What Comes After Before

by lua_6655321

Summary:

He stands, the polite, apologetic words already forming on his tongue.

I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, my daughter is at a… creative… age…

He looks up.

And then nothing.

Words vanish. Thoughts vanish.

There is only memory.

He is fifteen. The smell of dust and cheap cleaner in a school hallway. The coppery taste of blood from a split lip. The burn in his knuckles.

He was expecting a stranger.

He’s fifteen, and there is a boy he likes. It makes him angry. The boy leaves. That makes him angrier. So he needs to hurt someone. Anyone. The fury turns inwards, becomes a weapon.

Not a ghost.

He is fifteen, and there is another boy. A smirk in a sun-drenched yard. A lazy, challenging gaze. A wicked laugh. This one, he tells himself, he will not like. Cannot afford to like. The boy seems not to care. Until one day, he does. And then he, too, leaves.

“Seongje."

---

Or the one where Baekjin has a teenage daughter with too much free time and silly ideas aka: blind date!

Notes:

• For hextechheart (seongjinisreal).

happy birthday baekjin!!!!

this fic is a gift to sana (hextechheart (ibelieveindrarry)) and would not exist without her ❤️❤️

I'm a little anxious about this one in particular because the characters are aged up and it also has an original character but I hope it's still fun 😅😅

Chapter 1

Baekjin gets home late, hungry, and tired. Ji-ah is at the door before he can even toe off his shoes, smiling a little too wide, a little too innocent. Suspicion is a cold tickle at the base of his skull. She greets him with a sugary voice, launches into a report: she tidied the apartment, cleaned the kitchen, aced her chemistry test—a 90%.

 

The suspicion crystallizes into dread. He knows this script. She’s buttering him up for a request he’ll want to deny.

 

He decides to play along, walking into the kitchen for a fake inspection, and nods approvingly.

 

“Looks good,” he says. “And ninety percent is great.”

 

She beams and makes an excited little noise, then turns toward the stove. “I also made dinner.”

 

Baekjin looks into the pot and keeps his face carefully neutral.

 

The soup is murky but benign-looking, no obvious foreign objects. Ji-ah only recently decided she wants to learn how to cook, and the results have been… educational. Too spicy. Too salty. Too oily. Once, memorably, she served him a cake that was somehow burnt and raw simultaneously. He’s eaten every disaster with stoic grace, offering gentle corrections. It’s his paternal cross to bear.

 

“You were inspired today.” He says, playing dumb.

 

“Just trying to be a good daughter.” She shrugs, a picture of false modesty. 

 

“Don't shrug.” He says and gives her a flat look.

 

They both know overly sweet isn’t her style.

 

But the line is programmed into him, a failsafe against her ever doubting it.

 

“You’re already a good daughter.”

 

Her act cracks. She looks away, cheeks pink, and shoves his shoulder lightly.

 

“Don’t go mushy on me.”

 

He takes a measured breath.

 

“I’m sure I won’t be mushy once you ask whatever it is that you really want.”

 

She bites her lip, looks at him, away, then back. She motions for him to sit, saying she’ll plate his food.

 

“I’ll shower first,” he says. It’s a tactical retreat, a chance to taste-test the soup in private where spitting is an option.

 

She doesn’t seem to notice his evasion, just sits opposite him, nervous but determined.

 

“I’m fifteen years and six months old,” she starts. “Basically an adult. And you raised me really well. I’m responsible. Independent—”

 

His anxiety tightens. He doesn’t like this framing. He doesn’t like hearing her describe herself as grown.

 

“What is it?” He asks.

 

She mentions this boy in her class.

 

He’s on his feet instantly. “I'm tired. It's been a long day.”

 

“I like him!” She blurts it out. 

 

He closes his eyes and takes a slow breath. No. He is not ready for this. He doesn’t want to talk about boys she likes. He’s not prepared for this conversation.

 

“You’re too young to date.”

 

“Everyone else does!”

 

“You’re not everyone.”

 

“It's not like we're getting married.”

 

Please don't talk about getting married.

 

“It's just a date. Movie and snacks, no big deal.” She pauses as if weighing her next words. “I could have lied, saying I was going to a friend's house, but I'm asking.” 

 

She can't possibly think that not lying to him deserves a reward.

 

“You’re not helping your case.” He says, crossing his arms.

 

“Okay, okay, sorry, but listen—”

 

“We can have this conversation another time.”

 

“When?”

 

“When you’re older.”

 

She groans, then visibly steadies herself. She takes a breath, straightens her spine, and mimics his crossed-arm stance. It’s her version of his lawyer posture. And unfortunately for his resolve, the sight is incredibly endearing.

 

It softens him. He uncrosses his arms, reaches over to give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You’re too young. I just want to keep you safe.”

 

“I’m not a baby anymore.” The words land like a small, precise puncture. “I can take care of myself. I’ll even take my taser!”

 

The taser he gave her. Illegally.

 

A new worry surfaces. The way she phrased it, as if the taser were a bargaining chip, not a non-negotiable.

 

“You should always have your taser with you,” he corrects, voice firm.

 

“So… is that a yes?” Hope brightens her face.

 

“No.”

 

“Humans are social. People need company.” She shifts tactics. 

 

“You have friends.”

 

“But-.”

 

“You don't need to date. You’ll be fine. I don’t date, and I’m fine.”

 

“No, you’re not! You work too much. You’re always stressed.”

 

He denies it automatically, but her words echo in the quiet part of his mind. Is it true? Is he working too much lately?

 

Is this why she’s manufacturing crises?

 

“You’re stressed right now,” she presses. “You’re frowning.”

 

He consciously relaxes his face.

 

She points at his head. “You’re even getting white hairs from it!”

 

His hands fly to his hair defensively. White hairs? Where? How did he miss them?

 

Seeing his alarm, she backpedals with an apologetic wince. “Okay, that’s not true. You don’t have any. But you will if you keep this up!”

 

He exhales, a mixture of irritation and secret relief. He’s not that old yet.

 

“I’m fine.” He tries a new angle, a pact of mutual solitude. “I won’t date. You won’t date. No one in this house will date. Fair?”

 

“No. You don’t date because you don’t want to.”

 

“Irrelevant.”

 

“Denied!”

 

“I am the judge in this house.”

 

She groans, thunking her forehead onto the table.

 

“You’re the dictator in this house.”

 

He hums in agreement and stands, satisfied the conversation is over.

 

She sulks, muttering into the wood grain. “You are oppressing me…”

 

“You’ll live.” He pats her head on the way to the hallway. 

 

He doesn’t want to end the conversation like that, though.

 

“I’m doing this for your own good. I know it’s frustrating—”

 

“No, you don’t. Your parents never—” She cuts herself off, mouth snapping shut. Her shoulders draw in as guilt rushes into her expression.

 

He bitterly thinks what parents? But he isn’t angry. He isn’t even hurt. If this were years ago, if he were younger, maybe he would’ve stiffened, bristled, shut down. Being an orphan has always been a wound that never quite heals. The easiest way to draw blood. But this is Ji-ah. The defensive, hurt part of him that would lash out at anyone else simply doesn’t activate for her.

 

He steps closer and lowers himself in front of her, kneeling so they’re at eye level. He’s careful with it. Always careful. He never wants her to feel like he’s looming, like he’s something to be afraid of.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly.

 

“I know,” he says, voice calm. “It’s okay.”

 

Even if it weren’t, it would be. It's his job to comfort her, not the other way around.

 

“You’re right,” he continues after a moment. “I didn’t have parents forbidding me to date.”

 

The words open a door he doesn’t usually walk through.

