getting lost on an island wasnât part of jungkookâs plan. he only came to jeju to escape the noise of the city for a while â no schedules, no expectations, no people who knew his name. just the sea, the wind, and quiet roads that stretched along the shoreline. meeting you wasnât part of the plan either. but somehow, between tangerine orchards, late sunsets, and the salt in the air, leaving the island starts to feel harder than staying.
⧠genre/pairing : jungkook à reader · city boy à country girl · strangers to lovers · slow burn · fluff · eventual smut · a little angst
⧠tags/warnings : island romance · vacation au · teasing dynamics · emotional vulnerability · jealous jungkook · soft intimacy · late night beach walks · eventual smut
⧠series notes : a story about finding quiet in unexpected places, falling in love slowly, and learning that sometimes the sea brings people exactly where theyâre meant to be.
⧠taglist : @yufawnz @inthelow @junqive @ynkksbb @jkxlvrr @lovingkoalaface @livelaughlovejoon @joonjulyagust-d @xtrataerrestrial @bluewintersocks @ggukamor @ggukkieslvttttt @bangatanily @oopscoop @silverozy @koosluvss @bo-rimmy @missdumpling190811 @sky-23s-world @mikrokookiex @mimi1097 @jggui @rubyybabyy @prettymoles @tatamicc @satisfied18 @megamatt43 @raez1ee @cherryminie95
series masterlist | masterlist | chp one | chp two | chp three | chp four
the first thing jungkook registers is that heâs not in seoul.
itâs not the bed that tells himâthough the bed is different, softer, with pillows that smell faintly of lavender instead of the unscented ones he uses at home. itâs not the light either, though the light is different too, softer and greyer, filtering through sheer curtains he doesnât recognize.
or rather, the lack of it.
no traffic. no sirens in the distance. no neighborâs tv bleeding through the walls at an volume. just the ocean. a low, constant hush that he can hear even from the top floor, even through the glass of the balcony door. waves pulling in and pulling out, over and over, like the island itself is breathing.
the ceiling above him is white and high and bare. no cracks, no water stains, no cheap light fixture with a missing bulb. just smooth, uninterrupted white. the kind of ceiling that belongs in a room that cost more per night than most peopleâs rent.
he blinks at it for a long moment, waiting for his brain to catch up.
right. jeju. the hotel. the driver and the broken car and the girl with the grocery bags.
he turns his head toward the window. the curtains are thin enough that he can see the sky beyond themâpale, washed-out, the kind of grey-blue that comes just before sunrise. or maybe just after. he doesnât know what time it is. doesnât want to look at his phone and find out.
not the kind of tired that comes from a bad nightâs sleep. the kind that comes from no sleep at all. because he didnât sleep. not really. heâd lain in this bed for hours, staring at that white ceiling, listening to the ocean breathe. heâd closed his eyes and counted backwards from a hundred. heâd fluffed the lavender pillows and turned onto his side and then onto his stomach and then onto his back again.
his body is exhausted. his bones feel heavy, his eyelids heavier. but his brain wonât shut up. it keeps spinning, looping, replaying the same thoughts over and over.
his fatherâs voice on the phone two days ago.
you need a break, jungkook. youâre no good to anyone like this.
like a break was something you could schedule, like a meeting.
iâve made some arrangements. just go. relax. see the island.
arrangements. his fatherâs version of relaxation involves reservations. schedules. itineraries. thereâs a list somewhereâon his phone, probably, or in an email he hasnât opened yetâof places his father has already decided he should visit. museums. galleries. restaurants that require reservations three weeks in advance.
itâs thoughtful, he knows. his father is trying. but the thought of following another schedule, even a vacation schedule, makes something in his chest tighten.
he came to jeju to escape.
but you canât escape a life you never chose by running to a place someone else chose for you.
he sighs, pushes himself up, and swings his legs over the side of the bed. the sheets are cool against his skin, the floor cool under his bare feet. he stands, stretches, feels his spine crack in three different places.
the suite is still dark. the living area, the kitchenette, the bathroom with its marble counters and rainfall shower. he walks past all of it, barefoot and shirtless, and pulls open the balcony door.
the morning air hits him immediatelyâcooler than yesterday, with a breeze that raises goosebumps along his arms. the ocean is right there, grey and vast under the pale sky, stretching out until it disappears into the horizon. the sun hasnât fully risen yet. the world is quiet.
he leans against the balcony railing and just breathes.
