Story Hunter

She sat cross-legged in the center of the empty room wearing nothing but an oversized tour hoodie (yours, actually) that swallowed her frame down to mid-thigh. No underwear. Hair still damp, sticking to her neck in dark strands. She was scrolling through her phone with one hand; the other idly traced slow circles over her clit, casual, almost absent-minded, like doodling while thinking.

You locked the main door behind you when you arrived. She didn’t look up right away.

“I was reading about edging,” she said brightly, as if continuing a conversation you’d never started. “Apparently if you bring someone to the brink of an orgasm twenty times without letting them finish, the final orgasm can hit dopamine levels comparable to hard drugs. Wanna help me test the theory? But reversed, I edge myself while you watch, and you can’t touch anything. Not me, not you.”

She set a timer on her phone for 45 minutes.

Then she lay back on the cool floor, knees bent, feet flat, hoodie pushed up to bunch under her breasts. She spread herself with two fingers so you could see everything, already swollen, slick, begging, and started.

Slow strokes at first. Feather-light. Breathing steady.

“Phase one, build-up only. No penetration.”

She circled her clit endlessly, hips twitching every few minutes but never chasing. When her thighs started trembling she stopped completely, hands flat on the floor beside her, panting softly, eyes locked on yours.

“Close… but not yet.”

Repeat. Again. Again.

By the tenth edge her whole body glistened with fresh sweat. Nipples hard peaks under the hoodie fabric. Voice gone breathy and cracked.

“Eleven… fuck… I can feel my heartbeat in my clit… it’s throbbing so much…”

She slid two fingers inside herself then, slow, curling, pumping just enough to graze that spot, thumb still on her clit. Her free hand pinched a nipple through the cloth, hard enough to make her gasp.

“Twelve… oh god… almost… stop—”

Hands off again. She curled into a fetal position for thirty seconds, whimpering, hips grinding air. Then back to it.

You sat against the mirror wall, phone recording from a low angle. The lens caught every flutter, every bead of arousal that dripped down toward her ass, every time her toes curled and uncurled.

At minute 38 she was a mess—voice high and broken, words tumbling out in half-sentences.

“Can’t—can’t think—everything’s pulsing—please—please let me—”

But she wouldn’t let herself. Not yet. She forced another edge, body shaking violently, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes from the intensity.

“Twenty… twenty… I did twenty…”

She looked at you then, pupils blown, cheeks flushed crimson, lips bitten raw.

“Now you decide. Let me cum… or make me wait until tomorrow morning. Full day of rehearsals with no release. I’ll do whatever you say.”

You paused the recording. Walked over. Knelt between her spread thighs.

She whimpered when your breath ghosted over her.

“I will make you cum,” you said quietly.

Having now permission, she shattered.

No slow build this time, just frantic fingers, three inside now, thumb grinding her clit in tight circles. Back arched off the floor like she was being electrocuted. A wordless scream tore out of her throat. She squirted, hard, sudden arcs that soaked your jeans and puddled beneath her. Her walls clenched so visibly you could see the spasms ripple.

She kept going through it, riding the aftershocks, drawing out a second smaller but sharper climax right after. Then a third, quiet, shuddering, almost pained.

When it finally ended she collapsed flat, chest heaving, arms limp above her head. Cum and squirt and sweat everywhere. The hoodie was ruined.

After a long minute she rolled onto her side, curled toward you, and nuzzled her face into your thigh like a kitten seeking warmth.

“That was… insane,” she whispered. “Better than any cock. Better than anything.”

She stayed like that a while, soft breaths against your leg, then lifted her head with that familiar spark returning.

“But tomorrow… I want to combine it. Edge myself all day during practice breaks. Then after lights-out in the hotel, I sneak the backup dancers into our room one by one. You film each one fucking me while I’m still hypersensitive from the edging. And at the very end… you get to be the one who finally lets me break again.”

She sat up slowly, hoodie falling back down to cover the worst of the mess (though it clung transparently to her nipples and stomach).

“Deal?”

She extended her pinky toward you, cute, innocent, utterly at odds with the wrecked, dripping girl underneath.

You linked pinkies.

She beamed, kissed the corner of your mouth, then stood on shaky legs.

“Shower first. Then convenience-store ice cream. Then… maybe we test temperature play on the walk back to the dorm. Cold ice cream against my clit while people pass by. Thoughts?”

The building's private rooftop was staff-only, high walls, potted plants, a tiny greenhouse bubble for winter herbs. Sun poured in through glass panels. She waited in a loose white sundress (no bra, thin cotton panties visible when wind caught the hem). Innocent rabbit mode activated.

She'd set up a folding chair facing the city skyline. On a small table: her phone, lube, a slim vibrator, blindfold, noise-canceling earbuds, and a notebook.

"Experiment time," she announced brightly, like announcing a study group. "I read online that sensory deprivation makes orgasms 300% stronger. We're testing it. You film and observe. No touching me until I say."

She sat, spread her legs wide on the chair arms, dress rucked up, panties pulled aside and slipped the blindfold on. Earbuds in. World gone. She couldn't hear traffic below or your breathing.

First she teased herself slowly with fingers, narrating in that soft, curious voice.

"Pressure here... circles... mm, clit swelling already... inserting one finger, wetness level high today..."

Then the vibe. Low buzz. She arched, thighs quivering, but kept clinical.

"Setting to medium... internal pressure building... estimating 4 minutes to first climax..."

She came quietly at first, body jerking, a soft "ah~" escaping, then harder the second time, squirting a little onto the chair seat. Notebook forgotten; she just rode the waves.

Only then did she pull the blindfold halfway up, eyes glassy but focused on you.

"Data collected. Now... the real test. Call the maintenance guy. Tell him the greenhouse lock is stuck. When he comes up, don't speak. Just point."

You hesitated. She pouted cutely.

"Please? For science. And because I want to feel a stranger's cock while blind and deaf again. It'll be different data."

The guy arrived, mid-30s, toolbox in hand, confused. You gestured silently toward her. She was back in position: blindfold down, earbuds in, legs open, dress hiked, pussy glistening from her solo session.

He froze. Looked at you. You shrugged like she asked for it. He dropped the box, approached warily, then eagerly when she reached blindly for his belt, guiding him with small tugs.

She took him in her mouth first, slow, exploratory licks, humming around him like tasting a new flavor. Then she pulled him closer, legs wrapping his waist, guiding him inside raw. No words, just her muffled moans vibrating against his skin as he thrust.

You filmed close: the way her blindfolded face tilted toward every sound she could faintly catch, how her walls fluttered visibly when he hit deep, her fingers digging into his arms like anchors. She came twice more, once clenching so hard he groaned and finished inside her with a shudder.

When he pulled out, cum leaking, she finally removed the blindfold and earbuds. Blinked up at him sweetly.

"Thank you for participating in the experiment. Results: deprivation + stranger = intense squirting. 8/10. Would repeat."

He left dazed. She turned to you, cheeks flushed, notebook in hand scribbling.

"Your observations?"

You were rock-hard, silent. She smiled that pure, rabbit grin.

"Good data. Now phase two: you get to use me while I'm still sensitive and full of him. But..." She produced handcuffs from her bag. "Hands behind the chair. No cumming until I count to 100 out loud. If you do there will be a penalty, you will watch me text the tour backup dancers later without joining."

She cuffed you to the chair back, straddled you reverse, dress still on, just lifted, sinking down slowly onto your cock through the slick mess.

"Feel that? Slippery... warm... his cum lubing you..." She rocked languidly, counting in breathy Korean.

"Hana... dul... set..."

Every ten she clenched deliberately, giggling when you bucked. By 70 you were begging. At 100 she sped up, riding hard until you exploded deep, adding to the mix.

She uncuffed you, kissed your forehead softly.

"Best result yet. You lasted longest under restraint. Proud of my boyfriend."

She stood, let the dress fall back into place, cum trickling down her leg, packed her "lab equipment" and linked arms with you.

"Dinner? I want sushi. Uni is in season... and maybe later we can test temperature play with ice from the convenience store. Or exhibitionism on the subway home. Your choice this time."

She skipped toward the elevator, still the group's visual goddess, leader, Ewha smart girl, now humming happily, already brainstorming the next "experiment" in her head.

She found them in the narrow backstage hallway near the lighting rigs: four backup dancers, tall, built, still sweaty from rehearsal, black tank tops clinging to their chests. They were laughing about something when she appeared, leaning against the wall with one leg bent, skirt riding up to show the lace edge of her thong.

"Hi~" she sang, biting her lower lip. "You guys looked so strong out there. Made me all tingly watching you move."

One of them smirked, stepping closer. "Yeah? You always this forward after performances?"

"Only when I'm this wet," she answered without missing a beat, reaching down to rub herself through the thin fabric. "Wanna feel?"

That was all it took.

Within seconds she was on her knees in the middle of the hallway, dress hiked to her waist, thong yanked to the side, taking the first dancer's cock down her throat while stroking the other two with both hands. The fourth one knelt behind her, spreading her ass cheeks and sliding in raw. No prep, no warning; she just moaned like it was the best thing she'd ever felt.

"Mmmph~yes—stretch me—fuck me stupid—"

Her hips rocked back greedily to meet every thrust while her mouth worked the guy in front like she was starving. Spit dripped onto her chest, soaking the thin fabric until her nipples were visible through the sparkly material. She pulled off just long enough to gasp,

"Switch—someone in my ass now—I want both holes at the same time—please—"

They obliged instantly. One pulled out of her pussy with a wet pop, swapped places, and pushed into her tighter hole while another took her cunt again. She squealed, eyes rolling back, body shaking as they found a brutal rhythm, double-penetrating her right there against the concrete wall. The remaining two fed her their cocks in turns; she sucked one deep while jerking the other, then switched, drool stringing between her lips and their tips.

You zoomed in close: the way her pussy lips gripped the thick shaft sliding in and out, how her ass clenched around the other, the obscene bulge in her throat every time she took someone all the way. Cum from earlier loads (the delivery guys from yesterday still leaking a little) mixed with fresh slick, dripping down her thighs in sticky trails.

She came hard, once, twice, three times, squirting so forcefully it splashed against the dancer's abs. Each orgasm made her louder, needier.

"More—cum in me—fill every hole—don't stop—I can take it al—"

They didn't hold back. One after another they unloaded: deep in her ass, deep in her pussy, across her tongue, painting her face until white streaks ran down her cheeks and dripped onto her cleavage. When the last one finished she stayed on her knees a moment, panting, scooping cum off her skin with her fingers and sucking them clean with happy little hums.

Then she looked straight at your camera, tongue out, cum-glazed and grinning like she'd just won the lottery.

"Baby… you got all of that? Come here."

You stepped closer. She tugged you down by your shirt, kissed you deep, tasting like four different men, and whispered against your lips,

"Now fuck me while their cum is still inside. I want to feel you slide through it."

Right there in the hallway she bent over again, ass up, hands spreading herself so you could see the creamy mess leaking out. You pushed in slow at first, hot, slick, impossibly full—and she moaned like she was dying of pleasure.

"Ahhh—yes—mix it all together—make me your sloppy fifth load—"

You didn't last long; how could you? She clenched around you deliberately, milking every drop while babbling,

"Give it to me—breed me too—I'm so full already but I need yours most—"

When you came she shuddered through one more small orgasm, giggling breathlessly as you pulled out and a thick river of mixed cum poured down her legs.

She stood up on wobbly heels, didn't bother wiping anything, just smoothed her dress down (it barely covered the mess) and looped her arm through yours like nothing happened.

"Ten minutes until we go live. Think I can make the stylists redo my makeup in time?" She laughed, licking a stray drop from her lip. "Or maybe I'll just go on air like this… let everyone wonder why I look so happy."

She skipped ahead toward the stage door, hips swaying, cum still glistening on her inner thighs under the flashing lights.

And just before disappearing around the corner, she turned back to you with that same bright, sex-crazed smile.

"Tonight after the broadcast… the whole crew is throwing an after-party in the hotel suite. Guess who's the main entertainment?"

The three of them froze, college-age, probably fans too, eyes wide as she dropped right there between stacked crates, knees on the cold concrete. She tugged the first guy's zipper down with her teeth, giggling when his cock sprang free already half-hard.

"Mmm, look at you... already excited for me." She wrapped her lips around him without another word, sucking deep and sloppy, one hand stroking the base while the other reached for the second guy's belt.

You stood a few meters away, phone out like always, recording in silence. The lens caught everything: the way her throat bulged when she deepthroated the first one, how her skirt flipped up as she arched her back to take the second in her mouth too, alternating between them with wet pops and happy moans. The third guy didn't wait; he knelt behind her, shoved her panties aside, and buried himself in one rough thrust.

Yooyeon squealed around the cock in her mouth, eyes squeezing shut in bliss. "Yes—fuck—fill me up—both holes—more—"

She came almost instantly, thighs trembling, pussy clenching so hard you could hear the slick sounds over the wet sucking. The guy behind her groaned and sped up, slapping against her ass while she pushed back greedily. Drool ran down her chin, mixing with precum; she looked utterly wrecked and euphoric at the same time.

When the first guy came, she swallowed hungrily, pulling off only to beg the second, "In my mouth—please—give it all to me—" He did, painting her tongue white before she licked him clean like it was dessert.

The one fucking her lasted longer—pounding deep until she was babbling, "Cum inside—please—breed me—I need it so bad—" He obliged with a guttural curse, hips stuttering as he pumped her full. Yooyeon shuddered through another orgasm, squirting messily onto the floor, laughing breathlessly.

She stayed on her knees a moment, panting, cum leaking down her inner thighs, then looked over her shoulder at you with that dazed, sex-drunk smile.

"Baby... come taste? It's still warm~"

You hesitated only a second before kneeling too. She spread her legs wider, guiding your face between them. You licked, salty, thick, mixed with her sweetness, and she moaned softly, fingers threading through your hair like you were her favorite toy.

"Good boy... you always clean me so well. Makes me want to do it again right now."

She didn't even bother fixing her clothes properly after. Skirt still hiked, top askew, traces of white at the corner of her mouth, she just stood up, stretched like a satisfied cat, and skipped back toward the lounge area.

"Next schedule in twenty minutes!" she called cheerfully over her shoulder. "Who's coming with me to the makeup room? I still feel so empty~"

Later that night, back in your shared apartment, she straddled your lap on the couch, freshly showered but still radiating that post-sex glow. She ground against your obvious hard-on, whispering hot against your ear.

"You filmed everything today, right? Show me. I wanna watch myself getting used while you fuck me."

You pulled up the video. She rode you slowly at first, eyes glued to the screen, watching her own mouth stretched, her own pussy pounded, her own cries of pleasure. Every time she saw herself cum, she clenched harder around you.

"Ahh—look at that... I took three at once... so full... so good..." She sped up, bouncing wildly now. "You're throbbing so much—cum with me—fill me up too—make it four loads today—"

You couldn't hold back. She milked you dry, collapsing against your chest afterward with a contented sigh, nuzzling your neck.

"Tomorrow's a music show day... lots of staff, lots of backup dancers... mmm, I can't wait."

Before you could process it, she tugged you into the empty equipment room behind the practice studio. The door clicked shut. She didn't hesitate. She dropped to her knees in front of the burly sound engineer who'd been lingering after tripleS' late recording session, unzipped him with practiced ease, and took him straight into her mouth like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her lips stretched wide, cheeks hollowing as she bobbed hungrily, moaning around the thick length like she was tasting her favorite candy. Drool already glistened on her chin. Her eyes flicked up to you, bright, crazed, pupils blown with pure lust, and she pulled off just long enough to gasp,

"Mmm... so good... I need it so bad today..."

Then she dove back in, gagging herself willingly, hands pumping what her mouth couldn't reach. The engineer groaned, fingers tangling in her hair, and she let him fuck her face like she was made for it. Wet, obscene slurps filled the small room. Your stomach twisted, cock throbbing painfully in your pants despite everything.

When he came, she swallowed every drop, throat working visibly, then licked him clean with slow, grateful swipes of her tongue. She stood up, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and turned to you beaming.

"Your turn to film next time, okay? I want memories of all the cocks I take."

That was how it started.

A week later, backstage after a fansign. Yooyeon dragged you and two security guards into a storage closet still wearing her frilly stage outfit. She hiked her skirt, bent over a stack of equipment cases, and spread herself with both hands.

"Come on... both of you at once. I can take it. I want to feel so full..."

One took her mouth while the other slammed into her from behind. She squealed in delight around the cock in her throat, hips pushing back greedily to meet every thrust. Her pussy made loud, slick sounds with each deep plunge; she was already dripping down her thighs before they even started. She came twice in under five minutes, shaking, eyes rolling back, babbling nonsense like "More—harder—give me more cum—"

You held the phone steady, zooming in on her stretched lips, her bouncing tits spilling out of her top, the way her walls clenched visibly around the guard pounding her. She looked over at the camera, straight at you, and winked, tongue lolling out as drool dripped.

After they both finished inside her (one in her mouth, one deep in her cunt), she scooped the leaking cum from between her legs and licked it off her fingers, humming happily.

"You're so good at filming, baby. Makes me even wetter knowing you're watching."

The next time was in the dorm shower after practice. Three of the staff guys joined, ones who'd been eyeing her sweat-slick body all day. She got on all fours under the hot spray, ass up, begging.

"Use me like a toy. I don't care who goes first, just keep going until I can't think anymore."

They rotated. One in her pussy, one in her ass, one in her mouth. She took them all eagerly, body rocking between them, muffled moans vibrating around whichever cock was down her throat. Water cascaded over her skin, mixing with spit and cum. She came again and again, squirting messily onto the tiles, laughing breathlessly between thrusts.

"Ahh—yes—fuck—I love this—I love dick so much—don't stop—"

When they were done, she was a dripping, trembling mess, cum leaking from both holes, face glazed. She crawled over to you on her knees, nuzzled your crotch through your pants, and looked up with those big, glassy eyes.

"Your turn to clean me up with your tongue later? Pretty please? I saved the taste just for you..."

She didn't wait for an answer. She just grinned, stood on shaky legs, and skipped out of the shower like nothing had happened, already humming the group's latest title track.

Yooyeon wasn't cruel. She wasn't trying to hurt you. She just... needed sex. Constantly. Insatiably. Like air. And somehow, in her wild, pleasure-drunk world, you were the one she kept coming back to, the one who filmed it, the one who held her after, the one she kissed softly on the cheek and whispered,

"You're the best... because you let me be like this."

She is sitting on a bed in soft lighting, wearing a loose white top that’s slipping off one shoulder. Her face is turned a little, but you know that small nose, those big eyes, the way her dark hair falls just past her chin.

The one who always sits in the back row, speaks so quietly the teacher has to ask her to repeat everything, blushes when anyone looks at her too long.

Your heart starts banging hard. No way. You zoom in. Same tiny mole under her left eye. Same habit of biting her lower lip when she’s nervous. It’s really her.

You sit up straight. Fingers shake a little as you click the profile.

Username is something simple like “ji.softie” with a pink heart emoji. Bio says: “shy girl trying new things ♡ tips make me brave hehe”.

Only three posts so far. The cheapest subscription is $8 a month.

You tell yourself you’re just checking if it’s really her, nothing creepy, just curious.

You hit subscribe. Card goes through in two seconds.

Inside there are only seven photos and one short video. The lighting is bad—yellow from a cheap lamp, shadows everywhere. The phone camera is shaky, focus is soft. But it’s her.

One picture she’s in a thin tank top and shorts, knees pulled up, looking down. Another one she’s lying on her stomach, shirt riding up her back a little.

The video is 12 seconds: she waves shyly at the camera, says in her small voice, “Hi… um… thank you for coming here… I hope you like it…”

You feel weird. Not excited like you thought you would. More like… worried? She looks so uncomfortable. The comments are mostly basic stuff, “cute”, “more pls”, one guy wrote “smile more baby”.

She replied to almost every single one with “thank youuu ♡” even though you can tell she’s forcing it.

You close the app. Stare at the ceiling for a long time.

Sleep doesn’t come easy.

Next morning at school you see her in the hallway. She’s wearing the usual oversized hoodie, backpack straps tight on both shoulders, head down as she walks. Same Yeonji. Like nothing changed.

You catch up to her near the lockers.

“Hey, Yeonji.”

She jumps a little, turns. Her eyes go wide when she sees it’s you.

“Oh… hi…”

Her voice is extra small today.

You scratch the back of your neck. “Um… can we talk somewhere? Just quick. Not here.”

She looks around like she’s scared someone’s watching. Then nods once.

You both end up in the empty stairwell on the third floor. No one ever comes here.

You take a breath. “I… I saw your page last night.”

Her face goes white. Like all the blood disappears. She steps back until her back hits the wall.

“You… what?”

“I’m not gonna tell anyone,” you say fast. “I swear. I just… I subscribed because I couldn’t believe it was you. And then I saw the pictures and… they’re really bad quality. Like, really bad. You deserve better ones.”

She stares at the floor. Hands twist the hem of her hoodie. “Please don’t tell anyone. Please. My family… they would kill me. I just needed money. Tuition is expensive and my mom’s working two jobs and—”

“Hey, hey, I’m not judging,” you cut in. “I get it. I’m not here to make you feel bad. I just… I have a camera. A real one. My brother used to do photography so he gave me his old DSLR and lights and stuff. I know how to use it. If you want… I can help you take better photos. Free. No weird stuff. Just so you look good and feel more confident.”

She finally looks up. Eyes shiny like she might cry. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you look scared in those pictures,” you say honestly. “And you don’t have to. Not if someone helps a little.”

She’s quiet for almost a full minute. Then she whispers, “You really won’t tell?”

“Never. Pinky promise if you want.”

A tiny laugh slips out of her. First time you’ve heard her laugh. “You’re so childish.”

“Yeah well, it works.”

She bites her lip. Thinking. Then nods slowly. “Okay… but only if we do it somewhere safe. And… nothing too much. Just cute stuff. I’m not… I’m not ready for anything crazy.”

“Sure. Only what you’re comfortable with.”

That Saturday she texts you the address of her aunt’s empty apartment. Her aunt is overseas for three months, so the place is free. You show up at 2 p.m. with your camera bag, tripod, two softbox lights, and a reflector disk.

She opens the door wearing a simple baby blue dress she probably bought for the page. Hair down, light makeup. She looks nervous but she tries to smile.

“Hi…”

“Hi. Nice place.”

“Yeah… quiet.”

You set up in the living room. Big window with white curtains, good natural light. You show her how the lights work, explain soft shadows vs hard ones. She listens carefully, nodding even though you can tell she’s still scared.

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s start easy. Just sit on the couch. Look at me, then look away. Whatever feels natural.”

She sits. Crosses her legs. Looks at you for two seconds then looks down at her hands.

Click. Click.

“You can relax your shoulders,” you tell her. “Breathe out slow.”

She does. A little better.

“Nice. Now maybe lean back a bit. Rest your arm on the back of the couch.”

Click. Click.

She starts to loosen up after ten minutes. Starts moving on her own. Turns her head, plays with her hair, gives a small shy smile.

“That one’s good,” you say, checking the screen. “You look really pretty here.”

She blushes hard. “Stop…”

“I’m serious. Look.”

You turn the camera so she can see. Her eyes go big.

“Oh… that’s me?”

“Yup. Told you the camera makes a difference.”

