The dining room was almost empty when Son Jong-won finally let himself breathe. Chairs were tucked in, candles burned low, the hum of the kitchen reduced to a distant clatter of pans being washed. It was the part of the night he liked best — when the performance ended and only the truth of the food remained.

That’s when he noticed you.

You stood near the host stand, speaking with one of the servers in careful Korean, stopping now and then to search for the right word. Your hands moved when you talked — open, expressive — a rhythm that didn’t belong to Seoul. Latina, he thought immediately, not as a category but as contrast. Warm where everything else in the room was restrained.

He told himself not to stare.

He failed.

You weren’t dressed to impress. No exaggerated elegance, no attempt to blend in either. Just a quiet confidence that didn’t ask permission. When you laughed at something the server said, it was unfiltered — too loud for the room, then quickly softened with an apologetic smile.

Something in his chest tilted.

“Chef,” the server murmured when she returned to the kitchen. “The guest from table seven wanted to know if you were here tonight. She said only if it wasn’t a bother.”

That phrasing mattered.

He stepped out a moment later, still unsure why he was doing it. He stopped at a polite distance, bowing slightly out of habit.

“Good evening. I’m Son Jong-won.”

Your reaction was immediate — you straightened, surprised, then smiled, instinctively offering your hand before catching yourself and pulling it back, laughing under your breath.

“Sorry,” you said in English, then corrected yourself in Korean. “I’m still getting used to… this.”

He smiled, small but real. “It’s all right.”

Up close, he could see it more clearly — the way your eyes lingered, not invasive but curious, the way you held yourself like someone used to being listened to rather than watched.

“I hope you enjoyed your meal,” he said, defaulting to professionalism because anything else felt too exposed.

“I did,” you replied. “Though I think I enjoyed it… differently than most people here.” You hesitated, searching again. “In my culture, we talk through food. Out loud. I had to remind myself to be quiet.”

That earned a soft breath of a laugh from him.

“Yes,” he said. “We usually listen instead.”

Your eyes brightened at that. “That explains a lot.”

There was an awkward pause — the kind that only happens when two strangers are suddenly aware of each other in a way that doesn’t fit the setting. You glanced toward the door, then back at him.

“I didn’t mean to take your time,” you said. “I just wanted to thank you in person. I’m only visiting.”

“Where from?” he asked, then immediately worried it was too forward.

“Latin America,” you answered. “Very far from here.”

He nodded, feeling the weight of that distance without knowing why.

“I don’t usually speak with guests like this,” he admitted. “But… I’m glad you asked for me.”

Your smile softened, slower this time. “Me too. I wasn’t sure it was appropriate.”

Neither of you moved.

Then, gently, as if testing unfamiliar ground, he said, “If you’re not in a hurry, I drink tea after service. It’s informal.”