I hadn't planned on coming back.
Five years away from home was supposed to mean something. A clean break. A chance to become my own person in the city, maybe even figure out what kind of man I wanted to be. But life doesn't always pay you in answers.
Graduation came and went. My part-time job ended with a weak handshake. Rent kept climbing, and my bank account thinned faster than my patience. One night, while scrolling through job boards in a dim, overpriced room with peeling walls and no future, I messaged my father:
"Can I stay at the house for a while?"
He replied three days later:
"Sure. I'm overseas again. Yuna's there. She'll let you in."
No "welcome home." No details. Just another example of how he'd been ever since the divorce—distant and efficient.
I arrived late in the afternoon. The house stood on a quiet street lined with trees and cars that looked more expensive than the ones I used to see in our old neighborhood. It was bigger than I expected. Cleaner. Polished. The kind of place you didn't yell in.
I rang the bell.
The door opened, and she was there. My stepmother. Yuna.
She looked nothing like what I expected.
Loose dark hair fell just past her shoulders. Her skin was pale, smooth. She wore a thin beige robe tied lazily at the waist, and beneath it, a simple black tank top clung to her frame. Her legs were bare. One hand held a steaming mug, the other rested on the edge of the door.
Her eyes scanned me up and down. She looked… amused.
"You're Jae-hyun?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. Her voice was soft, but confident.
"Yeah." I nodded. "You're Yuna?"
She smiled faintly. "Wow. You got tall."
I gave a tight smile back. "Guess so."
She stepped aside, motioning with her head. "Come in. Your dad said you'd be arriving today. He's not back until next month, maybe longer."
The house was warmer than I expected. The air smelled faintly of citrus and something floral—maybe perfume. Clean lines, soft furniture, polished floors. No clutter. No photos of me or my mother. Just this version of life: sleek, new, untouched.
Yuna walked ahead of me, barefoot, still sipping from her mug. Her robe shifted as she moved. I tried not to notice.
"You can take the guest room," she said, pointing toward the back. "Third door on the right. Sheets are clean. Bathroom's just across."
"Thanks."
"Dinner's around seven. I cook simple stuff. If you want to eat something else, you're welcome to make your own."
"I'll eat whatever you make. I'm not picky."
She gave me a quick glance, one corner of her mouth twitching like she wanted to smile but didn't.
"I like that," she said, then turned and walked into the kitchen.
The room was clean. Minimalist. White walls, dark wood desk, single bed. Everything smelled like fabric softener. I dropped my duffel by the foot of the bed and sat down slowly. The quiet pressed in on me.
I wasn't sure what I expected, but it wasn't her.
She wasn't cold. Not exactly warm either. But confident. Unbothered. She carried herself like someone who didn't feel the need to explain anything.
I heard soft music drifting in from the living room. Something jazzy. Then the sound of a glass being poured. She moved through the house like it was hers. Because it was.
Dinner was light—pan-fried salmon with rice and some kind of green salad. Yuna didn't eat much. She sipped white wine, legs crossed at the table, scrolling her phone between bites.
She asked me a few things: what I studied (business), what I planned to do (no idea), and whether I was seeing anyone ("No," I said, and she didn't ask further).
We didn't talk about my dad.
After dinner, she offered me a glass of wine. I accepted. She handed it to me with a faint smile and sat back on the couch, robe slightly undone now, revealing more of her bare thigh than I was comfortable with noticing.
"I usually video chat with my friends on Fridays," she said, tapping her phone. "It gets loud. Hope that won't bother you."
"No. It's fine."
She looked at me again—longer this time. Then nodded once and turned away.
That night, I tried to sleep early. But around midnight, I heard voices. Laughter. Music again.
I got up, barefoot, and crept toward the stairs.
Yuna was in the living room, legs tucked under her on the couch. The robe was off—now just the tank top and black shorts. A bottle of red wine sat on the table. Her phone was propped up. Video chat.
