Rabiscando e Criando

You’ve been staring at the soundboard for so long, the blinking green lights are starting to look an awful lot like red.

The campus radio booth smells of dust and burnt coffee and unwashed clothes that accumulates anywhere students live for too long. There’s a tangle of cables in the corner that might actually be sentient. The ceiling tiles are stained in patches, as if the building tried to cry once and then gave up halfway through.

On the wall, someone taped a crooked paper heart over the station logo. The marker bled through, leaving a fuzzy red halo around the letters.

It is unfortunately, Valentine’s Day.

You’re supposed to be testing the mics. Instead, you’re spinning a slider up and down with one finger, watching the levels bounce on the monitor like tiny, annoying heartbeats.

“You’re glaring at the sliders again,” Yunjin says from behind you. “Don’t tell me they rejected you on this very special day.”

You don’t jump. You just adjust your shoulders like you weren’t startled out of your skin.

“I’m practicing my stage presence,” you say, then spread your arms like wings. “This is my stage presence.”

“Right…” she says.

She squeezes into the space next to your chair without bothering with things like personal space or physics. Her citrus shampoo and cheap fabric softener brush against your nostrils; the cold from outside still clings to her coat.

Her hair’s braided back today, little flyaways escaping around her face, headphones pushed up like a lopsided crown. Her lipstick is slightly smeared at one corner where she probably wiped it with the back of her hand. There’s glitter on her cheekbone. You don’t want to know where that came from.

She leans over the console, close enough that her braid brushes your arm. “Levels look fine,” she says. “Unless you’re trying to blow out the speakers and take the entire building with us. Which, honestly, respect.”

“I would never do that,” you say. “The building’s innocent. It’s all the Valentine’s Day propaganda inside it that needs to go.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she says.

“You invited me to host a twenty-four-hour Valentine’s Day marathon. What did you expect?”

Her mouth twists like she wants to smile but is trying not to. “I expected a bit more enthusiasm,” she says. “You get to spend time with the prettiest girl on campus.”

“I’m quitting,” you say.

“You can’t,” she says. “You signed the volunteer form.”

You glare at the clipboard. The clipboard glares back. Twenty-four hours of themed programming. Love songs, dedication readings, call-in lines open all night.

You’d agreed because you needed credits, because you like the station, because Yunjin had looked at you with big eyes and said please.

Then you’d walked in and seen the paper hearts and remembered what day it is, and your stomach had folded in on itself.

“You still haven’t answered my question, by the way,” she says, twirling a pen between her fingers.

“What question?” you ask.

“Who hurt you,” she says, “and why do you hate Cupid?”

You spin in the chair just enough to face her. The headphones squeak against your shoulders.

“Okay. First of all, his whole vibe is suspicious. Creepy winged toddler with weapons? Red flag. Second of all, love is a capitalist scam. Third—”

She groans. “God, we’re really doing this. Right before we go live.”

“You asked.”

“I forgot you treat everything like philosophical debates,” she says. “Normal people just eat chocolate and watch a movie.”

“I can do that without the holiday,” you say.

She sighs, dramatic, and taps the clipboard against your arm. “Fine,” she says. “Lay it on me. Explain why love is fake, and I’ll explain why you’re wrong.”

You glance at the big window that looks into the hallway. The On Air sign above it is dark for now. In an hour, it’ll be red.

“In brief,” you say, “love is a series of chemical reactions designed to trick you into pairing up long enough to theoretically raise offspring. It’s inherently unstable and eventually breaks down into either resentment, indifference, or mutual tolerance. At best, you get long-term companionship with occasional affection, which you could also get from a very loyal dog.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. “You sound like a professor who got divorced twice,” she says.

You shrug. “I read.”

“You got dumped once and turned it into a thesis,” she says.

“You’re telling me you buy this?” you ask her. “The hearts, the roses, the couple’s posts, the speeches. You think that’s… real?”

She looks at you as if you’ve suggested the sky is green. “Of course I do,” she says. “Love is amazing and beautiful and, most of all, real.”

“You’re so gullible,” you say.

“And you’re a baby,” she says, so casually you almost miss it.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

She turns a page on the clipboard like she didn’t just lob that at your head. “You’re scared,” she says. “Therefore, you’ve decided love isn’t real so you don’t have to want it.”

You laugh, sharp. “Wow. You diagnose me, you insult me, and you do it for free. I think you picked the wrong major, Yunjin.”

She spins the pen once, twice, and then points it at you, eyes suddenly very, very focused.

“Let’s make a bet,” she says.

“Absolutely not.”

“You don’t know the terms yet.”

“You said the word ‘bet,’” you say. “And you have that look in your eyes. That’s enough.”

She ignores you. “You don’t believe in love,” she says. “I do. We’re about to be trapped in a small, sticky, questionably ventilated booth together for twenty-four hours of Valentine’s programming.”

“Your sales pitch needs work.”

She leans in. Her eyes are brown and firm and irritatingly sincere.

“I bet you,” she says, “that by the time this marathon is over, you’ll be in love with me.”

You stare at her.

The clock ticks. The soundboard hums. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams.

You wait for her to back off, point a finger, reveal she’s joking. Her mouth quirks up at one corner, but her eyes stay steady on yours.

“Stop with the jokes,” you say, but hate how small your voice sounds.

Her fingers drum against the clipboard once, twice. “It’s not a joke.”

“You’re out of your mind,” you say.

“Possibly,” she says. “But come on. You said love is chemicals, right? Chemical reactions are predictable. So if you already know the answer, there’s nothing to fear.”

“You think you can hijack my entire emotional system in a day,” you say.

She smiles, teeth flashing. “I think I already have a pretty good hold on it. I just want to see you admit it.”

You’re very aware of your own heartbeat. It feels like the levels on the monitor, bumping too high whenever you look at her and too low when you look away.

“And if you lose?” you ask.

She shrugs. “If you don’t love me by the end of the marathon, I’ll…” She thinks for a second. “I’ll stop forcing you to do my show segments with me. No more on-air bits. You can go back to your quiet Wednesday night slot where you play moody indie music and pretend no one’s listening. I’ll even lie so you can still get the credits.”

You perk up. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious,” she says. “You can be the mysterious voice in the dark again, free of my corrupting influence.”

That’s actually tempting. Your solo slot was nice. It was just you and the board and a playlist no one could judge in real time.

“And if I lose?” you ask.

“Then you admit love is real. And you take me on a date. A real one. No ‘it’s ironic,’ no ‘it’s for science.’ Just you and me and you trying very hard not to combust.”

You look at her and think about every stupid, small thing you’ve already memorized without meaning to. The way she always eats the green M&Ms first. The way she hums under her breath when she’s concentrating. The way she always saves the last slice of pizza and then pretends she doesn’t want it so someone will offer it to her.

You shove those thoughts into a mental closet and lean back in your chair.

“You’re awfully confident,” you say.

“Obviously.”

“Why you? If you actually believed in love, wouldn’t you say, like, ‘You’ll fall in love with someone, someday’? Why specifically you?”

She blinks. Her cheeks pinken, just slightly. “Just because,” she says, and doesn’t elaborate.

You know suddenly that if you say no, something fragile might crack between you. Still—if you say yes, something else might.

The clock ticks on the wall.

“You’re scared,” she says again, softly this time.

It bothers you she is right.

“Fine,” you say. “You want your stupid experiment? You got it.”

Her whole face lights up. “Really?”

You roll your eyes. “Let’s see you prove your little theory. Twenty-four hours. Knock yourself out.”

Her grin turns almost feral. “Oh, you’re going to regret that so much. Or maybe you’re not.”

You already do.

She hops off the stool and slaps the On Air button with more flourish than necessary. The red sign over the window springs to life.

“But if you do, it’s too late,” she says. “Welcome to the show, lover boy.”

You groan.

She laughs.

The mics go live.

─

Ten minutes into the first hour, you remember the other reason you agreed to this gig.

On air, Yunjin is a hurricane in human form. She leans into the mic, voice warm and bright as she welcomes listeners to the overnight Valentine’s special. She makes dumb jokes about Cupid’s underwear and about love as a duck.

You mostly push buttons and monitor levels, chiming in occasionally with deadpan commentary. It’s your role. You’ve leaned into it before: the grumpy foil to her chaos.

But tonight, every time she calls you “my very single co-host” or “dear love skeptic,” the words land a little differently.

She’s good at this. Too good. The call line blinks before the hour’s half over.

The first caller is a girl from third-year engineering who wants to dedicate a song to her boyfriend. She stumbles through the message, giggling, and Yunjin guides her gently, like she’s coaxing a nervous animal out of hiding.

When they hang up, Yunjin mutes the channel and swivels toward you.

“See?” she says. “Evidence.”

“Just hormones,” you say.

“Everything is hormones,” she says. “That’s not the slam dunk you think it is.”

The second caller is a guy who rambles about his girlfriend for a full two minutes without letting either of you get a word in. He’s so earnest you can practically hear the hearts floating around his head. You find yourself smiling in spite of yourself.

Yunjin catches it and raises her eyebrows.

“It’s cute,” you say defensively.

“I didn’t say anything,” she says, but a smirk pulls at the corner of her lips.

By hour three, she takes control of the playlist. Every song is obnoxiously on theme. Every time you reach for the mouse to queue something with fewer hearts in the lyrics, she smacks your hand away.

“Part of the bet,” she says. “Full immersion. You can’t fall in love if you’re listening to breakup songs.”

“I thought you liked breakup songs,” you say. “You call them cathartic.”

“That’s for me. You need to marinate.”

“In your playlist?”

“In your feelings.”

You groan into your hands.

Off air, in the three-minute pockets between songs and ads, the booth shrinks down to the two of you and the hum of machines.

At some point around eleven, she kicks off her shoes and tucks her feet up on the stool, socks mismatched. One has tiny acorns. The other says SLOW DOWN in all caps.

“You wore a message on your sock just for me,” you say.

She glances at her ankle. “You wish,” she says.

“Very subtle,” you say. “Real subliminal messaging.”

“You need all the help you can get,” she says.

It’s easy, this back-and-forth. It always has been. The difference now is the way your body keeps overreacting to tiny things. The way her laugh lands low in your stomach. The way you keep noticing the smudge of glitter on her cheek and wanting to wipe it away.

You tell yourself it’s just the sleep deprivation.

The hours blur.

You read dedications and answer dumb quiz questions and accidentally get into a ten-minute argument about whether pineapple belongs on pizza with a caller from the dorms. You scroll through memes on the station computer during ad breaks, showing her the worst ones just to hear her wheeze-laugh. She stretches whenever there’s a long song, arms over her head, T-shirt riding up, a slip of bare skin flashing above her waistband.

You pretend very hard not to look.

Sometime around midnight, the building empties. The glass in the window goes dark. The station becomes its own little floating world.

Yunjin flips her headphones up so they rest on her head like a halo. She leans back, chair tipping dangerously, and sighs.

“What?” you ask.

She stares at the ceiling. “I just thought… if I was going to make you fall in love with me, being trapped in here is the best possible environment.”

You give her a look. “You know how that sounds, right?”

She grins sideways. “Yeah,” she says. “Hot.”

You drag a hand down your face. “I liked you better when you were just manipulative on air.”

“You like me,” she repeats.

“That’s not what I said,” you say.

“It’s what I heard,” she says.

You mute her mic before she can say anything else dangerous and throw to a song.

─

At two in the morning, the calls slow down.

The people still awake are either high, heartbroken, or both. The confessions get sadder, messier. Someone cries on air. Someone else laughs too loudly for too long.

When there’s nothing in the queue, you and Yunjin are left with the dead air countdown ticking in the corner of the screen and the kind of silence that makes you aware of your own breathing.