She smiles for real this time. Small, but real.

You do more poses. Some standing by the window. Some sitting on the floor with knees up. Nothing sexy, just soft and cute like her page says. She even giggles when you tell her to “do the cute peace sign thing”.

After an hour she says, “Can we try… maybe lying down? Like one of the photos I already posted?”

“Sure. Where?”

She points to the bedroom. “There’s better light.”

You move everything. She lies on her stomach, chin on her hands, kicking her feet a little. You get low angle shots, tell her to look at the camera then look away dreamy-like.

Click.

“Perfect,” you say. “That’s gonna get a lot of likes.”

She laughs softly. “You think?”

“I know.”

When you’re done you sit on the floor together and go through the photos on the camera screen. Over 120 shots. At least thirty are really good.

“Which ones do you like?” you ask.

She points shyly. “This one… and this… oh this smile one is nice…”

You copy them to her USB drive. “You can edit them a little if you want. Or I can help with Lightroom next time.”

“Next time?” she asks.

“If you want. No pressure.”

She looks at you for a long second. Then says quietly, “Thank you. Really. I was so scared to post anything new. But now… I feel better.”

“You’re welcome.”

She walks you to the door. Before you leave she stops you.

“Um… can I hug you? Is that weird?”

You laugh. “Not weird.”

She steps forward and gives you a quick, tight hug. Smells like vanilla shampoo.

When she pulls back her cheeks are pink. “Don’t tell anyone about today either, okay?”

“Secret’s safe.”

You leave feeling lighter than you expected.

Next day, you check her page just once. She uploaded six new photos. The ones you took. Lighting perfect, focus sharp, her smile shy but real. Comments are going crazy: “Finally some good pics!”, “You look amazing”, “Queen behavior”. Tips pouring in.

She sent you one private message on OnlyFans.

“thank you for everything ♡ maybe next weekend… we can try video? only if you want”

You smile at your phone.

Yeah. You want.

Two weeks pass fast. You’ve met up three more times at her aunt’s apartment. Each session gets a little easier. She’s less jumpy now, laughs more when you joke about bad angles. You’ve shot maybe 600 good photos total.

She’s posted most of them—slowly, one or two a day. Her follower count went from 47 to 312. Tips are better too, but not great.

Last time you checked, she said she made enough for one month’s phone bill and half her textbook.

You’re at school again, Thursday lunch break. She finds you first this time, outside near the old basketball court where no one hangs out.

“Hey,” she says, voice still quiet but not shaking anymore.

“Hey. What’s up?”

She looks around, then steps closer. “Can we talk? Like… real talk.”

You nod. You both sit on the low concrete wall.

She pulls her knees up. “The new photos are doing okay. People like them. But… it’s still slow. I need more. Like… faster money. My mom’s landlord keeps calling about the rent.”

You stay quiet, let her talk.

“I was thinking,” she says, cheeks already pink. “Maybe… cuter but… sexier? Not naked or anything. Just… teasing. Like, showing a little more. Cleavage. Thighs. That kind of thing. People pay more for that, right?”

You feel your throat get tight. “Yeah. Probably.”

She looks at you quick, then away. “I’m scared to do it alone. The angles are hard. And I don’t want it to look… cheap. Like the first ones.”

You rub your hands on your jeans. “You want me to shoot those too?”

She nods fast. “Only if you’re okay. You can say no. I’ll understand.”

You think for a second. “I’m okay. As long as you’re sure. We stop anytime you say stop.”

Her shoulders drop like she was holding her breath. “Thank you. Really.”

“Saturday again?”

“Yeah. Same time.”

Saturday comes. You show up with the usual gear plus a couple extra things: a small fan for hair movement, and a soft blanket she asked for.

She opens the door in a loose white button-up shirt—way too big, sleeves rolled up—and black bike shorts. Hair loose, light lip gloss, no other makeup.

“Hi,” she says, smiling small.

“Hi. You ready?”

“Kinda nervous. But yeah.”

You set up in the living room first. Big window still gives the best light. She stands there fidgeting.

“Okay,” you say. “We start easy. Just unbutton the top two buttons. Lean forward a little when you sit.”

She does it slowly. Fingers shake a bit on the buttons. Shirt opens just enough to show the curve of her chest and a thin black bra strap. She sits on the couch, leans forward, arms pushing her chest together a little.

Click. Click.

“Chin down a bit,” you tell her. “Eyes up at me.”

She does. Bites her lip. Looks straight into the lens.

Click.

“Good. Really good. Now cross your legs. Let the shirt fall open more on one side.”

She shifts. Shirt slips off her shoulder. Skin looks soft in the light. Thighs press together, smooth and shiny from lotion she probably put on.

You swallow. Keep it professional. “Perfect. Tilt your head. Play with your hair.”

She twirls a strand around her finger. Gives a tiny smile, shy but teasing now.

Click. Click. Click.

After twenty minutes she’s looser. You move to the floor. She lies on her stomach on the blanket, legs bent up behind her, feet kicking lightly. Shirt rides up her back, shows the dip of her waist. You get low shots—her looking back over her shoulder, cleavage visible from the angle, thighs framed nicely.

“Arch your back a little,” you say.

She does. The curve makes everything look… inviting.

“Like that?”

“Yeah. Exactly like that.”

You show her one on the screen. Her eyes go wide.

“Wow… that’s… me?”

“Yup. Looks expensive.”

She laughs, embarrassed. “People will like this?”

“Guys will lose their minds.”

She blushes harder but nods. “Okay. Let’s do more.”

Next pose she sits against the couch, knees up, arms hugging them so her chest pushes forward. Shirt open three buttons now. You can see the lace edge of her bra. She lets one strap slip down her arm.

“Tease it,” you say. “Like you’re about to fix it but don’t.”

She hooks a finger under the strap, pulls it down more, then lets it hang. Looks at the camera with big eyes.

Click.

“God, Yeonji…” you mutter.

You move to the bedroom for the last set. Bed has white sheets, soft light from the lamp. She lies on her side, one leg bent, thigh exposed. Shirt falls open completely on one side—cleavage full now, bra barely covering. She props herself on her elbow, hair spilling over her shoulder.

“Touch your lip,” you say.

She does. Runs her finger across her bottom lip slow.

Click. Click.

“Now look away… like you’re shy but want them to keep watching.”

She turns her head, glances back quick, then away again. Smiles tiny.

Click.

You do a few more. Her on all fours, back arched, looking back. Shirt hanging loose, cleavage spilling forward. Then sitting up, knees apart a little, hands on her thighs, pushing them together then apart just enough.

Every click she checks with you.

“Is this too much?”

“No. It’s perfect. Sexy but still you.”

After an hour and a half she sits up, shirt half closed again. Breathing a little fast.

“I think… that’s enough for today.”

“Yeah. You did amazing.”

You both sit on the bed going through the shots. Over 180 photos. At least half are fire—teasing, cute, hot without crossing her line.

She picks twenty to edit later. “These ones… I think I can post. Maybe in sets. Like… ‘shy but brave today’ or something.”

She looks at you. “You’re really good at this. Like… you make me feel safe. Not weird.”

“I’m glad. That’s the point.”

She hugs her knees. Quiet for a bit. Then says, “Can I ask something personal?”

“Sure.”

“Do you… think I’m pretty? Like… for real? Not just saying it for the photos.”

You look at her. “Yeah. I do. Always have. Even before all this. You’re the prettiest girl in class. Just didn’t know how to say it.”

Her face goes bright red. She hides it in her hands. “Stoppp…”

“It’s true.”

She peeks through her fingers. “Thanks.”

You pack up slow. She walks you to the door like always.

Before you leave she stops you. “Next time… maybe we try video? Short clips. Like… me moving slow. Teasing more.”

“If you want.”

“I think I do. With you directing. You’re good at telling me what looks nice.”

“Okay. Just tell me when.”

She smiles. Small, real, a little bolder now.

“Next Saturday?”

“Next Saturday.”

You leave. Heart beating faster than usual.

That night she posts the first teaser photo on her page. Just her sitting, shirt open two buttons, looking at the camera with that shy-sexy smile.

Caption: “feeling brave today… what do you think? ♡”

Comments explode. Tips start coming in before you even close the app.

Your phone buzzes. Message from her private chat.

“already made $42 in ten minutes… thank you thank you thank youuu ♡ next week i want to try even cuter outfits. you pick one for me?”

You type back fast.

“I’ll bring ideas.”

Saturday rolls around again. You show up at the aunt’s apartment a little early, camera bag heavier because you brought the gimbal for smoother video and an extra memory card.

She opens the door in the same oversized white button-up and black bike shorts. But today the top three buttons are already undone, and she’s got on a lacy black bra that peeks out more than before. Hair’s a little messy like she just ran her fingers through it.

She looks… fuck, she looks hot. Like she knows it too.

“Hi,” she says, “Come in.”

You set up in the bedroom this time. Bed made with fresh white sheets. You mount the camera on the tripod first, then switch to handheld with gimbal for the close stuff.

She sits on the edge of the bed, knees together, hands in her lap. “So… how do we start?”

“Short clips. 15-30 seconds each. We do a few simple ones first. Like… just you moving slow. Looking at the camera. Maybe play with your shirt.”

She nods. Bites her lip. “Okay. Tell me what to do.”

You hit record.

“Unbutton one more. Slow. Look down like you’re shy, then up at me.”

Her fingers move to the fourth button. Pops it open. Shirt falls apart more—cleavage deep now, the lace bra barely holding her in. She looks down, cheeks pink, then lifts her eyes slow to the lens.

You zoom in a little. Her breathing makes her chest rise and fall. Fuck. You shift your legs because you’re already getting hard. Jeans feel tight.

“Perfect. Now lean back on your hands. Arch a bit.”

She does. Shirt slips off both shoulders. Bra straps down. Thighs part just a little. She looks straight at you—through the camera—like she’s inviting something.

Click goes the shutter in your head even though it’s video. You’re close now. Maybe two feet away. You can smell her vanilla lotion mixed with something warmer.

“Touch your hair. Pull it back slow.”

She does. Neck exposed. Lips part a tiny bit.

You swallow hard. “Good. Now… trace your finger down your neck. Down to your chest.”

Her finger follows. Slow. Dips between her cleavage. She presses her arms together a little—makes it deeper. Looks up at you with those big eyes.

Your dick twitches. Hard. You adjust to hide how obvious it’s getting.

The clip ends. You stop recording. Breathing heavier than her.

“Want to see?” you ask.

She scoots closer on the bed. Your knees almost touch hers now. You turn the screen. She watches herself—close up, teasing, cleavage spilling.

“Wow,” she whispers. “I look… different.”

“You look amazing.”

She looks at you. Not the camera. You. “Thanks to you.”

You clear your throat. “Next one?”

“Yeah.”

This time she lies back on the pillows. Shirt open all the way now—bra fully visible, nipples hard under the lace. You get low, close to her thighs.

“Spread your legs a little. Just enough.”

She does. Bike shorts tight. She runs her hands up her inner thighs slow. Stops high up. Fingers brush the edge of the fabric.

You’re right there. Lens inches from her skin. Your face is close too. You can feel the heat off her.

“Tease it more,” you say, voice rougher than you mean.

She hooks a finger under the hem of her shorts. Pulls it aside just a bit—not showing everything, but close. Then her other hand slides down. Fingers press against the fabric over her crotch. Slow circles.

Holy shit.

You’re rock hard now. Painful. You shift again, try to focus on the frame.

She moans soft—just a tiny sound. Barely there. But it hits you like a punch.

“Like this?” she asks, voice breathy.

“Yeah… exactly like that.”

Her fingers move faster for a second, then slow again. She looks right at you. Eyes half-lidded.

“You’re close,” she says quietly.

You nod. “Handheld’s better for this.”

“No… I mean you. You’re hard, right?”

Your face burns. “Yeah.”

She smiles. Small, teasing. “Good. Means it looks real.”

She keeps going. Fingers pressing harder. Hips lift a tiny bit off the bed. Shirt falls completely open. Breasts almost out.

You keep filming. Professional. Barely. Every second feels like forever.

The clip ends. You stop. Hands shake a little.

She sits up slow. Doesn’t button anything. Just looks at you.

“Was that okay?”

“More than okay.”

She scoots even closer. Thighs brush yours now. “Can we do one more? Closer. Like… you hold the camera right here.”

She takes your hand. Guides it so the lens is maybe six inches from her chest.

“Record.”

You do.

She leans in. Breasts almost touch the lens. She cups them, pushes together. Deep cleavage. Then one hand drops back down—fingers slip under the shorts this time. Not inside, but rubbing over her clit through the fabric. Slow. Wet spot starting to show.

She whimpers. Real.

Your dick strains against your jeans. You’re dying to touch her. But you don’t. Professional. You promised.

“Yeonji…”

“Shh,” she says. “Just film.”

She rocks her hips a little. Fingers moving in tight circles. Breathing fast.

You zoom in more. Capture every detail—the way her thighs tense, the flush on her chest, the way her lips part.

Clip ends.

She stops. Pulls her hand out. Looks at you with glassy eyes.

“That… felt good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Silence. Heavy.

She reaches out. Touches your thigh. High up. Close to where you’re aching.

“You’re really hard,” she whispers.

“Can’t help it. You’re fucking hot.”

She laughs soft. “Thanks.”

Her fingers brush over the bulge. Just once. Light.

You suck in a breath.

“But… we keep it professional, right?” she says. Teasing now.

“Yeah,” you manage. “Your call.”

She pulls back. Buttons one button. Smiles shy again—like the old Yeonji peeked out.

“Maybe next time… we see.”

You nod. Pack up slow. Both of you quiet.

At the door she hugs you. Body presses close. You feel everything—her breasts against your chest, her heat.

“Thanks for today,” she murmurs.

“Anytime.”

She pulls back. “Check the page tomorrow. I’ll post one clip. The first one.”

“Okay.”

You leave. Hard as hell the whole walk home.

That night you check. She posted. 20-second teaser. Her unbuttoning slow, leaning forward, cleavage deep. Caption: “getting closer… do you like? ♡”

Tips flood in. Comments wild.

Your phone buzzes. Message from her.

“made $180 already… you’re magic. next saturday? i want to try… more. if you’re still okay being close.”

You type back.

“Still okay. More than okay.”

She sends three hearts.

You lie back. Hand slips down. Think about her fingers. Her moans. Her eyes.

Next Saturday arrives faster than you expect.

You barely slept the night before.

Your phone’s been buzzing with her notifications all week—little updates like “bought the lingerie today ♡” and “people keep requesting more close stuff… they said they’d tip big if I do lingerie set.”

Last night she sent a screenshot: one subscriber promised $500 if she posted a full lingerie video set. Easy money. She said yes.

You knock on the apartment door at 2 p.m. sharp. Heart hammering.

She opens it wearing a long black robe tied loose. Hair curled a little, makeup soft but bolder—redder lips, darker lashes. She looks nervous but excited.

“Hi,” she says, stepping aside. “Come in. I… um… got everything ready.”

Living room lights are already set up the way you taught her. Bed in the corner has new white satin sheets she must’ve bought. Camera gear’s half unpacked on the floor.

You set up quick. Tripod, gimbal, extra battery. She disappears into the bathroom for a minute, comes back without using the robe but draped on her arms.

Black lace lingerie. Thin straps, sheer cups that don’t hide much, high-cut bottoms that show the curve of her hips. Garters clipped to thigh-high stockings. She’s barefoot, toes painted pink.

“Wow,” you breathe out before you can stop it.

She blushes hard, crosses her arms over her chest. “Too much?”

“No. Perfect. Exactly what they’re asking for.”

She smiles small. “Okay. Let’s start.”

First clips are easy. She stands by the window, light hitting the lace just right. Turns slow. Lets the robe slip off her shoulders completely. You film from low angle—thighs framed, lace stretching over her breasts.

“Lean forward a little,” you say.

She does. Cleavage spills forward. Nipples press against the sheer fabric.

Click. Record.

Next she sits on the bed edge. Legs crossed, then uncrossed slow. Hands run up her thighs, trace the garter straps.

You move closer. Handheld now. Lens inches from her skin.

“Play with the straps,” you tell her. “Tease pulling them down.”

Her fingers hook under one garter. Tugs it down an inch, lets it snap back. Does it again. Looks straight at the camera—straight at you.

Your jeans are tight again. Harder than last time. You shift your weight.

She notices. Smiles tiny. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Keep going.”

She lies back on the pillows. Arms above her head. Back arches. Breasts lift. Lace strains.

“Spread your legs a bit,” you say, voice low.

She does. Knees apart. Hand slides down her stomach, over the lace panties. Fingers press lightly. Circles slow.

You’re right there. On your knees at the foot of the bed. Camera close to her inner thigh. You can see the damp spot starting on the black lace.

She whimpers. Soft. Real.

“More?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

She hooks her thumbs in the sides of her panties. Pulls them down just enough—barely an inch. Not showing everything, but close. Fingers slip under the fabric. Rubs herself slow. Hips roll up a little.

Fuck.

You’re throbbing. Can’t think straight. The camera’s shaking in your hand.

She looks at you. Eyes dark. “Come closer.”

You do. Crawl up the bed a little. Lens hovers over her stomach now. You’re almost on top of her—chest close to hers, knees between her spread thighs.

She reaches up. Fingers brush your wrist. Guides the camera lower. Right over her hand moving under the lace.

Her breathing’s fast. Chest rising quick. Nipples hard through the sheer cups.

You’re shaking. Can’t hold the angle steady anymore.

“Yeonji…”

She stops moving her hand. Looks up at you.

You hit stop on the camera. Set it aside on the nightstand. Careful. Still recording the audio maybe, but fuck it.

She doesn’t move. Just watches you.

You lean down slow. Give her time to say no.

She doesn’t.

Your lips brush her neck. Soft skin. Warm. Smells like vanilla and something sweeter now—arousal.

She gasps quiet. Head tilts back.

You kiss again. Open mouth this time. Tongue traces the line of her throat. Down to the hollow above her collarbone.

Her hands find your shoulders. Grip tight.

“Keep going,” she whispers.

You do. Kiss lower. Along the edge of the lace bra. Nudge the strap down with your teeth. Kiss the top swell of her breast.

She arches up. Presses herself closer.

Your hand slides to her waist. Fingers dig in a little. Feel the heat of her skin through the thin lace.

She moans soft. “Please…”

You pull back just enough to look at her face. Cheeks flushed. Lips parted. Eyes glassy.

“You sure?” you ask. Voice rough.

She nods fast. “Yeah. I want… I want you.”

You kiss her neck again. Harder this time. Suck lightly. She whimpers.

Your hand moves down. Over her stomach. To the edge of her panties. Fingers brush where hers were.

She bucks a little. “Touch me…”

You do. Slip under the lace. Find her wet. Hot. Slide one finger slow along her slit.

She cries out small. Hips lift.

You add another finger. Circle her clit gentle at first. Then firmer when she moans louder.

Her hands grab your shirt. Pull you down. Your mouth finds hers this time. First real kiss. Soft lips. Tongue shy at first, then hungry.

She tastes like lip gloss and want.

You keep moving your fingers. In and out slow. Thumb on her clit.

She’s trembling. Breathing fast against your mouth.

“More,” she gasps. “Please…”

You push deeper. Curl your fingers. Hit that spot.

She breaks the kiss. Head falls back. “Oh god—”

Her thighs clamp around your hand. Body tenses. Shakes hard.

She comes quiet but intense. Small cries. Nails digging into your arms.

You slow your fingers. Let her ride it out. Kiss her neck again while she catches her breath.

She looks up at you. Eyes big, wet, needy.

“You… you stopped the camera,” she whispers.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to stop everything.”

You kiss her mouth this time. Deep. She kisses back hard, tongue sliding against yours, small moan in her throat.

Your hand’s still between her legs. She grinds against your palm once, twice.

“Take this off,” she says, tugging at your shirt.

You sit up just enough to pull it over your head. She watches, bites her lip. Her hands go to your jeans next. Fingers fumble with the button.

You help. Jeans down. Boxers too. Your dick springs free—hard, leaking at the tip.

Her eyes go wide. “Oh…”

She reaches out. Wraps her small hand around you. Strokes slow. Up. Down.

“Fuck, Yeonji…”

She smiles shy but wicked. “You helped me so much… let me help you now.”

She scoots down the bed a little. Lies back on the pillows. Looks up at you.

“Come here.”

You straddle her chest. Careful not to crush her. Knees on either side of her ribs.

She pushes her breasts together with both hands. Lace bra cups still on, but she tugs the cups down. Nipples hard, pink. Skin soft.

Your dick slides between them. Hot. Smooth.

She moans quiet. “Like this?”

“Yeah… just like that.”

She squeezes tighter. You thrust slow at first. Tip bumping her chin.

She tilts her head back. Opens her mouth a little. Tongue flicks out, catches the head on each upstroke.

“God… you’re so good,” you groan.

She giggles soft. “You taught me how to pose… now I’m posing for you.”

You thrust faster. Breasts bounce with each push. She looks up at you the whole time—eyes locked. Lips parted.

“Feels good?” she asks.

“So fucking good.”

She spits down once—makes it slicker. Hands press harder. You slide easier now. Wet sounds fill the room.

You’re close already. Too close.

“Slow down,” she stops moving her hands. Just holds you there, squeezed between her tits.

“Not yet,” she whispers. “I want more.”

You pull back.

She sits up quick. On her knees now. Face level with your dick.

She looks up. “Can I…?”

“Yeah.”

She leans in. Lips wrap around the head. Tongue swirls. Then deeper. Takes half in one go.

You groan loud. Hand in her hair—not pushing, just holding.

She bobs slow. Then faster. Hollows her cheeks. Looks up again—eyes watering a little.

You can’t hold back. Thrust shallow into her mouth.

She moans around you. Vibration shoots through you.

“Fuck… Yeonji…”

She pulls off with a wet pop. Strings of spit connect her lips to your tip.

“Face fuck me,” she says. Quiet. But clear.

You hesitate one second.

“Please,” she adds.

You grip her hair firmer. Guide her back down.

She opens wide. You push in. Deeper this time. Hit the back of her throat.

She gags soft. Eyes tear up. But she doesn’t pull away.

You thrust steady. Not too hard. In. Out. Her throat tight around you.

She moans muffled. Hands on your thighs. Nails digging in.

You go faster. Shallow thrusts now. Face fucking her like she asked.

Tears streak her cheeks. Makeup smudges a little. She looks wrecked. Beautiful.

“Fuck… you take it so good,” you pant.

She hums agreement. Vibrates again.

You’re right there.

“Gonna come,” you warn.

She pulls off just enough to speak. Voice hoarse. “In my mouth?”

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

You pull out. She gasps for air.

You push her back down gentle. On her back again.

She spreads her legs wide. Panties shoved to the side now. Wet. Ready.

You line up. Rub the head against her slit.

She whimpers. “Please… fuck me.”

You push in slow. Inch by inch.

She’s tight. Hot. Wet.

Her head falls back. “Oh god… so big…”

You bottom out. Hold there.

She wraps her legs around your waist. Pulls you closer.

“Move,” she begs.

You do. Slow thrusts first. Deep.

She moans every time you bottom out.

“Harder,” she says after a minute.

You pick up speed. Bed creaks. Skin slaps skin.

