sybil

You wish you could say you’ve gotten used to it, but you can’t. For some reason, the school thought it’d be a good idea to place the ballet studio next to the music studio— more specifically, Kang Younghyun and his group of wannabe rockstars.

Okay, that was a little mean of you— maybe even slightly immature, seeing as they’re teenagers and you’re technically an adult with a degree and bills to pay. But you blame it on that asshole, because for some reason, he’s able to bring out the worst in you without even trying.

You stand in front of his door, the vibrations louder now that you’re right outside. You knock twice.

It takes a few moments for the door to swing open, and alas, there it is— the insufferable smirk you hate. What’s worse is whatever the hell’s going on with his outfit— his shirt isn’t buttoned properly, his sleeves are rolled up unevenly, and that ridiculous patterned tie of his looks more like it belongs to a curtain in a mid-century home. Hell, it’s not even done properly, hanging loose around his neck like some half-hearted excuse for professionalism-

“You done checking me out?”

Your eyes snap back at him, and you ignore the way his smirk widens as you clear your throat. “Mr. Kang. I’m trying to run a routine here, and my girls are struggling to focus because of the… noise. So I’d appreciate it if you could tone it down a little bit.” 

Younghyun blinks before he chortles, unapologetically loud and annoying.

“Of course! How rude of me.” He slaps his forehead like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Here I am, guiding the next great rock band of our generation, and I totally forgot to consider the delicate ears of Swan Lake next door.”

“You know reusing the same joke over and over again won’t make you funnier, right?”

“Firstly, I wasn’t trying to be funny— I was mocking you. Second, it’s the only play I know.” He shrugs, grinning like he didn’t just spew utter bullshit out of his mouth.

A play, he says. Your eye twitches as you swallow the urge to correct him. You inhale deeply.

“So you’ll keep it down?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He grins as he leans against the door, and you know he’s about to waste your time. “Though I have to say, Miss Ballerina… calling my music noise? That’s such a stab in the chest. Right. Here.” He pokes the space above his heart, pouting.

This time, both your eyes twitch.

You’d think Kang Younghyun would be less of an asshole now that you’re both adults in your literal thirties, but he seems to have something going on in that head of his— what was it called again? Main Character Syndrome? That, and the fact that he’d probably left his soul in college or something, which is why he’s unable to act like a high-functioning adult man who doesn’t live vicariously through his teenage years.

You never thought you’d have to see him again after graduation, but after years have gone by and you’d decided to go back to your alma mater to start teaching, as it turns out, Kang Younghyun thought it’d be a good idea to do the same. And just like that, your years of rivalry, which you thought you’d be able to bury once you were done with college, has come back to smack you in the face ten years later. Similar to the time you smacked Younghyun in the face, actually. Accidentally. On purpose. With a door.

But you digress.

Because you’re a ballerina, and ballerinas are supposed to be graceful. And so as much as you want to grab him by the neck and rip his throat out, you smile (though you’re sure it comes off more like a grimace).

“Thank you, Mr. Kang.”

He grins at you boyishly in return. “See you at the teacher’s forum?”

You force out a chuckle. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Atta girl.” He winks, pushing himself off the doorframe.

When you retreat to your studio, you feel his eyes on you, all the way until you’re inside and slamming the door behind you.

The conference room is still fairly empty the moment you step in. You’ve always liked to be early for meetings like this— they gave you ample time to settle down, maybe even choose a good seat that’s close to the front so you could hear the speaker properly. It’s a habit you’ve kept since you were a student, one that has admittedly made you subject to endless teasing by a certain somebody back in the day.

That being said, what business does he have by being here so early? Kang Younghyun barely even shows up on time to his own classes! You wouldn’t be surprised if he did it just to spite you. He knows how competitive you are.

Younghyun doesn’t see you yet as he chats with another teacher from his department— Park Sungjin, you remember his name is— but that doesn’t stop you from narrowing your eyes at him as you settle in your seat a couple of rows in front.

You scoff to yourself. How could someone as kind as Mr. Park even deal with that asshole? Granted, you don’t know him very well, but based on how he’d often greet you when you’d pass each other in the hallways and how he’d always be the one to refill the coffee pot in the teacher’s lounge, you could tell that he’s very kind.

As if on cue, Younghyun suddenly turns his head, and your eyes meet.

He doesn’t even bother stopping his conversation as he winks, grin growing wider as though triumphant that he’d caught you staring.

Pfft, please. He wishes you were staring at him. You were staring at Park Sungjin.

You turn back around, choosing to ignore him for now; oh, hell— might as well make it your resolve to ignore him for the rest of the school term. It’s still fresh into March, and it’s never too late for a new year’s resolution. Plus, with it being the first forum of the semester, there’s bound to be a lot of important information you can’t afford to miss, and letting Kang Younghyun get under your skin would only be self-sabotage.

“Now with all the boring stuff out of the way, the moment I know everyone’s been waiting for,” the director chuckles as he wraps up his presentation. “I’ll pass the time over to Mr. Kim to brief on this year’s arts showcase. Mr. Kim?”

“Thank you, sir,” the teacher bows as he takes over the podium. “Good evening, everyone! I’m Kim Wonpil from the music department, and I’ll be in charge of this year’s showcase. Before we begin, I’d like to briefly run through the programme outline for fellow teachers who will be participating for the first time.”

This would mark your fifth year of participation, and it was only last year when you were standing on that podium giving the same briefing. It’s a grand event the school hosts annually for the graduating students as an opportunity for them to showcase their talents to the public as well as potential scouts.

“... so the theme for this year is-”

Wonpil presses the clicker, and the screen transitions to a single word: Resonance.

“The idea is to portray how art connects, influences, and impacts the audience. It’s all about connection— how it lingers after a performance ends. Whether it’s a note, a movement, a line of dialogue, every major has a key role to play in how we define resonance. Especially now in this digital age, where traditional artforms are often overlooked by mainstream media, we want to be able to reframe that. Which is why…”

You nod along instinctively. You’ve made peace with the harsh truth long ago— ballet has always been hard to sell. Most people would choose a concert over a recital. A viral TikTok dance over a pas de deux. You’d known that long before you ever became a teacher, but that didn’t make your art any less beautiful.

“... the committee has decided to do something a little different this year.” The slide changes, flashing a table with multiple rows, the different department names paired together at random in columns of two. 

You don’t find yours yet, but something uneasy stirs in your chest.

You don’t like this feeling.

“Instead of doing individual performances like we usually do, we thought doing multiple collaborative stages would resonate well with our theme. Heh, pun intended.”

A chorus of chuckles ripples through the room, but you don’t laugh along— not when you finally spot your department name, and the one that sits next to yours.

Music Production (Mr. Kang Younghyun)

Fuck. You’ve always liked Wonpil, but you might actually stab him in the eye with his own conductor’s baton this time, and then Younghyun. Because why the fuck would he put the two of you together? And not only that, but the more, pressing issue at hand-

Wouldn’t collaborating with another department only defeat the purpose of making an impact? You’re content with the fact that this artform you’ve dedicated your entire life to will always remain niche, catered to those only willing to appreciate it, but this silent implication that ballet on its own isn’t enough— and having to work together with Kang Younghyun, at that— hurts.

“It’s not about replacing tradition,” Wonpil says quickly, as though reading your mind. “It’s about allowing art to evolve. To reach differently. And again… to resonate with both the niche and mainstream audiences. In the eyes of our talent scouts, our students will be excelling in their respective disciplines, but to the general public, it’s just something fun, you know? And who knows? Seeing two differing artforms coexist like this might even intrigue and inspire them. That is what we aim to achieve.”

The other teachers applaud, and Wonpil beams. “Before I wrap up, do take note of the deadlines on the screen— the first proposal will be due in two weeks, and once approved, you may then start on production before working with your students. The committee looks forward to what you have in store. That will be all, thank you.”

As everybody shuffles out, you remain in your seat, trying to process whatever just happened. As though ballet choreography isn’t already tough enough to work on on its own, now you’re expected to do it with rock music? How the hell is that supposed to work?

“You must be stumped, huh? You didn’t turn around to glare at me once.” An irritating voice appears before its owner slumps in the chair next to you, uninvited.

“Well,” you say tersely, still facing the projector screen as you blindly collect your items in your lap. You stand up. “I made a resolution.”

“Yeah?” Younghyun ambles after you as you stalk out of the room. “And how’s that going?”

“As of approximately thirty seconds ago, terrible,” you mutter, not turning back to look at him. He catches up to you anyway, and the two of you fall in step.

“Hm. Guess you’ll need a new one.”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“What are your options?”

You finally stop as you turn to face him, and you have to fight every urge in your body to not smack that stupid grin off his face. Instead, you simper at him sweetly.

“Murder. Preferably, with a baton from the orchestra department.”

Younghyun is late.

You don’t think you even want to hear what his excuse is, if any. Sure, you could give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that maybe he’d stayed behind to help a student after lessons, or something— but that would only mean fooling yourself into believing Kang Younghyun could be a decent person, for once.

You scoff to yourself.

Speak of the Devil, and he saunters in, whistling under his breath like he didn’t just waste thirty minutes of your time.

“Good to know your sense of punctuality still hasn’t improved,” you mutter, eyes on your laptop screen as you continue typing in your word document.

“Yeah, sorry. Traffic was craaazy.”

You look at him then. “Right. Because the five-minute walk from the east wing to the teacher’s lounge is a total nightmare.”

Younghyun grins. “Exactly. I should probably ask Mr. Lee to install a travellator, or something.”

He’s joking, right? You think he’s joking. At this point, you’re not sure. Because like every other teacher in this school, even the director seems to have a soft spot for him, so really, maybe you shouldn’t be so surprised if you’re greeted by a giant moving conveyor belt in the middle of the hallway tomorrow.

“I looked up contemporary ballet.” You ignore him, turning your laptop so he could look at your screen. “I thought we could do a similar arrangement with your students, since there’s only, like, what? Five of them?”

Younghyun scoffs. “Is that supposed to be a jab? Need I remind you that the music department did so well in the last three years that they had to split us into divisions?”

“What’s your point? You still ended up with the least number of students anyway,” you snicker to yourself.

“You’re so freaking childish,” he mutters under his breath, but that doesn’t stop you from smirking proudly at your own comeback. He fishes for something in his bag before smacking it on the table— a notebook, before flipping it open.

“How about something more poetic? You know, two worlds collide, kind of thing.”

“Pfft. Like you and poetic even belong in the same sentence.” You pick up the book, only to lower it after a second— you’re too lazy to attempt to read whatever the hell’s going on there. Even after all these years, his handwriting still sucks.

Younghyun doesn’t seem all that affected by your disinterest. “Hey, you used to love my songs.”

Your fingers freeze, crumpling the edges of the paper slightly. 

Your neck snaps towards him. “That was one time, and I only said that because you look pathetic. Also, that was a long time ago,” you utter tersely, annoyed that he’d managed to catch you off-guard with such a cheap shot.

“Still counts.” He shrugs absently. “You know what’s also a long time ago?”

You know he’s about to say something stupid, so you don’t reply.

“Those glasses. What, are we in 2008?” He cackles at his own joke. “I can’t believe you still wear those nerdy goggles when you’re working.”

You snap your head towards him angrily, the motion causing your glasses to slip down your nose. Instinctively, you push it back to its place, causing the asshole to only laugh some more.

“Shut up! That’s because contacts-”

“Dry out your eyes. Yeah, I know,” Younghyun utters as he takes the book back from you, his other hand spinning his pen.

For the second time that day, you freeze, though you quickly catch yourself. Because if you didn’t know better— and you did know better— the way his smile had softened at his own words was just a figment of your imagination.

“Well, doesn’t matter. My girls think I look cute,” you sneer, for some reason feeling the need to justify yourself.

“That’s because they’re afraid to get marked down for saying the wrong thing,” he snorts.

There it is— moment ruined. Good. Because that means you wouldn’t feel whatever the hell that was earlier again.

“Admit it. You only wear those to look smarter in meetings,” he adds cheekily.

You roll your eyes. “Forget it. You email me your demo by the end of this week, and I’ll see how I can choreograph it for my girls. We’ll ruminate further before submitting our proposal,” you mutter, shutting your laptop.

“If you don’t want to work with me, why don’t you just say that?”

“Yes, I am quite literally saying that, Younghyun.” You stand up abruptly before leaning towards him. “Do not mess this up for me,” you warn before storming off.

His eyes follow your back, all the way until you disappear around the corner.

By the coffee machine, Sungjin waits until you’re out of earshot. “Feel better?”

Younghyun turns to him. “About what?”

“About whatever it is you’re trying to accomplish.”

A scoff. “I’m not trying to accomplish anything.”

“Then why do you keep provoking her like that?”

“‘Cause it’s fun.” Younghyun shrugs, returning to his book. “She gets this crease right here-” He taps the spot between his brows with his pen, “-whenever she’s annoyed. It’s funny.”

“Mm. If I didn’t know better, Mr. Kang, I’d say you’re flirting with her.”

His fingers freeze before he looks up at Sungjin again. “Hyung.” He deadpans, face suddenly devoid of humour. “Do not say that shit ever again. We’ve been at it for years.”

“Yes, since college, right? Though to me it just looks like you’ve been finding excuses to talk to her since whatever it was that went down between the two of you.”

“Why would I need an excuse? We’re working together for the showcase,” Younghyun utters as he stands up. “I’m leaving this conversation. Say something like that again and I’m sabotaging your collaboration.”

“Sure. Hey, don’t go slipping up and accidentally profess your love for her, or something. I don’t want to have to deal with your moping when that time comes.”

“I don’t like her!”

By Friday, the email arrives.

Subject: Demo_v3_final_FINAL(real).wav

You’re already annoyed.

You plug in your phone to the speaker, letting the music fill the empty studio as you start on your stretches behind the barres.

The school only ever gets this quiet when it’s after-hours, which also means it’s the only time you get to focus with no interruptions. You figure it’s a good thing Younghyun at least has half a mind to dismiss his students on time, because if you have to deal with all that noise even after the sun has set, you think you might just rip your hair out.

You start counting under your breath to the piano motif in the background. You hate to admit it, but it’s really… not that bad. You tend to forget how talented Younghyun is— probably because it’s overshadowed by all his tomfoolery and assholery.

You let your body move to the rhythm, not exactly creating anything just yet, rather, feeling it, familiarising yourself with the melody before setting anything in stone.

It reminds you of your days as a student, actually— you, in this very room, practicing grand jetés and redoing pirouettes until your feet blistered against the floor. Younghyun would sit behind you, back against the wall as he’d hum mindlessly under his breath. Every so often, he’d scribble in the notebook balanced on his knee, tweaking the phrase ever so slightly before humming the same tune again, like he’s chasing a melody only he could hear.

