#ot12

You arrived early Friday evening, the sun just starting to set behind the mountains. The house was beautiful—open floor plan with a massive living area, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the valley, multiple bedrooms branching off a central hallway. A large deck wrapped around the back, offering views of endless green peaks fading to blue in the distance.

You set down your bag and just stood there for a moment, taking it in.

Two and a half years since that celebration in your old apartment. Since Gowon, Hyeju, and Yeojin had shown up with their Nintendo Switch party games and changed everything.

You walked through the house, opening windows to let the mountain air in. The silence felt heavy.

The last time you'd been in a room big enough for all of them was the old Blockberry building. Not the offices—the practice room on the third floor, the one with the cracked mirror they'd never gotten around to replacing. You'd gone there once to drop off paperwork, late, past midnight. Found all twelve of them still there. Not practicing. Just existing in the same space—Chuu asleep on Yves's shoulder against the wall, Haseul cross-legged on the floor sorting through a binder of schedules, Heejin and Hyunjin arguing about choreography while Jinsoul mediated from a folding chair. Kim Lip had her headphones in, eyes closed, mouthing lyrics to something only she could hear. Yeojin was showing Choerry something on her phone, both of them trying not to laugh loud enough to wake Chuu. Gowon sat in the corner with her knees drawn up, watching all of it with an expression you couldn't read.

Hyeju had been the one to notice you in the doorway. She'd looked up from her phone, met your eyes, and gone back to whatever she was doing without a word. But she'd shifted over slightly. Made space.

The fluorescent lights hummed. Someone's phone played a ballad on low volume—you never found out whose. The practice room smelled like sweat and cheap floor cleaner and the tangerines Vivi was peeling on a paper towel, their citrus cutting through everything else.

Vivi was the one who'd actually spoken. "You should sit down," she'd said, not looking up from her work. "You look tired."

You'd sat. She'd handed you a tangerine segment without being asked. You'd eaten it, and then another, and stayed until 2 AM—doing nothing, saying almost nothing, just breathing the same air as twelve women who didn't need you there but didn't mind that you were. Gowon had fallen asleep against the mirror at some point, her reflection curled behind her like a second self. Nobody woke her. Haseul had draped a jacket over her shoulders without pausing her schedule review.

That was the room you were trying to rebuild this weekend. You just didn't know if the architecture still held.

Four months since you'd seen any of them properly.

That was the irony, wasn't it? You'd built your agency to support them, to give them the freedom the old company never had. And you'd succeeded—spectacularly. ARTMS had thrived under your management. Chuu's solo career had exploded. Yves had established herself as a legitimate solo artist. The remaining LOOSSEMBLE members had found their footing, even as their company crumbled around them.

But success had a cost. You'd hired a team, then a bigger team. Taken on more clients. Built something that didn't need you present every day to function. Six months ago, you'd finally stepped back from day-to-day operations, appointed a COO, delegated the things that used to consume you. Your CFO handled the finances now. Your operations team ran the day-to-day. You'd built an empire and then handed over the keys so you could finally breathe.

But breathing had turned into distance. And distance had turned into absence.

You'd told yourself it was sustainable. That the penthouse with its extra bedrooms was proof you hadn't forgotten them. That Vivi living there—her own room now, not just the guest suite—was proof the arrangement still worked.

But Vivi had her own place again as of three months ago. Haseul still kept her apartment. The visits had become less frequent. The group chat was still active, but you lurked more than you participated.

You'd been building wealth. They'd been living their lives. And somewhere in between, you'd lost something.

Your phone buzzed.

Vivi: I'm close. 15 min maybe.

Vivi: Do you need anything from the store?

You started to type "no" and then stopped. She'd always done this. Not the grand gestures—the quiet, practical ones. Showing up with exactly what was needed before you knew you needed it.

You: Just you.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Vivi: That was cheesy.

Vivi: I'll bring tangerines.

She arrived twenty minutes later, alone, carrying two canvas bags and wearing an oversized linen shirt you were pretty sure used to be yours. She set the bags on the kitchen counter without ceremony and started unpacking—tangerines, sparkling water, the specific brand of gochujang Haseul preferred for her cooking.

"You stocked the wrong soy sauce," she said, checking the fridge.

"There's a wrong soy sauce?"

"For Haseul's galbi-jjim, yes." She held up the bottle she'd brought. "This one."

You leaned against the counter and watched her move through the kitchen. She opened cabinets like she knew where everything was, even though she'd never been in this house before. That was Vivi—she oriented to spaces the way water found its level. Quietly, inevitably.

"How are you?" you asked.

She paused, a bag of rice in her hands. Considered the question the way she considered everything—carefully, without rushing to fill silence.

"I'm good. My apartment is good. Work is steady." She put the rice away. "I don't regret moving out."

"I didn't ask—"

"You were going to." She turned to face you, leaning against the opposite counter. The kitchen suddenly felt very small. "Moving out wasn't about you. It was about me needing to know I could."

"And?"

"And I could." A pause. "But the penthouse was quiet last time I visited. Not just empty. Quiet. Like no one had cooked there in weeks."

You didn't have a response to that. She wasn't wrong.

"The fridge was full this time," she said. "When I checked just now. So either you've started eating again, or you stocked it for this weekend."

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to me." She picked up a tangerine and started peeling it, the motion so familiar it made your chest tight. "It matters to Haseul. It matters to all of them, even if they show it differently."

She crossed the kitchen and placed a tangerine segment in your hand. Her fingers were cool and slightly sticky with citrus.

"Eat," she said. And then, softer: "We're almost here. All of us. Just hold on a little longer."

Before you could respond, headlights swept through the windows.

Your phone buzzed.

Haseul: We're 20 minutes out. Traffic was bad.

Haseul: Chuu and Yves are picking up the LOOSSEMBLE girls. They should be right behind us.

Haseul: You better have food ready.

You smiled despite yourself. Some things hadn't changed.

They arrived in waves. ARTMS first—Heejin driving, Haseul in the passenger seat already texting you updates, Kim Lip, Jinsoul, and Choerry piling out of the back with bags and blankets and too much energy for a three-hour drive.

"Oppa!" Choerry was first through the door, throwing her arms around you. "It's been forever!"

"Four months," you said, hugging her back.

"Forever," she repeated. But something in her embrace felt different—tighter, more desperate. You'd been keeping track of her cycle for over a year now. You knew they'd tried again last month. You knew, from the silence in the chat afterward, that it hadn't worked. Again.

Kim Lip was next, more composed, but her hug lingered. Jinsoul followed, pressing close with her face against your neck, quiet where she was usually chatty. Then Heejin, who punched your shoulder before pulling you into an embrace.

"You look tired," Heejin said.

"Thanks."

"I mean it. Have you been sleeping?"

"Enough."

She didn't look convinced.

Haseul was last through the door, carrying what looked like three different bags of groceries despite the full kitchen you'd already stocked. She paused when she saw you, her expression softening into something that made your chest ache.

"Hi," she said quietly.

"Hi."

She set down the bags and walked into your arms like she'd never left. For a moment, the others faded away, and it was just her—the weight of her, the familiar scent of her shampoo, the way she fit against you like she'd been designed for it.

"I missed you," she whispered.

"I missed you too."

"You've been avoiding us."

"I haven't—"

"Don't." She pulled back enough to meet your eyes. "We'll talk about it later. But don't lie to me."