the salt is still there. the green is still there. but thereâs something else too, something sharper. seaweed, maybe. or the mineral smell of wet sand. itâs not unpleasant. just unfamiliar.
he stays there for a while. five minutes. maybe ten. long enough for his fingers to go cold and his hair to get damp with sea spray. long enough for the sky to shift from grey-blue to something paler, something closer to morning.
when he finally steps back inside, he grabs his phone from the nightstand.
three missed notifications. an email from his fatherâs assistant with the subject line jeju recommendations - please review. a text from his brother asking if heâs alive. a weather alert about high winds in the afternoon.
instead, he showers. the water is hot and the pressure is good and he stands under the spray longer than necessary, letting it wake him up. he brushes his teeth. pulls on black jeans and a grey t-shirt. runs his fingers through his damp hair and decides it's fine.
thatâs something, at least. an appetite. he hasnât had much of one lately, but the sea air must be doing something, because his stomach is actually growling.
he picks up his phone again and calls the front desk.
âgood morning, mr. jeon. how can we help you?â
âbreakfast,â he says. âwhere should i go?â
thereâs a pause. he can hear the receptionist typing. âthe hotel has an excellent breakfast buffet on the second floor, sir. or thereâs a cafĂ© attached to the lobby that serves coffee and pastries. would you like me toââ
âno. i mean somewhere local. not the hotel.â
another pause. longer this time. âof course, sir. one moment.â
he waits, tapping his fingers against his thigh. the receptionist comes back on the line with a few recommendationsâa cafĂ© near the beach, a bakery that opens early, a place that serves traditional jeju porridge. he writes none of them down.
he calls his driver instead.
âmorning, sir. ready to head out?â
âyes. i need breakfast. somewhere local. not fancy.â
the driver hums, thinking. âthereâs a place,â he says slowly. âsmall. family-owned. been there for years. itâs not fancy, like you said. but the foodââ he pauses, like heâs searching for the right words. âthe best seafood stew on the island, sir. very simple. but very good.â
jungkook considers this. âwhatâs it called?â
âdolharu, sir. after the stone statues. dol hareubang. youâve seen them, maybe? the big stone grandfathers.â
he hasnât. but he nods anyway, like the driver can see him. âsend me the address. iâll meet you downstairs in ten.â
the call ends. jungkook sets his phone down and looks at himself in the mirror across the room. dark circles under his eyes. hair still damp. a face that looks younger than twenty-four and older at the same time.
he doesnât know what heâs looking for on this island.
but right now, all he wants is a good bowl of stew.
he grabs his wallet, his key card, and his phone, and heads for the door.
the restaurant is not what he expected.
heâs not sure what he did expect, exactly. maybe something polished. something with a sign in english and a host stand and menus with pictures. the kinds of places his father usually recommends.
dolharu is none of those things.
itâs small. smaller than he imagined. tucked between a neighborhood grocery store and a house with a tiled roof, the kind of building thatâs been standing for longer than anyone can remember. the exterior is simpleâwhite walls, a blue wooden door, a sign hanging above the entrance with ëíë„Žë°© painted in black letters.
thereâs a small stone statue next to the door. one of those dol hareubang the driver mentioned. big eyes. a long nose. a hand resting over its stomach. itâs weathered, worn smooth by years of wind and rain, and someone has tied a small ribbon around its base. a faded orange one, the color almost gone.
jungkook stares at it for a moment longer than necessary.
the driver parks the car and turns around in his seat. âthis is it, sir. iâll wait here.â
âyouâre not eating?â
the driver shakes his head, smiling slightly. âi had breakfast at home, sir. my wife. she doesnât let me leave the house without a full stomach.â
jungkook nods. opens the door. steps out.
the air is warmer now than it was on the balcony, the sun higher, the breeze lighter. he can smell the ocean still, but thereâs something else tooâsomething savory. garlic, maybe. or sesame oil. itâs coming from the restaurant, drifting out through the cracks around the blue door.
his stomach growls again.
he walks to the door, pulls it open, and steps inside.
the interior is small. maybe six tables, all of them wooden and worn smooth from years of use. the floors are concrete, swept clean.
the walls are lined with old photographsâblack and white images of jeju from decades ago, stone statues like the one outside, families in traditional clothing. there's a counter at the far end, and behind it, a window that looks into the kitchen.
he can see someone moving back there. a man, maybe. older. with grey in his hair and an apron tied around his waist.