Three other women filled the screen, all talking at once. Stylish. Pretty. Done up like they weren't calling from their bedrooms.
One of them—tall, red lipstick, long lashes—laughed loud and asked, "So how's your new roommate?"
Yuna smirked. "Quiet. Polite. Cute."
"Cute how?"
"Like... if I was younger and less married, I'd make him nervous on purpose."
The screen filled with laughter.
Another woman—smaller frame, sharp voice—said, "You're already doing that, aren't you?"
Yuna looked toward the hallway. Her gaze lingered. I froze.
Then she laughed, shrugged, and sipped her wine. "Maybe a little."
I went back to my room and shut the door. My heart beat harder than it should've.
I wasn't sure what I felt. But sleep didn't come easy.
I stayed in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling, the sound of muffled laughter still drifting down the hallway. I could hear wine glasses clinking. Soft, tipsy voices. Yuna's laugh—it was light, easy, natural. It had a rhythm to it. Like she wasn't pretending.
I couldn't remember the last time I heard a woman sound that relaxed.
At some point, the voices faded. The music died. Her door clicked shut, quietly. The house went still again.
But sleep still didn't come. My mind kept going back to what she said on that call.
"If I was younger and less married…""…I'd make him nervous on purpose."
She knew I could've heard her. That was the part that stuck with me.
The next morning, I woke late. Sunlight poured in through the half-drawn curtain. I could smell coffee. Something buttery. I didn't bother with a shower—I just pulled on a clean shirt, ran fingers through my hair, and headed out.
Yuna was at the stove.
She wore a loose white T-shirt and cotton shorts that barely covered her. Her hair was tied up this time, exposing the smooth line of her neck. She didn't glance over when I walked in.
"Coffee's fresh," she said. "Toast and eggs, if you're hungry."
"Thanks."
I poured myself a cup and leaned against the counter. She moved comfortably in the kitchen. Not rushed. Not faking it. Just… at home.
"You were up late," I said, casually.
"Mmm. Fridays are always our catch-up nights." She flipped a slice of toast and turned to look at me. "Sorry if we were loud."
"No, it was fine."
She studied me for a second. "You didn't look fine."
I blinked. "What?"
She smiled, slow and knowing. "You peeked down the stairs, didn't you?"
I looked away, sipping my coffee. "Didn't know it was private."
"It wasn't." She turned back to the stove. "I just like knowing when someone's watching."
The way she said it—it wasn't flirty. It wasn't shy, either. Just honest. Maybe even testing.
She plated the toast and eggs, set them down at the table, then took a seat across from me.
"You're easy to read," she said.
"Is that a good thing?"
"That depends on what you're thinking when you're quiet."
I didn't answer. I focused on the toast. The eggs were soft, slightly runny. Perfect.
She watched me eat. It wasn't awkward. She didn't look away when I looked back.
Finally, she broke the silence. "You don't hate me for marrying your father, do you?"
I blinked. "No."
"You never called. Never asked to meet me."
"My father doesn't really… talk about things."
She nodded slowly. "He doesn't."
There was a pause.
"I didn't marry him for money," she said, calmly. "If that's what you were thinking."
I looked up. "I wasn't."
"Most people do. It's the age gap. The house. The way I dress."
"I'm not most people."
She smiled again, this time with something gentler in her eyes. Not quite warmth—more like interest.
"I like that," she said, repeating the same words she had the night before.
We didn't speak much after that. She took her coffee into the living room. I stayed at the table, chewing slower than usual, feeling her presence even when she was out of view.
That day, I walked around the neighborhood for a bit. Tried to clear my head. But no matter how many blocks I circled, my thoughts kept drifting back to her.
She wasn't doing anything inappropriate. Not really.
She dressed casually at home. She teased a little. She talked openly.
But it was in the way she looked at me—like she knew exactly what she was doing, and didn't care if I figured it out.