Her nails rake your back.

“Yes… like that… fuck…”

You lean down. Kiss her neck again. Then her mouth. Messy. Desperate.

She kisses back fierce. Tongue everywhere.

You angle up. Hit deeper.

She cries out. “There—right there—”

You keep hitting it. Fast now. Hard.

Her whole body shakes.

“I’m gonna come again,” she gasps.

“Come for me,” you growl.

She does. Hard. Walls clench around you. Legs lock tight. Back arches off the bed.

You fuck her through it. Don’t stop.

She’s whimpering nonstop.

You’re close. Balls tighten.

“Where?” you ask.

“Inside… please… I’m on the pill…”

You thrust deep one last time. Bury yourself. Come hard. Pulse after pulse.

She moans soft. Feels you fill her.

You collapse on top. Both panting.

She strokes your hair. Kisses your shoulder.

You stay like that a minute. Still inside her. Softening slow.

She whispers, “Thank you.”

You lift your head. “For what?”

“For everything.” Her voice cracks a little. “For the photos. The videos. Believing I could do this. Making me feel… pretty. Wanted. Safe. And… this.”

You kiss her forehead. “You’re welcome.”

She smiles. Small. Real. Shy again.

“I made so much money because of you. But… this part? This was just for me.”

You pull out slow. She winces a little. Then sighs happy.

You lie beside her. She curls into your side. Head on your chest.

“We should probably check the camera,” you say.

She laughs. “Yeah… maybe we got some good audio at least.”

You both look over. Red light still blinking.

She reaches over. Hits stop.

Then turns back to you. Kisses you soft.

“Next week?” she asks.

You grin. “Next week.”

She snuggles closer.

“Thank you,” she whispers again. “For helping me… become this version of me.”

You hold her tight.

“Anytime, Yeonji.”

Next Saturday comes, but your phone stays quiet most of the day. No text about time, no “come over at 2?” Nothing.

You almost message first, but you wait. Around 6 p.m. your phone finally buzzes.

Yeonji: hey… no shoot today okay? Yeonji: can we just… walk instead? Yeonji: like normal. saturday night. downtown. Yeonji: i want to talk. not about photos.

You stare at the screen for a second. Heart does a weird flip—not the horny kind this time. Something softer.

You: yeah sure. where? Yeonji: meet me at the park entrance near the old fountain? 7:30?

You show up a few minutes early.

She’s already there, standing under a streetlamp in a loose white tank top, shorts jeans, sneakers, hair loose, small sling bags to carry her things. No makeup. Just Yeonji. The real one from class.

She spots you and waves small, like she’s nervous.

“Hey,” she says when you get close.

“Hey. You okay?”

She nods. “Yeah. Just… wanted a break from the apartment. From the camera.”

You start walking. The path around the park is lit with yellow lamps. Couples and groups pass by, laughing. Street food smells drift from the vendors outside the gate—grilled corn, roasted sweet potatoes.

She’s quiet at first. Hands in her pockets. Then she speaks.

“I made almost $2,000 last month. After fees and everything. First time I’ve ever had that much money at once.”

You glance at her. “That’s… wow. Good job.”

She smiles tiny. “Yeah. Rent’s paid. Mom’s not stressing as much. I even bought her new shoes. Told her it was from a part-time job. She believed me.”

Yeonji kicks a small pebble. “But sometimes I feel… gross. Like I’m lying to everyone. To her. To my friends. To myself a little.”

You stop walking. She stops too. Looks up at you.

“You’re not gross,” you say. “You needed money. You found a way. You’re careful. You set boundaries. That’s not gross. That’s smart.”

She looks away. Toward the fountain.

“I started because my scholarship only covers half tuition. Mom works doubles at the hospital. She comes home so tired she falls asleep at the kitchen table sometimes. I couldn’t watch that anymore. I thought… if I do this, just a little, I can help, at least. And it worked.”

She laughs soft. Not happy. “First week I cried after every post. Felt like I was selling pieces of me. But then the tips came. And people said nice things. Not all of them—some are creeps—but a lot just said ‘you’re beautiful’ or ‘thank you for sharing’. It… made me feel seen. In a way school never did.”

You start walking again. Slow, “You were always quiet in class. Like you were trying to disappear. But online… you’re not disappearing. You’re choosing how people see you.”

She nods. “That’s why I kept going. At first it was just money. Then it became… My choice? Like, I decide the angle. I decide how much to show. I decide when to stop. No one else.”

You smile a little. “You got really good at it too.”

She bumps your shoulder lightly. “Because of you, dummy. You made it look professional. Made me feel pretty instead of cheap.”

You scratch your back neck, “You were always pretty. I just pointed the camera at it.”

She’s quiet again. You pass a bench. She sits. You sit next to her.

“I’m scared I’ll get addicted to it,” she says. “The money. The attention. What if I need more and more? What if I cross lines I don’t want to cross?”

“Then you stop,” you say. “Or slow down. You’re in control. Not the page. Not the subscribers.”

She looks at you. Eyes searching. “You really think I can just… stop whenever?”

“Yeah. You already proved you can set rules. You told me ‘nothing I don’t want’. You stuck to it. Even when things got… intense.”

Her cheeks go pink. She looks down at her hands. “That day… when we… you know. That wasn’t for the camera.”

“I know.”

“It was for me. For us.” She swallows. “I like you. Like… a lot. Not just because you helped with photos. Because you saw me. The shy me. The scared me. And you didn’t laugh or run. You stayed.”

You reach over. Take her hand. Cold fingers. You warm them between yours.

“I like you too,” you say. “A lot. The shy you. The brave you. The one who moans when she comes. All of it.”

She laughs. Soft. Real. Squeezes your hand.

“I think… I want to keep the page. But slower. Maybe once or twice a week. Better quality. But not every day. I don’t want it to eat my life.”

“Sounds smart.”

“And… maybe we keep helping each other? Not just photos. Like this. Walking. Talking. Kissing if we want.”

You grin. “Kissing sounds good.”

She leans in. Kisses you quick. Cold lips. Warm inside. Tastes like mint gum.

When she pulls back she’s smiling bigger.

“Thank you,” she says. “For not judging. For helping me figure this out. For… being here tonight instead of behind a lens.”

“You’re welcome.”

She stands. Pulls you up. “Come on. There’s a stall that sells really good hotteok. I’m buying. My treat.”

You laugh. “With OnlyFans money?”

“Yup. First hotteok sponsored by my boobs.”

You both crack up. Walk toward the food stalls. Hand in hand.

The night’s cold, but you don’t feel it anymore.

Months pass. You and Yeonji grow closer quietly. At school she still sits in the back, but now she glances your way with a small secret smile. After class you walk her to the bus stop sometimes, talking about nothing and everything. No one suspects.

She keeps the page alive—two, maybe three posts a week max. No rush. You help when she asks. She schedules shoots carefully: Sunday afternoons mostly, at the aunt’s place or sometimes a cheap hotel room for new vibes. You browse Pinterest and Instagram together on her phone, saving soft pastel themes, cozy sweater sets, rainy window aesthetics. She loves the “girlfriend experience” look now—less tease, more intimate.

And yeah, you hook up again. And again. Slow makeouts turn into tangled sheets. She whispers “thank you” every time, like it’s still new. You tell her she doesn’t have to.

She just smiles and pulls you closer.

Yes, you liked Choi Jiwoo. I mean, who wouldn’t? There was just something about her, maybe it was her silent yet observant nature or maybe because you lived around her orbit and you couldn’t help yourself.

Maybe it was the way she noticed things without announcing that she had. The way the trash was always taken out on nights you forgot. The way your favorite glass never seemed to migrate into her cabinet, even though she used everything else without ceremony. Jiwoo moved through the apartment like she was careful not to leave dents in the air, and somehow that made you pay attention.

Liking her felt harmless at first. Almost academic. An observation rather than a feeling. You liked the way she tied her hair before work, efficient and neat. You liked that she never slammed doors. You liked that she hummed sometimes, softly, when she thought she was alone. These were small, manageable things. Things you could tuck away and ignore when your shift ran long and the bar noise followed you home like a second skin.

It only became a problem when you had the brightest idea of telling her.

The thought arrived unceremoniously, somewhere between wiping down the bar at closing and counting tips under bad fluorescent lighting. It felt practical at first. Sensible, even. Like correcting an imbalance that had been left alone too long. You told yourself it didn’t have to be dramatic, just honest. Just a sentence or two, delivered gently, like everything else between you.

You rehearsed it on the walk home. You trimmed it down, softened the edges. Took out anything that sounded like expectation.

You didn’t expect courage to feel this quiet.

She was there when you got home. Actually there. Sitting at the kitchen counter in an oversized sweater, hair loose, mug warming her hands. It startled you so badly you almost laughed.

“Hey,” she said, smiling like this wasn’t rare, like this was normal.

“Hey,” you echoed, heart thudding far too loud for the hour.

You lingered in the doorway longer than necessary. She noticed. Of course she did. Jiwoo noticed everything.

“You okay?” she asked.

You nodded too quickly. Then you shook your head. Then you sighed, because there was no elegant way out once she was looking at you like that.

“Can I… talk to you?” you asked.

Her expression shifted, not alarmed, just attentive. She set her mug down. “Yeah. Of course.”

You sat across from her, the same spot where you’d traded drinks and coffee weeks ago. The kitchen light hummed. The clock blinked a useless time. You stared at the table for a moment longer than necessary, gathering words like loose change.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you said finally. “But I’ve grown more comfortable around you and maybe even a little attached. I appreciate your company a lot but with that, I think I. . .like you. More than. . .roommates.”

Silence followed. 

Jiwoo didn’t look away. That somehow made it worse.

She took a breath, slow and measured, like she was choosing each word carefully. “I wondered if you did,” she said softly.

Your chest tightened. Hope flared before you could stop it.

“I—I’m really glad you told me,” she continued. “Really. I care about you. I do.”

The way she said it already told you where this was going.

“But I don’t see you that way. . .you’re nice, gentle at that and I’m not sure how it would have gone if I had to share this place with someone else.” she said, gentle as a hand on your arm. 

“I’m sorry. . .”

Then there it was.

What felt like letting a gentle hand stab your heart

You swallowed, nodded once. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

“I know,” she said. “But I still am.”

You sat there for a moment, letting it settle. It didn’t hurt the way you’d imagined, well, maybe a dramatic sting to the heart. 

“I don’t want things to be weird,” she added quickly. “I really like what we have. I don’t want to lose that.”

You looked up then, meeting her eyes properly for the first time in a while. There was concern there. And warmth. And nothing else.

“You won’t,” you said. And you meant it.

She smiled, relieved, and reached for her mug again. The moment loosened, unknotted itself. Conversation drifted back to safer ground. Work. Schedules. The price of groceries. You laughed once, surprised that you could.

Later, when she went to bed, you stayed in the kitchen a little longer than usual. You rinsed your glass. Wiped the counter. Set the coffee machine for the morning, same as always.

Some things didn’t change.

And some things did, quietly, without spectacle.

-

Living with her after saying what you felt, was awkward at first.

You couldn’t look back at her, shortened your replies and maybe even took an extra hour or two at the club.

Not because she asked you to. 

Jiwoo never did anything to make it worse.

That somehow made it harder.

You learned new routes through the apartment. You mastered the art of coincidence, timing your showers so you wouldn’t have to share the hallway. You stopped lingering in the kitchen. The light still stayed on, but now it felt like it was shining on the absence you left behind.

She noticed, of course she did.

The pastries still appeared, but less often. The coffee was still set for the morning, but sometimes you forgot on purpose, like denying yourself would make things even. You told yourself the extra hours at the club were practical. More tips. Fewer thoughts. A louder place to hide.

Jiwoo tried to give you space in the careful way she gave everything else. She didn’t push. She didn’t ask. She filled the silence with normalcy, with routine, with the same quiet kindness that had made you like her in the first place.

One morning, you caught her in the kitchen by accident. 

She was dressed up, not in the jeans and sweater you’d grown used to seeing her in before she left for work, but something more prepared. Intentional. A black one piece dress you didn’t recognize, soft fabric that caught the light differently, half-hidden beneath a polo that looked two sizes too large, like she’d grabbed the first thing within reach and pulled it on without thinking too hard about the effect.

You stalled in the doorway.

She glanced up from the counter, fingers still curled around her phone.

“Going somewhere?” You said before you could stop yourself.

“Yeah, my friends set me up with a date.” She said, always straight to the point.

The words landed lightly. Too lightly. Like she hadn’t meant for them to weigh anything at all.

“Oh,” you said. Again. You were getting tired of that sound coming out of your mouth.

She nodded, slipping her phone into her bag. “Yeah. Just coffee. Nothing serious.”

Nothing serious.

You smiled like that helped.

“That’s… nice,” you managed. Your voice behaved. You resented it for that.

She studied you for half a second longer than necessary, eyes flicking over your face like she was checking for something. Finding nothing, or maybe deciding not to look too closely.

“I won’t be late,” she added, for reasons you didn’t ask for.

“Take your time,” you said, and meant the opposite of hurry and the opposite of stay.

She hummed, distracted, and reached for her keys. The movement pulled the polo higher on her shoulder, the black fabric beneath catching the light again. You looked away too late.

“Wish me luck?” she asked, not teasing.

You swallowed. “Good luck, Jiwoo.”

She smiled then. Warm. Familiar. The same smile she gave you when she liked a pastry you brought home or when you remembered to buy her oat milk without being asked.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”

The door closed softly behind her. It always did.

You stood in the kitchen long after her footsteps faded, the coffee machine still warm under your palm. The light hummed overhead, dutiful as ever, illuminating a space that suddenly felt too clean. Too intact. Like nothing had just shifted.

You told yourself you were happy for her.

You told yourself this was what moving on looked like.

You told yourself you’d already lost, so there was nothing left to brace for.

Still, you poured yourself a drink at ten in the morning and didn’t bother rinsing the glass right away, it was probably five somewhere in the world.

That night, you stayed late at the club, later than usual. The music was loud enough to erase the thought, the crowd dense enough to forget faces. You worked on autopilot, smile practiced, hands steady.

Somewhere between shaking a drink and sliding it across the bar, you realized you were counting time again.

Not until she got home.

Just until you didn’t have to picture her sitting across from someone else, laughing easily, telling them things you’d never asked for, never deserved.

When you finally unlocked the apartment door, the kitchen light was on.

There was a mug in the sink, rinsed and not washed.

And for the first time since you’d told her how you felt, you wished she’d been cruel enough to make it easier.

-

Everything continued to the present.

The days stacked neatly on top of each other, indistinguishable in the way routines liked to pretend nothing had changed. You worked late. She woke early. The apartment stayed functional, courteous, almost kind. Whatever sharp edges had surfaced after that morning were sanded down by time and avoidance.

Maybe you should be grateful that you two never got to see each other eye to eye.

Grateful that you didn’t have to watch her come home flushed and smiling, shoes kicked off by the door, phone lighting up with a name that wasn’t yours. Grateful that you didn’t have to learn the sound of her laughter when it was meant for someone else. Grateful that whatever she was building now existed entirely outside your hours.

You told yourself distance was mercy.

The kitchen kept doing what it always did. Coffee brewed before dawn. Glasses appeared in the sink after midnight. The light stayed on, a quiet truce neither of you ever discussed. Sometimes there were pastries again. Sometimes there weren’t. Sometimes you set the timer, sometimes you don't.

All you know was that she was still going out with the guy her friends set her up with.

You didn’t have a name and not a singular idea about him.

He existed only as a concept to you. A silhouette you refused to fill in because giving him details would make him real, and reality had already done enough damage on its own. He was just the guy. The one who occupied the hours you didn’t. The one who got the version of Jiwoo that existed after sunrise and before exhaustion.

You wondered, briefly, if he noticed the things you had. If he saw the way she listened more than she spoke. If he clocked the tiny pause before she smiled, like she was checking whether it was appropriate. If he understood that her kindness wasn’t flirtation, that it was simply how she moved through the world.

You hoped he did.

You hoped he didn’t.

Nothing in the apartment confirmed or denied his existence. Jiwoo didn’t bring it home with her. No unfamiliar shoes by the door. No new scent clinging to her jacket. No laughter bleeding through the walls at night. If anything, she was more careful now. Quieter. Like she was keeping two worlds from overlapping out of respect.

For you, maybe.

That thought lingered longer than it should have.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You weren’t entitled to information you hadn’t earned. You were just roommates again, orbiting each other politely, like planets that had learned not to pull too hard.

Still, sometimes you caught her studying you in the kitchen, eyes flicking up when she thought you wouldn’t notice. Sometimes she asked if you’d eaten. Sometimes you asked if she was tired. Small things. Neutral things. Things that meant nothing if you insisted they didn’t.

The guy stayed nameless. Faceless. A rumor passed between coffee mugs and rinsed glasses. You never asked about him. She never volunteered details. Whatever existed between them was contained, separate, protected by the same unspoken boundaries that now defined your home.

And maybe that was for the best.

-

It was one of those late nights again.

Silence filled the apartment for two, and only the light in the kitchen was on as you laid down on the couch. You shifted against the cushions, eyes closed, letting the ache of work spread through your body. The hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of the overhead bulb were the only companions you allowed yourself tonight.

Somewhere in the kitchen, you heard movement, soft, and present. It wasn’t enough to startle you, but enough to make you lift one eyelid. Jiwoo. Her silhouette passed through the doorway, shoulders hunched slightly under the weight of her bag, hands busy with a mug.

You shifted against the hard cushion again, trying your best to drift off to sleep and pretend to not notice her.

Then you heard it.

The sound was small, almost imperceptible at first, but unmistakable. Sniffles. A shaky breath. The kind of noise you didn’t expect from Jiwoo, the quiet, composed, careful Jiwoo who never let anything spill over.

She wasn’t moving toward her room. She was standing there, in the kitchen light, hands curled around the mug like it was the only thing keeping her steady. Her shoulders shook subtly, and the soft sniffles carried clearly through the quiet apartment.

Something in your chest tightened. Concern, maybe. Something sharper than irritation or tiredness.

You pushed yourself up on the couch, feet hitting the floor softly. “Jiwoo?” you asked, voice low.

She didn’t answer at first. Just another shaky breath. Another sniffle. Then, finally, her head tilted slightly toward you, hair falling loose from her bun, eyes glossy in the dim light.

You hesitated. Part of you wanted to stay still, respect the space she’d built between you. Part of you wanted to cross the small distance and just… be there. Be present.

Slowly, you rose, moving toward her. She flinched the slightest bit, but didn’t step back. Her mug was still clutched in her hands, knuckles pale.

“Hey… what’s wrong?” you asked, keeping your voice gentle.

Her lips pressed together, and then a single shaky breath escaped. “It’s nothing,” she whispered, barely audible. But the way her body trembled betrayed her words.

You took another small step closer. “If you're crying then it doesn't sound like nothing.”

She finally looked at you, really looked, eyes wide and unsure. And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, the distance between you both collapsed in a moment of unspoken need.

“I…” she started, but the words faltered.

You didn’t move to speak over her. You just stayed there, letting the silence fill the spaces where words failed. The hum of the fridge, the faint overhead buzz, the soft clink of her mug.

Jiwoo sat down on the couch after you guided her there. A glass was set down on the low table, just in case she needed it before you sat down next to her.

You let the silence sit in the space between the both of you, not as a barrier to avoid her but as something to wait.

Jiwoo stared at her hands, fingers wrapped tightly around nothing now, the mug abandoned somewhere behind her. Her shoulders were still tense, lifted like she was bracing for impact that never came. The couch dipped slightly under her weight, under yours, close enough to feel but not close enough to overwhelm.

Her breathing was uneven. You counted it without meaning to. In. Out. A hitch. Another breath.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” she said finally. Her voice was quiet, scraped thin. “You look so tired lately.”

The words hit harder than you expected.

“You’re not a bother,” you said, immediately, too quickly. Then you softened it. “You never are.”

She let out a shaky laugh that didn’t sound like laughter at all. “I know. I just… I keep telling myself that.”

Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor. You noticed then how red her eyes were, how carefully she was holding herself together, like this was something she’d practiced doing alone.

“You can talk to me or not, I’ll stay here either way.” You told her, eyes drifting across the living room that was softly illuminated by the streetlight outside.

Jiwoo didn’t answer right away.

Your words settled somewhere between the two of you, quiet and steady, like you’d set something fragile on the table and stepped back from it.

Outside, a car passed. Headlights slid across the wall for a moment before disappearing again, leaving the apartment in its familiar half-light.

She rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand, embarrassed by the sound of it. “You always say things like that,” she murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like it’s simple.”

You shrugged slightly, though she wasn’t looking. “Sometimes it is.”

Her shoulders dropped a little. Not relaxed exactly, but less rigid than before.

“People are pretty. . .weird.” She mumbled, soft enough for you to still hear.

“Yeah, I think that’s what makes us human sometimes.” You chuckled. 

Jiwoo gave a quiet hum at that, like she wasn’t sure whether to agree or argue.

For a while, neither of you spoke again.

The apartment settled back into its quiet rhythm. The fridge hummed like a lazy bassline, the light above the stove buzzed faintly, and somewhere outside a motorcycle coughed past before fading into the distance.

Jiwoo’s fingers twisted together in her lap.

For a long moment she just watched them, like the answer might be written somewhere in the creases of her knuckles.

Then she exhaled slowly.

“I went on another date with him earlier,” she said.

The sentence hit you with a quiet thud.

You leaned back slightly against the couch, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. 

“Alright,” you said gently. “And?”

Jiwoo let out a breath that sounded halfway between a sigh and a laugh.

“And I don’t know what it means.”

Your brow furrowed.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s nice,” she said quickly. “Really nice. When we’re together, he’s attentive and sweet and he listens. He walks me to the train, he remembers the drinks I like, he asks about my day at the cafe.” Her voice softened at that part.

Then her shoulders sagged again.

“But when we’re not together…” She shook her head faintly. “It’s like I don’t exist.”

You turned your head toward her.

“He doesn’t text back?” you asked.

“Sometimes,” she said. “But it takes hours. Or a day. Or he’ll just react to something I send and that’s it.” Her lips pressed together. “Then the next time we meet he acts like everything’s perfect.”

The confusion in her voice was quiet but heavy.

“I keep thinking maybe I’m expecting too much,” she added. “Maybe people just… communicate differently.”

You watched her for a moment.

Jiwoo always tried to give people the benefit of the doubt. You’d seen it in the way she spoke about her coworkers, about rude customers at the café, even about strangers who bumped into her on the train.

She always bent first.

Always tried to understand.

“Do you like him?” you asked.

She hesitated.

“I think so,” she said carefully. “Or… I want to.”

That answer made something twist uncomfortably in your chest.

“And he asked to see you again tonight?” you asked.

She nodded.

“But halfway through dinner he said he might be too busy next week,” she continued. “Then ten minutes later he asked if I wanted to try this new restaurant together soon.”

You blinked.

“That’s… confusing.”

Jiwoo laughed weakly. “Exactly.”

Her hands tightened again.

“I feel stupid,” she murmured. “Like I’m analyzing every message he sends. Every pause. Every word.” She rubbed at her eyes again. “I keep wondering if he actually likes me or if I’m just… convenient.”

The word hung in the air like a bruise.

Your jaw tightened.