the restaurant is mostly empty. just one other customer, an elderly woman sitting in the corner, slowly eating a bowl of rice with a spoon. she doesnât look up when he walks in.
he stands there for a moment, uncertain.
then a door at the back swings open, and someone walks out.
for a split second, jungkook doesnât register who it is. he sees movementâsomeone carrying a small stack of napkins, someone wearing pink, someone moving with the kind of ease that comes from knowing a space well.
his brain catches the details in fragments: an oversized sweatshirt in a soft, dusty pink, the kind that hangs loose off one shoulder. a grey camisole underneath, the thin strap just visible against the collarbone. cream-colored sweatpants, wide-legged and soft-looking, with a foldover waistband that sits low on the hips.
your hair is different from yesterdayâdown, not pulled back, falling in waves that look like they havenât seen a hairbrush in a few hours.
and then you turn, just slightly, and he sees your face.
thereâs a momentâbarely a second, reallyâwhere his brain scrambles to place you. the grocery bags. the footpath. the sandals. the baby blue phone case. the way youâd stood there with your crinkling plastic bags and your teasing smile, waiting for him to say please. itâs all there, somewhere in the back of his mind, but it takes a beat too long to surface.
you look up at the same moment, your eyes landing on him as you set the napkins down on the nearest table. your expression shiftsânot surprise, exactly, but recognition.
a small lift of your eyebrows, a tiny quirk at the corner of your mouth.
like youâre not shocked to see him, but youâre not entirely expecting him either.
you straighten up and walk toward him. not quickly, not slowly. just.. casually. the way someone walks when theyâre not in a hurry and never really are.
the restaurant is quiet around you. the elderly woman in the corner is still eating her rice. from the kitchen, he can hear the soft clatter of a pot being set on a burner, the low murmur of someone humming.
you stop a few feet away from him, close enough that he can see the small mole on your left cheek, the way your sweatshirt keeps slipping off your shoulder no matter how many times you probably pull it back up.
âlooks like you found the sim card, i see,â you say.
your voice is light. casual. like running into him here is the most ordinary thing in the world.
jungkook blinks at you. his mouth opens. closes. opens again.
âare you stalking me?â he asks.
he doesnât mean it to sound as accusatory as it comes out. itâs more disbelief than anything elseâthe kind of knee-jerk reaction that happens when your brain canât quite process a coincidence.
heâs been on the island for less than twenty-four hours. heâs run into you twice.
at the airport and now here, at some small restaurant his driver had to recommend because it wasnât even on his fatherâs carefully curated list.
you donât look offended by his question. if anything, your smile grows just a fraction, your eyes crinkling slightly at the corners.
âstalking you?â you repeat, drawing the words out like you're tasting them. âin my familyâs restaurant? on my home island?â
he feels heat creep up the back of his neck.
âyou really think i followed you from the airport,â you continue, tilting your head, âfound out where you were staying, woke up early, and came to work just so i could run into you again?â
âno,â he says quickly. âthatâs notâi justââ
âbecause that would be a lot of effort,â you say, and thereâs that teasing edge again, the one he remembers from yesterday. âespecially for someone who couldnât even say please without being asked.â
he opens his mouth. closes it. runs a hand through his hair, which is still slightly damp from his shower.
âi said please,â he reminds you, because he needs to win at least one point in this conversation.
âeventually,â you agree. âafter i made you.â
you stare back, completely unbothered, your weight shifted to one hip, your arms loose at your sides. the sweatshirt slips another inch off your shoulder and you donât fix it.
âyouâre not going to let me live that down, are you?â he asks.
âprobably not,â you say cheerfully. âbut donât worry. iâm sure youâll do something else embarrassing soon, and then iâll have new material.â
he should be annoyed. a few hours ago, on the footpath outside the airport, he would have been annoyed. but something about the way you say itâthe warmth underneath the teasing, the way your eyes are bright and not unkindâmakes it land differently.
he exhales, and it comes out somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.
âiâm not stalking you,â you say again, softer this time. âmy family owns this place. i work here when iâm home.â
âyou said you were on vacation,â he says, frowning.
âi am. but helping out at the restaurant doesnât feel like work. it just feels like..â you glance around the small room, at the worn tables and the old photographs and the stone statue he can see through the window. âlike being home.â
he doesnât know what to say to that. heâs not sure heâs ever had anything that felt like that.
you seem to sense something in his silence, because your smile gentles slightly. âare you going to stand in the doorway all morning, or do you actually want breakfast?â
his stomach chooses that moment to growl. loudly.
