Chapter Text
Rumi always remembered her parents like this—warm light spilling through the small apartment, the smell of rain clinging to the curtains, her mother humming something that hadn’t found its words yet while her father tried to fix a loose hinge that didn’t need fixing. The memory lived in her mind like an old photograph that never faded, edges soft, colors still bright.
She was five years old, small enough that her feet swung from the stool, but big enough to know she wanted to be exactly like her mother when she grew up. Mi-yeong was everything Rumi thought a person could be—gentle, funny, brave, and always smiling at her father like there was sunlight trapped behind her teeth.
The kitchen smelled like steam and oranges that afternoon. Mi-yeong’s sleeves were rolled up, her hands glistening as she scrubbed the last of the dishes. Rumi sat at the table, tracing circles in a small puddle of water and pretending the droplets were tiny planets. A single mandarin waited on the cutting board, round and perfect.
Her father’s boots clicked against the hallway floor before she saw him. “You’re home!” Rumi squealed, nearly falling off the stool in excitement.
Jinyoung appeared in the doorway, tall and tired but smiling. His dark hair was damp from the rain, his coat slung over one arm. His eyes softened the moment they landed on her. “Hey, little star.”
Rumi scrambled off her seat and ran into him. His coat was still cold, but his arms were warm, and she tucked herself against him like it was where she belonged. He bent to kiss the top of her head, lingering for a second longer than usual.
“Did you miss me?” he asked.
Rumi nodded so hard her hair tickled his chin. “Mom says you were out hunting bad things.”
Mi-yeong chuckled from the sink. “I said he was working, not hunting.” She dried her hands and crossed the kitchen, leaning up to kiss Jinyoung’s cheek. He turned his head just enough that their lips met instead.
Rumi giggled. “Ew, gross!”
Mi-yeong laughed, brushing her daughter’s hair from her face. “Someday you’ll think it’s beautiful, not gross.”
Rumi wrinkled her nose. “No way.” But secretly, she thought it was beautiful already. The way her mother’s eyes crinkled after they kissed, how her father’s hand lingered at her waist like he was afraid she might disappear if he let go. She didn’t have the words for it yet, but she knew it was what love looked like.
Jinyoung noticed the orange on the board and raised an eyebrow. “You were going to share that without me?”
“I was waiting for you,” Mi-yeong said, reaching for it. “Rumi wanted to learn how to peel one properly.”
Rumi climbed back on the stool, wide-eyed. “I tried, but the peel bit me.”
Her father laughed quietly. “It does that sometimes.” He rolled his sleeves up past his elbows and picked up the orange. The pads of his fingers were rough, small silver scars crossing his skin. Rumi always wondered how they felt against hers—like stone maybe, but warm stone, alive and kind.
Mi-yeong handed him a towel. “Be careful. The acid stings when you have cuts.”
“I’ll be fine,” Jinyoung said, but there was something soft in his eyes when he looked at her. He pressed his thumb into the top of the fruit, and the peel gave a faint hiss as it broke. A spray of citrus oil misted into the air, sharp and sweet. He flinched slightly but didn’t stop.
Rumi leaned forward, fascinated. “Does it hurt?”
“A little,” he admitted. “But your mom loves oranges, and I love her. So it’s a good hurt.”
Mi-yeong smiled, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. “He’s been saying that since we met.”
Rumi tilted her head. “Since you met?”
Mi-yeong nodded. “Do you want to know a secret?”
“Yes!”
“When I first met your dad,” she began, “I was scared of him. Everyone was. He didn’t talk much. He didn’t smile. And he never touched anything he didn’t have to. But one day, after training, I was sitting on the steps eating lunch, and I had this orange that I couldn’t open. The skin was too thick, and my fingers hurt. He didn’t say a word—he just sat down, took the orange from me, and started peeling.”
Rumi’s eyes were wide. “Like now?”
“Exactly like now.” Mi-yeong’s voice softened. “The acid burned his cuts, I could see it. But he kept going, quiet as ever, until the orange was in little pieces. He gave them back to me and said, ‘You should eat before the sun sets.’ That’s all.”
Jinyoung gave a small embarrassed cough, his cheeks coloring. “It wasn’t that dramatic.”
“It was to me.” Mi-yeong smiled at him. “I fell in love with you right then. Because that’s how I knew you cared—not with words, but with your hands.” She turned back to Rumi and crouched beside her stool, cupping her cheek. “So remember this, jagiya. If someone won’t peel an orange for you, they don’t love you the way you deserve.”
Rumi blinked slowly, the lesson already sinking into a part of her heart she didn’t yet understand. “But you and Dad both peel them for me.”
Mi-yeong’s voice softened even more. “That’s because we both love you.”
Jinyoung finally split the orange in half, handing Rumi a small piece. She bit into it, sweet juice spilling over her tongue. She laughed, a tiny burst of joy too big for her body. “It’s so good!”
Jinyoung wiped her chin with his sleeve. “Good things take patience.”
Mi-yeong leaned over and kissed his temple. “And a little bit of pain, apparently.”
He grinned, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer. “Worth it every time.”
Rumi watched them hug, her little legs swinging under the stool. The way they fit together made her chest feel warm and floaty. She thought maybe the world was made from people like them—people who made small things matter. She wished she could keep this exact second forever.
“Dad,” she said suddenly. “Will you teach me to peel one without it biting me?”
He nodded, guiding her small hand over his. “Start gentle. Find the line where it wants to open. Don’t force it. Just listen.”
The peel gave way easily this time, as though the fruit was listening back. Together, they lifted the strip, Rumi giggling when juice splattered her wrist.
“There,” Jinyoung said. “You did it.”
“Can we save the peel?” she asked, holding up the curled bit like treasure.
Mi-yeong laughed softly. “We’ll dry it and keep it in a jar. So the house always smells like sunshine.”
By the time the last wedge was eaten, Rumi’s eyes were heavy. She rested her head against her mother’s arm while her father gathered the peels. The heater hummed, and the rain outside had softened to a hush.
Mi-yeong brushed Rumi’s bangs away from her face. “Sleepy?”
Rumi mumbled something that sounded like yes. Jinyoung lifted her into his arms, holding her against his chest. Her cheek pressed against the heartbeat she had always known.
As he carried her to bed, she heard her mother’s voice—quiet, fond, and full. “I love you, Jinyoung.”
“I love you too,” he said. “And her most of all.”
Mi-yeong laughed softly. “We’ll see if she believes that tomorrow when you steal her breakfast orange.”
Rumi smiled with her eyes closed. Even half-asleep, she knew this moment mattered. That oranges meant love, patience, and the gentle kind of promise that lasts even after the people who made it are gone.
And in every memory that came after, Rumi always remembered her parents like this—bathed in warm kitchen light, laughing, peeling oranges together as if love could be tasted in the air.