Before you could respond, the second car arrived.

Chuu burst through the door first, a whirlwind of energy that hadn't dimmed despite two years of grueling solo schedules. "OPPA!" She launched herself at you, and you barely caught her in time.

"Chuu—"

"I missed you so much!" She squeezed you tight enough to hurt. "Four months! Four months without seeing you! That's criminal!"

Behind her, Yves entered with more composure but no less warmth. She'd changed over the past two years—more confident, more settled. When she hugged you, it wasn't with the reluctance of their early encounters but with genuine affection.

"She talked about you the entire drive," Yves said dryly. "I almost pushed her out of the car."

"You love me," Chuu said.

"Unfortunately."

Hyunjin came through next, her presence filling the room the way it always did. Behind her, Yeojin bounced in with twice her usual energy, followed by Gowon—quiet, watchful, arms crossed. You remembered that night three weeks ago when she'd shown up at the penthouse, drunk and raw, finally dropping the tsundere act long enough to admit she thought about you constantly. She'd tried to take it back in the morning. You hadn't let her.

Now she met your eyes for half a second before looking away, a faint flush on her cheeks.

Vivi caught your eye from the kitchen doorway. A small nod. She'd already put the tangerines in a bowl on the counter, already switched out the soy sauce, already made space. That was what she did. She arrived before everyone else and made the room ready.

And then Hyeju.

She'd been quiet in the group chat lately. Pulled back from conversations. You'd noticed but hadn't pushed—she was dealing with LOOSSEMBLE's end, processing the failure of everything they'd worked for. Of course she was withdrawn.

But now, seeing her in person, something was different. She looked... softer, somehow. Less sharp around the edges. When her eyes met yours, she held your gaze for a beat too long before looking away.

"Hyeju," you said.

"Oppa." Her voice was steady, but her hand trembled slightly when she hugged you. "It's good to see you."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just tired from the drive."

You didn't believe her, but this wasn't the time.

Dinner was chaos in the best possible way. Haseul had commandeered the kitchen hours ago, Vivi as her sous chef, the two of them moving around each other with practiced ease—the same rhythm they'd developed during those months when Vivi lived at the penthouse and Haseul came over to make sure you actually ate. The spread was absurd: a bubbling pot of malatang on a portable burner at the center of the table, the broth angry and red, loaded with enoki mushrooms, lotus root, glass noodles, and enough chili oil to make your eyes water. Beside it, a tabletop grill sizzled with galbi and samgyeopsal, the fat rendering and popping while Haseul monitored the heat with surgical attention. The rest crowded into the living area, sprawled across couches and floor cushions, catching up on months of missed conversations.

Yeojin waited until the second bottle of soju was cracked before she mentioned the acting classes. Dropped it casually, like it was nothing—"Oh yeah, I've been doing this thing"—but her eyes moved around the room while she said it, checking reactions the way she never used to. The old Yeojin would have announced it as a joke. This one was afraid they wouldn't take her seriously.

Hyunjin spoke first. "Which studio?"

"MUMW. The one in Gangnam."

"That's a good program." No teasing, no qualifier. Just Hyunjin, who'd spent years evaluating talent, recognizing it.

Something in Yeojin's posture changed. She sat up a little straighter. "My coach says I have good instincts. Raw, but good."

"You've always been raw," Heejin said, and Yeojin threw a cushion at her, and the table erupted, and the moment passed—but you'd seen Yeojin's face in the half-second before the cushion flew. Relief. The kind that comes from being believed.

Across the table, Kim Lip fished a piece of tofu from the malatang and dropped it into Jinsoul's bowl without looking. Jinsoul ate it without looking. Their hands didn't touch, but they didn't need to—the choreography was old enough to be unconscious. Jinsoul said something low, close to Kim Lip's ear, and Kim Lip's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile on anyone less controlled. Two people who'd been orbiting each other so long they'd forgotten what it felt like to have separate gravitational fields.

Gowon was quieter than usual. She laughed at Chuu's stories—everyone did; you couldn't not—but between the laughs, her fingers traced the rim of her soju glass and her eyes drifted. Once, during a lull, she opened her mouth like she was about to say something. Looked at you. Closed it. Reached for her glass instead.

You caught it. Filed it away.

Hyeju barely touched her soju. You noticed because she usually kept pace with Gowon, the two of them competitive even in drinking. Tonight she'd taken one sip and switched to water. Nobody else seemed to register it. But you'd spent two and a half years learning the rhythms of these women, and a broken rhythm was louder than a shout.

Chuu dominated the conversation with stories from her variety show appearances—impressions of hosts, behind-the-scenes chaos, the time she'd accidentally gone viral on live television. She told the stories with the same infectious energy that had made her a star, pulling pork belly off the grill with her bare fingers until Haseul swatted her hand away with tongs. Even Gowon couldn't help but laugh.

Yves was quieter, but when she spoke, people listened. Her tour had been a success—critical acclaim, sold-out shows, the kind of recognition she'd always deserved. When Chuu reached for her hand under the table, she didn't pull away. With her free hand, she ladled more malatang broth into Chuu's bowl—the mild side, because Chuu's spice tolerance was still a running joke.

"To us," Haseul said, raising her glass of wine once the grill had cooled and the malatang pot was down to dregs. "All twelve of us. Together."

"To the ones who made it," Gowon added, her tone softer than usual.

"To family," you said.

Twelve glasses raised—soju and wine both. Twelve voices echoing: "To family."

After dinner, as the others migrated to the deck with bottles of wine and what was left of the soju, Haseul caught your arm.

"Walk with me?"

You followed her outside, past the others, down a path that led to a clearing overlooking the valley. The stars were impossibly bright out here, away from the city lights.

"You've been avoiding us," she said again, not looking at you. "Building wealth was supposed to bring you closer, not push you away."

"I know."

"Do you?" She turned to face you. "Because it doesn't feel like you know. It feels like you got scared. Like you thought, if you made enough money, you could protect us from everything bad. And then you got so focused on making money that you forgot to actually be here."

"Haseul—"

"I still want to take care of you," she continued. "That hasn't changed. I still organize your life when you let me. I still cook for you when I can. But I can't do that if you won't let me in."

You didn't have a defense. She was right.

"I'm sorry," you said.

"I don't want a sorry. I want you to be present. Tonight, this weekend, whatever happens—be here. With us. Not thinking about your company or your responsibilities or whatever excuse you've been using to keep distance."

She stepped closer, her hand finding your chest. Through your shirt, you could feel the warmth of her palm.

"Can you do that for me?"

"Yes."

She studied your face for a long moment, then nodded. "Good. Because I think tonight is going to be important. And I need you focused."

"Important how?"

Haseul just smiled, that enigmatic expression she'd perfected over years of being the leader. "You'll see."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

By midnight, the serious discussions had given way to something looser. Wine bottles emptied. Conversations flowed into each other, overlapping, fragmenting, reforming. The energy in the house had shifted from careful reunion to something more familiar.

More dangerous.

You'd noticed it before dinner ended—the way they looked at you. Not with the casual affection of friends catching up, but with something hungrier. Something that remembered.

Four months was a long time.

Chuu found you in the kitchen, refilling your glass.

"Remember the first time?" she asked, leaning against the counter beside you.

You did. Her apartment, the night after she'd been kicked from the group. Rage and desire and something that shouldn't have happened but did. The start of everything.

