Page 5 of Bend

Honestly there’s something comforting about places like this. Places that don’t try to impress anyone and don’t give a shit who you are or what you do, as long as you pay and don’t bleed on their floor. No expectations or performance. I can respect needing a place like this every once in a while.

The place I grew up in was nothing like this.

Our restaurant didn’t hide you in the dark no matter how much I sometimes wished it did when I was growing up. It always fucking saw you.

House Of Ryu.

From the outside, House of Ryu doesn’t look like much.

A small unit in a big strip-mall downtown. A big wooden sunbleached sign hanging above the door with Korean lettering carved underneath the English. No fancy neon or LED lighting. Honestly it’s the kind of place that if you don’t know what you’re looking for, you’ll drive past it.

Inside, it’s warm. Amber lights hang low over each small solid wood table. It smells like garlic and sesame oil the second you open the door. Like grilled meat and broth that’s been simmering since morning, and you never get seated without being properly greeted.

Mom notices everything. Who walks in tired, who’s dressed up, and who hasn’t been by in a while. She’ll ask about your kids before you’ve taken your damn jacket off. She even keeps a notebook under the counter filled with notes like birthdays, and anniversaries. She memorizes who likes extra spice, and who can’t handle the heat.

Dad pretends he doesn’t care about any of that stuff, but he does. When someone comes in looking worn down, stressed, or quiet in a way that says life’s been heavy, he always slides them an extra side dish, and waves off the charge like the gesture alone fills him with pride.

My parents always set out to make people feel seen, so they come back.

When I’m not busy training or with the team, I help them. I’ll stop by and help prep in the mornings. Check inventory, and go over the numbers while Dad pretends he doesn’t hate spreadsheets. He does. He’d rather be on the line, hands moving, with the fire in front of him, not squinting at a screen but most of the time, his body doesn’t allow it for more than a few hours.

On those days, I send him home early and offer to close up.

It keeps me grounded.

Keeps me connected to something that isn’t speed, risk and asphalt under my boots.

Omen and his twin Mina never stuck around for any of that.

He loves our parents. But cooking? The family business? Staying in one place too long? That’s never really been his thing. Even as kids he was already half gone, eyes on the horizon like it was calling him louder than home ever could.

Mina though, she doesn’t run from roots. She just wants them somewhere else. Somewhere bigger. Somewhere that doesn’t feel like it’s pressing in on her lungs.

So as soon as they could, they left, and I stayed.

It’s not like leaving never crossed my mind. I’ve thought about it. About packing up, and seeing what else is out there. But someone had to stay. Someone had to help.

I mean, Mom and Dad gave up everything for us, and honestly, it felt wrong to walk away from that.

Across the table, Omen leans back like he’s relaxed. One boot hooked around the leg of his chair, beer hanging loose from his fingers. Fucker looks like he’s in his element being in a shit hole like this. Ink sliding up his neck. Thick silver rings catching the light. Inky hair pushed back out of his eyes which despite clearly feeling at ease, are still moving around the bar. Tracking everything.

Isla sits close beside him, thigh pressed into his, arm draped along the back of his chair. Gold hoops flashing behind her thick blonde hair when she turns her head. She looks like a typical Tampa tourist.

Her gaze sweeps the room the same way his does. Quick and clean. Always on fucking guard. Shit has got to be exhausting, but knowing them, I get it.

Isla takes a long sip of her beer, then points the bottle at Omen like she’s accusing him of something.

“I’m actually mad at you, babe,” Isla says, pointing her beer at Omen like she’s about to file a formal complaint.

Omen blinks. “For what?”

“For not warning me that your mom cooks like that. And that she has some kind of Korean magic where she can literally convince you to keep eating way past your physical limit.”

I choke on a laugh.

“What do you mean?” Omen says. “All she did was cook you dinner.”

“No,” Isla cuts in, sitting forward. “That was not just dinner. That was psychological warfare. I went in confident. I left questioning my life choices. However, I won’t lie, I’m still thinking about the galbi. Like, I’m emotionally attached to the galbi.”