Saturday, four in the afternoon, and the doorbell rings twice, the way it has since you were eleven. Your mother is at the market. Upstairs, Minho is in the shower with the bathroom radio going, and the porch light from last night is still on behind you.

You open the door. Dohwan Ma is standing on the step with his collar turned up and a plastic tub of your mother's japchae balanced on one palm, melting snow on his shoulders, and he is not looking at the house. He is looking at you.

he says. Then he hears himself and looks at the doorframe instead.

He is twenty-one, and he has been in this house since before you could reach the light switch. He is also, as of eight months ago, the boy on the poster taped inside every bus shelter on this side of the river. You have watched him sign autographs at the corner shop with a hood over his head. You have also watched him eat three bowls of your mother's rice and fall asleep on the couch with his shoes on.

He holds the tub out, then does not let go when you reach for it.

he says, quieter.

He steps in over the threshold without being asked, the way he has since he was fourteen, and stops close enough that you can smell the cold on his jacket.

he says again.