“Tell me about her,” she says suddenly.

You look up. “Who?”

“Your ex,” she says, like it’s obvious.

You stare at the monitor. The ON AIR timer crawls down from thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.

“We’re not doing this,” you say.

“You keep talking about love like it’s a disease,” she says. “I’d like to hear about the cause.”

Three. Two. One.

You take a breath and flick the mic sliders up. The red light on the console snaps on.

“Welcome back to the overnight Valentine’s special,” Yunjin says, as if she wasn’t just elbow-deep in your personal life. “We’ve heard from a lot of people already tonight about the love they’re in. Or out of.”

“And some who probably shouldn’t have given us their real names,” you add.

Yunjin leans toward her mic, eyes on you, and says, “But I think it’s time we hear from our very own love-hater.”

You shoot her a warning look. She barrels on.

“So,” she says, “tell me, dear co-host, where did love go wrong?”

You should cut her off. You should cut your mic, throw another song on, pretend the question never reached you. But two words hang at the back of your throat, clawing and raking and begging to come out.

Your hand does not move toward the mouse.

“High school,” you say. “Obviously.”

She smiles, slow. “Obviously,” she repeats. “Walk us through it.”

You stare at the screen above her head. The station logo glows back, smug.

“She was… fine,” you say. “We met in debate club. Which should have been a warning sign.”

“There’s your first mistake.”

You tell the story in broad strokes. The matching schedules, the way it had felt easy at first, the late nights studying, the first time you kissed in the back stairwell. How every time your lips touched, a swarm of butterflies fluttered in your stomach.

You keep your voice light. You know how to perform into a mic. You sand the edges off.

You don’t say the part where she told you she loved you in your mom’s car with her hand on your knee and then cheated on you three weeks later because “it didn’t feel real enough.”

You don’t say the part where your parents used the breakup as proof that teenage love is meaningless, a rehearsal for the pain you’re supposed to get used to.

You say, “It ended.”

Yunjin doesn’t push. She doesn’t fill the air. She lets the silence sit for a beat, just long enough for you to feel it, before she says, “I’m sorry, but she sounds like a bitch.”

You huff a laugh. “That’s the word,” you say.

“If the shoe fits,” she says.

“You have a whole closet of shoes that don’t fit. You wear them anyway.”

“You’re romanticizing my poor choices again.”

You glance at the time counter. The segment’s almost over. You clear your throat.

“What about you?” you ask. “Since we’re sharing.”

She lifts her shoulders. “I’ve been in love a lot.”

“Shocking.”

“But not like that,” she says. “I’ve had crushes. Infatuations. Situationships. People I liked because they liked me. People I liked because they were broken and I wanted to fix them.”

The corners of your mouth twitch.

“And…?” you prompt.

She looks at you, then down at the console. Her fingers trace the edge of a fader.

“There’s only one person I’ve stayed in love with,” she says. “So far.”

You know you shouldn’t ask. You know you definitely shouldn’t do it on air.

“Do I know them?” you ask.

She smiles without teeth. “You’re an idiot,” she says, and cuts to a song.

The track starts. The mics go dead. The silence on your headphones is sudden, like popping out of a pool.

─

Time does something weird around four in the morning.

You slide past tired into something loopy and raw. Your body feels hollowed out and vibrating. The booth becomes your whole universe. The only light is from the monitors and the tiny lamp someone stuck in the corner with a red scarf thrown over it, turning everything a dim maroon.

You’re on a break between segments, a slow jazz cover swaying through your headphones, when Yunjin kicks your ankle.

“Hey,” she says. “Wake up.”

“I am up,” you say. You are very much not. You are slumped in the chair like someone took out your bones and declined to put them back.

“Up,” she repeats, standing. “Dance break.”

You look at her. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I refuse.”

She reaches for your wrists. You yank them back, but she’s faster when you’re tired. Her fingers wrap around yours, warm and sure.

“Come on,” she says. “We have three minutes before the song ends. Science says movement keeps us awake.”

“No science says I have to dance with you,” you say, but your body is already tipping forward.

She pulls you to your feet and into the sliver of space between the chairs and the wall. The cable to your headphones tugs as you stand. You push them down around your neck.

The music is slow and lazy, horns curling through the air like cigarette smoke. The bass thumps faintly under your feet.

She sways. You don’t. Not at first.

“Just follow my lead,” she says.

“I don’t dance,” you say.

“You do now.”

She puts your hands on her waist. Her palms land on your shoulders. Her fingers curl into the worn cotton of your hoodie.

Your heart rockets into your throat.

She moves side to side, a gentle shift of weight. You’re too close to see all of her at once. Just a mouth. A cheek. Eyes that keep flicking to your lips and away again.

You move with her because you don’t know what else to do.

“This is dumb,” you say. “We’re not even on video.”

“So?” she says. “You can do things without an audience, you know.”

“You constantly ask the audience to rate us.”

“Yeah. But this one’s just for you.”

You swallow. Your hands are still on her waist. You can feel heat through the fabric. The curve of her hip under your thumbs is a map you’ve never let yourself read.

“Why me?” you ask.

She frowns. “What?”

“You said… there’s only one person you stayed in love with,” you say. “If it’s me… why?”

She exhales. You feel it against your neck.

“You’re really fishing for compliments at four in the morning,” she says.

“I’m serious.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you. Her eyes are dark and clear.

“Well… if, and I only mean if, that person were you, it’s because…” she paused for a moment. “You try really hard not to care. But you do anyway.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

“You pretend the world is something you can outsmart,” she continues. “Like if you just know enough, if you rationalize enough, nothing can surprise you. Nothing can hurt you. But then you… stay late to fix the board for the morning shift. And you remember everyone’s favorite segments. And you get stupidly angry when people treat their partners badly on air, even though you say love is stupid.”

“I listen to the show,” you say. Your throat feels tight. “It’s my job.”

“You listen period,” she says. “Not just on the show.”

Her fingers slide up from your shoulders, skim the back of your neck, tangle in your hair.

“You’re gentle when it matters,” she says. “And mean in the ways that count less. And sometimes, when you think no one’s listening, you talk about things like they can still be beautiful. Even after everything.”

You close your eyes. You can’t hold that look and keep your balance at the same time.

“That,” she says quietly, “is why.”

The song ends.

Dead air looms. You jolt back to the console like a puppet whose strings got yanked, hands flying to the mouse, to the sliders. You slam the next track on, throw your mic live, and say something about keeping the love songs coming in a voice that doesn’t sound like yours.

Yunjin sits, breathless and flushed, and laughs silently into her fist.

─

By dawn, the windows are pale rectangles. Snow flurries against the glass, soft and relentless. The campus outside looks like a stage set someone forgot to strike.

You’ve been awake for… a long time. Your sense of linear time is gone. All you have is the green LED clock on the wall and the schedule on the clipboard, marching toward the end of the marathon.

You have also been in love with Yunjin for approximately… longer than you’re willing to admit.

The realization comes not as a single lightning strike but as a series of insults you can’t ignore anymore.

The way your chest hurt when she talked about being in love with someone and didn’t name them.

The way you watched every hand that touched her at parties and wanted to break their fingers.

But she asked for honesty on a time limit, and there’s still one segment left.

The last hour is “Love Letters.” Prewritten, anonymous, some sent in weeks ago, some from tonight. A neat bow to tie the marathon.

You queue up a song. Three minutes. It feels like both a lot and not enough.

Yunjin is watching you. She’s been doing that more as the night has gone on, like she’s waiting for something.

You spin in your chair to face her fully.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey,” she echoes. Her voice is hoarse from talking all night. She sounds like her shell started to crack.

“Off the record,” you say.

She raises an eyebrow. “Uh-oh.”

“Why did you start the bet? Really.”

“I told you. I wanted to prove to you love exists. Then you might finally find a girlfriend”

“Bullshit,” you say, too tired to soften it.

She blinks.

“The bet is just too weird,” you say. “You could've picked a random girl at a bar. A stranger. Not you. Not a date with me as the reward. Not twenty-four hours of live radio where people can hear you bomb.”

“You think I’m afraid of bombing?” she asks.

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?”

“The point,” you say, and your voice shakes, “is that this is—” You gesture at the cramped booth, the mics, her. “—a really big risk for you if I don’t… if I can’t…”

You trail off. The song counter is at forty-five seconds.

“If you lose the bet and I quit the radio… you—” Your palm claps your chest, clamps down on it, and seizes your thumping heart between shaky fingers. “—we would not…”

She looks down at her hands.

“I needed a deadline,” she says. “I kept… waiting. For you to get there on your own. To notice. To do something. To stop making those jokes about love being fake.”

Your stomach lurches.

“I thought if I gave us a clock,” she continues, “maybe you’d decide faster. Maybe I’d know if I should hold on or let go. I can’t keep doing the… loves me, loves me not.”

Her voice thins on the last word.

You want to reach for her but you don’t. Your hand hovers in the space between.

“What if I end up hating you for it?” you ask. “For pushing.”

She smiles. “I figured if you hated me, that was an answer too,” she says.

The song ends. The final chord hangs in your headphones.

You hit the stinger, toss to the last segment, and talk on autopilot, the words of the script spilling out of your mouth without going through your brain.

Welcome back. Last hour. Love letters. All that.

You queue the first email and read it, your eyes tracking the words while your mind is three feet to the left, hovering over the spot where her knee bumps yours under the console.

The letters are earnest and messy and stupid. Someone writes to a barista they’ve never spoken to. Someone confesses to a crush on their TA. Someone thanks their best friend for staying when everyone else left.

Then you reach the last letter in the folder. It has no subject line.

You click it open.

Your own name stares back from the greeting.

You go very, very still.

“Everything okay?” Yunjin asks softly, off mic.

You don’t answer. You read.

“Hey you,” the email says.

You swallow.

You don’t mean to read it out loud. You don’t even realize your mic is still live until you hear your own voice in your headphones, smaller and rougher than it sounds in your head.

“…you’re probably frowning at this,” you read. “You frown at everything. The soundboard, your laptop, the concept of joy—”

You stop. Your eyes widen. You glance at Yunjin.

Her mouth is parted. Her fingers are tight around her pen.

You flip the mic off with a shaking hand. The ON AIR light dies.

“Did you write this?” you ask.

She doesn’t answer. Her cheeks are bright pink. Her eyes are wide open.

“Yunjin,” you say.

“It’s called commitment to the bit,” she says weakly.

You look back at the screen.

“…but sometimes you laugh so hard you fall off the chair,” the email says. “And sometimes you look at me like you’re seeing something you don’t think you deserve, and I wish I could make you feel what I feel for just one second so you’d understand how wrong you are.”

You exhale, shaky.

“I wanted to,” she says, then shuts her mouth like she’s said too much.

You scroll.

“I don’t know when it started,” the letter says. “Maybe it was when I called you to pick me up from the bar and you actually came. Maybe it was the time you stayed with me at the station until four a.m. because I messed up the prerecording and didn’t want to go home. Maybe it was always, a little bit.”

Your chest is not a chest. It’s a fist closing around itself.

“I do know this,” the letter says. “I believe in love because of you, not in spite of you. I’ve seen every worst part of you and my heart still does the stupid thing when you walk in the door.”

You laugh, helpless and breathless.

“You told me once love is a scam,” the email goes on. “If that’s true, I’ve already been duped. I can just hope for compensation.”

The cursor blinks at the end of the paragraph.

It’s not signed. It doesn’t have to be.

“You’re such a dumbass,” you say, voice breaking on the last word.

Yunjin flinches. “You can delete it,” she says quietly. “We don’t have to read it. It’s… fine. I’ll pretend I never sent it.”

