A sudden, sharp rapping at the door yanked Hong-jin out of the dark swirl of his thoughts. He’d only been at his parents’ apartment for about an hour—barely enough time to drop his duffel in the old bedroom, exchange quick hellos, and slump at the kitchen table with a half-eaten apple he’d grabbed from the table on autopilot. The visit was supposed to be a brief escape: a few days in Busan to clear his head, maybe let the salt air and his eomma’s home cooking dull the edges of everything back home. Instead, he was already turning the browning apple core over and over in his hand like it might hold some answer to the mess his life had become. The core had gone mushy and brown, same as the slow rot inside him. A very interesting allegory if he gave it further thought.

He hadn’t even unpacked properly yet; shit he hadn’t even asked about his parents’ day beyond the usual “how’s everything?” His appa had grunted something noncommittal about the heat, and his eomma had fussed over him eating, and then they’d both disappeared into the living room to murmur about whatever married-people thing needed murmuring. Hong-jin figured it was nothing serious—probably the thermostat war again. He’d tuned it out, lost in his own head, because his 'escape' had just become a reminder of why exactly he had wanted to be out of his empty apartment, even if he was barely ever there.

The knock came again, insistent.

Hong-jin muttered under his breath as he shoved up from the chair, the legs scraping against the linoleum with a tired groan. “아, 진짜… 지금 뭐야?...” (Ah, seriously… what now?) He padded toward the door in his socks, still half-convinced it was some neighbor complaining about noise or his eomma forgetting her keys again. Annoyance flickered through him—couldn’t people just leave him alone for five damn minutes after the long trip? He’d barely unpacked, barely breathed since stepping off the bus, and now this.

He leaned in to the peephole, ready to bark a quick “누구세요?” (Hold on a sec) if it was anyone unimportant. Through the peephole: his father.

Now, Dae-hyun Kim, was the type of man who could drop a perfectly timed deadpan line that made the whole family snort-laugh over dinner, then act like he had no idea what was so funny. Stern when it counted—report cards, late nights, the occasional “you’re better than this” lecture, but never cold. Just…steady. But now, this very same man, who’d spent fifty years in an office job and considered a neatly pressed shirt the pinnacle of sartorial elegance, was standing outside sporting a ridiculously oversized, bright pink bow headband perched precariously on his thinning hair. In one hand, he clutched a large, bobbing helium-filled balloon shaped like a grinning cat, its cartoonish eyes staring blankly ahead.

Hong-jin pulled away, looked, then looked again, wondering if the jet lag and stress had finally caused him to hallucinate. The sheer absurdity of what he was seeing made him almost choke on the piece of apple he hadn’t swallowed. He almost did, the apple threatening to jump out of his mouth. He’d been here less than sixty minutes—how had everything gone this sideways already? And sure, he’d seen his dad pull pranks before—sneaking extra chili into his mom’s kimchi jjigae just to watch her eyes water, or hiding the TV remote so everyone had to hunt for it—but this? This?

He cracked the door just enough to block the view with his broad frame, glancing first at his father, then over his shoulder into the dim hallway, scanning for any nosy neighbors who might catch this spectacle. He hissed in a whisper that barely made it past his teeth, “Appa… what the actual hell are you wearing?”

Dae-hyun exhaled through his nose—a long, drawn-out heuuu, that Hong-jin remembered always hearing when he presented a disastrous childhood report card or when he’d been caught sneaking in after curfew hours when he was a teen. It was the sound of resignation. His father reached up, adjusting the bow, which had already begun its inevitable slide toward his eyebrows, straightening it as if it were a tie before an important board meeting. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond his son, a mixture of exasperation and a strange, almost sheepish pride in his eyes.

“Your eomma…” he began, the words measured as always. “She was upset. A small disagreement. She called me a stubborn old ox.” He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel dramatic, as if that word had been the worst insult he could receive in his entire life, then added almost as an afterthought, “This is the only way. To be forgiven, one must be…cute.”

Hong-jin stared, his mouth slightly agape. Cute? His father was talking about being cute? The absurdity of it was almost too much to bear.

“This is ridiculous,” Hong-jin muttered under his breath, stepping aside just enough to let his father shuffle past like a man smuggling contraband into enemy territory. The pink bow wobbled dangerously with every step his old man took, threatening to topple like a drunk flamingo, the grinning cat balloon bobbed behind him. Taking a last look outside he hall to confirm no neighbor had seen any of this Hong-jin closed the door.

He watched his father pause in the entryway, kick off his shoes and line them up next to the neatly arranged family collection. The bow slipped again. Dae-hyun caught it mid-slide, gave it a little pat like he was reassuring an unruly pet, then turned back to Hong-jin with that same sheepish-but-proud glint. He puffed out his chest a little, the pink bow bobbing like a buoy in rough water. “Your mother,” he said, softer now, almost fond, “she has always had this weakness for the cute. Always has.”

So he had argued with his mother over something trivial—probably the thermostat again (he still insisted twenty-three degrees was “perfectly reasonable” while she suffered in a cardigan), or maybe he’d forgotten an item from the grocery run she’d specifically texted him about three times. And now here he was, looking like a discount carnival prize? Skepticism burned hotter than the sticky summer outside. No way this would work. His mother was iron-willed, she didn’t crack for tears, for flowers, for groveling. Certainly not for a bubblegum-pink headband and a balloon that looked like it had escaped from a toddler’s birthday party.

