The tingles intensify and my fingers itch to touch him. They skate over his shirt-clad sides; they trip up the buttons lined up in front; they find their way to his collar. I dip inside and feel his Adam’s apple bob against my fingertips. Electricity bolts through my bloodstream. I clench my legs together and open my mouth wider, willing him inside.

I don’t know how long we kiss. It might’ve gone on all night if an older couple hadn’t walked by and said something in a sharp tone that made Yujun set me aside abruptly. He stands and gives a small bow while I nervously pat my hair into place and wipe the wetness off my lips. He says mianadae, which I know is “I’m sorry.” I bow, too.

The older couple gives us a stern nod and says something else, which puts a little color on the tops of Yujun’s cheeks. Once they’re gone, he bends down to pick up our mess. I join him.

“No kissing in public?” I joke, feeling awkward. We sweep up the remnants of our gimbap roll onto the paper boxes.

“Maybe not that . . . enthusiastically,” he replies with a small grin, small enough that the dimple appears to be a shadow.

Yujun produces a small trash bag and then produces a second container of gimbap. “I didn’t know how hungry we would be,” he says.

I resettle on the bench with the newly produced food. “How hungry are you?”

“Ravenous.” But he looks at me as he says it, which makes me think he’s not talking about food.

The tingling returns and doesn’t go away the rest of the night.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Yujun texts me first thing Saturday morning to tell me that he will be busy all day with work and into the evening because they have new employees—or “friends,” as he calls them—joining the family and the company is treating them after work.

YUJUN: We are celebrating new friends joining our family by taking them out for hanwoo and much soju. Let’s meet tomorrow. I have a forest to show you.

In contrast, it’s utter silence from Boyoung, and by midday all the warm feelings from my outing with Yujun have been erased. I don’t want to bother her but I’m so anxious for results that I can’t sit still. I turn off my cell phone and bury it in the bottom of my suitcase so I don’t use it again—at least for the next hour.

Downstairs, the front door opens. Someone’s home. It’s probably Jules, but I don’t care because a cranky Jules is better than sinking into my own head. I run downstairs to greet her.

“What’s up?” I ask.

Jules doesn’t look up from the small carton she’s digging into. “Eating ice cream. What does it look like I’m doing?”

I tap my fingertips together. Jules is in quite the mood today, but ice cream for lunch sounds perfect. “Any more in there?”