Back then, you never understood why he’d spend hours writing music he wasn’t ready to play. You’d even tease him for being pretentious, and he’d only laugh it off before closing his notebook, like he’s shielding you from something he didn’t want you to see.

Now, as you repeat the same sequence for what must be the fifth time, searching for a movement that feels right, you suppose this is what Younghyun must feel like when he’s composing.

“Ugh,” you mutter, stumbling out of your arabesque. “Why am I thinking about that idiot?”

You take a deep breath, stepping towards your phone to restart the audio, only to jump when the soft piano transitions into… drums?

Then, a guitar riff.

Followed by a voice, a voice you used to adore so much— but in this exact moment? Not so much.

The tempo changes. The key changes as well.

You clench your jaw, tapping your phone screen harsher than necessary to pause the track before yanking it away from the cable, and marching out.

Younghyun doesn’t seem all that fazed when you slam his doors open, only tilting his chin slightly to greet you with a small grin. He’s already standing with his guitar case over his shoulder, and for some reason, the sight only makes you fume even more.

You grit your teeth. “You.”

He points to himself. “Me?”

“You!” You yell, marching towards him until you’re toe to toe, shoving your phone to his face. “What the hell is this?! I told you not to fuck this up for me!”

“Did I not do what you asked for, Miss Ballerina?” He tilts his head, peeking at you from the side of your phone. “I gave you a demo.”

“You gave me an impossible demo,” you correct him, finally dropping your hand. “How the hell am I supposed to work with this mess? I can’t choreograph this!”

“Exactly.”

Silence.

Younghyun doesn’t tease, neither does he smirk. He merely stares at you… like he’s waiting for you to realise something— and you do.

You narrow your eyes.

“You did this on purpose.”

Finally, he smiles. Not smug. Victorious.

“You wanted me to hand you a song so you could disappear into your studio and call me when opening night arrived.” He steps closer. “Doesn’t sound too much like a collaboration, does it?”

You hate that he has a point.

Still, you’re not about to back down just yet.

“I don’t need you hovering over your shoulder.”

“You don’t,” Younghyun agrees simply. “You need me sitting next to you.”

You scoff. “I would rather staple my foot to the floor.”

“Sure. I’ll get the stapler.”

You groan, shoving past him to enter his studio. Fine. You’ll give it to him this time. For the sake of the showcase, and for the sake of your students, you’re willing to give in-

“Not here.”

You turn around, and Younghyun’s still standing at the door, like he has no intention of setting his belongings down to resume working.

Is he even taking this seriously?

He smiles. “Let’s get dinner first.”

✦ ✦ ✦

You don’t think you’ve ever dined in at the convenience store since you started working here as a teacher. Not because this place brings back memories you’d rather not remember, or anything— but more so because it’s usually swarming with students on their lunch breaks. That’s really all to it.

The night air is cool as you set your dinner on one of the plastic tables outside while Younghyun settles in next to you, already ripping open his gimbap.

You stare at his meal warily— consisting of a second gimbap, a cup of instant noodles, a bag of chips, and a canned coffee.

Right. You forgot. He’s always been a big eater.

“What?” He asks, as though feeling your eyes on him.

“Nothing,” you quickly mutter, averting your eyes away from his meal as you pick up your own chopsticks. “It’s just. You never changed.”

Younghyun chuckles. “Neither did you.”

You look at him again with a raised brow, and he nods towards your drink— your favourite grape-flavoured jelly packet.

“You still have the tastebuds of a seven year old.”

You huff. You can’t even fight him on that.

“They’re good, alright?”

“They’re liquid sugar.”

“They’re fruit-flavoured.”

“Fine, then they’re coloured sugar.”

“I can never win with you, can I?” You mutter, too lazy to argue. You don’t know what it is— maybe you’re tired. Could be the spring breeze. Or maybe it’s the last, plausible option you’re not that keen to admit: the nostalgia of sitting on this flimsy, plastic chair, scarfing down an unhealthy amount of sodium after being chided at by your teacher while Younghyun uncaps your drink for you, telling you to slow down before you choke.

Your eyes find your drink again. That stupid, bright green packet.

You grab it, quickly untwisting the cap open before downing it in one go.

If Younghyun notices, he doesn’t say anything.

Since the night at the convenience store, you’ve been spending more and more late nights in the studio with Younghyun. Even though the first submission only called for a written proposal outlining the collaboration’s general concept— which you already had— waiting for approval felt like wasted time, so you decided there was no harm in getting a head start on the actual production.

Younghyun had been surprisingly cooperative; you’d been fully prepared for him to call you uptight, tell you to relax at least once, or insist that there was still plenty of time before the next deadline. Instead, he’d simply roll up his sleeves every evening and ask, “where were we?”

But of course, the very moment you found yourself thinking: maybe, he’d matured since college, Kang Younghyun is quick to make you take back your words.

“You know, I heard Theatre’s doing this whole murder-mystery thing with Wonpil’s orchestra,” he utters, face towards the ceiling as he lies flat on the marley floor, hands absently strumming the strings of his guitar still on top of him.

You don’t look up as you fiddle with the ribbons of your pointe shoes. Tch, they’re all tangled. “How do you even know that?”

“I pried it out of that new teach, Yoon Dowoon. He’s so bad at keeping secrets,” Younghyun snickers to himself before sitting up abruptly. “Wait, should we, like, spy on them?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“I mean, hypothetically, if I were to just walk past Theatre’s rehearsal…”

“Hold this. Pull it taut,” you mutter, thrusting the ribbon into his hand as you adjust the folded strap around your ankles. “Do you make it your business to know what every department is doing, or something?”

Younghyun shrugs, his fingers tugging on the ribbon absently. “I’m nosy.”

Silence. Then,

“Should we make our kids act?”

You roll your eyes, finally retracting your outstretched leg after tightening your laces. “Mr. Kang, I’m not letting you steal another department’s idea.”

“No, not like that.” Younghyun shakes his head, and you realise that he’s being serious. “Theatre’s acting— sure, that’s a given, but everyone else is just… performing. As themselves. Who’s to say our kids have to do the same?”

You narrow your eyes at him. He wants a bunch of musicians and dancers to… act? As absurd of an idea that sounds, you couldn’t lie and say it doesn’t intrigue you.

“Don't like where this is going, but go on…”

“Just think of it as a music video, or something. We don’t need dialogue, or anything. Maybe just a script for the plot. I can do that part, don’t worry. And I might have get the boys to tweak some lyrics, but that’s also fine…”

Younghyun’s rambling. The same way he does whenever inspiration strikes.

Suddenly, you find yourself watching him. Really watching.

Back then, you’d listen to every word he’d have to say, because there really was something so infectious about the way his ideas would tumble one over another, like he didn’t have time to sort out his own thoughts.

Apparently, that hadn’t changed.

And neither, it seems, had the inexplicable warmth settling right below your ribs.

… Oh, for goodness’ sake.

Younghyun’s fiddling with something on his laptop as you stand beside him, arms crossed, facing the room instead of him.

“Oh, c’mon. You’re still mad about that?” He mutters, back hunched with his eyes still on the screen. “I promised we’d use your studio next time, didn’t I?”

“And I told you, it’s not about that. You cheated,” you whisper harshly.

“I didn’t cheat. My fingers twitched.”

“More like switched. You saw I was going to throw a stone and changed to paper!”

“We’ll rematch later, alright? Kids!” Younghyun returns to his full height when the door opens, cutting your argument short.

You huff. Leave it to Kang Younghyun to cheat at a children’s game— if it wasn’t for him being such a sore loser, you would’ve been in your own studio right now.

Then again, maybe resorting to rock-paper-scissors to determine whose studio would host the briefing wasn’t the most professional to begin with.

“Settle down, girls,” you instruct despite yourself, seeing your students gathering awkwardly at one side of the room. On the other side, Younghyun’s kids are already making themselves comfortable as they lounge among the amps and stools available.

It seems as though both groups are separated by an invisible line neither seems eager to cross, and you would’ve laughed at the disparity… if it weren’t for the nagging voice at the back of your head that they were simply, just taking after their teachers.

You spare Younghyun a glance. Have you, perhaps… made your disliking towards him a little too obvious?

A beat.

Nah. You’re a professional. That’s impossible. 

“Alright, people. Before we begin, just some housekeeping matters I wanna address. I’m well aware that this is the first time both departments are coming together like this, so do acquaint yourselves as you’d be seeing one another a lot moving forward. Second-”

Huh. Now that you think about it, you don’t think you’ve ever seen Younghyun like this before. He’s always been a featherbrain in your eyes, so seeing him in his element as a teacher feels kind of strange.

So he is capable of being an adult. He just refuses to show it when you’re around, for some reason.

“We don’t want this to just be two departments sharing a stage, showcasing what you have to offer individually and then calling it a day. No, it should be more of how you’re able to perform as a single unit despite your differences.” Younghyun clicks on his keyboard. A title slide appears on the projector.

Sun and Moon.

He’d run you through this briefly. Annoyingly, past midnight yesterday, around the time you’d just convinced your brain to stop thinking about rehearsals and schedules, only to be jolted awake to a call, one you really shouldn’t have picked up.

In your hazed state, you barely even remember what it was about. He had mentioned the two planets of course, that much you knew, but sometime between his explanation on celestial symbolism and a sudden tangent about eclipses, you’d mumbled out a sleepy sure… sounds fine… before promptly falling back asleep.

In hindsight, that may have been one of the poorer decisions of your career. Because now, as you’re standing next to Younghyun as he confidently cycles through his presentation you barely had the time to look over during breakfast, you could only hope he knows what he’s doing.

“The sun and the moon could never exist together. One governs the day, the other rules the night. They spend the entire story trying to outshine the other, but the more they try to fight it, the darker the world becomes. So now, they only have two choices: continue proving who’s right, or learn that the sky has always been big enough for the both of them. And when they do come together,” the slide changes. “An eclipse.”

The students murmur among themselves, some of your girls even nodding in approval-- wow, the betrayal. But you bite your tongue, because even you have to admit that his idea… isn’t all that bad. Doable, even.

“Of course, the details are yet to be ironed out, and if any of you have any suggestions on how to improve on the concept, feel free to let either of us know. Now, I’ll go ahead and let you listen to the demo.” Younghyun turns to his boys. “I’ll pull up the session again later. I want everyone to have a go at the arrangement before we lock anything in.”

You feel weird. Why do you feel weird? You haven’t said a single word since the briefing started, which is already so unlike you. It can’t be because you lost to Younghyun, right? You know you’re petty, but being so hung up over that would just be plain ridiculous.

You spare Younghyun a glance, as though doing so would give any semblance as to why your chest feels so tight. He looks the same as he always does, save the squarish glasses he’s currently donning, probably because he’s just as blind as you are when it comes to working with screens. You wish you could call him ugly the same way he did you the other day, but you can’t.

Why?

Because Kang Younghyun looks so damn good in glasses, it makes you want to punch yourself.

“Alright. Questions.”

A hand shoots up.

“Chanyoung.”

“Is this based on your love life?”

“I’d appreciate it if questions are kept relevant to the matter at hand, thank you.”

“Got it.” The boy nods thoughtfully.

A beat. Then, the same hand raises.

“What life experiences did you draw from when writing this?”

“One more question like that, kid, and I’m reassigning you to the triangle. If there are no further questions, Miss-”

You blink when he says your name, mostly because it’s the first time he’s even said it at all— at least, the first time in a long while. Since you started working together, Younghyun’s only ever insisted on calling you Miss Ballerina, or whatever ballet-related nickname he’d pieced together from a pop culture reference. Most of them were inaccurate. All of them are annoying. So to hear him use your real name like that feels…

No. You don’t like this feeling.

You clear your throat. “We’ll wrap up, then. Girls, remember to bring your character journals tomorrow. We’re starting on movement exploration, so I want everyone to come in having thought about who your character is— be it the sun or the moon— before we touch on choreography.”

The room gradually empties until you’re left staring absently at the projector screen. Weirdly enough, Younghyun is quiet too as he disconnects the HDMI cable from his laptop, only humming softly under his breath as he works.

That’s annoying.

So is his voice. His laugh. His face. The way he looked at you when he said your name. All of it… annoying.

If this was all it took for you to act like some high schooler with a crush— not that you like Kang Younghyun, of course, because that would be plain ridiculous— then clearly you need to… 

You need to see someone.

A date.

Yes.

A date, with a completely normal, well-adjusted adult man who doesn’t call you shitty nicknames or cheat at rock-paper-scissors. One who doesn’t occupy every waking thought despite being so freaking insufferable—

“Miss Ballerina.”

You physically flinch.

Younghyun raises a brow as he shuts his laptop. “You know, you’ve been weird all day. What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing. Why are you all up in my business?”

“O…kay?” He laughs as he steps towards you, then holding up a fist.

You look up at him, confused. “What?”

“Rematch. As promised.”

You scoff loudly. “I don’t need a rematch. We’re using my studio for the first rehearsal and that’s final.”

“You never back down from a rematch.” Younghyun tilts his head. “Are you scared?”

Your eye twitches. This asshole always knows how to get to you.

“Fine.” You raise a fist, and Younghyun grins as he pulls his own hand back.

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!”

Your knuckles remain clenched in between the both of you, while Younghyun’s palm is spread wide.

“Assa!” He cheers, victorious, and before you could even react, his hand grabs yours, capturing your whole fist.

“Caught ya,” he sings cheekily before letting go and whistling out of the door, leaving you wide-eyed, red-cheeked, and reaffirming every reason why you so desperately need to go on a date with someone that isn’t him.

“Listen for the transition after the second chorus.” Younghyun drags the playhead back to the beginning of the track. “This section here’s still empty. Sohee, I want you to mess around with some synth pads tonight. Nothing too bright, just enough to replace the placeholder strings.”

The boy throws a thumbs up, already typing away on his own laptop.

Younghyun clicks his tongue as he scans through the timeline once more. The sooner he could finalise the demo, the sooner both departments could get together for a joint rehearsal. He knows you’ve been solely depending on his first draft to choreograph, and Younghyun couldn’t help but wonder how far along you’ve gotten. Farther than him, probably. He’s seen you work— if there’s anyone who could pull off an entire performance with a rough demo alone, it’d be you.

He also imagines the face you’d make when you’d inevitably find something to complain about once he shows you the final draft— not because it’d be bad or anything, but probably because of how vague it sounds, or how impossible it is to choreograph.

That thought earns a grin despite himself.

“That reminds me.” Younghyun circles the bridge with his cursor. “This whole section exists for the instrumental medley for the dancers. So don’t overcrowd it, or you’ll suffocate the choreography.”

The boys nod.