"I think about it sometimes," she continued. "How angry I was. How ready to burn everything down. And you just… showed up. Ran three blocks because you couldn't find parking."

"You needed someone."

"I needed you." She set down her glass. "I still do. We all do. Even when you're pulling away, even when you're hiding behind your success—we still need you."

She kissed you. Soft at first, then deeper. Her hands found your face, holding you like she was afraid you'd disappear.

"Come to my room tonight," she whispered against your lips. "Please."

You couldn't say no. You'd never been able to say no to her.

Chuu's room was at the end of the hall, away from the others. She pulled you inside and locked the door behind her, and then it was just the two of you in the dim light from the bedside lamp.

She was already pulling at your shirt. "I've missed this. Missed you."

You helped her undress, taking your time. Relearning her body after months of absence. She was thinner than before—the solo schedule had taken its toll—but still soft where it mattered, still warm and responsive beneath your hands.

Her bra came off and she pressed against you, skin to skin, her nipples hardening against your chest.

"They tried to take everything from me that night," she whispered. "And you stayed. You let me take it back."

You kissed her again, deeper, your hands sliding down her sides. She lifted her hips to help you with her shorts, and then she was bare beneath you, trembling.

"Slowly," she breathed when you positioned yourself between her legs. "We have all night."

You gave her what she wanted. Entered her slowly, inch by inch, watching her face as she adjusted to you. Her eyes fluttered closed, her lips parting on a soft moan.

"There," she whispered. "Right there."

You built the rhythm gradually. Long, slow strokes that let you feel every part of her—the way she clenched around you, the way her breath caught when you hit the right angle, the way her nails dug into your back when you pushed deeper.

"More," she gasped. "Please. I need—"

Faster now, harder, but still controlled. She wrapped her legs around you, pulling you deeper, her moans rising in pitch as the tension built.

Her orgasm hit like a wave—her whole body tensing, her walls clenching around you, your name falling from her lips in a broken cry. You followed a moment later, spilling inside her while she held you close, her fingers threading through your hair.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just lay there tangled together, catching your breath.

"Stay," she murmured against your neck. "Just for a little while."

You stayed. Held her as her breathing slowed, as her body relaxed against yours.

"Yves told me something once," Chuu said eventually, her voice drowsy. "I asked her why she kept coming back. She said it wasn't about the sex. It was about being part of something. A family that actually wanted her."

She pressed her lips to your chest.

"That's why I started this. Not because I was lost. Because I found something worth keeping."

You didn't know what to say. So you just held her tighter.

Her breathing evened out. Deepened. You waited until you were sure she was asleep before carefully untangling yourself, pulling the blanket up to her shoulders.

You stood in the dark for a moment, watching her sleep.

Two and a half years ago, you'd abandoned the company car three blocks from her apartment and run the rest of the way. The conference room was still ringing in your ears—contract termination, Yeojin crying, Heejin ready to fight someone. And Chuu hadn't even been there to hear it.

She'd buzzed you in. You'd taken the stairs two at a time, expecting to find her destroyed. Instead, she was pacing her living room like a caged animal, mascara tracked down to her jaw, fury radiating off her in waves. "Those fucking bastards," she'd been muttering. Not broken. Burning.

You'd made her ginseng tea. Sat on her couch, close but not touching, while she drank it and stared at nothing. Texted the group chat: She's with me. I've got her. And then she'd looked at you—really looked at you—and said, "They tried to control everything about me. But this is mine. My choice."

Her hand on your chest. Your heart hammering. The professional boundary you'd maintained for months shattering in a single kiss that she started, not you. Aggressive, demanding, like she'd been thinking about it for months. She'd climbed into your lap and you'd let her, and nothing that followed was gentle or tentative or accidental.

The start of everything wasn't pity. It was Chuu, taking back control of the one thing her company couldn't touch. And you, choosing to stay.

You slipped out of her room and closed the door softly behind you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Heejin and Hyunjin found you on the deck an hour later. Chuu had fallen asleep, and you'd slipped out to clear your head.

"We planned something," Heejin said without preamble.

"Planned what?"

"This." Her hand gestured between the three of you.

"You've been different lately," Hyunjin added, pressing against your back, her chin on your shoulder. "Distant. We don't like it."

"I've been—"

"Busy. We know." Heejin stepped closer. "But tonight you're not busy. Tonight you're ours."

The competitive dynamic between them had evolved over the years. Less about who could outdo the other, more about what they could accomplish together. They'd always shared you well when they wanted to.

Tonight, they wanted to.

Hyunjin's hands slipped under your shirt from behind while Heejin pressed against your front. Trapped between them, you felt the familiar surrender—that moment where resistance became pointless because you'd already lost.

They led you to one of the bedrooms, already negotiating terms before the door closed.

"I want his mouth first," Hyunjin said.

"You had his mouth last time."

"Last time was four months ago. Statue of limitations."

"First of all, it’s statute of limitations, and that’s not how it works."

You stood there catching your breath while they argued. Same as always. You'd missed this—the absurdity of it, the way they could fight about logistics like they were dividing up a restaurant bill.

They settled it the way they settled everything: competitively. Hyunjin straddling your face while Heejin rode you, both of them racing to see who'd break first. The coordination was deliberate, practiced from years of this exact dynamic.

Heejin won. Or lost, depending on perspective. She came first, her walls clenching around you so tight you saw stars, and Hyunjin followed moments later, grinding against your mouth as she fell apart.

They rotated. Argued about the rotation. Rotated again. By the time they were done, you'd lost track of whose turn it was, how many times each of them had come, where you ended and they began.

You collapsed in a pile of tangled limbs, all three of you breathing hard.

"Missed this," Hyunjin murmured against your chest.

"Missed him," Heejin corrected from your other side.

"Same thing," Hyunjin said.

It was.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Haseul found you in the hallway afterward. She didn't ask questions—she never did when it came to the arrangement. She just took your hand and led you to her room.

"You smell like them," she observed, closing the door.

"Sorry—"

"Don't be." She was already reaching for your shirt. "I like knowing you've been with them. It's proof this works."

With Haseul, it was never just about the physical. She undressed you slowly, her fingers finding every knot of tension—your shoulders, the small of your back, your jaw, which you hadn't realized you'd been clenching.

"You haven't been taking care of yourself."

"I've been fine."

"You've been surviving. That's not the same thing." She guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, then stood between your legs, her hands cradling your face. "When's the last time someone just held you? Not sex. Not obligation. Just someone making sure you were okay?"

You couldn't answer.

"That's what I thought." She kissed your forehead. "Lie back."

She undressed slowly. Familiar body, familiar comfort—the small breasts she was sometimes self-conscious about, the birthmark on her hip you'd traced with your tongue a hundred times. She straddled you, still in her underwear, and started with her hands. Long, slow strokes down your chest, your arms, your thighs. Not sexual, not yet. Just touch. Just presence.

"Breathe," she murmured when she felt you tensing.

The massage shifted gradually. Her hands finding sensitive spots—inner thighs, lower belly. You were hard now, aching for her, but she ignored it.

"Haseul—"

"Patience."

She rose up enough to pull her underwear aside, and sank onto you in one long, slow slide. Didn't move once she had you fully inside—just sat there, her walls clenching around you, her eyes holding yours.

Then she started. Slowly. Rolling her hips in small circles that built friction without urgency. Her hands braced on your chest, her eyes never leaving yours.

