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The smell of soy sauce sizzling in the pan filled the small apartment, curling into the air like incense smoke. Garlic browned in oil, rice steamed in the cooker, and the clack of Wukong’s chopsticks echoed as he stirred a pan of marinated chicken, making sure the 炒饭 (pronounced chǎofàn, fried rice) was perfectly cooked. His golden eyes were narrowed with concentration, lips pursed in thought.
It was a rare evening off for both of them. No school for Dokja tomorrow, no emergency meetings for Wukong. Just a quiet Thursday night where dinner meant something warm and homemade.
Which made the words from behind him all the more unexpected.
“Hyung, how do you know if you like someone?”
Wukong didn’t flinch—he was too cool for that—but the flicker of his ears and brief pause in his stirring betrayed him. The pan crackled louder as he added a bit of water to deglaze it.
“…Why would you ask me?” he asked dryly, still not turning around. “Ask Yoo Sangah-ssi or someone who you can trust better than me.”
A beat. Then another, as silence stretched behind him.
“I don’t know… Because you’re my hyung,” Dokja finally said. “And you’re old. So I thought you’d know.”
Wukong gave an exaggerated sigh, flipping a piece of chicken with an irritated flick of his chopsticks. “Thanks for calling me old, kid.”
“I meant it respectfully.”
“You mean you meant it honestly,” Wukong corrected, setting the heat to low. He finally turned around, leaning his hip against the counter and crossing his arms, giving Dokja a look.
Kim Dokja was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, barefoot and dressed in one of Wukong’s too-big hoodies. His hair was slightly damp—he must’ve just come out of the shower—and his expression was unreadable in that way only Dokja could manage. His arms were folded, though one thumb fiddled with the edge of the sleeve. Nervous.
Wukong stared at him a moment longer.
“You serious?” he asked.
Dokja gave the smallest nod.
“…Okay,” Wukong sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll bite. What kind of ‘like’ are we talking about here?”
“The… romantic kind,” Dokja muttered. “I think. Maybe.”
“You think?” Wukong echoed, clearly unimpressed. “Maknae, you’re fifteen. I thought you didn’t even look at people that way.”
“I usually don’t,” Dokja admitted.
That gave Wukong pause.
“…Huh,” he said finally, softer now. “Okay. Tell me what happened.”
Dokja hesitated. “Promise not to laugh.”
“No.”
Dokja looked up with a scowl.
“I’m me, Dokja. I don’t make promises I won’t keep. But I’ll try not to laugh, alright? Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“Details.” Wukong waved it off. “Now come on. Sit down and spill.”
Dokja moved toward the kitchen table, dragging the chair out with a quiet scrape. Wukong, despite everything, turned off the stove entirely and moved to sit across from him.
“So,” Sun Wukong said, lacing his fingers together on the table. “Who is it?”
“…Yoo Joonghyuk.”
Silence.
“Pft—”
“Hyung!”
“I didn’t laugh! That was a—a snort! A reaction snort!”
“You’re the worst.”
Wukong wiped the corner of his mouth, coughing into his fist. “You’re telling me Yoo Joonghyuk, the brooding, emotionally constipated, quiet-kid-with-a-blade-for-a-personality is your type?”
Dokja flushed red.
“I didn’t say he was my type, I said I might like him.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Wukong waved him off. “Same thing.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have asked you.”
“Hey. You asked me, remember? Because I’m ‘old’ and ‘wise’ or whatever.” He made finger quotes.
Dokja groaned into his hands.
Wukong grinned, but after a moment, his expression softened. He leaned forward and rested one arm on the table.
“Alright, alright. No more teasing. Tell me why you think you like him.”
Dokja peeked through his fingers. His voice was quieter now.
“I started noticing it a while ago. He… remembers things. Like, stupid little things. Like what I like to read. That I don’t like tomatoes. That I hate gym class.”
Wukong arched a brow. “So do I. Does that mean you’re in love with me too?”
“Shut up.”
Wukong snorted again but didn’t interrupt further.
“He walks with me to the station sometimes. But he doesn’t talk much. And I thought maybe he was just being polite. But… last week, he stood up for me. When Song Minwoo and his classmates were picking on me again.”