“Speaking of choreography…” Eunseok sighs, leaning back against his chair. “Do we really have to dance, Teach?”

“I’m not asking you to dance, I’m just asking you to act a little bit. You know, like they do in silent movies. But hey, since you brought that up— I’ll probably have you guys sit in on one of the ballet rehearsals so you could learn a thing or two about stage presence.”

That earns a collective groan from the group.

“But The Hawk’s terrifying! I haven’t been able to remove my drum mute pads ever since she came marching in asking us to tone it down.”

“The Hawk? That’s what you kids call her?” Younghyun scoffs as he saves his project file. “Please. She barely even raises her voice.”

“Exactly. She’d just stare at you like you’re her prey, and the moment you make a mistake…” Chanyoung leaps forward with clawed fingers, causing the rest to jump. “She’d sink her talons into you.”

A few chuckles ripple across the room.

“Seriously, she’s such a bi-”

“Oi.”

The word lands sharply enough that the room falls silent.

Younghyun doesn’t raise his voice— he doesn’t need to. He simply stares at them.

“We’re not doing that.”

This isn’t the first time he’s had to rein the boys in. He gives his students plenty of room to joke, to push boundaries, even poke fun at him, but never at another person’s expense.

Especially not yours, a nagging voice at the back of his head says.

“You don’t have to agree with her. You don’t have to like her teaching style. But you will treat her with respect."

The boys shift uncomfortably.

"Look, I know she's strict. She's intense. But she knows her stuff. So if you stopped treating this like a joke, you could actually learn a thing or two from her. Got it?"

“... Sorry, sir.”

“Good.” He nods. “We’ll have another run-through first thing tomorrow. Spend the rest of the day studying the music videos I’ve listed on the board. Especially you, Sohee— as the vocalist, you’ll be carrying most of the emotional beats with the solo dancer, so I want you studying artists who can act through a performance, not just sing it. Timing, expressions, eye contact-”

“Eye contact? You want me to stare at her?”

“Ideally, with emotion, yes.”

Sohee slumps against his chair. “Any pointers?”

Younghyun pauses for a second to think.

“Don’t overthink it. The more you do, the more difficult it’s gonna get.”

The words feel oddly foreign the moment it leaves his mouth, and the irony isn’t lost on him.

He’s been overthinking you ever since the two of you started working together again.

... Fuck.

Sungjin’s right.

Even now, as he sits in the teacher’s lounge with a cup of coffee in one hand, your favourite jelly drink in the other, he’s still overthinking.

Younghyun doesn’t understand why.

You’ve been colleagues for years now, and schoolmates for even longer. It’s not like anything particularly bad happened between the two of you back then— conventionally speaking, you weren’t even considered friends. You bickered more than you did talk. You competed. You stole each other’s practice rooms, then ended up at the convenience store afterwards, more times than either of you’d care to admit.

You found him annoying. He thought you were uptight.

So there really was no reason for things to be as complicated as it is now.

Why do his thoughts seem to have a habit of circling back to you?

Actually, Younghyun might have a hunch, but it’s not something he’s ready to admit out loud.

At least, not yet, because even in theory it sounds fucking ridiculous.

The door opens, and Younghyun’s grip only tightens around his coffee cup the moment you walk— no, skip— into the teacher’s lounge.

What’s gotten you so chipper today?

And not only that— you look pretty.

Well, you’ve always been pretty— that much, he’s willing to admit— but today? A different kind of pretty.

Instead of your usual track jacket and yoga pants, you’re in a dress, frills up to your knees, and over it, an oversized brown leather jacket to match with a pair of boots he wasn’t even aware you owned. Your hair runs freely down your back, no longer gathered in a loose bun like it is every day, but most of all-

You’re smiling.

The same smile you’d give him ten years ago whenever he’d tease you, or when he’d pass you your favourite jelly drink after a long day of practice.

Except now… he’s no longer on the receiving end of that smile. He hasn’t been in a while.

“Oh, I’ve been to that restaurant! My husband brought me there on our first date!” The teacher you’ve been talking to gushes. “Are you going there with a special someone, perhaps?”

Shit! He’d been so distracted, he’d missed out on what you’d been talking about. What’s this about first dates and a special someone?

“I’m just catching up with an old schoolmate- actually, you might remember him, Mrs. Kwan! I believe he used to be a student of yours. His name is Mark-”

Mark? As in, Mark from the dance department? B-boying, breakdancing, couldn’t-stop-backflipping Mark? The same Mark who came from Los Angeles and had all the girls swooning over his handsome face and American accent?

That Mark?

“Ah, I remember him! Very good looking young man, he is. Oh, dear, I’m so happy for you! About time you got out of that studio for once and started meeting new people!”

“It’s just dinner,” you reply meekly, tucking your hair behind your ear.

You’re blushing. Like, actually blushing. And Younghyun’s trying so hard not to pop your stupid jelly packet from under the table.

Why is he even feeling like this?

“Hello?”

He blinks, and suddenly, you’re in front of him.

You raise a brow. “You’re awfully quiet. What’s with you today? The last time I wore a dress to work, you asked me if I was auditioning for Bridgerton.” You twirl, the ruffles of your dress following your movement. “Go ahead. Have at it. I’d prefer if you get it out of your system now than later.”

Younghyun scoffs as he stands, stuffing the drink into his jacket pocket before you could spot it. “You know, you’re the only person I know who’d fish for an insult. Are you a masochist, or something?”

You make a face, like even you knew that wasn’t his best comeback.

“Really? That’s it? Wah, guess it really is my lucky day,” you tease, grinning widely before, again, skipping out of the room.

He stares at the door for a beat.

Fuck. What the hell was that?

“You know, you could’ve just told her she looked pretty,” Sungjin quips from the sofa at the other side of the room, not looking up from his laptop.

“Hyung.”

“Maybe even tell her to enjoy her date. I don’t know, just listing out some ideas.”

“Hyung, please stop talking,” Younghyun groans as he drops into the chair opposite him.

Sungjin finally looks up. “You okay?”

“... I have a bad feeling.”

“About her date?”

Silence.

“It’s just-” Younghyun stops himself, rearranging his thoughts. “That guy, he-” he pauses again before sighing. “Fuck it. Why do I even care?”

“You know, you’ve been weird all day.”

“I’ve been weird all month,” he corrects begrudgingly. “I don’t get it.”

Sungjin watches him quietly, not interrupting.

“I hear she’s going on a date, and suddenly I can’t focus on my work. I see her in a dress, and my brain just…” He makes a vague exploding motion with his hands. “It’s annoying.”

“That’s the word you’re going with?”

“I don’t know what else to call it.”

“I do,” Sungjin mutters. “Why is it so hard for you to admit that you like her?”

“I don’t like her, alright? What are we, in middle school?” Younghyun scoffs. “Look, we used to be friends. It’s only natural for me to get… concerned, right? Especially if she’s going on a date with that tool Mark Tuan.”

“Mm. And he’s a tool because?”

A beat.

“He made her cry before.”

Sungjin sighs. He’s not even going to ask him to elaborate. Younghyun’s always been secretive about whatever that went down between the two of you, and he knows better than to pry. But seeing his friend like this, so hopeless and mopey just because he refuses to admit how ridiculously head over heels he is for you-

“She’s going to Bistro 91.”

Younghyun turns to him. “I didn’t ask.”

“You didn’t. But knowing you, you’d probably spend the rest of the day thinking about it. So go.”

He scoffs. “I’m not crashing their date.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything. You said it yourself— you’ve been weird all month. So instead of sitting here and trying to reason yourself through it, why not actually go there and observe? Maybe seeing her with someone else will finally tell you if you’re being overprotective as a friend…” Sungjin trails off. “Or if it’s something else.”

Younghyun swallows, uncertain. “And if it’s the second one?”

“Then stop chickening out and tell her how you feel.” Sungjin stands up, seemingly done with the conversation. “For the record, I don’t usually do this. My wife would kill me if she finds out I’m enabling you to loiter outside another man’s date. But I’m willing to compromise my morals just this once, because I’m tired of seeing you so pathetic.”

Younghyun opens his mouth.

“You’re not crashing it,” Sungjin cuts in, almost sternly. “You’re just getting closure. If she looks happy, you leave. Got it?”

Younghyun groans loudly, slumping further in his chair. When did things even become this complicated?

He buries his hands into his pockets, only for something to crinkle beneath his fingers: the jelly packet he’d bought for you on autopilot earlier.

Fuck.

There’s really no way of escaping you, is there?

With the way Younghyun’s staring at you intently, one could say he’s being creepy.

But he’s not. He swears he’s not.

It’s just… 

“Screw it,” he mutters to himself before exiting his car, marching towards the entrance of the restaurant.

“Good evening, sir. Reservation under?” The hostess smiles, but Younghyun doesn’t miss the way her eyes linger on his outfit— right. Having thrown on the first hoodie he saw, he’s not exactly dressed appropriately for a place like this, but then again, it wasn’t like he’d been planning on being here to begin with.

“I’m with the lady over there.” He points vaguely at you, hoping the hostess would just drop it and let him in already before you could see him and scare him away before he could even enter.

She follows his gaze before smiling knowingly. “Of course. This way.”

Great, Younghyun winces. Now she probably thinks he’s severely underdressed, and forty minutes late. But whatever— that’s the least of his concerns, because the important part isn’t that you’re here.

It’s the fact that you’re here… alone.

You haven’t looked up from stirring your drink in a while, only occasionally checking your phone for a missed call or text— but nothing. You’ve never been one to care about what people thought about you, but even you’re not immune to the embarrassment of being stood up.

You feel… pathetic.

Pathetic, because you don’t even like Mark Tuan like that. What made you think it was a good idea to accept his invite for dinner when you weren’t even the least bit interested in him?

Because it was convenient, that’s what, the nagging voice at the back of your head says, but you quickly shut it down.

You’re not about to think about that person— the reason you’re even here to begin with— when you should be here with another man; though you suppose that's not happening anymore.

Someone settles in the seat in front of you just as you’re about to take out your wallet to call for the bill, and you think it’s Mark— that is, until you look up.

Your eyes widen. “Younghyun?!”

He doesn’t say anything, only opens the menu in front of you while his other hand calls for the waiter. “Mm. What’s good here?” You don’t reply. You can’t reply. You could only stare at him, bewildered.

“Yes, I’ll have your New York Steak, please. Medium rare.” Younghyun smiles at the waiter. You didn’t even notice the man standing by your table.

“And for the lady?”

“Um, just a salad, please. Thank you,” you stammer.

“No, actually, she’ll have the baked garlic butter salmon. And could you switch out the mashed potatoes for fries, please?” Younghyun hums as he reads off the menu.

You gape. “Wha- I-”

“Thank you.” He hands the menus back before you could protest.

“What the hell are you doing?” You seethe the moment the waiter walks away.

Younghyun blinks. “Ordering dinner?”

“You know damn well that’s not what I’m asking.” For the first time that night, Younghyun falters.

“... You were alone.”

“And so you decided to come here and rub it in my face? Freaking hell, Younghyun,” you scoff humourlessly. “When I told you to have at it, I meant to insult me the way you always do. Now this? This is a new low, even for you.” His expression hardens. “That’s not what I meant to do.”

“Then what? You pitied me? Felt sorry for me? So much so that you decided to swoop in and-”

“I was jealous.”

You still, your breath hitching in your throat. “What?”

“I was jealous,” he repeats, as though to confirm you hadn’t heard him wrongly. “I was jealous that you’d dressed up all prettily for a date with someone that isn’t me. And now? Now I’m pissed, because that tool felt like he had the right to stand you up like it’s nothing when for years, I could only ever dream of getting to see you like this.”

Your hand clenches tightly on your lap.

“Kang Younghyun.” You swallow, whispering shakily, “You don’t mean that, right?”

You’re expecting for him to laugh in your face, to tell you it’s a prank. Hell, there’s probably a hidden camera somewhere-

But Younghyun only smiles at you sadly. He shakes his head as he clears his throat. “Forget what I said. Let’s just eat.”

How? You wanted to ask him. How the hell are you supposed to stomach anything after everything he’d just said?

“I’m so sorry!”

A breathless voice. One you don’t even register until you look up, still dazed, to see the actual man who’s supposed to be here an hour ago, standing next to you.

Oh, what the fuck is your life? You actually want to laugh. Or scream. Maybe even both at the same time.

Mark’s apologising profusely— something about there being a hold-up in the expressway, and his phone dying halfway through— honestly, you’re not even listening anymore, because you’re looking at Younghyun again.

He’s not looking at you, eyes fixed on his plate as he scoffs to himself, almost like even he’s aware of how fucking absurd of a situation you’re both in right now.

“Sorry. I’ll get out of your way,” he eventually says quietly, standing up.

“Younghyun, no-”

“It’s fine. I said what I needed to say.” He forces out a smile, putting some cash on the table. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

He leaves.

It’s getting harder to breathe. Your head is spinning, your heart is pounding, and you’re pretty sure Mark is calling you, but you can’t hear him.

You stand up, and the sound of your own chair finally snaps you out of your own head.

Mark comes into your line of vision. “Hey-”

“I’m really sorry.” You cut him off, grabbing your bag. “I- I can’t.”

You run after Younghyun.

✦ ✦ ✦

Well.

That went horribly.

Younghyun stuffs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie as he walks, mainly to stop them from trembling. He doesn’t even know where he’s going, his car still by the curb outside the restaurant, because fuck, does he need some air to cool down.

There’s some footsteps behind him.

“Younghyun!”

He doesn’t stop. Why the hell are you following him? You should be inside-

“Kang Younghyun!”

He sighs, finally halting his steps.

By the time he turns around, you’re slightly out of breath.

You glare at him, absolutely fuming. “What the fuck?!”

His brows scrunch in confusion. “Huh?”

“You-” You step towards him. “This is all your fault!”

There it is. He sighs. “I know. I’m so-”

“My salmon!”

What.

“My salmon’s probably arrived and getting cold because of you! And my fries, too- how the hell did you remember that I hate mashed potatoes, huh? Fuck! I’m so fucking hungry!” You let out an exasperated cry.

Younghyun blinks.

“I skipped lunch because I thought I was going to be eating dinner, but you-” You point a shaky finger at him before letting it drop. “I had a plan, okay? I was supposed to go on this date and be normal and prove that whatever weird thing that’s been happening to me was only because we’d been spending too much time together. And then you show up in that stupid hoodie, ordering my food for me like it’s still ten years ago, then tell me you’re jealous? Like it wasn’t bad enough I couldn’t stop thinking about you— congratulations, Kang Younghyun! You just made things ten times worse!”

A beat.

Then, he laughs dryly.

The asshole has the audacity to laugh.

