Daniel’s shriek pulled Chloe from her thoughts. She looked up to see her brother on his feet, pointing at the television screen with an expression of pure disbelief.

"Did you just—you said you were a casual!"

"I said I’d played ranked."

"That was a perfect backdash cancel into a just-frame move! Casuals don’t do that!"

Jordan shrugged. "Beginner’s luck?"

"That’s not—you can’t—" Daniel sputtered for several seconds before throwing himself back onto the couch. "Rematch. Right now. I wasn’t ready."

Chloe watched Jordan’s face as he reset the match. His expression was calm and slightly amused, the look of someone who had expected this reaction and was enjoying it anyway.

He’d let Daniel win the first two rounds.

He’d been sandbagging the entire time.

She didn’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed.

Both, probably.

She was usually both when it came to Jordan.

The afternoon progressed in a blur of button mashing and trash talk, punctuated by Chloe’s occasional interventions to remind them that she existed and that Jordan was supposed to be impressing her family, not destroying her brother’s ego in ranked matches.

Daniel won four games.

Jordan won three.

Chloe suspected Jordan had thrown the last one on purpose, based on the way his combos got suspiciously sloppy in the final round.

"You’re acceptable," Daniel announced at five o’clock, setting down his controller with the air of a king granting a pardon. "I won’t actively sabotage you with Mom."

"How generous."

"I’m a generous person."

"He really isn’t," Chloe said from the kitchen.

"Noona, stay out of this. This is male bonding."

"Male bonding involves more grunting and fewer Marvel references."

"The MCU is a perfectly valid bonding topic."

Chloe rolled her eyes and returned to checking the rice cooker. Her mother would arrive in thirty minutes, and the apartment needed to be perfect. The living room was already spotless, thanks to her neurotic cleaning habits and the fact that she’d deep-cleaned everything at two in the morning because she couldn’t sleep.

The kitchen smelled like sesame oil and garlic, the scent of her childhood home in Koreatown.

Her heart was doing that uncomfortable thing again.

"Noona."

She looked up. Daniel had crossed to the kitchen island and was watching her with an expression that made him look older than fifteen, more serious than the gamer kid who’d been screaming about frame data five minutes earlier.

"Yeah?"

"He’s good."

Chloe didn’t pretend not to understand. "You think so?"

"He let me win the last game. Thought I wouldn’t notice, but I did." Daniel glanced back at Jordan, who had pulled out his phone and was typing something, deliberately giving them privacy. "Most guys who date my sister would’ve crushed me to show off. He made sure I felt good about myself."

Chloe’s throat tightened.

"That’s—"

"I’m not saying he’s perfect or whatever. But he’s not terrible." Daniel shrugged, affecting the casual indifference that teenagers used to hide genuine emotions. "Just don’t mess it up, okay?"

"I’m not the one who messes things up."

"Everyone messes things up eventually. Just make sure this isn’t one of those times."

Before Chloe could respond, Daniel had already turned away and was heading back to the couch to challenge Jordan to one more match before their mother arrived.

Chloe watched him go.

Her little brother, who she’d been sending money to secretly for months, whose college fund she’d been building through OnlyFans earnings because their parents couldn’t afford to save anything while keeping the dry cleaning business afloat.

He liked Jordan.

He approved.

That shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did.

At 5:27, three minutes before the expected arrival time, Chloe’s phone buzzed with a text from her mother.

Almost there. Parking was difficult.

Chloe’s stomach dropped.

She ran to the bathroom to check her makeup one final time, then emerged to find Jordan standing near the door with his hands in his pockets and a carefully neutral expression on his face. Daniel had retreated to the couch, suddenly absorbed in his phone, though Chloe suspected he was just pretending so he wouldn’t have to participate in the initial awkwardness.

"You ready?" she asked Jordan.

"No."

"Good. Neither am I."

"That’s not reassuring."

"It wasn’t meant to be."

A knock at the door.

Chloe took one deep breath, then another, then crossed the apartment and opened the door.

Her mother stood in the hallway, smaller than Chloe remembered, though it had only been three weeks since their last visit. She wore a simple navy dress with modest heels, her black hair pulled back in the same practical style she’d used for as long as Chloe could remember. Her face was lined with the kind of exhaustion that came from decades of twelve-hour shifts, but her eyes were sharp and assessing as they moved past Chloe to scan the apartment behind her.

"Eomma."

"Chloe-ya."

Her mother’s arms came up and Chloe stepped into them, letting herself be held for just a moment, letting herself feel like a daughter instead of a business owner and content creator and scholarship student and secret OnlyFans model.

Then her mother pulled back and looked at her face.

"You’re tired."

"I’m fine."

"You’re not sleeping enough."

"I’m sleeping plenty."

"Liar." Her mother reached up and touched the dark circles under Chloe’s eyes that no amount of concealer could fully hide. "You work too hard."

"I learned from the best."

Her mother’s expression softened slightly, the closest she got to displaying affection in public.

Then her gaze moved past Chloe’s shoulder.

To Jordan.

"Eomma, this is Jordan McKnight. Jordan, this is my mother."

Jordan stepped forward with the perfect combination of confidence and respect, not too eager and not too casual. He offered a small bow that showed he’d researched proper Korean etiquette, but not so deep that it seemed performative.

"It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Kim. Chloe speaks about you constantly."

"Does she." It wasn’t a question.

"Only good things."

"Mmm."

Chloe watched her mother assess Jordan the way she assessed everything, with the careful attention of a woman who had learned that most people would disappoint you if you gave them the chance. Her eyes moved across his face, his posture, his clothes, his hands. Cataloging. Evaluating.

Looking for the cracks.

"You’re taller than the picture she sent."