You look at her. Really look.

She looks small, suddenly. Not physically—she still takes up more space than anyone in a room—but her shoulders are hunched, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her hoodie, her eyes shiny.

You realize you’re not scared anymore. Even though your heart is beating a hundred million times a second, its not because you’re scared. She was right. Is right.

“That’s not what I meant,” you say. You take a breath that hurts going in. “Put your headphones on.”

Her brows knit. “Why?”

“Please,” you say.

She slides them on, hesitant.

You flick your mic back on, your voice going out into the quiet morning city, to whoever’s still awake and listening.

“Okay,” you say. “We’ve heard a lot of letters tonight from people trying to be brave.”

Your heart drums against your ribs. Yunjin’s gaze is locked on you.

“I thought I should… return the favor,” you say.

She presses a hand over her mouth.

“This one’s not anonymous,” you say. “But I guess that’s the point.”

You talk.

You don’t read anything. You don’t have a script. You just… talk.

You say you thought love was dangerous because you watched it used as a weapon. You say you built a whole personality out of not needing it. You say you thought you were safe that way.

You say you were wrong.

How the first time she dragged you on air, you wanted to murder her and thank her in the same breath. How she makes the station feel like more than a hobby. How she makes every room louder and softer at the same time.

You finally say IT.

“I’m in love with you,” you say, into the mic, into the booth, into her headphones. “Yunjin.”

The confession sits in the air, warm and irreversible.

You mute your mic.

The world shrinks to the space between your chairs.

Her eyes are wet. There’s a tear track on one cheek, shiny in the dim light.

“You…” she starts, then stops. Her voice cracks. She pulls her headphones off like they’re heavy.

“You said it on air,” she says, half laugh, half sob.

“You wrote me a love letter on air.”

“I thought you’d pretend you never read it. Or roast me for it. Or… something.”

“I thought about it. For, like, two seconds.”

She exhales, a shaky thing that almost turns into a laugh.

“Do you mean it?” she asks. “Or is this you being… swept up in the bit?”

You hate that she even has to ask.

You push your chair back. The wheels squeak. You stand, knees popping, and step into her space.

She tips her head back to look at you. You can see every mole, every fleck of glitter, every place the night has worn at her.

“You win,” you say. “Okay? You were right. Love is real. I’m in love. With you.”

Her lips part. “Say it again,” she whispers.

“I love you,” you say.

Her hands reach for you at the same time yours reach for her. There’s an awkward bump of elbows and a tangle of headphone cables, but then your fingers find her jaw and her palms land on your shoulders and you’re both laughing, breathless, right before your mouth hits hers.

The kiss lands slightly off-center. It doesn’t matter.

Her lips are dry and then not. She makes a small, startled noise that you feel more than hear. Her fingers curl into the fabric at the back of your neck.

Your brain, which has been screaming for hours, goes very, very quiet.

You pull back just enough to breathe.

“Off air,” she gasps. “Off—”

You throw a hand blindly toward the console and slam every fader down. The lights on the board dip. The mic signs go dark.

The station goes silent.

You kiss her again.

This time, you aim better.

She tastes like the energy drinks you both chugged at three and the mint gum she chewed to cover it. Her nose bumps yours. Her hands are everywhere, in your hair, on your back, tugging you closer.

You brace one hand on the console to keep from knocking both of you over. The plastic digs into your palm. You’d bruise your entire body and the soundboard if it meant she kept kissing you like that.

She laughs against your mouth. “Hi,” she whispers.

“Hi,” you whisper back.

“We’re still technically on shift,” she says.

“I’m on a break.”

Her smile curves against your lower lip. “You’re such a bad employee.”

You kiss until your knees feel like they’re going to give out, until your fingers go numb from gripping the edge of the console, until the clock over the window ticks all the way to the end of the marathon.

It’s the easiest thing in the world to fall into.

She gasps into your mouth.

God, that sound.

Her fingers tug at the hem of your hoodie, grabbing your shirt along with it. You help her peel them off, and her hands are everywhere—chest, shoulders, back; tracing every line as if making sure you are real.

“Yunjin,” you grit out, and you’re holding her, hands on those perfect cheeks, caressing them like she may slip through your fingers if you don’t. “I want—no, I need you. Now.”

She blinks, surprised.

You wait.

Then she smirks. “So fucking take me.”

Her words are a burning match, and you’re the damn firewood.

You push her back against the wall. Her head almost bumping into it were it not for your hand in the back of her hair. You look her over as if she is a gourmet meal, leaning across to get a taste.

Your mouth is on her throat, slow and greedy. Her hands thread into your hair, fingers curling tight when you find the soft spot under her jaw.

“Jesus,” she breathes.

As you pull her shirt up and toss it somewhere behind, you move lower. Kiss the top of her chest. Trace the edge of her bra with your teeth.

She arches. “You gonna tease me all night?”

“Thinking about it,” you say, dragging a hand down her side.

She huffs a laugh. “Then I’ll start without you,” she says. Her fingers move to her waistband.

You stop her. “Let me.”

Yunjin goes still. Watching. Waiting. Then her hands drop to her sides.

You hook your fingers under the band of her jeans and pull. Slow. So fucking slow.

She lifts her hips to help you, and when the jeans clear her thighs, you just stare. No rush. No comment. Just her bare legs, panties black and damp and perfectly in place.

You dip, then kiss the inside of her thigh.

She twitches.

You kiss higher.

She makes a sound, high and rough, like her body won’t hold on much longer if you continue.

Your hands slide up her legs. Her stomach. Her ribs. You get back up and catch her mouth while your fingers finally slide between her legs, slow and gentle, through the heat and the wetness that has been building ever since the bet started.

Her breath hitches. Her hips roll.

“You like that?”

“I will if you keep going.”

You do. One finger, then two. Deep, slow. Your thumb brushes her just right. She falls apart in front of you, little gasps punched out of her with every stroke. Her hands fist at her sides, thighs clenched and eyes rolled back just a little.

“What the—fuck—” she wails between gasps, her tongue dangling beyond her full red lips.

When she comes, it’s a quiet explosion. Her dirty nectar floods your hand as her breathless cries rub into your skin. Her proud face is now wrecked and vulgar.

You pull your hand away and kiss her again, mouth messy with want.

Deep, slow, lingering want. Every pass of her mouth feels like she’s tasting a secret she’s wanted for too long. Her tongue slides against yours, confident without being cocky, and when she makes that low, surprised sound into your mouth, it hits straight through your spine.

She breaks away only because she has to breathe. You feel her chest press into you as she exhales against your jaw, then she presses her lips there, then lower, like she can’t stand not having you in her mouth.

Her knees hit the floor, eyes tilted up, hair messier than it’s ever been, breathing you in like you’re something addictive she’s finally allowed to use.

Her fingers tug your waistband open, careful and steady. She frees you, and her breath stutters—just slightly—but she doesn’t make a joke, doesn’t throw out a line.

She just whispers, “Yeah.”

And then her mouth is on you.

Not tentative this time. Decisive. She takes you in slow, lips sealing tight, heat wrapping around you so suddenly that your hand shoots into her hair on instinct.

She moans.

God, she moans around you like you just answered something inside her. The vibration punches sounds out of your throat. Your hips jerk, barely, and she keeps you still with her hand on your hip like she knew it would happen.

She sets a perfect rhythm, unhurried but merciless. Her tongue drags along the underside, slow and claiming. She sinks deeper, takes more of you, then sucks on the way back like she means to ruin you.

You are gone.

“Yunjin—fuck—” Your voice cracks and she actually smiles with you in her mouth, like that’s exactly what she wanted to hear.

Her hand strokes the rest of you she can’t take, matching the pace of her mouth. Every breath you drag in feels too thin. Every sound she makes wrecks you worse. She looks up at you through her lashes—eyes heavy and bright and unbelievably present—and it feels obscene how good she looks like this.

You feel it building, sudden and sharp and impossible to stop—

And then she pulls back. Just enough to edge you off the cliff without letting you fall.

Her mouth eases off with a slick, obscene drag, leaving the head flushed and throbbing, her hand still wrapped firm around the base. You groan, broken, chasing her mouth on instinct, but she tightens her grip. Halts you. Holds you in place like she knows exactly what you’re about to do.

“Not so fast,” she murmurs, voice rough from where her throat took you. Her lips are swollen, slick with spit, a smear of her lipstick half-faded but still sinful on the edge of her mouth. “I’m not done yet.”

You try to speak, to respond, but all that escapes you is a ragged noise.

She kisses your hipbone like an apology. Or maybe a promise. Her mouth drags lower, tongue teasing along the base, slow and intentional, lips skimming your skin like she’s studying it. Every movement is calculated—controlled. She knows exactly what she’s doing. How close you are. How easy it would be to tip you over.

But she doesn’t. Not yet.

Instead, she wraps her lips back around you—just the tip this time—and hums. The sound shoots straight through your stomach. Her tongue swirls once, then again, every motion steady and eager, like she's tasting ice cream on a stick.

She sinks down, slowly. Her hand strokes what her mouth can’t take, syncing together in a rhythm that's made to torture. Heat coils low in your spine.

You glance down, and the sight nearly finishes you anyway.

Her.

On her knees.

Mouth full of you. Cheeks hollowing. Hair wild around her face, braid half undone. That look in her eyes: focused, intense, locked on yours. Like she’s doing this not for effect, not to be good, but because you make her want to. Because the taste of you is something she wants.

Every time you twitch, her mouth flexes, adjusting. Every sound you make, she follows, like it’s feedback she craves.

“Yunjin—if you keep—”

She moans. Vibrating around you like an answer.

Your fingers fist tight in her hair. Your thighs shake. You're right there.

She feels it. You know she does.

And again—again—she pulls back. Just enough to leave you aching. Her tongue slides off the head in a slow, wet drag, and she kisses the tip so softly you nearly curse.

You can’t breathe.

“Not yet,” she whispers, thumb stroking the base, gaze never leaving yours. “You don’t get to finish before I get to wreck you.”

You don’t know how long you can take this.

She’s still kneeling, still got your cock wrapped in her hand like it’s hers to keep, and at this point, maybe it is. Your head thumps back against the wall, jaw clenched tight, trying not to embarrass yourself, but she sees it—sees all of it.

And she smiles.

Not smug. Not mean.

Just pleased. Like she’s watching the result of a long experiment finally bear fruit.

She strokes you slow, firm, her grip slick from her mouth. Just enough to keep you from slipping back too far. Her other hand skims up your thigh, fingers brushing so lightly they’re practically a threat.

"You're shaking," she says, not quite teasing, but close.

You are.

“Do you want to come?” she asks, voice soft, lips parted just enough that you can still see the sheen of spit on them. “Like this? In my mouth?”

You choke on a breath. Nod.

“Too bad.”

Then she leans in again.

This time she kisses everywhere but where you need her. Along your hip. Your stomach. She licks a slow stripe just below the base, then mouths at the skin beside you, leaving a faint mark—territorial.

You mutter a curse. She grins into your skin.

“Relax,” she murmurs. “I’ll let you come eventually.”

Her mouth returns to the head, tongue flicking, lips parting. She sucks, gentle and shallow, working only the tip with devastating rigor. Each pass is maddening. She’s not trying to take you deep right now. She’s teasing every nerve you have raw.

You try to thrust, just once—instinctive, helpless—but she flattens her hand against your stomach.

“No,” she says, firm.

That voice. That fucking voice.

Her mouth slips lower again, this time a little deeper, and your whole body tenses. She moans, and it makes you twitch so hard she actually laughs around you.

You’re panting now. Gone. Mindless. All you can do is feel; her mouth, her tongue, her pace.