Convenient.

You’d spent weeks pretending not to look at her. Pretending your chest didn’t tighten every time you heard her keys in the door. Pretending the confession you’d thrown into the air months ago didn’t still linger somewhere between the walls of this apartment.

And now she was crying over someone who couldn’t even text her back.

Life always did have a strange sense of humor.

You rubbed the back of your neck.

“Can I say something?” you asked.

Jiwoo glanced at you cautiously. “You always do.”

“Fair.”

You leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on your knees.

“If someone likes you,” you said slowly, “they shouldn’t make you feel like a puzzle you have to solve.”

She was quiet.

“They might be busy,” you continued, “or awkward, or bad at texting. But they don’t leave you sitting there wondering if you matter.”

Jiwoo stared at the floor again.

“I keep thinking maybe I’m just impatient,” she said softly.

You shook your head.

“Jiwoo.”

Your voice came out firmer than you meant.

She looked up.

“You wake up at five in the morning to open the café,” you said. “You remember regular customers’ orders without writing them down. You bring home pastries for me even when I never ask. You apologize to furniture when you bump into it.”

A faint, confused smile flickered across her face.

“You’re the most patient person I know,” you finished.

Her eyes softened slightly.

“But if he’s just bad at expressing things?” she asked quietly. “What if I’m giving up too quickly?”

You leaned back again, thinking.

The truth sat heavy on your tongue.

You could say it.

You could tell her the thing that had been sitting in your chest ever since that night months ago when you’d confessed too suddenly, too clumsily, right before leaving for work.

But she was already hurting.

So instead you said something else.

“If someone likes you,” you said, “they’ll make room for you.”

Jiwoo tilted her head slightly.

“They won’t treat you like an extra shift they can pick up when they need extra cash.”

Silence stretched again.

She sat with that thought for a long time.

Then she spoke, quieter than before.

“You never treated me like that.”

The words hit you square in the chest.

You let out a slow breath.

“Jiwoo…”

She turned toward you fully now, knees pulled slightly onto the couch.

“I know things got weird after you said… what you said,” she continued gently. “And I’m sorry if I made it worse.”

You shook your head immediately.

“No, that was on me. I dropped that on you out of nowhere and then ran off to work like a coward.”

She huffed a small laugh.

“You did kind of sprint out the door.”

“To be fair, they needed an extra set of hands,” you muttered.

She studied you carefully.

“You started staying later at the bar after that,” she said.

You scratched your cheek.

“…maybe.”

“And avoiding the kitchen when I was home.”

“…again, maybe.”

Her lips curved faintly.

“You’re not subtle.”

“Neither are you,” you said. “Crying in the kitchen at three in the morning.”

Jiwoo groaned softly and covered her face.

“I didn’t think you were awake.”

“I’m pretty much nocturnal at this point.”

She lowered her hands slowly.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like this. I’m just a bit of a mess sometimes.”

You shook your head and looked at her.

“Everybody has been a mess at some point in their life. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve cried over weirder things before.”

Jiwoo peeked at you through the gaps between her fingers.

“…weirder things?” she asked cautiously.

You nodded, leaning back against the couch again.

“Yeah.”

She slowly lowered her hands, curiosity nudging past the embarrassment.

“Like what?”

You rubbed the back of your neck, suddenly looking very interested in the carpet.

“Once cried because the stray cat that used to visit our home stopped coming by.”

“You didn’t try to adopt it?” She asked.

“Mom had a bad case of allergies so I didn’t really have much of a choice.” You chuckled.

Jiwoo’s expression softened.

“That’s actually really sad,” she murmured.

You shrugged, a little sheepish. “I was nine. It felt like a betrayal at the time.”

“Did the cat ever come back?”

“Nope.” You leaned your head back against the couch. “Probably found a better house with someone who could actually feed it tuna instead of sneaking it scraps.”

Jiwoo huffed a quiet laugh, the sound still fragile but lighter than before.

The tension in her shoulders loosened a little. Not gone, but less sharp around the edges.

“You’re weird,” she said.

“Takes one to know one.”

She looked down again, though this time the silence didn’t feel as heavy. Her fingers rested loosely together instead of twisting themselves into knots.

After a moment, she spoke again.

“I don’t think I like feeling like this.”

You turned your head slightly. “Like what?”

“Like I’m waiting,” she said. “Waiting for him to decide if I’m worth his time.”

Your jaw tightened a fraction.

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” She gave a small sigh. “I check my phone too much. I reread messages. I try to guess what tone he meant.” She shook her head faintly. “It makes me feel a little ridiculous.”

You tilted your head.

“You should think about yourself too,” 

Jiwoo blinked. “What?”

“You’d be surprised about the amount of times I’ve heard people talk about relationships behind the counter.” You started again. “Breakups, first dates, cheating, engagements, all of it.”

She listened.

“And the one thing that always stands out,” you continued, “is that they never really think for themselves.”

She looked thoughtful, tilting her head.

“Sometimes they’re so blinded that they would do whatever the other told them to,” you huffed, “Other times, they would stay even when it hurts, a little, a lot, they would never leave their side.”

Jiwoo listened quietly, her eyes following the slow movement of your hands as you spoke.

You didn’t realize you were gesturing until you stopped.

“People do that a lot,” you continued, voice softer now. “They bend themselves around someone else’s feelings until there’s barely anything left of their own.”

The words hung there, heavier than you intended.

Jiwoo’s fingers curled slightly in her lap again, but not the anxious twisting from before. This time it looked more like she was holding onto the thought.

“And you think I’m doing that?” she asked.

You hesitated.

“A little,” you admitted. “Not because you’re weak or anything like that. You just… try very hard to be fair to people.”

Her lips pressed together.

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“It isn’t,” you said quickly. “But sometimes fairness turns into you carrying the whole weight of something that’s supposed to be shared.”

Jiwoo leaned back into the couch, letting out a slow breath through her nose.

“I keep telling myself maybe he’s just busy,” she said. “Or maybe he’s bad at texting. Or maybe I’m expecting too much too soon.”

You glanced at her.

“And what do you tell yourself when he is texting you back?”

She blinked.

“What do you mean?”

“When he’s attentive. When he remembers your drink order. When he walks you to the train.” You shrugged. “Do you think he’s overthinking it? Wondering if he’s asking too much of you?”

Jiwoo was quiet.

Her eyes drifted down again.

“…no.”

“Exactly.”

The apartment hummed around you, steady and patient.

“You’re putting a lot of effort into understanding him,” you said. “But it doesn’t sound like he’s putting the same effort into understanding you.”

She rubbed the sleeve of her sweater between her fingers.

“I just don’t want to give up on someone too quickly.”

“That’s fair.”

You leaned forward, elbows on your knees again.

“But there’s a difference between patience and waiting around for someone to decide if you’re worth keeping.”

Jiwoo swallowed slightly.

“I hate that part,” she admitted.

“What part?”

“The waiting.”

You nodded.

“Yeah. Waiting’s the worst.”

She turned her head a little, studying your profile in the dim light.

Jiwoo opened her lips, wanting to say something but stopped herself. Instead, she cleared her throat.

“I think I should get some sleep.”

You nodded once, slow.

“Probably a good idea.”

Jiwoo pushed her palms lightly against the couch and stood. The cushion rose back into place after her, leaving a small hollow where she had been sitting. For a second she lingered there, like she had forgotten something.

Or maybe like she was deciding something.

You didn’t ask.

She bent down to grab the mug she’d abandoned earlier, fingers wrapping around it again out of habit more than anything. The tea inside had gone cold.

“…Thanks,” she said quietly.

“For what?”

“For listening.”

You shrugged faintly, though she wasn’t looking directly at you anymore.

“Part of the roommate package.”

That earned the smallest huff of amusement.

Jiwoo took a few steps toward the hallway, then paused near the edge of the kitchen light. The warm glow cut across the floorboards, stopping right before your feet like a stage mark neither of you had crossed in weeks.

She glanced back.

“You should sleep too,” she said.

“I will.”

“You say that every night.”

“And every night I mean it.”

Her mouth curved just slightly.

For a moment it looked like she might say something else. Her fingers tightened around the mug again, shoulders lifting a fraction before settling back down.

But whatever the thought was, she tucked it away.

“Goodnight,” she murmured.

“Night, Jiwoo.”

She disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps soft against the floor until the quiet swallowed them.

A moment later, you heard the faint click of her bedroom door.

The apartment settled again.

You leaned your head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. The kitchen light still hummed faintly, washing the room in that familiar half-glow that had become the only thing the two of you consistently shared lately.

For a while, you just sat there.

Then you stood, stretching the stiffness from your shoulders.

Your eyes drifted toward the kitchen counter.

The coffee maker was still there, exactly where it always sat.

You hesitated.

It would be easy not to do it tonight. Easy to leave it alone, crawl into your own bed, pretend tomorrow would be like every other day that had stacked itself neatly on top of the last.

But your hands moved anyway.

Water first.

Then the filter.

Then the coffee grounds she liked, not the cheaper kind you used for yourself.

You set the timer for five in the morning.

The quiet click sounded louder than it should have.

For a second, you rested your hand against the counter, staring at the little digital numbers blinking back at you.

You told yourself it was habit.

Routine.

Nothing more than that.

Still, when you finally turned off the kitchen light and the apartment fell into darkness, the smell of coffee grounds lingered faintly in the air.

-

You rarely had days off, and when you did, you couldn’t really figure out what to do with them.

The hours felt strange when they belonged entirely to you. Too quiet. Too open.

So they usually ended the same way.

You’d end up drifting between the living room and your room, catching up on sleep that had been shaved away by late shifts and loud music, or finally watching the show you’d been meaning to start for weeks but never had the energy for.

Today was one of those days.

“Do you want to grab some groceries with me?” 

You looked up from the sanctuary that was the living room couch and at Jiwoo who stood a couple steps away.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah, sure.”

She gave a small smile, the kind that didn’t fill the room but made the edges of it softer. “Cool. I figured it’d be better than wandering around alone… or just napping all day.”

You pushed yourself up, stretching stiff muscles. “I mean… I do need snacks. And coffee. And probably something you’ll judge me for buying.”

Jiwoo laughed softly, a little brighter than usual. “I won't judge. Maybe.”

Soon enough, both of you got dressed and met at the door

The two of you fell into an easy rhythm as you walked out the door, the rare daylight spilling in from outside and painting the apartment in warm hues. For once, your schedules aligned, not by accident, not in the half-light of exhaustion, but deliberately, side by side.

Outside, the street hummed with life. The smells of morning pastries and roasted coffee drifted past, blending with the faint scent of the city. Jiwoo fell into step beside you, her bag slung lightly over one shoulder. You noticed the way she adjusted the strap absentmindedly, how her eyes scanned the street but always seemed half-focused on you.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d say yes,” she murmured, almost to herself.

You glanced at her. “Why not?”

She shrugged. “You always seem… busy. Or like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

“I’m standing right here,” you said, shrugging back. “Guess I’m not anywhere else today.”

She smiled at that. It wasn’t wide, but it was genuine, quiet, the kind that stuck in the chest longer than it should.

You walked a little further before either of you spoke again.

The sidewalk stretched ahead, familiar but strangely new in the daylight. Most of your memories of the neighborhood lived in neon reflections and late-night quiet, when the streets felt half-asleep and the world smelled like rain and cigarette smoke.

A bakery door chimed as someone stepped out with a paper bag, warm air spilling onto the sidewalk. A cyclist passed with a soft whirr of their chain. Somewhere down the block a dog barked twice like it had an important announcement to make.

Jiwoo slowed slightly beside you.

“You usually sleep around this time, don’t you?” she asked.

“Usually,” you said. “My body’s probably very confused right now.”

“Should we have gone later?”

You shook your head. “Nah. It’s fine.” Then you glanced at her. “Besides, you look like you needed to get out of the apartment.”

She blinked, surprised by the observation.

“…Maybe I needed to.”

You glanced at her again, a little more carefully this time.

Jiwoo didn’t elaborate. She just kept walking beside you, hands tucked loosely into the sleeves of her sweater, the strap of her bag sliding down her shoulder before she nudged it back up again.

It was a small habit of hers. One you’d started noticing more lately.

For a few steps the silence continued.

Then she spoke again.

“My phone’s been quiet today.”

You didn’t need to ask who she meant.

“Yeah?” you said.

She nodded faintly.

“I didn’t text him this morning.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bold move.”

“I’m experimenting,” she said, though there was a trace of nervousness in her voice. “Usually I’m the one who says good morning first.”

“And today?”

“I wanted to see if he would.”

You looked down the street ahead.

“And?”

She pulled her phone out of her pocket, glanced at the screen, then slipped it back in.

“Still nothing.”

You gave a small shrug.

“Morning’s still young. Maybe he’s still sleeping.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself,” she said, though it sounded like she didn’t fully believe it.

A bus rolled past, stirring a breeze that tugged lightly at her hair. She pushed a loose strand behind her ear.

“You know what the annoying part is?” she added.

“What?”

“I keep checking anyway.” She made a small frustrated noise. “Even though I told myself I wouldn’t.”

You chuckled.

“Congratulations. You’re experiencing the universal human condition.”

“Very comforting,” she said dryly.

“All I’m saying is that you’re not the only one who’s experiencing all of this.” you replied.

Up ahead, the bright sign of the grocery store came into view, the automatic doors sliding open and closed as people passed through.

She slowed slightly.

Then, more quietly, she said, “Thanks for coming with me.”

You looked at her.

“It’s groceries,” you said.

“I know,” she said. “But still.”

There was something gentle in the way she said it, something that lingered in the space between the two of you.

You scratched the back of your neck.

“Well,” you said, “someone has to stop you from buying the expensive cereal again.”

Her eyes widened.

“That cereal is good.”

“It practically costs the same as a small car.”

“It has almonds.”

“Fancy almonds,” you corrected.

Jiwoo laughed as the two of you stepped through the sliding doors, cool air washing over you from inside.

She grabbed a basket and handed it to you.

“You’re carrying it,” she said.

“Why me?”

“You’re a gentleman, aren’t you?”

You sighed dramatically but accepted the basket anyway.

“Fine,” you muttered.

Jiwoo started down the first aisle, glancing back at you with a quiet grin.

-

You slowly walked through the aisles, basket still in hand. 

Jiwoo walked a couple of steps away, grabbing things she needed and pointing at things she could probably buy another time.

“Do we really need three different kinds of pasta?” you asked, staring at the boxes now stacked in the basket.

Jiwoo glanced over her shoulder. “They’re different shapes.”

“They’re still pasta.”

“That’s exactly why they’re different.”

You lifted one of the boxes, inspecting it like it held secrets to the universe. “This one looks like tiny scrolls.”

“They’re fusilli.”

“Fancy spirals.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her mouth gave her away.

You continued walking.

Jiwoo grabbed eggs. Milk. A small pack of strawberries she examined very carefully before approving.

At one point she reached into the basket to move something again and her hand brushed yours.

Just for a second.

You both froze like someone had quietly pressed pause on the moment.

Then she pulled her hand back.

“…Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

You cleared your throat and shifted the basket slightly.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then Jiwoo continued down the aisle like nothing happened.

You stopped near the snacks.

Jiwoo tilted her head slightly as she studied the shelves.

“You said you needed snacks,” she reminded.

You grabbed a bag of chips without thinking and tossed it in.

Her eyes immediately dropped to the basket.

“…Of course you did.”

“What?”

“You work in a bar and your diet is still that of a college freshman.”

“Hey—.”

She crouched slightly and picked up a box of something healthier.

“Take these.”

You looked at the label.

“Jiwoo.”

“Yes?”

“It looks like they forgot to add flavoring at the factory.”

“They’re good for you.”

“You sound like a doctor.”

“Someone has to keep you alive.”

You watched as she slipped the box into the basket anyway.

Her hand lingered there for a second while she adjusted the items inside, organizing things like it mattered.

You stood there, eyes drifting to the side of her face when the thought hit you.

One day, you wouldn’t be the one that helped her with groceries, wouldn’t carry the basket over your arm as she fixed the things inside and wouldn’t be the one who talked to her as if you two were the only ones in the store.

The thought stung your chest, softly at first before it spread throughout your lungs.

By then, you’d forgotten how to speak when she briefly looked up at you.

“Did you forget how to blink?” Jiwoo asked.

You snapped out of it, realizing you’d been staring at her for far too long.

“…No.”

Her eyebrow lifted slightly.

“That was suspiciously delayed.”

“I was thinking.”

“About…?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

Because the truth would sound ridiculous if you said it out loud.

I was thinking about the day someone else stands here instead of me.

So you shrugged lightly instead.

“Nothing important.”

Jiwoo watched you for a moment longer like she didn’t quite believe that. Then she turned back to the basket, nudging the box of healthy crackers further to the side.

“Hold it straight,” she said.

“It is straight.”

“It’s leaning.”

“It’s because you’re pushing it.”

“Just shut up and hold it.”

You adjusted the basket just enough to satisfy her.

The moment smoothed over again.

Just like that.

-

You moved toward the next aisle together.

Jiwoo stopped near the bread section and reached for a loaf without much thought. She squeezed it gently like she’d done this a thousand times before, then nodded to herself and added it to the growing pile in your arm.

“You’re very decisive about bread,” you said.

“I’ve been burned before.”

“By bread.”

“By badly burnt bread.”

You nodded solemnly.

“A tragic story.”

She nudged your shoulder lightly with hers as she walked past you.

“Don’t mock my suffering.”

Your shoulder stayed warm long after the contact ended.

A couple walked past you then.

They were laughing about something small, arguing over which cereal to buy. The guy held the basket while the girl tossed things inside without much thought.

The scene was so ordinary it almost blended into the store’s background noise.

But it still tugged at something in your chest.

Because you realized something quietly devastating.

That’s how the two of you probably looked right now.

Like people who belonged in the same routine.

Like people who did this every week.

Like people who would go home together and cook dinner and argue about pasta shapes.

The thought settled heavy in your ribs.

Because it wasn’t real.

This was a coincidence of schedules.

A rare day where both of your lives slowed down at the same time.

Jiwoo worked mornings.

You worked nights.

Your worlds barely overlapped.

Most days you only saw her half-awake or half-exhausted, passing in the hallway like two trains crossing tracks for three seconds.

And one day, eventually, that passing would stop altogether.

She’d move.

Or you would.

Or someone would come along who actually lived in her hours instead of just borrowing them.

Someone who could walk with her in daylight without their body begging for sleep.

Someone who could share mornings.

Not just late-night leftovers and quiet apartments.

Your grip tightened slightly on the basket.

-

You turned to the next aisle.

Jiwoo still walked further ahead, a couple of steps that you couldn’t quite reach.

Her hand carefully treaded along the shelf, across the plastic of the packs of powdered coffee and the bags of beans ready to be made into a steamy drink.

Then she turned her head over her shoulder briefly.

“Do you have anything to do tomorrow? Besides from your shift, of course.” you heard her ask.

“Not much, why?”

“You should come by the cafe tomorrow, we’re holding an event.”

You slowed a little when she said that.

Not enough for her to notice. Just enough that the wheels of the cart made a softer sound against the floor.

“An event?” you asked.

Jiwoo nodded, turning back toward the shelves. Her fingers tapped lightly against a row of coffee bags before she picked one up to read the label.

“Yeah. The owner’s doing one of those tasting things. Different beans, little pastries, free samples if people sit through the explanation.” She gave a small shrug. “It’s mostly an excuse to get more customers through the door.”

“Sounds dangerous,” you said. “Free food attracts crowds.”

“It does,” she said, smiling faintly.

She placed the bag of beans in the cart.

Then glanced back at you again.

“You should come.”

The words landed lightly, like they hadn’t been given much thought.

But they echoed around in your head anyway.

You leaned your elbows against the handle of the cart.

“What time?”

“Late afternoon,” she said. “Around four.”

Your shift started at seven.

Plenty of time.

Your first instinct was to say yes without thinking.

Instead, you tilted your head slightly.

“Why? You need a body to fill a chair?”

Jiwoo rolled her eyes a little.

“I just thought you might like it.”

You hummed.

“Free coffee does sound appealing.”

“It’ll be nice,” she added after a moment. “The place gets cozy when it’s full.”

You followed beside her.

“You’re working the whole time?”

“Yeah.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Serving drinks, explaining the beans, pretending I know sophisticated things about flavor notes.”

“You don’t?”

“I know what tastes good,” she said. “Apparently that’s not the same thing.”

You chuckled quietly.

For a moment, the image formed in your mind without permission.

Jiwoo behind the counter.

Hair tied back.

Sleeves rolled up slightly while she poured coffee, talking to customers with that small, patient smile she used when people asked too many questions.

People would like her.

Of course they would.

She had the kind of warmth that made strangers comfortable.

Someone would probably sit there longer than they needed to.

Just to keep talking to her.

The thought nudged at something unpleasant in your chest.

You cleared your throat.

“So this is a recruitment effort,” you said.

“For what?”

“To convert me into a regular customer.”

She laughed softly.

“You already are.”

“That’s because you give me discounts.”

“I’ll give you one free drink if you look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

“See?” you said. “Special treatment.”

She shook her head, smiling.

Then she slowed again near the refrigerated drinks.

“Seriously though,” she said, voice quieter now. “You should come if you’re free.”

You stopped beside her.

Jiwoo looked at you properly this time, not over her shoulder, not in passing.

Waiting.

There was nothing complicated about the invitation.

Just a casual suggestion.

But something about it made your chest feel tight again.

Because tomorrow she’d be in her world.

Daylight.

Customers.

A space where you didn’t exist as the guy she shared an apartment with or the person she talked to in the quiet kitchen at midnight.

Just another face in a chair.

Just someone passing through.

You rubbed the back of your neck.

“…Yeah,” you said finally. “I’ll stop by.”

Her smile came a little easier at that.

“Good.”

She grabbed a bottle of iced tea and placed it in the cart.

Then she started walking again.

And for some reason, the few steps between you felt just as long as before.

-

You reached the end of the aisle together.

Jiwoo glanced back at the basket.

“We got a lot more than I planned.”

“That’s because you bought enough for a small village.”

“Because you eat for five people.”

“And who says you don’t?”

You huffed a quiet laugh.

Then she looked up at you again.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.

You blinked.

“Yeah.”

“You got quiet again.”

You looked down at the basket resting against your arm.

At the strawberries. The dumplings. The tea.

All these small pieces of a life that felt strangely shared for the moment.

Then you looked back at her.

Jiwoo stood under the fluorescent lights, hair falling loosely around her face, expression soft but curious.

Waiting.

You forced a smile.

“Just tired,” you said.

She studied you for a second longer.

Then she nodded.

“…Okay.”

She turned toward the checkout lanes.

“Come on. Let’s pay before I remember something else to buy.”

You followed her.

Basket still hanging from your arm.

And for the rest of the walk to the register, a quiet thought sat heavy in your chest.

One day, someone else would be the one standing beside her in grocery store aisles.

Someone else would carry the basket.

Someone else would hear her argue about pasta shapes.

And the worst part was knowing she wouldn’t even notice the difference at first.

Because to her, this was just grocery shopping.

But to you, 

It already felt like something you were going to miss.

-

When tomorrow afternoon came, you made it a quiet rule for yourself not to be late.

It wasn’t a big thing. Not officially.

