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It is raining cats and dogs outside, the perfect weather for a piping hot pot of kimchi jjigae to warm one’s soul. Unfortunately, Kim Dokja’s soul nearly leaves his body when he opens the fridge to discover exactly two sad pieces of kimchi. He stands there in silence, only a few seconds away from chanting incantations in hopes of conjuring tofu, veggies, and pork belly. His stomach growls on cue, harmonizing beautifully with the thunder crashing outside.
The corner of his mouth twitches in resignation.
Fine. Instant ramen it is, like it hasn’t been his dinner for the past three nights anyway. Better that than letting his stomach perform a duet with the thunder outside. He rummages through every cabinet in his tiny kitchen, checks behind cereal boxes he knows are empty, and even peers into the narrow gap beneath the sink as if a forgotten packet of ramen might have crawled in there on its own. Several minutes later, he comes to a horrifying realization.
He doesn’t have a single pack left.
Another clap of thunder rumbles through the apartment, as if sympathizing with his misery. Or mocking it.
Son of a bitch.
He sighs, letting his forehead rest against the cool wood of the kitchen cabinet. He closes his eyes and counts to ten, fully preparing himself to mentally fight off the sensation of his stomach digesting itself.
He manages about thirty seconds before his stomach lets out another pitiful whine.
“Alright, alright, shut up,” Dokja mutters to his midsection, opening his eyes to glare out the window.
The rain is still coming down hard, blurring the streetlights into smeared yellow smudges against the dark glass. He considers going out. He really does. But the thought of putting on pants, grabbing his broken umbrella, and trekking down three flights of stairs just to buy $1 instant noodles feels like a life sentence.
Just then, a lightbulb goes ding! in his mind.
He turns his head slowly toward the wall separating his apartment from the one next door.
His neighbor, Yoo Joonghyuk, whose face looks like it could slap the thunder out of the sky, actually cooks like he’s trying to earn a Michelin star in a studio apartment. He is also the proud owner of a fully stocked pantry, a notoriously low tolerance for Kim Dokja, and a door exactly five steps away.
Dokja nods to himself. Desperate times call for desperate, borderline suicidal measures.
He trudges into the hallway and knocks on Joonghyuk’s door. He waits three seconds before knocking again. Then again, rhythmically, to the beat of the rain.
The door flies open so hard it vibrates against the frame.
Yoo Joonghyuk stands there in a dark grey apron, a wooden spoon raised like a broadsword. His scowl could wither crops. “What.”
“I’m here to save you from the overwhelming burden of cooking a meal all by yourself,” Dokja says smoothly, leaning against the doorframe. He flashes his most harmless smile. “It’s called community service, Joonghyuk-ah. You're welcome.”
Joonghyuk’s eyebrow twitches. He lowers the wooden spoon by two inches. “Get out.”
“I haven’t even stepped inside yet,” Dokja points out, unbothered, as his nose catches a whiff of rich, bubbling anchovy broth and toasted sesame oil drifting from the kitchen. His stomach betrays him instantly, letting out a roar so loud it rivals the storm outside.
Joonghyuk’s eyes narrow, flicking down to Dokja’s abdomen. “You didn't buy groceries again.”
“I attempted to buy groceries,” Dokja corrects, stepping forward so Joonghyuk either has to move or impale him with the spoon. “Nature conspired against me. The weather is a public safety hazard. As a good citizen, you should feed the displaced refugees of the hallway.”
“You live five steps away.”
“And those five steps are torture.” Dokja sidesteps Joonghyuk’s frame, slipping smoothly into the apartment before the larger man can slam the door.
The studio is infuriatingly clean, smelling like heaven. Dokja saunters over to the counter and stops dead in his tracks.
Bubbling on the stove is a heavy stone pot filled to the brim with deeply stewed, perfectly fermented kimchi, thick cuts of pork belly, soft blocks of tofu, and a glistening layer of chili oil.
It's kimchi jjigae. The exact dish Dokja had just been fruitlessly praying to the gods for in his own kitchen.
Dokja gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “You monster. You stole my telepathic order.”