You feel it surge again, hotter, faster, sharper.

You manage to gasp out, “I’m—Yunjin, I’m—”

And she pulls off just in time.

You nearly collapse.

She leans back on her heels, hands on your thighs, and watches you burn. Your cock throbs in the cool air, spit-slick and flushed, twitching uselessly against your stomach. Her mouth is red, wet, wrecked. Her eyes are so fucking dark.

“You look so good like this,” she says softly.

You swallow hard. Your knees are barely holding.

“Then finish it,” you say, voice like gravel.

She rises slowly, body brushing yours as she stands. Her hands slide up your chest, slow and greedy.

“Oh, I will,” she whispers against your lips. “But not with just my mouth.”

She kisses you again: wet, deep, messy. And then she’s walking you backward. To the couch. To the end of your control.

The backs of your knees hit the couch, and she pushes, lightly, but you go down hard like your legs never belonged to you in the first place. You land half-sitting, breath ragged, hands braced behind you.

Yunjin stands over you for a second, watching. Savoring.

Then she straddles your lap.

Her thighs slide against yours, skin hot and bare. Her panties are still on, black and soaked through, clinging to her like a secret she’s not ready to give up just yet. But she grinds down anyway, slow and deliberate, right against you. The slick heat of her makes your head fall back instantly.

She leans in, mouth brushing your ear.

“Feel what you did to me?” she whispers. “You think I got like this by accident?”

Your hands go to her hips without thinking, thumbs dragging along the curve of her waist like you need something to hold on to.

Her lips find your neck, open and wet, tongue tracing every inch of skin she couldn’t reach when you were standing. She bites, soft and then not. You flinch, gasp, grip her tighter.

“You’re so close,” she says, teeth grazing your throat. “I can feel it. I can feel you holding on.”

Her hips roll once. Then again.

You nearly buck beneath her. She’s not moving fast. The thin fabric between you is soaked, sliding against your cock every time she grinds down, and it’s torture. Heat builds again, sharper, tighter. You're already soaked from her mouth, already shaking from the way she won’t let you go over.

“You want to fuck me,” she says, straight into your ear. Not a question.

You nod. Desperate. “Yes. Fuck—”

She kisses you again. Hot and open and unforgiving. Her hand finds you between your bodies, wraps around you again, drags the tip through her slick heat, through the soaked fabric of her underwear.

You make a sound you’ve never made before.

She presses her forehead to yours, breathing hard.

“You’re not going to come,” she whispers. “Not until I’m on top of you. Not until you’re so deep inside me you forget your own name.”

You shudder, nearly break.

And still, she doesn’t move.

She stays there. Grinding slow. Touching you just enough to light the fuse again, just enough to bring you back to the edge. Her breath on your mouth. Her nails in your shoulders. Her body against yours like the forbidden apple you so desperately want to take a bite of.

Then—finally—she sits back, grabs the waistband of her soaked panties, and peels them down.

They stick to her for a second before sliding free. She tosses them somewhere behind her without looking. Then she grips your cock again, guides it to where she’s dripping.

You lock eyes.

You can barely breathe.

“Now,” she says. “You can come inside me.”

Then she sinks down with a sound that shatters whatever was left of your self-control.

It’s not loud, it’s deep, from somewhere in her chest. A gasp, broken in half by a moan, her body folding forward as you stretch her open inch by inch. You grip her hips, trying not to thrust up into her, trying to hold still while she takes you.

She feels like fire and silk and home all at once.

Your head drops back with a curse. "Holy—"

"I know," she whispers, almost stunned.

She settles fully with a tremble, thighs shaking around yours. For a moment, she just stays there, seated flush against your hips, her breath ghosting over your cheek, her hands on your shoulders like she’s grounding herself.

Then her fingers find yours.

She laces them together.

Your eyes snap open.

She’s watching you—face flushed, lips parted, hair wild, but her gaze is steady. Intimate. Like this is the part that matters.

You squeeze her hand without thinking. She squeezes back.

Then she moves.

It starts slow, grinding down, rocking her hips in careful, devastating rhythm. She’s so fucking wet, every movement a slick slide of heat around you. Every roll of her hips draws another breathless groan from your throat, another wrecked sound from hers.

She leans in closer. Chest to chest. Your hands still locked together. You swear you can feel her heartbeat through her palm.

“God,” she pants, forehead pressing to yours, “you feel—so fucking—good—”

You groan, fingers tightening around hers. “Yunjin—please—”

“Please what?” she whispers, dragging her hips back, then snapping them forward again just right. You cry out. She smiles. “You want to come?”

You nod.

She lifts up slightly, angle shifting—and drops back down, hard.

Your vision blacks out for a second.

Then she starts to ride you in earnest.

No games now. No teasing. Just rhythm and heat and need. She uses your hands as leverage, fingers still interlocked, slamming her hips down harder, deeper, again and again, until every part of you is hers.

She’s close. You can feel it in the way her thighs start to tremble again, the way her rhythm gets messy, desperate.

“Come with me,” she gasps, mouth brushing yours. “Please—please—I want you to—”

You barely hold on one more second.

Then you’re gone; hips thrusting up into her one last time as you bury yourself deep and give in. She follows a heartbeat later, pulsing around you with a gasp so raw it almost sounds like a scream.

She collapses against your chest, still shaking, still holding your hand.

Your other arm wraps around her. You bury your face in her hair, breath catching, body wrecked in the best possible way.

Her fingers tighten in yours again.

“Fuck,” you whisper into her skin.

She laughs. Weak, hoarse, beautiful.

“You owe me a date,” she murmurs.

You groan. “Still on about that stupid bet?”

“That ‘stupid’ bet is the reason we’re here.”

You don’t even try to argue.

You’ve been shelving books for about seven thousand years.

Or at least that’s how it feels, wedged between the holiday table and the front window while people keep coming in with snow on their shoulders like they’re bringing the storm in as a guest. The bell above the door jingles every time, high and bright and weirdly smug about it.

The bookshop is warm, heavy with smells that are all slightly too much at once: cinnamon oil from the diffuser near the door, paper that’s been turned and thumbed and loved, the wet-wool edge of everyone’s coats slowly trying to defrost. There are paper snowflakes taped to the glass. A tiny artificial tree leans a bit to the left in the display, ornaments shaped like miniature book covers weighing down one side.

You’re halfway through putting a stack of romances back in alphabetical order when the bell rings again and a gust of cold sneaks in under the door, curling around your ankles.

“Shoes,” Chaewon says from the front without looking up.

You glance at her over the edge of the display. “What?”

She’s behind the register in her navy apron, the knot at her back perfectly centered like she tied it in front of a mirror. Her hair is clipped back, black and shiny, not a strand out of place. There’s a clipboard beside the register with the sign-in sheet on it. A pen is attached with a piece of string, because of course it is.

Chaewon flicks her eyes to the entry mat, then back to your face. “You’re tracking slush. Wipe.”

You look down. There’s a faint gray trail from the door to where you’re standing. Your boots are damp around the edges. You drag them across the mat a couple of times, more out of stubbornness than effort. The fox printed on the mat looks disappointed in you.

“There,” you say.

Chaewon’s expression doesn’t change. “You forgot to clock in.”

You force your shoulders to stay loose as you head up to the counter. The clipboard is waiting. You grab the pen and the string tugs, like it’s on a leash.

“Does Ms. Lim think I’m going to steal a pen?” you ask.

Chaewon’s gaze dips briefly to the front pocket of your hoodie, then back up. “You would,” she says.

You don’t even have anything in that pocket except an old dining hall receipt and some mystery lint. Still, your face warms.

“I wouldn’t,” you say. “Some of us have morals.”

“You were twenty minutes late,” she answers, not bothering to look impressed. “Sign.”

You sign. Your hand is cold, and your name ends up crooked, like it’s trying to slide off the page. Chaewon watches the paper, not you. Her nails are short and neat. You hate that you notice.

She slides a folded apron toward you without looking. “Here.”

“Wow,” you say. “There’s the reason I don’t clock in.”

“Customers don’t need to see your hoodie,” she replies. “It has holes in it.”

You look down. It does have holes. Two near the cuff from a nervous habit, one at the hem that’s older than college.

“It’s called vintage,” you say.

“It’s called tragic,” she says.

You pull the apron over your head anyway and tie it behind your back. You don’t aim. The knot lands too far to the side.

Chaewon’s eyes flick down and stay there for a moment too long. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“Fix that,” she says.

“It’s tied,” you say. “It’s doing its job.”

“It’s crooked,” she says. “And you’re in front of customers.”

“I didn’t realize my back was part of the customer service,” you mutter.

“It is when I have to look at it,” she says.

You feel your spine stiffen. “Newsflash, Chaewon: you don’t have to look at me at all.”

Her eyes rise to meet yours. They’re sharp, dark, annoyingly steady. “Trust me,” she says. “I know.”

Before you can say something mean enough to feel satisfied now and regret later, Ms. Lim pops up from the far end of the counter, Santa hat sliding sideways like it’s trying to escape.

“There you are,” she says, cheerful. “Good, both of you. It’s starting to come down out there. We’re going to get slammed for another hour and then I’m kicking everyone out.”

She pats Chaewon’s arm as if she expects her to hold the line against an invading army. “Chaewon, gift wrap the books. You—” She points at you. “Holiday table, then float. Smile like finals aren’t happening.”

“I don’t smile on principle,” you say.

“You smile at me,” Ms. Lim says with the sharp part of her tongue.

“That’s because you pay me,” you say under the breath.

She laughs and waves you toward the middle of the store. “Shoo. Make the shelves look pretty. If anything falls on a customer, I’m blaming you and I’ll cry.”

“That’s new…” Chaewon mutters.

“What was that?” Ms. Lim asks merrily.

Chaewon’s eyes flicker. “Nothing,” she says.

You head back to the big holiday table. From the front, the building looks like a normal small bookstore—cozy, slightly chaotic, full of too many things in not enough space. When you walk it with your brain turned on, you can see the structure underneath.

Children’s corner in back with a circular rug that never lies flat, always has one piece sticking up waiting to trip someone. The reading nook opposite it, with the sagging gray couch and the lamp that only works if you tap it twice.

Classics line the left wall with the locked glass cabinet embedded in the middle. The rare books are inside, spines aged and serious. The brass key that opens it hangs on a chain around Ms. Lim’s neck. Chaewon looks at that cabinet like it owes her money.

You look at it like a bunch of books you’ll never be able to afford.

The holiday table is a disaster in three dimensions. Someone has stacked thrillers on top of romances. A cookbook about pies sits on a pile of poetry. A display mug is one elbow away from suicide.

You start sorting just to make the chaos stop. Paperbacks in one stack, hardbacks in another. Romances to the right, everything else center and left. You pull a snowy-cover romcom out from under something with a skeleton on it and feel vaguely offended on the romcom’s behalf.

“Excuse me,” a woman says to your shoulder. “Hi. Sorry. Do you have something… romantic?” She winces on the last word like it tastes weird.

You straighten. “Romantic we can do,” you say. “Any no-go zones? Like, no heartbreak, no cheating, no—”

“Oh, no, she loves heartbreak,” the woman says quickly. “It’s for my niece, she’s in high school. But my sister will kill me if there’s anything… explicit.” She mimes a vague gesture that could mean sex or could mean drugs; you decide to assume sex. “So, like… kissing, feelings, snow. But not too much… you know.”

You do know.

You look at the table. “Okay,” you say. You pick up a soft YA-ish paperback with a cartoon couple in puffy coats. “This one’s more cute-angsty than spicy. Lots of longing, barely any trauma.”

