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Friday nights at Golden Wingz meant chaos.
Oil sizzling in the back, customers lining up out the door, and Jimin’s ears ringing with overlapping orders and K-hip-hop thumping softly from the overhead speakers. She had sauce in her hair and a slight burn on her wrist from brushing the fryer too fast earlier, but otherwise, it was just another day of barely keeping up.
“Order up!” Aeri yelled from behind the counter, plating wings with practiced speed.
Jimin passed her a side of pickled radish, barely glancing up until she caught the bell above the door chime. She looked instinctively. And then time seemed to slam on its brakes.
Minjeong. Kim Minjeong.
Minjeong in a cropped baby blue tee and wide-leg jeans, walking in with a casual confidence like she wasn’t the most beautiful person Jimin had ever seen. She was laughing at something Yizhuo said, her hand brushing the arm of a guy who was trailing too close behind her. Jimin froze with a tray of freshly fried chicken legs halfway to a table, sauce packet slipping from her fingers to the floor.
Aeri caught it.
“Get it together,” Aeri said quietly, glancing at the door.
“I—what is she doing here?” Jimin hissed.
“Eating chicken?” Aeri deadpanned. “Like a normal person? You work in a restaurant.”
“With him?” Jimin hissed, side-eyeing the tall guy who followed Minjeong to the table. “Who is that? Do we know him? Is he new? Is he her--”
“Do your job, you clown,” Aeri said, smacking her with a menu before heading off.
But Jimin couldn’t. Not properly. Not when Minjeong was now seated near the window, sunlight spilling over her hair like she was the damn climax of a coming-of-age movie.
She dropped a glass while filling a water pitcher. Missed a table number and brought ten-spice wings to a kid who cried from the heat. Forgot to charge someone for a whole basket of tenders. Aeri kept shooting her glares from the register. Minjeong hadn’t even looked her way yet.
Until she did.
Jimin made the mistake of catching Minjeong’s eye while walking by with a tray of soda cans. Her brain short-circuited. One foot caught the edge of a chair, and the next thing she knew—
CRASH.
Cans on the floor. Cola fizzing. Carbonated spray soaking the lower half of her jeans.
“Oh my god,” someone whispered.
Minjeong stood up, rushing over. “Hey, are you okay?”
Jimin blinked up from the mess like a malfunctioning animatronic. “I’m… yes. Hi. I mean—yes, I'm fine. Sorry. Floor. It was—slippery.”
She wanted to die. Right then and there. Or, at the very least, melt into the sticky puddle at her feet. Minjeong crouched to help, grabbing a few rolling cans.
“You don’t have to—” Jimin started.
“I want to,” Minjeong said, glancing up at her. “You work too hard. You always look so serious back there.”
Jimin's mouth went dry. She forgot how to breathe.
“Thanks,” she croaked, accepting the cans. “I uh… like your shirt.”
Minjeong smiled. “Thanks. You look cute in the apron.”
Jimin stopped functioning altogether.
Back at the counter, Aeri facepalmed. Loudly.
Later, as they left, Jimin watched from behind the fryer, flour still on her fingers. Yizhuo waved. Minjeong lingered a second longer, then gave her a small smile and a shy wave too.
And that guy?
He didn’t hold Minjeong’s hand.
Jimin didn’t win anything tonight. But she didn’t lose completely either.
“…You’re cleaning the soda mess by yourself,” Aeri muttered as she walked by. “But I’ll say this—she definitely looked back.”
Jimin survived the rest of her shift by sheer force of will and a mild dissociative episode.
The smell of oil had permanently embedded into her soul, her wrist was still sore, and her shirt had a mysterious sriracha stain that looked vaguely like a crying clown. When the dinner rush finally slowed and she was wiping down tables with a haunted expression, her mom gently patted her shoulder.
“Sweetheart,” she said, in the voice she usually reserved for when the rice cooker broke mid-service, “did someone hex you today?”
Jimin winced. “No, I just—I slipped.”
“Twice,” added Aeri just because she could.
“I was distracted.”
“By the girl you accidentally called ‘pretty sauce’ when you meant to say she wanted spicy soy garlic?” her dad chimed in from the back.
Jimin groaned. “Oh my god. I’m going to move to the mountains and raise goats.”
Aeri, already changed out of her apron and sipping on a soda, grinned as she leaned against the counter. “Don’t worry. The goats won’t think you’re cool either.”
Her parents eventually let her go with a half-hearted warning about ‘not letting hormones mess with the tip jar.’ It wasn’t harsh. Just enough to make her want to crawl into the nearest fryer and disappear forever.
Later that night, she and Aeri sat in the back booth of a cozy dive bar off-campus, both still faintly smelling like fryer grease and garlic parm. Jimin nursed a glass of beer and tried to drown in it but wasn’t really feeling up to it. “I’ve never had a worse shift in my entire life.”
“Liar. You forgot to turn on the fryer once and served raw chicken tenders.”
“Okay, second worst.”
Aeri laughed, poking at the nachos between them. “You know she helped you pick up the soda cans, right? That’s a win.”
Jimin groaned into her drink. “She pities me.”
“No, she likes you. She called you cute. With her face.”
“She was being polite!”
“She was looking at you like she wanted to eat you—”
The bar door opened.
Jimin didn’t have to look. She felt it in her bones.
Sure enough, in walked Minjeong, Yizhuo, and a few other friends. The same guy was there too, laughing with his hand on Yizhuo’s shoulder now, not Minjeong’s (thank god because Jimin would have absolutely lost it internally).
But Minjeong herself?
She looked radiant. Effortlessly casual and glowing under the amber lights, a hint of pink in her cheeks as she scanned the room.
Jimin slouched deep into the booth like she was trying to collapse into a black hole.
“Aeri. They’re here. Oh my god, they’re here. I look like a raccoon who’s been hit by a truck. I have wing sauce in my hair, I’m wearing crocs, and I think this shirt is from when I was fifteen—”
Aeri didn’t even glance up. “Loser behavior.”
“What?! I’m coping!”
“You are spiraling. This is a bar, not a funeral.”
Jimin wailed into the crook of her elbow. “I can’t be seen like this again. I used to be cool. People respected me. I had dignity. And now she’s going to walk over here and see me covered in crumbs and bad decisions.”
As if summoned, Minjeong caught her gaze across the bar. And smiled. Then waved. With absolute intention.
Jimin immediately ducked down and hissed, “Abort mission. She’s approaching. I repeat—she is approaching the crash site—”
But luckily (also a tad unluckily) Minjeong didn’t walk over. Just smiled a little longer, then went back to her friends.
Aeri took a sip of her beer. “You’re so dramatic. She definitely likes you. She could’ve sat literally anywhere. She chose the table where she can see you. Now be normal.”
“I don’t know how to be normal!”
“You’re doing amazing, sweetheart,” Aeri deadpanned, patting her head like she was a tragic wet cat.
Jimin wailed again and reached for her glass and took a large gulp.
From across the bar, Minjeong giggled to Yizhuo. Jimin didn’t know what she said—but it ended with Minjeong glancing over at her again.
God help her.
This crush was going to kill her.
🐔🍗
The night mellowed into a warm, hazy lull that came right before the city really came alive.
People spilled out of bars in lazy waves, laughing too loud, voices pitched just above the buzz of street traffic. The air smelled like spilled beer and street food and freedom. Jimin was mentally preparing to go home, mope as the showerhead poured down on her, and try not to cry about how many times she had embarrassed herself in front of Minjeong today.