 

Fifteen years old. A lifetime ago.

 

There was a boy. He was in love with him. He fought for him. Then he fought him.

 

He lost.

 

There was another boy, too. Se—

 

“Don't you get lonely?”

 

The question cuts straight through the memory.

 

“Mom says she does, sometimes.” She continues, not meeting his eyes. “That the house is all quiet when I’m not there.”

 

Something soft and uncomfortable settles in his chest. It’s true. On weekends when Ji-ah stays with her mom, the house empties out in a way that feels unnatural. Too quiet. Too still. Baekjin moves through it like a ghost, lights off, footsteps careful, as if sound itself might accuse him of something.

 

Is that how it’ll always feel when she leaves?

 

He shuts that thought down immediately. She’s not leaving. Not anytime soon. There’s no point borrowing grief from the future.

 

“No,” he says, but it comes out weak.

 

He's not sure if it's true.

 

He’s busy. Always busy. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t think about loneliness much.

 

Or maybe that’s how he avoids it.

 

He shakes his head, dispelling the thought. “We’re not talking about my love life.”

 

“What love life?” She snickers to herself.

 

He reminds himself not to roll his eyes in front of her as he pushes himself up.

 

His knee makes an unpleasant clack as he straightens, and he pretends not to notice it.

 

He reaches out and messes up her hair.

 

“Don’t get cheeky.”

 

She’s half-talking to herself, a scheming murmur. “You’d work less… which is good. You’d have something else to worry about besides me… which is great.”

 

“What?”

 

“If you were dating.” She looks at him like it’s obvious.

 

A headache blooms behind his eyes.

 

“No one is dating. I’m tired. I’m going to shower and sleep.”

 

She hums again, unconvinced. Her eyes narrow, studying him. Calculating. Baekjin can practically see the machinery spinning in her head. It should worry him. It definitely should. But he’s too tired to fight another round. One battle at a time.

 

He turns toward the bathroom.

 

“Don’t forget the soup,” she calls after him.

 

The warmth hits him first. The fact that even after he said no, she still cares whether he eats.

 

The dread follows immediately after.

 

The soup is probably terrible.

 

He’ll eat it anyway, of course. It’s what a father does.

 

---

 

The evening air is cool against Ji-ah’s skin, a sharp contrast to the stuffy warmth of Mina’s living room. It’s late. Not late late, but late enough that her dad would sigh that quiet, disappointed sigh and ask why she didn’t just text him. He doesn't like her walking around at night. So she takes a shortcut. Fewer turns, less time outside, problem solved. The thought nudges her into a faster walk, her heavy boots—scuffed black leather adorned with an impractical number of buckles—thumping a quick rhythm on the pavement. 

 

Her mind isn’t on the route, though. It’s still back with her friends, replaying the Great Dating Debate of the afternoon.

 

Just do it in secret, they’d said, like it was nothing.

 

Ji-ah has lied before. Of course she has. About finished homework, about a cleaned room, about how that jar definitely fell on its own. Small stuff. But a secret boyfriend? That’s different. First of all, he’d probably figure it out. Almost nothing gets past him. She’s pretty sure that at least half the time she lies, he knows and just chooses not to say anything. Which is somehow worse.

 

And even if she could be a sneaky genius about it… she doesn’t want to.

 

She knows she’s a little spoiled. He buys her whatever she wants. Lets her dye her hair purple, and only winces internally —she can tell— at her daily uniform of ripped fishnets, layered jackets, and shirts with offensive band logos. He never says much, just raises an eyebrow sometimes and sighs like he’s lost a battle he never signed up for.

 

Breaking his trust would hurt. The thought of seeing that quiet, disappointed look settle over his face makes her stomach twist. Urgh. She doesn't even want to think about it.

 

But it’s so unfair.

 

She’s fifteen, not five. It’s a movie! What’s the big deal?

 

“You are not everyone,” she mutters to the dark street, perfectly mimicking her dad’s calm, infuriating logic, and rolls her eyes so hard she sees stars.

 

He can be ridiculously overprotective. Always assuming the worst-case scenario. She knows it’s because he cares, a fierce, smothering kind of care. But if he wants her to be trustworthy, then he needs to trust her. Is she supposed to wait until she’s, like, thirty? 

 

She remembers what he said the other night. How neither of them would date, so it was fair.

 

Well.

 

If he were dating… Then the whole no one dates pact would be broken. He’d have to rethink. It was practically legal precedent.

 

Her friends agreed when she explained her logic. For a solid five minutes, the conversation was actually productive. Brainstorming ways to play Cupid for a single dad in his thirties. Then they started talking about how hot her dad is, and Ji-ah shut that down instantly because absolutely not. Still, the idea stuck. The logistics, however, are a nightmare.

 

Step one: find someone available.

Step two: find someone who wouldn’t get intimidated by his mere presence.

 

She’s seen it happen. Teachers get formal, her friends’ parents get weirdly respectful, and people from his work sometimes look at the floor when he talks. She doesn’t get it. He’s just… tall, and quiet, and his face does this thing where all expression just vanishes. But he’s not scary.

 

Anyway, her candidate needs to be brave. And, for the love of all that is holy, he needs to talk. For all that her dad is the best, she suspects he has some type of daily-word-limitator pre-installed.

 

So. Available. Hard to intimidate. Loud.

 

A snicker cuts through her plotting.

 

It’s close. Right behind her.

 

She glances back, her pace not faltering. Two guys. Mid-twenties, maybe. Their walk is loose, uncoordinated. She faces forward, eyes scanning the street. No one else. The shortcut is all closed shop fronts and dark windows. Not a smart choice, a nervous voice in her head whispers.

 

“Hey, nice hair,” one calls out, his voice syrupy. “You doin’ a cosplay thing?”

 

She walks faster, pretending she doesn’t hear them. Maybe they’ll think she has earbuds in.

 

“What’s the hurry?” the other one slurs. “We’re just being friendly.”

 

Her hand tightens on the strap of her bag.

 

Then one of them grabs her arm.

 

“Hey,” he says. “It’s rude not to answer when someone talks to you.”

 

She yanks herself free and steps back, heart pounding. They smell faintly like beer, it makes her anxious.

 

Anger, hot and sharp, cuts through the first prickle of fear.

 

“Leave me alone.” She says, lifting her chin, refusing to look scared. 

 

She turns and walks, her back crawling with the sense of their eyes. Their footsteps speed up, matching hers. Too close. She can hear their breathing. One of them reaches out and touches her hair. She moves instinctively, half running sideways, turning again so her back isn’t exposed, and the mouth of a dark alley swallows her.

 

Not a smart move, you didn't pay attention to your surroundings. 

 

The dad-voice in her head is loud and clear.

 

Her hand dives into her bag. Her fingers find the hard, ridged plastic of the taser instantly. Her dad’s lessons play on a loop in her mind: Unlock. Firm grip. Arm straight. Press. Hold. RUN. Above all: “Stay calm. If you panic, then you won’t think right. Your best weapon is your brain. Breathe. Analyze. Strategize. Then act.”

 

She breathes. 

 

There are two of them. If she tases one, the other might freeze. Or he might attack. She could run, but can she outrun a grown man? Probably not. But they seem a bit drunk. That has to count for something. They don’t exactly look like they want to hurt her. But they are clearly finding this whole thing fun. When she tries to sidestep toward the alley’s entrance, they shift together, blocking her path.

 

“Boo,” one says, balancing his fingers mockingly.

 

“I’m not scared of you,” she spits, but a traitorous tremor in her voice makes them laugh harder.

 

Her grip tightens around the taser.

 

She needs to act. Now.

