#qwib-triples

And what they told her was this:

She was married. She was deeply in love. And her husband, who had been abroad for work, had been devastated when he heard about the accident, even more when he couldn't return immediately. Today—the day of her discharge—she would finally go home.

Her parents had been with her since the beginning, threading her past together with their words. Their voices were steady, unwavering—as if the truth could be spoken into existence.

"You and your husband were so perfect together," her mother gushed, her voice thick with emotion. "Always looking at each other like you were the only two people in the world."

Yooyeon held onto the words, testing them, trying to find something familiar in them.

A flicker of memory surfaced. A formal dinner, the gentle clink of wine glasses, a man’s hand resting on the small of her back as they smiled for photographs. She could almost hear the laughter, but it felt distant, muted—like a scene from someone else’s life.

Her father nodded approvingly. "He's a good man. Responsible, capable. And devoted to you, as any husband should be."

Another fragment—her husband adjusting his tie in their shared bathroom mirror, his reflection catching hers. A quiet familiarity between them, practiced and smooth. She remembered feeling something then—a warmth in her chest, steady and certain.

"You don’t remember?" her mother asked hopefully.

Yooyeon hesitated. Did she? The images were there, but they felt too crisp, too clean—like a story well-told, not a memory truly lived.

"I... I think I do. Little pieces."

Her mother brightened immediately. "See? It’s coming back! I always said true love leaves its mark on the soul, even if the mind forgets."

The words settled over her like a soft weight. True love.

With each story they shared, more pieces seemed to surface. Their first dance at a business gala. Weekend brunches with friends where they finished each other’s sentences. Vacation photos where they looked blissfully happy.

Each memory felt genuine—yet the edges of them blurred, like an oil painting smudged by an impatient hand.

She wanted to believe it. She wanted to be the woman they spoke of, the one who had been so deeply in love.

But wasn’t love supposed to feel more certain than this?

The nurse entered with her discharge papers. "Mrs. Kim, you’re all set to leave. Your husband must be relieved—his wife is finally getting discharged."

His wife.

The words settled into the quiet room, lingering in the air longer than they should have.

She had heard it before—"your husband," "your loving marriage," "you were so happy together." Each time, the words had been spoken with certainty, as if they alone could fill the void in her memory.

But this felt different. Final. Binding.

Her fingers curled around the ring on her left hand. The metal was warm, familiar. She traced its shape, searching for something—anything—that felt like certainty.

She waited for the rush of emotion, the deep-seated knowing. It didn’t come.

Her mother squeezed her hand. “Your husband called while you were resting. He’ll be returning from his work trip this week.”

Yooyeon nodded, ignoring the flutter of something in her chest. Excitement? Anxiety? Or something else entirely?

As the elevator descended to the hospital lobby, her parents chatting excitedly beside her, Yooyeon let herself lean into the stories, into the warmth they promised.

If she reached for the love they spoke of, if she believed hard enough—would it become real?

Today, she was going home.

To them.

And maybe, just maybe, to the love she was supposed to remember.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You step into the familiar quiet of your home, and for a moment, it doesn’t feel real.

This place—this moment—was never supposed to happen like this.

You were supposed to come back with a clearer mind, with the weight of your feelings for Yooyeon finally worn down by distance and time. You had convinced yourself that being away, that drowning in work, was the right thing. You had nearly succeeded in quieting the ache of wanting her—of wanting something you were never meant to have.

But then the call came.

The accident. The words you never expected to hear. That she had lost her memories, that she couldn’t remember you.

And suddenly, the distance that was supposed to help you move on became unbearable.

You couldn’t leave. Couldn’t abandon your work, not when this deal had been months in the making. But you couldn’t call her either. You weren’t ready to hear her voice, to confirm with your own ears that she didn’t remember you. Instead, you asked about her indirectly—through doctors, through her parents. Keeping yourself just close enough to know she was okay, but far enough to not face the truth.

Now, you’re home. And for the first time since you left, you can’t avoid her anymore.

She’s in the living room when you step in, arranging flowers—an image so delicate, so carefully composed, that it stops you in your tracks. You never remembered her paying so much attention to things like this before.

“Welcome home,” she says, offering you a small smile. It’s polite, warm even, but there’s something unfamiliar about it. It’s measured, like she’s giving you exactly what she thinks you expect.

It throws you off.

She’s different, and yet—she’s not. She’s not an entirely new person, not a stranger. She’s still Yooyeon, but softened in ways she never was before. Less guarded, less sharp. And it terrifies you how easily she could slip into the version of her you used to dream about—the version that could have loved you back.