“Did you think it was easy for me?” He shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “You’re still the same, aren’t you? A plan, you say. Everything has to make sense with you, doesn’t it? You can’t just…” he searches for the words, frustration getting the best of him. “You can’t just feel things.”

“I do feel things,” you bite back defensively.

“No, you organise them. The same way you organised a whole date, because you decided that was the most efficient way to get over me.”

“What the hell else was I supposed to do?!”

“I don’t know! Talk to me, maybe?”

“Talk to you? Younghyun, when have we ever done that?” You exclaim. “We weren’t friends. We hated each other. But somewhere along the way, things changed, and for the life of me, I couldn’t figure us out. You’d wait for me after rehearsals. I’d buy you an extra drink because I knew you’d complain if I didn’t. We’d argue all afternoon, and somehow end up eating instant noodles together that same night like nothing happened. None of it made sense,” you laugh hollowly. “And then one day I see you kissing Han Jurim and I just- I just- shit.” Your first tear falls. You wipe it harshly with the back of your hand. “I figured whatever I thought was there was just a part of my imagination.”

“It wasn’t.” He steps towards you. “It wasn’t. Fuck. You thought I liked Han Jurim?”

“You kissed her!”

“She kissed me. There’s a difference.” Younghyun runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “She thought the flowers I got for you were for her, then she all but threw herself on me and I pushed her away and the next thing I knew you were running away and- fuck. Was that why you were crying? Because you saw me with her?”

You swallow, looking away. Younghyun calls your name, like he’s pleading you not to.

He steps closer. “It wasn’t because of Mark Tuan?”

You shake your head, wiping the moisture from your skin. “Look- let’s just forget it. It was a long time ago, and-”

“Don’t.”

When you look up, Younghyun’s already looking at you.

“Please don’t.”

“Younghyun-”

“We’ve spent the last ten years walking away from each other. Just… let’s not do that tonight. Yeah?” He steps even closer, and slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to do it, Younghyun lifts his hand to cup your cheek softly.

“You said earlier that you couldn’t stop thinking about me,” he murmurs. “Does that mean I still have a chance?”

You dare to meet his gaze. “A chance to what?”

“A chance to take you out.”

Your breath stops completely.

“Just one date. No ruined reservations. No running away. No Mark Tuan. No Han Jurim. Just… you and me. Let me make up for all the time we’ve lost.”

Your lips part, but you remain silent— because what the hell. For the first time, his words manage to render you speechless.

At your lack of response, the confidence on Younghyun’s face disappears completely. His hand falls back to his side.

“I… unless the answer’s no. In which case, just pretend I didn’t say any of that. I- shit, sorry.” He laughs awkwardly. “I shouldn’t have put you on the spot. We can just… pretend tonight never happened. And Mark’s probably confused as fuck right now so I should probably go apologise-”

You kiss him.

No words. Simply, pull him by his hoodie, get on your tip toes, and kiss him, because fuck, he seriously talks too much. But the moment you pull away, and Younghyun’s staring at you with glazed eyes and parted lips and red cheeks— you realise that maybe, shutting him up like that probably wasn’t your wisest idea.

Because what the hell do you do now? Do you shake his hand? Hug him?

“Um.” You’re the first to break the silence as you take a step back, almost stumbling in the process. “I should- it’s late.”

Younghyun blinks. “Yeah.”

“We have school tomorrow.”

Another blink. “Yeah.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

A beat passes.

“Okay. Bye.”

You clutch your jacket tighter around your frame before side-stepping around him, already muttering a string of curses under your breath as you walk away.

What the hell was that?

“No- wait.”

You’re almost embarrassed at how fast you turn around— but then again, you don’t think anything could be more embarrassing than how you’ve acted tonight. “Y-Yeah?”

Younghyun stares at you for a moment, almost like he’s weighing out his next words, until he eventually settles on: “Nothing. Drive safe.”

You exhale, though you’re not so sure if it’s in disappointment or relief. You’re not about to get into that right now.

With a final nod, you turn back around and speed walk away.

Younghyun massages his temples as he trudges towards the studio.

He’d barely gotten any sleep last night, and he knows the migraine that’s forming behind his eyelids is nobody’s fault but his own.

You kissed him.

You kissed him, and he’d only barely managed to kiss you back before you pulled away. Like that wasn’t already bad enough— afterwards, like an idiot, he couldn’t even find the words to make you stay.

Why couldn’t he have just acted normally? Maybe even making light of the situation and teasing you for having a crush on him would be better than whatever the fuck he did last night.

Younghyun groans, letting his head fall towards the door in front of him. He’s in no mood to teach today, and if he’d even so much fail at schooling his expression, he’d be in big trouble: there’s no saying the kind of questions his boys would bombard him with.

The door next to him opens the same time Younghyun lifts his head— and his breath only hitches at the sight of you.

Like him, you look equally as stunned, as though having not expected to see him here despite your studios being next to each other. The usual Younghyun would’ve already teased you for looking like a deer in headlights, but who is he to say anything now when he’s sure he looks the same— if not worse?

He quickly straightens his back, clearing his throat. “Hi.”

“Hi.” You nod curtly, only to avert your gaze immediately after.

“I was just-” He motions vaguely to the door. “About to enter.”

He winces. No shit, idiot.

“Oh. Yeah, of course.” You shake your head. “Um, anyways, what time are you coming over?”

His eyes widen. “W-What?”

Your eyes widen too. “Oh- no, no!” You wave your hands as if to retract your words. “I meant, for the rehearsal. We’re using my studio today, right?”

Younghyun wants to punch himself.

“Shit, yeah, my bad,” he sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “Sorry. We’ll be over later at three. I just need to do a dry run with my boys first.”

“Of course! Take your time!”

You cringe inwardly. Could you sound any more eager? As if throwing yourself at him like that wasn’t already bad enough, now you’re acting like some sort of bumbling fool? This is so unlike you. You’re really no better than Han Jurim-

You snap out of your thoughts when you see Younghyun’s fist in front of you.

You look up. “Huh?”

He tilts his head. “Wanna have a go?”

You squint your eyes suspiciously. “Why?”

“Because clearly we’re both acting weird and I don’t know how else to talk to you.”

You almost laugh.

Of course, leave it to Kang Younghyun to be so brutally honest like that, but somehow, his words make you feel a little better. He’s right— this isn’t like the both of you at all. And you’re acting like this, why? Because of a simple kiss?

You’re better than this. It’s either you continue acting like a silly teenager with a crush for the first time… or handle this like adults.

“Fine,” you breathe, extending your arm. “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!”

Younghyun throws out scissors. You, paper.

“Yes!” He pumps his fist.

“Wha- no fair!” Your whine. “Again.”

“Nope. Not how it works, Miss Ballerina,” he teases, wiggling his finger in front of your face. It somehow feels like all the tension from earlier has dissipated completely. You wonder if Younghyun had done it on purpose. “I win, so I get to request something from you.”

Oh, my God.

Just as you thought things were starting to go back to normal again, your mind decides to go back to yesterday.

He’s not going to… ask you to kiss him again, is he? Perhaps, ask you to be his girlfriend?— in the middle of the school hallway, though? That’d be crazy, right? But then again, you wouldn’t put it past Kang Younghyun to do something as tacky as that just to embarrass you. Shit! Why the hell do you even like this guy-

Younghyun snaps his fingers. “I got it.”

You cross your arms, bracing yourself. “Yes?”

“I want your tray,” he says simply, grinning. “For lunch. Since the lunchlady likes you, she always gives you extra portions, and they’re serving stir-fried beef today, so.”

You don’t reply.

For a full five seconds, you just stare at him wordlessly.

He blanches. “... no? Okay, then maybe just your pudding-”

You instantly throw out a fist, punching him square in the shoulder, and Younghyun crouches down instantly, wheezing at the sudden impact. “Ow…”

"Serves you right," you mutter as you storm back into your studio, slamming the door shut before leaning against it. Your face feels hot. So hot.

That idiot.

“Teach, you okay? You’re all red,” one of your students pipes up upon seeing you. She gasps. “This isn’t because of what happened the other day, is it?”

“No. What happened the other day?” You utter, stepping away from the door before you could second-guess yourself— shit, now you don’t remember why you even went out in the first place.

Stupid Kang Younghyun.

“Well, it’s just- I heard from Sohee that…” she looks at the other girls, almost like she’s asking for backup after her inadvertent slip-up. 

Despite yourself, you’re curious. “What is it, Hari?”

“N-Nothing! I just thought you’d gone over to tell Mr. Kang’s boys off, or something.”

“What do you really take me for? I don’t just go around scolding other kids, you know,” you sigh. “Listen, girls. The first joint rehearsal’s happening today, and I know it’s going to be different, but I’m going to need you to be nice to them, okay?”

“They weren’t very nice to us, though,” one of the other girls murmurs. “That drummer boy literally almost called you a bi-” She stops herself upon meeting your stern gaze. “- a choice word. Until Mr. Kang stepped in and scolded him for it.”

“Yeah, he was all like, what you’re not going to do is disrespect her like that. Not on my watch,” another one pipes in with a deep voice, earning a few giggles from the other girls.

“Sohee said he’s never seen Mr. Kang that angry before,” Hari adds unhelpfully, her voice then lowering down to a mere whisper. “That was hot, wasn’t it?”

“Girls,” you cut them off despite yourself. Now’s not the time to dwell on… whatever this is. Even so, the voice at the back of your head sounds: did Younghyun really do that for you?

You think back to the hallway. To the game of rock-paper-scissors. To his ridiculous request for your lunch tray. Then to you punching his shoulder… the same shoulder he’d apparently squared at his students while telling them to respect you.

Your stomach twists.

Maybe punching him like that hadn’t been your finest moment.

✦ ✦ ✦

You slam a bottle of strawberry milk on the table.

Younghyun looks up, cheeks puffed out mid-bite.

“Sorry,” you say stiffly, settling in the seat opposite him.

Idiot. Didn’t he say he wanted your tray for lunch? Why is he already scarfing down his own food before you even reach the cafeteria?

… Did he say that just so you’d sit with him?

Younghyun swallows his food. “What for?”

You nod vaguely to his shoulder, and Younghyun lets out a small ah. He puts down his chopsticks before latching onto his own arm dramatically.

“I might never recover.”

“Kang Younghyun,” you mutter darkly, and he cuts it out, snickering to himself.

Now that it’s just the two of you, you’re not sure if you should ask him about yesterday. Technically, you still haven’t given him your answer yet-- but a kiss was answer enough, right? 

Still… if you made things official-

You cringe inwardly at your own thoughts. What are you, in high school?

If you… got into a relationship, what if it affects work? Especially with the showcase right around the corner, you don’t think you want to risk jeopardising it, should things with Younghyun not work out. And if things didn’t work out… what then?

You couldn’t believe you’re overthinking this, all while the idiot opposite you is munching on his food like it’s nothing- gah. He’s impossible. You hate him. You hate him so much that you want to kiss him-

“You’re overthinking.” 

You look at him, startled. “Huh?”

He nods towards your tray. “You’ve been staring at the same fishcake for the past three minutes.”

“Oh.”

A beat passes.

“You wanna talk about it?” He asks, quieter. “Yesterday?”

“I- I don’t know.” You shift in your seat. While you’re relieved that he’d chosen to bring it up first, you’re not sure if having this conversation in the school cafeteria, of all places, would be the most ideal. Still, you should try and get it over with, though, right? “Probably. It’s awkward, but I guess we should, shouldn't we?”

“We don’t have to.” Younghyun shrugs. “Not if you don’t want to. Either way-” He takes a bite. “I’ll still like you after.”

Instantly, heat rushes to your cheeks.

“Don’t say things like that!” You hiss, checking to see if anyone had heard. Unlikely, since most of the students are still in class, but you could never be too careful. 

“Why not? It’s true.”

“I just…” you sigh. “You know, you’re right. What you said about me not being able to just feel things.” You fidget with your chopsticks. “Right now, the better part of me is just screaming at me to talk it out with you, but it’s just-” you pause. “I’m scared.”

There it is.

Younghyun’s eyes soften.

“I like you too, Younghyun, but I’m terrified. What if we take the next step and things go wrong? We work together, and with the showcase coming up I don’t know if I can just-” you motion vaguely with your hands, frustrated.

“I know,” he says softly. He’s silent for a few moments before he continues. “Do you ever wonder why the sun and the moon never try to become each other?”

“Huh?” You scrunch your brows. You’d just quite literally poured your heart out, and that’s the first thing he says?

“I’ve just been thinking about it,” he admits, almost shyly. “Sometimes the sun arrives first. Other times, the moon. They can’t be more different than each other, right? But neither stops rising just because they don’t know what tomorrow looks like.”

Your chest tightens. Damn you, Kang Younghyun. Always so good with words.

“Every now and then, they’d end up sharing the same sky anyway.” He smiles, placing a slice of beef on your plate. “So stop worrying about it, Miss Moon. Because I’ll still be here tomorrow.”

You huff, trying to erratic beating of your own heart. “Why don’t I get to be the sun?” You mutter.

“Because I’m the sun in this relationship,” Younghyun proclaims proudly.

Relationship. That word sends a warmth through your chest, and the worst thing? You don’t think you mind it.

“Please,” you manage to scoff despite yourself. “On what basis?”

“On an everything basis. Look at me!” He gestures broadly to himself, grinning widely.

You do. The way his eyes crinkle into little crescents. The way half-moon dimples form on his cheeks.

Hah, you almost scoff to yourself.

For someone who insists he’s the sun, it’s ironic how every feature you adore of him his reflects the moon.

“-and hearsay, our students kissed in the music room the other day. Allegedly.”

Your mouth drops as you turn to him, the chains of the swing you’re on rattling at the sudden movement. “No way. Hari and Sohee?”

Younghyun nods, smirking proudly. “Apparently it was an accident. Happened when they were rehearsing for the solo. Jeez, no wonder he asked me for advice. Kid was nervous for a whole other reason this whole time.”

You raise a brow. “What did you say to him?”

“What?” Younghyun raises his hands, defensive. “I just told him not to overthink it.”

“Well. You’ve said worse things,” you mutter, earning a disgruntled hey! from the man next to you. You snicker.

The both of you fall into silence, only the quiet breeze and the occasional creaking of the swings you’re on filling the night air. Younghyun had suggested coming to the park earlier, since, in his words, wasting your Friday night at home eating takeout would be lame when you could be hanging out with him instead.

You don’t know how to tell him sitting in an empty kids playground at 9pm isn’t exactly the coolest thing either. Then again, you have been here since 6, so you figure you’re really not one to talk seeing as you’d only be proving his words right.

You like hanging out with Kang Younghyun, sue you.

“Wanna bet if they’re gonna end up together?”