Joonghyuk stares at him, spoon still held like a weapon. “What are you talking about.”
“I was just standing in front of my fridge, willing the universe to spawn kimchi jjigae into existence,” Dokja says, pointing an accusing finger at the stove. “And here it is. In your apartment. You intercepted my food prayers, Joonghyuk-ah. How dare you.”
“It’s dinner,” Joonghyuk says flatly. “Which you aren’t getting. Get out.”
“How can I leave when my soul's target meal is right here?” Dokja protests, casually sliding into a chair at the small dining table and plucking a pair of chopsticks from the holder. “If anything, this proves we’re bound by fate.”
Joonghyuk’s expression falters. He looks at the bubbling pot, then back at Dokja’s brazen, smiling face. “You are delusional.”
“I am starving,” Dokja corrects cheerfully. “And as the rightful mental owner of that stew, I am ready to accept your apology in the form of a very large bowl.”
Joonghyuk stares at him in silence for five seconds. With a long-suffering sigh, he turns around, grabs a second bowl from the cabinet, and aggressively ladles a massive portion of kimchi jjigae into it before setting it down in front of Dokja.
“Eat,” Joonghyuk growls. “And if you say one more word, I'll choke you with a piece of pork.”
Dokja blows on a spoonful of broth, takes a sip, and melts into his chair. “Ah. Marry me.”
The wooden ladle in Joonghyuk’s hand freezes mid-air.
For three seconds, the only sounds in the apartment are the roaring thunderstorm outside and the violent bubbling of pork fat on the stove.
A faint flush creeps up Joonghyuk’s neck, spreading rapidly to the tips of his ears. He opens his mouth to deliver a lethal insult, but his jaw only clicks uselessly shut.
Marry me.
It was a joke. Obviously. Dokja says stupid, dramatic things like that all the time. But Joonghyuk’s traitorous heart, which has spent the last eight months silently aching over this exact idiot, doesn’t get that. It pounds against his ribs like a panicked bird. He grips the ladle so hard the wood creaks under his knuckles.
“What did you just say?” Joonghyuk rasps, his voice dropping an octave as he desperately tries to regain his composure.
Dokja, oblivious to the heart attack he just induced, is already happily shoveling a piece of tender pork belly into his mouth.
“I said, marry me~” Dokja hums around a mouthful of rice, waving his chopsticks casually. “Seriously, Joonghyuk-ah. Your cooking is a public service. If you put this on a ring, I’d say yes in front of a priest right now.”
Joonghyuk’s ears burn hotter. He stares at the smaller man, horrified by how easily those words roll off Dokja’s tongue while they’re currently destroying Joonghyuk’s internal organs.
“You're disgusting,” Joonghyuk grunts, swiftly turning his back to the table under the guise of turning down the stove burner. He needs five seconds to make his face stop glowing. “Don’t speak with your mouth full.”
“I’m just complimenting the chef!” Dokja protests, leaning back in his chair with a smug satisfied grin. “Though, if we did get married, think of the savings. We could combine apartments. Knock down that middle wall. I get free Michelin-star dinners every night, and you get... well, my delightful presence.”
Joonghyuk slowly turns around. He has managed to force his expression back into its default deadly scowl, though his ears remain stubbornly red.
“If we lived together,” Joonghyuk says, stepping closer to the table with a sharp gaze, “I would throw you out the window within forty-eight hours.”
“Worth it for the stew,” Dokja replies without a hint of fear, taking another massive bite.
Joonghyuk lets out an exasperated breath and finally sits down across from him. He picks up his own chopsticks, studiously keeping his eyes on his bowl so he doesn’t have to look at the way the warm kitchen light catches in Dokja’s soft hair, or the faint, rare dimple in his cheek when he eats something he actually enjoys.
“Eat your food and shut up, Kim Dokja,” Joonghyuk mutters.
“Yes, darling,” Dokja chirps playfully.
Joonghyuk almost chokes on his broth.
Two empty bowls sit between them, scraped so clean they practically shine under the dim kitchen light.