âwas that you?â you ask. âor is there a small animal hiding in your jacket?â
âitâs been a while since i ate,â he admits, and his ears are definitely red now. he can feel them burning.
you laughânot a mean laugh, not even a teasing one. just a genuine, surprised laugh that crinkles your nose and makes your shoulders shake a little.
âokay,â you say, gesturing toward the tables. âcome on. sit down before you pass out. my dad will never let me hear the end of it if a customer faints in the doorway.â
you turn and walk toward a table near the windowâa small one, meant for two, with a wooden top and two simple chairs. you pull one out and look back at him expectantly.
jungkook hesitates for just a moment.
then he walks forward, past the elderly woman who still hadnât looked up from her rice, past the counter with its old-fashioned register, past the window into the kitchen where he can now see an older manâyour father, probablyâstirring something in a large pot.
he sits down in the chair you pulled out for him.
the wood is solid beneath him, the table smooth under his hands. thereâs a small vase in the center with a single flowerâwhite, maybe a daisy, a little wilted around the edges. a menu stands upright in a metal holder, laminated and slightly sticky from years of use.
you donâs sit across from him. instead, you round the table and stand beside it, reaching for the menu and sliding it in front of him.
âhere,â you say. âbreakfast menu is the first page. lunch starts at eleven. but honestly, everything is good. you canât really go wrong.â
he looks down at the menu, then back up at you.
youâre standing there with your hands on your hips, the oversized sleeve of your sweatshirt slipping down to your elbow. the grey camisole underneath has a thin line of lace along the neckline, barely visible but there. your sweatpants are so wide that he canât even tell what shoes youâre wearingâprobably sandals again, he thinks. or maybe just socks.
âyouâre really not going to ask why iâm here?â he says.
âyou mean at the restaurant?â you tilt your head. âyouâre hungry. you like stew. someone told you this was the best place on the island.â you pause. âam i close?â
âmy driver mentioned it.â
âmr. park?â you ask, and something in your expression softens. âheâs been coming here for years. brings all the hotel guests who want âauthentic jeju food.ââ you make air quotes with your fingers, and he notices your nails are bareâno polish, just clean and short.
âi didnât catch his name,â jungkook admits.
âthatâs okay. heâs been bringing people here since i was in middle school. heâs practically family at this point.â you glance toward the kitchen, where your father is still stirring. âappa sends him home with leftovers sometimes. banchan, mostly. the good stuff.â
jungkook watches you as you talk. the way your face moves, the way your hands gesture when youâre explaining something.
youâre different here than you were at the airportâstill teasing, still sharp, but softer somehow. more settled. like this place fills something in you that the rest of the world canât.
âso,â you say, turning back to him, âare you going to order, or are you just going to stare at the menu until it catches fire?â
he looks down. the menu is laminated, yes, and the edges are slightly curled. the breakfast page has maybe seven options. simple. handwritten fonts. no pictures.
âwhat do you recommend?â he asks.
you smile, and itâs different from the teasing one. warmer. âthe seafood stew. obviously.â
âitâs jeju,â you say, like that explains everything. âwe donât really do âbreakfast foodâ the way seoul does. here, you eat whatever sounds good. and the stew sounds good, trust me.â
âyou said that yesterday. âtrust me.ââ he remembers. the grocery bags. the footpath. the way youâd looked at him when you said it.
âand youâre still standing here, arenât you?â you counter. âso clearly, trusting me worked out fine.â
he canât argue with that.
âokay,â he says. âthe stew.â
you nod, pleased, and reach for the menu to take it back. your fingers brush against his for just a secondânot long enough to mean anything, but long enough for him to notice that your hands are warm and your nails are bare and you smell faintly of sesame oil.