"I've loved you for a long time," she said. Still moving, still building. "Not the way the others do. My kind of love looks like this—taking care of you. Being the one who keeps you whole."

She increased her pace. Her breath catching.

"You don't have to say it back. I can feel it."

The orgasm built slowly, like a wave gathering far out at sea. By the time it crested, you were both trembling. She came first, her back arching as she cried out. You followed immediately, spilling into her while she collapsed against your chest.

For a long time, neither of you moved.

"I meant what I said earlier," she murmured eventually. "Be present. Whatever happens tonight—be here for it."

"What's going to happen?"

"I have a feeling it will be something important." She kissed you, soft and lingering. "Trust me, my hunches are right most of the time."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You found Jinsoul and Kim Lip in the living room around 2 AM.

They'd outlasted everyone else. The wine was finished, the others had drifted to bedrooms or the deck or quiet corners. But these two were still on the couch—Jinsoul's legs across Kim Lip's lap, Kim Lip's hand resting absently on Jinsoul's ankle, both of them reading on their phones in comfortable silence.

They looked up at the same time when you walked in. Didn't say anything. Just looked at each other, had an entire conversation in the span of a glance, and then Jinsoul smiled.

"We were waiting for you," she said.

"You didn't have to wait."

"We wanted to." Kim Lip set her phone down. "We just didn't want to compete for a slot."

It was the most direct either of them had ever been about the arrangement's logistics, and it caught you off guard. Kim Lip noticed—she noticed everything—and the corner of her mouth twitched.

"Sit down," Jinsoul said, pulling her legs off Kim Lip's lap to make space between them. "You look wrecked."

"Thanks."

"I meant it affectionately."

You sat. Jinsoul leaned into you immediately, her head finding your shoulder with the ease of long practice. Kim Lip was more deliberate—she turned toward you, tucking one leg underneath herself, studying your face with that quiet intensity she brought to everything.

"You're different tonight," Kim Lip said. "More here than you've been in months."

"Haseul gave me a lecture."

"Good." No sympathy. Just Kim Lip.

Jinsoul's hand found your thigh. Not urgent—just warm, grounding. Her fingers traced slow patterns through the fabric of your pants.

"We talked about it," Jinsoul said. "About whether to wait or just ask."

"Ask what?"

"If you still want us." She said it simply, without the performance of vulnerability. Just a question that needed answering. "Not the arrangement. Us. The two of us specifically. Because we come as a pair. You know that."

You did know that. You'd always known that. Jinsoul and Kim Lip weren't two separate relationships—they were one relationship with two people in it. Being with one meant being watched by the other, being known by the other. There was nowhere to hide.

"I want you," you said. "Both of you. Always."

Kim Lip exhaled—so slightly you almost missed it. That was as close as she got to relief.

Jinsoul kissed you first. She kissed the way she did everything—generously, with her whole self, her hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. When she pulled back, Kim Lip was already there, turning your face toward her with one finger on your jaw. Her kiss was different. Precise. Like she was memorizing the shape of your mouth.

They stood together. Jinsoul took one of your hands, Kim Lip took the other. Led you down the hall to their shared room without a word.

Inside, the dynamic was nothing like Heejin and Hyunjin. No competition, no negotiation. They moved around each other like they were dancing to music only they could hear. Jinsoul undressed you while Kim Lip undressed herself. When Jinsoul pulled her own shirt over her head, Kim Lip was already behind her, unclasping her bra, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck before turning her attention to you.

Jinsoul was the vocal one—soft sounds when you touched her, whispered instructions, her body arching into your hands like she was starving for contact. Kim Lip was quieter, communicating through pressure and position. She guided your hand where she wanted it, held your gaze while you touched her, let her breath hitch speak for her.

When Jinsoul straddled you, Kim Lip knelt beside her, one hand on Jinsoul's hip, the other on your chest. Steadying them both. Watching Jinsoul's face with an expression that was equal parts tenderness and hunger. When Jinsoul started to move, Kim Lip leaned in and kissed her—deep and slow—and Jinsoul moaned into her mouth while her hips found their rhythm on you.

You lasted longer than you expected to. Maybe because they set the pace together, and their pace was deliberate, unhurried. Maybe because watching them touch each other while one of them rode you created a kind of sensory overload that kept pulling you back from the edge.

Jinsoul came with Kim Lip's hand between her legs and your cock buried inside her, her whole body shuddering as she gripped your shoulders and pressed her forehead to yours.

When they switched, it was seamless. Kim Lip sank onto you and set a pace that was entirely hers—controlled, rhythmic, building with the patience of someone who knew exactly what she wanted and was willing to take her time getting it. Jinsoul lay beside you, her fingers tracing your chest, watching Kim Lip with open admiration.

"She's beautiful," Jinsoul whispered to you, like it was a secret, like you didn't already know.

Kim Lip's orgasm was quiet—a sharp inhale, her nails digging into your hips, her rhythm faltering for three strokes before she regained control and rode you through it. You came right after, and she stayed on top of you, breathing hard, her hands still braced on your stomach.

Jinsoul pulled a blanket over the three of you afterward. You lay in the middle—Jinsoul's cheek on your chest, Kim Lip's back against your side, her fingers intertwined with Jinsoul's across your body.

"You need to stop disappearing," Kim Lip said into the quiet. Not accusatory. Factual. Like she was noting the weather.

"I know."

"I don't think you do. But you will." She squeezed Jinsoul's hand. "We'll make sure of it."

Jinsoul was already asleep. Kim Lip stayed awake a little longer—you could feel her watching you in the dark, cataloguing something, filing it away for later use. That was Kim Lip. She gathered information the way other people gathered flowers. You never knew which piece she'd pull out, or when, or why it would matter.

It would matter tomorrow. You just didn't know it yet.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You found Gowon in the bathroom around 3 AM. She was washing her face, trying to hide the fact that she'd been crying.

"Go away," she said when she saw you in the mirror.

"No."

"I said go away." Her voice cracked on the last word.

You closed the door behind you and leaned against it. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Everything. I don't know." She gripped the edge of the sink like it was the only thing holding her up. "LOOSSEMBLE is over. My career is probably over. And I can't even—" She stopped herself.

"Can't even what?"

She was silent for a long moment. Then, so quietly you almost didn't hear: "I can't even tell you how I feel. I've had two years and I still can't say it."

You moved closer. "You said it three weeks ago. When you came to the penthouse."

"I was drunk."

"You meant it."

"I tried to take it back."

"I didn't let you." You reached for her, turning her to face you. "Say it again. Sober this time."

Her eyes were red, her mascara smudged. She looked nothing like the composed, untouchable princess she showed to the world. She looked real.

"I think about you constantly," she whispered. "It's not like I care—" She caught herself, laughed bitterly. "See? I can't even stop doing that. Even when I'm trying to be honest, I deflect. It's like a reflex."

"Then don't deflect. Just say it."

"I love you." The words came out broken, like she was pulling them from somewhere deep inside her chest. "I've loved you for a long time. Maybe since that first night with the Mario Kart, when you beat me and I was so angry but also... I couldn't stop looking at you. I just couldn't admit it because then it would be real, and if it's real then I could lose it, and I can't—" Her breath hitched. "I can't lose this too. Not after everything else."

You remembered that night. Not the way you'd remembered it before—as the beginning of Gowon being difficult, as the start of the push-and-pull that defined your relationship with her. You remembered it now the way she'd just described it, and the memory shifted like a photograph developing in reverse.

