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I’ve done a lot of nerve-wracking things in my life.
Auditions. Competitions. Sophia’s glares when I eat the last cookie.
But none of that compares to the sheer terror of meeting Jeong Yoonchae’s parents — not as her friend, not as some random guest, but as her girlfriend.
We’re sitting on the subway, and I’m trying very hard not to look like I’m plotting my own escape. My knee’s bouncing so much the seat is probably vibrating, and I’ve rearranged my grip on the paper bag of fruit about six times.
“Stop thinking about it so much,” she says without looking up from her phone.
“How do you know I’m thinking about it?”
“You’ve been bouncing your leg for four stops. And your breathing’s weird.”
…She’s right, but rude. “I am breathing normally,” I insist. Then quieter: “…Maybe a little faster.”
She puts her phone away and actually turns to face me. “What exactly are you afraid of?”
“That they’ll hate me,” I blurt. “Or think I’m not good enough for you.”
She tilts her head. “Why would they think that?”
I wave a hand at her like that explains everything. “You’re calm, polite, perfect posture. I’m loud. I trip over nothing. I—”
“They already like you,” she says.
“They’ve never met me.”
“They’ve met my version of you,” she says, lips twitching faintly. “The one I talk about. The one who makes me laugh when I don’t want to. The one who remembers the weird things I say.”
It lands in my chest like something heavy but warm. I don’t trust myself to answer, so I just let the subway noise swallow my thoughts until we arrive.
Her apartment building smells faintly like laundry detergent. My heart’s in my throat when we stop at the door.
“You ready?” she asks.
“No. But I trust you.”
The way her mouth twitches almost makes me forget I’m dying inside.
The second the door opens, the smell of garlic and sesame oil hits me like a hug.
From the kitchen: “Yoonchae-yah, you’re home! And this must be Megan!”
Oh god. Showtime.
Mrs. Jeong appears, apron tied at her waist, smile open. I bow and thrust the fruit bag toward her like a shield. “I, uh… brought this—”
“Oh, you didn’t have to,” she says warmly. “It’s so nice to meet the girl my daughter talks about all the time.”
All the time? My eyes dart to Yoonchae, who is very suddenly fascinated by her shoes.
In the living room, Mr. Jeong sets aside his newspaper and gives me a small nod. “Welcome.”
I bow again. Not too much. I think.
The table is a feast. Kimchi jjigae steaming in the center, glossy japchae, grilled mackerel, side dishes like tiny art exhibits. I’m suddenly aware of my chopstick grip — which I rehearsed, yes rehearsed, at home.
“So, Yoonchae,” Mrs. Jeong starts, ladling soup into my bowl, “how did you and Yoonchae even become friendly? I remember you didn't quite like her at the start.”
“Well- I mean, we used to spend a lot of time practicing together before we debuted, so...” She shrugged.
“She means she kept staring at me until I got the message,” I explained.
She nearly inhaled her soup. “That is not—okay maybe a little true.”
Mrs. Jeong chuckles. “She does that. If she likes something, she just stares. Always has.”
“Good to know I’m in the same category as her penguin collection,” I joke.
And yes — Mr. Jeong smiles. That’s one point for me.
Halfway through, Mrs. Jeong leans toward me like she’s about to tell me classified intel. “You know, in high school she refused to join the dance team because the outfits were ‘too sparkly.’”
I grin immediately. “That’s adorable.”
“She also once stayed home for three days to avoid giving a presentation.”
I’m shaking with silent laughter, and Yoonchae shoots me a look that very clearly says You are not safe later.
I reach for the kimchi with my chopsticks… and drop the piece halfway to my plate. It lands directly on the tablecloth.
“Oh my gosh—” I go to grab it, but I accidentally grab Mr. Jeong’s chopsticks instead of mine.
There’s a pause. Then, to my eternal relief, he chuckles and just hands them back. “It’s fine.”
I want to crawl into the mackerel and never come out.
Later, Mrs. Jeong asks, “So what do you like to do together?”
My brain short-circuits and I almost blurt kiss. Fortunately, I catch myself mid-syllable. “K–cook. We like to cook together sometimes.”
Under the table, I feel a sharp kick to my shin. I glance at Yoonchae, who’s staring at her rice like she didn’t just save me from an unintentional public death.
Mr. Jeong asks if I like baking too. “I try. Once I burned some brownies.”
He laughs again. That’s two laughs. I’m basically winning dinner.
When I say the japchae is incredible, Mrs. Jeong offers to pack some for me. That’s basically being adopted, right?
At the door, Mr. Jeong says, “Come again.” Just two words, but they feel like a green light.
Outside, I exhale so hard I’m surprised my lungs don’t fall out. “Okay… that was terrifying. But kind of great?”
“They liked you,” Yoonchae says.
“Even after the penguin thing?”
“Especially after the penguin thing.”
Now we're back at her place.
I collapse onto her couch. “Score me.”
“Nine point eight.”
“Where did I lose point two?”
“You laughed too hard at the penguin thing.”
“It’s cute!”
“It’s supposed to be embarrassing.”
“Embarrassingly cute,” I correct.
Silence. The kind that makes my brain replay every pre-dinner insecurity.
“I thought they’d think I wasn’t serious,” I say. “Or not enough for you.”
Her voice is steady. “You are. They could see that.”
I glance over. “You always know what to say.”
“Not really,” she says, knee brushing mine. “I just mean it.”
And that’s when it really hits me — the dinner wasn’t the hard part.
The hard part was believing I deserved to be there.
And she made it impossible not to.