Chapter 20

Chapter 20: "The Beginner's Guide to Not Screwing Up a Date"

He had remembered the day with Sakura and wanted to try it out again—for old time's sake, perhaps to test if he still had that side of him that once mistook infatuation for love. Moon Young, out of everyone he met recently, did tickle his fancy more than the others. But even then, the him now—this version of Jae Gu shaped by battles, siblings, loss, and growth—wasn't someone who would fall for a pretty face and a few kind words.

If he was being honest, the old him would've probably confessed to someone like Sakura again. But now? Now, he wouldn't even consider it.

Sakura had been the kind of person he disliked the most. Sure, they had been friends. Sure, she had her good traits—later on. But those didn't erase the truth about who she had been, especially when they were younger. Genin Sakura had been, in a word, terrible. Immature, mean-spirited, and superficial to a fault. She had mocked others' struggles and looked down on anyone who didn't meet her shallow standards of appearance or strength.

She wasn't even suited for the shinobi life back then. If it hadn't been for her teammates, she likely wouldn't have made it past the Chunin Exams.

Yes, she grew out of some of her worst behaviors as a teen. Yes, she trained, she fought, and she became stronger. But she was still obsessed—with him. With Sasuke. Her entire motivation revolved around chasing someone who barely acknowledged her existence. Meanwhile, the person who stood beside her, who fought for her, who never gave up on her—Naruto—was brushed aside like a tool, like a background character in her story.

It was infuriating.

Jae Gu remembered the way she treated Naruto's feelings—like they were some childish phase. Like his entire journey was centered around her. As if he endured pain, carried burdens, and fought wars just to win her.

And the worst part? She believed it. She genuinely thought that Naruto would stop everything if she simply asked him to.

What kind of person thinks like that?

It made Jae Gu's chest tighten with a strange, quiet sadness. Not for Sakura—but for Naruto. For a boy who had to bottle everything, who had to smile through rejection and bear the weight of a world that refused to understand him. A boy who never got to grow at his own pace, who was forced to become a symbol before he could figure out who he was.

But Moon Young… Moon Young wasn't like Sakura. Not completely.

She was a genuinely kind person, from what he'd seen. Not cruel. Not two-faced. She had a rough edge—sure—but she wasn't heartless. That said, she was still… shallow. In a different way.

It was strange. Pink-haired girls seemed to have a pattern—beautiful, fiery, confident… and a little empty inside. Sakura had fallen for Sasuke because of his looks. Moon Young had said yes to his confession because of his looks. There was nothing deeper than that. No emotional connection. No shared experience. Just surface-level attraction, like kids pairing off because everyone else was doing it.

And if he were still that same boy from the past, that would've been enough for him too.

Back then, he had liked Sakura simply because… she was beautiful. Or at least, he had thought so. Now, when he tried to remember why he had felt that way, he couldn't even put a finger on it. Her personality, her attitude, her voice—none of it seemed appealing in hindsight.

He must have been blind.

Or maybe… maybe that was just the truth about youth. You mistake your wants for your needs. You mistake beauty for substance. You see someone shine in the sun and believe they're your light—until you find someone who shines even in your darkness.

Moon Young didn't shine like that. Not yet, at least.

But maybe someone else would.

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There are many things I can do with ease.

Dodge a spinning axe kick from Moon Young? Easy.

Cook ramen with one hand while balancing my little brother on my shoulder? Easier.

Carry both my adorable siblings while spinning like a Beyblade? Easiest.

Navigate the minefield known as "Going Out With a Girl Without Accidentally Starting a Romantic Subplot"?

Okay, that one... we're gonna have to see.

I had just finished dinner with the family—which, by the way, is code for "I ate while my siblings bombarded me with questions like two giggling CIA agents trying to uncover classified girlfriend data."

Sun Mi, my awesome guardian and part-time emotional interrogator, asked from across the table, "But you are going out now, aren't you? Do you have anything planned for this relationship?"

She looked so serious, like she was about to take notes. I half expected her to pull out a clipboard labeled Romantic Intentions – Level: Platonic.

I nodded. "I don't want to make this relationship more than platonic. We'll hang out, bond a little, and see if there's anything beyond appearances."

Translation: I'm not looking to marry anyone this week, thank you very much.

"That's just like you," Sun Mi said with a fond sigh. "Will you need help?"

