She tells herself she won't go back the next night.
It's getting predictable.
Predictability is dangerous.
She doesn't like needing patterns.
She especially doesn't like rearranging her schedule around someone else's closing time.
But at 8:17 p.m., she finds herself staring at the rain-streaked window of her office.
Not raining tonight.
Just habit.
Her assistant knocks lightly.
"The investors from Busan confirmed dinner tomorrow."
She nods.
"Book a private chef."
"Yes, Director."
Her hand pauses mid-signature.
Then, without looking up, she adds:
"Actually… cancel that."
A pause.
"Cancel?"
"Yes."
"And replace it with....?"
She looks up slowly.
"I'll handle dinner."
The assistant hesitates.
But nods.
At 8:46 p.m., she walks into his shop.
He looks up immediately.
This time, he doesn't tease her about traffic.
"You look like you're planning something," he says instead.
She removes her coat carefully.
"Am I that obvious?"
"Yes."
She exhales softly.
"I need you to cook tomorrow."
He doesn't react dramatically.
"For you?"
"For eight."
He pauses.
"That's different."
"Yes."
She holds his gaze steadily.
"It's important."
He wipes his hands on a towel.
"What kind of important?"
"Business."
That word shifts the air.
He doesn't answer immediately.
She studies his expression carefully.
"You've cooked for private reservations before."
"Yes."
"So cook for mine."
He tilts his head slightly.
"And what do you want me to cook?"
She hesitates.
That's the problem.
She doesn't want to choose.
She wants him to.
"Something that tastes like you," she says before she can stop herself.
Silence.
He looks at her longer than usual.
"That's vague."
"Then interpret it."
He leans back against the counter.
"And if they don't like it?"
"They will."
"That's not what I asked."
She steps closer.
"They're coming because of me. They'll stay because of you."
The confidence in her tone isn't performative.
It's certain.
He studies her for a long moment.
"You trust me that much?"
She doesn't hesitate.
"Yes."
That lands somewhere between them.
He nods once.
"Alright."
The next evening, the investors arrive at a discreet private dining room she reserved downtown.
Minimal press.
Minimal noise.
She stands at the head of the table as always.
Composed.
Precise.
But her pulse is slightly elevated.
Not because of the deal.
Because of him.
Jaewon enters the private kitchen space behind the dining room without ceremony.
He's dressed simply.
Black.
Clean.
Focused.
No dramatic introduction.
No branding.
Just presence.
The first course arrives.
A delicate chilled cucumber soup infused with perilla oil.
Light.
Clean.
Unexpected.
The investors exchange glances.
Surprised.
The second course follows.
Pan-seared scallops with fermented soybean foam and pickled radish for balance.
It's refined.
Elegant.
Nothing like the modest shop down the street.
She watches their reactions carefully.
They lean forward.
They slow down.
They taste.
By the third course, the room is quiet in a different way.
Respectful.
One investor sets his chopsticks down.
"Where did you find him?" he asks softly.
She doesn't look toward the kitchen.
"I didn't find him," she replies.
"He was already there."
Behind the partition, Jaewon works calmly.
Heat responding.
Knife steady.
Timing exact.
He doesn't look nervous.
He doesn't look ambitious.
He looks at home.
And that does something to her chest she can't explain.
This is his world too.
Just a different version of it.
After the final dish — a black sesame dessert with yuzu reduction — the investors are no longer skeptical.
They are impressed.
When they leave, contracts half-signed, one of them says quietly:
"If you ever expand, call me."
She nods politely.
But her mind is elsewhere.
She finds him in the small kitchen space afterward.
He's cleaning already.
"You didn't need to stay," she says.
"I finished."
"They loved it."
He shrugs lightly.
"They ate it."
She steps closer.
"You could do this every night."
"I don't want to."
"Why?"
He rinses a knife under warm water.
"Because I don't like performing."
She studies him.
"You weren't performing."
He looks at her evenly.
"Yes, I was."
That answer lingers.
She exhales softly.
"You were good."
"You looked nervous."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
She almost laughs.
"You're insufferable."
"You're transparent."
The air tightens slightly.
Not tense.
Charged.
She steps closer without realizing.
"You embarrassed me," she says quietly.
"How?"
"You were better than I expected."
His eyes narrow faintly.
"That sounds insulting."
"It's not."
"Then what is it?"
She hesitates.
"Impressive."
He studies her face carefully.
"You're not used to not being the most capable person in the room."
That lands precisely where it hurts.
She doesn't deny it.
Instead, she steps even closer.
"You don't need me," she says softly.
It's not accusation.
It's realization.
He holds her gaze.
"No."
Silence.
Then he adds:
"But I don't mind you being here."
Her pulse spikes.
That sentence is more dangerous than confession.
They walk out of the building together.
No rain tonight.
Just cool air.
A few steps behind them, someone calls out:
"Chef!"
They both turn.