You scoff. “As if Ko Hari would even let herself believe that she likes him. That girl’s already stressed enough as it is about having to lead the medley; the last thing she’d do is let herself get distracted by some boy.”

To your surprise, Younghyun laughs.

You turn to him. “What?”

“Nothing.” He smiles. In the dimness, his eyes seem to glint a little more, the upwards tug of his lips softening at the corners.

Has Kang Younghyun always looked at you that way?

“It’s just…” he inhales, tilting his chin to look at the stars, the remnants of a smile still playing on his lips. “They kinda remind me of us.” 

Your breath hitches— not because he’s wrong, but because there’s something so terribly comforting about the way he says that word: us, as though there was never any debate that the two of you belonged in the same sentence.

“Younghyun,” you say his name, quietly this time. You wait for him to look at you before you continue.

“You’ll wait for me, right?”

The smile never leaves his face. If anything, it only grows softer, fonder, and you think: fuck, I’ll die if he ever looks at someone else like this.

He reaches out to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, his hand lingering by your face before he drops it in between the both of you, palm outstretched.

“I’ve been waiting for years,” he says, just as quiet. If you hadn’t been listening so intently, his words might’ve gotten carried away with the breeze. “A little while more isn’t gonna kill me, yeah?”

You bite your inner lip, mostly to will yourself not to break down like an idiot in front of him. You nod, eyes glassy, letting your fingers entwine with his.

Younghyun squeezes your hand. He doesn’t let go.

Backstage always feels a little tense on the day of a big event.

Right now, students buzz among themselves in hushed whispers, the air a mixture of excitement and nervousness as they wait for the programme to begin. Younghyun would be lying if he said he wasn’t feeling a little antsy as well, though he’s sure it’s just the pre-show adrenaline that’s getting to him. He’s been doing this for years, but every time, it still feels like he’s the one going out there to perform.

“Mr. Kang.”

He turns to see you, your students right behind and already in their costumes. But of course, his eyes are fixed on you. They always are.

You’re in a dress again, this time of satin material that hugs your frame perfectly before cascading to the floor in gentle folds. Under the dim theatre lights, the lilac fabric catches every beam, shimmering softly like moonlight spilt across water.

You look stunning. Younghyun doesn’t think he could ever get used to that.

Your name only barely escapes his lips when he greets you back stiffly, quickly turning away before your girls could ask him why he looks like he’s about to barf.

Shit. Now he’s nervous for a completely different reason.

“Really?” You scoff when you return to his side after gathering your dancers at the seating area with the other students.

He looks at you. “What?”

You nod towards him, lips tugged slightly upward in amusement. “Your tie.”

Right.

He’d tried to look more presentable today, and after having consulted Sungjin, apparently his usual oversized button-ups and battered sneakers were a complete no-go for an event like the arts showcase— and in his words, especially if he wanted to look good for you.

Younghyun had scoffed at that, until he realised Sungjin was being serious.

That was how he ended up in a fitted black dress shirt, tucked into a pair of tailored trousers and polished dress shoes to match. Then, came the tie: according to Sungjin, a matching, plain one would be the most appropriate for a formal setting, as it easily ties the look together-

Younghyun called him boring. So they came to a compromise.

“I’ll let you do the stupid Windsor knot if you let me choose my own tie.”

The elder relented, clearly regretting even stepping in in the first place. “Fine.”

The result was a navy silk tie embroidered with tiny golden suns, moons, and other constellations— subtle enough to pass Sungjin’s inspection, but still eccentric enough to satisfy Younghyun. And fine— maybe it was also just an excuse to have a piece of you with him without having to shout it to the whole world (he’d also do that in a heartbeat of course, but he digresses).

“You nervous?”

“A little, yeah. Not because of the showcase, though.” Younghyun scratches the back of his neck, glancing at you. It’s amazing how easily he could be at a loss for words whenever the two of you weren’t bickering. “You look so pretty today.”

Your lips part before you avert your gaze, a faint hue brushing your cheeks. “Well, somebody said to me the other day that he was jealous I dressed up so prettily for someone else, so…” you shrug. “I had to.”

A chuckle escapes his lips. “You’re impossible.”

“Music production and ballet, you’re on in five!”

You exhale. “C’mon, we should probably go see the kids off. You ready?”

Younghyun nods. Ready.

✦ ✦ ✦

The overture begins as you’d rehearsed countless times before. Only this time, neither you or Younghyun are giving instructions.

You cross your arms, gaze zeroed on the stage, barely registering the applause, the lighting changes. Next to you, Younghyun’s just as tense.

Your girls weave through the band as practiced, a depiction of the sun and moon’s never-ending orbit around one another. Seeing the piece you’ve crafted come to life feels surreal, and you never would’ve expected two differing artforms to be able to come together so naturally. You don’t know if your feelings for Younghyun had changed your mind, but all your worries from before, about having to compromise your vision just to make this collaboration work, dissipates in that very moment, because what you have now is beautiful.

He hadn’t asked you to change your art. He’d simply… made room for it..

You finally understand.

The solo arrives.

Sohee’s voice fills the hall, softer than before, while Hari circles around him. When she reaches, he retreats. When she slips away, he follows.

You’d choreographed this with the paths of the two celestial beings in mind, but somehow…

Somehow.

You find yourself losing focus on the stage, vision getting blurry as you turn your head to the right. Younghyun doesn’t notice you watching him, his eyes fixed on his boys in quiet concentration. You know that look; he’s taking mental notes already. Not on what they could do better, but how he could’ve explained differently. Which ones worked. Which ones didn’t. What he’d tweak in his future studio sessions. He never stops being a teacher, always so critical of himself, and it’s taken you this long to notice it. Because despite his worries, he’s still smiling.

“Younghyun,” you whisper.

“Hm?” He still hasn’t looked your way.

The words escape your lips before you could stop them.

“I love you.”

Younghyun freezes, breath hitching in his throat.

He turns to you, and for a heartbeat, he simply blinks, as though your words needed a moment to reach him over the music.

“You…” he swallows. “You love me?”

You nod, tears already pooling on your lashes. “Yeah.”

For a moment, Younghyun only gawks at you.

“God. Oh, God,” he eventually mumbles, laughing breathlessly to himself. “You’re so mean. You did that on purpose.”

You scoff in disbelief, but despite that, you’re smiling. “What did I do?”

“Shit. Why did you have to say that here? I’m- I’m already trying not to cry as it is after seeing my boys on stage and now I really want to kiss you but I can’t-”

“Oh, my God. Are you really crying?” You step towards him, and an ugly laugh only escapes your lips upon seeing his glassy eyes. “No way! You actually are!”

“You’re crying too!”

The idiot’s sniffing, but somehow still finds the energy to be defensive.

“I-”

The auditorium breaks into loud applause, and it’s only then do you realise the song has ended. Shit— in the midst of you professing your love to Younghyun which somehow segued to another argument, you’d missed some parts of the performance. Does that make you a bad teacher?

You’re not given the time to dwell on it when you hear both your and Younghyun’s name announced through the speakers, inviting you to come on stage for the final bow.

“Go, go!” Younghyun’s laughing through watery eyes now, one hand pressed between your shoulder blades as he gently ushers you towards the spotlight.

You barely even register the sea of faces when you take your bow with Younghyun, and the moment you straighten, your girls are already throwing themselves at you.

Arms wrap around your waist in every direction, and you’re laughing despite the tears already streaming down your cheeks. Across the stage, Younghyun isn’t faring any better, his boys crowding around him for a group hug.

You watch him disappear beneath the pile of oversized suits and glittery costumes.

Ha. Serves him right.

As though sensing your gaze, Younghyun looks up.

Like you, his eyes are watery, though under the harsh stage lights it just looks like they’re gleaming. And somehow, you still manage to catch the way his wide grin softens, and it’s a sight you’ve come to adore so much recently.

Carefully, as to not let anyone notice, he mouths-

I love you.

Beneath the stage lights, surrounded by applause, the Sun finally managed to catch his Moon.

He doesn’t really know who he’s supposed to report to, and walking around aimlessly while trying to find the general office feels intrusive in some way…

so he ends up in the garden.

It’s really more like a small patch of dirt next to the cafeteria, though clearly well-tended to as could be seen by the neat rows of lettuce heads and baby tomatoes that are just only beginning to ripen. Also, the figure currently hunched over the dirtbed with a shovel in hand, and probably the reason behind why a garden so tiny could look so perfectly maintained— you.

“Hi!” Wonpil greets, silently grateful that his voice hadn’t cracked due to his nerves. “I’m the new music teacher that’s supposed to start today…?” He trails off when you don’t turn to him.

Weird. Were you ignoring him? You probably just hadn’t heard him.

He clears his throat. “Um, I’m looking for the general office. Or, if you could direct me to the principal, that’d be great-”

“Mr Kim! There you are!” Another voice sounds, and he turns to see Principal Lee, eyes crinkling behind her glasses as she smiles warmly at him. “My apologies. I should’ve given you directions during our call. Welcome to our school!”

“Ah- thank you.” Wonpil bows his head slightly as he steps towards the lady, but not before glancing over his shoulder to look at you again.

Your back is still turned to him, though standing now as you water the crops. You don’t acknowledge him, nor do you acknowledge the principal— it’s as though you’re alone, and nobody else is there with you.

Strange.

Principal Lee must’ve caught him staring (shamelessly, as he only belatedly realises), when a small ah escapes her lips. She steps towards you, peeking at the side of your face before waving at you gently to get your attention.

That’s when you turn, and—

Oh.

You’re pretty.

Wonpil blinks when the principal starts introducing you. He only barely manages to catch your surname, slightly stunned as he realises that not only is she using her words— she’s also using her hands.

And that’s when everything clicks.

Oh.

That’s why you hadn’t turned when he spoke. It wasn’t because you didn’t hear him— it was because you couldn’t.

“- and this is our new music teacher, Mr. Kim,” Principal Lee says, signing at the same time.

You smile then, and Wonpil swears he could feel his heart leap out of his chest.

One, because he’s flustered, yes— and slightly guilty that a small part of him had assumed you were being rude by ignoring him. Second, he doesn’t know sign language.

At all.

Wonpil bows as he mutters out a hello, only to remember you can’t hear him, so he ends up adding in a small wave for good measure.

If you notice how embarrassing he’s being, you don’t show it.

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t notice you. I don’t have my processors on,” you say while signing, then tapping your ear.

Your gestures are unfamiliar— he’s never had someone talk to him in sign language before— but it’s your words that manage to catch him off-guard, not because they’re unclear, but because they’re even spoken at all. 

And now, Wonpil feels even stupider for not considering it. Of course. Why did he assume you weren’t able to speak?

But it’s different, he realises, the way you form your words. Not in a bad way. Just… softer. More deliberate, like you’re placing them exactly where they need to be. They’re careful in a way that makes him listen a little closer, and Wonpil realises that maybe, this has nothing to do with you being deaf, but everything to do with you.

“It’s okay.” And because his ears are still warm from earlier, he clumsily adds, “I look forward to working with you.”

You nod, the smile not leaving your face as you sign together with your words. “Likewise.”

And for some reason, that gesture sticks with him all the way until he gets home, when he’s sitting in front of his laptop and ready to start crafting his first lesson plan for the term.

Except, Wonpil finds himself opening another Naver tab instead, and before he could stop himself, he types:

how to say hello in sign language

Wonpil finds you in the garden again, this time closer to noon.

The last time he saw you was a few hours ago, during a meeting with the creative committee about an upcoming play that’d be taking place in a few months. It’s something that the school organises annually for the graduating batch, though they’re planning to do something more special this year now that they have a music teacher. He’d learnt during introductions that you’d be in-charge of prop-making, and even though Wonpil doesn’t know you very well, he figures from your paint-stained jeans and crochet cardigan that it made the most sense.

Now, he tilts to look at you, waving his hand in your line of sight the same way he saw Principal Lee did to get your attention. From his research yesterday, he’d learned that tapping a Deaf person on the back without warning could startle them and potentially come off as invasive, and the last thing he wants is to be rude.

You look up when you see him from your peripheral vision, lips settling into your usual smile as you straighten your back. Before you could wave at him, he beats you to it—

Hello.

Your brows raise, before a small laugh tumbles out of your lips.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen, and it wasn’t like you were making fun of him. In fact, he had done it perfectly, if you don’t count the slightly-off placement of his hand near his forehead, and the way his eyebrows furrow like he wasn’t sure if he was doing it right.

Still, you understood him, and the fact that he even tried is… kind of sweet.

Hello, you sign back, and Wonpil laughs in embarrassment as he mirrors you, properly this time. He shifts awkwardly for a while before blurting out a soft oh! under his breath, taking out his phone from his pocket.

I’m Wonpil, he types.

“I still haven’t gotten the hang of signing my name yet,” he says sheepishly, and you nod, seemingly in understanding. He wonders if you could lip-read— not like he’d expect you to do that every time he speaks, of course.

You tell him your name and that it’s nice to see him again.

“I really like your garden.” He points to the dirtbed awkwardly, merely for the sake of having something to say.

You laugh again at that, but Wonpil knows it isn’t mean-spirited.

You open your palm, placing your thumb and middle finger together before tapping your chest lightly twice. “Like this.”

His lips part as he studies your movements, fingers curling as he tries to mimic you.

You step forward, glancing at him as though to ask for his permission, before gently taking his wrist and adjusting his fingers for him.

“There.” You smile. “Like.”

You step back, your lips still tugged upwards, and while Wonpil would like to think (or seriously hope) that he’d managed to school his expression, the sudden skip in his heartbeat clearly means otherwise, and only one thought crosses his head in that moment:

Shit. He’s in trouble.

Wonpil is slowly starting to get used to his new routine.

His classes are spread throughout the week, and since there are only three age groups in the school, his Tuesdays and Fridays are usually left free.

He’d often spend that time in the music room— it’s much easier to plan his classes there as compared to the staff room where it’s noisier. Occasionally, he’d find himself in the library, too— but only if you’re there.

Since the day at the garden, you’d gotten quite close to Wonpil. You believe it’s because his schedules aren’t as tight as the other teachers, though it does make you wonder why he chooses to spend his free time with you.

Even when you’re busy organising bookshelves, he’d still be at his usual table by the window, focused on planning out his lessons on his laptop. Other times, he’d be scribbling something down in his notebook. You’d dared to take a peek once, only to realise it wasn’t words he’d be writing down, but music notes.

You didn’t understand it, of course, since you had no reason to pick up a music module back when you were still in school, but Wonpil was kind enough to teach you the basics. In exchange, he’d ask you how to sign a colour, sometimes even a shape— depending on the material you’d be preparing that day.

It’s like we’re exchanging languages, he’d once written down in his music book for you to read, earning a small laugh from you. He decides that no composition of his could even come close to how lovely that sounded in his ears.