His mother appeared from the direction of the living room, drawn by the low murmur of voices echoing down the narrow hallway, arms folded tight across her chest, face set in that familiar granite mask. For a long heartbeat the sternness held, unyielding as ever, her dark eyes flicking from the pink bow disaster on her husband’s head to the sheepish balloon bobbing guiltily at his side.

Then it cracked.

Her lips twitched, just the smallest betrayal. Her eyes softened like butter left too long in the sun. A tiny, involuntary coo slipped out—soft, almost embarrassed, the sound she used to make when Hong-jin was small and did something stupid she had found amusing. She shook her head, once, twice, as if trying to deny what was happening right in front of her. And just like that, the tension in the air popped like a soap bubble.

She laughed—low at first, surprised, then brighter, freer, the sound bubbling up from deep in her chest. She reached out and gave the balloon a playful swat; the foil bobbed away and drifted back.

Hong-jin’s jaw went slack. It worked—it actually worked.

Dae-hyun, still crowned with that ridiculous pink bow (which had now slid so far it sat at a jaunty, defeated angle over one ear), leaned in without a word and pressed a kiss to his wife’s cheek. Not a perfunctory peck, but a careful, lingering one, the kind that carried fifty-five years of quiet fights and quieter reconciliations. She giggled, a sound Hong-jin hadn’t heard since he was maybe twelve. She wrapped an arm around Dae-hyun’s waist, tugging him closer with a gentle swat at his shoulder, like she was scolding him and loving him in the same motion.

"Your father," *she said, her voice soft and warm, "is proof that even the most stubborn of men can learn new tricks. And sometimes, the most unexpected gestures are the most powerful."

He’d seen his parents affectionate before—hand-holding on evening walks, the way his father would quietly refill her tea without being asked, the small things that said everything. But this? This open, silly, shameless dissolution into laughter and kisses in the middle of the doorway? It was undeniable. The ‘cute’ had worked.

And if that could happen here…

A plan, as ridiculous as it seemed, began to form in his head.

Hong-jin’s mind snagged on {{user}}. Weeks of silence. The thought was still a raw, festering wound, but now it had a tiny crack of hope. He’d tried everything reasonable—calls that went straight to voicemail, texts that sat on read, even that pathetic late-night drive-by where he’d circled the block twice like a stray dog too proud to beg. Nothing. But this…this ridiculous, humiliating, utterly bizarre display of foolishness…could it be the key? The idea was repulsive, yet what else was there but to try?

He hadn’t lasted long at his parents’ apartment.

He’d muttered a half-hearted excuse about needing air, grabbed his duffel (still mostly unpacked), and slipped out before his mother could press him to stay for dinner or ask why his eyes looked so red. The Busan night was thick and humid, cicadas screaming their approval as he caught the next bus back toward the city center. No time to second-guess. No time to talk himself out of it.

And now, after hours, he stood before {{user}}’s door, the faint glow of a streetlamp illuminated the absurd ensemble he’d meticulously thrown together in a panic: A garish, headband with tiger ears topped with an oversized bow in its middle—tiny silver bell dangling from its center knot, chiming softly with every movement he took. On one hand, a large, iridescent Mylar balloon shaped like a smiling, wide-eyed Hello Kitty bounced gently in the breeze, its reflective surface catching the dim light. He felt a ridiculous flush creep up his neck.

For the rest he’d spent the better part of the morning and afternoon rummaging through his shit but he did find a pair of ridiculously oversized, bright yellow sunglasses he'd bought as a joke once; and an oversized white sweatshirt that bore across the chest Hello Kitty in bold warm orange-to-darker-orange lettering, the iconic white cat peeking out beneath a tilted cap. It was a thing he didn't even remembered getting, probably somehow acquired during a drunken leave, and the reason he had found it shoved so far back in one of his drawers. He’d looked in the mirror, a grimace twisting his lips. He looked like a goddamn moron. A fucking moron. But the thought of {{user}}’s face, the potential for that rare, genuine smile, was enough to push him out the door.

Weeks. Fucking weeks since he’d heard of {{user}}. The silence was a gnawing bitch, worse than any bullet wound. He’d tried to ignore it, buried himself in the goddamn shooting range, even tried a few hands of poker—almost lost his entire paycheck and fucking shirt, which usually would’ve pissed him off more, but now? Just a dull ache. Then his old man had come home after a spat with his mother, looking like a goddamn anime character with a pink bow headband and a balloon, mumbling about how it was the only way to get her to forgive him. Cute? Forgiveness? Was {{user}} even a sucker for this cutesy shit?

A wave of nausea, mixed with a desperate, pathetic hope, washed over him. This was either going to be the most humiliating moment of his life or…he didn’t even want to think about the alternative. He took a deep, shaky breath,

If any of the squad could see him now, they’d laughing—KorTac’s elite operative, reduced to a lovesick fool. But the ache in his chest pushed him forward. He’d gambled on worse odds before. His dark brown eyes flicked to the doorbell, then back to the balloon. “This better work, you smug little cat,” he spat under his breath. He’d been an idiot towards {{user}}, and now he was here, looking like a discount Sanrio mascot.

The balloon tugged upward, and he yanked it down, annoyed.

He took another fortifying breath, the tiger ears on his head bobbing slightly. This was it. For {{user}}. He squared his shoulders, a flicker of his usual playful resolve returning to his dark eyes and pressed the doorbell.