A woman in heels approaches quickly.
One of the younger investors.
Bright smile.
Sharp eyes.
"That dessert was incredible," she says, stepping closer than necessary.
"Do you take private clients?"
Jaewon nods politely.
"Sometimes."
She hands him a card.
"Call me."
Her hand lingers a fraction too long when she passes it.
She laughs lightly at something he says.
Too lightly.
Too easily.
She feels it again.
That sharp, unpleasant tightness.
The investor's eyes flick briefly toward her.
Assessing.
Measuring.
Then back to him.
"We'll be in touch," the woman says.
She walks away confidently.
Silence falls.
Jaewon slips the card into his pocket without looking at it.
"That was predictable," he says casually.
"Was it?" she replies coolly.
"Yes."
"You're not going to call her."
It's not phrased as a question.
He glances at her.
"Why wouldn't I?"
Her steps slow slightly.
"You're not that kind of person."
"And what kind is that?"
"The kind who entertains… distractions."
He stops walking.
Looks at her carefully.
"You're jealous."
The word hits harder this time.
She doesn't deny it immediately.
"I don't like opportunists."
He studies her face.
"You don't like competition."
That's more accurate than she wants to admit.
She crosses her arms.
"She was obvious."
"So were you."
Her breath catches.
"What does that mean?"
"You stood closer."
She didn't realize she had.
"And?"
"And nothing."
He resumes walking.
She follows.
Her chest feels warmer now.
Less subtle than before.
Possessiveness isn't flickering anymore.
It's growing.
And she doesn't know whether to suppress it or feed it.
Later that night, alone in her apartment, she replays the evening.
The investor's hand brushing his.
The way he slipped the card into his pocket.
The way he didn't deny calling her.
Her jaw tightens slightly.
She presses her tongue against her teeth.
The taste of black sesame still lingers faintly.
She doesn't like imagining someone else tasting what she tasted first.
That thought unsettles her deeply.
Because it implies ownership.
And she hasn't claimed anything yet.
Inside his apartment, Jaewon removes the card from his pocket.
He glances at it once.
Then sets it on the counter.
Unmoved.
But his thoughts drift elsewhere.
She stood closer tonight.
Too close.
She looked unsettled.
Not by business.
By him.
He exhales slowly.
He knows that look.
Attachment.
He shouldn't encourage it.
He knows that too.
But when she said she trusted him....
Something shifted.
And he isn't sure he wants to step away from it.
The card stays on his counter overnight.
He doesn't throw it away.
But he doesn't look at it again either.
The next evening, he returns to his shop as usual.
Nothing changes.
Rice is washed.
Broth is prepared.
Orders are filled.
Predictable.
Steady.
Until the door opens and she steps inside earlier than usual.
She doesn't sit immediately.
Her eyes scan the space first.
Checking.
For what?
He pretends not to notice.
"You're tense," he says casually.
"I'm not."
"You walked in like you expected someone."
Her jaw tightens slightly.
"I was just observing."
"Of course."
She finally sits.
He brings her tea without asking.
Not broth tonight.
Barley tea.
Warm.
Grounding.
She accepts it.
"Did you call her?" she asks, too quickly.
He knows exactly who she means.
"No."
Her shoulders relax a fraction before she can stop herself.
He notices.
"She offered good money," he adds calmly.
Her fingers tighten around the cup.
"So?"
"So nothing."
She looks up sharply.
"You're not interested?"
"In what?"
"Expanding."
He wipes the counter.
"I've expanded before."
"And?"
"I didn't like it."
She studies him carefully.
"Because of performance?"
"Because of expectations."
She doesn't like that answer.
"Expectations are normal."
"Not when they own you."
That lands uncomfortably close to her own life.
Silence lingers.
A group of foreign tourists enter the shop suddenly.
Three of them.
American accents.
Loud energy.
They look around uncertainly.
"Do you have an English menu?" one asks.
She glances at Jaewon automatically.
He doesn't hesitate.
"Of course," he replies in clean, fluent English.
Her head snaps toward him.
He moves smoothly into explanation.
"Our braised short rib is popular tonight. It's cooked low for six hours with Korean pear and soy reduction. If you prefer something lighter, I recommend the chilled soba with sesame dressing."
His pronunciation is effortless.
Natural.
The tourists exchange impressed looks.
"Wow, that sounds amazing," one says.
He smiles faintly.
"Would you like it spicy or mild?"
They laugh.
"Let's try medium."
He nods and turns to the kitchen without fanfare.
She watches him in silence.
When he returns to her table later, she doesn't wait.
"You speak English."
"Yes."
"You didn't mention that."
"You didn't ask."
She exhales sharply.
"That answer is getting old."
"It's still accurate."
She leans forward slightly.
"Where did you learn?"
"London."
That word lands like a stone in water.
"London?"
"Three years."
"Doing what?"
"Working."
She studies him carefully.