You clear your throat, setting down your luggage. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back sooner.”

Her fingers still briefly over the petals. “It’s fine… they told me your trip was important.” Her voice is light, but there’s something beneath it. A hesitation. A quiet disappointment.

Then, softer, almost to herself, “We could’ve at least talked on the phone.”

Your chest tightens. You don’t know if she’s saying it because she wanted to talk to you or because she thinks it’s something she should say.

“How have you been?” you ask, even though you already know. You know what the doctors have said, what her parents have told you. But you need to hear it from her.

She launches into a recounting of her recovery—how she’s been adjusting, how her parents have practically hovered over her. But as she speaks, something feels off. Her words are careful, almost rehearsed, as if she’s reading from a script someone gave her.

And it hits you—she is following a script.

She’s trying to fit into the life everyone says she had. Trying to be the person they tell her she used to be.

The realization unsettles you.

It should be easy to draw the line. You told yourself, over and over, that this marriage had given you nothing but a lingering ache. That whatever warmth you once felt had long since dulled into something muted, tolerable. Maybe this is the clean break you need—the perfect excuse to finally move on without guilt.

But instead, all the walls you’ve built, the callousness you spent months forging, begin to crack.

You watch her—this version of Yooyeon, untouched by old wounds and past hesitations—and wonder.

Is this a curse? Or is this the only chance you’ll ever have to hold onto something that was never truly yours?

Later, over lunch, the air between you still carries an odd tension—not uncomfortable, just… unfamiliar. You catch yourself hesitating before speaking, unsure which parts of your shared past she still holds onto and which have slipped through the cracks.

"Do you remember the trip to Busan?" you ask, testing again, reaching for a thread of the past.

Yooyeon blinks, her brows knitting together. "Busan…?"

"The conference," you remind her. "Last year. You spent half the time making fun of that presenter’s slides."

She lets out a small laugh but shakes her head. "I don’t remember that at all. But it does sound like something I’d do."

There’s a beat of silence, then a quiet chuckle from both of you—awkward, but not entirely unpleasant.

"Tell me about it?" she asks, tilting her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "I want to know what kind of person I was."

The question throws you off guard, though you’re not sure why. Maybe it’s the vulnerability in her voice, the quiet plea to be filled in on the version of herself that she’s lost.

You hesitate, then exhale softly. "You were—" You stop, correcting yourself. "You are sharp. Witty. You never let anyone get away with nonsense."

She smiles at that, as if it reassures her. "That’s good to hear."

Bit by bit, the stiffness fades.

By evening, it’s different. The space between you, once uncertain, feels smoother, more fluid. It’s not the same as before, but in some ways, it’s easier. Lighter.

Yooyeon touches you more. Small, fleeting gestures—her fingers brushing against yours when she hands you a plate, resting a hand on your wrist when she asks a question, leaning into you slightly when you walk side by side. It’s nothing dramatic, nothing she seems to think twice about. But it’s different.

Before the accident, before the marriage, you thought of Yooyeon as a great friend—someone easy to talk to, someone who made life feel less heavy. When you agreed to the marriage, you thought maybe, just maybe, you were moving toward something more. At first, it seemed like it. The familiarity deepened, your feelings began to take shape, creeping in slowly, almost unnoticed. There were moments—glimpses of what could be—where it felt like the two of you were truly building something together.

But then, it stopped. Or maybe it just never went far enough. She was always there, yet just out of reach. She smiled at you, laughed with you, shared meals with you, but there was always a quiet hesitation in her, an invisible wall she never dared to cross. You wanted more. You wanted to pull her closer, to make her see what you were feeling, but something kept holding you back. Kept holding her back.

Your love for her didn’t fade—it grew. And the more it grew, the more it hurt.

You lived together, spent your days and nights side by side, yet the gap between you remained. A happy marriage, but never quite content. Companions, but never quite lovers.

And now? Now she’s changed. Now, that boundary is gone—not in the way you once wished it would be, but in a way that feels almost unreal. Like something delicate and fleeting, something that shouldn’t be yours to hold.

You don’t comment on it.

You tell yourself it’s just her way of adjusting, of seeking comfort in something familiar.

So you play along.

As the evening drags on, you feel her eyes on you constantly, but there’s no familiar ease to it. No comfort. It’s as if she’s studying you, trying to figure out the person she’s married to, trying to place you into this new reality where you don’t fit. You catch her refilling your water glass before you even ask, adjusting your collar just slightly, even suggesting things she thinks will please you—asking how the trip went, what you did, if you’re tired. Every move she makes feels calculated, like she’s not trying to be the woman you married, but the woman she thinks you expect her to be.