Your language may be silent, but Wonpil thinks it’s beautiful, the same way you find the way he translates feeling into music mesmerising.

The idea for the play had just been confirmed, and Wonpil’s finally able to start composing.

The theme is going to be garden-inspired, following a tiny seed that grows into a flower. Along the way, the seed will make other garden friends, with each of them representing different aspects of life like growth and change.

It’s cute, Wonpil thinks, fitting for six year-olds preparing to enter elementary school. The only problem is… he’s still new to working with children, and composing light, playful music isn’t something he’s done before.

Basically, he hit a dead end before he’s even started.

The piano lets out a series of jumbled notes as Wonpil drops his hands on the keys. He’d been hoping that inspiration would come to him naturally, what more now that he’s in a room full of drawings and colour, but his sudden creative block is making it hard for him to think straight.

Perhaps he should wrap up for the day and sleep on it.

A sudden knock interrupts him from his thoughts, and Wonpil looks up to see you.

You step in tentatively. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay.” He smiles briefly. “Just… brainstorming.” He taps the side of his head.

You nod, peeking at his music book balancing on the lid of the piano. It doesn’t look like he's done much progress— if you count the scribbled-out notes as progress at all.

“Can I ask for your opinion?” Wonpil asks you suddenly, and you raise a brow.

“Of course." You gesture for him to continue.

He picks up his pencil before scribbling down in his book.

The play is garden-themed, and you know the kids better than I do. What do you think the score should sound like?

You laugh. “Wonpil, in case you forgot, I’m Deaf.”

“I know.” He pauses for a moment before scooting to his left, prompting you to sit. You do, and your shoulders brush when you settle next to him.

“Music isn’t just about hearing,” Wonpil tells you slowly, tapping his ear. “It’s also about… feeling.” He signs the last word, one he’d learned from a random YouTube video he watched last night.

He turns back to the piano before hitting a note on the far left— A, if you remember correctly. He does it again, only this time, he brings his other hand to touch the top panel. He looks at you, prompting you to do the same.

He presses the key one more time, and the vibration thrums beneath your fingertips.

A0 is the lowest note on the piano. The vibration is slower. Deeper, he writes in his music book before putting down his pencil, hand skimming to the far right of the keyboard. You feel the vibration again as he presses the key, only this time, it feels different. Lighter, almost.

You laugh, mostly in awe, and he turns to beam at you.

“You feel it, right?”

You nod eagerly. Now you understand why some Deaf people love attending concerts. You’ve personally never been to one, but today it feels like Wonpil’s teaching you things you never knew about yourself. Maybe you’d try it out one day.

His smile drops a fraction. “Can I ask you something?”

You tilt your head, prompting him to continue.

“I don’t know if this is going to come off as rude, so you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to! But I was just curious…” he rambles nervously. “Is there a reason why you don’t wear your processors?”

There’s a pause as you take in his words, before a small giggle escapes your lips. You could see the wariness leave his face, clearly relieved that you hadn’t reacted otherwise, though his cheeks are now painted a faint pink hue, almost like he’s embarrassed.

You try not to dwell on how cute you think he looks, scrunching your nose instead as you sign, too noisy.

Wonpil laughs. That, he understood. You’d taught him that one day when he was telling you about the kids in his nursery class during their first music lesson. Needless to say, managing a bunch of three-year olds by himself was not a walk in the park.

“Anyway," you continue, “why don’t you join me at the garden tomorrow?”

“Oh, garden. That’s a new one,” he utters as he follows your gesture. You notice how Wonpil tends to pick up on your signing despite most of your conversations being verbal, his eyes always trained on your hands like he’s trying to learn even if you weren’t necessarily intending on teaching him.

You don’t think you’ve ever met anyone that keen in learning your language; it’s always been the other way round.

Then again, you don’t think anyone could ever be as sweet as Kim Wonpil.

In an hour, Wonpil’s managed to learn a few new words from you: seed, caterpillar, bee, sunflower.

Granted, it’s difficult to remember all of them perfectly, and he’d often mix up the hand gestures, but you’d laugh it off before gently adjusting his hands for him.

Wonpil totally doesn’t pretend to keep forgetting on purpose just so you’d continue helping him.

Not so bad, right? You beam at him as you pat the soil gently, having just planted a new row of peony roots.

Difficult, he signs with a pout. Your smile grows wider at that.

“There’s a reason why I do music and not this,” he huffs as he rakes the dirt with a gardening fork. “But I guess I did learn a thing or two.”

You nudge his shoulder playfully, and Wonpil stops sulking as he grins back at you. It’s hard to even pretend to be upset when you’re around.

Even now, long after he’s out of the gardening apron you’d loaned him and a pen in hand instead of a trowel, Wonpil can’t seem to stop thinking about earlier. He blames you for that— that gardening session was supposed to give him inspiration, not distract him further! And yet, the rows of music staff in his book still remain empty.

He sighs, mindlessly dragging his pencil across the paper. The random doodle eventually forms into a caterpillar, albeit a crooked one, and Wonpil smiles to himself. You’d shown him how to sign the word earlier— a little crawling motion across your arm— and there was something just so cute and silly about it that he couldn’t help but to laugh as he copied you.

He absently mimics the movement with his pencil, and it ends in a squiggly line right beneath his drawing. It kind of reminds him of a staccato; a set of short, detached notes ascending along the staff-

That’s it.

Wonpil’s eyes widen as he stares at the page, before he pushes his book aside completely. Stretching his fingers, he tentatively presses on some keys, following the staccato rhythm he had gotten earlier. He tweaks the notes as he goes along, but for the most part, he doesn’t think, he just does, until eventually, he ends up with a melody that sounds very much like it could belong in a kids’ musical.

A laugh escapes his lips as he plays the sequence again and again, making sure to write it down in his music book so he doesn’t lose it.

Finally, the first staff is filled. Even if it’s nothing much and he’d probably have to polish it later on, it’s still something, and Wonpil couldn’t wait to show you.

You find Wonpil at the piano in the music room, pencil in one hand, while the other rests idly on the keyboard. He doesn’t notice you standing by the door, too absorbed in scribbling something in the music book balancing on his lap. You can’t help but to smile at the sight. There’s just something so…endearing— and perhaps a little silly— about it; how someone as good-looking as him could also be so nerdy. You don’t mean it in a bad way, of course— you think the passion he has for his craft is admirable, and in the short time that you’ve gotten to know Wonpil, he’s easily one of the loveliest people you’ve ever met.

That probably explains why your heart always feels a little funny whenever you’re around him.

“Oh, you’re here!” Wonpil grins when he notices your presence, wasting no time as he shifts on the piano stool to make space for you. “I have something to show you. I finally figured it out! Ah, I’m speaking too fast, aren’t I? Hold on-”

You reach out to touch his arm just as he’s about to flip to a new page of his music book, nodding at him to signal that you understood. You don’t think he realises it, but he’s always been careful with enunciating his words when talking to you, even if he's practically buzzing.

Wonpil relaxes before he continues, “I finally managed to start on the first song. It’s still a work in progress, but- I wanted to tell you anyway,” he laughs sheepishly, like he’s embarrassed.

He pats the lid of the piano: your usual spot. You place your hand on the wood, and a second later, he starts to play. 

The pulses come in quick taps. Light, almost playful. It reminds you of rubber boots splashing into puddles after a rainy day, or children hopping during a game of hopscotch. You could feel the space between each note, some high, some low, and somehow, even without sound, you understand what he’s trying to show you.

He turns to you when he’s done playing, a boyish grin on his lips before he signs: how did it feel?

And for some reason, that’s the question that completely unravels you.

Because he didn’t ask you how it sounded. He asked you how it felt. And maybe, you’re making it a bigger deal than it should be. He’d probably said it mindlessly and you’re dwelling on it for no reason at all, but neither of that changed the fact that his words had stirred something in you. Something… soft, like a flower that’s just beginning to bloom.

You sign back. I love it.

“Yeah?” Wonpil lets out a breathy chuckle. “See, I was thinking of what you taught me yesterday. The caterpillar.” He flips to a previous page of his book, pointing to a scrawny doodle at the top right of the page. “It inspired me to write this. It’s called a staccato. Where’s my pencil?” He mutters under his breath in the midst of his explaining, searching the fallboard.

You tap his shoulder, splaying your palm upwards in front of him. “Write it here instead.”

Wonpil’s lips part, like he’s taken aback at your request, before he nods, pulling your wrist towards him gently. He traces his index finger on the inside of your hand, spelling out the word. Staccato.

You smile, and when he meets your eyes, he smiles too. It’s only then do you notice how close you are, and the lack of distance between you both causes your heart to stutter.

Just like a staccato.

You expect Wonpil to let go, but he doesn’t, only hesitating slightly before bringing his finger to your palm once more and writing down another word. Thank you.

Your pulse quickens, and now it feels like there's a drum in the middle of your chest, fast and loud.

You wonder if there’s a term for that too.

“Okay, class! Who remembers what song we learnt last week?” Wonpil points to the set of notes written on the whiteboard next to him before capping his marker.

A few hands shoot up, and Wonpil pretends to ponder loudly as he taps on his chin, earning a few giggles from the kids. “Yes, Yijin?”

“Hot Cross Buns!” The boy chirps enthusiastically, the triangle in his hands clinking at the sudden movement.

“That’s right! Good job, Yijin!” Wonpil leans forward to give him a high-five. “Today, we’re going to move on to the second part of the song. But first, can anybody tell me the name of this note?”

You watch from the back of the class with a soft smile on your lips. It’s clear that Wonpil’s gotten more comfortable at teaching now as compared to when he first arrived, especially since the kids love him so much. He’d gone from standing awkwardly at the front of the class to sitting cross-legged with them on the foam mattress on the floor, opting to peruse the small whiteboard on the easel instead of the wall-mounted one behind him. It’s easier to engage with the kids that way, he’d said.

You feel a tug on your sleeve, and you turn to see Sera, one of the quieter kids in his class. You realise that she has her arms reached out to you, a pair of castanets in her hands.

“What’s wrong?” You ask.

“I don’t know how to play,” she mumbles shyly.

You smile, shaking your head as you put your hands over hers. “We’ll play together, okay? I’ll help you.”

The girl nods, your words seeming to calm her down slightly as she scoots closer towards you.

“Now, this one is called a semi-quaver.” Wonpil points to a set of four notes joined together with a line on top. “See how they’re holding hands? This means that they’re really fast— like they’re running a race together! It sounds like this.” He raises his hands to clap a steady beat, like a metronome, before he sounds out the notes with his mouth. And even though you can’t hear him, you’re somehow able to understand.

Ta-ta-ta-ta.

You find yourself mimicking the rhythm, tapping the back of Sera’s palm with your index finger mindlessly. Two semi-quavers make up one regular note, and you realise that what you’re playing feels familiar— a staccato.

There’s another tug on your sleeve. When you look at Sera, she’s already looking at you with a bashful smile, her small hands clicking the castanet according to your tapping.

Your lips part in surprise before they settle into a proud smile. Good job, you sign before patting her head, and the little girl giggles.

In the midst of it all, you don’t notice Wonpil watching you, softly, longingly, like he’s the one on the receiving end of your gesture. He knows he should look away, but he can’t, and even though the classroom is growing increasingly noisier, he thinks the thumping of his heart still remains the loudest.

And somehow, the realisation that he might just be falling for you isn’t as scary as he thought it would be.

With only two months left to the play, both you and Wonpil start to get busier— you with prop-making, and Wonpil with dry runs and rehearsals. Still, in a school this small, it isn’t difficult to cross paths with him, because the garden has somehow turned into an unofficial spot for you to bump into each other in between your respective schedules.

You don’t know if Wonpil is doing it on purpose. It wasn’t like the both of you would intentionally agree to meet up— the garden has always been ‘yours’ even prior to knowing him, and when you’d be there tending to the crops after hours, he’d show up with his messenger bag slung over his torso, like he’s done for the day. And somehow, without fail, he’d end up kneeling beside you on the dirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a shovel in hand instead of going home.

Sometimes, he’d even be there before you, pacing aimlessly on the grass patch like he’s merely taking in the fresh outside air (though very obviously waiting for someone), only to break out into a wide grin when he sees you, quick to ask you how your day was as he hands you a cup of coffee he’d gotten from the cafeteria.

Even if Wonpil doesn’t realise what he’s doing, you don’t think you mind if it means getting to spend more time with him.

Today is the same, except now, he’s already clad in his apron, kneeling on the dirtbed with his back to you as he tends to the blooming peonies that you’ve planted just a few weeks prior.

“Oh, hi.” Wonpil turns to smile at you when he senses you approaching.

You wave, placing your bag on the grass before moving to join him. “What happened to not having green thumbs?” You ask teasingly.

He shrugs mindlessly. “Figured I’d give you a head start.” He pauses, placing his shovel down to turn to you. You’ve been busy lately. I wanted to help, he explains in broken sign.

Your lips part at that; not out of shock that he was kind enough to go out of his way to help you, but more so the fact that he noticed. It’s been a hectic last couple of weeks, with most of your time being spent in the school hall, making trees out of cardboard and patching up costumes with whatever scrap fabrics you could find in storage. Your days have been ending later and later because of that, today being no different, and even though you’ve grown accustomed to the sight of Wonpil in the garden, you weren’t expecting to see him still here at this hour.

I hope I’m doing this right, Wonpil continues sheepishly, looking almost nervous at your lack of reaction, and completely unaware of the effect he’s left on you.

He’s gotten better at that too, you realised— signing. You’re not sure if this has anything to do with your conversation the other day, but it leaves a certain warmth in your chest nonetheless. You think it’s less about that and mostly to do with Wonpil himself, though. 

Just as he’s about to start rambling again, probably something about his phone lying on the dirt currently playing a YouTube video about planting peonies, you quickly catch his wrist, and Wonpil startles at that.

I appreciate you, you trace the words right above his pulse, the same way he did to you the day in the music room.

Wonpil blinks once, maybe twice, before his lips bloom into a smile, soft and slow, like a flower unfurling in spring. Without a doubt, it’s a sight that’s quietly grown to be your favourite.

After all, you’ve always found blooming flowers to be beautiful.

You’ve never liked wearing your implants.

You’d gotten them when you were younger, and while they helped a lot in school, you also had to deal with headaches often due to all the noise and layered sounds. It wasn’t the most pleasant feeling, but back then, you knew you couldn’t afford to stop wearing them completely no matter how badly you wanted to— because removing them meant not being able to communicate with people. Removing them meant lesser job opportunities.

It wasn’t ideal, but you learnt from a young age that not everyone was willing to accommodate to your needs just because you were a little different, so you had to learn to adapt. Until eventually, you were fortunate enough to land a job with people that accepted you as who you were.

