Yejun took a deep breath as he sat down with the rest of the family, his heart pounding in his chest. The round tables gleamed under the recessed lights, each set with polished silver chopsticks and small bowls of miyeokguk. White porcelain platters held neat stacks of soft rice cakes and slices of grilled croaker, their skins blistered golden at the edges and he bowed as the server poured baekseju into the tiny glasses.

At the head of the table, his grandfather lifted his glass first. His movements were measured, almost ceremonial, as if to remind everyone present that even a private chumo-sik carried the gravity of the Lim name. Beside him, his grandmother adjusted the small memorial ribbon pinned to her hanbok and murmured a few soft words that Yejun couldn’t quite hear.

Haemin caught his gaze across the table and offered a tiny nod, her auburn hair gathered in a sleek twist. Next to her, her wife dipped her chin in a respectful bow before picking up her chopsticks.

“Eat,” Haemin mouthed, her eyes gentle but insistent. Yejun lowered his head and lifted his spoon, forcing himself to taste the miyeokguk. The broth was delicate, the seaweed soft against his tongue, and for a moment, he almost felt anchored by the familiarity of it. Chumo-sik meals always began this way; seaweed soup for remembrance and renewal, rice cakes to mark the sweetness and sorrow of memory, fish because it was his grandmother’s belief that it brought the departed a smooth journey onward. 

No one spoke much at first. The soft clink of utensils and the muted scrape of serving dishes were the only sounds. It wasn’t silence exactly, more a shared agreement to let the ritual speak for itself before conversation intruded. Yejun used it as a chance to mentally prepare himself for what he needed to ask. After all, it was one of the only times his parents and grandparents shared a space, and he knew if he asked his mother directly, she would refuse. But If Jieun revealed the truth, he needed to be ready to be disowned or at least, step away to protect his family. For that, he needed to claim a space of his own first.

He waited until his grandfather placed his spoon back onto the lacquered rest and took a sip of baekseju. Only then did Yejun clear his throat quietly.

“Harabeoji.”

The older man looked up, his expression calm but expectant. Everyone else’s attention shifted in subtle ripples. His mother’s chopsticks stilled mid-reach. His grandmother’s hand paused on the little porcelain pot of pickled roots. Even Jinwoo looked up, curiosity momentarily replacing his sulky irritation.

“Speak,” his grandfather said evenly.

Yejun inclined his head in a shallow bow, the shimmer of the overhead lights catching on the rim of his glass. He swallowed, feeling how dry his mouth had become, but forced himself to meet his grandfather’s gaze. He did not want this, but he had no choice.

“I’d like permission to establish my own household,” he began, voice steady even though his heart thumped so loudly he could feel it in his throat. He didn’t like lying, but in this case, telling the truth would only destroy what he was hoping to protect. “I’ve been thinking about it seriously, especially since Jieun’s omega may be chosen soon. About what it means to be a husband and, eventually, a father. I believe it would be… appropriate to learn to manage myself before I’m married.”

A small hush followed and across from him, his mother’s gaze sharpened. She didn’t interrupt, but the slight pinch at the corner of her mouth told him she was already preparing her argument. Beside her, his father sat perfectly still, his expression the same mild blankness he always wore when forced to acknowledge Yejun in public. Yejun knew she wouldn’t like this, but he needed the contingency. He was the one who made the mistake, and he couldn’t let it destroy his family.

Yejun bowed his head a fraction deeper. “If possible, I’d also like to open an account in my name alone. I would manage my own budget and expenses, with oversight if the family feels it necessary.”

The quiet stretched, gathering weight like the thick summer air before a storm. Yejun could feel every heartbeat in his throat, could feel the small tremor in his hands as he laid them flat against the table’s edge. For a moment, no one said anything. It struck him how rare it was to hear his own voice in this setting, how seldom he asked for anything.

His grandmother was the first to stir. She set down the pickles and folded her hands over her napkin. Though she didn’t speak, her eyes moved to his grandfather, a look that was hard to read. Her voice was kind as always, but held an echo of authority that Yejun knew better than to argue against. 

“I agree. Yejun is old enough to prove his competence.” she said at last, her voice calm but carrying easily across the table. “It would be strange for him not to learn household management before he marries.”

