Morning Routine

Wednesday morning, seven o'clock. Before my alarm can even go off, the doorbell rings. I blink my eyes open. 7:02 AM. The ceiling looks slightly askew. I was working until dawn and only fell asleep around four. Who could it be at this hour? If it's Seojin, did Yuri throw a tantrum to have breakfast? If it's Dain... there's no way Dain would be awake at this hour. Chaewon always knocks; she doesn't ring the bell. The doorbell rings again. Short and firm. This particular way of pressing...

"...Haeun?" I get out of bed and throw a hoodie over my pajamas. I don't even bother checking the intercom screen before opening the door. There's only one person who would ring the bell like this at this hour.

When I open the door, Lee Haeun is standing there. She's in her workout gear—black leggings and a gray crop top. Her hair is tied up in a high ponytail. In her hands, she holds two black plastic bags.

"Hey."

"Good morning."

"I bought you some chicken breast." She thrusts the bags toward me. I take them blankly.

"...What?"

Haeun crosses her arms and looks at me. The corners of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠her mouth are slightly curled up. It's her usual smirk, but right now, there's a clear intention behind it.

"You're good at cooking, sure. But you're lacking protein."

"...Am I?"

"What did you have for dinner last night?"

"Soybean paste stew, seasoned spinach, and rice."

"Where's the protein in that?"

"...The soybean paste?"

"That doesn't count." Haeun lets out a short sigh. "I'm your trainer. If you don't build muscle, that's my loss. You're not recovering because you're low on protein. That's why your muscle soreness isn't gone by the time we have our next PT session."

I look inside the bags. Chicken breast, broccoli, sweet potatoes, avocados, a carton of eggs. And a sheet of paper. I pull the paper out. Something is written on it in rather messy handwriting. A meal plan for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Even the calories are calculated.

"Did you write this yourself?"

"Of course I did." Haeun points to the bags. "Use the ingredients in there. For breakfast, make either a chicken breast salad or an egg omelet. Lunch is sweet potato plus protein. Keep dinner light."

"You don't expect me to eat all of this at once, right?"

"It's for three days. Chicken breast, tenderloin, eggs. Distribute them however you want. When you run out, go to the mart and buy more of the same."

"I could have bought them myself."

"But you don't. Even when you do buy groceries, it's always carb-heavy." I have no comeback. Whenever I go to the market, my hands naturally reach for vegetables, tofu, kimchi, and instant ramen. I've never once put a single pack of chicken breast into my cart.

"Your form has improved, but your weights aren't going up. I'm telling you, it's a lack of protein."

"...Yes, ma'am."

"Keep that in mind. Drill 'protein' into your brain."

This woman doesn't know how to ask for things; she's only used to giving orders. It isn't exactly coercion, but her tone is close to it. The meal plan is a 'recommendation,' but her delivery says 'do not disobey.' An authoritative tone. Just like always.

I carry the bags into the kitchen. Haeun follows me inside. Instead of sitting at the dining table, she stands right across from the kitchen island, crossing her arms and watching me. It's the posture of someone determined to supervise the cooking.

I wrap the chicken breast in plastic wrap and pound it with a rolling pin. Once it's flattened to an even thickness, I fill a bowl with water, dissolve a tablespoon of salt in it, and submerge the chicken. I check the clock. 7:12 AM. I'll let it brine for about twenty minutes before I start cooking.

"What are you doing?" Haeun steps closer. Before I know it, she's standing right beside me. Up close, her natural scent mixes subtly with the fabric softener on her workout clothes. It's a faint, soapy fragrance. It doesn't smell bad at all.

"I'm prepping the chicken breast. Pounding it and soaking it in salt water."

"Why pound it? And why the salt water?"

"Pounding it makes it cook evenly so the inside stays juicy. Soaking it in salt water—brining it—helps the protein retain moisture so it doesn't get dry when cooked."

"...Is that how it works? I always just boiled mine."

"Of course it gets dry if you boil it."

While the chicken is brining, I prepare the other ingredients. I blanch the broccoli, slice a halved avocado, and fry an egg. I whip up a quick dressing with olive oil, lemon juice, and a pinch of salt.

Twenty minutes pass. I take the chicken breast out and gently pat it dry with a paper towel. I season it with olive oil, black pepper, and garlic powder. I heat the pan over high heat and sear it for just two minutes on each side. The key is temperature control. Searing the outside quickly over high heat locks in the juices. That's how you keep the inside tender.

