Chapter 2
By the following Sunday, I had convinced myself that what I felt the week before had been a fluke.
A coincidence. A trick of exhaustion and heat and proximity. I told myself that people noticed attractive strangers all the time, that my reaction to Kim had been no different than noticing a painting or a song and then moving on with my life like a normal person.
The problem was that I started noticing everything differently once I knew he was coming back.
The bell over the door hadn’t even rung yet, and I was already tense, already listening for it, already aware of how stupid that was. I wiped the same counter twice, stacked the same bowls three times, pretended to focus on my phone while my parents argued in the kitchen, my chest tight with a nervous energy I couldn’t place.
When the bell finally rang, I felt it in my body before I heard it.
Kim stepped inside, sunlight catching in his hair, his cardigan replaced by a thin button-up this time, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and my breath caught so sharply it hurt. He looked more confident—just barely—but still hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to belong here yet.
Our eyes met again.
This time, neither of us looked surprised.
He smiled first.
It wasn’t big or obvious, just a slight curve of his mouth, something restrained and careful, and the fact that it felt like it was meant only for me sent a shock straight through my ribs.
I looked away immediately.
I hated myself for that.
The shift settled into a strange rhythm that day. We didn’t talk much—just short instructions, polite responses—but everything felt charged, like the space between us was holding something fragile and dangerous that neither of us dared touch. Every time Kim passed behind me, I became acutely aware of how close he was, of the warmth of his body, of the way his presence altered the air.
I caught him watching me once while he thought I wasn’t looking.
I pretended not to notice, even though my heart slammed so hard I was sure he could hear it.
I told myself I was imagining it.
That he was just observant.
That he was like that with everyone.
But then, late in the afternoon, when the restaurant slowed and my parents retreated to the back, Kim leaned toward me slightly as we stood near the counter.
“You don’t smile much,” he said quietly.
I stiffened. “I’m working.”
“I know,” he said. “I just— I think you’d look nice if you did.”
The comment was so simple, so gentle, that it disarmed me completely.
I stared at him, unsure whether to be annoyed or embarrassed or something worse.
“You barely know me,” I said.
Kim shrugged, one corner of his mouth lifting. “That’s true. But I notice things.”
Something about the way he said it—like a confession instead of a challenge—made my chest ache.
I turned away, pretending to organize receipts, because the truth was that I didn’t want him to notice things, didn’t want him to see the parts of me I kept tightly controlled, didn’t want the quiet, terrifying hope blooming in my chest to grow any larger.
The problem was that hope doesn’t ask permission.
Over the next few Sundays, we fell into something unspoken and careful.
We never touched longer than necessary.
We never spoke about anything personal while anyone else was around.
But we learned each other anyway—in glances, in timing, in the way Kim always refilled the water at my parents’ table without being asked, in the way I automatically stepped in when customers spoke too harshly to him.
I learned that Kim liked old music because his grandfather used to play it while drawing at the kitchen table.
He learned that I was leaving for college soon, and his face changed when I told him, something like disappointment flickering across it before he masked it with a smile.
“That’s… good,” he said. “You’ll be amazing.”
The way he said you made my stomach flip.
One Sunday, near closing, I found him sitting alone in the back hallway during break, sketchbook open on his knees, pencil moving quickly.
“What are you drawing?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Kim startled, then relaxed. “Nothing important.”
I sat beside him anyway, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched, close enough that I could smell graphite and soap and something unmistakably him.
He hesitated, then turned the sketchbook toward me.
It wasn’t nothing.
It was the restaurant—captured in soft lines and shadows—but I recognized myself instantly, standing behind the counter, expression serious, eyes distant, something lonely etched into my posture that I had never consciously acknowledged before.
My throat tightened. “Is that… me?”
Kim nodded, suddenly shy. “I hope that’s okay.”
I should have told him not to draw me.
Instead, I said, “You made me look… different.”
“How?”
I didn’t know how to explain that he had made me look seen.
We sat there in silence after that, heavy and intimate, the kind of silence that felt like a secret even before it was one.
I didn’t notice my mother watching us from the kitchen doorway until it was too late.
She didn’t say anything.
She just narrowed her eyes slightly and turned away.
That night, lying in bed, I replayed everything—the looks, the sketch, the way Kim’s knee had brushed mine without apology—and realized with a sharp, terrifying clarity that this wasn’t just attraction anymore.
It was becoming something I couldn’t control.
And the worst part was that I didn’t want to.