"Nope. It's very easy. Barely an inconvenience." I smirked like I had just solved world peace. "So just hope for good tidings."

"Big brother!" my siblings chorused as they clung to my arms like living friendship bracelets. "Please bring Queen and Lee Na home! We want to meet them!"

I blinked. That escalated quickly.

"Uh… I'll ask them out next time and we can have dinner together. Okay?"

"YAY!" Double high-pitched happiness attack. "You're the best brother in the world!"

I stood up and flexed. "Indeed, I am."

Cue sparkles. Cue slow-motion fist bump from my little brother. Cue my sister dramatically swooning like I was some K-drama lead.

Honestly, I wish I could say this was the weirdest part of my day. But knowing my life? This was probably just the filler episode before the plot punched me in the face with a flying kick.

Bring it on.

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Let's get something out of the way first:

I, Song Jae Gu, am thirty-four years old and have zero dating experience.

Yep. Zilch. Nada.

Not because I lacked charm or confidence (I had both in terrifying abundance, according to Sun Mi), but because life had me playing survival mode on ultra-hard difficulty for most of my youth.

So when I said to my family, "It's very easy. Barely an inconvenience," what I actually meant was:

"I am internally screaming, but I will go down looking cool."

But I wasn't some nervous teen fumbling over his shoelaces and forgetting deodorant. Oh no. Thirty-four-year-old me had swagger. And a license. And red boots. I wasn't showing up to a casual hangout looking like a mop.

I pulled up to Moon Young's place and immediately had to blink twice. There she was.

Wearing a pink dress.

Red shoes.

Red jacket.

And—get this—her hair was down. No ponytail. No combat-ready braids. Just flowing elegance like she'd stepped out of a commercial titled "Yes, I Can Be Both Strong and Drop-Dead Gorgeous."

"You look absolutely stunning," I muttered before my brain had time to catch up with my mouth.

And I wasn't lying. I expected her to show up in gym shorts and a headband, ready to spar. Not... this. Not Moon Young, the potential model on a winter date cover shoot.

Moon blinked. Then she actually blushed.

I repeat: Moon Young. Blushed.

Achievement unlocked: Fluster the Martial Queen.

"Thanks. You… also look good," she said, eyeing my outfit like she was pleasantly surprised I hadn't shown up looking like a budget anime background character.

I was wearing a long white shirt with horizontal blue stripes (thank you, Mom), black jeans, and red boots to match her shoes. Accidental couple aesthetic? Maybe. Destiny? Probably. I mean, I didn't plan it, but sometimes the universe ships people harder than fans on the internet.

"Don't worry, sir!" I called to her dad—and the dozen nosy neighbors and fellow students glaring at me like I was about to commit war crimes. "I'll take good care of her and bring her back safely!"

Moon turned to me with wide eyes that screamed "PLEASE STOP TALKING" in three different languages.

Her hands fidgeted and she shuffled like she was trying to disappear into the sidewalk.

Aha. I had discovered the rare Moon Young weakness: attention while dressed like a girl.

Noted.

Seeing her get uncomfortable with the stares, I took her hand—not as a grand romantic gesture, but like a gentleman escorting a VIP. Then I opened the car door for her, gave her a small smile, and helped her inside.

She didn't protest. Just glanced up at me with this unreadable expression, like she couldn't decide whether to punch me or thank me.

The car door closed, the engine hummed to life, and we drove off into the night, destination: "Somewhere Not Too Far Away Because I'm New To This and My GPS is Judging Me."

 -----------------

Ten kilometers. That was the plan. Just ten kilometers to get to a decent restaurant, maybe hit the equipment store, and not mess this whole thing up by sounding like a romantic tax auditor.

Simple, right?

But when you're with Moon Young—The Iron Princess of Practical Punches—simple becomes a concept, not a guarantee.

"I didn't think you knew how to drive," she said, eyes narrowing suspiciously as we glided through a left turn.

"Yeah, well, I did some jobs that required me to learn."

Read: survival gigs, delivery routes, and one questionable time with a runaway chicken truck I'd rather not mention.

"But weren't you like... sixteen a few months ago?"

I shrugged. "Things happened. I may or may not have driven without a license. Let's change the topic before I sound like a cool criminal. Tell me about your dress. Did you pick it out or was it your mom?"