Haeun looks down at the chicken breast in the pan. The aroma of garlic and olive oil fills the air.

"Hey, is this actually going to taste good?"

"You'll know once you try it."

I transfer the chicken breast to a plate. Beside it, I arrange the blanched broccoli, avocado slices, and the fried egg. I drizzle the dressing over it. The stuff Haeun usually eats is probably some tasteless combination like boiled chicken breast, boiled broccoli, and boiled sweet potato, but what I've made looks like a brunch menu item from a trendy cafe.

"Here." I place two plates on the table. Haeun sits across from me. She picks up her fork and cuts into the chicken breast. The cross-section reveals itself—glistening, tender meat with a crispy exterior. Haeun takes a bite and chews. Then, she pauses.

"...Hey."

"Good, right?"

"It's even softer than the one you made me before."

Once before. After my first PT session, I had drizzled some balsamic glaze over chicken breast for her at my place. I remember her expression back then when she asked, 'Is chicken breast supposed to taste like this?' Today, that line has been replaced by a comparison. A standard has already been set in her mind.

"I brined it longer today."

"What's brining?"

"Soaking it in salt water beforehand. The protein holds onto the moisture so it doesn't get dry."

"...You actually pay attention to stuff like that?"

"Well, eating the same thing every day gets boring. Remember when you said, 'I'd get sick of eating chicken breast every single day'?"

Haeun pauses for a moment. The tip of her fork trembles slightly over her plate. She clearly didn't expect me to remember something she had said in passing.

* * *

"...I did say that."

Her next bite is larger. The one after that is even faster. This isn't Haeun's usual eating pace. Normally, she consumes food as if she's just fueling up on nutrients, but right now, she's eating at the speed of someone who genuinely finds it delicious. I eat the chicken breast from my own plate while watching her. It's her second piece, but she eats it with the same gusto as the first. She eats the broccoli, the avocado, and dips the chicken into the dressing. Her plate empties rapidly.

"...Make it for me again." She speaks while avoiding my gaze. Her voice has grown softer. It's no longer the commanding tone from earlier. It's a request. Hearing a tone of supplication from Haeun is a rare thing indeed.

"Once in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a while. I can't do it every day."

"Can I ask you to make it once in a while, then?"

"Sure. Just let me know in advance."

"...Okay."

Haeun sets her fork down and gives a small nod. The person who had complained after our first PT session that she'd get sick of chicken breast has now asked, 'Can I ask you to make it?' twice over her second plate. It's not that she has changed. The chicken breast has. No, rather, she has begun to trust the person cooking it.

I stand up to clear the plates. Haeun stands up too, picking up her own plate.

"You can just leave it in the sink."

"I know." We ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠both walk over to the sink. It's a narrow space. The gap between the kitchen island and the sink is barely wide enough for one person to stand comfortably, so when the two of us stand side by side, our shoulders brush.

Haeun sets her plate down. I set mine down too. As we turn around at the same time—the distance is too close. Haeun's face is right in front of mine. Fifteen centimeters. Our eyes lock. At this distance, her sharp eyes look different. Her eyelashes are long. There's a tiny mole just beneath her eye. I had never noticed it before.

"Hey," Haeun says. She doesn't back away. "You're close."

Even as she says the words, she doesn't take a step back. I don't back away either. If I try to step back, my back will hit the sink, which would only make things more awkward. I can feel her breath. Warm breaths carrying a faint hint of the chicken breast and lemon dressing we just ate. It's warm.

"...What are you looking at?" She doesn't avert her gaze. Instead, she stares straight into my eyes. A challenging look. A look that says, 'Go ahead and try to back away.' But there's something else hidden within it. Tension? Anticipation?

"Because you're not moving out of the way, Haeun."

"Why should I move? I was here first." That's not true; we walked over together. But logic is meaningless to this woman. I take a step to the side. Gripping the edge of the sink, I twist my body and barely manage to slip past her. Haeun remains standing in the exact same spot, watching me. Arms crossed. Smirking.

"What, are you running away?"

"I'm not running away. It's just cramped."

"Chicken." Haeun scoffs and turns around. As she slips on her sneakers, she says, "See you at PT."

"Okay."