Just something that settled into your chest sometime between waking up and staring too long at the closet.

You dressed casually, like you weren’t heading into a shift later. A clean shirt instead of the one you usually threw on before work. Shoes that didn’t smell faintly like spilled beer and citrus cleaner. You even fixed your hair a little before leaving, catching your reflection in the mirror longer than usual.

Then you scoffed at yourself and grabbed your jacket.

The walk to the café felt different from the grocery run yesterday.

The same streets. Same storefronts.

But today the sky hung pale and bright overhead, and the sidewalks buzzed with afternoon energy. People holding iced drinks, students drifting in groups, someone walking a golden retriever that looked like it had a better social life than you.

You spotted the café before you even reached the corner.

The windows were wide and bright, sunlight spilling through them like someone had poured honey across the floor inside. A small chalkboard sign stood outside the door.

Coffee Tasting Event Free samples today!

You paused a second before going in.

Not out of nervousness exactly.

Just awareness.

Then you pushed the door open.

The bell chimed softly above your head.

Warm air wrapped around you immediately. Coffee, sugar, butter from fresh pastries. The quiet hum of conversation layered with the soft hiss of an espresso machine.

It was busier than you expected.

Small groups sat at tables with little sample cups. Someone near the counter laughed at something the barista said. A couple stood by the display case debating between croissants and muffins like it was a life-altering decision.

Your eyes scanned the room without meaning to.

And there she was.

Jiwoo stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair tied back loosely. She was pouring coffee into small cups while speaking to a pair of customers.

“…this one’s lighter,” she was saying, voice calm and patient. “A little fruity, I guess? That’s what they tell me I’m supposed to say.”

The customers laughed.

She smiled, a little sheepish.

You leaned against the wall near the entrance for a moment, watching.

She moved easily behind the counter. Passing cups, wiping the surface, answering questions. Every now and then someone thanked her and she gave that small nod you’d seen a hundred times in the apartment when she said goodnight or handed you a cup of tea.

But here it looked different.

Brighter.

People noticed her.

A guy sitting near the counter leaned forward while she spoke, clearly more interested in the conversation than the coffee in front of him.

A woman thanked her again as she walked away.

Jiwoo’s laugh drifted across the room.

And something in your chest shifted.

Not jealousy exactly.

Just a strange, quiet realization.

This was her world.

Light pouring through windows instead of neon bar signs. People lingering in chairs instead of staggering out the door at two in the morning. Conversations that didn’t smell like whiskey and regret.

You’d only ever seen her in the quiet hours. Late nights in the kitchen. Early mornings before either of you collapsed into sleep.

But here she looked alive.

Like this place belonged to her.

You rubbed the back of your neck and stepped closer to the counter.

It took a few seconds before she noticed you.

Jiwoo looked up while handing a sample cup to someone.

Then she froze.

Just for a second.

Her eyes widened slightly before a smile spread across her face, brighter than any you’d seen in the apartment.

Jiwoo raised her hand up slightly in a small wave.

She watched you return the gesture before a hand tapped on your shoulder.

Jiwoo’s eyes flicked from the counter to you, following your movements as you talked quietly with someone else.

She noticed the subtle lean in your posture, the way your hands moved to emphasize something, the faint smile that wasn’t meant for her.

Her chest tightened in a way that made her inhale too quickly, catching herself before anyone could notice.

The girl who had stepped up beside you had a bright, easy presence,laughing at something you said, and Jiwoo felt the tiny, sharp stab of something she wasn’t expecting.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the counter, the warmth of the cup she had just poured doing little to soothe the sudden unease blooming in her stomach.

She told herself it didn’t mean anything.

You were just. . .talking. Right? Just talking.

But she couldn’t stop her gaze from following every small motion, the way you shifted slightly closer to the girl, the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed. It wasn’t jealousy, she reasoned. Not really. It was just awareness. A quiet, insistent awareness that this, this brightness, this laugh, this casual closeness, wasn’t hers.

Jiwoo’s lips pressed into a thin line. She looked down at the counter, focusing on the swirl of crema in the cup she had set aside. Her own hands, usually so steady, felt like they were betraying her, twitching slightly as she tried to focus on anything but you.

When she glanced back up, you had turned to hand the girl something, your attention fully elsewhere. Jiwoo realized, with a small, hollow ache, that even if she wanted to step forward, even if she wanted to be part of this moment, she didn’t belong here. Not really.

She set the cup down a little too firmly. The faint clink echoed in the busy cafe, and she straightened, telling herself to move, to breathe, to return to work.

Jiwoo tried to go back to work, to talk to customers and to discuss the different flavors a coffee could have but she couldn’t

Not when she could see you and this seemingly random woman talk at the back of the crowd while you talked in front.

Jiwoo tried.

She really did.

A customer stood in front of her asking about the difference between two roasts, holding both sample cups like they contained some grand philosophical answer. Jiwoo nodded, listened, even opened her mouth to explain.

“—this one’s a little more acidic,” she said automatically.

But her eyes drifted again.

Across the café.

You were still standing near the back of the small crowd, one shoulder angled toward the girl. She said something animated, lifting her hands in the air like the story required gestures. You laughed again. Not loudly, but enough that Jiwoo could see it in the tilt of your head.

The customer in front of her said something else.

Jiwoo blinked.

“I’m sorry?” she asked.

They repeated the question.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Right. That one’s um…”

Her mind stalled like a car stuck in the wrong gear.

The customer didn’t seem to mind. They smiled politely, tasted the coffee, and moved along with a thank you.

Jiwoo nodded automatically.

Her fingers hovered over the counter.

The cafe buzzed around her, voices and cups and the constant quiet motion of people drifting through the event. Normally she liked this kind of energy. It made the hours pass quickly. It made her feel useful.

Today it felt like standing in the middle of a river while watching something important drift away downstream.

She glanced up again.

The girl beside you leaned a little closer this time, saying something near your shoulder.

Jiwoo felt the small twist in her chest again.

Not jealousy.

She told herself that immediately.

You had friends. People who knew you outside the apartment. Outside those sleepy late-night conversations where both of you were half-draped over the kitchen counter and sharing whatever snacks were left in the cabinet.

Of course you did.

And yet.

Seeing it was different.

Seeing the easy way you laughed, the way someone else occupied your attention so completely for a moment.

It made something quietly fragile inside her wobble.

Jiwoo picked up a cloth and wiped the counter again even though it was already spotless.

A coworker passed behind her with a tray of pastries.

“Jiwoo, can you refill the light roast samples?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said quickly.

She reached for the coffee pot.

But as she poured, her eyes betrayed her again, flicking up toward the back of the room.

“Jiwoo, remember to give those out.”

She nodded her head and as she held the two cups together to set aside on a tray, she exited around the counter and headed towards a specific table.

The tray was light in her hands. Two small cups, steam curling gently upward like quiet signals.

Jiwoo moved through the café slowly, weaving between chairs and people who had gathered in loose clusters. Someone laughed near the window. Another group debated loudly over which roast tasted “more chocolatey.”

She stopped beside your table.

You looked up from the other girl before you and your eyes widened in recognition.

“Light roast refill?” she offered politely.

“Yeah, sure. We could use some.” You answered.

She set the cups down but she continued to stand there, feet unknowingly inching towards you.

Her arms pressed the tray against her chest.

You glanced at her and the almost blank expression on her face.

“Ah right,” you gestured towards her. “This is Jiwoo, I share the apartment with her.” 

The girl turned toward her with immediate interest.

“Your roommate?” she repeated, smiling as if the idea amused her.

Jiwoo gave a small nod.

“Yes. We—”

Her voice caught slightly before she could finish the sentence.

You noticed it.

Of course you did.

Jiwoo’s gaze dropped to the table instead of meeting either of your eyes. The small sample cups sat between you now, thin steam rising lazily into the air.

The other girl picked one up first.

“Well, that’s convenient,” she said lightly before taking a sip. “Living with someone who works in a cafe. I’d never run out of coffee.”

Jiwoo managed a polite smile.

“And Jiwoo, this is Dohee. One of my friends back in college.”

Jiwoo nodded once.

“Nice to meet you,” she said softly.

Dohee smiled easily, the kind of warmth that filled space without asking permission.

“You too. He never mentioned his roommate worked here.”

Jiwoo’s eyes flicked briefly toward you.

“Probably because I try to sleep when he gets home,” she said. “And he tries to sleep when I leave.”

Dohee laughed at that.

“Opposite schedules?”

“Pretty much.”

You nodded, rubbing the back of your neck again.

“The apartment’s basically a relay race,” you said. “She hands the kitchen over when I stumble in.”

Jiwoo felt the corner of her mouth lift slightly despite herself.

It was true.

Half the time the only proof that you’d been home was the empty mug in the sink or the bag of chips mysteriously appearing in the pantry.

Dohee took another sip of the coffee.

“Oh this is good,” she said, lifting the cup. “You made this?”

Jiwoo shook her head lightly.

“We’re sampling beans today. I just poured it.”

“Well you poured it very professionally,” Dohee said with a playful nod.

Jiwoo gave a small, polite smile again.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the tray.

You leaned forward on your elbows.

“So how long are you in town?” you asked Dohee.

“Just visiting for a couple days,” she said. “Work trip. I didn’t expect to run into you here of all places.”

Jiwoo watched the conversation drift back toward you both.

The two of you slipping easily into old stories and shared references she didn’t understand.

Professors.

Late study nights.

Someone named Minjae who apparently once tried to microwave ramen without water.

Dohee laughed loudly at that one.

Jiwoo smiled politely again even though she didn’t know the story.

The tray in her hands suddenly felt heavier.

Like it became a reminder that she had a reason to stand here.

And also a reason to leave.

You glanced up at her again mid-conversation.

“Did you want to sit?” you asked.

Jiwoo blinked.

“Oh.”

Her eyes flicked toward the counter where her coworkers were still moving quickly behind the espresso machine.

“I should probably get back.”

You nodded slowly.

“Right.”

There was a tiny pause.

Jiwoo adjusted her grip on the tray.

“Enjoy the coffee,” she said.

Dohee lifted her cup slightly in thanks.

Jiwoo turned again.

This time she made it all the way back to the counter without stopping.

The moment she stepped behind it, the café wrapped around her again.

Orders.

Milk pitchers.

The familiar rhythm of work.

But every so often her eyes betrayed her.

They drifted toward the back of the café.

Where you and Dohee were still talking.

Where your shoulders leaned toward someone else’s story.

And Jiwoo realized something quietly uncomfortable.

She knew the version of you that existed at four in the morning.

Half-asleep.

Gentler.

Quieter.

But this version of you… the one laughing easily in the afternoon sunlight…

Felt a little like someone she was only just meeting.

And somehow that made the space between you both feel a little wider than it had this morning.

-

Once the event was over and the crowd spilled out onto the street like a tide finally released, you waited outside.

The cafe door swung open and closed behind customers leaving with paper bags tucked under their arms, their voices fading into the afternoon traffic. Somewhere down the block a bus hissed to a stop. A bicycle rattled past. The city had started slipping into that in–between hour where the sun softened and everything moved a little slower.

Jiwoo had told you to go home.

“You can leave,” she said from behind the counter while wiping the counter. “I still have to close up.”

You agreed, initially.

And then. . .you didn’t.

You leaned against the brick wall beside the cafe window instead, hands buried in your pockets. Through the glass you could see her moving around inside, small and busy. She carried a stack of chairs to the back. Wiped one of the machines. Adjusted a crooked display of a painting that hung on a wall.

Every now and then she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in that distracted way she always did.

You looked away before she could accidentally catch you staring.

Ten minutes passed.

Maybe fifteen.

The sun dipped lower, painting the street in warm orange streaks that stretched across the pavement like spilled watercolor.

The door finally opened.

Jiwoo stepped out, bag swinging from her shoulder, the shop keys dangling from her fingers. She turned to lock the door, pushing it shut with her shoulder before sliding the key into place.

Only then did she turn around.

And immediately froze.

Her eyes landed on you like she had just discovered a statue someone secretly placed there.

“You’re still here?”

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion.

You straightened slightly from the wall. “Yeah.”

“I told you to go home.”

“You did.”

She stared at you for a moment longer, clearly waiting for the explanation that wasn’t coming.

“You. . .forgot?” she guessed.

“No.”

Jiwoo shifted in place, still looking unconvinced. A small crease appeared between her brows as she studied you, as if trying to solve a quiet puzzle.

“Then why are you still here?”

You shrugged lightly.

“Thought we could walk together.”

Jiwoo blinked.

For a moment she simply stared at you, as if the sentence needed time to settle somewhere in her head.

“. . .Walk?” she repeated.

“Yeah.”

Your answer came easily. Too easily, maybe.

Like waiting outside for fifteen minutes just to walk someone home was the most normal decision in the world.

Jiwoo shifted her weight slightly, the strap of her bag sliding further down her shoulder. Her fingers caught it automatically, pulling it back into place.

“You didn’t have to wait for that.”

“I know.”

The reply came without hesitation.

Which, somehow, only made the situation stranger.

Jiwoo looked at you again, longer this time. The late sunlight caught the edges of her hair, turning a few strands copper against the fading sky.

“You’re weird,” she muttered.

But the words lacked any real bite.

A small silence slipped between you both.

Cars rolled past slowly. Someone across the street was unlocking a bike, the metal chain clinking softly.

Jiwoo let out a small breath. “Fine.”

“Fine?” You raised an eyebrow slightly.

“I mean,” she gestured vaguely down the street, “we’re going the same direction anyway.”

You didn’t point out that she didn’t actually know where you were headed. Instead, you simply pushed yourself off the wall.

“Lead the way.”

Jiwoo turned and started down the sidewalk without another word.

You fell into step beside her.

For the first few minutes, neither of you said much.

The city hummed around you in that comfortable evening rhythm. Restaurants were starting to fill. Streetlights flickered on one by one. The sky overhead was slowly trading orange for a soft violet blue.

Jiwoo walked with her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, gaze forward.

After a while she spoke again.

“You and Dohee seemed close.”

The sentence landed lightly. Casual on the surface.

But there was a small tightness beneath it.

You glanced sideways at her.

“She talks a lot, she always had been like that.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

A small pause.

“We went to the same university,” you said. “Same department, same classes, everything.”

“Ah.” Jiwoo nodded slowly, processing that.

She watched the sidewalk as she walked.

“You seemed different.”

This time it was you who blinked.

“Different?”

“Earlier,” she said, still looking straight ahead. “At the cafe.”

You waited.

She hesitated slightly before continuing.

“I only ever see you at four in the morning.”

That much was true.

The quiet version of you. The tired one who slept on the couch because you were too tired to walk to your bed.

“The one that barely talks,” she added.

You huffed a small laugh.

“And this afternoon?”

Jiwoo shrugged.

“You were laughing.” She said, like it was a strange discovery, like finding something new about something she already knew about.

You rubbed the back of your neck lightly.

“I do that sometimes.”

Jiwoo shot you a quick look.

“Not at four in the morning.”

“Most things aren’t funny at four in the morning.”

That earned a small sound from her. Not quite a laugh, but close.

The corner of her mouth lifted faintly before she smoothed it away.

A few more steps passed in silence.

Then Jiwoo spoke again, softer this time.

“Still.”

You glanced at her.

She was watching the pavement, the faint glow of the streetlights stretching ahead of you both.

“I didn’t know that version of you.”

You tilted your head slightly.

“And now?”

Jiwoo didn’t answer right away.

Instead she slowed her steps just a little, like the thought itself needed time.

“Now I do,” she said.

And for some reason, that simple sentence made the evening air feel a little less distant between you both.

───✱.｡:｡✱.:｡✧.｡✰.:｡✧.｡:｡.｡✱───

Jiwoo learned early how to exist comfortably in the margins.

It wasn’t painful after a while. Margins were predictable. Calm. No expectations lived there.

She watched people from that place.

Friends formed loudly around her. Crushes that turned into relationships. Invitations passed around like small floating lanterns.

Sometimes one drifted her way.

Sometimes it didn’t.

Either way, she learned not to reach too far for them.

By the time college came around, Jiwoo had perfected the quiet art of being easy to overlook.

Group projects.

Study sessions.

Even friendships that formed around her often felt temporary, like rain puddles that appeared after a storm and vanished when the sun returned.

So she stopped expecting permanence.

Stopped expecting to be someone’s first call.

Someone’s first thought.

It was easier that way.

It was safer.

Even when she moved into the apartment, she hadn’t expected much.

Just a place to sleep. A quiet kitchen. Another person moving through the same space at opposite hours like two trains sharing the same station but never arriving at the same time.

At first, that’s exactly what it was.

You passed each other in doorways.

Shared the refrigerator.

Left the occasional note about rent or groceries.

Nothing more.

And that was fine.

It fit the familiar pattern of her life.

People orbiting.

Jiwoo staying steady in the middle, unnoticed.

But somewhere between late-night snacks and those quiet kitchen conversations at four in the morning, something shifted.

You started asking questions.

Not big ones.

Just small things that people usually didn’t bother with.

“Did you already eat?”

“Your shift end late today?”

“You look tired.”

Simple things.

But they felt strange inside her chest.

Like receiving a letter inside of her locker when she expected none on Valentine’s day.

At first she answered politely.

Short replies.

Careful ones.

But you kept asking.

You kept noticing.

The pastries she brought home.

The way she always made tea instead of coffee when she couldn’t sleep.

The way she leaned against the counter when she talked because standing still felt awkward.

No one had ever paid attention to those things before.

Not really.

And slowly, without meaning to, Jiwoo started adjusting her routines around you.

Leaving pastries when she noticed you skipped dinner.

Brewing espresso before your shifts.

Waiting a little longer before going to bed if she heard your keys at the door.

None of it was deliberate.

Or at least, that’s what she told herself.

Because wanting something more would mean risking a familiar outcome.

People leaving.

People choosing someone else.

People deciding, quietly and without cruelty, that someone else fit their life better.

Then you told her how you felt.

“I’ve grown more comfortable around you and maybe even a little attached. I appreciate your company a lot but with that, I think I. . .like you. More than. . .roommates.”

Jiwoo didn’t know what to say at first.

She could’ve said that she had grown comfortable around you too.

Could’ve said that having you around made her days feel lighter after her shifts.

But she couldn’t.

The words stayed somewhere behind her ribs, tangled in a knot she had carried for years.

Jiwoo looked at you across the small kitchen, the overhead light casting a quiet glow over the counter between you. The apartment was unusually still, the late hour pressing gently against the windows. Somewhere outside, a car passed slowly down the street.

You waited.

Not impatiently. Just… there.

Your hands rested against the edge of the counter like you had nowhere else to put them. Your expression was calm, but she could see the careful attention in your eyes. The kind someone wore when they were bracing themselves for an answer that could tilt things one way or another.

Jiwoo wished, suddenly, that you had said nothing.

Not because she didn’t want to hear it.

But because hearing it made something fragile inside her tremble.

“I…” she started.

Her voice faded almost immediately.

She looked down at the table, fingers unconsciously tying themselves together.

You liked her.

The sentence floated in her mind like a paper boat drifting in circles.

You liked her.

Not as the quiet roommate who shared groceries.

Not as the person who left pastries on the table.

Not as the girl who worked at a cafe.

You liked her.

Jiwoo had imagined that moment before, in the vague daydream way people sometimes allowed themselves when the night felt long enough.

But in those quiet fantasies, she always knew what to say.

Now that it was real, her chest felt tight.

Because she knew something you didn’t.

Or maybe she just believed it too strongly to ignore.

You were warm with people.

Easy to talk to.

The kind of person who laughed in crowded clubs with old friends and leaned into conversations like they mattered.

You had a whole world that existed outside the apartment.

Friends.

Colleagues.

Stories that didn’t include her.

Jiwoo had only ever seen the late-night version of you.

The tired one.

The quiet one who stood in the kitchen at four in the morning and asked if she’d eaten.

What if that was the only version of you that fit with her?

What if the moment things became real and you realized she wasn’t quite what you thought?

She had lived that story before.

People drifting closer.

Then slowly realizing there were brighter, easier people to stand beside.

Her fingers tightened around themselves.

Your expression hadn’t changed much, but she could see the faint uncertainty creeping in now. 

Jiwoo swallowed.

And she said something that was safer, not just for herself but for you too.

“I don’t see you that way. . .”

Then when her friends set her up on that date, she felt like she was doing something right.

Jiwoo felt strangely calm.

If she dated someone else, everything would settle back into place.

You would move on.

You would find someone who fit your world better. Someone brighter in the daylight. Someone who laughed easily with your friends and didn’t freeze every time someone said something honest.

And she would do what she had always done.

Adjust.

Be content with the quiet spaces people left for her.

The date itself wasn’t bad.

That wasn’t the strange part.

It was when she started looking for you in him.

He was nice.

He didn’t show off, didn’t brag about anything.

He asked her about herself, about her job and how long she had been in the city for.

Across the table, he said something about the neighborhood the café was in.

Jiwoo listened.

Or at least she tried to.

Because every now and then, her attention slipped sideways.

Not toward the door nor toward the windows.

Toward something more specific.

The way he smiled when she finished speaking.

It was nice.

But it wasn’t yours.

Yours had always started small. One corner of your mouth tilting up first like the thought amused you before you even allowed the rest of your face to show it.

This one was clean, straightforward.

Jiwoo told herself she was being unfair.

He wasn’t supposed to be you.

That wasn’t the point of this.

Across the table, he reached for his drink and took a sip before continuing, explaining something about the marketing firm he worked at, the deadlines, office politics. His coworkers who always ordered takeout too late at night.

Jiwoo listened.

And once again, something small inside her mind wandered.

Because when you talked about your work, it never sounded like that.

You never explained it like a story meant to impress someone.

You complained about it while leaning against the counter at four in the morning with tired eyes.

“You won’t believe how many people tried to ask for a free drink.”

Or, 

“If I survive this week I’m buying the biggest meal I can afford. I’m sharing it with you, don’t worry.”

Jiwoo used to laugh quietly when you said those things.

It was unfair to look for you in him so she tried to learn, tried to take interest.

She continued on talking to him even when she noticed you avoiding her at home, even when you decided that space was what the both of you needed.

But when you found her crying in the middle of the kitchen one late night, the answer had never ever been this clear to her.

She liked you.

But in her eyes, it was too late for that.

She couldn’t take back what she said.

She shouldn’t expect you to hold her when she said she saw nothing more than friends.

When you sat beside her on the couch, she wanted to lean in, lay her head on your shoulder and nothing else.

After that night, she had been weighing things in her head.

And when she made up her mind, she tried to move subtly.

When she found you lounging on a rare occasion that was your day off, she asked you.

“Do you want to grab some groceries with me?”

Jiwoo had to look away so you wouldn’t see the small flash of relief that crossed her face.

-

The walk together was silent besides from a comment here and there.

But as you did, she hoped you didn’t notice how her steps gradually pulled her closer intentionally.

When you got to the store and picked out a basket, she walked a couple of steps away yet it didn’t stop her from turning her head to steal glances while you looked away.

As you two argued about pasta, she smiled at you, one that meant she enjoyed the small moment more than anything else.

When you grabbed a bag of chips, she returned it to grab a healthier alternative because she knew it would help in the long run somehow.

And when you held the basket still, she looked up briefly to find you already staring back at her warmly, as if you two were the only people who existed in that aisle.