She was two steps out the bar when she saw her again—Minjeong, just ahead, the streetlight catching on the loose strands of her hair, the group laughing as they said their goodbyes.
Jimin was ready to do the mature thing and quietly vanish in the other direction.
But Aeri had other ideas.
“Hey, Minjeong!” Aeri called out, too loud, too cheery, like this wasn’t about to derail Jimin’s entire emotional recovery.
Minjeong turned, startled but smiling. “Yeah?”
“Is your night ending?” Aeri asked, as she caught up, one brow raised. “Or just getting started?”
Minjeong blinked in confusion for half a second before Yizhuo grinned and answered for her. “Definitely just starting. There’s a house party near campus. You guys should come.”
Jimin almost choked. “Oh, no—no, we’re not—we smell like fryers and tragedy.”
Aeri gripped her arm like a vice. “She’s being modest. We’re very fun. And down.”
“We are not down—”
“She’s just shy,” Aeri added. “Unless you mind that she’s still in her work shirt and crocs.”
Minjeong glanced down at Jimin’s shoes and grinned, clearly amused but not cruel. “I think it’s cute.”
Jimin flushed so hard she saw stars. “Oh my god.”
“It’s just a house party,” Yizhuo said. “People are going to be drunk and dancing. No one’s judging outfits.”
“Exactly,” Minjeong added, still looking at Jimin. “You should come.”
Jimin was about to offer one more excuse—something about smelling like fried despair—when Aeri pulled her close and hissed in her ear:
“You’re literally being invited to a party by your crush, and you’re trying to say no. Loser. Behavior.”
Jimin whimpered, soul leaving her body. “Fine,” she muttered. “But if anyone asks, I was kidnapped.”
“Great,” Aeri said, already looping her arm through hers. “You’re our hostage of love.”
Minjeong smiled as they fell into step with her group, and Jimin caught her eye just once, long enough to feel it. This wasn’t pity. It wasn’t obligation.
Minjeong wanted her there.
And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t care if Jimin smelled like soy garlic and bad decisions.
Maybe she liked it.
🐔🍗
The house was already vibrating when they arrived.
Bass pulsed through the cracked walls like a second heartbeat. Lights strobed in rainbow flashes from the living room. Someone was pouring shots into a watermelon. Someone else was riding a plastic kiddie horse through the kitchen like it was war-time cavalry.
It was, by all definitions, a party.
And Jimin was trying. She really was.
She laughed when someone told a joke she didn’t understand. Sipped her lukewarm mixed drink. Nodded along to a conversation about someone’s failed Econ midterm. Smiled when Yizhuo dragged Aeri onto the dance floor, the two of them instantly syncing like they’d known each other forever, lost in the music.
And Minjeong?
Minjeong was everywhere. Talking to people Jimin didn’t know. Hugging someone who kissed her cheek (which made Jimin choke a little on her drink). Sitting on the back of a couch with one knee tucked up while some dude talked animatedly beside her.
She hadn’t done anything wrong. She looked happy. Glowy. Social. Confident.
And Jimin felt like…a discarded napkin.
So she slipped outside.
The backyard was blessedly quieter. A few people smoked by the side fence. Someone was passed out in a hammock but there was a little wooden bench tucked under a tree, mostly hidden from the house lights, and Jimin claimed it like a shipwreck survivor.
She plopped down with a sigh, staring up at the stars.
“Okay,” she muttered to herself. “This is fine. You’re not jealous. You’re just…situationally overwhelmed.” She took a sip from her cup, already used to the uncanny flavor of it. “You’re fine. You’re just sitting here because you’re deep and mysterious. Not because you’ve been rejected in every timeline imaginable.”
She sighed again, louder this time.
“This is so dumb. Why do I like her? She's cool. She's funny. She owns nice jeans. Her eyeliner always matches her mood. She says my name in a way that makes my knees do the jelly thing. I mean—what kind of power is that? That should be regulated.”
Someone giggled behind a bush. Jimin jumped.
“Okay, not talking to yourself anymore,” she whispered, clutching her drink closer. “No more out loud spiraling.”
She rested her head against the tree trunk and groaned dramatically. “I am not built for this. I make chicken for a living and cry when pretty girls smile at me.”
Another sip. Another sigh. Inside, the music pulsed on. She told herself she’d rejoin the party in a minute.
Or maybe ten.
Or maybe when Minjeong miraculously wandered outside, alone, and sat beside her.
Jimin laughed to herself. “Right. And maybe then I’ll confess everything and we’ll kiss under the stars and I’ll never smell like fryer oil again.”
But even saying it out loud made her heart do that weird, hopeful flutter.
She covered her face and groaned.
“I am so, so doomed.”
Jimin didn’t know how long she’d been outside but it was long enough for the tips of her fingers to get cold, and for the buzz in her head to fade into a low thrum of melancholy.
She’d thought maybe she’d go back in after a while. Or maybe not. She wasn’t exactly the star of this night. Not when Minjeong was inside lighting up rooms like electricity. Not when Jimin still smelled like fryer grease and regret.
She was halfway through internally composing a break-up letter to her own dignity when she heard the sliding door creak open behind her.
She didn’t turn. Until she heard the voices.
Minjeong.
And… a guy.
A different one. Not the cheek-kisser from earlier, not the guy who’d been hovering around her at the chicken place. This one had a voice that rubbed Jimin the wrong way. Too close, too slick, like he thought he had a claim to her.
Minjeong’s voice was low. Tight. “You shouldn’t have followed me out here.”
“I just wanted to talk. You’ve been ignoring me for weeks.”
“For a reason, Jaehyun.”
The name hit Jimin like a static shock.
She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. She stayed crouched in the shadows behind the tree, fingers clenched around her bottle, heart hammering.
“Are you seriously still mad?” he said. “You’re being dramatic. It wasn’t even a big deal--”
“You lied to me.”
Minjeong’s voice cracked, and Jimin’s stomach clenched.
“You said you weren’t still seeing her. You swore, Jaehyun. And then I find out—”
“That was months ago—”
“That was two weeks before you came over and told me you missed me.”
His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “Stop making a scene. Come on, let’s just talk—”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Minjeong said firmly, but her voice trembled just a little, and Jimin sat up straighter.
She heard the rustle of movement. Footsteps. The crunch of gravel.
Then—
“Don’t—let go of me!”
Jimin was on her feet before she even registered it, storming out from the shadows with zero plan and too much adrenaline.
“Hey!” she shouted.
Both heads turned sharply—Minjeong startled, Jaehyun scowling.
Jimin crossed the distance in seconds, eyes zeroed in on where his hand was clenched around Minjeong’s arm.
“Let. Go. Of her.”
He hesitated, just for a beat and that was one beat too long.
Jimin shoved his arm off roughly, stepping between them like a wall. “You don’t touch her like that..”
“Who the hell are you?” Jaehyun snapped.
“Someone who gives a damn,” Jimin growled. “Now back off before I really give you something to whine about.”
He looked like he wanted to argue. But then Minjeong straightened behind Jimin, her hand gripping Jimin’s sleeve, and Jaehyun’s eyes flicked between them. Jimin stood still, hoping her posture was enough to show she meant business.
He scoffed. “Whatever. She always picks strays.”
Jimin didn’t flinch. “And you’re trash that belongs on the curb.”