"Make sure you get your protein. I won't say it twice."

"...Got it."

Haeun opens the door. She takes a step out, then pauses. She doesn't look back.

"It really was delicious, though." Her voice is quiet, almost a mutter to herself. Then, the door thuds shut. She came over determined to lecture me, only to leave with that parting shot. She doesn't know how to ask, and she doesn't know how to compliment. So she slips them in between her commands. That's just her way.

Ten o'clock, PT. When I walk into Iron Gym, Haeun is already there. She's on a stretching mat, rolling out her thighs with a foam roller. She's wearing the exact same workout clothes from this morning, with her gym bag sitting beside her. It feels somewhat surreal that this is the same person who was just in my apartment nagging me about my chicken breast intake.

"You're late."

"I'm not late. It's 9:58."

"Arriving early to warm up is what counts as not being late." It's her usual tone. We start with squats. One set with an empty bar. Then, we load ten kilograms on each side for the working sets. Haeun stands beside me, monitoring the position of my knees. "Don't flare your toes too much." "Hips first." The rhythm of her nagging is exactly the same as always.

Deadlifts, bench press. As always, Haeun corrects my knee position, back angle, and even my breathing timing. I feel like I'm sweating less onto the mat than usual. Is it because the morning protein is speeding up my recovery, or is it just my imagination?

On the fourth set of deadlifts, she actually increases the weight by five kilograms. The bar rises along my shins, past my knees, and up to my hips. I lift it. I lift it, and it actually feels manageable. My breathing falters slightly on the very last rep, but my shoulders don't collapse. I don't know if it's because of the chicken breast I ate this morning or if my form was just spot on. It's probably both.

"See? You can do it."

"...Yes."

"Get your protein. I told you I won't say it twice." That's the third time. She says she won't say it twice, yet this is the third time.

Cool-down stretching. Lying on the mat, I raise my leg toward the ceiling. Haeun comes over, gripping my ankle with one hand and my knee with the other, slowly pressing down to stretch my hamstring. It's a stretch we always do, but today, there's a notch more pressure in her grip. I can't tell if it's an extension of her nagging or some other kind of signal. Haeun's gaze is fixed on my leg. It's the gaze of a trainer.

"Okay. Done." She releases her grip. My leg drops back to the mat. I feel the rush of blood returning as my hamstring relaxes.

Back home, I open the refrigerator. The chicken breast, beef tenderloin, and eggs are neatly arranged. I use a magnet to stick the meal plan paper next to the dining table. It's not like someone is going to spoon-feed me at seven every morning; I have to take care of this myself. Items I never used to buy are now sitting in my fridge. And I know that before they run out, I'll probably head to the mart at least once more. Tossing a pack of chicken breast into the cart will become a sort of promise.

As I wash the dishes, my mind drifts back. The distance in front of the sink. Fifteen centimeters. Haeun's eyes. That moment when she said, 'You're close,' but didn't back away. The scent of garlic and lemon dressing.

I pick up my stylus and sit in my workspace. This doesn't feel like simple meal management. No. Let's not think about it. Haeun ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is a trainer, I'm a cook, and this is just a rational transaction where we exchange what we're good at. Nothing more.

I grip the stylus again and start working. But what ends up on the sketch is food. Chicken breast on a plate. The scent of garlic. A hand holding a fork. ...I'm doomed. I erase the sketch and start over from scratch. The cover illustration. I need to focus. The deadline is next week. I draw lines. One, two. Slowly, I lose myself in the work.

In the evening, I sear the beef tenderloin according to the memo. A handful of onions. Brown rice. Exactly as written on the meal plan. It's a table for one, but the plate feels heavier than usual. Is this what the weight of protein feels like? I sit at the table and take one bite at a time. Normally, I would have had some kimchi on the side, but today, I leave it be and just chew on the tenderloin. The taste of the meat with less salt is surprisingly clean. Even if it's not every day, I wouldn't mind eating like this once every few days.

I check my phone. Haeun is at the very top of my chat list. The last message was from a week ago—a single line about changing the PT schedule. This morning, Haeun told me, 'If you have questions while eating, text me,' but I don't actually have anything to ask. Finding an excuse to text her is the hard part.

I set my phone down. My next PT session is the day after tomorrow. Until then, I have to manage on my own. The chicken breast in the fridge sits neatly, like an invisible promise.