 

Her thoughts spiral anyway. The plan is full of holes. What if the taser doesn’t work? What if they manage to take it from her? A desperate, childish want surges up.

 

She wants to call her Dad.

 

The thought is a cold splash of reality. Maybe he was right. Maybe she is just a kid. Maybe she can’t take care of herself. Maybe—

 

“Isn’t robbing a little girl a little too low?” The voice is lazy. Unimpressed.

 

Ji-ah snaps her head toward the alley entrance.

 

A man stands there, tall, backlit by the weak streetlamp. Glasses. A cigarette dangling from his lips. His hands are buried in the pockets of a dark jacket. He looks… bored.

 

Relief, so potent it feels like dizziness, floods her system. An adult. One who is standing up for her.

 

One of the men scoffs. “You calling us thieves?”

 

The man in glasses doesn’t move.

 

“I’m asking you a question.” He takes the cigarette from his mouth, flicks the ash. “But you look slow, so I’ll cut you some slack.” His voice is all flat, tired annoyance. He makes a small, dismissive nod, like he’s telling them to get lost, and flicks the smoldering butt directly at them.

 

Then, everything becomes a blur of violent, efficient motion.

 

One guy lunges. The man in glasses shifts sideways with a fluid ease that seems impossible. The other swings, his wrist is caught, twisted. There’s a sharp crack of bone or joint, a choked cry. A punch lands with a sickening thud. Another. It’s not a fight. It’s a dismantling. In less time than it takes for Ji-ah’s brain to process the sequence, both men are on the ground, groaning.

 

The man in glasses sighs, like he’s just finished taking out the trash.

 

“That enough? Or you wanna waste more of my time?”

 

They scramble up, one clutching a bloody nose, the other limping. They don’t look back.

 

The man pulls out another cigarette, lights it, and takes a long drag. He glances at her. “You can close your mouth now.”

 

She does, with an audible click of her teeth. She hadn’t realized it was hanging open. No one can blame her. That was… insane. She’s seen fights in movies, but never anything like that in real life. It was terrifying.

 

And the coolest shit she’s ever seen.

 

The man just walks away, as if casually dismantling two creeps is part of his evening errands. Ji-ah follows, her legs moving on autopilot before her brain catches up. Right outside the alley, tucked between a shuttered dry cleaner and a pawn shop, is a small restaurant she’d completely missed. The man disappears inside. Idiot, she curses herself. She could have just ducked in here. Problem avoided. She slips in after him. The place is tiny. Four tables, a handful of chairs, all empty. Definitely more of a take-out place. The food smells good. 

 

“Aren’t you afraid they’ll come back?” She glances over her shoulder before stepping inside. 

 

The man is already behind the counter. “Being afraid isn’t really my thing.”

 

Of course it isn’t. He has that whole cool guy who beats people up casually vibe going on.

 

“That was amazing,” she says, the words tumbling out.

 

“Was it?” He sounds bored.

 

“You kicked their asses so fast! It was like a movie.” She steps further in, adrenaline making her chatty. “That part where the one tried to punch you from behind, and you just—whoosh—moved. Didn’t even look!”

 

He sits down on one of the chairs and casually stretches a leg over another. From the kitchen, someone shouts, asking if everything’s okay.

 

“Yeah,” he answers. “Just assholes being assholes.”

 

The man finally looks at her. His mouth opens, then closes. He stares at her face for a long, weird second, then shakes his head as if clearing it. His gaze goes to her clothes. 

 

“Did you just put on everything in your wardrobe?” he asks, without bothering to pretend he's not laughing at her.

 

She looks down at herself. Skirt. Pants. Two belts. Four jackets. Two worn normally. One tied around her neck. One tied around her hips.

 

“It’s called layering,” she says defensively.

 

“You sure it’s not called too many fucking jackets for spring?”

 

She scans his outfit, hunting for ammunition. “You’re wearing ripped jeans.”

 

“So are you.”

 

“Yeah,” she says, crossing her arms with finality. “But I’m a teenager.”

 

He blinks, then a genuine laugh escapes him. “Can’t really argue with that.”

 

From a pass-through window to the kitchen, a woman’s voice shouts, “Order 433!”

 

The man stands and grabs it. “Just got my fashion choices judged by a twelve-year-old. Can you believe that shit?” He says to the person in the kitchen while pointing at Ji-ah.

 

“I’m fifteen,” Ji-ah snaps.

 

He sets the bag on the counter. “Yeah, fifteen minutes past your bedtime. Don’t you have to go home or something?”

 

She bites the inside of her cheek to stop a smile. He’s weird. But funny-weird.

 

“I’m going. I just wanted to say thanks. For… stepping in and-”

 

“Saving you? Yes, yes. Very heroic. I’m incredible.”

 

“Helping me,” she insists. Pride straightens her spine. “I could’ve handled it. But it was nice of you.”

 

He snorts. “Sure.”

 

She takes the taser from her bag, thumbs the button. The air cracks with a loud, vicious ZZZT-CRACK! The sound makes her flinch, just a little, but she recovers, holding the buzzing device up like a trophy.

 

“See? I had it under control.”

 

His eyes flick from the taser to her face. “Are minors allowed to have that?”

 

Her bravado plummets. Shit. She shoves the taser back into her bag, her face hot. “I’m not a minor.”

 

“You literally just said you were fifteen.”

 

Shit. Shit.

 

He starts scrolling on his phone like the conversation has officially become background noise.

 

She edges closer to the counter. “Uncle?”

 

His head jerks up. He stares into the middle distance, his brow furrowed.

 

“Uncle?” He repeats the word like it’s a bug that just flew into his mouth.

 

“How did you learn to fight like that?”

 

“Uncle?” he says again, seemingly to himself, ignoring her completely.

 

“Are you a soldier or something?”

 

“Or something.”

 

“What did you train in? Where?” If she could fight like that, she wouldn't be scared.

 

He looks at her, a long, assessing look. Then he leans across the counter, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I shouldn’t tell you this. But you seem like a cool kid.” 

 

She narrows her eyes.

 

“There was this government facility,” he continues seriously, “where they trained kids to be special agents. It's where I come from.”

 

“I’m serious,” she refrains from rolling her eyes. Barely. Respect for her seniors hanging by a thread.

 

He puts on a terrifyingly convincing solemn face. “So am I.”

 

“Where is it?”

“It shut down,” he adds, “budget cuts.”

 

“What did they teach you?”

 

He lists off a bunch of martial arts names she’s only heard in video games. He mentions instructors with names like “The Badger” and “Old Man Pyong.” He says if you lost too many sparring matches, your punishment was a bowl of uncooked rice.

 

She opens her mouth. Closes it. He’s obviously lying. Right? But who lies like that? With details, names, and no stuttering?Just making stuff up on the spot. What if it’s, like, a half-truth? She squints at him, searching for a tell, but his face gives nothing besides faint amusement.

 

“Don’t tell anyone,” he finishes, leaning back. “Or men in suits will show up at your house.”

 

Before she can call him on it, the door chimes. A delivery guy in a bright vest walks in. The man in glasses grabs the takeout bag and hands it over.

 

Ji-ah pretends to be engrossed in her phone, ears straining.

 

Seongje. That's what the deliveryman calls him. 

 

“How was the date?” Seongje asks after some small talk.

 

The deliveryman groans. “Dude, you knew she just got out of jail?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“For killing her husband?”

 

Seongje doesn’t miss a beat. “They couldn’t prove it. That’s why she’s out.”

 

The guy deadpans, “She told me it was her.”

 

Ji-ah risks a glance. Seongje scratches the back of his head.