Dokja slumps back in his chair, cradling his now-overstuffed stomach with both hands. A contented sigh escapes him, his entire body rendered limp by the lethal combination of warm rice, spicy broth, and a comfortable chair. Across from him, Joonghyuk is already stacking their empty dishes.
“You know,” Dokja murmurs, lazily tracking the movement of Joonghyuk’s forearms as he picks up the water glasses, “if you kept feeding me like this, I might actually end up proposing for real next time.”
Joonghyuk stands up, turns toward the sink, and sets the dishes down with a sharp clatter. “Try it, and I'll poison the broth.”
“Ah, playing hard to get,” Dokja says, shooting him a sleepy grin. “A classic courtship strategy. I respect the dedication.”
Joonghyuk’s shoulders visibly stiffen at the word courtship.
“The rain has let up,” he says flatly. “Go back to your apartment.”
Dokja glances toward the window. The rain has, in fact, not let up. Maybe not an apocalyptic deluge anymore, but certainly enough to turn the five steps back to his unit into a freezing trek. He groans, rolling his head back against the chair.
“So cold, Joonghyuk-ah. You feed a stray cat once and then throw him out into the typhoon?”
“You are not a cat. Cats are not as annoying as you.”
Joonghyuk turns off the tap, dries his hands on a kitchen towel, and finally turns around. His dark eyes lock onto Dokja’s, heavy and unreadable. The flush on his ears has vanished, replaced by an unsettling intensity.
“And cats don’t talk nonsense while they eat.”
Dokja blinks, taken aback by the weight of Joonghyuk’s stare. Usually, this is the part where Joonghyuk physically shoves him out the door or threatens him with a kitchen utensil. But he is just standing there. Watching him.
“It wasn't nonsense,” Dokja teases. He pushes himself up from the chair, running a hand through his messy hair. “It was a high-tier compliment. Most people would be flattered.”
“I am not ‘most people.’” Joonghyuk takes two slow steps forward, closing the distance between the small table and where Dokja stands.
The studio suddenly feels much smaller than it did twenty minutes ago. Dokja shifts his weight. Something in his instincts tells him he’s finally pushed Joonghyuk past his usual limit. He gives a light, breezy laugh to defuse the air.
“Right, right. The sun of the apartment complex, standing above ordinary mortals,” Dokja says, stepping backward toward the entryway. “Anyway, thanks for the meal, chef. I'll repay you when my luck turns around. Or when I figure out how to summon pork belly.”
He reaches for the door handle, but before his fingers can touch the cold metal, a heavy hand slams against the wood right beside his head.
Dokja freezes.
Joonghyuk is standing impossibly close, looming over him like a storm cloud. His shadow completely engulfs Dokja, shielding him from the warm light of the kitchen. Dokja can smell the faint scent of sesame oil, smoke, and the clean soap Joonghyuk uses.
“Joonghyuk-ah?” Dokja asks, tilting his head up. His heart gives a strange unexpected thud against his ribs.
Joonghyuk remains still. His gaze drops to Dokja’s lips for a second, so fast Dokja almost thinks he hallucinated it, before snapping back to his eyes.
“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” Joonghyuk growls.
Dokja’s breath hitches. The casual smug air he usually wears like armor suddenly feels paper-thin. “I…” He swallows hard, his brain scrambling for a witty comeback, a joke, a deflection—anything. “It was just a joke, Joonghyuk.”
“I know,” Joonghyuk says softly. He steps back, removing his hand from the door. The suffocating pressure in the air lifts instantly, leaving Dokja feeling strangely cold and exposed.
Without another word, Joonghyuk unlatches the door for him, pulling it open to reveal the dim, empty hallway.
“Get out, Kim Dokja.”
Dokja stands there for a heartbeat, his hand hovering near his side. He searches for something to say, but comes up empty. He nods once, stiffly, and steps out into the hall.
The door clicks shut behind him before he can even turn around.
Alone in the chilly corridor, Dokja presses his fingers to his chest, feeling his heart race beneath them while the rain pounds relentlessly against the roof.
Son of a bitch.
I actually meant it.