“I think I might’ve,” I mutter.
He smiles and closes the laptop lid. “Then I’ll help you practice.”
So this weekend, true to his word, he’s planned a surprise—a day trip to Yangsan.
The moment we step into his family home, his mother greets me with a wide, triumphant smile, holding up a heavy ceramic dish. “I madegejang,” she announces, her tone conspiratorial. “I remembered it was your favorite.”
The spicy, briny scent—along with the forceful, motherly insistence that asks for no thanks—hits me, the kind that simply fills the room.
“You don’t have to—”
“Of course I do,” she interrupts, already ushering me inside. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days. Come, before I call your manager and complain.”
I snort and follow her gladly, one hand clinging to hers.
After lunch, Shin disappears into the garage and returns, wheeling out a brand-new bicycle—a birthday gift from Min-a’s parents, complete with a basket and a tiny silver bell. Though her birthday was a while ago, the gift looks untouched. Her eyes widen at the sight of it, a flash of joy lighting her face—but it fades almost instantly into hesitation. She circles the bike, hands hovering over the handlebars, yet can’t bring herself to get on.
“The training wheels are off,” she says quietly, looking at Shin. “I’ll fall.”
“I’ll hold you,” he says patiently, but she just shakes her head, her lower lip trembling.
I watch them for a moment—the big brother coaxing his scared little sister. On a sudden impulse, I stand up. “Hey, Min-a,” I say, coming over. “I was a total klutz when I learned. Fell a hundred times. Want me to show you the secret?”
She looks at me, eyes wide and questioning. Shin looks at me, too, surprised. I give him a small, confident nod.
We spend the next hour on the quiet street in front of their house. I hold the back of the bike seat, my hand steady on her shoulder, walking—and sometimes jogging—beside her as she wobbles.
“Look forward, not at your feet,” I tell her. “Keep pedaling. Even if you wobble, just keep pedaling.” The words feel strangely familiar, like advice I should have been giving myself for years.
She falls once—a gentle scrape on the knee—and her eyes well up. I help her brush the dust off. “See? You fell, and you’re fine,” I say, with a cheerfulness I didn’t know I had. “Let’s go again.”
Shin watches from the porch steps, leaning against the railing with a quiet, unreadable expression. He doesn’t interfere—just watches us, a small smile occasionally tugging at his lips.
Then it happens. Min-a finds her rhythm. I feel the bike steady beneath my hand. My heart lurches. I take a chance and let go.
She keeps going. Five feet. Ten feet. Her initial terrified focus melts into a wide, triumphant grin before she wobbles to a stop, feet planted firmly on the ground.
“I did it!” she screams, turning to look at me, face shining with happiness.
“You did it!” I yell back, laughing.
I glance back at the porch. Shin is still watching us, but the unreadable expression is gone. Now he has this open, warm look that makes my stomachdo a little flip. He’s not just watching his sister learn to ride a bike—he’s watching me, too. Like I just performed a magic trick without realizing it.
I can’t help thinking how ridiculous it is that a bike lesson could feel like this. But there it is—my chest tight, my cheeks warm, and a small, helpless smile creeping onto my face.
***
The next morning, after a quiet breakfast, we head to a nearby beach. We spread a blanket on the sand and unpack the lunch his mom prepared—kimbap, rolled omelette, a few fried dumplings, and sweet rice cakes for dessert—while the sound of the waves provides a hypnotic rhythm as we sit close, our knees brushing.
“So…” he starts, his voice casual, but his eyes fixed on the horizon. “We’re… dating, right?”
I almost choke on mykimbap. My brain, which has been happily running on food-induced autopilot, snaps to attention. “Uh… yeah? I thought the making-out-in-my-bedroom was a fairly solid indicator.”
A relieved grin spreads across his face. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about what that means. Professionally.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is this against company policy, Manager Kang?”
“It’s… frowned upon,” he admits. “They might reassign one of us.”