The three of them had come over with the Switch. Yeojin was loud, bouncing around the apartment, claiming the best controller. Hyeju was quiet, already sprawled across the couch, taking up more space than necessary. And Gowon stood in the doorway for a full ten seconds before walking in, surveying the apartment with an expression that was either unimpressed or terrified—you couldn't tell which.

She'd sat on the floor in front of the coffee table. Gripped the controller like it owed her money. Lost the first race. Lost the second. Lost the third. Her knuckles going white, her jaw clenching tighter with each finish, while you crossed the line first every time and Hyeju came second just to rub it in.

Six races. Six losses. Dead last in every one.

"This game is rigged," she'd said, throwing her controller down. And you'd laughed—not at her, but at the intensity of it, the way she cared so much about something so small. She'd looked at you then. Not the fury you'd expected. Something else. Something that flickered and disappeared before you could name it.

But what you remembered now, seeing it through the lens she'd just given you, was what happened between the races. During the loading screens, when everyone else was trash-talking or reaching for drinks, Gowon's eyes would drift from the television to you. Quick glances she thought no one caught. And after the fourth loss, when she'd shifted from the floor to the end of the couch—"the floor is uncomfortable, that's all"—her knee had ended up an inch from yours. She hadn't moved it. For two full races, she'd sat with her knee almost touching yours, losing worse than ever because she wasn't watching the screen anymore.

You hadn't thought anything of it at the time. You'd been an idiot.

"I remember," you said. "The Mario Kart night."

"I was so angry." She almost smiled. "Not at the game. At myself. For not being able to stop looking at you."

"I thought you were just competitive."

"I was." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "But not about Mario Kart. Everyone else let me win things. Handed me compliments, made it easy. You just beat me six times in a row and laughed about it. Like I was a real person who could handle losing."

You pulled her into your arms. She resisted for half a second before collapsing against you, her body shaking with sobs she'd been holding back for God knows how long.

"You're not going to lose this," you said. "You're not going to lose me."

"You can't promise that."

"I just did."

She looked up at you, searching your eyes for the lie. She didn't find one.

The kiss that followed was tentative—Gowon testing whether you meant it, whether this was real. When you kissed her back with everything you had, something in her finally broke open.

"I need you," she breathed. "Please. I need to feel something real."

You held her tighter. Kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the salt tracks on her skin. She pressed against you like she was trying to climb inside your chest, and you let her. Let her take whatever she needed.

She cried again. Not from sadness—from release. Years of emotional walls finally crumbling, leaving her raw and open.

You ended up on the bathroom floor, her curled against your chest, both of you too wrung out to move.

"Don't tell anyone I cried," she mumbled.

"I won't."

"I mean it. If Yeojin finds out—"

"Your secret's safe."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Thank you. For not letting me take it back."

You pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "That's the version of you I fell in love with. The real one."

Her arms tightened around you. That was answer enough.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was nearly 4 AM when you found Hyeju on the deck.

She was alone, standing at the railing, staring out at the mountains. The moon had risen high enough to paint everything silver. She looked beautiful and distant and impossibly young.

"Hey," you said quietly.

She didn't turn around. "Hey."

"Everyone else is crashing. Haseul's organizing sleeping arrangements."

"I know."

You stood beside her, close enough to feel the warmth of her body but not quite touching. The silence stretched, heavy with things unsaid.

"I need to tell you something," Hyeju said finally.

"Okay."

"But first—" She did turn then, and something in her expression made your heart stutter. "I need you to know that whatever I say, I've made peace with it. I'm not asking you to fix anything. I just need you to listen."

"I'm listening."

She took a breath. Let it out. Took another.

"Do you remember that night? About three months ago? You were stressed about the Kang deal, and I came to the penthouse because I couldn't stand being alone, and we..."

You remembered.

The Kang deal had been falling apart all week. A major distribution partnership that would have secured ARTMS's Japanese market expansion—months of negotiation, legal reviews, back-and-forth with translators—and Kang's people had called that afternoon to say they were pulling out. No reason given. Just a polite email that amounted to "we've decided to go in a different direction." You'd spent six hours on calls trying to salvage it, pacing the penthouse in the same clothes you'd slept in, coffee going cold on the counter.

By midnight, you'd given up. Sat on the couch in the dark with your laptop open and your eyes closed, too wired to sleep and too defeated to work.

That's when she'd buzzed up.

She didn't call first. Didn't text. Just appeared at your door in a hoodie and leggings, no makeup, her hair pulled back. She looked like she hadn't slept either.

"LOOSSEMBLE's done," she said. Not a question. She'd known before the official announcement—they all had. The company had been bleeding money for months, and the remaining members could feel it in every cancelled schedule, every delayed payment, every meeting that got shorter and vaguer. "The manager called today. They're not renewing."

You'd stepped aside and let her in.

She didn't sit down. Walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge, closed it. Walked to the window. Walked back. She was vibrating with something—anger or grief or both, compressed into a body that didn't know where to put it.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do now," she said. "I've been an idol since I was sixteen. That's all I know how to be."

"That's not all you are."

"You don't know that." She turned to face you. Her eyes were dry but raw, like she'd already cried everything out before coming here. "You know the idol version. The version that performs and smiles and posts selfies. What if there's nothing underneath?"

"There is."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're here. At midnight. In my apartment. Not performing."

She'd stared at you for a long moment. Then she'd crossed the room and kissed you.

It wasn't like their usual encounters—the arrangement had rules, rhythms, an understood choreography. This was different. This was two people at the end of their respective ropes grabbing onto each other because the alternative was drowning alone. She kissed you like she was trying to prove she existed, her hands fisting in your shirt, pulling you toward her with a desperation that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with needing to feel something besides failure.

You'd pulled her hoodie over her head. She'd pulled your shirt off. Neither of you spoke. The couch was right there, and then the bedroom was too far away so the couch was where it happened—her beneath you, still in her leggings until you pulled them down, her nails raking your back as you pushed inside her without the usual buildup, without the usual care.

It was rough. Graceless. She'd wrapped her legs around you and pulled you deeper with her heels against your lower back, her breath hot against your neck, and you'd fucked her like you were both trying to get somewhere neither of you could reach alone. When she came, she bit your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. When you came, you buried yourself as deep as you could go and stayed there, both of you panting, foreheads pressed together.

Afterward, she'd lain on the couch with her head on your chest, tracing the bite mark she'd left.

"I forgot my pill," she said. Casual. Almost an afterthought. "For like, three days. I've been distracted."

"Should we—"

"It's fine. The timing's wrong anyway." She'd pressed closer. "Don't make it a thing."

So you hadn't made it a thing. You'd held her until she fell asleep, and in the morning she'd left before you woke up, and neither of you had talked about it. Not the carelessness, not the desperation, not the fact that she'd come to you instead of anyone else when her world was ending.

You should have talked about it.

"I remember," you said.

"The timing wasn't wrong."

The words hung in the mountain air.

"Hyeju—"

"I'm pregnant." Her voice was steady, but her hands were shaking where they gripped the railing. "Eleven weeks. I found out six weeks ago. I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't know what I wanted. And then LOOSSEMBLE fell apart, and everything was chaos, and I just... couldn't."

You couldn't speak. The world had narrowed to this single moment.

