𝓙

"it did," she says, voice barely above a whisper. the words taste like a lie, but she swallows them anyway. "more than enough." her eyes flick up to meet his, dark and unreadable. the dimple at the corner of his mouth is a cruel reminder of all the times she'd traced it with her fingertips, all the times she'd let herself believe it was meant for her.

she takes a sip of the champagne, the bubbles sharp against her tongue. "funny how time works," she muses, tilting her head slightly. "some things fade. others just… fester." he strap of her dress stays firmly in place this time. no more games. no more invitations. she's spent years building these walls; she won't let him tear them down with a single glance. "but i suppose that's the risk you take," she adds, her tone lighter now, almost careless. "when you let silence do the talking."

she doesn't wait for his response. turns her attention back to the painting, the colors blurring slightly at the edges. the gallery noise swells around them, a cacophony of laughter and clinking glasses. it's easier this way. safer.

look away. walk away. just like before.

Too obvious to be left unanswered.

You coming?

A corridor returned in fragments from years earlier—carpet too soft beneath dress shoes. Words simple, casual. Heels suspended from two fingers. Laughter kept low against sleeping walls. One backward glance, already certain footsteps would follow. Back then, following felt enough. The old warmth climbed higher along both ears. A breath left through the nose, almost laughter, almost disbelief, before the flute found a passing tray without another sip. One measured step followed. Then another. Not in a hurry, not in hesitation either. Only until black tailoring fell into pace beside, not behind. Shoulder nearly level with shoulder.

❝ Yeah. I remember this part. ❞

Admission arrived near the curve of an ear, remained warmer than the easy tone deserved. Nothing too polished enough to disappear behind. A glance found those almond eyes, held briefly before it moved toward the bar whilst before memory could ask for too much.

As he samples the whiskey, he listens. He listens to the way Jaehyun talk about his cousin and the mess he made. He listens and comes up with a hundred different ways to respond but none of them seemed to fit the mood so he simply hums. "They're good like that." The half-hearted reply gives away how distracted he is.

It's not that he means to be; honestly, Chris is the kind who would listen to his friend talk all day and every day about the most mundane things. It never matters to him the topic, only who is talking about it. He'll listen to whoever shares but right now... his mind is drifting towards her.

And what a mess he's made.

As the next words follow, as the door is opened and left ajar, Chris sighs. Lifting the glass to his lips, he ponders how to answer. How does he explain what happened without sounding... fucking stupid? He knows his friend wouldn't judge him, wouldn't say anything to make matters worse but running every opening sentence through his mind has him almost visibly cringing at himself.

"A bad night..." He places the drink down, a little harder than intended as the slight 'thud' shakes the table.

With his hand still gripping the glass, Chris leans back and looks up at the ceiling. Staring at nothing in particular, eyes unfocused, the man puffs out his cheeks as he exhales before looking back at Jaehyun. "We had a fight— well, not exactly. I started a fight." Anyone who knows Chris would be aware that underneath that calm exterior lies a fire ready to flare up at any given moment. It's always been something he's worked hard on, taking up boxing as an outlet for his anger management, but something... it's not enough. "I thought I wasn't doing enough. I fell fast, I fell hard and in a moment of weakness, I convinced myself that I had nothing to give."

Insecurities from his last real relationship run through his mind. The first heartbreak that caused the man to step away and focus heavily on the group rather than anything interpersonal. Sure, he has his members, family, friends, but Chris never had relationships after that. Not anything that truly meant something.

A scoff escapes him as he rubs his brow, shaking his head slightly, "I worked myself up because I was so convinced that Sana deserved better. I was so fucking sure that she should go and meet someone who could give her everything that I wasn't that when I finally calmed down... I pissed myself off because I don't know what the fuck I'm doing." God, he sounds like an idiot but anyone who knows Chris knows how deep it all lies.

Nothing to give.

That one phrase seemed to hold there longest. Settled heavier than the rest. Eyes lowered briefly. On the damp napkin wrapped around split knuckles. On the glass still held too firmly. On to every small piece of control being used to contain something already admitted out loud.