Her actions are all wrapped in politeness and care, but it feels like a performance. You’re a stranger to her now, and she’s just trying to fit the role she believes she has to play.

You can’t help but wonder, does she even know who you are anymore?

After dinner, Yooyeon sets her chopsticks down and looks at you expectantly. “Can we watch some videos?” she asks.

You blink. “Videos?”

“Our wedding, maybe? Or just… us?” She hesitates, twirling a strand of her hair between her fingers. “I want to see. I want to remember.”

You don’t answer right away. Something about the request unsettles you, but you don’t know why.

She watches you carefully, waiting. And for some reason, you find yourself nodding.

Minutes later, you’re both sitting on the couch as the TV screen flickers to life. The first video plays—a montage of your wedding day. The ceremony, the smiles, the laughter. The perfect image of a couple in love.

Yooyeon watches intently, her gaze scanning the screen like she’s trying to etch every second into her mind. “I remember this part,” she murmurs when the camera captures her slipping the ring onto your finger. “I was so nervous.”

You glance at her. “Were you?”

She nods, eyes still locked on the screen. “I kept worrying I’d drop the ring. But you… you looked so calm.” She tilts her head, studying the way you held her hand in the video. “Did you feel nervous?”

You almost laugh. “No. It was just a formality, I was rushing for the event to be over.”

The words sit between you, stark and unfiltered.

Yooyeon doesn’t flinch. Instead, she hums thoughtfully. “Still. We looked happy.”

You don’t answer.

The video shifts to another clip—your honeymoon. A trip spent half in public, playing the roles expected of you, and half in quiet companionship behind closed doors.

“You remember this?” you ask, testing her again.

She pauses. “Not all of it,” she admits. “But some parts… they feel familiar.”

She leans into your side, her body warm against yours.

You hadn’t noticed when it happened, but somehow, Yooyeon ended up nestled against you, her head resting lightly against your shoulder, your arm loosely draped around her. The closeness should feel foreign—it never used to be like this—but strangely, it isn’t.

It feels natural. Too natural.

On the screen, the version of you from the past smiles at her, something soft in his expression that even you don’t quite recognize.

Yooyeon shifts slightly in your arms, tilting her head up to look at you.

Your breath catches.

She’s close. Closer than she should be.

The glow of the screen casts soft shadows over her face, highlighting the curve of her lips, the quiet intent in her eyes. The air between you grows heavy, charged with something neither of you acknowledges.

And then she moves.

Her lips press against yours—gentle, seeking. A quiet, hesitant question in the form of a kiss.

Your body reacts before your mind does.

You’d spent months trying to forget, convincing yourself that this love was better buried.

And yet, here you were—undoing everything in a single moment.

You kiss her back.

Before your kisses could get any deeper, she breaks it off.

“I— I should probably take a shower…” her breath heavy. “Before we continue…” she muttered almost a whisper. As she runs towards your room.

The warmth of her lips still lingers on yours as Yooyeon stumbles away, her words barely registering in your mind. Your pulse is erratic, breath unsteady as she disappears into the bathroom. The sound of running water fills the space, but your thoughts are too tangled to process anything else.

You exhale sharply, running a hand through your hair. What just happened?

The weight of her kiss, the way her body fit against yours—it felt inevitable, like something long overdue.

Minutes pass, stretching endlessly until the water finally stops. The door creaks open, and for a brief moment, you catch a glimpse of her silhouette before she vanishes into your room, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

Your heart is still racing as you push yourself off the couch. The air feels thick, charged with an energy you don’t know how to name.

The shower is quick, the cold water doing little to calm the storm inside you. Even as you dry off, the memory of her touch lingers—her warmth, her scent, the way she looked at you before she kissed you.

Steeling yourself, you step into your bedroom.

And then—you freeze.

Yooyeon lies on your bed, the blanket pooling around her bare shoulders, exposing smooth skin bathed in the dim light. Her damp hair spills over the pillows, dark strands curling at the ends.

Your throat goes dry.

She watches you, her expression unreadable, lips parted slightly as if caught between hesitation and expectation.

Then it hits you.

Under that sheet, Yooyeon is completely naked.

And so are you.

The towel slips from your fingers, falling soundlessly to the floor. Her gaze follows the movement, trailing over your body before flickering away when it lands lower—shyness warring with curiosity.

You move closer, sitting at the edge of the bed. Your hand reaches out, fingers brushing against the soft fabric of the blanket. Slowly, deliberately, you peel it back, unveiling inch after inch of her bare skin.