You never saw the need to wear your processors anymore since you started being a teacher’s aide here. The children don’t look at you like someone missing something— to them, you’re just their art teacher. The one who helps them mix colours, who laughs when paint gets on their sleeves.

Sometimes, without meaning to, you’d end up teaching them your language too. Small signs slipped in between lessons, curious hands mimicking yours. You’re not officially teaching it, but the fact that you can, makes this place feel a little more like it was meant for you.

You think that might also be the reason why you feel so comfortable signing with Wonpil— he’s never once pressured you to communicate with him verbally, never made you feel like you were difficult despite the communication barrier. If anything, he’s always been the one to meet you halfway, putting in the effort to learn sign, to slow down whenever he’s speaking, to keep his pencil and music book with him in case he ever needed to write something for you, until eventually, you stopped feeling the need to rely on your voice to talk to him.

Kim Wonpil is too kind, which is why right now, the moment you reach home, the first thing you do is to pull out your cochlear case. 

You’ve been thinking about it for a while, and with the date of the play approaching, you figure you should probably try to get used to your everyday sounds first. That also meant hearing Wonpil’s voice for the first time, and for a moment, you let yourself wonder what he could sound like.

Warm, probably. Gentle. Maybe a little breathy when he laughs due to how big his grins usually get. You’d never be able to get the full picture even with your implants on, that much you knew, but it’s close enough— close enough to be him, and you’d take what you can get.

And suddenly, you feel like the you from many years ago, nervous to start school for fear of being different, only this time, it isn’t the world that feels overwhelming.

It’s how you feel for him.

You carefully drag the last tree into place before you take a step back on the stage, searching the completed set-up for any adjustments.

The assembly hall has always been colourful to begin with, but all the cardboard foliage and felt trees has made the room brighter, in a way.

You feel a sense of pride wash over you. Even though you’ve been involved in the annual play since you started working here, somehow, it feels different this time.

The silence of the hall is interrupted when you hear the doors open, followed by children shuffling in noisily as they sing,

“Line up, line up, one by one!”

You’d forgotten that that’s how things usually work around here; how the teachers would use an instructional song for every task because it made managing the kids a little easier. Even though you haven’t worn your processors in a while, you could recognise the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star as the children sang-

But then, a voice cuts through.

Easy. Light.

That makes you turn around immediately.

“Left foot, right foot, don’t you run-”

The kids follow, some off-beat, some a little too loud, and Wonpil laughs.

That’s when it shifts.

Because even through the distortion, even through the sharpness, the sound spreads warm… and unmistakably his.

As if on cue, Wonpil meets your gaze, his lips instantly blooming into a wide grin as he waves at you, but his smile drops slightly when he notices your ears, almost like he’s confused.

You know he wants to approach you, but his attention is quickly stolen by his students asking him to continue the song. You quickly leave the stage— rehearsal will be starting soon, and you’d be able to catch him later anyway.

It takes a couple of minutes to get the kids ready in formation, even with the help of the other teachers. Wonpil only takes his place at the keyboard when the lights start to dim, and out of instinct, he takes one last glance over his shoulder to look at you, now standing at the back of the hall. In the dark, he can’t really make out your features, but he smiles anyway, though it’s mostly to ward off his own jitters. It’s probably the nerves building up to the actual day of the play which is only a week away from now, but more than that, it’s also the first time he’d be playing the entire production in front of you. And especially now that you’ve got your processors on…

Wonpil isn’t given the time to dwell on that fact before he receives the cue to start, though he knows you’d probably be sitting at the back of his mind regardless.

You always do.

His fingers fly across the keys like he’s practiced for the past couple of months. The stage, though, is anything but controlled.

One of the caterpillar kids is facing the wrong way. A sunflower is waving at an audience who isn’t even there yet, and the line he spent more than five minutes drilling earlier dissolves within seconds.

Still, they keep going, guided more by enthusiasm than timing, and despite the missed cues and uneven steps, there’s something so earnest in the way the kids move, unpolished and real.

Wonpil smiles to himself.

And out of instinct, he glances over again to look at you.

But you’re not there anymore.

He turns back to this keyboard, trying to ignore the worry that’s starting to bloom in his chest. You’re okay, right? Maybe you needed to take something from the classroom? Or the garden. You probably just needed to go to the washroom.

Shit. Wonpil knows he could make up all the excuses he wants, but nothing could stop his uneasiness, because he knows.

He knows how uncomfortable wearing your processors are. He knows how noisy it gets, how you’d get headaches just from trying to process sound alone. He might not know exactly what you go through, but the fact that you don’t wear them on the daily is enough for him to understand.

“Mr. Kim?”

Wonpil blinks out of his thoughts, only to realise everyone is staring at him— including the kids on stage, no longer dancing as they wait for his cue. He looks down to his hands, resting idly on the keys.

“Oh,” he mutters before clearing his throat. “Oh- sorry.”

A giggle sounds on stage. “Teacher Wonpil, you’re silly!”

Despite himself, he chuckles. “Yes. Sorry, everyone!” He calls out, louder. “Shall we take a water break?”

There’s a chorus of agreements as the children skip to their water bottles, and Wonpil gives the teachers an apologetic smile before he excuses himself out of the hall.

That’s exactly where he finds you.

“Hey.”

You look up, lips tugging into a smile, though it doesn’t reach your eyes like it usually does.

Wonpil exhales softly. Are you okay?

You nod. “I just needed some air.”

Your hands are clasped together in front of you, and that’s when he realises— you're no longer wearing both of your processors.

You must’ve noticed his staring. “I… wanted to hear you,” you admit quietly. “I haven’t used these in a while, so my ears haven’t really gotten used to it yet,” you chuckle as you fiddle with the one of the implants in your hands, then looking past his shoulder to peek into the assembly hall. “Shouldn’t you be inside?”

A beat.

“I wanted to see you if you were okay.”

Your lips part at that, as though having not expected his response.

“Wonpil, I-,” you pause, shaking your head as you rephrase your next words. “I’m sorry. You didn’t have to- I didn’t mean to interrupt-”

“Why are you apologising?”

You go quiet.

“It’s not fair,” he continues, frustrated. “It’s not fair that you had to push yourself like that. You shouldn’t have to, given everything you’ve done for the kids.”

Your heart skips at his words.

You’ve never had someone be so… passionate about your comfort.

Still, you chuckle. “I don’t expect the world to cater to me, Wonpil. Seeing the kids happy is what matters most.”

Wonpil’s heart clenches at that— how are you still smiling? After everything?

“But you matter too,” he mutters under his breath.

Your brows shoot up. You’re not sure if you’d heard him correctly, if you'd read his lips properly, and as if reading your mind, carefully, he raises his hands to sign, clearer, this time.

You matter to me.

You haven’t seen Wonpil since the last rehearsal.

With only a few days left to the play, it’s understandable— he’s probably been occupied with practicing with the kids, if not by himself. You know he’s a perfectionist, even for something seemingly simple as a children’s play.

You also haven’t worn your processors since, deciding there’s no use in trying to strain yourself. You’re still on the fence about wearing them on the day itself, but that’ll be a bridge you’d cross when you get to it— regardless, you’re sure you’d enjoy the show either way.

You hum to yourself as you tend to the peonies in the garden. Amidst all the production preparations, you haven’t been in a while, and somewhere along the way, your flowers have finally bloomed fully, petals unfurling in soft shades of pink. You’re suddenly reminded of Wonpil from a few weeks ago, clumsily hovering over the soil, hands too careful for someone who clearly has no idea what he’s doing-

And there you go again. You’re thinking of him. Again.

It’s easy to come to terms with your feelings for Kim Wonpil, but admitting it out loud? Not so much. If anything, the thought of telling him hasn’t even crossed your mind— maybe because things have always been easy for the both of you. Natural, that there’s never been a need for you to question it.

Until now, that is.

Because now that you do, you can’t help but wonder if telling him would change anything. If it’d make things… strange. You do work together, after all.

You decide to file that thought for another time— the sun is setting, and you might get chased out by the security guard if you don’t hurry and pack up.

You step back into the building to fetch your bag you left in the classroom, but your attention is quickly stolen by the fact that the assembly hall lights are still on.

Wonpil doesn’t see you when you stand at the door, his back to you as he sits cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with something in front of him.

You knock once. 

He turns around, slightly startled, before he realises that it’s just you.

“Hi.” He’s slightly breathless as he stands up. “You’re still here?” He asks, a little too quickly.

You tilt your head as you slowly step in. You too, you sign.

Wonpil grins sheepishly. “Yeah. I was just… testing something.” He motions awkwardly to the set-up behind him.

His keyboard sits next to the stage, like it has been for the past few rehearsals, though the lone speaker on the floor— the thing you realise he’s been tampering with earlier— is a new addition you haven’t seen before. You highly doubt it belongs to the school seeing as the hall already has a built-in PA system, so you figure it must belong to Wonpil personally; though you can’t really figure out why he even needs it in the first place.

It’s nothing, he adds, like he knew you were going to ask. Are you leaving already?

You nod.

Okay. Let me… He turns around, clumsily turning off his set-up before picking up his bag. “I’ll walk you to the bus stop.”

A small chuckle escapes your lips, mostly at how weird he’s being, given he’s mixing up both his speech and sign, like he doesn’t know which one to use today. Are you sure you’re okay?

“Yeah! Yeah. Just-” He pauses, switching to his hands. Nervous.

You nod, beaming. You’ll be fine. I know you’ll do great.

Wonpil laughs before muttering under his breath, “that’s not what I’m worried about, though.”

You tilt your head, motioning for him to repeat. You hadn’t caught what he said.

But he only smiles, shaking his head. Nothing.

And he knows you’re unconvinced, but you choose to let it go anyway.

Wonpil exhales a quiet sigh of relief.

That was close.

The seats in the hall are slowly starting to fill with parents, and from his place by the door, Wonpil swallows nervously.

He’s been in a fit of jitters since he woke up this morning— it’s been a while since he last performed in front of a crowd, and even though this is nothing compared to the larger-scale events he’s done in the past, there’s still something so nerve-wracking about trying not to mess up in front of an audience.

Wonpil checks the time. About five more minutes before the doors would close, and he’d have to take his place below the stage, right in front of everybody.

He swallows again.

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He turns around to see you.

You look different today, in a white dress dotted with tiny flowers and a blue wool cardigan in place of your usual tee and jeans. The colours of your outfit sort of matches his, he realises, and before Wonpil could even chide himself for how silly it is to be thinking about that right now— he sees the processors on your ears, peeking out slightly from behind your hair.

You must’ve noticed his staring.

“Hey.” You pat his arm, and his eyes meet yours again. “Don’t worry. I’ll be alright.”

“I-” Wonpil pauses before he shakes his head, switching to his hands. I want to show you something, he clumsily signs.

You tilt your head.

Now?

He nods, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no more parents are arriving before he takes your wrist, leading you inside.

In hindsight, he knows he should’ve asked first— holding your hand like this out of the blue is kind of weird… even if he might not necessarily hate it.

But he’d overthink about that another time. Right now, the both of you stand before one of the chairs in the audience— specifically, the first one in the front row, right behind where his keyboard is set up. You notice your nameplate on the seat immediately, your name scribbled in colourful crayon and framed with crooked flowers. It was from an activity in the younger class you did a few weeks ago, to make one for each teacher as part of their contribution to the play. You’d expected to see it today, of course.

Just… not here.

You smile at him, confused. This isn’t my seat.

Wonpil shrugs as he purses his lips, like he’s trying to hold back a wide smile. I made some changes.

And that’s when you notice it— the same speaker you saw from last week, now tucked beneath your chair, the cable plugged in from its back just long enough to reach Wonpil’s set-up. The circular front presses slightly against one of the chair’s legs, like it’s deliberate. Like… it’s meant to be there.

The lights start to dim.

“I gotta go,” Wonpil mutters before you could say anything. A pause. Wish me luck?

You’re still in the midst of processing everything, processing how he did this for you, but quickly, you reach out for his wrist before he could turn away.

And there, right above his pulse, you trace with your finger,

I’ll be right here.

Just in case he needed reminding.

Wonpil smiles at that, a little pink, before he nods shyly and takes his place in front of you.

You take a sharp breath as you settle in your own seat, your leg resting slightly against the speaker under you. And before you could second-guess yourself, you take off your processors, letting them rest on your lap.

The room falls into silence.

And then— the first note.

You can’t hear it, but it reaches you anyway, the low, steady vibration travelling from the speaker, through your chair, and finally… into you. It goes on continuously, until it turns into a rhythm you can follow.

Just like that, you understand.

Just like that, you don’t feel like you’re missing out on anything at all.

The school has settled into a comfortable quiet this time of night. You didn’t need to hear to know— you could feel it in the way the hallways have dimmed, in the way the air is stiller. Calmer.

It’s gotten colder, too. The leaves of your crops and the petals of your flowers sway softly with the gentle breeze, making you shiver just a little bit. You wrap your cardigan tighter around your frame.

The door swings open, and out steps Wonpil, still catching his breath, hair slightly out of place, energy spilling out of him before he could even utter a word.

“That was- did you- okay, wait, the second part- I think I messed it up a little bit but I don’t think anyone noti-”

He stops mid-sentence when he finally looks at you, properly.

You’re already looking at him, of course, a soft smile playing on your lips.

“Oh,” Wonpil exhales softly. “Oh. Sorry. I forgot. Um.” He raises his arms to prepare to sign, only to shake his head in the end as he steps towards you instead, slowly reaching for your wrist.

The second time that night.

He traces your palm.

You felt it?

You meet his eyes. They seem to glimmer in the moonlight.

You nod. I did.

“That’s a relief,” he exhales, his usual grin making its way back to his lips. “I was so scared it wouldn’t work out. That speaker, I had to drag it from my parents’ studio-”

“Wonpil.”

“Right- my parents’ studio…” He trails off as he attempts to sign the words, but you quickly catch his hands with yours. That gets his attention.

Finally.

You turn his hand slightly, opting to write the words on the inside of his palm, because saying it— even signing it— out loud feels too much for your heart to handle, but after tonight, after everything, you don't think you could keep it in anymore.

I like you.

He blinks.

Once. Then twice.

Like he’s forgotten to do anything else.

Until eventually, he exhales slowly. “Yeah?”

You nod. And because you feel a little braver now, you lift your hands to sign.

A lot.

Finally, he exhales a laugh, somewhere between a mix of disbelief and relief, before shaking his head at himself.

“Gosh, I-” He stops himself. I like you too, he signs, slower this time. Careful. More certain. And then, softer,

I think I have for a while.

And just like that, you understand him— completely, effortlessly, the way you always have.

“You didn’t reply to my texts,” Brian says from the couch the moment you enter the door, hands in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them.