“I was about to say the same,” his grandfather added, folding his hands over the polished table. The veins on the back of his knuckles stood out in fine relief, and his gaze settled on Yejun with a cool steadiness. “You’ve conducted yourself responsibly and you should have been allowed on your own sooner.”

Yejun noticed how the tension in his mother’s shoulders went rigid, a flicker of disbelief crossing her face. She fidgeted under the table, but he felt bad for the concern he noticed. His mother was the only person in the house who was nice to him and cared, especially when Haemin wasn’t around, but he needed this. She would understand once he could tell the truth about Jieun. 

“Thank you, Harabeoji.”

“If you’d like,” Across the table, Haemin cleared her throat softly, drawing all their attention. “I can help you find a place near the offices. You don’t have to handle it alone.”

Yejun blinked before smiling. He hadn’t realized until that moment how much he had braced himself for the opposite; disappointment, disapproval, an uphill argument to get what he wanted. But instead, the only one who seemed opposed was his mother and Yejun bowed his head. 

“I would appreciate that.”

“I can make some calls tomorrow,” Haemin went on, smoothing her napkin across her lap. “Fromt what I heard, there are new buildings in Hapjeong. They’re modern, and security is excellent.”

“It’s too soon,” his mother said at last. Her voice was calm, but there was a strain under the surface that only someone who knew her well would hear. “He’s not even formally engaged. This looks careless.”

“It looks like he’s preparing,” his grandfather countered, his tone dry. “You’ve kept him in the main house long enough. If he’s to be a husband and a father, he needs to learn to stand on his own feet.”

Hyejin’s lips pressed together, her gaze fixed on the small bowl of radish kimchi in front of her. Yejun flinched as she felt silent disappointment radiate across the table. But she didn’t argue again. That, more than anything, told him how final his grandfather’s word was. He hoped it would be unnecessary, that he would be able to return home once everything was resolved, but for now, he needed this.

His father set down his glass without looking up. “If this is what’s decided, I won’t contest it.”

Yejun inclined his head. “Thank you.”

“Then it’s settled,” his grandmother said, her voice decisive but not unkind. “Haemin, please keep us updated about the options. Yejun, once you have a place in mind, submit it directly to me for approval. No need to go to your mother.”

“I will.” With Yejun’s agreement, the topic shifted, Haemin mentioning the new concept store her wife was opening in Tokyo. The conversation turned lighter, buoyed by Haemin’s easy charm and her wife’s thoughtful interjections. The servers reappeared to clear the empty soup bowls and lay fresh plates of jeon, japchae, and stewed galbi between them.

Yejun tried to let the warmth of shared company settle over him. But even as he picked at a piece of crispy zucchini pancake, part of him still felt coiled, as if the meal might erupt back into conflict at any moment. He kept glancing at his mother, noting the way her gaze kept drifting toward him and then away again. The tightness at the corners of her mouth had not eased.

Halfway through the meal, he excused himself politely to refill his tea. He stood and turned to pour from the polished brass kettle set near the buffet. When he looked up, his eyes drifted past the open archway into the adjoining memorial room.

A man was standing alone before the memorial portrait. He was tall, dressed simply in a dark linen suit with no family insignia. The lamplight caught in his hair, which was cropped neat and brown like a dark chocolate. For a moment, he didn’t move at all. His head was slightly bowed, one hand resting lightly against the edge of the offering table.

Yejun watched as the man placed a folded paper packet beside the bowls of rice and fruit. Then, with a slow, precise motion, he lifted a single stick of incense, lit it, and set it into the sand. The smoke curled upward, dissolving into the air in a pale ribbon. He didn’t speak. He didn’t look around, his gaze lingering on the portrait. 

Then, without looking in Yejun’s direction or acknowledging the room beyond, the man turned and walked calmly away. His footfalls were almost silent against the polished floor, his posture straight as he disappeared down the hallway that led to the elevators.

Yejun didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until the stranger was gone. He forced himself to look back down at the teapot in his hand, steadying it against the table. A strange unease pulsed beneath his ribs, the feeling of witnessing something private he hadn’t meant to intrude upon.