Jaehyun turned and stalked off. The door slammed behind him a few seconds later.
Jimin stayed there, heart thudding, breath shaky while Minjeong was quiet.
Then she said softly, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to,” Jimin said without turning around. “I didn’t like how he grabbed you. And I didn’t like what I heard.”
There was a pause. Then a hand touched her back, light, tentative.
“Thank you.”
Jimin finally turned.
Minjeong’s eyes were glossy, but she wasn’t crying. She looked calm now. Safe. And something in her gaze made Jimin feel like she’d just jumped off a building and landed on her feet.
“Sorry,” Jimin mumbled, looking away. “That wasn’t very cool. I think I growled at him. That’s not usually my thing. I just—”
“You were perfect,” Minjeong said, barely above a whisper.
And Jimin forgot how to stand.
Minjeong stepped closer. “Even in crocs,” she added with a tiny smile.
Jimin laughed, breathless. “God. Don’t remind me.”
But Minjeong was still looking at her.
Like maybe something had changed. Like maybe something had just started.
And Jimin—still buzzing, still flustered, still 100% a mess—let herself smile back.
“Hey,” Minjeong said gently, voice barely louder than the wind rustling the leaves. “Do you…want to get out of here?”
Jimin blinked at her. “Like…leave?”
“Yeah,” Minjeong nodded. “I’ve had enough drama for one night. And you look like you’ve been ready to flee since the second we got here.”
Jimin let out a breathless laugh. “I mean…yes. But I thought I was being subtle.”
“Not at all.” Minjeong’s eyes softened. “Come with me?”
Jimin hesitated for a moment. She still smelled like a fried chicken leg herself but the adrenaline from Hero Mode was still fizzing under her skin. Minjeong’s hand was near and her expression was open. Trusting.
This wasn’t just about escape.
“Yeah,” Jimin said, voice firmer this time. “Let’s go.”
They made their way around the side of the house, past the porch where the party had spilled out. Aeri and Yizhuo were still dancing or slow-swaying at this point, forehead to forehead, lost in their own world.
Jimin tapped Aeri’s shoulder.
Aeri blinked, grinning. “Yo, you’re alive! Did you two—oh.”
She clocked the hand-holding. The new energy.
“We’re heading out,” Jimin said quickly. “Tell me how your love story ends later.”
“Make good decisions!” Aeri called after them. “Or at least fun bad ones!”
But as they neared the gate, the night’s calm shattered.
A loud voice rang out like a slap.
“Oh please.”
Jaehyun.
Jimin froze. Minjeong tensed.
He was standing near the porch now, arms spread like he was performing for an audience, clearly still stewing, still drunk off his own ego.
“You seriously leaving with her?”
Minjeong didn’t answer.
Jimin’s jaw clenched.
Jaehyun sneered. “You’re kidding me, right? That’s your rebound? The weird chicken girl who can’t even walk straight in her busted little clown shoes?”
Someone nearby chuckled.
Jimin inhaled, sharp and deep.
Minjeong moved, but Jimin held out a hand. She stepped forward, slowly, until she was face-to-face with Jaehyun, heart pounding so hard it shook her bones.
“I usually don’t do this,” she said, calm and even. “I work in customer service. I’ve smiled through a man yelling at me because he asked for boneless wings with bone, I know, complete idiocy. I’ve cleaned ketchup smiley faces off walls and apologized for not having extra ranch when the tub was literally empty.”
The crowd had quieted now. Jaehyun opened his mouth to speak—but Jimin didn’t let him.
“So believe me when I say,” she continued, eyes sharp, voice rising, “you’re not even the worst man I’ve dealt with this week. You’re just the loudest.”
Someone snorted. Someone else went, “Damn.”
Jaehyun flushed. “You don’t know anything about me—”
“Oh, I do. You’re the guy who hurts people and calls it honesty. Who gets caught lying and calls it a misunderstanding. Who sees someone happy without him and can’t stand it.”
A ripple moved through the group. Even Minjeong looked stunned.
Jimin tilted her head, slow and deliberate. “And you think insulting my shoes is gonna make me insecure? Bro, I came to a house party in Crocs. Do you understand the level of peace I’m on?”
A few people laughed now. One guy clapped.
“Yeah, walk away,” Jaehyun muttered, bitter.
Jimin didn’t flinch.
She simply reached down, pulled off one Croc, and threw it at him.
It hit his chest with a very satisfying thunk.
The crowd howled.
“Now I’m leaving,” Jimin said, turning with the grand finale of someone who’d just dropped the mic and probably lost shoe privileges forever.
She took Minjeong’s hand.
Minjeong, laughing in disbelief, laced their fingers together.
And they ran.
Out the gate. Down the street. Wind in their hair, hearts pounding, laughter bubbling out of both of them.
Minjeong gasped as they turned a corner. “You threw your shoe.”
“I have no regrets,” Jimin panted.
“You were amazing.”
Jimin slowed to a walk, breathless. “I think I unlocked a new personality. I don’t even know who that girl was back there.”
Minjeong smiled, tugging her hand. “She was kind of my hero.”
Jimin flushed. “Oh god. Don’t say that. I’ll get emotionally attached.”
Minjeong leaned in. “What if that’s the plan?”
Jimin blinked.
And then she smiled.
Maybe tonight hadn’t been a disaster after all.
They walked hand in hand under the quiet hum of streetlights, laughter still echoing from the chaos they’d left behind.
Jimin was barefoot. Well, half barefoot.
“Well,” she said, looking down at her single remaining Croc. “That was a calculated risk. Worth it, but also—ow.”
Minjeong giggled, thumb brushing against the back of Jimin’s hand. “Let’s find a convenience store. I’m not letting my hero catch tetanus on asphalt.”
Five minutes later, they stood in front of a row of neon-lit flip-flops and plastic slides at a convenience store, Jimin squinting like the decision was life or death.
“I could get these,” Jimin muttered, holding up a pair of neon yellow foam sandals that looked like they belonged on a toddler with too much confidence. “But I think I’d rather be barefoot than look like a traffic cone.”
Minjeong held up a pair with cartoon bears on them. “These scream ‘girl who just saved me from a terrible ex.’”
Jimin gave her a look. “You’re sabotaging me.”
Minjeong smiled. “I think I’m helping you lean in.”
Eventually, Jimin surrendered to a pair of gaudy, glittery knockoff Yeezy slides that made her look like an overworked pop idol on her day off. She paid for them with exact change and her last sliver of dignity.
They also grabbed two cups of instant ramen, two Sprites, and a bag of cheese chips before settling outside at one of the cracked plastic tables under the buzzing fluorescent lights.
It was quiet now. The kind of quiet that let things sink in.
Steam rose from their ramen cups. Minjeong kicked her feet gently, her shoes brushing against Jimin’s shin.
“So,” Minjeong said after a beat. “Why didn’t you ever talk to me before?”
Jimin blinked, mouth full of noodles. She swallowed hard. “I—I mean. I did. Like, in passing. You’ve definitely heard me say ‘hi’ at least once. Maybe twice.”
Minjeong gave her a look. “You were in three of my elective classes last year.”
Jimin winced. “Yeah, okay, but you were always…surrounded. And smiling. And cool. Like—like a star.”
Minjeong raised a brow, amused. “A star?”
Jimin looked away, cheeks flushed, hands tightening around her soda. “Yeah. Like, in the sky. You know it’s there. Everyone sees it. It’s beautiful, but…unreachable. And I guess I just really liked stargazing.”