"Aha, I wish." She snorted. "My dad picked it. Mom's in the U.S. right now—competing."

She laughed it off so casually that I knew not to pry. But I could read between the lines.

Her mom wasn't just "competing." She was living the dream—MMA fights, out-of-country leagues, maybe even a title shot.

And the price of that dream? Distance. Divorce. Dinners with just Moon and her dad.

But they weren't bitter.

That kind of maturity? It made me respect her even more.

I didn't say any of that out loud, though.

Instead, I went with:

"Seriously? I guess your dad should've taken his own advice and groomed himself before dressing you. Guy looked like a hobo."

Moon's punch to my arm was way lighter than her usual sparring smackdowns, which meant she found that funny.

"Hey, that's my dad you're roasting," she said, even though her grin said he kinda did look like a hobo.

"Chill, I'm just joking. Even though… he did look like a guy who argues with pigeons."

Moon rolled her eyes. "Jeez, the old man is embarrassing sometimes."

"But you love him," I smirked, "and you've got a really bad sense of style. Tracksuits every day?"

"Did Dal Dal tell you that? Screw that scrawny chicken!" she snapped, and I nearly swerved from laughing too hard. "I wear normal clothes! Uniforms! That's like, what… eighty percent normal?"

Her voice was fiery. Her energy? Relaxed.

Finally.

That tension she'd had earlier—probably from her dad's warnings, the stares, the attention—was starting to fade.

And honestly? That was my goal.

"Are you making fun of me?" she asked, glaring with mock menace.

"No," I said, glancing at her between streetlights. "I just think you look better when you're being yourself. No act, no tension. Just Moon Young being Moon Young. Look at me—am I any different?"

Moon blinked.

And in that blink, something changed.

I didn't know what.

But I felt it.

Maybe it was the way her shoulders lowered or the way her eyes stopped darting around like she was in a survival drill.

Men are beasts. Don't let your guard down.

Those were probably the words bouncing around in her head since childhood.

And suddenly, here she was—hand in mine. Sitting in a car with a guy who wasn't trying to "win" her but just be there.

"Nah, you still look like a pretty boy that belongs on a magazine cover," she muttered, eyes on the road.

"No need to lay it on so thick," I replied. "I'm not that feminine. I'm a macho guy, obviously."

"I understood nothing from that sentence."

"Good. Take it or leave it. Now get out before we talk ourselves into skipping dinner and accidentally form a podcast."

I parked.

And this part—this was weird.

We got out of the car and held hands.

Not like a Hollywood kiss-the-knuckles move. Just… natural. Warm. Safe.

Even for Moon, who could knock out three grown men in sparring class, that hand-hold made her blink twice and glance at our fingers like they were some alien artifact.

Not that I blamed her.

I wasn't her dream guy. No white horse. No poetry in my eyes.

I was just… me. Confident. Kind. A little chaotic. Way too sincere.

But she walked beside me anyway, fingers still laced in mine.

And maybe that meant something.

Maybe that meant… we were off to a pretty good start.

 -------------------

"It feels really nice walking outside with a beautiful girl in hand," I said, letting the words hang there like a charm I wasn't sure would land.

"Yeah, I get you," Moon replied, cool as ever.

I raised an eyebrow. "I hope you can change your choice of words next time because that was way too guy-like for a response."

Moon gave me that look—the oh really? look. "I thought you said I don't have to change anything."

"Depends on the situation and content. Some things do need to change, or you end up stuck in a backward place. I mean, don't we adjust our fighting style for each foe? Our approach to different problems?"

"I was kidding, jeez man. Talk about stick in the mud," she muttered.

I groaned dramatically. "I feel something heavy on my back, so I'm gonna need you to get all the way off my back."

Moon snorted. "Jeez bro, I was enjoying the ride, but since you asked so nicely, let me get off that thing."

We both cracked up. It was weirdly refreshing—trading sarcastic jabs like old friends instead of... whatever this was becoming.

"Pitch meetings are so tight," I said out of nowhere, trying to keep the mood up.

"Yeah, yeah," she nodded, rolling her eyes like I'd just quoted a YouTuber mid-debate.

"Wow wow wow," I added, smirking.

Moon froze. "Wait... you watch those? You're into comedy skits?"

"Of course. I mean, when I have time," I shrugged. "Nothing wrong with laughing a little."