The woman’s face brightens. “Longing is good.”

You grab another—“CUM2A” by Okay—read the back quickly. Too steamy. You put it down.

“Definitely this one,” you say, handing her the first book. “Safe for nieces, but she won’t be bored.”

She clutches the book in both hands like you’ve given her something fragile. “Thank you. You just saved Christmas.”

“Wow,” you say. “All in a day’s work.”

She laughs and heads toward the register.

You glance up and catch Chaewon watching.

She’s not looking at you head-on. She’s pretending to organize the impulse-buy bookmarks near the register, but her eyes track the woman, then the book in her hands, then you.

When she feels you looking back, her gaze slides away like it never stopped.

You go back to stacking.

The hour until closing moves in knots. You wrap a stack of books in gold paper that tears every time you try to fold a corner. You show three people where the essay collections are. You straighten the children’s rug and watch it go crooked again in under five minutes because a toddler decides to run in a circle on it.

At one point you pass by the register to grab more tape and Chaewon says, without looking up, “You put the wrong edition of Little Women on the display.”

You stop. “What?”

She slides a bag across the counter to a customer, murmurs “Happy holidays,” and only when they leave does she flick her eyes to yours.

“There are three editions in stock,” she says. “Ms. Lim wants the clothbound one with the red cover on the table. You put the cheap movie tie-in one. With the faces.” Her nose wrinkles like the idea offends her.

“People like covers with faces,” you say.

“People don’t know what they want,” she shoots back.

“I thought the point was to sell books,” you say. “Movie tie-in is familiar. Familiar equals safe. Safe equals—”

“Cowardly,” she interrupts.

You blink. “That’s not where I was going.”

“It’s the only place you’re going,” she says.

You stare at her. “You think I’m a coward.”

“You won’t put your own work up for open mic,” she says. “You keep reading half-finished first drafts in workshop and then saying ‘it’s nothing’ if anyone likes it. So, yes.”

You feel something hot crawl up the back of your neck. “At least I don’t slaughter people’s stories in the Q&A portion,” you say.

Chaewon’s jaw tightens. “I give useful notes. I’m not a sycophant.”

“You could try not making people feel like idiots,” you say.

“You could try not writing like you have a brick up your ass,” she answers.

A customer steps up to the register with a stack of true crime and coughs politely.

Chaewon turns away from you so cleanly it’s like someone flipped a switch. “Hi,” she says, voice smooth. “Did you find everything okay?”

Conversation over.

Your chest still feels like she knocked something out of place, though.

You escape back into the middle of the store, where it’s just you and paper.

Outside, the wind has been doing its own thing. You’ve noticed it in the corner of your eye, the way the snowflakes stopped looking delicate and started flying sideways. Now, when you glance at the front window, you see white smeared against the glass, streetlights smudged into halos.

Someone near the holiday cards lets out a nervous gasp when a gust thumps against the door.

Ms. Lim looks up from the bookmarks display, pulls her phone from her apron, and sucks in a breath.

“Okay, update,” she says loudly, tapping the screen. “Blizzard warning just got bumped. They’re closing the main road in twenty minutes.”

The air in the store shifts. People stand up straighter. A guy in a puffer coat looks at his watch as if trying to slow down time.

“We’re closing,” Ms. Lim says, already moving toward the door. “Everybody check out now.”

You and Chaewon move automatically. She speeds up her scanning; you take armfuls of books and carry them for the people who can’t hold everything. The bell rings too much. Coats brush against you. Papercuts sting at the base of your fingers.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket with the campus alert:

SEVERE WEATHER WARNING. AVOID TRAVEL. SEEK SHELTER.

You glance at it. You glance at the window. Snow claws at the glass now, white and dense, no longer pretty.

The last customer finally staggers out with two bags and a stray ribbon stuck to their sleeve.

The bell jingles, and then there’s silence.

Ms. Lim turns the lock, flips the sign to CLOSED, and exhales like she’s been holding her breath for an hour.

“Okay,” she says. “We survived the rush.”

“I mean, the roof is about to blow away,” you say.

Ms. Lim points a gloved finger at you. “Do not jinx my roof.”

Chaewon is already scanning the store, gaze moving over displays, windows, the rare books cabinet, like she’s taking note of liabilities.

“The front romance table’s a mess,” she says.

“It’s fine,” you say. “No one’s coming in now.”

“It’s crooked,” she says.

“It’s romance,” you say. “And what’s more romantic than a crooked table?”

Chaewon aims a look at you that could cut paper.

Ms. Lim shrugs. “I’m pulling the shutter down,” she says. “You two start closing the store. Candles are near the register. If the power goes out, don’t panic, we’re not haunted. The pipes just make… noises.”

“It’s okay, Ms. Lim. I’m not scared of the dark,” you say.

“I know,” Ms. Lim says. “You’re scared of commitment and job interviews. But I didn’t ask.”

She opens the door and the wind punches in, cold and wet and loud. Her Santa hat almost flies off; she catches it with one hand and laughs.

“Back in five if the alley door isn’t frozen shut,” she calls, and then she’s outside, pulling the heavy metal shutter down over the front windows.

Chaewon stands by the glass, watching. You end up next to her without deciding to, shoulder almost brushing hers, eyes tracking the same movement.

The shutter rattles as Ms. Lim hauls it down. Snow swirls in around her feet. Her coat whips.

The lights flicker once.

You glance up at the ceiling.

They flicker again.

“Don’t,” you say under your breath, as if the building can hear you.

The lights go out.

Everything snaps to black so fast your stomach drops. The humming of the heaters stops. The buzzing from the old fluorescent tube in the back disappears. Even the little mechanical whir of the receipt printer dies.

For half a heartbeat, it’s just the storm and breathing.

The emergency lights blink on. They’re low and yellow, barely illuminating the aisles. The store looks different in them, older somehow, shadows stretched long between shelves.

Outside, something slams into the shutter with a metallic boom.

You and Chaewon both flinch.

“Ms. Lim?” Chaewon calls, too loud in the sudden quiet.

The boom comes again. The shutter rattles. Then Ms. Lim’s voice filters in from behind the metal, muffled and thin.

“I’m okay!” she shouts. “The lock’s jammed from the outside! I’m going around to try the alley door—don’t open anything unless you’re sure it’s me! And don’t—”

A gust of wind shrieks around the corner, steals the end of her sentence.

“—freeze!” barely makes it through.

The sound of her boots fades.

Chaewon’s phone vibrates. She takes it out of her pocket, reads something, frowns, and clenches her jaw. As your eyes meet hers, she returns to that impassive, serious expression she always wears.

She puts the phone back in her pocket, but whatever she saw, it had already done its damage—her shoulders now square and the skin around her mouth tight.

“Candles,” she says, already walking for the counter.

You follow. Your legs feel a little floaty, like they forgot how to walk.

Behind the register, Chaewon yanks open the bottom drawer. There’s a jumble of things inside: rolls of receipt paper, three stubby white candles, a pack of matches, a black flashlight wrapped in silver duct tape.

She grabs the matches.

Her hand shakes.

Not a lot. Just a tremor that shivers down to the knuckles.

She sucks in a breath and tightens her grip. An attempt to bully her body into cooperating.

Before you think about it too hard, you reach out and cover her fingers with yours.

“I got it,” you say.

Her head snaps up.

Her eyes flash, startled and defensive. Your hand is warm over hers. You can feel the fine bones there, the way her tendons pull taut.

“I don’t need—” she starts.

You gently slide the box of matches out of her grip. “You have all your fingers,” you say. “Let’s keep it that way.”

You strike a match. The flare of orange is small but shocking. You light the first candle, then a second. The wax catches, flames steadying into two thin petals of light.

You set them on the counter. The glow spreads, softening the hard edges of everything.

Chaewon stares at the candles for a second in disbelief. Then she snatches the matchbox back and lights the third candle herself.

The flame… wobbles.

Something slams into the shutter again. The sound ripples through the metal, through the glass, through your chest.

You and Chaewon both look toward the front.

“She’ll be fine,” you say.

You’re not sure if you’re trying to convince her or yourself.

“Don’t say that,” Chaewon answers. “You can’t know for sure.”

You study her profile in the candlelight. She looks composed from far away. Up close, you can see the giveaway details—how her throat moves when she swallows, how her shoulders are a little too square.

The storm howls. The pipes in the back gurgle once, loudly.

Chaewon closes the drawer with more force than necessary. “Back door,” she says. “If she can’t get in from outside, we should at least know if it opens from in here.”

She scoops up one candle, grabs the duct-tape flashlight, and heads for the back hallway.

“Have you never watched a horror movie? Why would you try to open the back door?” you ask.

She doesn’t look back. “Someone has to.”

You follow, because apparently that someone is not going to be her by herself.

The hallway to the stockroom is narrower in the emergency light, walls yellowed, floor scuffed. The candle flame throws shadows up and down like moving fingers. The metal door to the alley sits at the end, painted the same beige as the walls, long handle vertical, bolt at the top.

Chaewon sets the candle on a nearby crate, puts both hands on the bar, and pulls.

Nothing.

She puts her weight into it. The handle doesn’t move, the bolt doesn’t budge. The door rattles, frame vibrating.

“Come on,” she says through her teeth. “Move.”

She braces one foot against the bottom edge and hauls backward. The muscles in her arms tense under her sweater. Her hair shifts against the clip.

The handle gives a millimeter with a metallic creak and then catches.

“That’s not good,” you say.

“I know,” she says. Her voice has a frayed edge now.

“Chaewon—”

“I said I know,” she snaps.

She tries again. The door stays stubborn.

You reach past her and jiggle the handle, just to feel it yourself. You feel ice in the mechanism, solid and unbothered by her pulls.

“Pretty sure it’s frozen,” you say.

“I can see that,” she says.

“You’re going to dislocate your shoulder,” you say.

“I’m fine.”

She sucks in a breath and goes for it again. The bar barely twitches. The sound it makes is worse than the earlier rattle, like a warning.

“Okay,” you say, and catch her wrist.

Your hand closes around her. Her pulse is fast under your fingers. Her skin is cold enough that you feel the contrast.

She goes still.

“Let go,” she says quietly.

“If I let go, you’re just going to pull at the door again,” you say. “And then we’ll have a stuck door and a dislocated shoulder.”

“That’s my decision to make,” she says.

“Ms. Lim will murder me if I let you hurt yourself in her store,” you say. “On the list of ways to lose a job, that’s probably top three.”

Chaewon stares at you, eyes dark and furious and bright all at once.

“Let go,” she says again.

You do.

Not because she tells you to, but because you feel the way your grip tightens without meaning to, and suddenly you’re very aware of where your hand is and how small her wrist feels in it.

She pulls away like your touch burned. Her shoulders go back up, armor snapping into place.

“Fine,” she says. “Then we wait.”

You both stand there listening to the storm slam itself against the alley side of the building. Somewhere above you a piece of metal groans. The heaters are still dead. You can feel the air cooling with every minute.

“Great,” you say. “Perfect night.”

“We have an emergency kit,” she says briskly, turning toward the stockroom. “Ms. Lim is paranoid.”

You follow her through the door.

Chaewon walks straight to a cabinet and opens the bottom doors like she’s done this before. Inside: a red first-aid kit, a camping stove, a small kettle, two instant ramen cups, a big bag of pretzels, three chocolate bars, and a box of tea bags.

You blink. “We keep a whole apocalypse kit back here?”

“Emergency box,” she says. “And clearly a useful one.” She pulls the stove out, then hands you one of the ramen cups without looking. “Did you eat already?”

“Totally,” you say automatically.

Your stomach chooses that second to make a noise that sounds like a dying animal.