"What kind of work?"
"Kitchen."
Her eyes narrow.
"You were a head chef."
It's not a question.
He pauses.
Then:
"Eventually."
The simplicity of that admission stuns her.
"You left?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He meets her gaze steadily.
"Because I didn't want my life decided by critics."
The tourists laugh loudly at another table.
He glances over briefly, then back at her.
"You hide," she says quietly.
"I choose."
"That's different."
"Yes."
She doesn't like how calm he is.
She doesn't like that he lived in London for three years and never mentioned it.
She doesn't like that he can shift languages effortlessly.
And she definitely doesn't like that she's learning about him through strangers.
"You should have told me," she says before she can stop herself.
He tilts his head slightly.
"Why?"
"Because....."
She stops.
Because I want to know everything.
Because I don't like discovering you in pieces.
Because I don't want someone else to know more about you than I do.
She swallows.
"Because I'm the one who brought you into that room last night."
"And?"
"And I didn't know who you were."
He studies her carefully.
"I'm still the same person."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is?"
She leans back.
Frustrated.
"You limit yourself here."
"And you don't?"
That lands sharply.
She goes quiet.
He softens slightly.
"I learned French pastry in Paris," he adds casually.
"And ramen in Osaka."
"And dim sum technique in Taipei."
She stares at him.
"You're joking."
"No."
He doesn't elaborate further.
Doesn't list accolades.
Doesn't name restaurants.
Just returns to chopping scallions.
The tourists receive their food and exclaim loudly.
"Oh my god, this is incredible!"
He nods politely.
Switches back to Korean without effort.
Her pulse is uneven now.
Not jealousy.
Something deeper.
He isn't small.
He's chosen small.
That realization shifts her perception dangerously.
She had thought she was pulling him upward.
But he never needed pulling.
Later, when the tourists leave, one of them says:
"You should open in New York!"
He smiles faintly.
"Too loud."
They laugh and exit.
She waits until the door closes.
"You could."
"Yes."
"And you don't."
"No."
"Why?"
He wipes his hands slowly.
"Because I don't want to."
That frustrates her.
"You're wasting potential."
He looks at her directly.
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"Or am I living the way I want?"
The question stings.
She doesn't answer immediately.
He steps closer to her table.
"You think ambition is survival," he says quietly.
"It is."
"Not for me."
The air tightens.
"Then what is survival for you?" she asks.
"Peace."
That word lands harder than any insult.
She studies him carefully.
"You don't want more?"
He glances at her.
"I have enough."
Her pulse spikes again.
That word.
Enough.
She doesn't know what that feels like.
The door opens again.
Yura enters this time.
Bright smile.
Energy like always.
"Chef! My fiancé loved the kimchi stew last week."
She notices her immediately.
Yura waves cheerfully.
"Oh, hi again."
She nods stiffly.
Yura walks behind the counter without hesitation.
"He's cooking something new tonight?" Yura asks, peeking at the stove.
"Stay on your side," Jaewon says mildly.
Yura grins.
"Relax. I'm not stealing your secrets."
She doesn't miss that Yura stands too comfortably near him again.
"You're busy," she says coolly.
"To you?" Yura replies lightly.
Jaewon sighs.
"Yura."
"What? I'm leaving."
She grabs her takeaway.
Then glances at her.
"You look different tonight."
"In what way?"
"More… territorial."
The word is teasing.
But it hits too close.
Yura laughs and leaves.
Silence falls again.
Jaewon looks at her.
"You don't like her."
"She's loud."
"She's harmless."
"That's not the point."
He steps closer again.
"Then what is?"
Her fingers curl slightly against the table.
"I don't like how easily she walks behind your counter."
His brows lift faintly.
"She's been doing that since she was fifteen."
"That doesn't make it appropriate."
He studies her carefully.
"You want the space?"
The question is quiet.
Direct.
She hesitates.
Then:
"Yes."
That word is almost a confession.
Something shifts in his gaze.
Not alarm.
Recognition.
He nods once.
"Okay."
And the next time Yura tries to step behind the counter, he gently blocks her path.
"Stay there."
Yura pouts dramatically but obeys.
She watches the exchange carefully.
Her chest warms.
Not because she won.
But because he chose.
That matters more than she expected.
Later that night, when the shop empties, she remains seated again.
"You don't have to block people for me," she says quietly.
"I know."
"Then why did you?"
He meets her eyes.
"Because you asked."
Her pulse spikes.
It shouldn't be that simple.
But it is.
She exhales slowly.
"You're dangerous."
He almost smiles.
"You said that before."
"Yes."
"And you're still here."
That's true.
She is.
As she leaves, she glances back once.
He's already cleaning.
Already steady.
Already himself.
But something has shifted.
She doesn't just want the taste anymore.
She wants the space.
The language.
The layers.
The parts of him no one else sees fully.
And that realization is far more dangerous than jealousy.