"I thought about not keeping it," she continued. "For about a day. Maybe two. And then I realized I couldn't. Not because of any moral thing—just because I want this. I want to be a mother." She finally met your eyes. "I want to do this with you."

Silence.

"I know this changes everything. I have money saved. I can do this alone if—"

You pulled her into your arms and held her.

That was the only answer that mattered.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You sat together on the deck until the sky started to lighten. Hyeju told you everything—the weeks of uncertainty, the doctor's appointments she'd gone to alone, the fear that had turned slowly into determination.

The first appointment had been the hardest. She'd gone to a clinic in Bundang, far enough from Gangnam that she wouldn't run into anyone from the industry. Sat in the waiting room surrounded by couples and pretended to read a magazine while her hands shook. The doctor had been kind. Clinical. Had shown her the ultrasound and pointed to a shape the size of a blueberry, and Hyeju had stared at the screen and thought: that's mine. That's something I made. That's the first thing in my life that nobody else has any claim to.

She'd walked to her car afterward and sat in the parking lot for forty-five minutes, crying and laughing and calling no one.

"I almost called you six times," she said. "I had your number pulled up. But every time, I thought—what if you don't want this? What if it changes everything and you pull even further away?"

"I wouldn't have."

"I know that now. I didn't know it then." She paused. "The second appointment, I heard the heartbeat. That's when I stopped being scared and started being ready."

"I was going to tell everyone this weekend," she said. "That's why I wanted us all here. Not just because of LOOSSEMBLE ending. Because I needed my family around me when I said it."

"They'll support you."

"I know." She leaned against your shoulder. "I'm more worried about Choerry."

You understood immediately. Choerry's desire for a child had become an ongoing thread in the arrangement—hopeful attempts that never took, followed by disappointment she processed with increasing difficulty. The doctor visits where nothing was wrong but nothing was right. The methodical tracking of cycles and windows and timing. If Hyeju's accidental pregnancy succeeded where Choerry's intentional efforts failed...

"We'll be there for her," you said.

"Will you?" Hyeju's voice was soft. "You've been so distant. They've needed you and you haven't been here."

"I know."

"Why?"

The honest answer was harder than you wanted it to be. "This. What we have. How much it matters. I thought if I could build enough security, I could protect all of you from anything. And then I got so focused on building that I forgot why I was building it."

She turned her face up to yours. In the pre-dawn light, she looked like something from a dream.

"Be with us now," she said. "That's all I'm asking."

You kissed her. Gentle at first, then deeper. She responded with quiet intensity, her hands finding your face.

"I love you," you said. "I love all of them. But I need you to hear this—I love you. And I'm terrified and ready."

Tears spilled down her cheeks. "I love you too."

"We're going to be good at this."

"We are. All of us together."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Morning came too quickly.

You and Hyeju rejoined the others as they trickled awake, gathering in the living area with coffee and leftover pastries. Haseul had orchestrated the sleeping arrangements with her usual efficiency—bodies sprawled across beds and couches and makeshift floor pallets, slowly reassembling into coherent people.

"Meeting time," Haseul announced once everyone was vertical. "We need to talk about LOOSSEMBLE, about futures, about what comes next."

The serious discussion took about an hour. Options laid out, debated, discarded. Hyunjin wanted to focus on her business and maybe building out her own career. Yeojin was pursuing acting or idol life or or something in between. Vivi spoke quietly about potentially returning to Hong Kong for a while, though her eyes kept finding you when she said it. Gowon still hadn't decided anything, her deflection working overtime.

And Hyeju sat quietly through all of it.

Until Haseul turned to her.

"Hyeju? What about you?"

The room went still.

Hyeju took a breath. Looked at you. Found whatever courage she needed.

"I'm leaving idol life," she said.

Confusion, concern, questions. Why? What happened? Are you okay?

Hyeju held up her hand. The room quieted.

"I'm pregnant."

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind. The kind where twelve people are processing the same information at different speeds and no one wants to be the first to get it wrong.

Yeojin opened her mouth. You saw it happen in real time—the joke forming behind her eyes, the reflex that had always been her armor. Something about timing, probably, or about you. Something that would have broken the tension and also broken the moment.

She closed her mouth. Looked at Hyeju's face. Looked at the hand on Hyeju's stomach.

Crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Hyeju without a word.

It was the quietest thing Yeojin had ever done. And it broke the dam.

Hyeju looked at you. The others followed her gaze.

Understanding settled over them like a wave.

"How long have you known?" Haseul asked carefully.

"Six weeks."

"And you didn't tell us?" Heejin's tone was more hurt than angry. But even as she said it, her expression was already shifting—you could see the exact moment where the hurt gave way to calculation. Schedules rearranging behind her eyes. Maternity logistics. Prenatal care. Who had the most flexible calendar for the third trimester. Heejin couldn't help it. Her brain solved problems the way other people breathed.

"I didn't know how."

Kim Lip stepped forward. "What's the plan?"

"I'm keeping it. And the plan is—" Hyeju paused, her hand finding her stomach. "I want to raise this baby with him. But I don't want this to end what we have. All of us."

She looked around the room.

"You're my family. You have been since before any of this started. And I want you in my child's life. All of you."

Haseul moved first—crossing the room to pull Hyeju into a fierce hug. "You stupid, beautiful girl. You should have told us immediately."

"I know."

One by one, the others joined. Chuu was crying happy tears. Yves held her while adding her own embrace—and when she caught your eye over Hyeju's head, she just nodded. Small and firm and deliberate. No speech, no explanation. Just Yves finally, quietly, choosing this. Choosing to stay.

Chuu squeezed her arm, understanding exactly what that nod meant.

Hyunjin gently interrupted Heejin's logistics spiral: "Maybe just hug her first?"

Heejin looked vaguely offended but complied. Her eyes were suspiciously bright when she pulled back.

Gowon hung back, arms crossed, expression unreadable—until Hyeju reached out and pulled her in, and everything Gowon had built to protect herself crumbled entirely.

"It's not like I'm crying because I'm happy or anything," Gowon muttered, definitely crying.

"Of course not," Hyeju said, holding her tight.

And then everyone noticed Choerry.

She hadn't moved. Stood frozen at the edge of the group, her face a careful mask that was starting to crack.

"Choerry?" Jinsoul noticed first.

"I'm fine." Her voice was too bright. "This is wonderful. I'm so happy for you, Hyeju."

But her eyes told a different story. And when she turned and walked out of the room, no one tried to stop her.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You found her on the deck—the same spot where Hyeju had told you everything. She was crying, trying to hide it, failing.

"Choerry."

"I said I'm fine."

You sat beside her anyway. Didn't touch her, didn't push. Just waited.

The dam broke in pieces. First a shuddering breath, then a sob she tried to swallow, then everything at once.

"I've been trying for over a year," she said through her tears. "Every month, hoping. Getting my hopes up. Taking tests too early. And every month—nothing."

"I know."

"Do you?" She turned to face you, expression raw. "Do you know what it's like to want something so badly, to do everything right, to time it perfectly—and still fail? The doctor says nothing's wrong. The timing is right. We're both healthy. It just... doesn't take."

She was shaking now.

"I've tracked every cycle. Changed my diet. Tried every position, every timing, every supplement the internet says might help. I've taken tests so early I knew they'd be negative but I couldn't stop myself from hoping. And every single time—nothing. Just my period, right on schedule, like clockwork, reminding me that my body won't do the one thing I'm asking it to do."

