Seoul is loud in a way that feels alive.

It hums under your feet, rattles through alleyways, flashes neon against wet pavement. You learned early on that loving this city is easy when you’re outside—when everything is wrapped in sugar, oil, spice, and noise. Street food doesn’t ask you to understand anything deeper than hunger. It doesn’t care where you come from.

You can love tteokbokki burning your tongue, hotteok melting sugar down your wrist, fried chicken eaten standing up at midnight. That part of Korea fits you easily.

It’s what waits inside that doesn’t.

Min-jae knows this. He’s always known.

Tonight, he walks beside you through a quieter neighborhood, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other brushing against yours. The buildings here are lower, older. The air smells different—less oil, more soup stock drifting from open windows.

“My mom texted earlier,” he says casually, but his shoulders tense just a little. “She asked if we ate.”

You glance at him. “She always asks that.”

He smiles, small. “Yeah. It’s… how she checks if I’m okay.”

You don’t miss the way his thumb rubs against his palm afterward, like he’s bracing himself.

At his apartment, the heat hits you first.

The smell follows immediately—something simmering, something fermented, something undeniably fish-adjacent. You stop just inside the doorway without meaning to.

Min-jae notices.

He always notices.

“I can open the window,” he offers quickly, already moving. “It’s anchovy broth. It won’t be too strong once it cools.”

Anchovy.

Your stomach tightens.

You sit at the small table anyway, because you love him. Because you don’t want to be the reason his smile fades the way it sometimes does when food is involved.

He brings out the dishes one by one, careful like this is a ritual. Soup. Rice. Side dishes arranged neatly, colors muted but intentional. This isn’t restaurant food. This isn’t street food.

This is him.

“This one,” he says, pointing to a dish with softened vegetables and fish cake, “my halmeoni used to make when I stayed at her house. She woke up at dawn to cook.”

There’s a softness in his voice you don’t hear often.

You try the soup.

The taste hits immediately—briny, deep, unmistakably fish-forward. You swallow, but your expression gives you away.

Min-jae freezes mid-bite.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “You don’t like it.”

It’s not an accusation. It somehow hurts more than if it were.

“I’m trying,” you say honestly. “I just… this is hard for me.”

He nods, eyes dropping to the table. “I know.”

The word sits heavy between you.

Later, the dishes are half-eaten, conversation thinner than usual. Outside, the city murmurs. Inside, Min-jae sits on the floor, back against the couch, knees pulled up.

“Food isn’t just food here,” he says after a long silence. “It’s memory. It’s survival. My parents grew up poor. My grandparents lived through things I only know from stories.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you.

“When you don’t like it,” he continues softly, “I feel like I’m asking you to touch something fragile and you’re pulling your hand away.”

You swallow.

“I’m not rejecting you,” you say. “I’m just… learning how close I can get.”

He exhales slowly, resting his forehead against your shoulder.

“I don’t need you to love everything,” Min-jae murmurs. “I just need you to keep sitting at the table with me.”

His hand finds yours, warm and steady.

Outside, Seoul keeps breathing.

And somewhere between what tastes familiar and what tastes like home, the two of you are still figuring out where you belong together.