It still replayed in her mind every so often.

Then she invited you to the cafe’s event.

It was nothing much, but little did you know, she had already saved you a seat. Already expected you standing there, listening to her as she talked about coffee.

But then Dohee appeared.

Jiwoo wasn’t jealous, she’d tell herself.

She just hated how easy it was for her to get a laugh out of you.

But it gave her enough reason to set things straight.

After careful thinking, she called it off with the man she went on dates with.

Calling it off had been easier than she expected.

That was the strangest part.

Jiwoo had rehearsed the conversation the entire walk to the café where she was supposed to meet him. She had expected something heavy. Awkward apologies. Explanations that sounded thin even to her own ears.

Instead, it ended quietly.

He listened.

She told him the truth in the gentlest version she could manage. That she didn’t think she was ready for something real. That it wouldn’t be fair to keep seeing him when her thoughts kept drifting somewhere else.

He didn’t ask where.

He only nodded, a little disappointed but not angry.

“Someone else?” he asked lightly.

Jiwoo hesitated.

Her answer came out softer than intended.

“Maybe.”

They parted ways after that. No slammed doors, no dramatic speeches. Just two people stepping back into their separate evenings.

Yet as Jiwoo walked home, the air felt different.

Like she had finally taken a breath she’d been holding for weeks.

Still, the relief didn’t erase the problem sitting in the middle of her chest.

Because none of this fixed what she had said to you.

I don’t see you that way.

The sentence had lodged itself between you like a piece of furniture no one knew how to move.

By the time she reached the apartment, the sky had deepened into night.

The kitchen light was on.

Jiwoo paused at the door.

You were there.

Of course you were. Standing by the counter in a worn T-shirt, sleeves pushed up while you rinsed a glass in the sink. The faint smell of citrus cleaner and something warm drifted through the room.

You glanced up when the door opened.

“Hey.” Your voice was casual, like it always had been.

“Hey,” Jiwoo replied.

She slipped off her shoes slowly, buying herself time.

“You’re home early,” you said.

“Closed the cafe early tonight.”

That wasn’t a lie. She asked to leave earlier than usual.

But the real reason was standing in front of her.

You nodded once and turned back to the sink.

The faucet ran for a moment before you shut it off.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable.

But it wasn’t the same quiet you used to share either.

Jiwoo set her bag on the chair.

Her fingers traced the edge of the table absentmindedly.

“You didn’t go out tonight?” she asked.

“No shift.”

“You usually still go out.”

You dried the glass with a towel.

“Didn’t feel like it.”

Something about that answer twisted slightly inside her chest.

Jiwoo leaned her hip against the counter.

Her eyes followed the small movements of your hands.

“…Can I ask you something?”

You glanced at her.

“Depends. Do you want an educated answer or not?”

She let out a quiet laugh.

The memory of the last time still lingered between you like a ghost.

“Hopefully.”

You shrugged.

“Alright.”

Jiwoo inhaled slowly.

Then said it.

“I stopped seeing him.”

Your hands paused for half a second on the glass.

You didn’t look up right away.

When you did, your expression was neutral.

“Oh.”

Just that.

Jiwoo suddenly felt like the kitchen had shrunk around her.

“He was nice,” she added quickly, though she didn’t know why.

“I know he was.”

Your tone stayed calm, not cold but not curious either.

Like you had already stepped away from the part of your life where that information mattered.

Jiwoo stared at you for a moment.

“I just couldn’t imagine myself with him in the future.”

You nodded. “That’s totally fine and reasonable.” 

Jiwoo swallowed, the words catching somewhere in her throat. She couldn’t say the thing she wanted most, not yet. Not here. Not when it might make everything awkward between the two of them again.

“I just… kept thinking about, I don’t know, how things felt with him,” she said instead, “It didn’t feel right.”

You paused, the towel still in your hands, studying her just enough to notice the shift in her tone. “Yeah. . .I get that.”

She looked down, twisting the edge of the counter under her fingers. “I guess. . .I realized I need to take things slower. Figure out what I actually want.”

Your expression stayed calm, easy, but there was a flicker of something, curiosity? Concern?, something that Jiwoo caught out of the corner of her eye.

“Slower’s good,” you said softly. “No need to rush anything.”

Jiwoo nodded, letting the silence settle between you.

It spread through the kitchen slowly.

You set the glass down beside the sink and folded the towel over your shoulder out of habit.

For a moment it looked like you were about to say something else.

Instead you asked, almost casually, “Did he take it okay?”

Jiwoo blinked at the question.

“Yeah,” she said after a second. “He was. . .understanding.”

You nodded once.

“That’s good.”

Another small pause followed. The refrigerator hummed softly in the background, filling the space neither of you quite stepped into.

Jiwoo studied the floor tiles.

She could feel your attention resting somewhere nearby, not pressing, not demanding. Just present.

It was the same way you had always been with her.

That made this harder.

“I think I was trying to convince myself,” she admitted suddenly.

Your head tilted a little.

“About?”

“That if I tried hard enough,” she said slowly, “I’d start feeling what I was supposed to feel.”

You leaned back against the counter, arms folding loosely.

“And it didn’t work.”

Jiwoo gave a small shake of her head.

“No.”

Her voice came out softer than she intended.

You didn’t respond right away.

You just watched her for a second in that thoughtful way you had, like you were placing puzzle pieces quietly inside your head.

Then you said, gently, “You don’t owe anyone that.”

Jiwoo looked up.

“What?”

“Forcing yourself to feel something,” you explained. “People try to do that a lot. Doesn’t usually end well.”

A faint smile tugged at your mouth.

“Trust me. I’ve tried.”

That surprised a quiet breath out of her.

“You have?”

“Yeah.”

You shrugged lightly.

“Turns out feelings are stubborn little things. They don’t listen when you tell them where to go.”

Jiwoo let out a small laugh.

It was quick, but real.

The sound seemed to loosen something in the room.

For a moment it almost felt like one of those old late nights again. Standing around the kitchen half-awake, talking about things that didn’t quite belong to daytime.

She shifted her weight slightly.

“Ah right, you might not find me here when you get home tomorrow. Dohee invited me out for dinner, thought I’d give you a heads up.”

You said it casually.

The way someone might mention picking up groceries on the way home.

But the moment the name left your mouth, Jiwoo felt something small and sharp catch in her chest.

Dohee.

Of course.

She had expected that possibility ever since the event at the café. Ever since she watched how easily the two of you slipped into conversation while she stood behind the counter pretending to focus on the grinder.

Still, hearing it out loud made the room tilt slightly.

“Oh,” Jiwoo said.

The word came out lighter than she felt.

You didn’t seem to notice the pause that followed. Or maybe you did and chose not to push it.

“She’s trying this new place near the place she’s staying,” you continued, rinsing the sink briefly before setting the sponge aside. “Apparently their dumplings are good.”

Jiwoo nodded slowly.

“That sounds nice.”

It was quiet again.

But this quiet was different from the one before.

Jiwoo’s fingers slid along the edge of the counter again, tracing the same invisible line she’d been worrying about all evening.

“She invited a couple people,” you added. “Might just end up being the two of us though. Everyone else is still deciding.”

She let out a small hum.

“That happens.”

Her eyes stayed on the counter instead of your face.

A small, unreasonable part of her wanted to ask something else.

Do you like her?

The question hovered somewhere behind her teeth.

She swallowed it.

It wasn’t her place to ask.

Not after what she had said.

Not after she had drawn the line herself.

You didn’t seem particularly excited when you talked about the dinner. But you didn’t sound uninterested either.

That somehow made it worse.

Because normal meant it could become something.

Jiwoo pushed herself away from the counter.

“Well,” she said softly, brushing her hands against her jeans. “I hope the dumplings are good.”

You glanced at her again.

“They probably will be.”

Your tone was light, but your eyes lingered on her a second longer than necessary.

Like you were quietly checking something.

Jiwoo looked away first.

“I’m going to shower,” she murmured.

“Alright.”

She walked toward the hallway, but halfway there she slowed.

Her back still turned to you.

“. . .Hey,” she said.

You looked up again.

“Yeah?”

Jiwoo hesitated.

For a moment it looked like she might say something important.

Something that had been sitting inside her chest all evening.

Instead she only said, quietly,

“Don’t—Don’t stay out too late.”

You huffed out a soft laugh.

“Sure, I’ll be back before you know it.”

Jiwoo nodded once and disappeared down the hallway.

The bathroom door closed with a gentle click.

Back in the kitchen, you stood there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the glass still in your hand.

Then shook your head, shaking away an empty thought.

-

The dinner had gone about how you expected when the invitation first came.

A little reunion.

Old memories resurfacing like dusty photo albums pulled off a shelf.

Old stories told with louder laughter than they probably deserved.

And even older people who insisted on reminding everyone how much time had passed.

The restaurant itself was warm and noisy, the kind of place where plates clinked constantly and steam rose from baskets of dumplings like tiny clouds escaping into the air. Someone had pushed two tables together so everyone could fit, elbows brushing occasionally as dishes rotated through the center.

Dohee sat two seats down from you, animated as ever.

At some point she had started reenacting a story from years ago, using her chopsticks as props while the others leaned in with exaggerated anticipation.

Though, your mind was elsewhere as laughter surrounded you.

You were thinking about the only person left in the apartment.

About the person who would probably make something to drink before she went to bed.

And about the person who you wanted to see.

The thought came quietly.

Too naturally.

Across the table someone raised a glass.

“To surviving our twenties,” he declared dramatically.

“That sounds like a threat, not a toast,” Dohee said, laughing.

Glasses clinked anyway.

You lifted yours a second late.

The conversation shifted again, jumping to someone’s new job, someone else’s terrible landlord, someone who had apparently gotten engaged last month.

Normally you would have leaned in.

Asked questions.

Made a joke or two.

Tonight your attention drifted in small, persistent circles.

You imagined the apartment kitchen with the light on over the sink.

Jiwoo standing there with one of those oversized mugs she liked, sleeves pushed over her hands while she waited for the kettle to finish heating.

The image arrived so clearly it almost felt like memory instead of imagination.

You wondered if she would still be awake when you got back.

If she would say hello from the couch.

If she would pretend she had just been watching something when really she had been waiting for the sound of the door.

You sighed into your glass.

When everyone went their separate ways after walking out the front door, you didn’t hesitate on grabbing a taxi instead of walking home like you were used to doing.

City lights passed by the window in soft streaks. Neon signs. Late-night food stalls still glowing under plastic awnings. A pair of students laughing too loudly while waiting for the crosswalk.

Your reflection sat faintly in the glass.

You rubbed your thumb along the edge of your phone without unlocking it.

For a moment you considered sending a message.

Still awake?

Your finger hovered over the screen.

Then you lowered the phone again.

If she was awake, you would see her in a few minutes anyway.

And if she wasn’t. . .

Your gaze drifted back outside.

The taxi slowed at a red light.

A kettle whistling somewhere in your memory.

Jiwoo leaning against the counter, mug warming her hands.

You exhaled quietly.

“Long day?” the driver asked suddenly, glancing at you in the mirror.

“Something like that.”

He nodded like that answer covered a thousand possibilities.

The light turned green.

A few more turns.

A few more quiet streets.

Then the taxi rolled to a stop in front of your building.

You paid quickly and stepped out.

The city felt softer here.

Most of the windows in the building were already dark.

You climbed the stairs two at a time before you realized you were doing it.

Your hand rested on the doorknob for half a second.

Just enough time for a small thought to pass through your mind.

She might be asleep.

Then you turned it anyway.

The door opened with its familiar soft click.

You walked in silently and took off your shoes.

The kitchen light was left on, she probably went to sleep.

You lowered your head and then you heard it.

A soft gasp.

You turned your head deeper into the kitchen and saw her standing, back towards the sink and a cup of tea in her mug, steam still curling up.

Your brows lifted slightly.

“You’re still up.”

Jiwoo blinked like she had been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to.

“Yeah.”

Her voice came out softer than usual.

“I thought you’d be out later.”

You stepped further inside, the apartment settling into its familiar quiet around you.

“Dinner ended earlier than I thought.”

She nodded slowly.

The mug stayed between her hands like an anchor.

Your eyes drifted to it.

“Tea?”

“Chamomile.”

“You hate chamomile.”

“I know.”

That pulled a small smile out of you.

“Then why are you drinking it?”

Jiwoo looked down at the steam curling upward as if it might offer a better answer than she could.

“. . .It helps people sleep.”

The silence that followed was gentle but a little fragile.

You leaned your shoulder against the doorway that separated the kitchen from the rest of the apartment.

For a moment you just watched her.

Jiwoo had always moved quietly around the apartment.

But tonight something about her seemed dimmer. Like she had been standing there thinking for a long time.

“You didn’t have to stay up,” you said after a second. “You work early.”

Her eyes flickered up.

“I know.”

But she didn’t say I was going to sleep.

She didn’t say I was just making tea.

Instead she took a small sip from the mug.

The heat made her inhale quietly.

You pushed away from the doorway and stepped into the kitchen.

The space suddenly felt smaller with both of you in it.

Your hand reached for the cabinet automatically, pulling down a glass before filling it with water.

The faucet hummed softly between you.

Jiwoo watched the movement.

Watched the way you leaned against the counter afterward like you had done a thousand times before.

For a second it felt almost normal again.

Almost.

Then you glanced at her.

“How was your night?”

“Quiet,” she said.

You raised an eyebrow.

“That’s the opposite of my night.”

She smiled faintly.

“I figured.”

You took a drink of water.

Across the counter Jiwoo’s fingers tightened slightly around the mug again.

She had rehearsed things earlier.

Different versions of conversations while standing here.

But now that you were actually in front of her again, all those careful sentences scattered like startled birds.

You set the glass down.

“Reunion was good though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Everyone’s doing. . .something.”

Jiwoo nodded slowly.

Then she asked the question before she could overthink it.

“How was Dohee?”

Your gaze flickered up at that.

Jiwoo immediately regretted asking. The words felt too specific, too revealing, like she had accidentally stepped on a floorboard that creaked in a quiet house.

She pretended to focus on the tea instead, lifting the mug and blowing across the surface.

“Still loud,” you answered after a second. “Still thinks she’s the funniest person in the room.”

Jiwoo huffed softly into the mug.

“She hasn’t changed, has she?”

“Nope.”

A small silence settled between you again, but it didn’t feel awkward exactly. 

You leaned your hip against the counter, arms folding loosely and smiled at her.

“Don’t worry about her.”

She looked up from the cup, eyes widening.

“She’s just a friend.”

Jiwoo stared at you.

The sentence landed on the counter between you like a coin spinning on its edge.

She hadn’t said anything about worrying.

Hadn’t asked if Dohee was anything more.

But the reassurance arrived anyway.

Too quickly, too easily.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the mug.

“I didn’t say I was worried,” she murmured.

“You didn’t,” you agreed.

You reached for your glass again, taking a small sip of water, but your eyes stayed on her over the rim.

“Just thought I’d let you know.”

Jiwoo opened her mouth to argue.

Nothing came out.

Because the truth was embarrassingly simple. She had asked about Dohee the same way someone might casually poke at a bruise just to see if it still hurt.

She lowered the mug to the counter, opened her lips to probably say something dumb but she stopped herself.

The small reassurance you gave her was enough for now.

She carefully picked out a cup from the cabinet and raised it slightly towards you before looking.

“Would you like some tea too?”

───✱.｡:｡✱.:｡✧.｡✰.:｡✧.｡:｡.｡✱───

Now the pebble was gone.

Jiwoo didn’t realize how much it had bothered her until the absence of it made everything feel strangely calm.

The next morning she woke up earlier than usual.

She continued on with her day and in the evening, she would come home with another paper bag of pastries.

She didn’t catch you before you left for work but that was fine, she left them in the fridge.

As the night grew deeper, Jiwoo waited even though her eyes gradually got heavier.

It started innocently enough.

She had told herself she would only sit for a little while. Just long enough to finish the episode playing quietly on the television. Just long enough to make sure her tea wasn’t scalding hot.

But the episode ended.

Then another started.

And her tea had gone cold.

Still, she stayed on the couch.

A small lamp in the corner cast a warm pool of light over the living room, leaving the rest of the apartment in softer shadows. The clock on the wall ticked forward with patient determination.

Jiwoo pulled the blanket higher over her legs.

Her phone rested in her hand, though she wasn’t really looking at it anymore.

Every so often her eyes drifted toward the door.

Not urgently.

Just habit.

She imagined the moment it would open.

The soft click of the lock. The familiar shuffle of shoes being kicked off carelessly. The quiet sigh you sometimes let out after a long shift, like the day finally slipping off your shoulders.

Her eyelids dipped lower.

The television murmured quietly to itself.

Jiwoo blinked hard once, trying to stay awake.

Just a little longer.

But waiting has a funny way of turning into sleep when the body decides it has had enough.

Her head slowly leaned against the armrest.

The phone slid slightly in her hand.

And sometime between one blink and the next, the room dissolved into quiet.

-

Hours later, the door opened.

Jiwoo woke up slowly to the sound of your footsteps.

At first it slipped into her dream like a distant noise. The soft creak of the door. The quiet thud of shoes landing beside the wall. Familiar sounds that her half-asleep mind recognized before she was fully aware of them.

Her eyes opened only a little.

The living room lamp was still on.

The television had gone silent sometime during the night, leaving the apartment wrapped in a calm that felt thicker than usual.

She didn’t move right away.

Instead, she listened.

The slow rhythm of someone walking through the apartment.

You.

Jiwoo shifted slightly on the couch, the blanket sliding a little as she pushed herself upright. Her hair had fallen across her face while she slept, leaving faint creases on her cheek from the cushion.

She froze when she heard you groan then sighed.

The sound of rushing water came from the kitchen.

She shuffled her feet over slowly, careful not to make any noise.

Then you hissed under your breath.

Jiwoo froze.

Not loud. Just a sharp intake of air, the kind someone made when alcohol met an open cut.

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

You lifted your hand again, pressing a damp paper towel to your mouth.

When you pulled it away, the white came back stained faintly red.

Jiwoo’s sleepiness vanished instantly.

“…What happened?”

Your shoulders jumped.

You turned halfway, clearly not expecting anyone to be standing there.

Jiwoo stood behind you, arms folded loosely even though her expression had sharpened.

For a moment neither of you said anything.

Then you exhaled through your nose.

“Did I wake you?”

“You’re bleeding.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

She ignored that.

Jiwoo stepped closer, eyes fixed on the cut along your lower lip.

It wasn’t huge.

But it was definitely fresh.

“You got into a fight?” she asked.

“Not really.”

“That usually means yes.”

You sighed and tossed the bloody paper towel into the trash.

“Guy at the bar had too much to drink.”

“And?”

“And he didn’t like being told to leave.”

Jiwoo’s brows drew together.

“And you decided your face was the best way to solve that?”

“I work there,” you said, like that explained everything.

She stepped closer without asking permission, leaning in just enough to inspect the cut properly.

You stayed still.

Her fingers hovered for a second before gently tilting your chin toward the light.

The proximity was sudden.

Her hair still messy from sleep. The faint scent of tea lingering on her clothes.

Jiwoo frowned.

“That’s going to swell.”

“I noticed.”

“You should’ve put ice on it.”

“I was working.”

Her eyes flicked up to yours briefly.

Then she turned away and opened the freezer.

You watched her pull out an ice pack and wrap it quickly in a dish towel.

When she came back, she held it out toward you.

“Here.”

You took it.

But instead of pressing it to your lip, you hesitated.

Jiwoo tilted her head slightly.

“…What?”

You looked at her for a second like you were debating something small and unnecessary.

Then you leaned forward just a little.

“Hard to aim when I can’t see it.”

Jiwoo stared at you.

Then she sighed the long sigh of someone who had already accepted the situation.

“Give it here.”

She took the ice pack back from your hand.

Carefully, she lifted it toward your lip.

The cold made you flinch.

“Hold still,” she muttered.

“I am holding still.”

“You literally just moved.”

“That was a reaction.”

Jiwoo rolled her eyes softly but adjusted the angle, pressing the ice gently against the cut.

For a moment the only sound in the kitchen was the quiet hum of the refrigerator.

You watched her while she focused on the task.

Her expression was serious in that quiet way she had when she cared about something.

Or someone.

“…You stayed up,” you said after a moment.

Jiwoo didn’t look up.

“I fell asleep.”

“On the couch.”

“Yes.”

“Waiting?”

The question hung between you like a string pulled slightly too tight.

Jiwoo’s hand paused for half a second.

Then she resumed holding the ice against your lip.

“…I told you,” she said softly. “I was already awake.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes stayed on her face.

On the way she refused to look directly back at you.

After a moment, a small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

Which immediately made you wince.

Jiwoo noticed.

“Stop smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You literally are.”

“It hurts to stop.”

She narrowed her eyes on you.

“You’re careless.”

“And you’re still awake at two in the morning holding ice to my face.”

Jiwoo opened her mouth.

Then closed it again.

Because annoyingly enough, you weren’t wrong.

She pressed the ice a little more firmly against your lip.

You hissed.

“Careful,” you muttered.

“Then stop talking.”

“That seems excessive.”

“You got punched,” she said flatly. “You don’t get to complain about pain.”

You lifted your hands in quiet surrender.

“Alright.”

The kitchen settled back into silence.

Jiwoo focused on the cut like it required all of her attention. The dish towel had already started to grow damp from the melting ice, and she adjusted it slightly so the cold still touched the split in your lip.

You watched her the entire time.

Her brows slightly furrowed.

Her hair falling over one eye again.

The oversized sleeve of her sweater hanging over her wrist while she held the ice pack steady.

“…You should sleep,” you said after a moment.

“So should you.”

“I just got home.”

“You still need sleep.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Jiwoo huffed quietly.

“I wasn’t planning on being awake.”

“But you were.”

She didn’t answer.

The ice had done enough by now. The swelling had started to dull, and the redness had softened slightly.

Jiwoo lowered the pack and stepped back half a pace.

“Hold this.”

She pressed the wrapped ice back into your hand.

You took it this time without argument.

Then she turned and opened one of the kitchen drawers.

You watched her rummage for a moment before she pulled out a small tube.

“…What’s that?” you asked.

“Antiseptic.”

“You keep medical supplies in the kitchen?”

“I keep clumsy roommate supplies in the kitchen.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I resent that.”

“You should resent the guy who punched you.”

Jiwoo uncapped the tube and squeezed a small amount of cream onto her fingertip.

Then she stepped close again.

“Don’t move.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that tonight.”

“Maybe because you keep moving.”

She gently tilted your chin again with her free hand.

This time when her finger touched your lip, the sting made you inhale sharply.

“Told you it would sting,” she said.

“That doesn’t make it pleasant.”

“You’ll survive.”

For a second she studied it like she was inspecting her work.

“There.”

You stayed leaning against the counter.

“Doctor Jiwoo.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m serious. Very professional.”

“You’re lucky it’s not worse.”

“Yeah.”

Jiwoo wiped the leftover cream from her finger with a paper towel, but when she glanced up again she noticed you were still looking at her.

Not casually.

Just watching.

“…What?” she asked.

“You’re staring at my lip like it’s about to fall off.”

“I’m making sure it’s not still bleeding.”

“It stopped.”

