Nari's POV
I was seven years old when I learned that love meant leaving.
The memory was as bitter as oversteeped tea—my fingers sticky with honey as I stood on the wobbly stool behind the counter, watching my mother adjust her scarf one last time. The bell jingled when she opened the door, letting in a gust of autumn air that smelled like rain.
"Be good for Halmeoni," she'd said, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "I'll be back soon."
She wasn't.
I waited. At first, I counted the days by the tea leaves in the glass jars—green for hope, black for disappointment. When the last of her jasmine tin emptied, I stopped looking at the door.
Halmeoni never spoke of it. Instead, she taught me how to read the silence between a customer's words, how to measure their loneliness by how long they lingered over their cup. "Tea doesn't lie," she'd say, grinding herbs with her mortar and pestle. "People do."
So I learned to trust the leaves instead.
Fifteen years later, I ran Sulloc Cha with the same ruthless efficiency as Halmeoni. Regulars knew better than to ask for sugar in their matcha. Tourists who complained about the lack of boba got a single raised eyebrow before I slid the menu back toward them.
I didn't have time for nonsense.
And I definitely didn't have time for the quiet boy who kept feeding strawberry milk to that mangy alley cat.
The first time I saw him, it was raining hard enough to turn the streets into rivers. I was taking out the trash when I spotted him—a tall figure hunched under our awning, his jacket soaked through as he poured pink milk into a chipped saucer for the one-eared stray Halmeoni called Ssukda.
The traitorous cat was purring, rubbing against his ankles like he was the damn Messiah of Dairy.
"You'll make her fat," I said, wiping my hands on my apron.
He startled, nearly knocking over the carton. When he turned, I got a proper look at him—sharp cheekbones, a mouth that didn't seem to know how to smile, eyes dark enough to drown in.
He didn't speak. Just held up the milk carton, his finger tracing letters in the condensation:
SHE WAS HUNGRY.
I rolled my eyes. "So is everyone," I said, tossing him the rag from my pocket. "Use your voice next time."
Then I went back inside, letting the door slam shut behind me.
I didn't know his name.
Not yet.
Three days after the rainstorm, I found a folded piece of paper tucked under Ssukda's milk saucer.
I almost didn't see it—just a corner of white peeking out from beneath the chipped porcelain. The cat watched me with her one good eye as I crouched to pick it up, her tail flicking in lazy amusement.
The paper was slightly damp from the morning dew, but the handwriting inside was clear:
"I'm sorry about the mess.
—Park Jihun"
Below the words, someone—presumably Jihun—had drawn a tiny, lopsided cat that looked nothing like Ssukda.
I stared at it.
Then at the cat.
Then back at the note.
"Park Jihun," I said aloud, testing the weight of it.
Ssukda meowed.
I crumpled the note in my fist and tossed it into the trash.
(It missed.
I didn't pick it up.)
A week later, I found the first teacup.
It appeared like some kind of caffeinated fairy offering—placed precisely in the center of our back step, still warm to the touch. The aroma hit me before I even saw it: Assam with cinnamon, my private blend that I only drank after particularly bad days. The exact ratio I liked, with just enough honey to take the edge off but not enough to make it cloying.
I stood there in the dim evening light, staring at the cup like it might bite me. The porcelain was delicate, the kind of quality piece we kept locked in the display case for special customers. A thin spiral of steam curled from the surface, writing secret messages in the air that I refused to read.
When I stormed back inside, Halmeoni took one look at my face and the cup in my hands and said, "Ah. The silent boy has good taste."
"This isn't funny," I snapped, setting the cup down with enough force to make the tea slosh. "He's been watching me. How else would he know my exact—"
"Or perhaps," Halmeoni interrupted, stirring her evening chrysanthemum tea with maddening calm, "he pays attention. Unlike some people who refuse to see what's right in front of them."
I opened my mouth to argue, but she cut me off with a raised finger. "Drink the tea, Nari-ya. If you're still angry after, you can throw the cup at his head tomorrow."
I fully intended to pour it down the drain. Really, I did. But then the scent curled up to meet me—that perfect balance of malt and spice—and before I knew it, I'd taken a sip.
Halmeoni hid her smile behind her mug.
I scowled. "It's mediocre."
"Liar."
---
The bell above the door chimed with unnecessary force.
"Yah! Tea Witch! Get your scowling face out here!"
I looked up from inventory to see a hurricane in human form—a girl around my age in neon pink rain boots, dragging Jihun behind her by his wrist. Ssukda immediately abandoned her sunspot to twine around the girl's legs. Double traitor.