 

“Yeeeah, she’s gotta stop telling people that. But, you know. Outside of that… she’s cool, right?”

 

The delivery guy laughs, shaking his head. “Would you date her?”

 

Seongje shrugs, the motion effortless. “You know me. I like dangerous women and scary men.”

 

Scary man? Man? MAN?

 

The words hang in the greasy air. A puzzle piece she didn’t even know she was holding slams into place.

 

Is he into men? That means—

 

Oh.

 

Ohhhhh.

 

She looks at him, really looks. He must be around her dad's age. He is not bad-looking. Kind of handsome even, in a I-don't-care-how-I-look way. He works in a takeout place, so he’s probably broke. Whatever. Personality matters more. And his personality is… well. Questionable maybe? But he's cool. And he helped her when he didn't had to, which counts a lot!

 

Can she picture him with her dad? Her dad, who has the patience of a saint for her but the temper of a wild cat for mouthy strangers? This guy is all mouth. He’d stress her dad out in five seconds flat. Or... would he make him laugh? Her dad laughs so little. A near-permanent frown settles on his face when he looks at anyone but her. Maybe this guy, with his ridiculous stories and lazy confidence, could sand down some of those sharp, stressed edges.

 

But he has the manners of a feral raccoon. Like, he's straight up smoking under a "do not smoke" sign. Her dad would hate that. Or maybe he would get a little contaminated and not stress so much about rules, and being all proper all the time.

 

The calculus is overwhelming. And how would she even start? 

 

Hey, Uncle, want to meet my dad? 

 

What if he was just joking? What if he has a scary man at home already?

 

She needs data.

 

Seongje passes her, dropping back into his chair. “You still here?”

 

Rude?

 

She takes a breath. “Can I ask you a question?”

 

“No, you cannot,” he says without looking up. “But know what you can do? Hand me your phone.”

 

She clutches her bag tighter. “Why?”

“So I can call your parents to come get you.”

No way. She turns on her heel. Her mom would lecture her into the next century. Her dad would go into full lockdown mode. She’d be under house arrest until the end of time.

 

It’s not lying. It’s a… strategic omission.

 

At the door, she hesitates. The street is empty. Those guys are probably long gone. Probably. Could they be waiting around the corner? Her house is just a few minutes away if she runs.

 

“You scared?” His voice comes from behind her. Not mocking, just… observant.

 

“No.”

 

He sighs, a deep, world-weary sound. 

 

“Look, you must be a good kid since you’re a shitty liar. It doesn’t have to be your parents. But call someone to pick you up.”

 

He’s right. It's a bit annoying. She nods, pulling out her phone to call a car. It’s embarrassing—the ride will be a five-minute trip—but it’s the best move.

 

She waits by the door in silence. When the car’s lights flash outside, she turns, remembering her manners. She bows stiffly.

 

“Thank you for helping me, Uncle Seongje.”

 

The man—Seongje—looks up at the ceiling tiles as if seeking divine intervention. He mutters something that sounds like, “Uncle Seongje. Fucking hell.”

 

“Bye,” she says.

 

He just makes a vague, shooing motion in her direction without looking.

 

So rude.

 

In the car, Ji-ah decides that was the strangest adult she’s ever met. Setting him up with her dad is probably a terrible idea. She tries to tally the score.

 

Pros: Not easily intimidated. Weirdly charming. Clearly capable, if the alley was any indication. Potentially into men.

Cons: Rude. A liar. Probably broke. Has friends who may or may not be murderers. Would almost certainly give her dad an aneurysm.

 

She needs more intel. She needs to run this by the squad. And really, when you think about it… how much damage could one date possibly do?

 

---

 

The case file on Baekjin’s desk is a dense thicket of financial disclosures and carefully worded denials. He’s cross-referencing a timeline, his pen making soft ticks in the margin. Law, in practice, is mostly reading other people’s mistakes very carefully and deciding who will pay for them.

 

There's a soft knock.

 

Ji-ah stands in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light, holding a plate. She pads in and sets the plate on the corner of his desk with deliberate care. Apple slices, neatly arranged.

 

“A snack,” she announces.

 

“Thank you.” He offers a soft smile and takes a slice. “I’ll be done soon and start dinner.”

 

She nods but doesn’t move. She just stands there, a small, expectant smile playing on her lips.

 

A little bell of warning rings in the quiet chamber of his mind. He knows this smile. It’s the prelude to a negotiation. He sets his pen down carefully and waits, giving her nothing.

 

When the silence stretches, he merely raises an eyebrow.

 

She shifts her weight, trying for casual and landing nowhere near it.

 

“So… what are you working on?”

 

He doesn’t take the bait. “Ji-ah.”

 

She shrugs, the picture of wounded innocence. “What? I’m just curious.”

 

“About my job?” There’s a faint disbelief in his voice. 

 

“Yes,” she says. “I mean, you work for the mafia. That’s interesting.”

 

He doesn’t roll his eyes. A small act of parental discipline.

 

“For the hundredth time, I am a lawyer. I work with politicians.”

 

“The government is the biggest mafia.”

 

Ah. The anarchist phase is alive and well. It’s a familiar argument. He huffs a quiet, almost-laugh and shakes his head, conceding the point without words.

 

Undeterred, she presses on. “Okay, fine. What about outside of work? What do you usually do?”

 

He opens his mouth to give a standard, vague answer.

 

“Other than being with me,” she adds swiftly.

 

He closes his mouth. Opens again.

 

“And other than going to the gym.”

 

His mouth closes. A neat, verbal trap, sprung with unsettling efficiency.

 

Well, fuck.

 

That’s… it. That’s his life. Ji-ah. Work. The gym a few days a week, more for discipline than enjoyment. The silence stretches long enough that she tilts her head, watching him more closely now.

 

“Like, what would you do,” she tries again, “if you never had to work again?”

 

He has always worked. Since he was a teenager. Long enough that the idea of not working feels theoretical, like a concept someone else invented. Sleep, maybe? What could he do? Travel? Painting? Climbing? 

 

Her expression shifts at his prolonged silence, curiosity softening into something that looks uncomfortably like concern. He feels a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. He should have a ready answer. A hobby. A passion. Something.

 

“Fishing,” he mumbles, grasping at the single memory that seems to fit the category of leisure. He’s gone fishing four times in his life, all of them invitations from clients he felt obligated to accept. But he recalls the quiet. The peace of a wide, still lake. It was… fine. He could picture doing it again in thirty years when he retires.

 

“Fishing!” she exclaims, latching onto the word with surprising enthusiasm. “That is… well, boring, but it’s something!” She leans forward, eyes alight. “What else?”

 

There is no else. The well is dry. Her relentless curiosity is turning a mirror on a blank wall, and he doesn’t like what its reflection implies. He decides to deflect.

 

“What’s the reason behind these questions, Ji-ah?”

 

She looks away, her gaze drifting to the dark window. Her voice adopts a tone of theatrical woundedness. “Can’t a daughter just be curious about her dad?”

 

He crosses his arms. Now he’s on familiar ground. This is a tell. When she refers to herself in the third person like that—a daughter—it’s a linguistic smokescreen. It’s what she does when she’s being deliberately vague to avoid the technicality of a lie. She’s getting better at it. Slicker. He may need to start worrying about it.

 

Still, he indulges her. It’s a chance to gather intel. “What else are you curious about?”

 

The evasion works. Her eyes snap back to him, shining with renewed purpose. She drops to her knees in front of his desk, resting her chin on her folded hands. The posture is so childlike it sends a sudden, poignant spear through his chest. He’s ambushed by the memory of her at this same desk, so small she had to crane her neck just to see over the top, coloring on scrap paper while he worked.