First, her collarbones, delicate and defined.

Then her breasts, supple, rising and falling with her breath.

Your eyes trace the gentle slope of her stomach, the way it tenses slightly under your gaze.

And then, finally, the last of the blanket falls away, revealing the most intimate part of her.

You pause, drinking her in—every curve, every detail, the sheer vulnerability of this moment.

She is beautiful.

You remind yourself not to rush. To take your time.

Slowly, calmly, you lean in, capturing her lips in a kiss—soft at first, testing, savoring. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she melts into you, her hands trailing up your back, fingertips pressing lightly as if urging you closer.

The kiss deepens.

Your tongues meet, a slow, intoxicating dance. Her taste lingers on your lips, warm and sweet. You tug at her tongue, coaxing it out, teasing, savoring every second before finally breaking apart, breathless.

Both of you pant for air, foreheads pressed together, heat radiating between you. Then, you feel it—Yooyeon’s hand wrapping around your length, her touch light at first, then firmer, stroking you, making you harder than you already are.

You tense, instinctively pulling back for a second, startled by the sudden contact. Her eyes flicker with confusion, but you don’t explain. Instead, you press forward, shifting your focus.

Your lips trail down her body, kissing her skin, feeling the way she trembles beneath you. Her quiet moans spill out as you kiss along her side, then lower, past her navel.

You don’t linger. You know she’s already wet.

Positioning yourself between her legs, you part them, revealing her.

“Yooyeon… can I?” Your voice is low, thick with need.

She nods, her gaze heavy-lidded, filled with anticipation.

You lean in, your tongue sliding against her folds, tasting her, teasing her. She gasps, back arching slightly, her moans growing louder as you work her with slow, deliberate strokes. You take your time, letting each flick, each swirl of your tongue build her pleasure.

You feel her body loosening, her walls softening around your touch. Taking it as your cue, you push your tongue inside, warmth enveloping you as her arousal coats your mouth. She’s overflowing, her body giving in to pleasure.

Her legs clamp around your head, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. Fingers tangle in your hair, grasping tightly as her moans turn desperate, erratic.

You hold her thighs apart, refusing to let her escape. The way she writhes beneath you, the way her voice rises with each stroke of your tongue—it only fuels you. Her pleasure feeds your hunger.

You pick up the pace, teasing and flicking against her sensitive bud. She cries out, hands gripping the sheets, her body arching as the sensation overwhelms her.

Then, without warning, you push your tongue back inside, not giving her a moment’s reprieve. Her moans turn to breathless, broken sounds, her mind too lost in the pleasure to form words.

"Fuh…Ah—Nnn… fuah!!!"

Her body tenses, muscles locking up as the pressure builds. Her legs tremble, stretching outward, her hands pressing against your head, trying to ground herself. Her back arches high, head tilting back as the wave finally crashes over her.

And you don’t stop—drawing out every last pulse of her release, savoring the way her body trembles beneath you.

But your hunger isn't satisfied.

Even though she’s already drenched, already ready, you want more.

Moving back up, you claim her breast, taking a hardened peak into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around it, sucking, teasing, while your hands knead her softness, fingers flicking and pinching in tandem with your lips. You alternate between gentle licks and sharp bites against her sensitive tips, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips.

A loud moan escapes her, her back arching.

Your eyes flick up, catching the way her head tilts, her neck exposed—a silent invitation.

You answer it immediately, trailing kisses along her skin, feeling her pulse quicken beneath your lips. Each press of your mouth sends another shiver through her, her body reacting to every touch.

But you need more.

Your lips find hers again, and before you can even take the lead, she’s already parting her mouth, welcoming you, her tongue eagerly meeting yours.

The kiss deepens, slow and consuming, both of you losing yourselves in the heat of it.

And then—another moan escapes her, breaking the kiss.

Your tip presses against her, teasing her entrance.

You don’t stop. Instead, you return to her lips, deepening the kiss as you rub your length along her slick folds, coating yourself in her arousal.

Her moans sync with each slow, deliberate movement, her body shuddering beneath you. Her hands cradle your face, fingers gliding over your skin, smearing the mess of your mixed saliva as she pulls you in closer.

Your lips part, but your tongues remain locked in their heated dance, unwilling to separate—until she finally pushes you back, breathless.

"Dear… it’s enough… ah!" she whispers between moans.

But is it?

Doubt lingers, and instead of answering, you dip back down, capturing her breast in your mouth, sucking lightly, flicking her sensitive tips with your tongue. She gasps, arching into you, her fingers tightening against your skin.

