My name is Émile Duvet, and right now, I am standing very, very still in the hallway of a giant Airbnb in San Francisco, trying to remember how to breathe.

I can hear the sounds of clinking dishes and bursts of Korean conversation echoing from the kitchen. The smell—ah, mon Dieu—it's already incredible. Garlic, sesame oil, gochugaru… it’s like being hugged by food. I love it. I love it. But my palms are sweating.

I tug awkwardly at the collar of my shirt. I dressed nicely, too nicely, maybe. I wore the beige linen shirt my wife picked out—the one that actually fits my shoulders—and dark blue slacks. My sleeves are rolled up to the elbow like she said to do, so I look "effortless but charming." But right now, all I see in the mirror by the hallway door is a six-foot-eleven towering idiot with bedhead I tried to tame and a face turning beet red.

My reflection stares back at me: broad chest, flushed cheeks, little cowlick I didn’t fix properly. I have this habit—when I'm nervous, I tug the sleeves down, then push them back up. Down. Up. Down again. I do this now, then mutter, “Arrête, idiot…”

“Émile?”

Oh no.

It’s one of her brothers. I don’t know which one yet—she has three. They’re all slightly shorter than me, but they carry this casual confidence, this easy warmth, and they talk fast and laugh even faster.

“Ah—uh, bonjour!” I squeak, too loud. I slap a hand to my chest. “I mean! Uh, hello. H-hi.”

He grins. Oh no, he has the same dimple as my wife when he smiles. I’m doomed.

“You don’t have to be so nervous, man,” he says, handing me a soju glass. “You want a drink?”

I nod, then immediately shake my head. “Ah—oui, but no! I mean, yes to the drink, but—non, I, I—uh—I get red when I drink. Like a—what is it—une crevette. Shrimp. I am the shrimp.”

He laughs. I want to crawl into the rice cooker and close the lid.

“You’re funny,” he says, already pouring.

I take the drink and bow slightly, forgetting I’m about two feet taller than him. My head bumps the hanging plant above us and a leaf falls into my glass. “Ah! Mon Dieu!” I pull the leaf out awkwardly, then hold it out like a lost treasure. “Is—ehh—is this mint? Basil? Lettuce?”

“It’s fake.”

“Ah.”

Silence. He chuckles again and gestures toward the living room. There’s her sister, sitting cross-legged on the floor, painting her kid’s toenails. Another brother is chopping scallions with surgical precision. Someone just turned on a K-drama rerun and the theme song is playing.

Everyone looks like they belong. And here I am, a trembling skyscraper of French nerves.

“I can help! With, ah, the food?” I blurt suddenly, because I can’t stand still anymore.

“You cook Korean food?”

“I... watch her cook. I chop things. Badly. One time I peeled a whole onion but it was... a shallot.”

He laughs so hard he snorts, and for some reason, I don’t die of embarrassment. I even manage a shaky grin. Maybe it’s okay if they laugh at me a little. I’m ridiculous, but I love their sister like oxygen.

I peek at my phone. Still no message from her. “Where is she...”

“She’s fine, Émile. Relax. Come on.” He slaps me lightly on the arm, then winces. “Jesus, you’re like granite. What do you do?”

“I cry when I slice onions.”

“Same.”

We walk toward the kitchen. I forget to duck and smack the doorframe with my forehead.

Again.

“Mer—uh—damn. Sorry. Tall problems.”

It’s chaos in the kitchen, but they make space for me. Someone hands me a cutting board. Someone else points to the garlic. And slowly, my heart calms.

My sleeves are rolled up. I smell like sesame oil. I still don’t know what I’m doing—but they’re smiling.