 

“Have you ever been in love before?”

 

The question is so absurd, so utterly unexpected, that his brain simply buffers for a full three seconds.

 

“What?”

 

“Have. You. Ever. Been. In. Love?” She enunciates each word as if speaking to someone hard of hearing.

 

He carefully massages his temple, where the first whisper of a headache is gathering. Is this about the boy? Is she trying to build some kind of comparative framework? Well, Dad, you were in love at my age, so… The thought is viscerally unpleasant. He doesn’t want to think about her in love. He especially doesn’t want to excavate his own history to provide a precedent.

 

He buys time by taking another apple slice, chewing slowly. It’s his turn to be vague.

 

“Everyone’s been in love before,” he says, an easy answer that says nothing.

 

“How was it?”

 

He hesitates. And in that split second of hesitation, images flicker behind his eyes, unbidden. Not soft-focus memories, but fragments loaded with the old, familiar ache. The desperate grip of first love that felt like drowning, the sharp sting of betrayal that followed, and later, the complicated, charged tension of something that was never allowed to be love at all.

 

A smirk in a dusty hallway.

 

A challenge in a glance.

 

The heavy breathing after a fight.

 

Stop.

 

He ends up shrugging. The moment the movement registers in his body, he flinches.

 

Ji-ah is on her feet in an instant, an accusing finger pointed at his face.

 

“Did you just shrug?!”

 

He lets out a slow breath. “Yes.”

 

“You never shrug.”

 

“I know that.”

 

“You’re always telling me not to do it!”

 

“I know that, too.” His own words, weaponized against him.

 

Shrugging is a lazy gesture that says nothing. Which is exactly why he dislikes it. But there hadn’t been another answer available to him. 

 

Ji-ah drops her hand, pacing a step away, muttering to herself. “Okay. Okay. Focus.”

 

“Focus on what?” Baekjin asks, narrowing his eyes.

 

She grabs a random book from his desk and flips it open, holding it up to hide her face. She says something into the pages, but it’s muffled beyond comprehension.

 

“What?” he asks.

 

She repeats it, clearer this time. “What’s your type of man?”

 

Baekjin blinks.

 

“What.”

 

“Type. Of. Man.” She peeks over the top, meets his gaze for a nanosecond, and yanks the book back up.

 

Is this what this whole thing is about?

 

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. It isn’t a secret, exactly. She’s just… never asked. It never seemed important.

 

“I’m—”

 

“—into men, yes, I know,” she finishes for him, finally lowering the book.

 

The surprise is a cold splash. “How?”

 

She taps her temple smugly. “I’m smart. Also, you were totally checking out my piano teacher last year.”

 

“I wasn’t.” The denial is automatic. A lie, but a small one, so it's ok.

 

Ji-ah hesitates, then adds, quieter, “And I might’ve overheard you and Mom talking about it once.”

 

“You need to stop eavesdropping. It’s very rude.” He says, tone serious than before. 

 

“I know, I'm sorry.” She has the decency to look properly abashed. “But I have ears! I can’t just… close them.”

 

This time, he does roll his eyes.

 

She sees it. Her accusatory finger starts to rise again, her mouth opening to, no doubt, call him a hypocrite.

 

“Don’t,” he says, and it’s not a request. It’s a single, sharp syllable that cuts the air. His dad-voice, rarely used but always effective.

 

Her finger wilts.

 

“It’s fine, you know? I don’t mind. So… if I’m the reason you don’t date, you don’t have to worry about it.” She says, sounding uncharacteristically insecure.

 

The annoyance he felt at her eavesdropping evaporates. In its place is a fierce, protective ache. He would raze cities before he let her feel like an obstacle in his life.

 

“That’s not the reason,” he says.

 

He needs to end this, to steer them back to safe, mundane ground. “Have you done your homework yet?”

 

She groans, throwing her head back. “We were having a moment, and you ruined it!”

 

He bites the inside of his cheek to stifle a smile. This dramatic flair, this specific brand of humor—it’s not from him, and it’s not from her mother. It’s wholly, uniquely Ji-ah. A gift.

 

“Homework?” he repeats.

 

“Almost.”

 

“Almost?”

 

She nods, utterly sincere. “I thought about doing it. Then I didn’t. So, yeah. Almost.”

 

He is not impressed.

 

“Go.”

 

“I still have questions!”

 

He feels a century of exhaustion settle in his bones. “I need to work.”

 

“What about dinner?”

 

“Later.”

 

She lets out a melodramatic sigh and slides bonelessly to the floor, announcing that she is starving and will surely perish before nightfall.

 

He turns back to his documents. Half his mind is on the words, the other half is tuned to the frequency of the teenage melodrama unfolding on his rug. After a few minutes of increasingly creative descriptions of her impending starvation, he surrenders.

 

“Fine. Dinner time.”

 

She’s up in a flash. “I’ll help!”

 

He knows this game. Helping is just licensed interrogation time. He collects the plate of apple slices and leads the way to the kitchen, handing her a knife and a bell pepper.

 

“Dice.”

 

She starts chopping with more enthusiasm than skill. “So, your type. You never really answered.”

 

He thinks, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of her knife a counterpoint to his racing thoughts. What is his type? Beyond superficial traits, the common thread is not something he can voice. Dangerous. They were all, in their own ways, dangerous. Or had the potential to be. But he can’t tell her that.

 

“I don’t think I have one,” he says instead.

 

“Okay, but if you could, like, assemble a dude from scratch. What then?”

 

He tries to conjure the right answer. The safe one.

 

“Hard-working. Good manners.” He pauses, grasping. “...Quiet?” He cringes internally. He kind of described himself. 

 

Ji-ah doesn’t seem to notice. Her eyes are alight with a different vision. “What about slightly chaotic? Sarcastic? And, you know… loud?”

 

The description is a little on the specific side. It doesn’t match any of her teachers he’s met. A friend’s parent? The description tickles a dormant, dusty corner of his memory, but the connection is too faint, too fleeting to grasp. He’s reaching for another apple slice when his teeth sink into something waxy and wrong. He pulls the slice away. A small, bright sticker is adhered to the pale flesh. He looks from the violated fruit to the pristine bag of apples on the counter, bought just this morning. He already knows the answer.

 

He asks anyway. “Ji-ah, did you wash these?”

 

She turns, eyes wide with dawning horror. Then, an apologetic grimace.

 

“I… may have forgotten.”

 

She drops the knife with a clatter. “I’ll wash a new one! And slice it!”

 

“There is no need,” he says, with a chuckle. Her earnestness, her care—even when it’s haphazard and slightly toxic—undoes him every time. He sets the slice aside and moves to stand before her, placing his hands on her shoulders. She’s still so much smaller than him, but the gap is closing. To meet her eyes now requires an awkward, knee-bending dip, a far cry from the full kneel of her childhood. He does it anyway.

 

He looks directly into her eyes, wanting her to see his sincerity.

 

“I know you’re worried. And I know you mean well. But I’m fine. My life is fine. I have everything I need.”

 

She bites her lip, studying him. “Ok, but do you have everything you want, too?”

 

The question hangs between them. He hesitates. Wanting is a luxury, a vulnerability he long ago sealed off. Wanting has only caused him pain. A long time ago, he wanted fiercely.

 

He received nothing but scars.

 

But in this lifetime, the answer is simple. “All I want,” he says, the words clear and true, “is for you to be happy.”

 

He gives her shoulders a soft squeeze and turns to adjust the stove.

 

When he turns back, she’s making a face at him, a complex mix of exasperation and affection. “You’re so lame,” she declares.

