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Heesung’s life was full of fancy things. He usually ate at expensive restaurants with Michelin stars, gold spoons, and tiny portions of Wagyu beef and strict dress codes where the atmosphere was as stiff as his ironed lapels.
That world shifted the moment a certain trainee fighter had enough.
"The food is too tiny, I don’t own a single suit that fits those places, and honestly? I’m going to show you what real Korean cuisine is all about," Yoongu had complained, his brow furrowed in genuine offense.
Now, Heesung found himself being dragged toward a narrow, dimly lit alleyway in a corner of Seoul he didn’t even recognize.
"I'm taking you into my territory," Yoongu declared with a grin, his hand firm on the famous actor’s wrist.
After ten minutes of navigating twists and turns, they stopped before a restaurant that looked more like a potential crime scene than an eatery. It was tucked precariously between crumbling brick walls, looking as though it hadn't seen a renovation in decades.
"Yoongu," Heesung said, eyeing the hand-painted sign and the stacks of plastic crates cluttering the entrance. "This place looks like it hasn't seen a health inspector since the nineties. And is that dog... wearing a sweater?"
At the sound of his voice, the dog gave a sharp, welcoming bark—a fuzzy sentry alerting the owner.
"That’s Cookie! Don’t be rude, he’s the mascot," Yoongu scolded gently, bending down to pat the dog’s head. "They have the best Kimchi Kongnamul Guk in the country. I found this place when I was wandering around after the gym."
An elderly woman emerged, her face lighting up at the sight of them. "Yoongu! You’re back, my boy. And who is this with you?"
As they were ushered inside, Yoongu stayed close to her, helping her steady her steps and whispering something private into her ear. The interior was thick with the scent of savory broth and swirling steam. The chairs were a mismatched graveyard of furniture, and the "menu" was a jagged piece of cardboard taped to the wall.
"Don’t worry," the woman said, turning to Heesung with a knowing smile. "No one comes here this late. It’s just you two."
Heesung waited until she retreated to the kitchen before looking at Yoongu. "Huh?"
"I told her who you were," Yoongu explained as they sat. Heesung finally felt safe enough to peel off his mask, glasses, and hat. "She said you don't have to hide. It's just us and your sweat."
Yoongu reached out, grabbing Heesung’s spoon and chopsticks to buff them clean with a napkin—a small, subconscious gesture of care that didn't go unnoticed. He even reached behind Heesung to click on an old electric fan, making sure the actor wouldn't overheat in the humid room.
When the food arrived, it wasn't "pretty" by industry standards. It was a bubbling, violent boil in a stone pot, accompanied by a spread of kimchi, rolled omelets, grilled fish, and mountains of purple rice.
"What a handsome young man," the grandmother praised, peering at Heesung. "I feel like I've seen you somewhere, but my memory isn't what it used to be."
Heesung felt a mischievous spark. "Me? No, definitely not. I’m just a normal guy. Actually, I’m Yoongu’s bodyguard."
The woman let out a wheezing laugh. "Oh, you’re a funny one, too! Eat up. Get more rice from the cooker if you need it. I’m going to go catch my drama—just holler if you need me."
The moment she left, Yoongu dove in. His cheeks puffed out as he hummed in pure, unadulterated bliss, doing a tiny "happy dance" in his seat.
"See?" Yoongu muffled through a mouthful. "This is a real delicacy. It’s cheap, it’s hot, and it feels like you're being hugged from the inside."
Heesung took a hesitant sip. His eyes widened. The broth was rich, spicy, and possessed a depth of flavor that put five-star reductions to shame. It tasted like home—a feeling he hadn't realized he was craving.
But as good as the soup was, he found himself distracted by the view across the table. He watched the way the steam turned the tip of Yoongu’s nose pink, the way his eyes crinkled with every bite of the side dishes, and how he kept glancing at Heesung’s bowl to make sure he was actually eating.
"You like it, right?" Yoongu asked, a stray drop of broth glistening on his lower lip.
Without thinking, Heesung reached out. His thumb brushed the corner of Yoongu’s mouth, wiping the drop away. "I like it, Yoongu," he said, his voice dropping to a soft, intimate register.
He wouldn't admit it—not yet—but the food tasted better simply because the person across from him was so happy.
They lingered over the meal, the conversation flowing as easily as the steam. They talked about Heesung’s upcoming scripts and his new advertisements, and Yoongu shared stories of the gym, his bros, the grueling training of next international competition, and the simple joys of his daily life.
When they finished, they helped the grandmother clear the table despite her protests. Heesung reached for his wallet, intent on leaving a tip that would cover her rent for a month, but Yoongu caught his hand.
"She doesn't like tips," Yoongu whispered. "She'll get offended. She only wants what's on the bill, and I already took care of it."
Before Heesung could argue, Yoongu vanished into the kitchen to drop off the last of the dishes. Heesung adjusted his disguise—cap, glasses, mask—feeling a strange sense of loss as the "actor" persona settled back over his shoulders.
The old lady walked them to the door, tugging on the sleeve of Heesung’s expensive coat to hand him a heavy plastic bag. "Take this home. Some extra kimchi and soup." She patted his arm. "It’s always better to eat with someone, isn’t it? This is the first time that boy has brought anyone here. You must be a very good friend. Make sure you come back."
Heesung nodded, the weight of the soup warm in his hand. He made a silent promise to himself right then: he would definitely be back. And next time, he hoped he wouldn't be coming back as a bodyguard or just a friend, but as something more.