Page 72 of For You, Sir

“And Madam, whom I also loved. Yes.” He glanced at me as if daring me to take offense, but I just shrugged and took another bite of rice. I never claimed to be everyone’s cup of tea.

“And no extra pay, I take it?”

“Right,” he said. “I used to find it flattering. It meant she had faith in me, and recognized my talents.” He twisted his mouth to the side doubtfully. “Now I think maybe… Maybe she was taking advantage of me. Because I have a hard time saying no.” He looked stern and deep in thought, like this was a new concept he was exploring.

I felt warm inside to hear him considering his own wants and needs a little more. “So, what are you going to do? Request a different contract?”

“Not sure. I’m still thinking it over,” Jun said. “I’ve requested a month’s sabbatical, which should help.”

I blinked. “Wow. Your job will let you take a whole month off?”

“It’s unpaid medical leave under FMLA,” he clarified. “I’m going to use that time to help Mom through her next round of chemo.”

“Another one?” I frowned in concern. “I thought she was in remission.”

Jun nodded. “She is, but she still has more chemo ahead. Part of her post-remission therapy.”

“Damn, that’s tough.” I grimaced. “For both of you.”

“Yeah,” Jun agreed. “But Ho-Sung told me what to expect, so I’m ready.” He nodded to himself soberly. “I want to give him a break as caregiver.”

That was my Jun—always thinking about others. “You’re a good brother,” I told him.

He pressed his lips together, squirming under the compliment. “I’m trying,” he said. “Ho-Sung and his girlfriend split up this week, and that’s normally a trigger for his drinking. But this time, he called me. That’s why I’ve been leaving right after work—to spend time with him. Distract him.”

I sagged with relief. I could finally smother that ember of doubt that Jun had been avoiding me. “Did he manage to stay on the wagon?” I ventured cautiously.

“Fortunately, yes.” The dimple in Jun’s cheek appeared. “After about a thousand rounds of Super Smash Brothers while he was riding out the cravings.”

I rested my chin on my folded hands. “What doyouneed right now?”

“I’m mostly looking forward to having that extra month to… reassess, I guess. Think about what I want to do next, instead of going on automatic.”

Yes!I shoved a bite of rice in my mouth to hide my smile. If Jun was open to exploring new options, maybe he’d be open to a little proposal I’d been dreaming about. I just needed to keep watch for the right opportunity to bring it up…

After dinner, we retired to the den to watch a movie. Yesterday, Jun said he wanted me to show him the classics, so I put onLawrence of Arabia,and we snuggled on the couch.

Breathtaking desert vistas swept the screen, and Jun watched, transfixed. He was seeing the movie for the first time, but I was more interested in watching him—the elegant slope of his forehead and nose in profile. The focus in his eyes as he engaged with the story. What was he thinking about? How did the movie make him feel? I wanted to ask, but saved my questions for later. With any luck, we’d have countless movie nights together to share all our favorites with each other, and maybe a few stupid ones besides. I wondered if Jun could appreciate the campiness of an Ed Wood flick…

I put my arm around him, and he rested his head on my shoulder. Half an hour into the movie, Jun squeezed my hand. “Hey, pause it for a sec.” He swung his feet from the couch cushions to the floor. “I made us dessert. Let me go get it.”

“Thanks, handsome.”Lawrence’s runtime was an indulgent 220 minutes, and I didn’t think he’d miss much, but I paused the movie, anyway. I suspected Jun wanted to watch my favorite movies for the same reason I wanted him decorating my house—so we could learn more about each other’s tastes, and show we cared.

He returned a couple minutes later, holding a platter of identical white cubes, each about the size of a bonbon. “Ta-dah,” he said, sheepishly, lifting the plate. “Petit fours.”

“No way!” I laughed. Ever since hearing about the“fancy as fuck”cakes Jun had made as a kid, I’d wanted to see adult-Jun’s rendition. But when I’d asked him to make me a batch a few days ago, he brushed it off like I was just teasing him.

Now, Jun sat beside me, and handed me a petit four on a cocktail napkin—a tiny square cake, robed in white chocolate, with a miniscule curl of lemon peel on top.

“They look perfect,” I said, inspecting it like a jewel.

“That’s because I only served the ones that turned out right,” Jun said primly. He poured me a glass of Prosecco, but kept glancing to me, gauging my reaction.

I took one bite, and my taste buds sang. The sweet vanilla cake layers were perfectly offset by tart lemon curd and raspberry filling spread between.

“That’s incredible.” I groaned in pleasure. “How do you do it?”

Jun’s eyes brightened. “You like it?”

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