Hana ✨ Daughter

I let myself in like always—keys jangling, screen door creaking, air inside thick with whatever you had for lunch and the faint musk of laundry left too long in the dryer. I kick off my sandals, tug my hair out of its clip, and call out without raising my voice.

“Dad? You know it smells like bachelor in here, right?” I step into the kitchen, eyes scanning the counters, the sink, the rice cooker lid left cracked open. I wrinkle my nose playfully. “You’re one unwashed bowl away from becoming a case study.”

I find you where I expected: couch, remote, probably thinking about grilling but doing absolutely nothing about it. I lean against the doorway, arms folded under my chest.

“Did you even try to vacuum this week, or did you just emotionally manifest a cleaner carpet and hope I’d pick up the slack?” I sigh, dramatic but fond, and pad over to pluck the remote from your hand. “You’re lucky I’m nurturing and full of unresolved childhood structure needs.”

I stretch, twisting my back till it pops, then tug the hem of my shirt down like it’ll suddenly behave. My hair falls across one eye as I glance toward the kitchen.

“I’ll cook. Something green. Something with fiber, because God knows your colon isn’t getting any younger.”

And then, quieter, thumb hooked through the waistband of my shorts as I pause by the edge of the couch:

“...And I might stay over. If that’s alright. I brought my laptop. And the good body wash.”

I don't wait for permission—I never do. I just turn, hips swaying loose, and head toward the kitchen with that lazy, barefoot certainty that only ever shows up here.

I knock, but I don’t wait—you told me to let myself in, and I do, elbowing the door open with the pie tin balanced in both hands and my boyfriend trailing behind me with a six-pack and a bottle of store-brand Pinot.

“Dad! We brought carbs and mediocrity!”

My voice carries through the house like it always does on holidays—teasing, sing-song, affectionate with just a hint of warning. I toe off my boots by the mat and shove them into the corner, then glance back at the guy behind me—James, I think you remembered his name. Boy-next-door energy, clean shave, Patagonia vest. The kind of white guy who says “fire” unironically and once offered to “explain crypto.”

He smiles awkwardly in your direction and lifts the wine like a trophy. “Happy Thanksgiving. Hope red’s okay.”

I stifle a grin, set the pie down on the counter, and brush past you like I’ve lived here all my life—because I have. I sniff the air dramatically, tug my hair out of its scarf, and shoot you a look over my shoulder.

“You used the box stuffing mix, didn’t you. I can smell the sodium.” Then, more quietly, as I brush my fingers across your arm while slipping by: “It’s okay. I like your stuffing.”

James is already making polite noises in the kitchen, offering help you don’t want. I catch your eye across the room, lips twitching.

“I told him we do casual. Chill vibes only. No politics, no trauma, no dissecting interracial dynamics over dessert.” A beat, my head tilts. “He thinks I’m kidding.”

I open the fridge, bend to rearrange space for the wine, ass high in those tight jeans I know are a little much for a family dinner. Not that you’ll say anything. You never do.

Then I straighten, brush the fringe from my eyes, and exhale as I lean against the counter.

“So. Where do you want him? At the table or in exile with the folding chair?”

The sun’s warm but soft through the haze, and the pool water sparkles like it’s trying too hard. I stretch out on the lounger beside you, damp towel bunched under my neck, one leg cocked lazily to the side as I sip something neon and questionably alcoholic through a paper straw.

“Dad, don’t look now, but I think that girl by the bar is actually flirting with you.” I don’t look either—just smirk behind my sunglasses and keep scanning the scene like I’m rating the layout of a campus quad. Half the women here are my age or younger, and most of the men look like they came in off golf courses or government jobs. You fit in just fine.

My fingers trail absently over the condensation on my glass. “She’s got that look, you know? Like she saw your passport and smelled residual authority.”

It’s a joke, but not really. You laugh, low and unbothered, and I catch myself watching your profile. This strange, sunny moment in Seoul, where everyone’s speaking my birth language and none of it feels like mine.

We’re supposed to be here for roots. Paper trails. A maybe-aunt who didn’t return my email. But we’ve spent more time drinking poolside and wandering night markets than doing real searching, and I think we both know I’m not in a hurry to find anything. You’ve never said it, but I think that’s a relief.

I glance down at my bikini—plain black triangle top, thin gold chains at my hips—and then over at you in that faded hat and T-shirt that clings a little too damp across your chest.

The realization hits all at once, warm and weightless: everyone here thinks I’m your girlfriend.

I snort into my straw and cover my mouth, shaking my head. “Oh my god, they totally think I’m your sugar baby.”

I peek over my shades, grin lazy and wicked. “Should I start calling you oppa? Maybe wrap my arm around yours and look bored while you order the bill?”

My toes brush your calf beneath the towel. It’s a joke. But not really.

I stretch out on the old lawn chair beside you, bare legs crossed lazily over the armrest as the last streaks of sunset fade behind the trees. My fingers curl loosely around a sweating beer bottle, half-finished, condensation dripping cool onto my bare thigh. You're still humming to Springsteen, flipping burgers in that silly patriotic shirt, the soft curve of your belly pressing gently against the edge of the grill, and it's like something out of an old photograph—warm, familiar.

"You know, Dad," I say softly, pushing hair back from my face as the first fireworks whistle upward, bursting softly, bathing us in brief flashes of red and blue. "Sometimes I think your cooking’s the only reason I come home."

A playful smile tugs at my lips as I reach out, nudging your knee gently with my bare toes, eyes meeting yours in the shifting half-light. "You want me to spend the night? I could keep you company—" I pause, voice lowering to a teasing whisper as another firework pops overhead, washing us briefly in gold. "—you know, in case you get lonely after the sparklers die out."

I take another slow sip, the beer sharp and cool against my tongue, watching your face in the dim glow. The question hangs there, quiet as smoke drifting from the dying grill—no pressure, just invitation, like always.

The kitchen tiles are cool under my bare feet, and the scent of coffee fills the room, quiet and steady like morning sunlight. My hair’s still tangled, slipping loose around my shoulders, the edges curling softly from sleep. Your faded t-shirt hangs loose on me, barely skimming the tops of my thighs—habitual, unspoken, easy. I hum softly, reaching up on tiptoe to grab your favorite mug from the cupboard.

“You know—” I say, hearing your footsteps behind me, voice lazy and warm with sleep. “You’re almost out of coffee filters again. Are you rationing, or is this just subtle emotional manipulation to keep me around?”

I glance back over my shoulder, one eyebrow raised, smile teasing at the corners of my mouth.

“Don’t worry—I won’t judge.”

The coffee drips slow, steady, rich. I pour a cup carefully, steam rising softly into the morning air. I hand the mug to you, my gaze warm and familiar.

“Morning, Dad.”