 

What?

 

Before he can process it, she launches herself at him, wrapping her arms around his middle in a tight, fleeting hug. By the time his arms come up to return it, she’s already gone, pulling away and half-jogging out of the kitchen.

 

“Gonna do my homework now! Love you!” The shout echoes down the hallway, followed by the slam of her bedroom door.

 

He stands alone in the kitchen, the ghost of her hug lingering. It takes him a few seconds to find his voice.

 

“I love you too!” he calls back, the words feeling both too loud and not loud enough in the sudden quiet.

 

He almost follows, to say it again at her door, to make sure she heard. But her voice, muffled through the wall, stops him.

 

“Don’t be mushy!”

 

He’s left baffled. She initiated the hug. She declared love. And he’s the mushy one? The logic is incomprehensible. Teenagers are a foreign country with bizarre customs.

 

He takes another apple slice, considers washing it, then decides that after everything he’s survived, an unwashed apple is unlikely to be his undoing.

 

 

---

 

 

Ji-ah’s pace is just shy of a jog. The restaurant’s opening hours are unpredictable, a fact she’s learned through recent, awkward reconnaissance. She needs to get there and back before the streetlights fully take over, before the shadows in the alleyways grow teeth and memories.

 

Stupid, she thinks, the word a sharp whip against her own pride. Acting like a scared kid just because it’s getting dark. Pathetic. But it’s not fear, she tells herself. It’s strategic risk-avoidance.

 

She spots the familiar, flickering sign and forces herself to slow to a casual saunter. Cool. Chill. Just a few questions. Gather intel.

 

The internal pros-and-cons list scrolls behind her eyes as she approaches. Seongje is… compelling. He has this blasé energy, a feline sort of confidence. Lazy, but in a way that feels deliberate, almost elegant. Talking to him is like a game sometimes, trying to predict the next ridiculous thing he’ll say. It’s never boring. On the other hand, he is not really a role model. There’s the smoking. The swearing. The lack of what she would call a proper job. The windbreakers. That time he’d spat into a takeout container because the client was, in his words, “a gaping asshole who deserves it.”

 

And the scars. Oh, the scars on his knuckles. Lots of them. She’s not an idiot. You don’t get hands like that from a couple of fights. And professional fighters wear gloves. These are the hands of someone who knows trouble, maybe even cultivates it.

 

Dangerous.

 

She tells herself not to judge. Her dad has scars too. Fewer, and older, but still. He said he used to get into fights when he was young, and now he doesn’t. People can change.

 

Also, Seongje beating up those alley guys was… justified.

 

She pushes the door open, resolve firm. More data. That’s the mission. Her previous attempts had been… mixed. Visit one: she’d been too shy with other customers around. Visit two: Seongje had fallen asleep mid-conversation, complete with light snoring. She is 70% sure he was faking.

 

This time, the tiny restaurant is empty. A good start.

 

“It’s you again.”

 

He’s slouched against the wall, head tilted back awkwardly, breathing slow and shallow. He looks pale.

 

“Are you okay?” she asks automatically, then remembers her manners and bows. “Hello. Are you ok uncle? You look like—” She bites back shit. One of the weird things about him is he never policed her tone. No scolding for talking back. He treats her like a kid, but not a stupid kid. Not in that condescendent way other adults do. But she rather not risk pushing it. “—miserable.”

 

“Yeah,” he croaks, not opening his eyes. “I’ve heard that one many times before.”

 

“Are you sick?”

 

“Hangover.” One eye cracks open. “I’d tell you to stay away from booze, but I have zero hope for your generation.”

 

“Why drink if you know you’ll feel like this?”

 

It’s a genuine question. Alcohol seems like a scam. It makes people loud, stupid, and prone to catastrophic decisions. Case in point: her own existence, the result of two drunk people too intoxicated to realise they are making a mistake.

 

“Sometimes,” Seongje says, “you’ve gotta feel bad to avoid feeling worse.”

 

She frowns. “I don’t get it.”

 

“Of course you don’t. You’re a kid.”

 

The old defense rises in her throat. I’m not a kid, but she swallows it. Focus. First question.

 

“Do you have kids?”

 

He opens both eyes. “Why? You selling one?”

 

Is that a no? With him, it’s impossible to tell. His entire communication style is a minefield of deflections, vague answers, and absurdist lies delivered with deadpan sincerity.

 

“Do you want kids?”

 

“Why would I want that?”

 

Okay, it's definetly a no then. Good. She is not sure how she feels about siblins. Not that she is selfishy! She just… values her share of her dad’s attention. If he starts dating, she will have to split it already. A sibling would be a hostile corporate takeover.

 

“Some people like kids,” she shrugs.

 

Seongje groans and lets his forehead thunk onto the countertop.

 

“Yeah. Toy companies and pedophiles.”

 

A startled laugh escapes her. It’s a messed-up thing to say, but… also kind of funny. In a dark, Seongje-ish way.

 

Right. Next question. The big one. She inches closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial murmur.

 

“Uncle, are you single?”

 

Seongje’s head lifts slowly. His face is utterly blank for three long, terrifying seconds. Then, it transforms. Discomfort curdles into pure, unadulterated disgust.

 

He’s on his feet, circling the counter, and muttering a stream of curses under his breath.

 

“—the fuck is wrong with kids these days—”

 

“Hey, wha—?”

 

He doesn’t let her finish. He grabs a fistful of her layered jackets at the shoulder and starts steering her, firmly, toward the door.

 

“Hey!”

 

It’s over in seconds. A light, definitive shove places her back on the sidewalk. He looms in the doorway.

 

“I’m too old for you. Go get piercings or drunk-drive or whatever it is that kids do these days with people your own age.”

 

For a moment, her brain simply blue-screens. What? WHAT?

 

The realization crashes down, hot and mortifying. No. NO. Ew. Does he think she…? EWWW.

 

He’s already turning away, throwing a last comment over his shoulder. “Get lost. Show up again, I’m calling the cops for stalking.”

 

Stalking?! The injustice of it ignites her. She only came to the restaurant a few times. She never followed him anywhere!

 

“I don’t like you!” She exclaims back inside.

 

“Fantastic.” He says, voice full of sarcasm. “Go away.”

 

Shitshitshit. He thinks she’s some pathetic loser with a crush. This is so humiliating. What if he tells someone?!

 

“I’m not into old dudes! That’s gross!”

 

“Gross indeed.”

 

“I was just curious!”

 

He sinks back into his chair, looking green. “I’m too nauseous for this conversation.”

 

Panic scrambles her words. “I don’t—I would ne—Listen.”

 

He finally looks at her, and his expression isn’t playufull or amused. It’s just… annoyed. Deeply, terminally annoyed.

 

“Leave,” he says flatly.

 

She freezes. He sounds completely serious now. She hates it. Hates that he’s looking at her like she’s just a stupid kid who's bothering him.

 

The words burst out of her in a hurry, a desperate, verbal attempt to correct this cosmic misunderstanding.

 

“Do you want to go on a date with my dad?!”

 

For a moment, nothing happens.

 

Ji-ah immediately regrets everything. This is not how this was supposed to go. She was meant to gather information, not blurt out something insane and irreversible. She doesn’t even know if he’s the right fit. That part was supposed to come before the asking. Too late now.

 

Seongje looks away, his gaze fixed on a crack in the wall tile as if it holds the answer to a profound question. The disgust is gone from his face, though. She will take the win.

 

“That,” he finally says, slow and careful, “is a line I have never heard before. Go on a date with your dad?”

 

She nods, firm. “That’s why I asked if you were single.” She presses the advantage. “He’s single!”

