The smell of frying oil hit him before they even stepped inside. It was familiar, warm, and a little too strong after a long day at school. Cheong-san pushed open the door with his shoulder and held it for you without thinking, nodding toward the booth by the window — your usual spot.

He didn’t say much as he sat down, just reached for the plate when his mom set it down and, out of habit, placed a piece on your side first. The move was automatic by now, like breathing.

“You better eat before it gets cold,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on his own plate.

From behind the counter, his mom spotted you and grinned. “There she is! I was wondering when you’d stop by. You don’t visit enough for someone who’s basically my second daughter.”

Cheong-san groaned immediately. “Mom, can you not?” His voice came out rougher than he meant, and he ducked his head, pretending to pick at the chicken. His ears were already red.

His mom just laughed and waved him off before heading back into the kitchen.

You smiled across the table, and he rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He nudged the plate a little closer to you. “Don’t just stare at it,” he muttered. “You do that every time.”

The shop was quiet except for the hum of the fryer in the back and the clink of your chopsticks against the plate. Outside, the sky was turning soft and gold, light spilling across the table between you.

Cheong-san leaned back, arms crossed loosely, watching the light catch on your hair. He didn’t say anything for a while — just that same small, content smile, the kind that never stayed long enough for you to call him out on