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“Why are you so reasonable?” he muttered, pulling me flush against his chest.

I wrapped my arms around his waist and pressed a kiss to his throat, and then I said something I didn’t mean to, until the words were out, landing against his skin like dew.

“Because I’m sick of hiding who I am to you.”

He stiffened and pulled back just enough to look down at me. “Jagiya?”

“At least to the people who matter most to you,” I said quickly.

He studied my expression for a while before he pressed a kiss to my forehead, pulling me back in against him.

I had to go out and buy an outfit. Nothing I’d brought on tour with me screamed, ‘lunch with my boyfriend’s parents', so I’d had to make a quick sweep of the nearby boutiques for something to wear. Jihoon had wanted to come with me, but he’d eventually agreed to stay in the hotel when I’d pointed out that bringing Busan’s most famous son on an impromptu shopping trip was ill-advised. He’d grumbled about not being the most famous Busan export, that there were at least two more famous idols from other groups.

“Well,” I’d said reasonably, “the day has yet to come where I’ve met anyone more famous than you from Busan, but let’s not risk it anyway.”

Just before noon, we pulled up outside a modern, two-storey house, looking like something straight out of a magazine. I looked up at it through the windshield, biting my thumbnail before Jihoon rounded the car to open my door for me. I was perfectly capable of doing it myself, but I had to admit, I did kind of love it when he did it for me. He didn’t even look like he was consciously thinking about it. If anything, he looked distracted, constantly throwing glances over his shoulder, as if checking that the house was where it was supposed to be. He held out a hand for me, and I took it, letting him pull me to my feet.

We walked up the path to the front door. He didn’t knock, just let himself in and waited for me to step in behind him, closing the door.

The first thing I noticed in the entryway were all the pairs of shoes. Enough for at least six people, ranging from adults, to children. I stared at the shoes as I kicked mine off, fussing with my dress. Jihoon put his hands on my waist and spun me around to face him.

“Hey. It’s okay. Look at me. I’m here. Take a breath,” he said, inhaling deeply and indicating that I should do the same. He took my hands in his, rubbing his thumbs across my knuckles as I took a shaky breath.

“I’ve never done this before,” I admitted, holding his eyes as if they were the only solid thing I had to hold on to.

“Me either,” he said with that lopsided smile. “Let’s do it together.”

He raised my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles, and then my wrist.

He lowered my hand and together we walked into the house.

The hum of voices grew louder the further in we went, until we walked into a living room full of people, all of whom stopped speaking the moment we appeared, turning to look at us.

I froze, and Jihoon paused next to me, and I noted how he angled his body slightly, like he’d hide me, if he could.

Moments passed under this uncomfortable scrutiny until his mother, who I recognised from the funeral hall, got up to greet us. She stopped a few feet in front of us, wringing her hands together as she looked from me to Jihoon. His dad sighed as he got to his feet and moved over to stand beside his wife.

“Appa. Eomma,” Jihoon said mechanically.

“We didn’t know you were coming,” his dad said.

His name was Youngjoon. His mum was called Mijin.

It hadn’t even occurred to me that I hadn’t known their names until the car ride from the hotel. It said much about how little they featured in his life – at least as far as I knew.

“You should have told us,” his dad said, lifting his chin as if he was trying to look down at his son, despite Jihoon being taller.

“Eomma invited us,” Jihoon said in a tight voice. “But we can leave.”

I watched a tic flutter across his jaw, and tension positively radiated off him, from the way his shoulders tightened, to his clenched fist. I turned my body slightly, brushing my fingers against his with a touch so fleeting it would have gone unnoticed to everyone but him. I wasn’t encouraging him either way – this was his call – I was just letting him know I was there.

“Stay,” his mum blurted out, hands reaching for just a moment before she pulled them back, clasping them together. “We have room,” she said in a more composed voice.

“This is her?” Youngjoon said, surprising me because while the question was clearly about me, it wasn’t said to me. It was said over me as though I was a child to be talked about, not to.

The conversation so far had been entirely in Korean, and I could tell they didn’t think I knew enough to understand, from how quickly they spoke, despite how I’d greeted them at the funeral in Korean. Perhaps they thought I’d memorised the phrase.

“Hello,” I said formally, bowing my head respectfully. “It’s nice to see you again.” My formal Korean was more stilted than I would have liked. I was so focused on my pronunciation because I was nervous. My tutor would have laughed.