The air went still.
Minjeong didn’t say anything right away.
Jimin glanced up nervously. “Sorry. That sounded better in my head.”
But Minjeong was looking at her like the world had cracked open in front of her. Like Jimin had just discovered a new existing universe.
“Jimin,” she said softly. “Nobody’s ever said something like that to me.”
Jimin swallowed. “Well. Maybe nobody else has been watching as long as I have.”
Minjeong’s smile turned shy. Her gaze fell for a second before rising again, steadier now. “Maybe I’ve just been waiting for you to woman up and say something.”
Jimin laughed, half in disbelief, half in wonder. “Wow. That’s fair.”
“You know,” Minjeong continued, voice quiet but firm, “if you’d said even half of this to me back then, I probably would’ve asked you out first.”
“I would’ve fainted,” Jimin said, grinning. “So really, this timing is better.”
They ate the rest of their ramen slower. Closer. Shoulders brushing. Legs crossed beneath the table like they’d done this a hundred times before.
At one point, Minjeong leaned her head on Jimin’s shoulder and said, “For the record…I don’t think you’re a weird chicken girl.”
Jimin snorted. “Thanks. I’m growing as a person.”
Minjeong lifted her head just enough to kiss Jimin’s cheek.
And suddenly, the stars felt a little closer.
🐔🍗
Days passed.
Golden, dizzying, surreal days where Jimin found herself floating through life in a state of mild, constant disbelief. Because now Minjeong was…present. In every way.
In her life.
In her phone.
In her brain at all hours of the day, especially when she saw a notification and her stomach did the thing where it dropped and fluttered at the same time.
There hadn’t been any more cheek kisses or any physical affection again since the party. Hadn’t had some big moment. Just hangouts. Casual ones. Coffee runs, walks between classes, a movie night that ended with them sitting far too close and Jimin internally screaming for two hours straight while Minjeong shared her popcorn like they’d been doing this for years.
Nothing official.
Nothing defined.
Jimin spiraled regularly. At least once a day. Twice on weekends.
Sometimes Aeri would walk into the break room and find her lying face-down on the table muttering, “She used two heart emojis. What does it mean?”
Jimin had not made a move.
Because every time she thought about it, her brain short-circuited and she suddenly forgot how to function as a human being. Instead, she smiled stupidly at her phone and texted Minjeong things like “haha ur funny” and “yes let’s hang soon!!” and once, tragically, “what r ur thoughts on ducks?”
Which, somehow, Minjeong responded to with three crying emojis and a “i think you’re cute.”
Jimin had to lie down after that one.
On the fateful day, it was hot. Brutally hot. The kind of heat that melted sanity and fried hope.
And Jimin, having lost a rock-paper-scissors bet to Aeri, was outside in the full glory of her punishment: mascot duty.
The chicken suit was awful. Sweaty. It smelled like despair and old fryer oil. The head was too big. The feet squeaked. The wings flopped. Jimin could barely see.
She hated everything.
“Wave at the kids, Jimin,” Aeri called from inside. “Act like you love being in the suit!”
“I’m melting in here,” Jimin hissed. “I can smell my sweat! It smells like shame!”
“Spirit, Jimin! Spirit!”
She waved feebly at a passing car. Did a weird little dance to gather some attention (failed attention at that). Posed for a few photos with kids whose parents asked politely enough. She even made clucking sound effects as she tried to get passersby to enter the restaurant. That only led them further away.
She sighed, slumped against the wall and dejected, talking to herself because there was nothing else to do.
“I can’t believe I still haven’t done anything,” she mumbled, voice muffled inside the chicken head. “Like, at this point, I’m just wasting Minjeong’s time. She probably thinks I don’t even like her. Which is insane, because I do. So much. So stupidly much. But every time I think about making a move, I turn into Jello. Flavored Jello. Shaped like a dumb bird.” She sighed again, wings drooping. “Maybe I should just keep the chicken suit on forever. I’ll die in this suit. A monument to cowardice.”
Unbeknownst to her, the door had opened.
And Minjeong, flanked by Yizhuo, had stepped just outside.
“I still can’t believe she hasn’t done anything,” Minjeong was saying, clearly exasperated. “I like her. I’ve liked her. What else am I supposed to do, send a skywriter?”
Jimin froze.
The feathered mascot head slowly turned toward them like a horror movie puppet.
Minjeong met the plastic googly eyes of the giant chicken and her face morphed into wide-eyed horror.
“...Jimin?”
Then, suddenly, Jimin ripped the chicken head off.
Her hair was damp, face flushed, eyes panicked but determined.
“You like me?”
Minjeong turned scarlet. “You heard that?!”
“You like me!” Jimin said, flailing one limp wing.
Yizhuo was already walking away, muttering, “I’m gonna get some fries and pretend I was never here.”
Minjeong looked like she might faint or kiss her.
Jimin took a deep breath. “Okay. I haven’t done anything yet because… you’re Minjeong. You’re everything. And I’ve never really felt like everything was an option for me.”
Minjeong blinked.
“I was scared,” Jimin admitted. “I still am. But I’m more scared of not doing anything.”
She pulled off one of the chicken gloves, stepped forward, and gently took Minjeong’s hand.
“So can I… do something now?”
Minjeong nodded. Speechless.
So Jimin kissed her.
Sweaty, feather-covered and wearing chicken feet, Jimin leaned in and kissed her soft and certain, like she’d been waiting her whole life to.
And when they pulled apart, breathless and dazed, Minjeong smiled.
“Worth the wait,” she whispered.
Jimin beamed. Then winced.
“Sorry for the sweat.”
🐔🍗
It was a peaceful Thursday.
The lunch rush was over. Jimin was finally off mascot duty and back in her natural habitat: wiping down tables, dodging oil splatter, and trying not to think about how she was now officially dating Kim Minjeong. Which was impossible. Because everything reminded her of Minjeong. Especially her phone, which she checked way too often, and definitely the radio playing a love song that made her want to scream into the dish rag.
She was about to sneak a shrimp chip from the server station when the bell above the door chimed.
“Welcome to Go—oh my god.”
Minjeong stepped inside, smiling sheepishly, in a modest blouse and high-waisted jeans that should not have made Jimin feel the way she did. In her hands was a neatly printed resume and a copy of her class schedule.
Jimin’s brain rebooted mid-blink.
“You’re here,” she said dumbly.
“I told you I was applying,” Minjeong said, amused. “You reacted with seventeen heart emojis and then a gif of a dancing chicken. I figured you were on board.”
“I was, I am—I just forgot today was the day.”
Behind the counter, Jimin’s mom perked up. “Oh, you must be the applicant!”
Minjeong bowed politely. “Yes, ma’am. Kim Minjeong.”
Jimin stared at her parents. Then at Minjeong. Then back.
And panic set in.
“No,” she blurted. “I mean yes, yes, hire her. But also—if you don’t hire her, I’m quitting. On the spot.”
Her dad looked up from his ledger. “What.”
“I’m serious!” Jimin said, arms flailing. “She’s perfect. She’s responsible. She’s punctual. She looks really good in jeans. That’s gotta be a factor.”
Her mom snorted. “You’re being dramatic again.”
“She’s the only one who applied,” her dad added blandly. “She’s already hired.”
“Oh,” Jimin blinked. “Okay. Cool. I still meant what I said though.”
Minjeong giggled behind her hand.