"Same. I watch all kinds of comedy shows when I get the chance," Moon said, her voice softening.

"Simpsons?"

"Yeah."

"South Park?"

Moon's eyes lit up. "Obviously."

I gave her a look of mock defeat. "I'm out of bullets."

She cackled. "Guess you don't watch much if that's all you got."

"I don't watch much TV in general," I admitted. "But sometimes I'll sit down with my siblings when I can. Little moments, you know?"

Moon blinked like I'd thrown a curveball. "Really? So what do you do? Hang out at bars? Chase girls? Join gangs?"

"You definitely watch too much TV," I deadpanned. "It's poisonous."

She laughed, nudging me with her shoulder as we reached the front of the restaurant. The lights were warm, golden, inviting—just like this conversation had become.

I paused before opening the door.

"I was busy with training. And studying," I said, quietly.

I didn't mention the jobs. The bruises. The all-nighters. Not because I was ashamed—just... tonight wasn't about that. It was about her. About us.

And in this moment, under the soft glow of Seoul's neon sky, hand in hand, laughing about pitch meetings and cartoon madness, we weren't fighters. We weren't kids carrying baggage.

We were just two teens—maybe more than friends—trying to figure out if this connection was real or just another chapter in a wild, unpredictable life.

 ------------------

We entered the restaurant like two normal teenagers out for dinner. That illusion lasted exactly fourteen seconds.

"Do you want to share a combo platter?" I asked like a responsible person who knew what bills looked like.

Moon squinted at the menu like it had just insulted her ancestors. "Sharing? I thought this was dinner, not a snack break."

Then she flagged down the waiter like she was summoning a servant in a medieval tavern.

"I'll have the beef galbi. Two orders," she said. "And samgyeopsal. Three of those. Also... mmm... bulgogi. Chicken. And spicy pork. And—oh, the marinated ribs! Gotta have those."

The waiter, bless his soul, looked like he'd just witnessed a war crime.

I raised an eyebrow. "You good? You feeding a rugby team?"

She smirked. "I'm warming up."

"Oh yeah?" I said, sitting up straighter and cracking my knuckles. "Bring me the same. Add short ribs. And brisket. And that special aged cut that sounds too expensive for teenagers."

Moon grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Trying to impress me?"

"Nope," I said. "Trying to show you what eating like a lion really means."

Fast forward fifteen minutes.

The table was a battlefield. Plates of raw meat stacked like building blocks. Smoke hissed from the grill like we were summoning a fire demon. The waiter returned with each round of orders less enthusiastically, occasionally muttering prayers under his breath.

By the time we hit the third grill refill, the restaurant had gone quiet.

I kid you not—quiet. Like that scene in a Western where the saloon doors swing open and the outlaw walks in. Chopsticks paused mid-air. Conversations died. All eyes on us, the Meat Marauders.

Some dude in a couple's booth whispered, "Are they filming a mukbang?"

Another said, "Are they pro athletes?"

Someone else: "Is that girl okay? Her cheeks are... they're just storing meat like a chipmunk."

Moon, mid-bite into a glistening chunk of pork belly, glanced around. "They're staring."

I nodded, flipping a slice of galbi like a seasoned grill master. "Let them watch. This is a performance art."

Moon slapped her chopsticks down dramatically. "Then I shall not falter. For the honor of hungry women everywhere!"

We both dove back in like warriors on a sacred meat quest. There was no shame. There was only sizzling fat, clinking tongs, and sauces that could make angels weep.

Eventually, the manager came over—probably to make sure we weren't violating some kind of fire code.

"You... uh... need anything else?" he asked carefully, like we might bite him next.

"Water," we both said in unison, then looked at each other and cracked up.

And as we leaned back, our stomachs distended like post-battle balloons, Moon said, "So... that was about three goats worth of meat, right?"

I groaned. "I think one of them is still alive in there. Kicking."

Moon poked her belly. "If I explode tonight, avenge me by finishing the ribs."

"Don't talk like that," I said solemnly. "We'll explode together."

We toasted with our water cups like heroes after a hard-fought battle. The restaurant returned to its normal volume, though I'm pretty sure one table was still recording us, whispering 'Look at their stomachs. Those aren't abs. Those are food babies.'

And honestly?

It was the most romantic dinner of my life.