Yoolmoo added a dash to the pot, stirred. Then he scooped up a spoonful, had a taste, hummed thoughtfully. He held out the spoon to Danho. “What do you think?”
Danho leaned in and sipped delicately off the spoon, nodded.
“He doesn’t say anything,” Noksoon murmured to Dongjoo, who shrugged.
“And the sliced tofu?” Yoolmoo held out a hand.
Danho handed over the cutting board with the tofu on it, and Yoolmoo added it to the pot.
“That should be the last ingredient, and then we’ll be ready to eat.” Yoolmoo smiled at Dongjoo, who nodded.
Noksoon giggled behind her hand. “Thank you for caring about my daughter and I. Being a widow with a teenage daughter is difficult, and you’re so generous. You and your...bodyguard.” She cast Danho a sideways glance.
Danho said nothing.
“Danho’s an excellent kitchen assistant,” Yoolmoo said. “Not that he’s not also an excellent bodyguard. Please, have a seat.”
Noksoon pulled out a chair for Dongjoo before seating herself, which was a bit odd, but Yoolmoo figured a widow would be quite protective of the daughter she’d had to raise alone.
Yoolmoo untied his apron and held it out, and Danho whisked it away.
“Danho won’t be eating with us?” Dongjoo asked.
“He has to stand guard, of course,” Noksoon said wisely.
Dongjoo eyed Yoolmoo, like she was reassessing just how important he was, that he merited such an intense level of security.
“He doesn’t have to, but no matter how I insist, he won’t eat with me. It’s a pity, since the stew is best when it’s hot and fresh.” Yoolmoo served Noksoon first, then Dongjoo, and finally himself.
The dinner conversation was pleasant enough. Dongjoo was majoring in physical education at university, like her mother before her, though her emphasis was in archery where her mother had trained in hapkido.
Noksoon was quite tall, where Dongjoo was petite.
“Her father was rather short,” Noksoon admitted. “It’s a shame she didn’t get my height genes, but that’s all right.”
Dongjoo rolled her eyes. “Mother.”
“She’s just lucky I was shameless enough to date a man shorter than me,” Noksoon said, and Yoolmoo couldn’t help but laugh.
“A little bit of shamelessness now and again is good for the soul,” he said, casting Dongjoo a look.
She’d misinterpret it, and rightly so, the way she was blushing.
But the rest of the dinner conversation was pleasant, and then they were gone, and Danho returned.
“The only person you’d better be shameless with is me,” he said.
“Ah, he speaks,” Yoolmoo said, carrying the dishes to the sink.
Danho dragged Yoolmoo into a kiss, rough and possessive. “Never forget you’re mine.”
Yoolmoo smiled against Danho’s mouth and said, “Never.”
Fill: Tale of Nokdu, Yoolmoo/Danho
Danho obeyed.
Yoolmoo added a dash to the pot, stirred. Then he scooped up a spoonful, had a taste, hummed thoughtfully. He held out the spoon to Danho. “What do you think?”
Danho leaned in and sipped delicately off the spoon, nodded.
“He doesn’t say anything,” Noksoon murmured to Dongjoo, who shrugged.
“And the sliced tofu?” Yoolmoo held out a hand.
Danho handed over the cutting board with the tofu on it, and Yoolmoo added it to the pot.
“That should be the last ingredient, and then we’ll be ready to eat.” Yoolmoo smiled at Dongjoo, who nodded.
Noksoon giggled behind her hand. “Thank you for caring about my daughter and I. Being a widow with a teenage daughter is difficult, and you’re so generous. You and your...bodyguard.” She cast Danho a sideways glance.
Danho said nothing.
“Danho’s an excellent kitchen assistant,” Yoolmoo said. “Not that he’s not also an excellent bodyguard. Please, have a seat.”
Noksoon pulled out a chair for Dongjoo before seating herself, which was a bit odd, but Yoolmoo figured a widow would be quite protective of the daughter she’d had to raise alone.
Yoolmoo untied his apron and held it out, and Danho whisked it away.
“Danho won’t be eating with us?” Dongjoo asked.
“He has to stand guard, of course,” Noksoon said wisely.
Dongjoo eyed Yoolmoo, like she was reassessing just how important he was, that he merited such an intense level of security.
“He doesn’t have to, but no matter how I insist, he won’t eat with me. It’s a pity, since the stew is best when it’s hot and fresh.” Yoolmoo served Noksoon first, then Dongjoo, and finally himself.
The dinner conversation was pleasant enough. Dongjoo was majoring in physical education at university, like her mother before her, though her emphasis was in archery where her mother had trained in hapkido.
Noksoon was quite tall, where Dongjoo was petite.
“Her father was rather short,” Noksoon admitted. “It’s a shame she didn’t get my height genes, but that’s all right.”
Dongjoo rolled her eyes. “Mother.”
“She’s just lucky I was shameless enough to date a man shorter than me,” Noksoon said, and Yoolmoo couldn’t help but laugh.
“A little bit of shamelessness now and again is good for the soul,” he said, casting Dongjoo a look.
She’d misinterpret it, and rightly so, the way she was blushing.
But the rest of the dinner conversation was pleasant, and then they were gone, and Danho returned.
“The only person you’d better be shameless with is me,” he said.
“Ah, he speaks,” Yoolmoo said, carrying the dishes to the sink.
Danho dragged Yoolmoo into a kiss, rough and possessive. “Never forget you’re mine.”
Yoolmoo smiled against Danho’s mouth and said, “Never.”