âgood choice,â you say. âiâll tell appa.â
you turn and walk toward the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind you, and jungkook is left sitting at the small table by the window, alone with his thoughts.
he looks out the window. the street outside is quietâa few cars parked along the curb, an elderly man walking his dog, a cat sleeping on a wall. the stone statue next to the door watches over it all, its big eyes unblinking, its long nose pointing toward the sky.
he thinks about the way you said my island.
not jeju. not the island. my island.
like it belongs to you. like you belong to it.
he doesnât know what that feels like. to belong to a place. to have a place belong to him.
seoul has never felt like his. his fatherâs apartment. his fatherâs company. his fatherâs expectations. everything in his life has been handed to him, planned for him, decided without him. even this tripâespecially this tripâwasnât really his idea.
but this restaurant, with its worn tables and its old photographs and its stone statue outsideâ
and somehow, without meaning to, heâs sitting in the middle of it.
the kitchen door swings open again, and you come back out, wiping your hands on a small towel. you donât go to him.
instead, you stop at the elderly womanâs table, saying something quietly, refilling her tea without being asked. the woman nods, pats your hand, and you smileâa real smile, soft and private, the kind you give to someone youâve known your whole life.
and he realizes, somewhere in the back of his mind, that heâs not annoyed anymore.
you come back a few minutes later, a large bowl cradled in your hands, steam curling up from the surface in lazy spirals. the bowl is ceramic, a warm earthy brown, and itâs heavy enough that he can see the slight strain in your forearms as you carry it.
you set it down in front of him with careful precision, your fingers pulling back quickly to avoid the heat.
thatâs not a word he usually uses for food, but itâs the first thing that comes to mind. the broth is a deep, rich red-orange, the kind of color that comes from gochugaru and hours of simmering. pieces of white fish peek through the surface, tender and flaking. there are clams too, their shells slightly open, revealing the plump meat inside. mussels. shrimp. slices of radish and zucchini and onion, all swimming in that vibrant broth. a sprinkle of chopped green onion on top, bright and fresh against the red. a small piece of kelp curled at the edge of the bowl, like itâs been placed there on purpose.
a side dish of rice sits next to the stew, perfect and white in a smaller bowl. and beside that, a small plate of banchanâkimchi, pickled radish, seasoned spinach, a tiny portion of stir-fried anchovies.
âyou made this?â he asks.
you shake your head, smiling. âappa made it. i just carried it.â you pause. âbut i did watch him make it. so i get partial credit.â
he doesnât know why that makes him smile. but it does.
âit looks incredible,â he says, and he means it.
âtaste it first,â you say. âthen tell me if itâs incredible.â
he picks up the spoon thatâs resting on the table, a long-handled one meant for stews, and dips it into the bowl. the broth is the perfect temperatureâhot enough to warm him from the inside, but not so hot that it burns. he brings the spoon to his lips and takes a sip.
the flavor hits him immediately. itâs deep and complex, the kind of taste that comes from hours of careful preparation. the seafood is fresh, the broth rich with the essence of the ocean. thereâs a subtle heat from the gochugaru that warms the back of his throat without overwhelming. the vegetables are tender, still holding their shape, and the clams are perfectly cooked.
he closes his eyes for a moment without meaning to.
when he opens them, you're watching him. waiting.
âitâs the best thing iâve eaten in months,â he says.
and he means it. he canât remember the last time he had a meal that felt like thisânot just food, but something more. something that felt like care.
you smile, pleased, and he notices the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you do. âgood. eat it while itâs hot. iâll be at the counter if you need anything.â
you start to turn away, and he doesnât know what makes him speak.
you stop, looking back at him. âyeah?â
âsit with me.â the words come out before he can think about them. âif youâre not busy.â
you raise an eyebrow. âare you asking? or telling?â
he catches himself, and this time he doesnât have to be reminded. âasking,â he says quietly. âplease.â
your expression softens, just a fraction. you glance over at the counter, then toward the kitchen, then back at him. your father is still in the back, humming to himself. the elderly woman is finishing her rice. the restaurant is quiet.
âokay,â you say. âlet me just grab something.â
you disappear behind the counter and come back a moment later with a small cup of teaâbarley tea, he thinks, from the color and the smell. you pull out the chair across from him and sit down, cradling the cup in your hands.
âso,â you say, settling in. âyou came back.â
âyou could have gone anywhere.â
âi came here.â he takes another bite of the stew, letting the flavors settle on his tongue. âmy driver said it was the best on the island.â
âmr. park is a good man,â you say. âand heâs right. but heâs also biased. my appa gives him extra banchan.â
âitâs a thank you,â you correct. âthereâs a difference. appa thanks him for bringing customers. mr. park thanks appa for the food. itâs a system.â
he shakes his head, but thereâs no heat in it. âyouâre really protective of this place.â
âof course i am,â you say simply. âitâs my home.â
he doesnât know what to say to that. so he takes another bite of the stew instead.
you watch him eat for a moment, sipping your tea, not pushing. the silence between you is comfortable, easier than he expected. the old woman in the corner finishes her rice and stands up slowly, patting your shoulder as she passes.
you smile at her, say something in jeju dialect that he doesnât catch, and she pats your shoulder again before shuffling out the door.
the restaurant is quieter now. just the two of you and the faint sounds from the kitchen.