"You," I said flatly, pointing at Jihun. "Explain why there was tea on my doorstep."
The girl snorted. "Oh, this is perfect." She thrust a bakery box at me. "Park Yuna. This is my dumbass brother, Park Jihun. We brought cake to apologize for his terrible flirting skills."
Jihun's ears turned scarlet. His hands flew up in rapid signs I didn't understand.
Yuna grinned. "He says he wasn't flirting. Liar." She flipped open the box, revealing a perfect strawberry shortcake. "He's been moping for weeks about the 'pretty tea girl who hates him.'"
I stared at the cake. Then at Jihun, who looked like he wanted to evaporate. Then at the now-spotless teacup sitting behind the counter.
Halmeoni's voice floated from the kitchen: "I like this one. She has sense."
Yuna beamed. "See? Someone appreciates me."
Jihun signed something that made her gasp in mock outrage.
I sighed, reaching for the cake knife.
This was not how my week was supposed to go.
The cake knife hovered over the pristine strawberry shortcake as I weighed the pros and cons of committing m*rder in front of witnesses.
"Before you stab anything," Yuna said, plopping onto a stool without invitation, "you should know this cake costs more than your entire outfit."
I narrowed my eyes. "This is my work uniform."
"Exactly."
Jihun made a strangled noise and signed something frantic at his sister.
Yuna waved him off. "Oh relax, she's not actually going to stab me. Right?" She blinked up at me with exaggerated innocence. "Right?"
The knife gleamed under the shop lights.
Halmeoni, the traitor, chose that moment to slide three plates onto the counter. "Cut properly or don't cut at all," she said, eyeing my death grip on the utensil.
With great restraint, I sliced into the cake. The sponge gave way with a perfect springiness that made my pastry chef soul weep. Damn Haneul Bakery and their stupidly perfect creations.
Yuna snatched the first piece before I could plate it properly, taking a huge bite. "Mmf—see? Not poisoned."
"Yet," I muttered, handing Jihun a slice with slightly more force than necessary.
He accepted it with both hands, his fingers brushing mine for half a second too long. When I jerked my hand back, he had the audacity to smile—just a small one, barely there, but enough to make my ears burn.
Ssukda, the furry turncoat, leapt onto the counter and began sniffing Jihun's plate with proprietary interest.
"No," I said, pointing the knife at her. "You're on a diet."
Jihun immediately broke off a piece of strawberry and offered it to her.
I gasped. "Are you trying to make her diabetic?"
He blinked at me, all wide-eyed innocence, then slowly—deliberately—fed the cat another piece.
Yuna cackled. "Oh my god, he's rebellious. Who knew my baby brother had it in him?"
Halmeoni sipped her tea, watching the chaos unfold with the serene amusement of a woman who'd been waiting twenty-three years for entertainment. "So," she said, "how did you two meet?"
"Rainstorm," I said at the same time Yuna announced, "He was being a creepy milk stalker."
Jihun choked on his cake.
Yuna patted his back with unnecessary force. "Don't worry, Jihun-ah. Your future children will be adorable little tea-snobs with anger management issues."
I nearly dropped my plate. "What?"
Jihun signed something that looked suspiciously like I'm going to strangle you in your sleep.
Halmeoni nodded thoughtfully. "Good bone structure on both sides. Nice strong hands for kneading dough."
"I'm leaving," I announced, setting down my cake with great dignity.
"With the cake?" Yuna asked hopefully.
"With my sanity."
Jihun caught my wrist as I turned to go. His fingers were warm, calloused in a way that suggested he worked with them. Before I could yank away, he pressed something into my palm—a folded note.
I opened it against my better judgment.
Thank you for not stabbing my sister.
Next time I'll bring honey.
I stared at the words, then at him. "There won't be a next time."
Jihun just smiled that stupid, quiet smile and took another bite of cake.
Yuna, with her mouth full, said, "We're coming back tomorrow."
"Like hell you are."
"Jihun wants to try your oolong."
Jihun shook his head violently.
"Fine, I want to try your oolong." Yuna licked frosting off her fingers. "And also adopt your cat."
Ssukda, the traitor, purred in agreement.
Halmeoni refilled everyone's tea. "We open at seven."
I threw my hands up. "I hate all of you."
But when Jihun's fingers brushed mine as he handed back the empty plate, I didn't pull away quite as fast as I should have.