❝ You didn't have nothing to give. ❞

A fingertip traced the wet ring beneath the glass, finally breaking the perfect circle kept intact until now. Condensation blurred beneath the touch, proof disturbed into something less controlled. Just real.

❝ You had something to lose. ❞

Hand reached for the water instead of the whiskey. Cap turning once. A clean pour into the untouched glass beside the other still filled with amber, clear liquid rising before the bottle returned to the table. Nudged closer. Not replacing. Not taking anything away. Only placed there. Available. Within reach.

❝ And I don't think you sound stupid. ❞

It arrived after enough silence to make clear they were not automatic or something that was meant to soften the blow. No smile followed. No joke that would make the statement easier to dismiss. The plate of steak frites remained near the corner of the table shifted below two fingers, moved closer across polished wood. Slowly. Tacitly. Fork first, then knife. Metal settling against ceramic with a muted scrape pressed through the center of a perfectly cooked steak. Turning something whole and resistant into smaller pieces. Manageable. When the last piece had been separated, the utensils were set down neatly along the edge. Steak now facing the other side of the table.

Shared rather than offered.

The morning traded stage lights for sunshine.

Instead of a rehearsal room, Soyeon found herself standing outside a local community welfare center on the outskirts of Seoul, sleeves rolled to her elbows and a pair of gardening gloves tucked into the pocket of her apron. Her manager lingered nearby, speaking with the center's coordinator while volunteers gathered around to hear the day's plan. Although today's visit had been arranged by the company, volunteering wasn't anything new to her. Whenever her schedule allowed, she often found herself in places like this. Away from stages and cameras, where helping someone didn't need to become a headline.

Today's task was simple: breathe new life into the center's garden. New benches would replace old ones, flower beds would be replanted, and herbs and shrubs would turn the courtyard into a place where children and the elderly could spend quiet afternoons together. The spring air carried the scent of fresh soil as everyone settled into work. Soyeon knelt beside a flower bed, carefully planting bright yellow marigolds before helping another group position one of the wooden benches beneath a young maple tree.

It didn't take long before conversations found her. Some of the younger volunteers shyly admitted they were fans of I-DLE, asking about songs they loved while still making sure to keep working. An elderly woman proudly told Soyeon her granddaughter never missed one of their releases, while a little boy asked if idols really got tired from dancing that much. She answered each question with the same easy smile, happy to let the morning unfold without any rush.

It was... peaceful. Different from the industry.

Grounding. As she dusted the dirt from her gloves, the quiet hum of another vehicle entering the courtyard caught everyone's attention. Her manager glanced toward the entrance with a small nod. "Looks like the other volunteers are here." Several heads turned out of curiosity.

Soyeon did too. The van door slid open, and among the people stepping out, one familiar face immediately stood out.

A faint smile found its way onto her face.

She stayed where she was, one hand resting lightly on the back of the bench they'd just finished assembling, waiting until the introductions naturally brought the two groups together. After all, there was no rush. Today wasn't about schedules or formalities.

It was about the people they had all come to help.

Soyeon.

One hand lifted. Brief. Casual. The greeting carried easily across the remaining distance, quieter than the activity surrounding it but meant clearly enough. A shallow bow followed for the other volunteers nearby, courteous words exchanged, instructions received. By the time the next explanation began, a trowel had already found its way into one hand. The metal edge pressed once into loose earth. Then again. Not digging yet. Only tracing a narrow line through the soil while every word from the coordinator continued to land on pair of ears.

❝ Looks like you started without me. ❞

Only then did the gaze lift fully.

❝ What are they making you do? ❞

A glance toward the finished bench. Then the flower bed. Then back again, a quiet amusement pressing faintly into both cheeks.

She cradled the box against her chest like a prized possession and gave him a look of supreme, playful authority over the rim of her sunglasses. "Not here," she whispered, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial, sing-song lilt. "We have to pay first. Follow me." Without waiting to see if he’d actually obey, she turned on her heel, her perfectly styled hair catching the store's fluorescent light as she glided toward the cash register. She knew he was behind her; people always followed her.