The last time had been three weeks ago. She'd texted you at 6 AM—just "Can you come over?"—and you'd known from those four words exactly what had happened. But you hadn't gone. You'd been in a meeting with your COO about Q3 projections, and you'd texted back "I'll call you tonight" and then hadn't called. Hadn't called the next day either. By the third day, the window had closed—the moment where she needed you had passed, and acknowledging it late would have been worse than not acknowledging it at all.

That was the math you'd been doing for four months. The calculus of distance, where every delayed response made the next one harder until silence felt easier than showing up late.

She didn't mention it now. She didn't have to. You both knew.

"Your body works fine—"

"Then why can't I get pregnant?" Her voice cracked. "While she just... forgot her pill? How is that fair?"

It wasn't. You couldn't pretend it was.

"What if it never happens for me?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "What if my body is just... broken?"

"You're not broken."

"You don't know that."

"I know you." You reached for her hand. "And I know that we're going to keep trying for as long as you want to try."

"What if it takes years?"

"Then it takes years."

"What if it never works?"

"Then we explore other options. Fertility specialists. Treatments. Whatever it takes."

Vivi appeared in the doorway. She'd followed silently, and now she crossed to Choerry and knelt beside her, taking her other hand.

"You're not alone in this," Vivi said softly. "You've never been alone."

Haseul had followed too. Standing watch the way she always did.

Choerry collapsed against your chest, still crying but softer now. Vivi rubbed her back while Haseul stood guard, and you held her while the morning light grew stronger.

"I want to be happy for her," Choerry whispered eventually. "I am happy for her. It's just..."

"It hurts."

"It hurts so much."

You had no words that could fix that. So you just held her, and promised silently that you would keep trying for as long as she needed.

"We keep trying," you said. "As long as you want. I promise."

She nodded against your chest, still crying but calmer.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Inside, the others were processing in pairs and small groups. Kim Lip found you in the hallway a few minutes later.

"Can we talk?"

She'd always been the most observant of them—the one who noticed things others missed, who filed details away for later.

"I've been watching you all weekend," she said without preamble. "Trying to figure out if you're really here. Or if you're going to pull away again."

"Kim Lip—"

"You hurt them, you hurt us." Her voice was calm but firm. "These past four months. They'd never say it because they love you. But I see things. I see how Choerry's face falls when you don't respond to the group chat. I see how Haseul reorganizes your fridge every time she visits because she knows you're not eating. I see how Hyeju stopped sharing updates because she wasn't sure you wanted to hear them."

She paused. Let you absorb that.

"Gowon showed up at the penthouse three times last month. Did you know that? Three times. And twice you weren't there. The third time was the night she got drunk and told you everything." Her eyes were steady. "She almost didn't come back that third time. Yeojin talked her into it."

The words hit harder than they should have.

"I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty. I'm saying it because you need to know what you could lose if you keep running."

"I'm not running anymore."

"Good." She studied your face. "I believe you. But I'm going to keep watching."

She stepped closer, her expression softening. "I'm happy for you. For you and Hyeju, for the baby. I just needed you to hear the hard part first."

She reached up and straightened your collar—a gesture so maternal and unexpected from her that something in your chest shifted.

"Now go be with your family."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The afternoon was quieter. The intensity of the morning had given way to something gentler—conversations in pairs and small groups, processing what Hyeju's news meant for all of them.

Choerry had rejoined the group, her eyes still red but her smile genuine as she held Hyeju's hand.

You'd seen the end of it—Hyeju finding Choerry on the deck after you and Vivi and Haseul had given her space. Hyeju hadn't said anything clever or comforting. She'd just sat down next to Choerry and said, "I'm sorry. I know this hurts and I'm sorry." No qualifiers, no reassurance that it would work out, no toxic positivity. Just acknowledgment.

Choerry had been quiet for a long time. Then she'd said, "Can I be the first one to hold it?"

"Obviously," Hyeju had said. "Who else would it be?"

"Haseul would fight me for it."

"Haseul can wait."

That was all it took. Not a resolution—Choerry's grief wasn't the kind that resolved. But a bridge. Something to stand on while the water was still rising.

"So," Yeojin said, breaking the comfortable silence. "What now? Logistically?"

"Hyeju moves in with me," you said. You'd discussed it on the deck that morning. "The penthouse has enough space. When she's ready to step back from public life, she can do it quietly."

"What about the rest of us?" Heejin asked. "The arrangement. Does this change things?"

You looked around the room. Twelve faces.

"Does it need to?"

The silence that followed was more honest than comfortable. They were all thinking it. Yeojin was the one who actually said it.

"I mean—are we still all sleeping with him? Because I feel like someone should ask that out loud instead of everyone pretending they're not thinking it."

The room held its breath. Then Jinsoul laughed. Then Chuu. Then everyone, the tension cracking open like an egg, messy and necessary.

"Thank you," Kim Lip said, "for being the one person here with no filter."

"Someone has to be," Yeojin said, not remotely apologetic.

"A baby changes everything," Gowon said quietly, once the laughter faded. Then she caught herself, glanced at you, and added—without the usual deflection: "But maybe that's not a bad thing."

"Or it changes nothing," Hyeju said. "I meant what I said. I don't want this to end what we have. I want to find a way to make it work—all of us, together. Just... evolved."

"We don't have to decide everything today," Haseul said. The leader voice. The one that settled rooms. "We figure it out the way we've always figured things out."

"Imperfectly," Kim Lip said.

"Exactly."

"I just want to say something," Chuu said. The laughter had faded, and her voice was serious in a way that made people pay attention. "I fly in from sets. Yves tours for months at a time. We've never been the most present members of this family, and I've felt guilty about that. But this"—she gestured at the room, at Hyeju, at the space between all of them—"this is the thing I protect my schedule for. This is what I negotiate seventy-two-hour breaks for. A baby doesn't change that. It gives me a better reason to fight for it."

Yves squeezed her hand but said nothing. She didn't need to. Chuu had spoken for both of them.

"I can help with the business side," Hyunjin said. She'd been quiet through most of the discussion, thinking rather than reacting. "If Hyeju wants to stay out of the public eye, my company can handle the narrative. Quiet retirement, personal reasons, no drama.

Hyeju blinked. "You'd do that?"

"You're family. That's not even a question."

"Monthly dinners," Vivi suggested. "No excuses."

"Rotating aunt duties," Jinsoul added. "Give Hyeju and Oppa breaks when they need them."

"This child is going to be so confused," Yeojin said, grinning.

"This child is going to be so loved," Haseul corrected.

"Both," Chuu said. "Definitely both."

"Mostly loved," Hyeju said. She looked around the room—at twelve women who'd fought their way out of one family and built another. "That's enough."

That night, you and Hyeju lay together in the master bedroom. The house had quieted. Through the walls, you could hear the muffled sounds of the others settling—Yeojin's laugh from somewhere down the hall, the low murmur of Kim Lip and Jinsoul's voices, a door closing softly. Haseul had organized the sleeping arrangements with characteristic precision, but you suspected half of them would end up in different rooms by morning, migrating toward warmth and familiar bodies the way they always did.

"Scared?" she asked.

"Terrified."

"Good. Me too." She curled against your side, her hand resting on her still-flat stomach. "At least we're terrified together."

"Is this what you want? Really?"

"I've been running for so long. From the company, from the pressure, from expectations I never asked for. This feels like stopping. Choosing something instead of having it chosen for me."