Then, like vultures sensing a storm, both of Jimin’s parents turned to her.
“New rules,” her mom announced.
Jimin blinked. “What.”
“No flirting on the clock.”
“No kissing near the fryers,” her dad added.
“No heart eyes while taking orders.”
“That’s not even something I can control!”
“Then control your face,” her mom said, jabbing a spoon toward her. “One dreamy sigh from you while you’re plating pickled radish and I’m putting you back in the chicken suit.”
Jimin gasped.
Minjeong was laughing so hard she was wheezing.
“I hate it here,” Jimin muttered.
“You love it here,” her mom said sweetly. “Especially now.”
Jimin covered her face.
Minjeong reached out and poked her side. “Hey,” she said, still smiling. “Don’t worry. I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“Liar.”
“I’ll try,” Minjeong amended. “No heart eyes. No dreamy sighs. No sneaking kisses in.”
Jimin groaned. “You’re going to get me fired.”
Minjeong leaned in, voice just for her. “Worth it.”
And Jimin, despite everything, including the threat of poultry-shaped punishment, grinned like a fool. Because somehow, impossibly, her star had landed.
Right here.
In her family’s fried chicken joint.
🐔🍗
Working together turned out to be dangerously fun.
From the moment Minjeong tied on her black apron and stood beside Jimin at the register with that innocent ‘Teach me everything, sunbae’ smile, Jimin was done for. Entirely, tragically done for.
And it only got worse (better) with each shift.
They developed a rhythm. Jimin worked the kitchen while Minjeong danced around the front like she’d been born to it. Jimin had never seen someone so effortlessly charming, so naturally sweet. She knew Minjeong was personable, but watching it in action—Minjeong with the elderly regulars, guiding their fingers gently over the laminated menu, laughing softly when they asked if she was single—that was new.
“I’m not,” Minjeong would always say, sweet but firm. “But I’d love to recommend the crispy honey garlic today.”
Every single time she said it, Jimin felt her heart inflate three sizes.
But there was also the issue of people their own age.
Too many.
Too bold.
Too thirsty.
Jimin first noticed it when some guy in a backwards cap tried to get Minjeong’s number with a “Hey, you look familiar. Are you an angel or just in my psych class?”
Jimin slid into frame like a very possessive, very judgmental ghost and handed him his receipt with an intense, “Thank you, sir, please enjoy your wings and leave promptly.” Another time, a girl in a denim skirt kept giggling too loud and complimenting Minjeong’s “perfect wrists.” Jimin “accidentally” bumped into her while moping, murmuring a too-loud “Oops.”
Minjeong just looked amused. But Jimin?
Jimin was plotting.
She started doing subtle things. Little moves. Barely noticeable unless you were trying to hit on Minjeong.
Things like taking over bagging orders so she could accidentally brush Minjeong’s hand too many times. Or calling her “babe” just loudly enough when someone was clearly flirting. And even sneaking behind her at the POS and resting her chin on her shoulder while Minjeong rang someone up, completely nonchalant. Totally normal. Not possessive. Nope.
When Minjeong rolled her eyes and whispered, “You’re insane,” Jimin just grinned.
It all came crashing down when her mom caught her glaring daggers at a table full of undergrads who kept laughing too hard at Minjeong’s joke about menu item #12.
“Yu Jimin,” her mom hissed from the kitchen. “You better wipe that jealous smirk off your face and refill table six’s pickled radish before I wipe it off for you.”
Jimin turned, scandalized. “I wasn’t—I was just—!”
“No petty sabotage. No scary girlfriend energy. No possessive mop behavior.”
“But she’s so magnetic! They all want her—”
“I swear if you accidentally spill vinegar on someone again--” Her mom narrowed her eyes.
But later, when they were cleaning up, her dad passed by with a box of fryer oil and muttered out the side of his mouth:
“I saw you scare that guy away at lunch.”
Jimin straightened. “Was I subtle?”
“No,” he deadpanned. “But effective.”
She blinked.
Then he added, “If someone looked at your mom the way those kids look at Minjeong, I’d have tossed a hot wing at them too.”
Jimin nearly teared up. “You understand me.”
“I really don’t,” he said, walking off. “But I respect the hustle.”
Jimin turned back to watch Minjeong helping a regular clean up a spilled soda with a soft “It’s okay, I got it, ajusshi.”
Her heart melted.
And her brain whispered: Mine.
Just a little louder than before.
🐔🍗
There’s always that moment in customer service.
The one where your voice stays calm, your hands stay busy, your face wears a plastic smile all while every nerve in your body screams. You do it anyway. Because professionalism is a shield. Because dignity is quieter than rage.
Minjeong hit that moment on a slow Tuesday afternoon.
The restaurant was mostly empty. Just a few students, a table of neighborhood aunties, and one man in a crumpled suit who looked like the type to yell at stop lights if they didn’t change fast enough.
He came in barking complaints about nonexistent wait times and made a show of inspecting the table like he was Gordon Ramsay in disguise. He ignored the menu and talked over Minjeong’s explanation of the lunch specials.
Jimin watched from the counter, stomach tensing, as the man waved his hand in Minjeong’s face and said, “Did they hire you for your smile or your brain?”
Minjeong didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.
She just bowed her head slightly and said, “I’ll give you a moment to look over the menu, sir.”
But Jimin saw it.
The tiniest tremble in her fingers as she turned. The waver in her voice, so slight no customer would catch it but Jimin would. Jimin did. And Jimin was done.
She dropped her rag and marched over, voice steady, controlled, but cold.
“Sir,” she said, “you’re welcome to stay and eat, but if you speak to any of our staff like that again, you’ll be leaving without wings or a refund.”
The man blinked then scoffed. “Excuse me?”
“You’re excused,” Jimin said, jaw clenched. “Our staff works hard. That includes speaking to you with respect, even when you don’t deserve it. So if you’d like to be served, I suggest you try doing the same.”
He turned to look around, as if searching for backup. “Where’s your manager? Is this how you talk to customers?”
Right on cue, Jimin’s mom stepped out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Her dad followed close behind.
“You’re talking to the owners,” her mom said coolly. “And we support everything she just said.”
“Fully,” her dad added. “You want to keep talking to our staff like they’re beneath you, you can go talk to someone else. Somewhere else.”
The man, red-faced and sputtering, muttered something under his breath and stormed out the door with a slam loud enough to rattle the soy sauce bottles.
Silence fell.
Jimin turned back to Minjeong, whose lips were still curled into a faint smile but her eyes were glassy now, her hands tighter around the serving tray than they should be.
“Hey,” Jimin murmured, stepping close, voice soft now. “Come with me.”
She led Minjeong through the back, out the door into the small alleyway behind the restaurant where the noise of the street was just a distant hum.
Jimin didn’t say anything right away. She just opened her arms. And Minjeong walked right into them. No hesitation. No pretenses. Just a quiet, shaky exhale as she pressed her face to Jimin’s shoulder and let herself fold into the comfort.
Jimin wrapped her up tight, hand gently cradling the back of Minjeong’s head, thumb stroking softly through her hair.
“I’ve got you,” Jimin whispered. “You’re okay.”
Minjeong’s breath hitched. She didn’t cry, not really but she clung tighter, fingers fisting into Jimin’s shirt.
“I hate people like that,” she mumbled. “Like they can just…talk to you like you’re disposable.”
“I know,” Jimin said. “But you’re not. You’re brilliant and kind and better than any of them. You’re not disposable. You’re everything.”