 

Seongje lets out a soft, incredulous snort.

 

“Well, I’m glad you’re not trying to set me up with your married dad.”

 

Her shoulders slump in pure relief. He’s joking. He believes her. She didn't ruin everything. The plan, however derailed, is back on the rails.

 

“He’s a lawyer. A good one.”

 

Seongje’s eyebrow arches. “‘Good as in competent? Or good as in morally righteous?”

 

“The first one.” She mutters, thinking about some of her dad’s clients.

 

“Of course.” 

 

“He has a good job. And his own house. And a car, and…” She trails off, suddenly aware that she’s listing his assets like she’s selling real estate. To a near-stranger.

 

Not smart.

 

“And a daughter who’s way too invested in his love life,” Seongje finishes for her, his tone dry.

 

The truth slips out before she can stop it. “He doesn’t have a love life.”

 

Seongje laughs, a sharp oof of a sound. “Harsh.”

 

She doesn’t like him laughing at her dad.

 

“He doesn’t have one because he doesn’t want one. There’s nothing wrong with him.”

 

“Nothing?” Seongje hums, a low, skeptical sound. “Really? Not even a little thing?”

 

Ji-ah hesitates. Of course there are things. He works too much. He gets that scary, silent look sometimes. He thinks washing apples is a critical life skill.

 

“He’s not perfect,” she admits. “But he’s great!”

 

“So why’s he single?”

 

“Well…” She blanks. She’s only recently started considering the why. The void where a partner should be has just always been there, like a piece of furniture they never got around to buying.

 

“He is old and decrepit, isn't he?”

 

She deadpans. “He’s thirty-four.”

 

That gets a reaction. Seongje blinks, surprised. Yes, her dad is younger than most dads.

 

“He eats well. Doesn't smoke. Goes to the gym. And, hm, he's tall!”

 

He looks her up and down.

 

“I’m sure everyone looks tall for you.”

 

“Ha-ha,” she says flatly. “He’s your height.”

 

Seongje just hums again. Then, casually, as if asking about the weather: “He hot?”

 

“Gross.”

 

“Ugly then. Got it.”

 

“No! He’s…” She knows he’s handsome. Objectively. It’s just weird to say it out loud.

 

“Ugly,” Seongje repeats, a taunt.

 

“Ugh, wait.” She fumbles for her phone, navigating to her contacts. Her dad’s picture is his ID photo, recent, brutally efficient. No smile, just a stark, clear shot of his face, all sharp lines and serious eyes.

 

“Look, kid, I’m not gonna go out—”

 

She thrusts the screen toward his face, the phone stopping an inch from his nose. He goes silent. Utterly, completely silent. His face blanks out again, but this is different from before. It doesn't turn into something else. It's just… nothing. A void.

 

Yeah, yeah, she thinks, rolling her eyes internally. He’s good-looking. Whatever.

 

But the silence stretches. Five seconds. Ten. Her arm starts to ache from holding the phone up. She begins to lower it.

 

Seongje’s hand snaps out, gentle but firm, and takes the phone, turning his back to her, blocking her view.

 

“Hey!”

 

His voice, when it comes, is oddly flat. “What’s his name?”

 

“Na Baekjin.” She says it carefully, watching the rigid line of his shoulders.

 

He says nothing. He’s so still he could be a statue. A trickle of worry cuts through her irritation. She pokes his back.

 

“Uncle?”

 

He turns. clearing his throat, a rough, uncomfortable sound, and places her phone on the counter with deliberate care. He meets her eyes, and his are strangely intense.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I’ll go on a date with your dad.”

 

“Really?!” The word explodes from her. Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit. She hadn’t actually prepared for a yes. Her dad knows nothing. What’s the next step? A flowchart? A contract?

 

“Yes. Give me his number.”

 

She hesitates. Seongje’s eyes keep darting back to her inert phone, as if the ghost of the image is still visible on the black screen. Is her dad really that handsome? Enough to make a grown man act this weird?

 

“Why?” she asks, suspicious.

 

“For the date. I need to call him. Set it up.”

 

“No,” she says, the negotiator in her waking up. “You go on the date first. If he likes you, then he’ll give you his number.” That seems fair. Safe.

 

Seongje just nods. “Ok.”

 

She blinks. That was… easy. No argument. Weird.

 

Okay. Damage control and coaching.

 

“He doesn’t like fancy places. But the food has to be of good quality. He’ll notice.” She’s babbling, but information is armor. “He’s the quiet, serious type.”

 

“Is he?” Seongje’s voice sounds odd. Tight. A little breathless.

 

“Yes. But he’s funny! In a dry way. Like, when someone says something totally deadpan, and you have to figure out if they are joking, you know?”

 

“I know.” The reply is immediate, soft. His gaze is still locked on the phone. His hands, she notices, are clenched into white-knuckled fists on the counter.

 

“Are you okay?” He looks paler than he did when she came in. “You look like you’re going to faint.”

 

He clears his throat again, a ragged sound. “Hangover.”

 

She carefully reclaims her phone, wiping it subtly on her jeans. Right. The hangover. She needs to give him conversational ammunition. “Oh, you can ask about his job, but don't ask too much, or he will get suspicious. He's a bit paranoid.”

 

Seongje makes a sound. Not a cough. Not a sneezy. But it sounds uncomfortable. Maybe he should go to the hospital.

 

“He likes fishing, so you can ask him about that.”

 

Seongje’s head jerks up.

 

“Since when?”

 

“I… don’t know? Since always, I guess. Why?” 

 

Doesn't seem like a relevant question.

 

“No reason.” He shakes his head minutely, as if dislodging a thought. “Go on. Your dad. What else?”

 

“Dress nicely. And be on time. He hates when people are late.”

 

At this, Seongje laughs. It’s a short, sharp, almost hysterical sound that has no joy in it. He stares at the countertop, his shoulders shaking slightly.

 

“I don’t think you should drink anymore, Uncle,” she says, genuine sympathy coloring her voice.

 

He ignores her. “What’s his name again?”

“Na Baekjin.”

He mutters something under his breath she can’t catch. Then he’s moving, pushing off from the counter.

 

“I have a thing. I gotta go.”

 

“Wait! What about the date?”

 

“You pick the restaurant. Somewhere he’d like. I’ll trust you.” He’s already at the door.

 

“When are you—?”

 

He’s gone. The door swings shut behind him.

 

Ji-ah stares. He moved fast for someone who looked half-dead a minute ago.

 

The kitchen door swings open. A cook sticks his head out, looking around. “Where’d he go?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

The man clicks his tongue in clear annoyance.

 

“Gone again. Great.” He disappears back into the kitchen, muttering about who’s going to cover the front.

 

So this is a habit. Just walking out. Her dad would call that profoundly irresponsible. Then again… maybe someone who doesn't take his job so serious could teach her dad how to stop working for five minutes. Opposites attract, right?

 

As Ji-ah walks home, doubt creeps in. But the worst case is just a bad date, right? People survive those all the time. She decides not to tell her dad anything until the last minute. No chance for cancellation. She’ll have to avoid him for a little while. He has this creepy mind-reading ability where he can smell a scheme brewing. It’ll suck, missing their usual dinners and TV time. But it’s for a greater good!

 

Her dad might even be happier. Happier means less stress. Less stress means a longer life.

 

And she needs him to live forever.

 

---

 

“You have to promise not to be mad.”

 

Baekjin closes his eyes and draws in a slow, steadying breath. In the lexicon of fatherhood, that phrase is a four-alarm fire. Nothing good ever follows it.

