“Hey, I’m ready to go inside,” a man announces, coming up to drape an arm around Yujun’s shoulders. The blond peers intently at me. “Who is this?”

I peer right back, surprised at how good the wheat-gold hair looks on this Korean man. It suits him better than it does some Scandinavians back home. It helps that this particular man is so good-looking that he could be a webtoon character come to life. The most sophisticated computer programs in the world couldn’t have crafted a better combination of that sharp jaw, high cheekbones, bold brows, and high nose bridge.

The two of them are perfectly awful together and I think it’s unfair how good-looking people congregate like this. There should be a law against it. Only one attractive person per two square meters for the good of the general public—a social-distancing rule to prevent pandemics of fatal attraction.

Yujun’s smile widens until shadows form deep indentations. I have a feeling that this is Yujun’s normal state—happy and smiling. That, more than his good looks, is what draws my eyes, what makes me want to bask next to him as he exudes sunshine and warmth. “This is Hara. Hara, this is—”

“I’m Ahn Sangki.” The man breaks away and briefly takes my hand in his. “Where did you two meet?”

“At Incheon,” Yujun explains. “Hara’s airport transportation vanished.” I quirk my eyebrow at the shameless lie but keep my lips sealed. No way am I going to correct him with the embarrassing truth.

Sangki shakes his head, his bangs falling forward to nearly cover his eyes. “An outrage. We’re a very safe country, you know, as a result of all of the cameras.” He points a finger upward. “They’re always watching. I know you Americans aren’t fans of that, but we’re used to it.”

I tip my head back and see a camera mounted at the top of a light post. I hadn’t noticed it before. “How did you know I’m American?”

“The accent. Or lack of accent. I heard you as I was approaching.”

“You two are pretty good English speakers,” I point out.

“No,” Sangki denies. “You have that perfect, second-generation, born-in-America speech.”

Yujun nudges his friend and gives him a tiny but firm shake of his head, telling Sangki wordlessly that perhaps these observations should be kept to himself. To me, Yujun says apologetically, “What is the saying? You can’t take him out.”

“You can’t take him anywhere,” I correct. I’m amused rather than offended.

“Exactly. I can’t take you anywhere,” Yujun says. I can tell by the way he allows the other man’s arm to rest along his shoulders and the easy way the two interact that they’ve been friends for a long time.

“Do you have family here in Seoul?” Sangki asks.

Boyoung’s warning to keep my adoptee status to myself pops into my head. I’ve told Yujun, but from how he protected me earlier by saying my transportation got screwed up instead of how I mistook him for a hired driver, it’s likely he’s not sharing any information with Sangki. But is it that big a deal? And even if it is, what do I care if these very pretty men think differently of me? Being adopted is part of my story as much as having black hair and brown eyes. It’s baked into my bones because all of my life I’ve had to explain why I don’t look the same as my mother—or nearly anyone else around me. And I’m not ashamed of it. After all, I wasn’t the one who did the abandoning. I jut out my chin. “I’m adopted. I thought it was time to visit the place where I was born.”