Chaewon’s head turns slowly.

“Oh my god,” she says. “A granola bar is not dinner.”

You make a face. “You don’t know my life.”

Her eyebrows go up. “You literally told everyone last week that your oven is ‘for storage.’”

“That was a joke,” you say.

“It sure doesn’t look like it,” she says.

“It was… half a joke,” you admit.

Chaewon just stares at you for a second, candlelight catching in her eyes. Something in her expression shifts, like something clicks into place that she doesn’t like.

She fills the kettle from a big water jug, sets it on the camping stove, and lights the burner with the matches. The little blue flame catches with a soft whoosh.

You watch her hands. They’re steadier with a task. Her shoulders drop a fraction.

“You’re really prepared for armageddon,” you say.

“We have the kit thanks to Ms. Lim. But yes, I’m always prepared,” she answers.

You sit down on an unopened box and peel back the lid on the ramen cup. Your fingers feel clumsy.

“You’re always like this,” you say.

She doesn’t look up. “Like what?”

“Like… I don’t know,” you say. “Always with a plan. Always on high alert.” You wave vaguely at the organized chaos.

“That’s called being responsible,” she says.

“That’s called being uptight,” you say.

The corner of her mouth twitches, just a little.

Steam starts to gather at the spout of the kettle. The stockroom grows warmer by a few degrees. The shelves throw softer shadows now, the candlelight and blue flame working together.

Chaewon pours the water into your ramen, then into her own cup. She chooses tea instead of a second ramen.

You eat sitting on the box, blowing on noodles that are too hot, salty broth soaking the cardboard smell. It tastes better you thought it would.

Chaewon leans against a stack of shipping boxes, ankles crossed, hands around her mug. Her cheeks are pinker now, probably from the heat.

You take a breath, steadying yourself before you speak.

“Why do you hate me?” you ask.

Chaewon chokes on her tea.

“I don’t,” she says quickly.

You raise your eyebrows.

She glares at you. “I don’t hate you,” she says. “I hate the way you… are.”

“Gee thanks,” you say. “That’s a lot better.”

“You’re just so…” She waves her hand in a circle, searching for the right word. “Careless.”

“I’ll have you know, I shelve the books diligently,” you say.

“Only when someone’s watching,” she shoots back.

“You’re watching all the time,” you say.

Chaewon’s lips press into a line. She looks down into her mug. “Not… all the time.”

“Enough to hear about my oven,” you say.

“You weren’t exactly quiet,” she mutters.

You slurp ramen to buy yourself a second.

When you talk again, your voice comes out quieter. “You killed me in the workshop last month.”

She blinks. “What?”

You poke at the noodles. “The story I turned in. About the kid working at the movie theater. You tore it apart.”

“It needed work,” she says, but her tone is less sharp, like she’s not as sure as she wants to sound.

“You said the third person felt like a dodge,” you remind her. “That it sounded like I couldn’t say ‘I’ and mean it.”

“That was… accurate,” she says. Then she inhales, like she’s about to launch into the full critique. “You write like you’re apologizing for taking up space. It’s frustrating.”

“It’s my story,” you say.

“And that makes it even more depressing,” she says.

You look up at her. “You could have just said ‘I didn’t like it,’ you know.”

“I did like it,” she says quietly.

You stare.

She swallows. “That’s the problem,” she says. “I liked it, and you were still… holding back. And it made me irritated. With you. Not the story.”

You sit there with the cheap ramen smell and the cheap emergency candle and the expensive feeling of having your insides laid out in the stockroom.

“So you shredded me,” you say.

“That’s how I show respect,” she says.

“That’s insane,” you say.

Her mouth twitches. “Do you want me to lie?”

“Then why do you always look like you’d rather eat a hardback than talk to me?” you ask.

Chaewon watches the candle flame for a full three seconds before answering.

“You’re not easy to talk to. You’re… popular,” she says.

You actually laugh at that, a rough sound that surprises both of you. “No, I’m not.”

“You are,” she insists. “In class. People talk to you.”

“They talk to me because they want my help with their work,” you say.

“They laugh at your jokes,” she says.

“I wonder why,” you say, snorting.

Her fingers tighten around the mug. “Because they’re funny,” she says. “Because you’re funny. They like you, even when you don’t try.”

You stare at her.

“You think I don’t try,” you say.

“I think,” she says carefully, “you’re at least pretending not to.”

You set the ramen cup down on the floor before your hands can crush it.

“You have no idea how much I’m trying,” you say.

She looks up. Candlelight catches the worry in her eyes before she can smooth it out.

“Then say it,” she says. “Instead of joking.”

You inhale too fast. The air down here feels heavier.

“My dad called yesterday,” you say. “During your shift. I was in the back.”

Her posture changes, just a little. “Okay,” she says. It’s almost gentle.

“He wanted to know if I could send home money this month,” you say. “From my ‘little campus job.’” You add air quotes with one hand. “Financial aid covers tuition, not… family problems. So I said I’d try. Which means I need all my shifts and maybe more, and I need Ms. Lim not to think I’m useless, and I need you not to think I’m useless either, because you’re…” You trail off, realizing how much you’ve said.

“I don’t think you’re useless,” she says.

You give a short, disbelieving laugh. “You call me lazy twice a week.”

“Lazy doesn’t mean useless,” she says, frowning. “Lazy means… misdirected potential.”

You blink. “That is the worst compliment I’ve ever received.”

“It’s still a compliment,” she counters.

Silence hangs between you for a moment. The kettle has stopped hissing. The storm hums outside like white noise with teeth.

You watch her fingers around the mug. They’re slender, knuckles showing faintly. There’s a nick on her thumb, a thin line of healed skin.

“Then…” you started. “Do you hate yourself?”

Chaewon stiffens. “What?”

You hear the word come out of your mouth again in your head and wince. “I mean,” you say, scrambling, “you talk about people holding back and being pathetic and all that. I was just wondering if you’re…” You circle your hand in the air. “Equally mean to yourself.”

“That’s not what you asked,” she says.

“I panicked,” you say. “Consider it a rough draft.”

She exhales through her nose, a tiny, annoyed sound. “I don’t hate myself,” she says finally.

You arch an eyebrow.

“I don’t.” Her fingers tighten around the mug. “I hate that I have to… stay ahead of everything all the time. I hate that if I stop, everything feels like it’ll collapse.”

“You mean the bookstore?” you ask.

“The bookstore, my GPA, my mother’s blood pressure… take your pick,” she says.

You watch the way her mouth twists on “mother.” It’s quick, but it’s there.

“Was that who that notification was?” you ask.

Chaewon blinks. “What notification?”

“Earlier,” you say. “You checked your phone. You went all—” You imitate her tight shoulders. “—like you’d been plunged into a cold shower.”

She hesitates, then pulls her phone out of her apron pocket. The screen lights her face from below, makes the dark circles under her eyes look darker.

She holds it where you can’t see the screen. Her thumb moves. Her jaw clenches once.

“‘Don’t be stupid about the storm. This job is not worth getting hurt. You have more important things to think about than this part-time nonsense.’” She says it flat, but you can hear the invisible italics.

You feel your own jaw tighten in sympathy. “Wow,” you say. “Merry Christmas to you.”

“She worries,” Chaewon says quickly, like she has to defend it. “She just… thinks this is temporary.”

“This,” you repeat. “You mean the job?”

“She doesn’t just mean the job,” she says dryly. “She means everything. Workshops, open mics, having fun.” Her eyes flick to your apron, then her own. “This is… beneath what she thinks I can do.”

“What do you think?” you ask.

She stares at the steam curling out of her mug. “Some days I agree with her,” she says. “But some days this is the only place that makes sense.”

The kettle ticks as it cools. The storm drums on the far wall, insistent.

You look down at your empty cup. “We’re a mess,” you say.

“We’re college students trapped in a blizzard,” she says. “Mess is implied.”

You watch her for a moment. The tiny emergency candle has burned down a little, wax spilling over the side. The air smells like cheap vanilla and ramen.

Your phone buzzes on the crate next to you, vibrating against the wood.

You both jolt.

You snatch it up. There’s a new text in the group chat Ms. Lim insists on having. The message explains how the roads are closed and how she will come back tomorrow.

You show the screen to Chaewon.

She reads, exhales slowly, and leans her head back against the boxes. For a second, a real, honest second, she lets everything drop. Her shoulders, her jaw, her face.

“We’re stuck here all night,” she says.

“Sleepover,” you say weakly.

She gives you a look. “We are not eight.”

“Speak for yourself,” you say. “I fully plan on building a pillow fort.”

“The pillows are decorative,” she says.

“So we’ll die pretty,” you say.

She almost smiles, then catches herself. “We should get the heater,” she says instead. “And the blankets.”

You stand, joints popping after sitting on the box for too long. “Yes, captain.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t deny it.

You help her carry the space heater from Ms. Lim’s office—a squat, beige thing that looks like it’s seen at least three decades of undergrad winters. Chaewon plugs it into the outlet behind the counter and flips the switch. It hums hopefully, then warms with a faint metallic smell. Somehow there was still some electricity.

You dig out the blankets from under the counter. One is a navy fleece branded with the bookstore logo. The other is a red-and-green plaid that looks like it’s been through a few family living rooms.

You shake them out. Dust floats in the candlelight.

“You take the fleece,” you say. “I’ll take the… holiday picnic.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she says. “We’ll share both.”

“You hate sharing,” you remind her.

“I do,” she says. “But this is an emergency.”

You snort and let her take over blanket logistics. She does it like she does everything else—efficient, precise. The navy fleece goes over the couch in the reading nook. The plaid gets folded on the arm of the armchair nearby. She takes one of the candles and the flashlight over, setting the candle on the low table, the flashlight beside it.

The store looks smaller in the half-light. The kids’ corner rug, the crooked tree, the tables—everything’s part of the same dim room now, not separate sections.

Your breath fogs faintly in front of your lips if you exhale hard enough.

You wrap your scarf tighter around your neck. It’s a dark knit you snagged on clearance last year. You forget you’re still wearing it until the wool scratches your chin.

Chaewon glances over, eyes catching on the scarf. You can see her calculating.

Without warning, she steps up close—closer than she’s been all evening outside the narrow back hallway. Close enough that you can see the tiny mole near her left ear.

“What are you—” you start, but she’s already reaching.

She loops her fingers under the scarf and tugs.

“Hey—”

“Relax,” she says. “You’re terrible at knots.”

You stand there stupidly while she unwraps it, the sudden rush of cold at your throat making you swallow. She smells like cheap tea, candle smoke, and whatever perfume she always wears that you’ve never been able to name.

She shakes the scarf out once and then, instead of putting it on you, throws it back around both your necks, looping it so one end falls on your chest, the other on hers.

You blink down at the wool where it stretches between you.

“This seems counterproductive,” you say. “Now we’re both half cold.”

“We’re sharing body heat,” she says, like it’s obvious. “Basic physics.”

Her face is inches from yours now, the scarf setting a fixed distance that suddenly feels very small. You can’t back up without dragging her with you. You’re not sure you’d want to.

You’re both quiet for a beat.

“You’re weird,” you say.

“You’re wearing a hoodie with holes in it,” she counters.

You want to say something sharp back, but your brain has decided to focus all its energy into not looking at her mouth.

She clears her throat. “We should stay in here,” she says, nodding at the reading nook. “Closer to the heater.”

“And the books,” you say.

“And the books,” she concedes.

You sink onto the couch. The cushion dips under your weight, springs protesting softly. Chaewon hesitates for half a second, then sits too, the scarf pulling her down next to you.

You could have sat with space between you. The couch is big enough for that. She doesn’t. She sits close enough that your thighs brush, just barely, denim on denim.