“Those punks again?!” Wukong’s eyes lit with fire.
“Let me finish.”
Wukong forced himself back down in his seat, fuming silently.
“Joonghyuk didn’t say anything. He just… stepped between us. Stared them down until they left.”
Wukong whistled low. “Okay. Impressive.”
“And then,” Dokja said, voice nearly a whisper now, “he gave me one of the Murim Dumplings he had that he hadn’t eaten and said, ‘I remembered you like these. You looked like you needed them.’”
“…Ah.”
Wukong leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms again.
“Yeah,” Dokja said, covering his face again. “So that’s why I asked. I don’t know if it means anything. I just—he makes me feel weird.”
“Weird?”
“My heart races. I get nervous. But not in a bad way. It’s more like…” Dokja made a vague gesture near his chest. “Warm? And annoying?”
Wukong chuckled. “Sounds like you’ve got it bad.”
“Does it really mean I like him?”
Wukong tilted his head.
“Listen, I don’t think there’s a perfect answer for that. People fall for others in different ways. Sometimes it’s fast, sometimes it’s slow. Sometimes you don’t even know until something big happens and it all clicks.”
He tapped the table twice.
“But usually,” he said, “when someone makes you feel safe and nervous, when they remember the little things, when they stand up for you, and you find yourself smiling at your phone after they text you something dumb—that’s usually a good sign.”
Dokja looked embarrassed. “I did that. Yesterday.”
Wukong grinned.
Dokja hesitated. “…Do you think he likes me back?”
Wukong paused.
“That,” he said, “I can’t answer.”
Dokja deflated a little.
“But,” Wukong added, ruffling his hair, “I do think he cares. That kind of attention, from someone like Yoo Joonghyuk? That means something. He doesn’t waste time on people he doesn’t like.”
“That’s what scares me,” Dokja muttered. “He doesn’t… say anything. I don’t know what he’s thinking.”
Wukong gave a long sigh. “Welcome to the rest of us, kid.”
There was a moment of silence, the quiet hum of the rice cooker the only sound.
Then Wukong stood up and moved back to the stove, flicking the heat back on. “Dinner’s gonna get cold.”
Dokja stayed quiet for a while as the food sizzled again. The air was warmer now, the smell of food comforting. Familiar.
As Wukong plated the rice, he glanced back over his shoulder.
“Hey, maknae.”
“Hm?”
“I’m proud of you.”
Dokja blinked. “Why?”
“Because you’re brave enough to ask stuff like this,” Wukong said, setting the plate down in front of him. “Takes guts to admit when you’re confused. Or feeling something scary. Most people just bottle it up.”
“…I almost didn’t ask.”
“But you did. That’s what matters.”
Dokja stared at his food for a moment.
“…Thanks, hyung.”
Wukong ruffled his hair again. “Anytime, brat.”
Wukong was curled up on the couch, a bag of peach-flavoured chips in one hand and a soda in the other, when Dokja wandered back out of his room.
The teen lingered awkwardly in the hallway.
“Can’t sleep?” Wukong asked.
“…Kind of.”
“Come here.”
Dokja flopped down beside him, tucking his legs up under a blanket. The television glowed in the dark—some cheesy late-night cartoon Wukong had put on for background noise.
They sat in silence for a while.
Then, softly, Dokja asked:
“Hyung?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think… it’s okay if I like him? Even if he doesn’t like me back?”
Wukong looked at him.
“…Of course it’s okay.”
“Even if it hurts?”
“Especially if it hurts.”
Dokja looked down.
Wukong continued, more gently, “You’re allowed to have feelings. Even ones that go nowhere. Doesn’t make them any less real.”
“…That’s scary.”
“I know. But you’ve got me, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“And if he hurts you—”
“I’ll tell you.”
“And I’ll commit a light felony.”
Dokja snorted.
Wukong smiled and pulled him in closer.
“Goodnight, kid.”
“Night, hyung.”
And for a while, the apartment was filled with nothing but the hum of the television and the quiet, steady comfort of knowing someone was always there.