Kimchi and Consequences

The smell hit Ji-won before she even opened the restaurant door—that particular combination of gochugaru, garlic, and sesame oil that had haunted her dreams for three years. Her mother's kimchi jjigae, unmistakable even from the street.

She stood outside Hanuri Restaurant on Western Avenue, her suitcase wheels catching on a crack in the sidewalk. The neon sign her father had installed twenty years ago still flickered the same way, the 한 in Hanuri blinking like a winking eye. Some things never changed in Koreatown.

But she had changed. Three years at Le Cordon Bleu's Seoul campus had refined her knife skills, taught her the molecular gastronomy her mother called "playing with food," and most importantly, given her the confidence to finally come home.

Even if home meant disappointing her parents all over again.

Ji-won pushed open the door, the familiar bell chiming. It was 2 PM—the dead zone between lunch and dinner service. The restaurant was empty except for her mother at table six, sorting through receipts, and—

Her breath caught.

A man stood at the prep station in the open kitchen, his back to her. Black t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to reveal full sleeve tattoos on both arms. Dark hair pulled back in a small bun. He was breaking down a whole chicken with the kind of fluid precision that made her chef's heart sing.

"Aiya, Jiwon-ah!" Her mother's voice shattered the moment. "You're here! Why you no call from airport? I would pick you up!"

Ji-won tore her gaze from the stranger—the incredibly attractive stranger—and moved toward her mother, who was already standing, arms open. "Hi, Umma. I wanted to surprise you."

The embrace was tight, her mother's familiar lavender shampoo mixing with the kitchen smells. When they pulled apart, her mother was crying.

"Three years too long," her mother said in Korean, patting Ji-won's cheek. "Look at you, so skinny! They don't feed you in Seoul?"

"I'm the same weight, Umma."

"Nonsense. Come, come. You hungry? I make you something."

"Mrs. Kim," the man's voice came from behind them, and Ji-won's stomach did something complicated. "I can prep the japchae if you want to spend time with your daughter."

American accent. Deep voice. And when Ji-won turned around, she nearly dropped her purse.

Because she knew that face. Those eyes. That smile that had made her thirteen-year-old self write terrible poetry in the margins of her math homework.

"Danny?"

Daniel Park froze, the chicken knife still in his hand. His eyes widened. "Ji-won?"

They stared at each other for a long moment. He'd changed—god, had he changed. The skinny kid who used to steal dumplings from the kitchen while her parents weren't...