She leaned closer anyway, squinting slightly under the kitchen light.

“Let me see.”

You tilted your head down a little so she could check.

Her thumb hovered near your mouth, brushing lightly along the edge of the cut to see if it had split again.

It hadn’t.

But when her eyes lifted, she realized just how close she was.

Your face was only inches from hers now.

The kitchen light reflected faintly in your eyes.

Jiwoo felt her breath catch.

Neither of you moved.

For a moment the only sound in the room was the refrigerator humming behind you.

“…You’re staring again,” you murmured softly.

“I’m checking.”

“Very carefully.”

“You’re annoying.”

“And you’re still here.”

Jiwoo rolled her eyes, but the motion was slower than usual.

Her hand was still resting lightly against your chin.

“…You should sleep,” she said.

“You first.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

She shook her head slightly, trying to step back.

But your hand moved without thinking, resting lightly against the counter beside her before she could create distance.

Not trapping her.

Just to keep her there.

Jiwoo swallowed.

“You got punched,” she said quietly, like she needed to return the conversation to safer ground.

“Comes with the job.”

“You should’ve ducked.”

“Next time.”

“There shouldn’t be a next time.”

Your gaze softened slightly at that.

“You sound worried.”

She hesitated, then muttered, “Someone has to be.”

That answer seemed to settle something in your chest.

For a second neither of you spoke.

Then you noticed her eyes flick down to your mouth again.

“You’re doing it again,” you said.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at it like that.”

Jiwoo blinked.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m checking the injury.”

“Jiwoo.”

The way you said her name made her pause.

Her gaze slowly lifted to yours again.

Your voice dropped a little softer.

“…It’s just a cut.”

“I know.”

“But you keep looking.”

She hesitated.

Then admitted quietly,

“…It’s on your face.”

“And?”

She sighed faintly.

“And I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

The words slipped out before she could catch them.

Jiwoo immediately looked away.

Your expression changed.

Not dramatically.

But enough that the room suddenly felt different.

“…You waited for me,” you said.

“I fell asleep.”

“On the couch.”

“Yes.”

“Lamp on.”

“That was left on by accident.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

She opened her mouth to argue again, instead she just shook her head.

“You’re getting on my nerves.”

“And you’re still here at two in the morning fixing my face.”

Her lips parted slightly.

You leaned forward just enough that the space between you disappeared.

“Jiwoo.”

Her name sounded quieter this time.

She didn’t step away.

Your eyes flicked briefly to her lips.

Then back to her eyes.

“…Thank you,” you said.

The sincerity in your voice caught her off guard.

“For what?”

“For waiting.”

Her chest tightened slightly.

“I told you, I didn’t—”

You didn’t let her finish.

Not with words.

You just leaned in.

The kiss was gentle.

Careful because of the cut on your lip, but warm enough that Jiwoo’s hand instinctively grabbed the front of your shirt for balance.

It only lasted a second.

But when you pulled back, she was still standing there, staring at you like the room had shifted slightly around her.

Her voice came out barely above a whisper.

“…You’re going to reopen the cut.”

A faint smile tugged at your mouth.

“Worth it.”

Jiwoo blinked.

Then, before she could think too hard about it, she leaned forward and kissed you again.

This time it wasn’t just a quick, careful press of lips.

Jiwoo didn’t stop after a second.

Her hand tightened slightly in the front of your shirt as she leaned in, closing the small space that had been lingering between you all night.

You inhaled softly in surprise.

Then your hand came up instinctively, settling at her waist to steady her when she leaned closer.

The kiss was still gentle,  it had to be, because of the cut on your lip,  but it lasted longer this time. Long enough for Jiwoo to realize she had been holding her breath.

Long enough for the quiet kitchen to feel suddenly smaller.

When she finally pulled back, it was only a few inches.

Her fingers were still curled in your shirt.

Your hand was still resting lightly at her waist.

Jiwoo blinked like she had just stepped somewhere unexpected.

Her fingers were still twisted lightly in the fabric of your shirt.

Your hand was still resting at her waist.

Neither of you had moved.

For a moment it felt like the room had paused with you.

Jiwoo’s thoughts scrambled in every direction at once. She had kissed you. Twice. The second time without hesitation.

And you hadn’t pulled away.

Her eyes flicked down to your lip again out of habit.

“…I probably made it worse,” she murmured.

You touched the corner of your mouth carefully.

“Maybe a little.”

She groaned quietly and let her forehead drop briefly against your shoulder.

“I just fixed it.”

Your chest moved with a soft breath that might have been a laugh.

“You’re the one who kissed me.”

“You kissed me first.”

“Technically I interrupted you.”

“That’s not better.”

She lifted her head again.

Now that the moment had settled, the closeness felt almost overwhelming.

Jiwoo’s fingers slowly loosened in your shirt, but they didn’t quite let go.

You noticed.

Your voice came softer.

“Jiwoo.”

Her eyes lifted.

There was something steady in your expression now. Not teasing. Not surprised.

Just waiting.

And that made her chest tighten.

Because suddenly all the things she had carefully avoided thinking about for months were standing right there between you.

The way she waited for the sound of your keys at night.

The way she noticed when you were late.

The way her mind had always drifted back to you, even in a crowded room.

Jiwoo inhaled slowly.

“…This is a bad idea,” she said quietly.

“Why?”

“Because we live together.”

“That’s true.”

“And you just got punched.”

“That also seems true.”

She gave you a small look.

“You’re not helping.”

“Probably not.”

The silence returned, but it wasn’t awkward.

It was the kind that feels like the edge of something.

Jiwoo glanced down again, gathering the courage she hadn’t planned on needing tonight.

“…I waited for you,” she admitted finally.

You didn’t interrupt.

“I know I said I didn’t.” She let out a soft breath. “But I did.”

Her fingers tightened again slightly in your shirt.

“I kept thinking about you coming home.”

Your expression softened, but you still said nothing.

That only made her words spill out faster.

“I kept thinking about whether you’d eaten. Whether you’d be tired. Whether something stupid would happen at the bar.”

She gestured vaguely toward your lip.

“Apparently I wasn’t wrong.”

A faint smile touched your mouth, though you didn’t interrupt.

Jiwoo shook her head at herself.

“I told myself it was just because we’re just really good friends.”

Her voice dropped a little.

“But I shouldn’t try to find you in other people.”

Your hand at her waist shifted slightly, not pulling her closer, just reminding her you were still there.

Jiwoo swallowed.

Her eyes lifted to yours.

“I like you,” she said quietly.

The words felt both terrifying and strangely relieving the moment they left her mouth.

“I probably sound stupid after what I told you.”

Your expression didn’t change much.

But your hand tightened just slightly at her waist.

Jiwoo rushed on before she could lose the nerve.

“…And I know this might make things weird,” Jiwoo continued quickly, the words tumbling over each other now that they had finally started.

“I know we live together. And I know you probably moved on and I’ve gone and became just a roommate to you. And maybe I completely misunderstood everything and you’re just being nice because I’m standing here fixing your face at two in the morning—”

“Jiwoo.”

Her voice stopped immediately.

You hadn’t raised your voice.

You had just said her name again.

Soft.

Steady.

She blinked, suddenly aware that she was still gripping the front of your shirt like it might disappear if she let go.

“…I’m not done embarrassing myself yet,” she muttered.

You exhaled quietly through your nose.

“Yeah,” you said.

Jiwoo blinked.

“…Yeah what?”

“That’s about the part where I interrupt you.”

Her brows drew together.

“I told you I wasn’t done embarrassing myself.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you interrupting me?”

You looked at her for a moment, the same steady way you had been all night.

Because if you let her keep going, she would probably apologize for another three minutes straight.

And somehow turn liking you into something she needed to feel guilty about.

“…Because you’re wrong,” you said.

Jiwoo’s fingers tightened slightly in your shirt again.

“About what?”

“About me moving on.”

Her breath caught a little.

You continued before she could spiral into another explanation.

“I didn’t move on.”

The words settled into the quiet kitchen.

Jiwoo stared at you like she was trying to read something hidden behind them.

“…You didn’t?”

“No.”

“But I told you—”

“I know what you told me.”

Her chest tightened.

The memory sat between you immediately.

I don’t see you that way.

Jiwoo’s voice dropped a little.

“…Then why did you stay?”

You tilted your head slightly.

“Stay where?”

“Here,” she said, gesturing faintly around the apartment then to herself. “With me.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead your thumb brushed lightly against the side of her waist where your hand still rested.

“Not much of a choice when I see you everyday.”

Jiwoo blinked, rolled her eyes and accepted your words anyways.

You felt her arms wrap around you before you even realized she had moved.

For someone who had spent the last few minutes arguing with every sentence you said, Jiwoo suddenly went very quiet.

Her forehead rested against your chest, her cheek turning slightly so her ear pressed there too.

Listening.

Your heartbeat was steady beneath her.

For a moment you didn’t move either.

The kitchen light hummed faintly above you. The refrigerator clicked softly somewhere behind her. Outside, the city had settled into that strange middle-of-the-night calm where everything feels a little suspended.

Jiwoo’s grip around you tightened just a little.

Just enough that you felt it.

You looked down at the top of her head, her hair still a mess from sleeping on the couch. A faint crease still marked her cheek from the cushion.

“…You’re quiet,” you murmured.

Her voice came out muffled against your shirt.

“I’m thinking.”

“Could get you hurt.”

She huffed softly.

“I’m having a moment.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“No.”

A small pause.

Then she added quietly,

“Don’t ruin it.”

You let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.

“Alright.”

Your hand moved almost automatically, settling more comfortably against her back. It wasn’t dramatic either. Just your palm resting there, warm and steady.

Jiwoo didn’t pull away.

If anything, she leaned a little more of her weight into you.

The silence stretched.

But it felt full instead of empty.

After a moment she spoke again, still half-hidden against you.

“…You really didn’t move on?”

“No.”

“You didn’t even try?”

“I tried once.”

Her head lifted a little.

“…Once?”

“Yeah.”

She tilted her face up just enough to look at you.

“And?”

“It was a terrible idea.”

“Maybe it was a sign?” Jiwoo’s mouth twitched.

“A sign that I should stick around?” 

Jiwoo’s mouth twitched again, the hint of a smile tugging at it even though she tried to keep her expression serious.

“Maybe,” she said.

Her arms were still wrapped around you, but now she leaned back just enough to look up at your face properly.

“A sign that you should stick around.”

You tilted your head slightly.

“Because of the apartment?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Because of me, idiot.”

The word carried no bite to it.

If anything, it landed soft.

Your hand shifted slowly against her back, resting just a little higher now.

“That was already the plan,” you said.

Jiwoo studied you for a second like she was trying to decide whether you were joking.

“You make it sound very simple.”

“It is.”

“It’s really not.”

She gestured faintly between the two of you.

“We live together. You work nights. I apparently wait up like a worried—”

“You do.”

“Stop interrupting.”

“You paused.”

“That wasn’t a pause, that was me choosing my words.”

“You were about to insult yourself.”

Jiwoo sighed quietly.

“You’re very annoying when you’re right.”

“Good thing that doesn’t happen often.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“That was confidence.”

“That was observation.”

For a second she just looked at you.

Then, slowly, her expression softened again.

“…You really stayed because of me,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“You could’ve left.”

“Didn’t want to.”

“You could’ve dated other people.”

“Didn’t want to.”

“You could’ve stopped liking me.”

You gave a small shrug.

“Tried that one.”

“And?”

“Didn’t work.”

Jiwoo’s fingers tightened lightly in the back of your shirt now instead of the front.

“…You’re very stubborn.”

“Only about important things.”

“And I’m one of those?”

You looked down at her like the answer should have been obvious hours ago.

“Yeah.”

She held your gaze for a second.

Then shook her head softly.

“That’s… a lot.”

“How?”

“Because now I feel like I owe you something.”

Your brows pulled together immediately.

“You don’t.”

“But you waited.”

“That was my decision.”

“And I rejected you.”

“You didn’t know yet.”

Jiwoo hesitated.

Then admitted quietly,

“…I think I knew a little.”

“Oh?”

She nodded slightly.

“I just didn’t want to ruin things.”

You glanced around the kitchen.

“Looks pretty ruined to me.”

She elbowed you lightly in the ribs.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

Her eyes drifted down to your mouth again automatically.

“…Your lip is definitely worse,” she muttered.

“Doctor Jiwoo’s fault.”

“You kissed me first.”

“You kissed me second.”

“That’s not a medical defense.”

“It’s a strong one.”

She sighed again, but the smile she tried to hide was getting harder to keep down.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still hugging me.”

Jiwoo blinked.

Then looked down.

Her arms were still wrapped around you.

She made no move to let go.

“…I’m thinking,” she said again.

“That went well last time.”

“Quiet.”

You obeyed, though the corner of your mouth twitched again.

She listened to your heartbeat for another few seconds.

Steady.

Calm.

Not rushing her.

That seemed to settle something inside her.

After a moment she spoke again, softer this time.

“…You know what the worst part is?”

“What?”

“I really did try to like other people.”

Your hand paused slightly on her back.

“Oh?”

She nodded against your chest.

“Every time I went out with him, I kept comparing them to you.”

You blinked.

“That’s not fair to them.”

“I know.”

“And?”

“They kept losing.”

A quiet laugh slipped out of you.

Jiwoo lifted her head again.

“You’re not allowed to look smug about that.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Maybe a little.”

She stared at you for a moment.

Then shook her head again, though the warmth in her eyes hadn’t faded.

“…So what now?” she asked quietly.

You considered that for half a second.

Then your hand slid from her back to her waist again, resting there the same way it had earlier.

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

“You stop pretending this is a bad idea.”

Jiwoo raised an eyebrow.

“And if it is?”

“Then we’ll find out.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“You kissed me twice.”

“And?”

“It’s pretty solid evidence.”

She huffed softly.

Then stepped just a tiny bit closer again, if that was even possible.

“…You know,” she murmured, “if someone walked in right now, this would be a very strange explanation.”

“Why?”

“Because I just confessed to my roommate and now I’m holding him in the kitchen at two in the morning.”

You leaned down slightly. “Sounds like a good story.”

Jiwoo held your gaze for a long moment.

Then a quiet smile finally slipped through.

“…Maybe that date really was a sign,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You replied

She leaned forward just a little.

“A sign that you should stick around.”

Your voice dropped softer.

“I already decided that.”

Jiwoo’s fingers tightened slightly in your shirt again.

“…Good,” she murmured.

Then she closed the small distance between you and kissed you again.

-

The apartment mornings had learned a new language.

Nothing dramatic had changed on the surface. No loud declarations, no sudden rearranging of furniture or schedules. The kettle still clicked on at the same time every morning. The sun still crept through the blinds in thin gold stripes across the living room floor.

Jiwoo still woke up early.

You still came home late.

But something quiet had shifted between those hours.

Most mornings she found you exactly the same way.

Collapsed on the couch like someone who had lost a fight with gravity.

Your shoes kicked halfway off. One arm hanging over the edge. The television still paused on some late-night show you had started but never finished. Your coat usually tossed somewhere nearby after you had come home too tired to think.

Jiwoo would step out of her room with her bag half on her shoulder and stop in the doorway.

Every time.

Just for a second.

She told herself she was checking if you were alive.

Or breathing.

Or if you had somehow managed to spill something on the furniture again.

But really she was just looking.

Your hair messy from sleep. Your face softer than it ever looked when you were awake. The faint rise and fall of your chest.

The cut on your lip had healed days ago, leaving only the faintest trace if you looked closely.

Jiwoo still noticed it every time.

She’d sigh quietly, setting her bag down on the chair beside the door.

“You’re going to destroy your back like this,” she would murmur, even though you were asleep and couldn’t hear her.

Then she’d walk over.

Carefully.

The apartment always felt quieter in those moments, like the morning itself was trying not to wake you.

Your coat usually lay half on the floor beside the couch, abandoned sometime during the night.

Jiwoo would pick it up and shake it out before she laid down in the space left on the couch.

“You’re going to be late. . .” 

You would mumble, still half asleep.

Jiwoo stilled for a second when you spoke.

Not because you sounded annoyed.

Because you sounded awake.

Or at least half-awake in that foggy, gravity-heavy way where your voice still lived somewhere between dreams and the real world.

She turned her head slightly toward you.

“You’re not supposed to be conscious,” she muttered.

Your eyes stayed closed.

One arm still hung off the edge of the couch like it had surrendered hours ago.

“You’re going to be late…” you repeated, voice rough with sleep.

Jiwoo glanced toward the kitchen clock out of habit.

“I know.”

“Then why are you still here?”

She hesitated.

Because the honest answer was you.

Instead she nudged your shoulder lightly.

“Because you’re taking up the entire couch.”

A quiet huff of air left you that might have been a laugh.

Without opening your eyes, you shifted slightly, making just enough room beside you.

Jiwoo scooted closer and pressed her lips on your cheek.

You shifted a little when she kissed your cheek. Not enough to wake up. Just enough that your shoulder bumped gently against hers.

Jiwoo stayed there for a second longer than she meant to.

The couch was too small for two people to pretend they weren’t touching, and the warmth from you had that sleepy, quiet gravity that made it very easy to stay.

Your breathing was slow again.

Whatever half-dream had pulled you into the conversation had already claimed you back.

Jiwoo looked at you for a moment. Hair a mess. Shirt wrinkled.

One sock missing somewhere in the apartment’s. Completely exhausted.

And somehow still here.

Still coming home.

Still choosing this place.

Choosing her.

She exhaled softly through her nose.

“Idiot,” she murmured, though the word had softened into something warmer now.

Carefully, she slid off the couch again.

You made a small noise in protest, something halfway between a sigh and a sleepy groan, but you didn’t wake.

Jiwoo grabbed her bag from the chair by the door.

Then she paused.

Her eyes drifted back to the couch.

To you.

The coat was still crumpled on the floor where you had dropped it the night before. She bent down, picked it up, and draped it over you properly this time, tucking the edge around your shoulder.

You shifted slightly under it.

“…Warm,” you mumbled.

Jiwoo smiled despite herself.

“Good,” she said quietly.

She leaned down once more. Another soft kiss.

This time on your forehead.

Then she headed for the door.

The lock clicked behind her, and the apartment slipped back into its morning quiet.

Your days passed each other like trains at opposite stations.

Jiwoo moved through bright mornings filled with coffee cups, emails, crowded sidewalks, and the low hum of office conversations. You moved through dim evenings and neon-lit nights, loud music, clinking glasses, and the constant pulse of the bar.

Somewhere in the middle of those hours, the apartment held both of you.

There were sticky notes on the fridge now.

Eat the leftovers. Don’t fall asleep on the couch again. I already did.

Sometimes Jiwoo would come home to find you in the kitchen before your shift, leaning against the counter with a bowl of instant noodles and half-lidded eyes.

She’d steal a bite. You’d complain.

She’d kiss your cheek on the way out the door anyway.

Other days you’d come home long after midnight to find a light left on in the living room and a blanket folded neatly on the couch.

Jiwoo would pretend it was just because she forgot.

You would pretend you believed her.

The apartment never really slept anymore.

It just existed. Morning to night. Night to morning.

Two people orbiting the same quiet center.

And slowly, without either of you making a big announcement about it, the space between those hours stopped feeling like distance.

It started feeling like a real home. Because somewhere between the early alarms and the late returns, the accidental touches in the kitchen and the sleepy kisses on the couch, something simple had settled into place.

No grand declarations. No dramatic moment.

Just the quiet certainty that had been growing all along.

That sometimes love doesn’t arrive loudly.

Sometimes it slips in through ordinary mornings and tired nights until one day you realize it was actually there.

Sometimes love isn't about who arrives first. Sometimes, they're about who stays.

And in the quiet rhythm of that little apartment, between coffee mornings and midnight footsteps, there were two people who kept choosing each other.

With no cost, no conditions.

Just love, quietly given on the house.

-

Jiwoo had always believed that she didn't belong in places like these.

The music was too loud, pounding through the floor like a second heartbeat. The lights flashed in restless colors that made the room feel dizzy, and the air was thick with the sharp smell of alcohol and perfume and something slightly burned from the kitchen.

None of it ever sat right with her.

Bars were meant for people who laughed easily with strangers. People who knew how to shout over music, how to lean against counters like they owned the room, how to order drinks without squinting at the menu like it was written in another language.

Yet, here she was.

Wandering through a thick crowd, trying to navigate her way to the bar section of the club. She took a step, apologized for bumping into someone when they probably couldn't even hear her.

Another person brushed past her shoulder. Someone laughed loudly behind her. The bass thumped through the floor again, rattling the nerves she hadn’t meant to bring with her tonight.

Jiwoo pressed forward anyway.

Just one drink, she reminded herself.

That had been the deal.

She stumbled slightly as she finally reached the bar and caught the edge of the counter to steady herself.

And then she saw you.

Behind the bar.

Moving like you had grown up there.

A glass spun between your fingers before landing perfectly upright. Your other hand slid a drink across the counter without even looking, your attention already on the next order someone was shouting over the music.

You leaned in slightly to hear someone better, nodding once before grabbing a bottle from the shelf behind you.

Everything about the way you moved looked effortless.

Confident.

Like the chaos of the room didn’t touch you at all.

Jiwoo stared for a second longer than she meant to.

Then you looked up.

Your eyes flicked across the crowded bar automatically, scanning faces the way someone did after hours of serving people.

They landed on her.

For half a second, neither of you moved.

Jiwoo straightened quickly, suddenly aware that she was standing there staring like someone who had forgotten what they came for.

You tilted your head slightly, reading the situation in a glance.

First time here, overwhelmed, probably lost.

The corner of your mouth twitched faintly.

You stepped closer to her side of the bar.

“What are you doing here?” you asked.

“Can't I come and visit my boyfriend?” She answered back.

You paused barely.

The glass in your hand stopped mid-polish before you continued like nothing had happened.

“My workplace isn’t exactly a date spot,” you said.

Jiwoo glanced around the bar.

Someone was cheering near the dartboard. A group of people were arguing loudly about something that probably didn’t matter. The bass thumped again, rattling the bottles on the shelves behind you.

“…I noticed,” she muttered.

You slid a finished drink down to someone waiting beside her before your attention returned to Jiwoo.

“You hate places like this.”

“I don’t hate them.”

“Yeah, I could see that with how you’re dressed up.” You replied.

Jiwoo looked down at herself briefly before she pulled the sleeves of her sweater tighter.

Jiwoo looked down at herself briefly before she pulled the sleeves of her sweater tighter.

It was the same oversized one she wore most mornings in the apartment. Soft. Comfortable. Completely out of place among the glittering tops and sleek jackets around her.

Someone brushed past her wearing heels that probably cost more than her entire outfit.

Jiwoo exhaled quietly.

“…I didn’t know there was a dress code,” she muttered.

You leaned one hip against the counter, watching her with a look that hovered somewhere between amused and fond.

“There isn’t,” you said.

“Then why did you say that?”

“Because you look like you came here by accident.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Jiwoo narrowed her eyes slightly.

“I came for a drink.”

“You came wearing your sleep sweater.”

“It’s not a sleep sweater.”

“You slept in it yesterday.”

“That’s not relevant.”

You huffed a small laugh and turned to grab another glass, rinsing it under the sink behind the bar.

When you looked back, Jiwoo was still standing there with that faintly stubborn expression she got when she knew you were technically right but refused to admit it.