Minjeong let out a weak laugh into her shoulder. “You’re really bad at not flirting during work hours.”
“Technically,” Jimin said, smiling into her hair, “we’re off the clock for this hug.”
They stood there like that, in the quiet, behind the noise and the nonsense, wrapped up in each other like it was the safest place in the world.
And for Minjeong—for Jimin too—it was.
🐔🍗
Dating Minjeong was like living in a soft-focus dream.
Every day felt a little brighter. Every shift at the restaurant was more fun. Every touch, every glance, every late-night text that ended with “sweet dreams, chicken girl 🐔❤️” made Jimin fall harder.
And Jimin, despite her dramatic tendencies, despite being a certified spiral queen was handling it all pretty well.
Until he showed up.
It happened on campus. They were walking hand-in-hand, Minjeong mid-story about how she accidentally sent the wrong document for her assignment, when a voice rang out behind them.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t love and poultry.”
They turned. Jimin felt her stomach knot instantly.
Jaehyun.
Slouched against a pillar like he thought it made him look cool instead of pathetic. Eyes smug. Arms crossed. That same sneer that had once made Jimin's blood simmer now made it boil.
Minjeong stiffened beside her. “Just ignore him,” she said quietly, pulling at Jimin’s hand.
But Jimin couldn’t. Not when the air around him oozed venom. Not when he was looking at Minjeong like she was a punchline and not the best thing to ever happen to Jimin’s life.
“Aw,” Jaehyun said, grinning like he smelled blood. “Still playing the loyal mutt, huh? Didn’t think you’d be the type to stoop so low for someone who smells like grease.”
Minjeong’s grip on Jimin’s hand tightened.
Jimin’s jaw clenched. “You done?”
“Not even close.” Jaehyun pushed off the pillar, walking a little too close. “How’s life working with Mommy and Daddy, huh? Still frying wings and pretending like you’re above your station?”
Minjeong started to pull her away again, tense. “Jimin, don’t—”
But then Jaehyun added, “Must be nice leeching off your family legacy while clinging to your girlfriend like she’s the only thing you’ve got going for you.”
And that was it.
Jimin saw red. She didn’t think. Didn’t plan.
She tackled.
Jaehyun let out a yelp of surprise as Jimin took him down to the quad like a linebacker, fists swinging. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t choreographed. It was messy, and raw, and loud.
She landed at least three solid punches before he got one in—a wild swing that caught her cheek and made her vision blur. Only then was he able to scramble away.
He shoved her off, panting. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”
“You are what’s wrong,” she spat, voice hoarse. “You walk around like people owe you their respect. You treat women like they’re disposable. You drag people’s families into your pathetic tantrums—”
He lunged again, clumsy, but she ducked and drove her knee hard up between his legs. The sound he made wasn’t human. He dropped like a rock.
Jimin stood over him, shaking, chest heaving. Knuckles probably bruising by the second. A scrape bloomed angry and red along her cheek, probably from his ring.
Minjeong ran to her.
“Oh my god, Jimin—your face—”
“I’m fine,” Jimin muttered, wiping at the blood slowly seeping out from her wound. “He’s lucky I didn’t throw my other croc.”
“Your—”
“I keep one in my bag,” she said flatly. “For emergencies.”
Minjeong looked torn between sobbing and kissing her senseless.
“I told you to ignore him,” she whispered.
“I know,” Jimin said, voice trembling. “But he doesn’t get to talk about you like that. Or my family. Or us. Not anymore. Not ever.”
People were gathering now, someone whispering about campus security, but all Jimin could see was Minjeong’s eyes, wide and glassy, her hands cupping Jimin’s uninjured cheek.
“You’re an idiot,” Minjeong whispered.
Jimin smiled through the pain. “Only for you.”
Minjeong leaned in, forehead pressed to hers.
“Let’s get you cleaned up chicken girl.”
🐔🍗
Jimin winced as Minjeong dabbed antiseptic across the scrape on her cheek. It stung like hell, but what hurt more was the silence between them, heavy and delicate, like it might break if either of them breathed too loud.
They were sitting in Minjeong’s dorm bathroom, Jimin perched on the closed toilet lid, Minjeong standing in front of her with a first aid kit she’d pulled out without a word. She worked in silence. Gentle, focused, her brows furrowed in worry even as her hands moved with practiced care.
Jimin’s knuckles were now reddening and definitely sore, her cheek stinging when she tried to smile. She looked like a mess. She felt like one, too.
“I’m sorry,” Jimin said finally, voice low and hoarse. “For going nuclear like that.”
Minjeong didn’t look her in the eyes.
“I know you told me to ignore him. I should’ve listened. I just—he said that stuff about you, and then my family, and I just… lost it.”
Minjeong was quiet.
Jimin’s stomach twisted. “You don’t have to say anything. I get it if this makes you want to…cool things between us. I wouldn’t blame you. I mean, this—” she gestured to her injured face, “—isn’t exactly a great look for someone you’re dating.”
Minjeong paused. Set down the cotton pad. Then slowly, deliberately, she tilted Jimins head up by her chin.
“Yu Jimin,” she said, soft but firm. “Shut up.”
Jimin blinked.
“You were defending me,” Minjeong said. “You were defending your family. He was cruel, and disgusting, and needed someone to put him in his place. And yeah, maybe it got messy—but don’t you dare sit there and act like this makes you less lovable.”
Jimin swallowed. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”
“I’m not.” Minjeong stepped between her knees and gently cupped Jimin’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing her cheekbones, careful of the cut. “I’ve never been more sure of how I feel about you.”
Jimin’s breath hitched.
“I didn’t need a hero,” Minjeong murmured. “But I got one anyway. And she just happens to have a gnarly scrape on her cheek and bruised knuckles right now.”
Jimin cracked a small, shaky smile. “You’re still gonna kiss me, though, right?”
Minjeong leaned in, brushing the tip of her nose gently against Jimin’s. “You’re lucky your lips are untouched.”
And she kissed her.
Slow. Soft. Reverent.
Like Jimin wasn’t a bruised girl on the verge of tears, but rather something strong yet tender.
They walked into the restaurant together later that evening, fingers laced, Jimin sporting a very obvious bandage on her cheek and a renewed sense of dread.
Her mom spotted her first and dropped the basket of soy garlic wings she was plating.
“What the hell happened to your face?!”
Jimin winced. “Okay, first off—hi.”
“Don’t you hi me, Yu Jimin!”
“It’s not that bad.”
“And your knuckles!” her mom gasped, after looking down at her hands. “Did you get into a fight?!”
Jimin opened her mouth to explain, but her dad popped his head out from the back and saw her.
He blinked once. Then smirked. “Did the other guy cry?”
“Honey!” her mom snapped.
Jimin shrugged. “He made a sound. It wasn’t human.”
Her dad gave her a proud thumbs-up.
Her mom looked like she was about to throw the fryer basket.
“Explain. Now.”
So Jimin told them.
The whole thing.
Every word. Every insult. Every shove. Every punch. She spared no detail and took full responsibility until Minjeong chimed in, voice clear and unwavering, saying, “He was provoking her. He was harassing us. She didn’t start it, but she finished it.”
Her mom sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You can’t just tackle people, Jimin.”
“She defended our honor,” her dad said solemnly. “That’s a warrior's instinct.”
“She’s not a warrior, she runs the POS and fries chicken.”