The fleece blanket is right there, so you grab one end and toss it over both your laps. It settles warm and heavy. Your legs stop shivering.

You can feel her through three layers of fabric and it still feels like too much.

For a while, you just sit there.

The heater hums. The storm beats its fists against the walls. The emergency lights cast their sickly yellow, but the little candle on the table adds soft orange where it can. The store smells like wax and dust and paper and the kind of quiet you only get when the whole world is stuck.

“You know,” you say eventually, staring at the opposite shelf, “this is the part in a romcom where they’d find the old record player and dance in the dark.”

“We don’t own a record player,” Chaewon says.

“Metaphorically,” you say.

“We don’t own a metaphorical record player either,” she says. “We own a Bluetooth speaker that dies every two hours.”

“Wow,” you say. “Ruining all my quips.”

“You’re welcome,” she says.

You shift under the blanket, trying to discreetly move your leg so your knee doesn’t bump hers every time you breathe. You fail.

Her phone buzzes again. She glances down.

Your eyes catch the screen before she can tilt it away.

MOM: Send me your CV again. I want to show it to a friend. You can’t waste your time there forever. The storm is not an excuse. Think about me.

Chaewon flips the phone face-down so fast she almost hits her own mug.

You pretend you didn’t see, but your hands clench under the blanket.

“I hate her,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Chaewon looks over sharply.

“She doesn’t even ask if you’re okay,” you say. “What kind of mother is that?”

“She’s like that with everything,” Chaewon says stiffly. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” you say.

Her mouth sets. “If I wanted therapy, I’d pay someone.”

“Yeah, except we’re two overcaffeinated lit majors in a blackout,” you say. “This is the free trial.”

She snorts despite herself. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I’m funny,” you say. “Less sure about functional.”

She hums at that, low in her throat.

The scarf scratches your jaw every time you talk. Every time she shifts, it tugs at you.

“Why do you keep doing that?” you ask.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I’m committing a crime every time I breathe,” you say.

Her lips straighten. “I told you,” she says. “You’re… frustrating.”

“Because I won’t read at open mic,” you say.

“Because you won’t do anything at open mic,” she says. “You hide behind… half-finished drafts and self-effacing jokes.”

“You hide behind being mean,” you counter.

“I’m not mean,” she says, offended.

“You told Jenny her protagonist had ‘the emotional range of a potato,’” you add.

“She thanked me for that comment,” Chaewon says. “She even added a scene because of it.”

You throw your head back against the couch, staring up at the dim ceiling. “You know there are ways to help others that don’t involve psychological warfare, right?”

“Not in my family,” she mutters.

You let the words hang for a beat.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Then consider this… outside your family.”

She glances over.

“I don’t think you’re… temporary,” you say, stumbling a little over the word. “Not here. Not at the bookstore. Not… for me.” You swallow. “I work harder when you’re around. Like, at everything. Because you’ll notice if I half-ass it. And I don’t want you to think I’m—”

“A coward?” she supplies.

“Yeah,” you say. “That.”

She stares at you for a moment, really looks, like she’s trying to see through whatever you’re hiding behind.

Her eyes soften at the edges. “I don’t actually think you’re a coward. And I… I don’t want to be mean. I just didn’t know how to… stop,” she says. “So I just kept doing it. It’s easier than…” Her gaze drops to your mouth for a fraction of a second, then darts away. “Other things.”

Your skin goes hot under your hoodie. “Like… what?” you ask, your voice a little rough.

She takes a slow breath. Sets her mug down carefully on the table. Her hand stays there, fingers splayed near the candle, like she needs something to anchor her.

“Like admitting I like you,” she says.

The words felt like stepping into the ocean. Cold at first, then all warmth.

You blink. Your heart does a weird, useless leap. Your brain offers nothing.

“That’s not… funny,” you say, because nothing else came to mind.

“I’m not joking,” she says, and she’s looking you straight in the eyes now. No flinch. No smirk. Just the raw, awful honesty she usually reserves for other people’s work.

You swallow. “You have a terrible way of showing it.”

“I know,” she says. “Believe me, I know.”

You stare at her for a moment, feeling like the floor’s moved an inch to the left and you’re trying to adjust.

“Today. You yelled at me about the book covers,” you say.

She huffs a small almost-laugh. “That was foreplay,” she says.

Your brain short-circuits. “Okay, wow,” you say. “We’re just—leaping there.”

Her cheeks flare red. “I didn’t mean— I just—” She groans, burying her face briefly in her hands. “I knew this would sound better in my head.”

“It actually sounded perfect,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

She peeks at you through her fingers. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m really not,” you say.

You shift, and the scarf pulls at both your necks, drawing you closer. You can feel the heat of her breath now.

“Say you don’t like me back,” she says quietly. “And we can forget this. Blame it on the cold.”

You let out a shaky breath that fogs in the thin cold between you.

“I would,” you say. “But I’m not that good a liar.”

Something like relief and terror flashes across her face at once.

“You’re not going to make me say it again,” she mutters.

“I think you’ve said plenty,” you say. “It’s my turn.”

Her eyes snap back to yours.

“I like you,” you say. The words feel weird and big in your mouth, like you’re twelve again and confessing in some hallway. “Obviously. I wouldn’t spend this much time arguing about shelving with you if I didn’t.”

Her lips tremble at the corner, like she’s fighting a smile and a panic attack at the same time.

“Just… so we’re clear,” she says, because of course she wants clarity even now. “You don’t mean ‘like’ as in ‘we’re friends.’”

“Do friends argue about book covers?” you ask.

“I think so,” she says, puzzled.

You huff out a breath that’s closer to a laugh. “Then no,” you say. “Not like that.”

Silence stretches out between you, but it’s different now. Thicker. Charged.

You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears. The storm outside, the heater, the little candle—all of it fades to a dull hum.

“Okay,” she says faintly.

“Okay,” you echo.

The scarf between you feels suddenly less like an accident and more like a decision.

“Chaewon,” you say, and her name feels different now too.

“Yeah,” she says. Her voice is a little breathless.

“Can I…?” You lift your hand halfway, toward her cheek, then stop yourself. Old habits, always leaving the out.

She watches your hand, then your face.

“Don’t be a coward,” she says.

You let yourself touch her, then. Your fingers skim along her jaw, cool skin under your thumb. She sucks in a breath, eyes fluttering for a second.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” you say, because you need to.

She huffs out a shaky laugh. “You’re seriously giving yourself an out?” she asks.

“Wouldn’t you?” you ask.

She leans in that last inch, closing the space, the wool of the scarf scratching your chin as it tightens.

“Not when I’m sure,” she says.

Her mouth finds yours.

It’s soft at first, almost clumsy. Her lips are colder than you expected, warmed quickly by the press of yours. For a second, you forget how to breathe entirely.

Then your body catches up.

You kiss her back.

Her hand comes up to your chest, fingers curling in the fabric of your hoodie like she needs something to hold onto. You can feel her heart racing under the layers between you. Yours is doing something equally stupid, hammering against your ribs like it wants to make sure she hears it.

When she pulls back after a few seconds, her eyes are wide, pupils blown, breath coming a little too fast.

“Okay,” she says again, dazed now.

“That was—” you start.

“Don’t make a joke,” she warns, still breathless.

“—very efficient use of shared body heat,” you finish, because you can’t help yourself.

She smacks your chest lightly with the back of her hand. “Dumbass.”

“You like me,” you remind her.

“Unfortunately,” she mutters.

Her hand is still on your chest. You can feel the press of her palm through fabric.

You look at her, really look. At the slightly crooked clip in her hair. At the flush on her cheeks that has nothing to do with the heater. At the way her eyes keep darting back to your mouth, like she’s memorizing it.

“Is this okay?” you ask, nodding to where your fingers are still against her jaw.

She nods once, small and sharp.

You let your thumb move, stroking down along the line of her cheek to the corner of her mouth. Her lips part on a small inhale.

“Good,” you murmur, and lean in again.

This time, the kiss clicks.

It’s deeper, surer, all the sharp edges between you melting into something hot and final. She tilts her head, mouth opening under yours, and you follow her lead like it’s the easiest thing you’ve done. Your hand slides from her jaw to the back of her neck, fingers dipping into the hair at her nape. She shivers.

Her fingers bunch harder in your hoodie, pulling you closer. The scarf tightens, dragging you together until your noses bump. You both laugh into each other’s mouths, brief and breathless, and then she’s kissing you again, like she’s making up for all the time she spent pretending she couldn’t stand you.

The blanket slips, sliding off one of your knees. The cold air nips at your shin. You don’t care.

Her hand leaves your chest, hesitates in the space between you for a second, then lands at your hip, fingers curling into the denim. Your pulse jumps so hard you can feel it in your ears.

You break the kiss long enough to press your forehead to hers. Your breaths mix in the narrow gap.

“We should—” you start.

“Not stop,” she says quickly, and then flushes. “Unless you want to. Do you—?” The confidence she had a second ago frays at the edges.

This time it’s her giving herself the out. You could tease her. You don’t.

“No,” you say, chest tight. “I don’t want to stop.”

Something in her shoulders unclenches so visibly you almost see it.

“Okay,” she whispers.

Chaewon smiles, eyes scanning yours, just to see if anything changes. It does. Her fingers move—slow, deliberate—into your pants, over your pelvis, toward your cock. She stops at the base of your shaft, giving it a couple tight squeezes like the way you harden at her touch turns her on.

Your pulse snaps awake like it had somewhere to be.

She tilts her head, smiles, and gives you the hungriest look a woman can give. She licks her lips. Hungry. Anticipatory.

It’s obvious she is having fun playing this game, a game that feels like hell for you. Your cock grows harder and harder, straining against the tight fabric of your pants, begging to be let out. Your hips jerk forward as your mouth strains.

She notices you wincing and leans in, lowering her face until it hovers an inch above your jeans. Her breath fogs into the denim.

“I’ll take them off.”

Not a question.

With slow, deliberate tugs, she slides your pants down until you’re exposed. Her head is dangerously close to your cock. As you spring free from under the pants, your cock slaps Chaewon over the nose.

“Ow…” she grunts, but wraps her small hands around your hard cock, smiling.

Fuck. Cold.

“Chae—”

“Shh,” she whispers, fingers tightening on your cock. “I’ll warm you up.”

And then she kisses you. Not gently. Not hesitantly. Like she is hungry and you are the only thing on the menu.

Her mouth claims yours, fierce and all-consuming, her fingers tangling into your head before you can think straight. You kiss her back, your hands grip her hips, drawing her into your lap, trying not to sink into the water too fast. But you are already drowning.

She pulls back just enough to break the kiss, lips brushing yours as she gasps. “God… that should’ve happened ages ago, don’t you think?”

But you can barely think, let alone speak.

“Your mouth tastes pretty good,” she whispers, rolling her hips over yours. An electric jolt surges through both your heads. “I don’t think I’ll be able to go a day without it now.”

“You won’t have to.”

She bites her lip, only just. Almost like she doesn’t want you to see it. “Well, well. Aren’t I a lucky girl?”

Then her mouth finds your neck—soft at first, then teeth. A promise. She giggles and hums into your skin as her hand trails back to your cock, stroking from base to tip with deliberate care. She knows exactly how much pressure to apply to make your toes curl.

You pull her tighter, lips at her jaw, tasting that smile she wears ever since the confession. Her nails dig deep into your shoulder. Her hips roll again, a sound you don’t recognize escaping your mouth.

Her teeth bare deeper into your neck, sucking and licking along the hollow just below your ear.

“Hey,” she whispers into your ear, hand pumping your cock like she has all the time in the world, “Want me to suck your dick?”