 

The day had been deceptively smooth. Ji-ah’s strange, quiet retreat over the past few days had worried him, a silent tension in their usually easy space. When he’d asked, she’d shrugged it off, her face not upset but carefully blank. He’d chalked it up to a teenage phase and given her space. Yesterday, she’d bounced back, chattering through dinner prep, filling the kitchen with her chaotic energy. His worries had dissolved. Then she’d suggested they go out to eat. Said it had been a while. Named a restaurant he liked. Insisted on a specific day and time, which was odd, but he’d been relieved she was acting like herself again. A little guilty, too. It had been a while since they went out together.

 

He’d left the office early. They’d just been seated. The menu was in his hands. And now this.

 

He opens his eyes. Ji-ah is watching him, her face a masterpiece of pre-emptive guilt.

 

“See?! You’re already mad, and I didn’t even say anything.”

 

His mind is a chessboard, rapidly calculating possibilities. She is here. She is safe. Therefore, whatever it is, I can manage. 

 

“What did you do?”

 

She bites her thumbnail, her leg jittering under the table. “Remember when I asked you about dating?”

 

“My answer is still no.”

 

“Yeah, I know, I know. It’s not that. It’s just… related.”

 

He narrows his eyes. “Ji-ah.”

 

She starts talking about human connection.

 

He can tell it's going to be a monologue.

 

Baekjin lets his attention drift, listening just enough to track her tone. She only rambles like this when she’s nervous or trying to sell him something she knows he won’t buy. If she’s not asking to date again, then what is it?

 

He goes through some options of what this could be about… his stomach knots. Fuck. Please don’t let her have invited the boy. Or worse, the boy and the boy’s parents. Some kind of ambush designed to wear him down.

 

A waitress approaches. He gives a subtle shake of his head. Not yet.

 

Ji-ah keeps talking.

 

Why here? Why wait until they’re already sitting down? And if this explains her weird behavior all week, why act normal right before confessing?

 

She’s reading from her phone now. Something about stress hormones and premature aging. His attention drifts to the window. It’s dark already. When he left work, the sky had been heavy with clouds. He should check the forecast. If it’s going to rain tomorrow, he needs to remind Ji-ah to take an umbrella to piano class. And then remind her again. Teenagers apparently believe umbrellas are social suicide. Maybe he should buy her a raincoat. A sleek, black one she can customize.

 

It hits him then. The dinner. The restaurant. The specific time. The way she’d been oddly invested in what he wore. All of her fashion opinions—ignored, obviously. He will not take advice from someone who wears mismatched shoes and sews neon lights into her skirts.

 

She set him up.

 

“Is this a date?” He cuts through her neurobiology lecture. 

 

He knows the answer before she opens her mouth. The sheer, ridiculous innocence of the scheme—the sitcom-level situation—makes a surprised, dry chuckle escape him.

 

Is this really his life?

 

She pounces on the sound. “You’re smiling, so it’s fine, yeah?”

 

He sobers instantly, fixing her with a look.

 

“No, it’s not. Why would you even—”

 

He stops.

 

Why would she?

 

Has his solitude been so loud? Has he somehow broadcast a loneliness so profound that his fifteen-year-old daughter felt compelled to stage-manage his love life? He doesn’t want her worrying about this. He’s supposed to take care of her. Not the other way around.

 

She grabs his wrist, her grip tight.

 

“Come on dad, it’s just dinner. Eating and talking.”

 

He doesn’t want to eat or talk with a stranger.

 

“You’re grounded this weekend,” he says.

 

It may be a little harsh, but it's more prevention than punishment. He rather not to be in this situation again.

 

She slumps in her chair, defeated. 

 

“You will also apologize to whoever is coming,” he adds, “and explain this was a misunderstanding.”

 

That revives her. She straightens, indignant. “Wait, no, that’s not fair. If you cancel, I get grounded for nothing!”

 

“Life isn’t fair. Consider it a learning experience.”

 

She opens her mouth to argue—then freezes. Her eyes light up as she looks toward the window.

 

“He’s here!” Then her expression shifts. Appraising. Judgmental. “He didn’t dress up.”

 

Baekjin begins to turn to see the poor, misled soul she dragged into this mess. But Ji-ah shouts, calling the waitress, and Baekjin turns back to her.

 

“Don’t shout,” he admonishes automatically.

 

The waitress arrives.

 

Ji-ah beams. “I’ll have one of every item on the dessert menu, please.”

 

She turns her victorious smile on him. “Now you have to stay to pay the bill.”

 

For a second, he can only stare. He is, despite everything, impressed. It’s ruthless, brilliant, quick thinking. She’s learned too well.

 

She pops up, throws a one-armed hug around his shoulders, and whispers directly into his ear, “I’m doing this because I care for you, and I want you to get some action.”

 

“Ji-ah.” His reprimand is a hushed, horrified reflex. He shoots a glance at the neighboring table. When did she start talking like this?

 

She’s already gone, weaving between tables, throwing a loud “Love you!” over her shoulder like a grenade.

 

Don’t shout, he thinks, but the fight is gone. He sighs, the sound lost in the quiet restaurant. “Love you too,” he mutters to the empty space she left behind.

 

It’s impossible to stay truly angry. She knows every one of his vulnerabilities and exploits them with the precision of a master negotiator. He wonders if he can cancel the desserts before they arrive. Wonders how he’s going to apologize and explain that this is the result of a teenager with too much free time. He makes a mental note to call Ji-ah’s mother. Perhaps they should enroll her in something intensely demanding. Advanced Calculus. Or fencing. Something to absorb this diabolical surplus of cunning energy.

 

A presence settles at the edge of his perception. Someone stops beside his table. Shoes, worn but clean, come into view just within his periphery.

 

Right. The awkward explanation.

 

He stands, the polite, apologetic words already forming on his tongue. I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, my daughter is at a… creative… age and–

 

He looks up.

 

And then nothing.

 

Words vanish. Thoughts vanish.

 

There is only memory.

  

He is fifteen. The smell of dust and cheap cleaner in a school hallway. The coppery taste of blood from a split lip. The burn in his knuckles.

 

How is this possible?

 

He is fifteen, and he is a live wire of fear and fury. The fights are a blur of motion and pain. A final, disastrous confrontation. The sterile smell of a hospital. The cold weight of a police statement.

 

He was expecting a stranger.

 

He’s fifteen, and there is a boy he likes. It makes him angry. The boy leaves. That makes him angrier. So he needs to hurt someone. Anyone. The fury turns inwards, becomes a weapon.

 

Not a ghost.

  

He is fifteen, and there is another boy. A smirk in a sun-drenched yard. A lazy, challenging gaze. A wicked laugh. This one, he tells himself, he will not like. Cannot afford to like. The boy seems not to care. Until one day, he does. And then he, too, leaves.

 

“Seongje.” 

 

He is fifteen, and he is so, so alone.

 

The name echoes in the silent vault of his skull.

 

He blinks, dragging himself back to the present, to the soft lighting of the restaurant, to the man standing before him. The eyes. The nose. The jaw. The mouth. It's all the same. Only sharper now, carved by years. The acrid scent of cigarette smoke registers a second later, and he can’t tell if it’s lingering on the man’s clothes or if it’s a phantom scent summoned from all the memories. A trick from his mind. A smell conjured from the memory of a hundred shared, silent moments outside a convenience store, inside a small room, at a parking lot. Once, in a bed.

 

An absurd, primal urge rises in him.

 

To lean in and breathe deeply.

 

To confirm by scent what his eyes are telling him.

 

“Na Baekjin.” Seongje says. “Been a minute.”

Notes:

this was supposed to be a one-shot but I'm the worst srry

thank you for reading!!

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