You ignore him, heading straight to the kitchen to get some water.

“I was worried,” he says again, his voice nearer as he moves to stand behind you. You roll your eyes, grip tightening on the fridge door momentarily before you turn around. You’re not in the mood for whatever this is, but it seems that Brian Kang always has a way to get on your nerves without trying.

He’s quiet as he waits for your answer. Brian doesn’t look angry, just… tired. Concerned, maybe, if you’d even let yourself believe that. You scoff.

“No one asked you to.” Your gaze hardens. “Why do you care so much when no one’s forcing you to, Brian? If anything, you should hope something happens to me. That way I’d get out of your hair sooner.”

Brian clenches his jaw, the first reaction he’s ever let slip tonight. “Don’t say things like that.” He steps closer. “I’m your husband. I’m supposed to care.”

“There you go again,” you laugh sharply, moving to put some distance between you two. “Throwing that word around like it means something. If that’s the only reason why you even feel obliged to care in the first place, then maybe you’re not as sincere as you claim to be.”

His expression tightens, but only slightly.

“You think I’m pretending?”

“I think you’re only doing this because you have to. And if this is really all that is to you— a duty— then just say that,” you spit.

Brian doesn’t say anything else— not for a while. His eyes flicker away from your face, down to your hand.

“If this doesn’t mean anything,” he starts, voice lower now. “Why are you still wearing it?”

That hits, but you scoff immediately, like it’s obvious.

“Because taking it off would cause more trouble than what it’s worth.”

The words don’t sound convincing, even to your own ears. Because you know you don’t mean it, and you’re sure he knows it too.

But you don’t intend on telling him that, and as always, Brian lets you have it. Lets you believe that all the tantrums you’ve thrown since you got married was because you hated him and not yourself—

Or at least, you thought.

“And that’s it?” He meets your eyes again.

For the first time, he talks back.

You hesitate for half a second, but long enough for him to notice.

“It’s just a ring, Brian.”

“Then take it off.”

His words land heavier than any shouting could.

You blink. “What?”

“If it doesn’t mean anything to you,” he repeats slowly, “take it off.”

You swallow, but you manage to school your expression, tilting your chin upwards. “You want me to?”

“No. I don’t,” Brian answers simply. Honestly. “But if you’re going to keep treating it like it doesn’t matter, then there’s no point in wearing it.”

You clench your jaw. “Fine.”

You don’t think anymore. You don’t pause.

Your fingers find the ring before you pull it out harshly—

and you throw it.

Right at him.

The silver band hits Brian square in the chest before it falls to the ground. For such a small thing, the sound it makes when it hits the tiles is anything but. It’s sharp. Loud.

“There,” you snap, your heart thundering in your ears. “Happy?”

Brian doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you, then at the ring, before bending down to pick it up. Gingerly, like it’s heavier than it actually is.

Your eyes waver.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Then, he turns around to leave.

No slammed doors. No raised voices.

Just… gone.

And somehow, the silence that settles feels heavier than the argument you’d started.

✦ ✦ ✦

Brian doesn’t wait up for you anymore. 

So you stop going out.

What use was there in you trying to prove a point when he wasn’t going to give you a reaction?

It isn’t something that was easy to admit to, but all the sleepless nights spent in your room had forced you to reflect on the fact that all this was done not because you hated him, but how he made you feel.

Because Brian is kind; far better than you’d ever be. You’d been angry— at the world, at your parents, at yourself— for far too long, and you’d decided the only way to protect yourself from getting hurt again was to go against the one person who was willing to understand you.

You don’t like how that realisation makes you feel.

“Are you okay?”

You look up from the rim of your mug to see Brian studying you through his glasses. Despite the kitchen being silent, you hadn’t heard him come in.

When you don’t reply, he continues,

“You haven’t slept.”

Not in an accusing way. Just… factual. Like he’d been observing.

For some reason, your eyes flit to his hand. He still wears his ring.

You swallow before placing your mug in the sink. You think you just needed an excuse to turn away from him. “It’s none of your business,” you try to snap, but your words come off as weak.

“Right. Okay,” he exhales. Then, almost like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say it,

“Don’t stay up too late.”

This time, it’s a little harder to watch him walk away, but the thing is, you’re not so sure what you want to do. You’re not sure what you need to do… to fix this.

“Stupid,” you mutter, the word catching as your vision blurs. You’re crying again— not like it surprises you. It’s been happening a lot recently.

Maybe you’re ready to admit that something’s wrong— no. That you’re wrong. But that’s not what scares you.

What scares you is the possibility that you’ve gone too far. That whatever this is between you and him isn’t something you’d be able to fix anymore.

That this time… you’re too late.

✦ ✦ ✦

You last exactly six nights before you fold.

Six nights of tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping, hoping for the guilt to dull. Six nights of listening to the echoes of his footsteps in his room, sometimes walking past yours to the kitchen, wondering why he’s still awake.

Tonight, however, it’s quiet. You think that’s what makes you muster the courage to go to him— because even if he doesn’t open the door, at least you could still say that you tried.

You knock once, weakly, on purpose. Because despite everything, you’re still trying to hold on to any semblance of pride you have left.

The door opens.

Your breaths are still staggered from crying earlier, and you don’t think your measly attempt at drying your cheeks with your sleeves work at all, because Brian is looking at you like he knows.

He always knows.

“I-” you start, but your voice breaks immediately. You clench your jaw, frustrated, before you try again. “I can’t sleep.”

It’s not the full truth, but it’s the only thing you can get out.

“Hey,” Brian finally speaks, softly.

“I-” You shake your head, bringing the pads of your palms to your eyes, like that would help stop the tears from streaming; like that would stop the pain ripping apart in your chest. “I’m so tired, Brian.”

He steps aside immediately. “Come in.”

That’s it. No questions, no hesitation. No why are you here?

You’re not sure if that makes you feel any better.

You enter without thinking, before your ego could catch up and make you change your mind.

Brian’s room is dim. Warm. Different from yours.

The sheets are rumpled, the comforter hanging off the edge of the bed like he’d pushed them off in a hurry when you knocked.

You stand before his bed awkwardly, arms wrapped around yourself like you don’t know what to do with them now that you’re here.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” Brian asks from behind you.

Out of instinct, you hesitate. But right now, it doesn’t stick.

So you nod.

“Alright.” Brian finally moves, but you don’t look at him— not when he pulls back the covers to let you slip under, and not when he joins you on the other side of the mattress.

For a while, neither of you speak. Despite the distance between your bodies, you’re hyper aware of Brian’s presence behind you, but you don’t turn around. You keep your eyes trained on the wall as you try to regulate your hiccuped breaths, wishing sleep would take over soon and that everything would be fine tomorrow morning.

But you know you won’t get a peaceful sleep tonight, at least, not after you utter out the words that have been resting on the tip of your tongue since you threw your ring at him last week.

“I’m sorry.”

Brian shifts slightly. Then, “what for?”

Even though you’re not looking at him, you frown. “You know what for.”

“Yeah.”

Silence again.

“Do you…” you start before you trail off, deciding it’s too late to backtrack on your words. “Do you still have it?”

Brian exhales. “... Yeah.”

“Can you-” you finally turn around.

Brian’s already facing you, his eyes half-lidded, but alert; the way they always are when it comes to you.

You swallow. “Can you put it back on for me?”

At this, his expression shifts. 

“You’re sure?”

You hate that he even had to ask. That meant you were cruel enough to the point of him having to second-guess your every word.

You nod.

You follow as Brian sits up slowly, reaching over to his dresser to pick up the ring. You hadn’t even realised that it was there— no box, no dustbag. Just… there, like he’d been hoping, waiting for you night after night to come around.

Your heart clenches painfully— and it twists even more when Brian gently slips the band onto your finger, his touch lingering after.

He didn’t even get to do that on your engagement or wedding. It’s the first time he’s ever put a ring on for you.

A tear escapes from your lashes once again, and he only moves his hand to cup your cheek, thumb wiping the moisture on your skin.

There’s a faint, sad smile on his lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” You shake your head stubbornly, your tears now falling in a never-ending stream. “It’s not, Brian. I was cruel-”

“You were angry.”

“You didn’t deserve that.”

“Neither did you.”

You pause at that.

“I know it’s been difficult,” he mutters quietly. “And I’m not asking you for anything you’re not ready to give. Not a timeline, not… your heart. I just-”

His voice gets softer.

“I just want you to let me take care of you.”

Your bottom lip quivers. It’s in that very moment where you realise how exhausted you are— of fighting him, and fighting whatever it is you’re starting to feel for him.

“Okay.” You nod. “Okay, Brian.”

His smile grows this time, though it still remains fond, gentle. You realise then that he doesn’t look at anyone else the same way he looks at you.

And when he pulls you into your arms, for the first time, you feel like you could finally breathe again.

JUNE 2025.

Brian swears he hasn’t been thinking about it.

He swears he hasn’t been waiting for the last snow to melt, for the months on his calendar to change. That he hasn’t been keeping his wallet open longer on purpose just so he could let his eyes linger on the wish voucher you gave him for his birthday a few months ago.

But the moment he spots the first cherry blossom bloom on the tree outside your shared bedroom window— the one you claim to be your favourite— the first thing he does is to pull out his luggage bag from storage.

You lean against the doorframe with crossed arms. “Are you that excited?”

Brian glances over his shoulder to look at you, an easy smile on your lips. “Well, yeah. It’s our first vacation.”

You raise a brow. “We’ve been to Paris together.”

A pause.

“That’s different,” he says softly.

It is.

You move to join him on the floor, your shoulders brushing. He’s barely packed anything yet, the luggage still empty save a few sleep shirts he for some reason already decided to put inside.

“You should bring the white collared shirt. The linen one.”

Brian turns to you. “The one you said looks good on me?”

“I never said that.”

He grins boyishly, but it isn’t mean-spirited. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer to his side before placing a chaste kiss on your temple.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against your skin before pulling away.

“What for?” You mumble, feeling your cheeks heat up at the contact. You hate that even after all these months, you're still affected by his affection.

“For planning this trip for me.”

You scoff. “We’re not even there yet.”

“We don’t have to be. It’s already the best present I’ve gotten.”

You roll your eyes, only pretending to be annoyed. “Keep packing.”

“Yes, baby.” Brian gives you a final kiss before standing up to head to the closet, pulling out the shirt you mentioned earlier.

He hums a tune as he folds it mindlessly, letting it sit on top of his other clothes before reaching for the drawer next to him for his sweatpants.

You tsk under your breath as you grab the shirt to refold it, muttering something to yourself about how useless he is, probably.

Brian smiles, making sure you aren’t looking before he reaches for something else in the drawer, hidden neatly between folded layers of fabric.

A velvet box.

Next to him, you’re still fussing over his shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles like it matters more than it should.

Carefully, he slips the box into the carry-on bag next to him, out from your sight, where it belongs.

For now.

✦ ✦ ✦

The weather is still slightly chilly by the time you arrive in Jeju, but Brian doesn’t mind.

You unlock the door to your lodge while he handles the bags, letting you step in first. You think you don’t show it, but he knows you’d been looking forward to this trip the same way he has.

You immediately disappear into one of the rooms, Brian laughing under his breath as he settles the rest of your belongings. It’s a quaint one-story beach house, all wood furniture and muted colours, the air smelling like the ocean.

“Brian!” You emerge before he could even look for you, a bright smile on your face as you’re practically bounding towards him.

And that’s what makes him still completely.

Because he’s never seen you this radiant, this carefree, smiling without a troubled thought in the world.

Gosh, he’s so gone for you.

“Close your eyes.” Your grin turns into something softer when you reach him, your fingers wrapping around his wrist loosely. “I want to show you something.”

“Yeah?” Brian heeds to your words without hesitating, letting you guide him.

The sound of waves crashing grows louder the nearer he gets, and even though it’s obvious what it is he’s about to see, Brian still waits for your command before he opens his eyes.

And when he does…

The sea looks like it’s within reach from the small patio he’s standing on, striking blue in contrast to the pale sand on the shore. He could even hear birds chirping in the distance, but it isn’t noisy like the sounds he’s used to in Seoul.

It’s peaceful here. Calm.

He turns to you, and to his surprise, you’re already looking at him, eyes gleaming in the sunlight, cheeks tinted red and hair flipping along with the wind.

“Do you like-”

“I love you,” Brian blurts before you could even complete your sentence, and your brows raise at his suddenness.

He doesn’t take it back, though. He would never.

He faces you properly this time, bringing a hand to rest on your cheek. “Gosh, I love you,” he says again, voice hoarser now. “I love you so fucking much I feel insane.”

“Brian-”

“Let me have this, baby,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “Fuck. I had a whole thing planned, but I don't think I could wait any longer. Just-”

His hand slips into his pocket to retrieve his wallet, and he feels your eyes follow his shaky fingers as he pulls out a card.

You squint at it. Then, you laugh.

“You’re unbelievable,” you breathe, amused, as you take it from him. “You still keep this? I forgot I even made it.”

“I didn’t.”

It doesn’t seem like you registered his tone yet as you fiddle with the card, the edges slightly creased, but still, unmistakably yours.

Wish Voucher.

Redeemable for any wish.

One time use only.

“You've been saving it all this while? For what?” You tease lightly before narrowing your eyes. “You better not use it for anything weird, Kang.”

“I was waiting,” he says quietly.

Your smile falters slightly. “Waiting for?”

He exhales quietly, his gaze never leaving yours. “For something I couldn’t ask you any other way.”

Your heart stutters. “Brian…”

“Can I use it now?” He asks gently.

You can’t reply. You only nod.

His hand dips back into his pocket.

And this time, when he pulls it out—

It’s a velvet box.

Your breath catches completely.

“I want this,” he starts, opening it to reveal a thin band, an oval cut diamond sitting right in the middle.

Simple. Nothing flashy.

He remembered.

Your vision starts to blur.

“I want you. Properly. Fully. However you’ll have me.” Brian’s voice is steady despite everything. “I want you, not because I’m supposed to. Not because anyone’s decided it for us-” he pauses, “but because I don’t want a life where I can’t choose you.”

Your first tear falls.

“So, this is it. My wish,” he murmurs, a soft smile on his lips before he bends down, getting down on one knee. “Would you marry me? Again?”

You let out a choked sob as you bring your hands to your mouth. “You’re so stupid.”

Brian laughs, but his cheeks are wet too. “Yeah.”

You sniff before you nod, over, and over. “Yes. I’ll marry you, Brian. I’ll always marry you.”

When he puts the ring on your finger, it fits perfectly, like it’s always meant to be. You don’t wait for him to pull you in before you fall into his arms on your own, for this time, you choose him first.

And breathing has never felt easier.

the book of us collection