what you like.  “So, will you be eating alone or with that handsome young man that I see following you around?”

“Ajumma!” you said, shocked, your hand halfway toward a bowl of pickled garlic.

“Oh, don’t try to fool an old woman,” she said, waving you off.  “I see the way that he looks at you.”

“Minseok doesn’t...look at me any sort of way…”

rounded into an “o” of surprise.  “So you don’t kn--never mind--here--pick what you want--I’ll throw in some perilla leaf for service--do you need lettuce?”

Walking  home with not one, but two bags--the ajumma having thought herself slick by sneaking extra things in for “service” when you weren’t looking, while you were sneaking extra bills where she could find them after you left--you gratefully inhaled the cold clean winter air.  Grateful to be alive, grateful for the meal ahead of you, and grateful for Minseok, who was turning out to be an ideal companion. 

Unfortunately, your good mood was cut short by none other than Two-Tooth Ajusshi, who was standing at the curb, as if waiting for someone.  “Agasshi!  It has been a while.”

“Not nearly long enough.”  To your dismay, he approached, and you full on shuddered when he didn’t stop--instead throwing an arm over your shoulders and vigorously clasping your bicep in his big old hammy ajusshi hand claw.  Why were his nails so long?!  Waggling a finger inches away from your face--making you regret you didn’t have a spare hand with which to slap it away--he grinned, exhaling stale maekju fumes all over your precious face.  You briefly thought about biting the offending digit