âso,â you say, setting your tea down. âwhy jeju?â
he looks up from his stew. âwhat do you mean?â
âi mean, why here?â you lean back in your chair, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. âtourists usually go to seogwipo. or the east coast. or hallasan. youâre staying at a hotel near the airport, which means you havenât planned anything yet. and youâre eating breakfast at a tiny restaurant thatâs not on any of the tourist maps.â you tilt your head. âso why jeju?â
he considers the question. it's a good one, and he doesnât have an easy answer.
âmy father,â he says finally. âhe sent me here.â
âhe said i needed a break. that i was working too hard. that i was no good to anyone like this,â he stirs his stew absently, watching the broth swirl. âhe made the arrangements. the hotel, the reservations. he even made a list of places i should visit.â
âand youâre following it?â
âiâm not not following it,â he says, which is the most honest answer he can give.
you hum, considering this. âso youâre here because your father told you to be.â
âand you donât want to be here?â
âi donât..â he trails off, unsure how to finish. âi donât know what i want. thatâs the problem.â
you donât look at him with pity. thatâs what he appreciates. you just nod, like that makes perfect sense.
âhow long are you staying?â you ask.
âa week,â he says. âmaybe longer. i havenât decided yet.â
âa week,â you repeat. âthatâs not very long.â
âitâs the longest iâve taken off in three years.â
your eyebrows lift slightly. âthree years? you havenât taken a break in three years?â
âthere hasnât been time.â
âthereâs always time,â you say, and thereâs something gentle in your voice. âyou just have to make it.â
he doesnât know how to respond to that. so he takes another bite of the stew.
the morning light filters through the window, casting soft shadows across the table.
âwhat about you?â he asks finally. âyou said youâre on break. from university?â
you nod. âpolitical science,â you say, and then you wait, like youâre expecting him to react a certain way.
âpolitical science?â he asks, and he must say it correctly because you look surprised.
âyeah,â you say slowly. âmost people donât know what that is.â
âi know what it is,â he says. âyou want to work in policy? diplomacy? something with the UN?â
you blink at him, and thereâs something in your expression he canât quite readâsurprise, maybe, or wariness. âsomething like that,â you say carefully. âhow do you know about that?â
âiâm a business major,â he says. âwe share some classes with the pol sci students. international relations, global economics. iâve had a few.â
âso youâre not just a rich heir who doesnât know anything,â you say, and thereâs teasing in your voice but also curiosity.
âi know some things,â he says. ânot everything. but some things.â
he laughs. actually laughs. âokay, i didnât know that one. but you taught me.â
âand now youâll never forget,â you say, smiling. âyouâre welcome.â
he shakes his head, but heâs smiling too. just enough for you to notice.
you study him for a moment, your eyes soft and thoughtful. âso youâre a business major,â you say. âand your father sent you here. and you havenât taken a break in three years.â
âthatâs the summary, yeah.â
âand what do you want, jungkook?â
the question lands softly, but it lands heavy. he looks at you, at your calm eyes and your oversized sweatshirt and your hands wrapped around your tea, and he doesnât have an answer.
âi donât know,â he says honestly. âiâve never really thought about it.â
âthatâs sad,â you say, and itâs not mean. itâs just true.
he looks down at his stew. the broth is still warm, the clams still tender. he takes another bite and chews slowly, letting the flavors settle.
âwhat about you?â he asks. âyou said youâre on break. from seoul?â
you nod. âi study there. but i come back whenever i can.â
âand what do you want?â
you smile, and itâs different from the teasing one. softer. more honest. âto make a difference,â you say. âto do something that matters. to help people, maybe. thatâs why i chose pol sci. i want to understand how things work so i can make them better.â
âthatâs a big goal.â
âitâs a big world.â
he doesnât have a response to that. so he just eats his stew and listens to the quiet hum of the restaurant and watches the way the light moves across your face.
youâre not like anyone heâs met before.
he doesnât know what to do with that.
he finishes the stew. every last drop of broth, every piece of fish, every clam and mussel. he even eats the vegetables, which he usually picks around. your father comes out from the kitchen at one pointâa tall man with kind eyes and grey-streaked hair, wiping his hands on a towel. he says something to you in jeju dialect, and you roll your eyes and say something back that makes him laugh.