As soon as the word leave her mouth, a flush creeps up her neck and settles into her cheeks.

But she doesn’t backpedal. She just holds your gaze, lips parted slightly, hand still wrapped around your cock like it’s hers to offer something to.

Your body answers before your mouth does. Cock twitching in her grip, hips tilting upward like they’re desperate for her to mean it. Her fingers squeeze reflexively, and she feels it. Sees it. That twitch. That involuntary need.

That’s all the confirmation she needs.

She lets out a soft breath—half nerves, half relief—and then starts to move. Not fast. Not showy. Just a quiet, careful shift down between your legs. She kneels like she’s sliding into something sacred, her hands never leaving your skin.

Her eyes stay on you, watching every micro-expression flicker across your face as she leans in closer, lowering her head until you feel her breath again; warm, shallow, hovering just above the head of your cock.

You’re shaking.

Not visibly, probably, but underneath. In your breath. In the way your stomach tightens, in the way your hand curls into the cushion beside you like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

She watches that too.

Then—still watching—she presses her lips to you. Just the tip.

Soft. Warm. Closed-mouth. A kiss.

You groan, quiet, like the sound snuck out before you could decide if it was safe to let it out.

Her lashes flutter.

Another kiss, lower this time. Then she parts her lips, and her tongue flicks out—one slow, purposeful lick along the underside of your shaft. Her fingers tighten at the base, holding you still like she’s tasting you on her terms.

You choke on a breath. Your hips jump just a little, and she hums in response, the sound vibrating into your skin like a promise.

She’s enjoying this.

Not just the effect she has on you, but this. The feel of you. The taste. The power of it.

Her lips part wider, and then her mouth starts to take you in—inch by inch, slow and wet and unbearably controlled. Her tongue cradles you underneath while her lips slide down, fitting tight and perfect around your cock like she wants to feel every reaction drag out of you one movement at a time.

You drop your head back against the couch, jaw clenching, trying not to move too much, trying not to fuck up the rhythm she’s building—because it’s insane, how good she is at this. Not porn-star flashy. Not trying to impress. Just methodical. Measured. Maddening.

Her hand strokes the rest of your shaft in sync with her mouth, slow and twisting, and the whole thing is so hot and so focused that it makes your vision go blurry at the edges.

When she pulls back, it’s not to stop.

It’s just to breathe. To look up at you, spit-slick and flushed.

Her voice is husky. “You okay?”

You let out a breath that might be a laugh or a cry. “No,” you say. “Keep going.”

She leans in again, and this time she takes more. Her jaw loosens. Her throat opens. Your cock slides deeper into her mouth and your whole body tenses like she’s touching a live wire. Her nails dig lightly into your thigh as she finds a rhythm—slow, tight, relentless—and holy fuck, she doesn’t even blink when your hand tangles in her hair, not pulling, just holding on.

She likes it.

You can tell by the little moan she lets slip when you groan her name.

“Chaewon…”

Her pace stays controlled, but you can feel it building now. The tension. The heat. The sheer weight of the moment pressing down on both of you like you’re past the point of pretending this is anything casual. This is happening, and she’s savoring it.

She pulls off with a slick gasp, stroking you lazily while she catches her breath. Her lips are swollen, flushed, parted like she wants to say something but isn’t sure if she should.

You look down at her—ruined—and she smiles like she’s not even close to finished.

“I want you inside me,” she says quietly, thumb dragging up the length of your cock in one slow glide.

Then she leans in again, tongue flicking over the head like punctuation.

“But not until I’ve had my fill.”

She takes you back into her mouth.

Not rushing. Not trying to finish you off. Just settling into it. Lips warm and firm, tongue slow and intentional, like she’s learning the exact shape of you and committing it to memory. Her hand keeps a steady rhythm at your base, grip confident, thumb brushing the sensitive skin there every time she comes back up.

You’re already on edge. Every nerve feels tuned too high.

She hums softly again, pleased with the way your thighs tense, the way your breath breaks. The sound vibrates through you and you swear you feel it in your chest. Your fingers tighten in her hair—not pulling, never pulling—but she still tilts her head slightly, accommodating you, letting you sink a little deeper into the heat of her mouth.

“Fuck,” you whisper, helpless. “Chae…”

She pulls back just enough to breathe, lips dragging slowly along your length as she does. A thin string of saliva stretches, then breaks. Her eyes meet yours immediately.

“You’re shaking,” she murmurs, almost fond. “You want me to slow down… or make it worse?”

Your answer is a wrecked sound that barely qualifies as a word.

She smiles and does both.

Her pace slows, but the pressure increases. Mouth tighter, tongue more deliberate, her hand twisting just enough to make you gasp. She takes her time, edging you without mercy, letting you hover there until there is no more air in your lungs.

You feel it building. Too fast.

“Chaewon,” you warn, breath hitching. “I’m—”

She pulls off immediately, palm firm at your base, stopping you right there. You whine—actually whine—and she looks a little stunned by it, like she didn’t expect that sound to come out of you.

Her cheeks color again, deeper this time.

“Not yet,” she says softly. “I told you. I want you inside me.”

She rises smoothly to her feet, hands still on you, still stroking just enough to keep you aching. She kisses you again—slow, open-mouthed, tasting herself on your lips like she’s claiming something. You groan into her mouth, hands sliding up her back, pulling her closer, desperate for friction.

She shifts, straddling you again, and you feel it immediately; the heat between her thighs, the way she rolls her hips once, experimentally, grinding down against you. You both inhale sharply.

“Oh,” she breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “This could be… dangerous.”

You laugh weakly. “You’re the one doing it.”

“I know. And I’m not going to stop,” she says, and kisses you again, harder this time.

Her hands move with purpose now, tugging at your hoodie, then her own sweater. Fabric piles up around your wrists, your shoulders, the couch. Skin meets skin. She’s warm everywhere. Perfect. She gasps when your hands slide under her shirt, when your thumbs brush under her bra, when you finally cup her breasts like you’ve been imagining all night.

“Is this okay?” you ask again, because you always will.

“Yes,” she breathes immediately. “God, yes.”

She kisses you like she’s done waiting. Like all that tension—the arguing, the watching, the almosts—has finally snapped. Her hips rock again, more insistent, and you can feel how wet she is through the layers between you.

You groan into her neck. “If you keep doing that, I’m not going to last.”

“Fuck—” she says, breathless. “Then we’ll fix that.”

She reaches between you, fumbling just a little this time—nerves finally catching up. She lines you up, pauses for half a second with her eyes squeezed shut like she’s bracing herself.

You grip her hips. “Chaewon—”

She exhales and sinks down onto you.

Slow. Careful. Full.

Both of you freeze the second you’re fully together, the sensation stealing the air from your lungs. She gasps, hands clutching your shoulders, nails biting in as she adjusts, as the stretch gives way to something hot and overwhelming.

“Oh,” she breathes again, wrecked now. “Oh my god.”

You swallow hard, trying not to move until she nods, until she’s ready. Her forehead rests against yours, breaths shallow, eyes fluttering closed.

Then she rolls her hips.

You groan—low, helpless—as she starts to move, slow and deep, like she’s savoring every inch of you. Her rhythm is unhurried, controlled, and it’s somehow even more devastating than before. You hold her like you’re afraid she’ll disappear, thumbs digging into her waist as she rides you, breath hitching with every movement.

Chaewon starts slow, but it doesn’t last.

Not because she loses control. She never does. But because once she adjusts to the feel of you, once the sharp edge of stretch softens into something deeper, something hotter, she moves with intention.

Not rhythm for rhythm’s sake. Not showy. Strategic.

She rides you like she’s trying to memorize how you fit together, like she’s spent months imagining this and now she’s reaping her reward—grinding her hips down in slow, devastating rolls that make your vision white out at the edges. Her palms press into your shoulders for leverage, her thighs tense around yours. Her breath stutters every time your cock hits deep, and still—still—she doesn’t break rhythm.

You’re the one unraveling.

“Jesus,” you gasp, hands digging into her waist. “You’re…”

“Say it,” she pants, lips hovering a breath above yours. Her voice is wrecked, low, demanding.

You try to form a thought. Can’t.

“Fucking perfect,” you groan.

Her laugh is broken and delighted, swallowed by a kiss; sloppy now, open-mouthed and teeth-clicking. Your tongues tangle. She swallows the sound you make when she sinks down hard enough to make your cock throb against her walls.

The wet slick of her, the tight grip, the warmth—you’re dying. You’ve never wanted anything this badly. Never felt someone want you back with this much heat.

She buries her face in your neck, teeth grazing the skin beneath your ear again. “You feel so fucking good,” she whispers. “So big. So perfect. Like you were made to be inside me.”

You groan. Loud, desperate, hips jerking up into her before you can stop yourself.

Chaewon moans.

You feel it in your chest. In your cock. In your spine.

She clenches around you, just once, involuntary. Her rhythm breaks for a second.

You realize—she’s close too.

You grip her tighter, planting your feet, thrusting up to meet her with sharp, hungry precision now. She gasps, rocks back, eyes wide and stunned. The change hits her hard.

“Yes—” she chokes out. “Right there, fuck, there—”

You give her everything. Harder. Deeper. Your cock driving up into her just the way she wants it, your fingers gripping her hips to control the rhythm as her legs begin to tremble around you.

“Chae,” you gasp, breath ragged. “You’re gonna—”

“I know,” she moans, hands sliding to your chest, bracing herself. Her pace turns erratic. She’s chasing it now, so close she can taste it. “Don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

“I’m not,” you grit out, thrusting up again, hitting the spot that makes her collapse forward into your shoulder with a strangled, broken cry.

That’s the moment she falls apart.

Her body tenses—tight, tighter—then shudders in your arms as her orgasm rips through her. She’s gasping, hips jerking, moaning something you don’t understand against your skin like a confession she can’t hold back anymore.

She clenches around you, pulsing wet heat dragging you to the edge right with her.

You hold her through it, hips still rolling, cock still buried deep until you can’t take it anymore.

“Chaewon—” you warn.

She pulls back, meets your eyes, and nods. Wild-eyed, sweaty, flushed, and beautiful.

“Come,” she says. “I want to feel you.”

That’s it.

You snap.

Your whole body locks up—hands gripping her waist, cock pulsing deep inside her as you bury yourself one last time and come hard. The heat of it floods both of you. You groan through gritted teeth, breath gone, every nerve lit up, every thought reduced to her and the way she feels and the way she takes it, riding you through it until you’re gasping and empty and wrecked.

You don’t even realize how hard you’re holding her until she falls on your chest.

Breathing hard. Shaking a little. Still twitching every time your hips shift.

You both stay there, tangled in each other, wrapped in shared heat and sweat and whatever the hell just passed between you.

You kiss her shoulder. She hums. Her fingers curl around your arms like she’s afraid you’ll float away if she lets go.

“You okay?” you whisper, throat rough.

She lifts her head slowly. Hair a mess. Eyes glassy. She nods.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “Just… can’t feel my legs.”

You snort. “I’ll take that as a good sign.”

Her lips twitch. She smacks your chest lightly, but doesn’t move away. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Didn’t sound like luck a minute ago,” you murmur.

She groans into your neck, then laughs.

You let the silence settle. Outside, the storm howls, distant again. Somewhere behind the counter, the emergency candle’s burned low.

You’re warm now.

Warm, full, utterly spent, and holding Chaewon in your lap like you never want to be anywhere else.

“I still hate how you shelve books,” she says sleepily.

“Yeah?” you murmur. “I hate how you compliment others like you’re insulting them.”

She lifts her head, smirks.

You kiss her again. Just once. Gentle.

She leans into it.