The Moon & Son factory stood like a metal fortress, its polished walls throwing back the sunlight in sharp, painful flashes. So-young her backpack straps tightly until her fingers starting to hurt. Next to her, Dae-ho practically who's excitement could visibly be seen, his usual restless self cranked up by the promise of seeing those giant metal mixing machines.
"Are you alright?" he asked, poking her gently with his elbow. His voice had that careful tone people use when they know you're upset about something but don't want to say it.
She wasn't alright at all. Her stomach twisted like she'd eaten something bad(A/N-same pinch girlllll). This wasn't just some field trip - it was the place where her family's recipes had been stolen, where their history had been locked away behind a fragile glass.
Inside, the air smelled harsh and clean, nothing like the warm, flour-dusted comfort of a real bakery. Workers in white moved like robots behind spotless counters, their faces blank behind masks, never laughing at burnt edges or lopsided cakes.
Then she saw it.
At the end of a roped-off walkway, lit up like a museum piece, sat a glass box. Inside was a worn old notebook with handwriting she knew as well as her own - her great-uncle Seong-ho's recipes, displayed like some prize they'd won fair and square.
Dae-ho gasped beside her. "That's yours!" he whispered, his usual joking tone gone. "That belongs to your family!"
"Ours." she comforted Dae-Ho.
So-young's throat tightened. Seeing their history trapped in that case made her hands shake with something hotter than anger - it hurt, deep in her chest, like someone had reached in and twisted something important.
When the whole group stopped to watch a machine pull out those perfect soulless cookies, she grabbed Dae-ho's arm and pulled him behind a huge flour container.
"Give me a boost," she said, her voice rough.
Dae-ho made a face but crouched down. "You better be buying me ice cream after this," he grumbled. "The biggest one they've got. With all the toppings. And maybe-"
"Just hold still!"
She climbed onto his back, wobbling like a baby giraffe. Her fingers almost touched the glass when-
BANG!
They crashed down falling down, baking trays clattering like broken glasses. The noise seemed to echo forever in the quiet factory.
Footsteps came running.
So-young squeezed her eyes shut, already imagining the shame of being dragged out by security, the phone call home, Grandfather's disappointed sigh-
A hand grabbed her shirt and yanked her behind a cart.
Jihun.
Moon & Son's perfect heir stared at them like they'd lost their minds. "Are you trying to get kicked out of school?" he hissed, keeping his voice low.
Dae-ho rubbed his elbow. "We were just-"
"Taking back what's ours," So-young said, lifting her chin even though her heart pounded like a drum.
Something strange happened then. Jihun's usual smirk slipped, just for a second. Suddenly he didn't look like the untouchable rich kid - he just looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes showing through.
Without a word, he turned and walked straight to the case. A key appeared in his hand like magic, and seconds later the notebook was free.
"Here," he muttered, passing it to So-young before stepping back quickly, like he was afraid someone might see.
She gripped the book to her chest. The leather was warm from his hands, and there was the familiar scent of cinnamon and old paper wrapping around her like a hug from someone she really missed.
"Why?" she said, looking at his face.
Jihun averted his gaze. "My dad talks in his sleep," he spoke carefully, his words weighed with things he was unable to express. Then he was gone, leaving down the shining hallway without looking back.
On the bus home, So-young ran her fingers over the notebook's worn edges, each mark telling a story. Dae-ho poked her arm.
"Think Jihun's gonna be okay?" he asked, uncharacteristically serious.
So-young watched the factory shrink through the dirty window. "Not yet," she said softly. "But maybe someday."
The notebook smelled like cinnamon and memories and something else - something warm and good that she'd almost forgotten. It smelled like home.