âmy appa wants to know if you liked it,â you translate, sitting back down across from him.
âtell him itâs the best thing iâve ever eaten,â jungkook says.
you say something to your father in jeju, and the older man's face breaks into a wide, warm smile. he nods at jungkook, says something that sounds like a thank you, and disappears back into the kitchen.
âhe says youâre welcome to come back anytime,â you say. âand that youâre too skinny and need to eat more.â
jungkook looks down at himself. âiâm not that skinny.â
âappa thinks everyone is too skinny,â you say. âitâs his love language. force-feeding people.â
he laughs again. just enough.
he pushes his empty bowl away and sits back in his chair, his stomach full and warm. the tea you brought him is still half-full, and he picks it up and takes a sipâbarley tea, light and nutty.
âthank you,â he says quietly. âfor the food. and for sitting with me.â
âyou already said thank you,â you remind him.â âiâm saying it again.â
you smile, something soft and private, and donât argue.
the restaurant is empty now. the elderly woman left. a young couple came in for coffee and left five minutes later. your father is in the back, cleaning up, and the hum of the kitchen is a quiet background noise.
he should probably leave. heâs been here for almost an hour. he has a list of reservations and recommendations somewhere on his phone. his fatherâs assistant probably expects him to visit at least one museum today.
but he doesnât want to leave.
âis there a balcony?â he asks suddenly.
âa balcony. or a terrace. somewhere with a view of the beach.â
you look at him, confused, but you donât ask why. âthereâs a small one,â you say. âout back. we use it for storage mostly, but thereâs a view of the ocean.â
you hesitate for a moment, something flickering in your eyes, but then you nod. âsure. let me grab something.â
you stand up and walk behind the counter, coming back with a clean tablecloth and a small cup of tea for yourself. you motion for him to follow, and he does, pushing his chair back and walking with you through the kitchen.
the kitchen is small and warm, filled with the smell of garlic and sesame oil. your father is at the stove, stirring something, and you say something to him in your dialect that makes him wave you away, shooing you both toward the back door.
the door leads to a small balcony. itâs not muchâjust a narrow wooden platform with a rusted railing and a few plastic crates stacked against the wall. but the view is everything.
the ocean stretches out in front of them, vast and endless, the water a deep blue-green under the morning sky. the waves crash against the rocks below, sending up plumes of white foam. the beach curves along the coastline, empty and quiet, the sand pale gold in the morning light. the mountains rise in the distance, soft and hazy, wrapped in a thin layer of morning mist.
jungkook walks to the railing and grips it, letting the sea air hit his face. the wind is stronger here, carrying the sound of the waves and the cry of seagulls and the faint salt smell that heâs starting to associate with this place.
you come up beside him, setting the tablecloth down on one of the crates and sitting on it like itâs a chair. youâre so casual about it, so comfortable in this space, like youâve done it a hundred times before.
âfirst time in jeju?â you ask, even though you already know the answer.
he turns to look at you. âyou saw me yesterday. you know it is.â
âi know,â you say, smiling. âbut i wanted to hear you say it.â you pause, taking a sip of your tea. âyou looked so lost. standing there with your luggage and your expensive shoes, squinting at your phone like it personally offended you.â
âit did personally offend me,â he says. âmy phone and i have a complicated relationship.â
you laugh, and the sound is soft, carried away by the wind. âi could tell. you were muttering to yourself.â
âyou were. i heard you.â you do a terrible impression of his voice, low and grumbly: âcome on, come on.â
he stares at you. âi donât sound like that.â
âyou absolutely sound like that.â
he opens his mouth to argue, but he canât. because he does. he does sound like that. he sounds like that all the time, apparently, and you noticed within thirty seconds of meeting him.
âokay,â he says, shaking his head. âfine. i was muttering.â
âbut in my defense, i was having a really bad day.â
he looks at you. youâre sitting on a plastic crate, drinking tea, your sweatshirt slipping off your shoulder for the hundredth time. your hair is blowing in the wind, and there's a small smile on your face, and youâre looking at him like you actually want to know the answer.
ânow,â he says slowly, âitâs better.â
you nod, satisfied, and look back out at the ocean. the silence between you is comfortable again, filled with the sound of the waves and the wind.