“You could’ve texted,” you said.

“For what?”

“If you were coming.”

She shrugged lightly.

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“You pushed through half the city and a crowd of drunk people.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“You almost got taken out by the guy with the leather jacket five minutes ago.”

Jiwoo paused. “You saw that?”

“I told you,” you said calmly, reaching for another bottle. “I notice things.”

She huffed softly but didn’t argue again.

For a second she just watched you work.

The way you moved between bottles and glasses. The quick rhythm of your hands. Someone called your name from the far end of the bar and you answered without even turning around.

Jiwoo’s gaze softened a little.

Then she leaned slightly closer across the counter so you could hear her better.

“You forgot your jacket,” she said.

You blinked.

“…What?”

“At home.”

Your brow furrowed faintly.

“And dinner,” she added.

You paused again.

The glass in your hand lowered slowly to the counter.

Jiwoo reached into the canvas tote bag slung over her shoulder and pulled out a folded container.

She slid it across the counter toward you like she was passing a secret message.

“I figured you’d forget to eat again,” she said.

You stared at the container for a second.

Then at her.

“You came all the way here for that?”

Jiwoo immediately looked away, suddenly very interested in the lime wedges lined up beside the cutting board.

“I told you,” she said quickly, “I wanted a drink.”

You looked at the container again.

Then back at her sweater.

Then the way she was trying not to look at you.

A slow smile crept onto your face.

Jiwoo caught it immediately.

“Don’t start.”

“You hate bars.”

“I don’t hate them.”

“You fought through a crowd.”

“I’m resilient.”

“You brought me dinner.”

She sighed.

“Yes.”

“You’re wearing your sleep sweater.”

“It is not a sleep—”

You reached under the counter and grabbed a glass before she could finish arguing.

Ice clinked softly as you dropped it in.

A splash of soda.

A twist of lime.

Then you slid the drink toward her.

Jiwoo glanced down at it.

“…What’s this?”

“Something safe for people who clearly didn’t come here to party.”

She took a small sip.

Cool.

Citrusy.

Exactly the kind of thing she would order if she actually knew how to order drinks.

Her shoulders relaxed just a little.

You watched her for a second.

Then you tapped the container she’d brought.

“I’ll eat this on my break.”

“Good.”

“You didn’t have to bring it.”

“I know.”

“But you did.”

Jiwoo rolled her eyes faintly.

“You’re making a big deal out of it.”

You leaned slightly closer across the counter, voice just loud enough for her to hear.

“I’m not.”

Your eyes flicked down to the drink in front of her.

“First one’s free.”

Jiwoo raised an eyebrow.

“Really?”

You gave a small shrug.

“For you?”

The corner of your mouth tilted upward again.

“It’s on the house.”

-

It was safe to assume that Jiwoo was a light drinker.

You didn’t need to check the empty glass she had insisted on finishing to know that. The evidence was currently draped across your back.

Jiwoo clung to you like she herself decided that you were her walking bed. Her arms hung loosely around your shoulders, fingers curled into the fabric of your jacket while you walked the quiet streets toward home.

The night outside was calmer than the chaos of the club. The music was gone, replaced by distant traffic and the soft hum of streetlights. Cool air brushed against your face, carrying the faint smell of rain that had fallen earlier.

Jiwoo, meanwhile, was warm, very warm.

Her cheek rested against the back of your shoulder, her breath slow and uneven as if she couldn’t quite decide whether she was sleepy or dramatically exhausted.

“You weigh nothing,” you muttered, adjusting your grip under her legs.

Jiwoo made a small noise behind you.

“That’s because… you’re strong,” she mumbled, words slightly slurred together.

You huffed quietly.

“That’s not how physics works.”

She didn’t respond right away. Instead, her head shifted slightly, forehead bumping lightly against the back of your neck.

For a moment you thought she had fallen asleep.

Then she spoke again.

“Your club is too loud.”

“You figured that out tonight?”

“Mhm. And everyone kept on. . .talking.”

“That tends to happen in places with people.”

Jiwoo sighed dramatically, her grip around your shoulders tightening a little as if the memory itself had been exhausting.

“I don’t like strangers.”

“I know.”

Another quiet stretch of walking followed. Your footsteps echoed softly against the pavement while the city around you settled into late-night calm.

Behind you, Jiwoo shifted again.

Her chin slid onto your shoulder now, her face just barely visible in the corner of your vision. Her hair tickled the side of your neck.

“You looked cool though,” she murmured.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Cool.”

“Behind the bar,” she continued lazily. “Like you knew what you were doing.”

“I do know what I’m doing.”

She hummed softly like she was considering that.

Then her nose bumped lightly against your neck.

“You looked cooler than the other bartenders.”

“How many other bartenders have you seen?”

You felt her huff a breath, almost like a laugh. 

“Just you.” 

“Yeah, that’s a bar.”

Your steps slowed slightly when you reached your apartment building.

You adjusted your hold on her again before pushing the door open with your shoulder.

“Next time,” you said while walking toward the stairs, “you’re ordering juice.”

Jiwoo lifted her head slightly.

“Next time?”

You glanced back at her.

“Don’t push your luck.”

She grinned lazily against your shoulder.

Then, as if the thought had just arrived in her foggy brain, she leaned forward and pressed a quick, clumsy kiss against the side of your neck.

“You’re still cool though,” she whispered.

Your steps paused for half a second.

Then you continued deeper into the apartment.

“Go to sleep, Jiwoo.”

You opened the door to her room and carefully set her down on her bed.

She landed with a soft bounce against the mattress, hair spilling across the pillow in messy strands. For a moment she just stared up at the ceiling like gravity had finally remembered her.

You straightened, rolling your shoulders slightly after carrying her up the stairs.

“Stay there,” you said.

She squinted at you.

“I live here.”

“Exactly. Stay.”

Jiwoo made a soft noise that sounded suspiciously like agreement.

You walked over to the side of the bed and tugged her blanket loose before draping it over her. She didn’t fight it. In fact, she curled into it immediately, pulling the edge up to her chin like someone who had suddenly remembered how comfortable beds were.

Your hand paused when you noticed her still watching you. “What?”

She pushed herself up from the bed, leaning closer as her hand carefully cupped your cheek.

“Your lip. . .”

Her thumb carefully grazed over the wound that was slowly healing.

“Yeah, It’s getting bet—” You didn't get to finish when she kissed you.

Jiwoo leaned forward with the clumsy confidence of someone whose brain had decided thinking was optional tonight. Her hand stayed on your cheek, thumb still resting near the fading cut on your lip as her mouth brushed against yours.

For a second you froze, more surprised than anything else.

Jiwoo pulled back just as quickly, blinking at you like she was trying to check if the world had tilted.

“I love you.”

The words slipped out of her like they had been waiting behind her teeth all night.

The room went quiet.

Jiwoo’s eyes widened a little, like her own brain had just caught up to what she’d said.

“. . .I said that out loud.”

You stared at her.

She slowly sank back against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling like it might rescue her from the situation.

“I’m drunk,” she added quickly.

“That’s obvious.”

“That means it doesn’t count.”

“That’s not how that works.”

Jiwoo groaned softly and dragged the blanket halfway over her face.

“I knew I shouldn’t have finished that drink.”

You crossed your arms, still standing beside the bed.

“You had one.”

“It was a powerful one.”

“It was practically nothing.”

She peeked at you from under the blanket, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You’re not helping right now.”

“And you just said you love me.”

Her face turned a deeper shade of pink.

“No, I didn't.” she argued weakly.

“You literally said ‘I love you.’”

“And you're not gonna say anything back?”

You blinked once, then smiled at her like you had the whole world sitting quietly in front of you.

“I love you too, Jiwoo.”

For a moment, she didn’t react.

Jiwoo just stared at you.

The words hung in the air. Then her eyes widened slowly.

“…You said it back.”

“You asked.” You shrugged lightly, though the softness in your expression gave you away.

“That’s not why people say it!”

“You seemed concerned.”

Jiwoo pushed herself up on her elbows, blanket bunching around her waist as she looked at you like you had just done something completely unreasonable.

“You’re supposed to hesitate,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because I’m drunk!”

“You’re still Jiwoo.”

“That’s not the point!”

You laughed quietly at that, the sound warm and low in the quiet room.

Jiwoo stared at you for another second, her brain clearly trying to process several things at once. 

You had just said it back.

Like it was simple.

Like it was obvious.

Her shoulders slowly relaxed as she sank back into the mattress again.

“…You’re really unfair,” she muttered.

“How?”

“You say things like that so casually.”

You leaned slightly against the edge of the bed.

“It wasn’t casual.”

Jiwoo turned her head toward you again.

You met her gaze without hesitation.

“I meant it.”

The room fell quiet again, though this time it felt softer. 

Jiwoo blinked slowly, the last traces of sleep finally catching up to her.

“…Good,” she murmured.

Her hand tugged the blanket back up to her chin. “Because I’m not taking it back tomorrow.”

“You won’t remember half of tonight.”

“I will remember that part.” Her eyes were already closing. “Probably,” she added sleepily, “the only smart thing I said all night.”

You reached over and pulled the blanket a little higher around her shoulder.

“Go to sleep, Jiwoo.”

She hummed faintly in response.

Within seconds her breathing evened out, soft and steady against the pillow.

You stayed there a moment longer, watching her curl deeper into the blanket like the world had finally become comfortable enough to rest in.

Then you reached for the light switch.

The room dimmed into quiet darkness.

Before stepping out, you glanced back one last time.

“Lightweight,” you murmured fondly and closed the door.

The air in the room was thick with incense, jasmine and sandalwood mingling to heighten the senses. Yooyeon paced slowly, her bare feet whispering against the tatami mats. Her heart pounded, a mix of dread and forbidden curiosity swirling in her chest. She'd heard the stories from her mother and aunts tales of ecstasy and submission that left them marked, changed. But this was real now, her body the offering. The hanbok's wide sleeves brushed her arms as she adjusted the obi at her waist, the knot a temporary barrier against what was to come.

Outside, the estate bustled quietly. Servants had prepared the space meticulously: low lanterns casting golden glows, a wide futon piled with silk sheets in the center, bottles of rice wine and oils on a lacquered tray nearby. Your father had arrived earlier, sealing the agreement with Yooyeon's father over sake and whispers of business ventures. 'It's for the good of both houses,' your father had said, clapping you on the back as he pushed you toward the chamber door. You weren't unwilling, rumors of Yooyeon's beauty had reached you, her lithe form and dark eyes a quiet allure in family circles. But the weight of the tradition pressed on you too this wasn't a casual tryst, but a ritual that demanded full surrender from her, and respect from you.

The sliding door parted with a soft shush, and Yooyeon froze. There you stood, dressed in a simple dark robe, your frame filling the entrance. Your eyes met hers, and for a moment, the room held its breath. She barely knew you, Jae, was it? The son who'd inherited his father's sharp business mind and quiet intensity. You stepped inside, closing the door behind you, the click echoing like a promise.

"Yooyeon," you said, your voice low and steady, breaking the silence. She nodded, her cheeks flushing beneath the pale makeup that accentuated her features. Tradition dictated she speak first, offering herself.

"Welcome," she murmured, her voice a soft tremor. "As per our families' custom, I am yours for this night. My body, my pleasure my mind take it as you will."

You approached slowly, sensing her nervousness. There plan of this evening was simple consummate the bond, let the passion flow unchecked. But you wanted to ease her in, to make it more than duty. Reaching out, you cupped her chin, tilting her face up. Her lips parted slightly, full and inviting. Leaning down, you kissed her gentle at first, testing. She responded tentatively, her hands rising to your chest, fingers curling into the fabric of your robe.

The kiss deepened quickly, hunger igniting between you. Your tongue slipped past her lips, tasting the faint sweetness of tea on her breath. Yooyeon melted against you, her body pressing closer, the hanbok's layers a frustrating barrier. You broke the kiss, trailing your mouth along her jaw to her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there. She gasped, her head falling back, exposing more of her throat.

"I've been thinking of this," you whispered against her pulse, your hands sliding to the obi at her waist. With practiced ease, you untied it, the sash falling away. The outer layers of the hanbok loosened, and you peeled them back, revealing the white under-kimono beneath, clinging to her breasts and hips. Yooyeon's breath hitched as cool air kissed her skin, but your warmth followed, your palms gliding over her shoulders to push the fabric down.

She stood before you now in just the thin kosode, her nipples hardening against the silk from the chill and anticipation. You shrugged off your robe, letting it pool at your feet, your cock already stirring to life, half-hard and heavy between your legs. Yooyeon's eyes flicked down, widening slightly at the sight thick, veined, promising the stretch she'd soon feel.

Guiding her to the mattress , you knelt with her, your hands exploring. You cupped her breasts through the fabric, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked into tight buds. She moaned softly, arching into your touch. "Please," she whispered, the word barely audible, but it spurred you on.

You tugged the inner wear open, baring her completely. Her skin was flawless, pale and smooth, her breasts full and round with dark areolas. Leaning in, you took one nipple into your mouth, sucking hard while pinching the other. Yooyeon cried out, her fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer. Your tongue swirled around the sensitive flesh, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks through her.

Lower still, your hand trailed down her stomach, over the soft mound of her pussy. She was already wet, her folds slick when your fingers parted them. You stroked her clit in slow circles, feeling it swell under your touch. Yooyeon bucked her hips, chasing the friction, her breaths coming in pants.

"You're so responsive," you murmured, slipping a finger inside her. She clenched around you, hot and tight, her walls fluttering. You added a second finger, pumping them in and out, curling to hit that spot that made her whimper. Her juices coated your hand, the scent of her arousal filling the air.

Yooyeon pushed you back onto the futon, surprising you with her boldness. Straddling your thighs, she leaned down, her hair cascading over your chest as she kissed you fiercely. Her hand wrapped around your cock, stroking from base to tip, her grip firm and exploratory. You groaned into her mouth, thrusting up into her fist. She pumped you harder, thumb smearing the bead of pre-cum over the head.

"I want to taste you," she said, her voice husky, eyes locked on yours. Before you could respond, she slid down your body, her lips brushing your abdomen, then lower. Her tongue flicked out, licking the underside of your shaft, making your cock twitch. She took you into her mouth, sucking the head while her hand worked the length.

The wet heat of her mouth was exquisite, her tongue swirling around you as she bobbed her head. You tangled your fingers in her hair, guiding her rhythm, fucking her face gently at first, then deeper as she relaxed her throat. Saliva dripped down your balls, her slurping sounds obscene in the quiet room. Yooyeon hummed around you, the vibration shooting pleasure straight to your core.

You pulled her off before you lost control, flipping her onto her back. Spreading her legs wide, you settled between them, your cock nudging her entrance. "Tell me you want this," you demanded, teasing her clit with the tip.

"Yes," she gasped, hips lifting. "Fuck me. Please, fill me."

With one thrust, you buried yourself inside her. Yooyeon arched, a sharp cry escaping as your cock stretched her pussy, inch by inch. She was incredibly tight, her walls gripping you like a vice. You paused, letting her adjust, then began to move slow, deep strokes that had her moaning with each plunge.

The mattress creaked under you as you picked up pace, slamming into her harder. Her breasts bounced with the force, and you captured one in your mouth again, sucking while you pounded her. Yooyeon's nails raked your back, her legs wrapping around your waist to pull you deeper. "Harder," she begged, her voice breaking. "Fuck me like you own me."

You obliged, angling your hips to hit her g-spot with every thrust. Her pussy clenched rhythmically, juices soaking your balls as they slapped against her ass. Sweat slicked your bodies, the room filled with the sounds of skin on skin, her cries, your grunts.

Pulling out suddenly, you flipped her onto her stomach, yanking her hips up. She presented herself eagerly, ass in the air, pussy glistening. You slapped her cheek lightly, watching it jiggle, then thrust back in from behind. The new angle let you go deeper, your cock hitting her cervix with each brutal stroke.

Yooyeon buried her face in the pillows, muffling her screams of pleasure. You reached around, rubbing her clit furiously as you fucked her, feeling her build toward climax. "Cum for me," you growled, spanking her again. "Milk my cock."

She shattered, her pussy spasming around you, waves of orgasm rippling through her. You didn't stop, riding her through it, your own release building. With a final, deep thrust, you came, flooding her with hot spurts of cum, marking her as the tradition demanded.

But the night was young. You collapsed beside her, both panting, but your hands roamed again soon enough. Yooyeon turned to you, a sly smile on her lips despite the flush of exhaustion. "The elders say one release isn't enough to seal the bond," she teased, her fingers tracing your softening cock, coaxing it back to life.

You chuckled, rolling her beneath you once more. This time, you took it slower, savoring her. Kissing down her body, you spread her thighs and dove in, tongue lapping at her cum-filled pussy. She tasted of you both, salty and sweet, her clit throbbing under your assault. Yooyeon writhed, hands fisting the sheets as you sucked and licked, two fingers plunging inside to stir your seed.

"Oh god, yes," she moaned, grinding against your face. You ate her out relentlessly, tongue fucking her until she came again, squirting lightly onto your chin.

Rising, you positioned her on her side, lifting one leg over your hip. Sliding back in, you fucked her languidly, your hand kneading her breast, pinching the nipple. The intimacy shifted, more tender but no less intense. Yooyeon's eyes met yours, vulnerability mixing with lust. "This tradition... I understand now ," she whispered between thrusts.

You kissed her deeply, tasting yourself on her lips from earlier. "I might get addicted to you," you replied, increasing your pace until she was clenching around you again.

Hours blurred as you explored every inch. You took her against the wall, her legs wrapped around you as you bounced her on your cock. Then on all fours, pulling her hair as you railed her ass after lubing her with oil, easing in slowly until she begged for more, her tight hole gripping you like nothing else. She rode you next, grinding her pussy down, her breasts in your face as you sucked and bit.

By the third round, exhaustion had crept in, but passion drove you. You came on her tits once, watching ropes of cum paint her skin, then made her lick it off your fingers. Finally, spooned together, you entered her from behind one last time, hand between her legs to circle her clit until you both shattered in unison.

I sat in the car with the engine off, windows cracked just enough to let in the late afternoon air. The parking lot was starting to empty out, cars pulling away one by one as the office people finished their Friday.

My phone showed 4:58. I kept glancing at the main door of the building, waiting for her.

Yooyeon walked out at exactly 5:02. Same black blazer she always wore on Fridays, white blouse underneath, pencil skirt that hugged her hips the way I still couldn’t get tired of. Her hair was up in a loose bun, a few strands falling around her face.

She looked tired, really tired, but even on her worst days she still looked gorgeous to me. Always has.

She spotted our car right away. I saw the tiny lift at the corner of her mouth, then she walked over

I pushed the passenger door open before she reached it.

“Hey, beautiful,” I said.

She slid in, dropped her bag on the floor, leaned over and kissed me quick—soft lips, a little sticky from whatever lip balm she’d put on that morning.

“Hey yourself,” she pulled the seatbelt across her chest and let her head fall back against the headrest. “God, I’m dead.”

“Rough one?”

“Client changed the whole campaign direction at 3:30. Again. I wanted to scream.” She rubbed her temples with two fingers. “But I didn’t. I smiled and said ‘of course, we can pivot.’ I deserve a medal.”

“You deserve dinner and a drink. Maybe two.”

She turned her head to look at me. “You’re in a good mood.”

“It’s Friday. And…” I let it hang for a second, grinning. “It’s a special day.”

Yooyeon closed her eyes and let out a small laugh through her nose. “Don’t start. You know I don’t do birthdays anymore.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’ve been saying that since you turned 24. Doesn’t mean I have to listen.”

She opened one eye and gave me that look—the one that says she’s pretending to be annoyed but isn’t really. “You’re impossible.”

“Guilty.”

I started the car. The AC kicked on, cool air hitting us both. She sighed like it was the best feeling in the world.

“So,” I said as I pulled out of the parking space, “how about you guess where I’m taking you to eat?”

She turned in her seat a little, facing me more. “Is this a trick question?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay… fine.” She tapped her chin like she was thinking hard. “Not barbecue. We did that last week. Not sushi either—you always complain your stomach hurts after.”

“True.”

“Not pasta. Too heavy for how tired I am.” She paused, studying my face. “You’re smiling too much. That means it’s something I like.”

“Keep going.”

“Is it that Italian place with the truffle pasta? The one near the river?”

“Nope.”

“Damn.” She bit her bottom lip, thinking. “Okay… the steakhouse? But you said not heavy.”

“I didn’t say not heavy. You did.”

She laughed softly. “You’re evil. Just tell me.”

“Nah. One more guess.”

She groaned, dramatic. “Fine. Is it… the rooftop Korean place? The one with the spicy tteokbokki and the soju flight?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You really want spicy after a day like today?”

“I want comfort food. And I want to drink. And I want to sit somewhere pretty and not think about work for three hours.”

I reached over and squeezed her thigh just above the knee—light, familiar. “Good guess. But not quite.”

She pouted. “You’re killing me.”

“Alright, I’ll give you a hint. It’s not fancy. It’s not crowded. And you can wear whatever you want tomorrow morning when we stay in bed late.”

Her eyes narrowed. “We’re not going out to eat?”

“We are. Just… not right now.”

She sat up straighter. “What did you do?”

“You’ll see.”

She stared at me for a long second, then leaned back again, smiling small. “You’re lucky I love surprises from you.”

“I know.”

We drove in comfortable quiet for a while. She played with the radio, skipping songs until she landed on some slow R&B she likes. Her hand rested on my thigh the whole time, thumb moving in lazy circles. That small touch still does things to me after two years.

Instead of heading toward the usual restaurants, I took the turn toward our neighborhood. She noticed immediately.

“Wait… are we going home first?”

“Sort of.”

She laughed. “You’re so suspicious.”

When I pulled into our apartment building’s underground parking, she gave me a look.

“Okay, now I’m really curious.”

I parked, killed the engine, and turned to her. “Come up with me. Five minutes. Then we leave again. Promise.”

She studied my face like she was trying to read my mind. “You’re nervous.”

“A little.”

That made her soften. “Why?”

“Because I love you. And I want tonight to be good.”

She leaned over and kissed me again—this time slower, deeper. Her hand slid up to the back of my neck. When she pulled back her eyes were warm.

“You always make it good,” she said quietly.

We got out. Took the elevator up to the fourth floor. The hallway smelled like someone was cooking kimchi jjigae. Familiar. Home.

I unlocked the door and let her step in first.

The lights were dim. I’d left only the small lamp in the living room on.

The dining table was pushed against the wall. In the middle of the room I’d spread out the thick picnic blanket we usually take to the park. Pillows from the couch were arranged around it.

Two candles flickered on the coffee table—nothing fancy, just the vanilla ones she likes.

There were takeout boxes from her favorite hole-in-the-wall place: galbi jjim, haemul pajeon, the spicy cucumber salad she always steals from my plate, and a bottle of soju in an ice bucket.

Yooyeon stopped in the doorway.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

“Happy birthday, baby.”

She turned to me, eyes shiny. “You… you did all this?”

“Wanted to give you the night you actually want. No crowds. No dressing up. Just us. Good food. Drinks. And later…” I stepped closer, lowered my voice. “I plan to take my time with you.”

Her cheeks went pink. She looked back at the setup, then at me again.