Jimin definitely did way more than that but now was not the moment to point out all the duties and skills under belt.
“She can do both,” he argued.
“Please don’t encourage her.”
Jimin smiled sheepishly. “So… I’m not fired?”
Her mom gave her a long look. Then sighed. “No. But if you throw one more punch, I will put you back in the mascot suit. Permanently.”
“Deal,” Jimin said quickly, before she could change her mind.
Minjeong squeezed her hand. And despite it all, Jimin would definitely do it again. Because nothing felt more worth it than this. Chicken suit be damned.
🐔🍗
Friday night at the restaurant was always chaotic.
The kind of beautiful, grease-scented storm that only a neighborhood fried chicken joint could conjure—phones ringing, the kitchen shouting orders in overlapping voices, sauces spilling, soda cans being popped open, and trays stacked high with wings, fries, and pickled radish.
But in the middle of the madness, Jimin was floating.
Not from adrenaline. Not from exhaustion.
From Minjeong.
Minjeong, who was darting from table to table with practiced ease, apron tied perfectly, hair pulled back in a neat ponytail that kept bouncing every time she laughed. Minjeong, who somehow managed to look like she belonged on a magazine cover while carrying a tray of extra crispy drumsticks. Minjeong, who grinned every time she passed Jimin and bumped shoulders with her like it was instinct.
It was stupid. It was dangerous. It was—
“God,” Jimin sighed, watching her like she was watching the opening scene of a romance movie. “She’s so—”
“NO,” Aeri barked, smacking Jimin’s arm with a plastic spoon.
Jimin blinked. “What?”
“Table six has been waiting for their combo platter for five minutes and you’re over here doing heart eyes like you’re the lead in a dating sim.”
Jimin cringed. “Was it that obvious?”
“You’ve sighed at least six times in the last hour. It’s so loud even the chicken heard it.”
A soft laugh from behind them: Minjeong, returning with an empty tray and curious eyes. “What’s this about sighing?”
Jimin turned red instantly. “Nothing. Chicken grease. Makes me…reflective.”
Aeri rolled her eyes and shoved a tray into her arms. “Bag these, loverbird. And please try not to name every piece of fried thigh after your girlfriend.”
“I only did that once.”
“Once too many. Now go.”
Jimin dragged herself to the bagging station, cheeks warm, chest tight.
Because it wasn’t just the sighs. Or the stares. Or the stupid tray-naming incident.
It was the fact that she felt it. All of it.
She was in love.
Like the real, terrifying, universe-tilting kind. The kind that makes your stomach flip and your lungs forget their job and your brain think things like I’d walk through fire for her, even though they worked in a restaurant, not a battlefield.
And it hit her now, while Minjeong wiped down a recently emptied table with a strand of hair falling loose and a cute little crinkle between her brows.
Jimin almost dropped a packet of sauce because—oh my god.
I’m in love with her.
“Jimin,” Minjeong called, pausing mid-step on her way back to the kitchen, “are you okay? You look like you just got hit with something heavy.”
“I did,” Jimin muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing! Just uh—thinking.”
“Sighing again?”
Jimin nodded, helplessly, dreamily. “Yeah.”
Minjeong tilted her head. “You sure you're not sick? You've got that look.”
“What look?”
Minjeong walked up to her slowly, tray on her hip, smiling like she already knew the answer. “Like your brain has left the building.”
“I think it has,” Jimin whispered, then blinked fast. “I mean—it’s—it’s here. Mostly. Just distracted.”
Minjeong looked amused. “By?”
Jimin stared at her. And almost said it. Almost screamed it.
I’m in love with you.
But instead, her voice cracked as she asked, “Can I tell you later?”
Minjeong’s smile softened, eyes sparkling. “You better.”
🐔🍗
The end of the shift came with a weird kind of peace.
Aeri was first to clock out, tossing her apron into the laundry bin and grabbing a soda on the way to the door. “I’ve got a very hot date with Yizhuo,” she called, smirking. “We’ll be making out on her couch and not watching a single second of that movie we pretended to pick.”
“Classy,” Minjeong laughed, wiping down the counter.
“Efficient,” Aeri winked, pointing finger guns as she slipped out. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Jimin snorted. “That’s a long list.”
Her parents followed soon after, her mom already halfway into her cardigan and her dad digging for car keys.
“We’re off,” her mom said, glancing at the spotless dining area. “You two lock up?”
“Yep,” Jimin replied quickly, just a little too eagerly. “All good.”
Her mom gave her a long look. Then looked at Minjeong. Then back to Jimin.
“No funny business near the fryer.”
“No heart eyes near the mop,” her dad added cheerfully. “Love you, have fun, don’t burn the place down.”
And then they were alone.
Jimin watched the door close behind them, heartbeat skittering like a trapped firefly.
Minjeong sighed, stretching with her arms high over her head, shirt rising just enough to be distracting. “Finally. I’m starving.”
“Give me five minutes,” Jimin blurted. “I’ll… make you something.”
Minjeong blinked, surprised. “You? Cook? Like—on purpose? Not on the clock?”
Jimin narrowed her eyes dramatically. “I’ll have you know I am a legendary midnight snack chef.”
“Oh?” Minjeong smirked. “Is this where you woo me with grease and crumbs?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
She ushered Minjeong out of the kitchen with a wink, pulling the curtain closed. Alone now, surrounded by prep counters and a lingering scent of their several flavoring options, Jimin stared down at her ingredients like she was about to paint the Sistine Chapel with batter.
She assembled carefully. Wings, tenders, and drumsticks arranged with surgical precision on a serving platter. She didn’t mean to make it that corny.
But by the time she finished, there it was: A poorly shaped heart formed by pieces of fried chicken. Slightly lopsided, kind of abstract, unmistakably ridiculous. And perfect.
She stepped out with the tray in hand, biting her lip, heart pounding like it wanted to escape.
Minjeong looked up from wiping the table and immediately froze. “...Is that a heart made of…?”
“Chicken,” Jimin said softly, stepping closer. “Extra crispy. Just like my feelings.”
Minjeong blinked once. Then again. Her lips twitched.
Jimin set the tray down in front of her. “I meant to say this earlier. I tried to. But it’s…hard, because every time I look at you, I forget how to be chill. Or coherent. Or normal. Which I kind of resent you for, but also…not really.”
Minjeong was staring at her, completely still.
Jimin inhaled.
“Minjeong, I’m in love with you.” The words left her like a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She held Minjeong’s gaze, chest tight, hands clenched at her sides. “And I know that sounds insane because we’re still figuring this out, and we have shifts together, and my mom keeps threatening to put me back in the chicken suit but I had to say it. I wanted to say it.”
Silence.
Then Minjeong stepped closer, eyes soft, voice just above a whisper.
“You made me a chicken heart.”
“I did.”
“That’s the stupidest, most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I know.”
Minjeong cupped Jimin’s face and kissed her. Soft and slow. Tasting like everything Jimin had wanted for weeks, maybe longer.
When they pulled apart, Minjeong smiled and whispered, “I’m in love with you too, chicken girl.”
Jimin grinned. “Please don’t let that be my official title.”
“Too bad.”
Minjeong kissed her again.
They left the restaurant with the last bit of fryer grease still clinging to their clothes and the scent of everything fried in their hair.
The night was warm. Not hot just soft enough to wrap around them like a cozy hoodie. The streets were quieter now, lit by flickering lamps and the neon glow of corner stores still open for late-night snacks.