âyou know,â you say after a moment, âyou look a little less lost today.â
âiâm not lost,â he says. âiâm just⊠not sure where iâm going.â
âyes it is,â you say, turning to look at him. âbeing lost and not knowing where youâre going are the same thing. you just donât want to admit it.â
he doesnât know what to say to that. because sheâs right. sheâs absolutely right.
you look at him, something shifting in your expression. âyou know,â you say, âi could show you around.â
âiâm teasing,â you say quickly, waving a hand. âiâm not actuallyâi donât have time to be anyoneâs tour guide. i have to help at the restaurant, and i have reading to do, andââ
you stop mid-sentence. âokay?â
âyes,â he says. âokay. show me around.â
you stare at him. âi was joking.â
the wind blows between you, carrying the salt and the green and the faint sound of seagulls.
âjungkook,â you say slowly, âi have responsibilities. i canât justââ
âyou said you were on vacation.â
âi said i was on break. thatâs different.â
âbreak means iâm still a student. i still have readings. i still have papers. i still haveââ
âyou can do your readings at the beach,â he says. âiâll bring you a blanket.â
you look at him like heâs grown a second head.
âyouâre serious,â you say.
âyou want meâa stranger you met yesterdayâto be your tour guide for your week-long stay in jeju.â
âyouâre not a stranger,â he says. âi know your name. i know youâre a pol sci student. i know your family owns a restaurant. i know you have a baby blue phone case.â
âyou noticed my phone case?â
âitâs hard not to. itâs very.. you.â
you blink at him, and something in your expression shifts. something almost like surprise. like you didnât expect him to notice that.
âwhat exactly would this tour guiding involve?â you ask slowly.
he doesnât have an answer. he hadnât thought that far ahead. all he knows is that he doesnât want to spend his week in jeju following his fatherâs carefully curated itinerary, visiting museums and galleries and restaurants that require reservations. he wants to see the real jeju. the one you belong to.
âwhatever you want,â he says finally. âshow me what you love. where you go when youâre home. the places that matter.â
you stare at him. the wind blows your hair across your face and you push it back, tucking it behind your ear.
âyou barely know me,â you say.
âi know,â he says. âbut i want to. thatâs why iâm asking.â
the words hang in the air between you, heavy and honest.
you look at him for a long moment. your eyes search his face, looking for somethingâa joke, a trick, a hint that heâs not being serious.
he doesnât give you one.
âi have to talk to my appa,â you say finally. âand i need to finish my readings before monday. and iâm not going to be your tour guide for free.â
âi donât want your money.â
âthen what do you want?â
you look at him, and for a moment, he thinks youâre going to say something teasing. something light. something that would let you both off the hook.
but instead, you say: âi want you to actually see it. not just take pictures and post them. i want you to pay attention.â
âokay. iâll pay attention.â
you hold his gaze for another moment. and then, slowly, you smile.
âfine,â you say. âone week. but youâre buying lunch.â
you stick out your hand, and he takes it. your palm is warm against his, your grip firm. the handshake lasts a beat longer than it needs to, and when you pull away, he notices that your cheeks are slightly pink.
you clear your throat. âi should probably go help appa.â
âyeah,â he says. âi should probably go too.â
but neither of you moves.
the ocean crashes against the rocks below, and the seagulls cry overhead, and the wind carries the salt and the green and the sound of a morning that's just beginning.
âiâll come back tomorrow,â he says. âto the restaurant. for breakfast.â
âyou donât have toââ
âi want to,â he says. âif thatâs okay.â
you look at him, your expression soft and unreadable. âokay,â you say quietly. âiâll be here.â
he nods, and this time he steps back, moving toward the door to the kitchen.
you stay on the balcony, still sitting on the plastic crate, your tea growing cold in your hands.
âthank you,â he says. âfor giving me a chance.â
you smile, and itâs the warmest one yet. âyouâre welcome, jungkook.â
he steps through the door, into the warm kitchen with its smell of garlic and sesame oil, and he doesnât look back.
the whole way to the car.
the whole way to the hotel.
the whole rest of the day.
and when he lies in bed that night, staring at the white ceiling, listening to the ocean breatheâ
heâs already thinking about tomorrow morning.
a/n: i am deeply sorry for such a LONG delay. at first it was me being sick but then i was literally procastinating so much and this chapter was legit just in my drafts đđ anyways, i hope you guys enjoy!
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