#--;thread.nymth

eunhee hadn’t hovered. that wasn’t her style.

but she’d been keeping tabs—from the corner of the studio, half-watching the monitor between schedule updates and message threads, taking note of which angles the photographer seemed to favor and how long cerise had been on her feet. she knew how these shoots went. sometimes you got a breeze; sometimes you got three hours of wardrobe changes and a stylist tugging your collar between every frame.

today looked like the latter.

when the final set wrapped, she let the staff buzz around for a moment—lights dimming, outfits disappearing back into garment bags, someone in the back requesting iced americanos for the ride home—and slipped out of the main area without a word.

she came back five minutes later with a bottle of water pulled from the good fridge (the one in the admin lounge) and a vending machine snack—nothing fancy, just something with protein. she didn’t interrupt or ask how the shoot had gone. cerise already knew if it went well. and if it didn’t, eunhee wasn’t about to pick at the thread.

instead, she stepped into the waiting area where cerise was seated and placed both the bottle and the snack beside her with a soft but definitive tap.

“hydrate,” she said simply. a beat. then, “eat something before the next thing.”

she settled a chair over, tablet still in hand, stylus resting between her fingers. she didn’t pretend to work. just sat quietly for a moment, letting the silence settle into something that wasn’t tense. it was a skill she’d learned years ago—how to sit near someone without crowding them.

“you handled today well,” she added eventually, voice even but slightly warmer around the edges. her praise never came exaggerated. just enough to land, to stick.

she glanced over, one brow raised like she might add something else. then— “they like you. don’t let it go to your head.”

the building wasn’t empty yet, but the echoes had started to stretch longer between footsteps. most of the staff had gone home. even the lights on the practice floor had dimmed—automatic timers, set to remind people when they were supposed to be done.

eunhee knew better than to chase ghosts down empty halls. she also knew the schedule said suran should’ve been done twenty minutes ago.

she didn’t walk in with questions. just opened the door gently, enough for light to spill across the polished floor and her own silhouette to land quiet across it.

“you’re still here.” not accusing. just fact.

she let the door ease shut behind her, crossing to where someone had left two bottled drinks by the wall. one unopened. she picked it up, checked the label, then held it out.

“figured this was yours. or if it’s not, it is now.”

she didn’t say go home, didn’t ask why. she just lowered herself to sit against the wall, keeping a respectful distance but not pretending she had anywhere more urgent to be. “you know i don’t track how long you stay,” she added lightly. “but i do notice who forgets to leave.”

a beat passed.

there was a rhythm to the in-between hours. not quiet, not loud—just that low hum of things still happening behind closed doors. the kind of sound that only existed when the day wasn’t quite done but everyone was pretending it was.

eunhee found herself in the hallway outside the stylists’ prep area, where the light buzzed overhead and someone had abandoned a half-folded rack of stage jackets. she wasn’t avoiding anything, exactly—but she hadn’t wanted to be at her desk, either. her phone was in one hand, the lock screen lighting up every few minutes with a new email. her other hand was curled around a paper cup of coffee that had stopped being hot a long time ago.

beside her, resting on the bench, was a small pouch of dried fruit and a wrapped granola bar. not something she bought for herself. just something she picked up—because habits formed fast when you spent years watching people forget how to take care of themselves.

she didn’t look up right away when the footsteps came. not because she didn’t know who it was—she did. the pace was familiar. steady, quiet, carrying more weight than it should.

“you know,” she said, setting the snack down beside her on the bench, “you don’t always have to be the one holding everyone else up.”

the words weren’t sharp. just matter-of-fact. like she was stating something as obvious as the weather.

“it’s not a failing. taking a break.”

she leaned back slightly, careful not to crowd the space. her tone stayed even, calm. the kind of tone she saved for when someone didn’t want to talk—but maybe needed to know they were seen anyway.

“you can sit if you want. or don’t. i won’t ask for a rundown. just figured—if anyone needed five minutes where no one expected anything from them... it might be you.”

she finally glanced over. her expression didn’t ask for anything. it just said: i see you.