Minjeong had insisted on ice cream. Jimin insisted on paying.
They each got a cone—vanilla swirl for Minjeong, mint chocolate chip for Jimin—and walked side by side through the quiet neighborhood, licking at the dripping sweetness like kids on summer break.
It was peaceful. Easy. The kind of night you wanted to trap in a jar and keep forever. Jimin stole a bite of Minjeong’s cone. Minjeong smeared some of it on her nose in retaliation. And somewhere between giggles and sticky fingers, their hands found each other again.
They kissed under a flickering streetlamp. Soft. Sweet. Messy with sugar and cream and laughter.
Jimin grinned against her lips. “Tastes like heaven.”
“You still have ice cream on your nose,” Minjeong whispered.
“You’re not wiping it off, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Mean.”
They kept walking until they passed the park near campus, empty and glowing silver beneath the moonlight.
Minjeong’s eyes lit up. “Race you.”
Jimin blinked. “To what?”
Minjeong took off running. “Anything!”
And just like that, Jimin was chasing her, laughing too hard to breathe, sprinting past her at the last second with a victorious shout as she leapt onto the swings.
They swung until their legs ached, higher and higher until the sky felt within reach. Then they collapsed onto the jungle gym, lying side by side on the cool plastic, hearts still racing, breaths tangled in the stars above.
Jimin looked up, eyes wide.
“You think the stars are watching us?”
Minjeong turned her head, one brow raised. “They better be.”
Jimin grinned. “Bet they’re jealous.”
“Of what?”
“Of you.” Jimin sat up suddenly, cupped her hands around her mouth, and shouted at the sky: “Hey! Yeah, you up there! She outshines all of you!”
Minjeong slapped her arm, laughing. “Jimin!”
“It’s true!” Jimin shouted louder. “You guys may be burning gas balls or whatever, but she works in food service!”
“You’re insane.”
“Yeah,” Jimin said, flopping back down next to her, grin spreading ear to ear. “I did throw a croc. That definitely set the tone.”
Minjeong laughed until she snorted.
Then she reached for Jimin’s hand, lacing their fingers together again, and whispered, “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
“I do.”
And Jimin smiled, eyes on the stars, fingers warm in Minjeong’s, heart full and still racing from love, from running, from her.
🐔🍗
Jimin was lying flat on Minjeong’s single bed, face smushed into a pillow, groaning like the world had personally betrayed her. At her desk, Minjeong sat with one leg perched up and resting her chin on her knee, scrolling casually through her phone with a smile.
“You’re not panicking nearly enough,” Jimin mumbled.
“That’s because I’m not,” Minjeong said, tapping on her phone. “Your mom said dinner’s at six and to come hungry. She used, like, four heart emojis.”
“That’s a trap.”
Minjeong giggled. “She said she wants to get to know me as your girlfriend. Not just her part-time chicken apprentice.”
“Exactly,” Jimin said, flipping over dramatically. “This isn’t just dinner. This is an interrogation. A background check. A test of my taste in women. And my parents are scary when they care.”
Minjeong just smiled sweetly and said, “Can’t be worse than Aeri interrogating me after our first shift holding hands.”
“That was nothing. My mom once made a guy who was interested in me in high school peel garlic for an hour while she stared him down. She didn’t say a word. Just watched. He cried.”
“…Honestly, she sounds iconic.”
“You’re impossible,” Jimin grumbled, but she was smiling now, too.
Minjeong put her phoneon her desk before walking up to Jimin and squeezing herself into Jimins side. They laid on their sides and Minjeong reached up and brushed a hand through Jimin’s hair. “Hey. Don’t worry. I like your parents. They’re sweet. Your dad gave me extra honey mustard when you weren’t looking, and your mom pretended she didn’t see you sneak me fries during shift.”
“That’s all a front. Once you walk through our door on girlfriend terms, it’s game on.”
“Good,” Minjeong said cheerfully. “I like games.”
Jimin groaned again. “I’m gonna combust.”
🐔🍗
The door to Jimin’s house swung open at exactly 5:59 p.m., and there stood Jimin’s mom in a navy apron and perfect eyeliner.
“Minjeong!” she said brightly, pulling her into a warm hug. “You look lovely. Come in, come in. Jimin, take her coat. Don’t just stand there.”
Jimin mumbled something incoherent and reached for Minjeong’s jacket like a butler being reprimanded.
Minjeong beamed. “Thank you so much for inviting me.”
“Oh please, I’ve been waiting for an excuse to feed you properly. That lunch rush doesn’t count. Now sit! Let’s talk before dinner!”
Minjeong followed her into the living room where Jimin’s dad was already placing out drinks and snacks like it was a second date interview panel. There were folders on the side table.
“Are those—?” Jimin whispered, panicked.
“Photos from your childhood,” her dad said. “Just in case Minjeong needs context.”
Minjeong leaned forward with pure joy. “I do!”
“No!” Jimin lunged for the folder but was expertly intercepted by her mother, who handed Minjeong a photo of five-year-old Jimin in a full chicken costume, holding a spatula.
“She wore this for three Halloweens in a row,” her mom said proudly. “And then slept in it every night. We thought it was a phase. It was not.”
Minjeong was in tears laughing. “Oh my god! This explains so much.”
Jimin flopped onto the couch in defeat. “I hate it here.”
“You love it here,” her dad said.
Jimin looked over.
Minjeong was glowing. Laughing with her parents. Asking questions about the restaurant. Telling funny stories from campus. She even offered to help set the table and was instantly denied because, in her mom’s words, “you’re our guest, not an unpaid intern tonight.”
Dinner was loud and full of clinking dishes and long, winding stories. Jimin’s mom made japchae, braised short ribs, and a tray of crispy fried chicken just because it was tradition now.
Jimin sat beside Minjeong and watched her fit into the space like she’d always belonged there—laughing, nodding, eating, smiling like this was home.
Later, when they walked back to campus with full bellies and linked hands, Jimin bumped her shoulder gently against Minjeong’s.
“They’re way better when they’re not in boss mode huh?”
“Totally. I loved them,” Minjeong said, smiling softly. “Especially baby chicken you.”
“I will never recover from that folder.”
“You shouldn’t,” Minjeong teased. “It’s adorable. You’ve always been this soft-hearted, flustered mess. And now I get to call you mine.”
Jimin tried to hide her blush in her jacket collar.
“...They liked you too,” she muttered.
“I know.” Minjeong grinned. “Your mom told me I could come over any time. Said next time, I’m helping cook. And your dad gave me a coupon for a free premium set.”
Jimin made a strangled noise. “You’ve been officially adopted.”
Minjeong stopped walking, turned to face her, and kissed her lightly, right there on the sidewalk under the streetlight, soft and sweet.
“Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
They made it to the dorms. Jimin didn’t want to let go of Minjeong’s hand.
“You’ll see me at work tomorrow.”
Jimin pouted. “Thats too far away.”
“You’re such a sap.”
“It’s all the chicken grease.”
Minjeong kissed her softly on the cheek once and then on the lips. “Text me when you get home.”
“Okay.”
“And send me that picture of baby chicken you.”
Jimin groaned. “Fine.”
Minjeong started walking backwards, waving at her. Jimin stayed, waving too until Minjeong made it fully inside the dorm building.
She looked up at the sky that was full of stars. They glimmered and sparkled but nothing beat the way Minjeong shined.