Reaching the counter, she didn't even glance at the price on the screen. With a fluid motion, Wonyoung zipped open her luxury handbag and pulled out a sleek, heavy black card. It wasn't hers. It was her husband's, the ultimate accessory for any shopping trip, and by far her favorite one to use for essential purchases like plushies. She tapped the card against the reader with a satisfying beep, offering the cashier a sweet, practiced smile before snatching up her receipt. Card tucked away, she clutched the box and gestured with her chin toward the back of the store. There, set up under a warm spotlight, was a little counter specifically designed for unboxing, complete with tiny trash bins for the wrappers and a backdrop for taking photos.

❝ I survived military for this? ❞

Calm, more softer than intended. Mild offense. Deeply unserious injury. The mask's fabric shifted faintly with the smallest breath, almost a laugh, almost a sigh, probably a mixture of both that neither allowed enough room to fully transform into a solid evidence.

❝ And barely is a strong word from someone wearing sunglasses indoors. ❞

The statement alone had no legal foundation. Not from him. Not with the number of indoor sunglasses offenses already attached to the Jeong family name. Not when another person entirely had made the habit look less like poor judgment and more like weather. Still. Hypocrisy, when delivered in such a calm manner, could pass for principle. Civilian life, as it turned out, had unclear rules. Pair of Asics Gel-Quantum Kinetic sneakers glided, followed behind, unfortunately. Not immediately, which truly mattered here. One second resistance was observed. A full second. A dignified pause near the emptied shelf, attention toward the now hollowed space where the last box had once been stationed. Then came the walk to the register. Quiet. Unhurried. Hands returning into pockets with practiced ease of a man pretending this had been the original plan all along. Not defeated. Not curious. Not emotionally attached to cardboard probability. Phone appeared before pride could object. Not fast. Never fast. Just controlled. Smoothly enough to pretend this had always been the plan, screen lighting against the black mask as one hand lifted from the pocket and angled the camera toward the silver foil bag with immediate, humiliating professionalism.

❝ Wait. ❞

Low voice, that same signature calm delivery. Entirely serious. The recording button turned red.

❝ Okay. Now. ❞

The lens remained steady. Focused. Rule of thirds enabled for that perfect framing. Exposure settings just right. Military training had not prepared anyone for this specific battlefield, but apparently it had prepared a steady hand wrist to hold a stable unboxing shot beneath the unforgiving warm retail lighting.

"intentional," she echoes, tilting her head slightly. the word tastes strange on her tongue, bitter and sweet all at once. "that's one way to put it." her fingers toy with the chain around her neck, the metal warm from her skin. she could fix the strap now, could reclaim that inch of bare shoulder like reclaiming her pride. but she doesn't. instead, she lets her hand fall back to her side, a silent admission that some battles aren't worth fighting.

"distance has its uses," she says, voice softer now. the champagne bubbles have gone flat in her glass, but she takes another sip anyway. "gives you time to decide if something's worth the trouble." the corner of her mouth lifts in a smirk that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "turns out, most things aren't."

❝ Distance does have its uses. Gives silence enough time to start sounding convincing. ❞

Flute lowered. The old warmth remained at both ears, faint beneath dark hair, impossible to blame entirely on the room now. One measured step followed. Closer. Not enough to crowd. Not enough to touch. Only enough to challenge that same distance that had once been permitted to speak. Close enough for the next words to belong nowhere beyond the small distance near those almond eyes.

❝ Did it? ❞

Gaze held there directly, the question much more tender than the closeness suggested, careful even now not to turn provocation into an answer. A shallow impression surfaced beside the mouth, familiar enough to feel cruel. Something quieter. Something carrying caution beneath the curve and refusing to name the bruise underneath. Fingers reached for the stem beneath burgundy nails, gradual enough for refusal to remain possible, lightest brush of skin arriving before crystal changed hands. The flat champagne disappeared onto a passing tray, a fresh flute replacing it moments later.