"You chose me."

"I chose us. All of it. This family. It's weird and unconventional and definitely not what I imagined when I was a trainee. But it's real. And it's mine."

You kissed her forehead. "I love you."

"I know." She smiled against your chest. "Now go to sleep. We have a lot of family drama to process tomorrow."

You slept better than you had in months.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

TWO YEARS LATER

The penthouse didn't look like yours anymore.

Baby gates blocked the stairs. Educational toys littered the living room. Crayon scribbles covered the refrigerator—most of them just circles and lines, but treasured like gallery pieces. Hyeju's touch was everywhere, softening the edges, turning a bachelor's investment into something that smelled like laundry detergent and sesame oil and home.

Your daughter was eighteen months old. Dark eyes like her mother's, your nose, a laugh that could fill any room. Her first word had been "Mama," followed almost immediately by "Eonni," because with that many women constantly cycling through the apartment, she couldn't tell the difference. It had made everyone cry.

She was currently being passed between aunts like a particularly adorable football. Yeojin was winning the giggle competition via raspberry noises on her belly—an unfair advantage, but Yeojin had never played fair.

Hyeju sat on the couch beside you, six months pregnant with your second, watching the chaos with a hand on her stomach and an expression that was equal parts fond and exhausted.

"Choerry, stop hogging her," Haseul called from the kitchen, where she and Vivi were plating dinner with the synchronized efficiency of people who'd been doing this together for years.

"But she loves me best!" Choerry protested, bouncing your daughter on her hip.

"She loves everyone best. That's the problem."

Choerry had stopped trying for a baby three months ago. Not permanently—just a break. Her therapist had suggested stepping back, and for the first time, Choerry had listened. The constant hope and disappointment had worn grooves in her that needed time to heal. But when she held your daughter, the wanting was still there—quieter now, less desperate. Something she was learning to carry instead of chase.

You caught her eye across the room. She gave you a small smile—not her performance smile, but something real and hard-won.

"Dinner!" Haseul announced. "Everyone to the table."

The table was too small. It always was. They'd developed a rotation—first seating, second seating—that devolved into musical chairs every month.

Chuu had flown in from a drama shoot specifically for this. Seventy-two hours she'd negotiated into her schedule because the monthly dinner was non-negotiable. She sat next to Yves, their hands intertwined on the table, no longer hiding anything. They'd gone public six months ago. The response had mostly been "finally."

Hyunjin talked about her company—fifty new hires next month, fair wages, proper benefits. The competitive fire that used to be directed at Heejin was now channeled into something bigger.

"You're actually making a difference," Heejin said, and the table went quiet. Heejin complimenting Hyunjin unprompted was a notable event.

"I'm serious," Heejin continued. "What you do matters."

Hyunjin ducked her head. But she was smiling.

Kim Lip's first fully produced album had won a major award last month. Jinsoul's songs were charting overseas now.

Gowon had released her solo debut six months ago. Not a commercial smash, but the critics responded, and she'd found something she hadn't expected—creative satisfaction that didn't depend on anyone else's validation. She still deflected compliments. The walls were thinner, though.

Yeojin was on her third drama. "I have a love scene in the new one," she announced. "The director keeps telling me to be more 'innocent.'"

"Please don't traumatize your co-star," Chuu said.

"Too late."

Between courses, Vivi disappeared from the kitchen. You found her—or rather, heard her—in the nursery down the hall. Your daughter had gotten fussy during the seat change, overtired from too many aunts and too much stimulation, and Vivi had slipped away without a word.

You stood in the doorway. Vivi was in the rocking chair, your daughter curled against her chest, one small fist clutching the fabric of Vivi's shirt. Vivi was humming something—not a LOONA song, something older, something that might have been Cantonese. A lullaby from before she'd come to Korea, maybe. Before the trainee years and the contracts and the lawsuits. Something from the version of herself that existed before all of this.

Your daughter's eyes were closing. Her breathing was slowing. Vivi's hand moved in slow circles on her back, patient and unhurried.

She looked up and saw you watching. Didn't stop humming. Just held your gaze for a moment, then looked back down at the sleeping child in her arms. The expression on her face wasn't the fond exhaustion of an aunt doing a favor. It was something fiercer. Quieter. The look of someone who had found the exact place in the world where she was supposed to be, and who had no intention of leaving it.

She'd chosen this. Not the spotlight, not the stage—this. The unglamorous work of showing up. Peeling tangerines. Bringing the right soy sauce. Rocking someone else's daughter to sleep in a dim room while the party continued without her.

That was Vivi's role now. She and Haseul had become the twin pillars—Haseul organizing, Vivi nourishing. Between them, nothing fell through the cracks.

You mouthed "thank you" from the doorway. She shook her head slightly. No thanks needed. This was where she wanted to be.

Back at the table, Gowon had taken your empty seat next to Hyeju. They were looking at something on Hyeju's phone—ultrasound photos, you realized. Gowon's expression was unguarded in a way she never allowed in public. She traced the outline of the image with one finger, her lips slightly parted, and you recognized the look because you'd seen versions of it all night. On Choerry, it was wanting. On Vivi, it was purpose.

On Gowon, it was possibility. The slow, terrifying realization that the walls she'd built to protect herself were also walls that kept things out. Things she might want. Things she wasn't ready to name.

Hyeju said something you couldn't hear. Gowon's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but the muscle memory of one. She placed her hand flat on the phone screen for a moment, covering the image, like she was holding it. Then she pulled her hand back and said something dismissive, probably, because that was what Gowon did. But her fingers were trembling the same way they had on the bathroom floor.

She looked up and caught you watching. The walls slammed back into place—but slower than before. A half-second delay that hadn't been there a year ago.

You didn't say anything. Some things needed time to find their own shape.

Later, after dinner plates were cleared and dessert demolished and the aunts had all taken their turns holding the baby, you stood on the balcony.

Seoul spread out below. Somewhere out there, fans still followed their careers, still bought albums and concert tickets. They had no idea about any of this.

Maybe someday the story would come out. Maybe it wouldn't.

Haseul found you there. As she always did.

"Good dinner," she said.

"You organized it. Like always."

She leaned against the railing beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched. "How are you? Really?"

You considered the question the way she deserved. "Happy. Exhausted. Terrified about two kids under three. But for the first time in a long time, I'm not running toward something or away from something. I'm just here."

"Good." She smiled. "That's all I ever wanted for you."

"What about you?"

She looked out at the city. "I'm exactly where I want to be."

Her hand found yours on the railing.

Through the glass doors: Chuu demonstrating a ridiculous dance from her drama while Yves tried and failed to look uncharmed. Heejin and Hyunjin arguing about something trivial. Kim Lip and Jinsoul sharing wine, heads bent together. Yeojin chasing your daughter around the couch—Vivi had returned her, recharged, to the chaos—both of them shrieking. Choerry watching with that complicated expression that was slowly, slowly becoming something like peace.

And Hyeju, asleep on the couch with one hand on her belly, a small smile on her lips.

Twelve women. One man. A daughter with eleven aunts and a sibling on the way.

A family built on something impossible that had somehow become the realest thing in any of their lives.

Haseul squeezed your fingers. Through the glass, your daughter dodged Yeojin's reaching hands with a delighted shriek—her laughter echoing through the penthouse, bright and certain, like she already knew she'd never run out of people to catch her.

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