You trail back up, capturing her lips once more, silencing any protests. She parts her mouth as if to speak, but you don’t let her—your tongue claims hers again, drawing another muffled moan from her.

Finally, she pleads, her voice trembling with need.

"Please… put it in…"

You pull back slightly, your breathing ragged.

Is it really enough?

Your eyes search hers, questioning and hesitating. You want her completely—but only when she’s truly ready.

Then another thought crosses your mind: rubber. Hastily, you reach for the drawer, but before you can, her hand intercepts yours.

“Wait…” she says softly, holding out a condom. Her eyes sparkle with a mix of impatience and assurance. You know you’re supposed to use it, yet in this heated moment, the raw intensity of your desire makes you yearn for an unfiltered connection.

Clutching the condom in your hand, you feel that inner battle between safety and passion. In one impulsive moment, you decide—raw is what you need. With deliberate urgency, you press yourself against her, entering her without delay.

“Ahnnn…” escapes her lips as she welcomes you. Every thrust is met with her rising moans—a rhythmic symphony that spurs you on.

Your hand slides up to her breast, massaging and flicking it, alternating between gentle licks and teasing bites along her sensitive nipple. The sound of her moans draws your attention to the delicate curve of her neck, where your lips trail a fiery path of kisses.

Her insides grow warmer and more intense with each movement, wrapping around you, pulling you deeper into the moment. Sensing that the intensity might soon overwhelm both of you, you briefly pull back—tearing open the condom wrapper with a mix of urgency and hesitation.

You withdraw slightly, and she moans in response. The pause makes you acutely aware of how close you both are to the edge. Desperate not to lose the rhythm, you fumble to put the condom on again.

Sensing your hurry—and perhaps sharing in your urgency—her hand reaches out, deftly fitting the condom for you. Without missing a beat, she guides your length back to her welcoming embrace. Your body re-enters her, and you murmur her name, “Yooyeon.”

“I'm about to cum,” you confess in a low, husky tone, “but… is it okay?”

She meets your gaze with a smile and a nod of encouragement, “Yes… do it whenever you like.”

Emboldened, you resume your pace, each thrust growing more rapid as your kisses overlap with her soft moans. The sight of her—flushed and panting, eyes half-closed in bliss, strands of hair clinging to her flushed skin—drives you closer to your limit. You grip her waist tightly as her arms cradle your head, locking you together in a passionate embrace.

You feel your release building rapidly. Her hips rise to meet your every thrust as she arches her back, her body moving in perfect rhythm with yours. In a final, desperate surge, your finger finds her clit, adding one last burst of stimulation to the electric mix of pleasure.

“No—… Not—There—” she gasps breathlessly as her body twists with the overwhelming sensations.

"I’m—cumming—cumming… Ah!!!" she cries, and in that climactic moment, both of you shatter under the intensity of your shared release.

Her body convulses as waves of heat and pleasure surge through her, each pulse sending shudders down her spine. The sheets beneath you seem to ripple with the force of your climax, every fiber of your being alive with raw ecstasy. You feel her muscles tighten around you, an unspoken invitation to surrender completely to the overwhelming sensation.

Exhausted yet exhilarated, you collapse beside her, your heads turning to face each other. Her expression radiates satisfaction and joy as she softly calls your name. Gently, she plants a kiss on your lips, then on your forehead, and finally on your nose—each tender gesture sealing the memory of your shared passion.

As her eyes close and she nestles into your embrace, you both drift in the afterglow—a raw, unforgettable moment of intimacy that lingers long after the night fades.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yooyeon stirred awake to the warmth of a steady heartbeat beneath her cheek, her fingers curled lightly against his bare chest. His arms were still around her, firm yet relaxed, holding her in a way that made her feel safe. Wanted. Loved.

A quiet smile ghosted her lips as she let herself sink into the moment.

Last night had been…

Her cheeks flushed at the memory—her own boldness, the way she had moved on instinct, the way his touch had set fire to every inch of her skin. She hadn’t thought too deeply about it at the time. She had simply acted on a feeling—a feeling that told her she wanted him, wanted to be close to him in the most intimate way.

And she had been right.

Being with him had felt good, natural. She felt satisfied, happy, content in a way that only reaffirmed everything she had come to believe since waking up in this life—she loved him.

She was sure of it.

The realization sent a quiet thrill through her. She had been nervous, hesitant, unsure if her memories would ever return, but last night had proven that love didn’t need memories to exist. She felt it in the way she craved his presence, in the warmth that filled her chest when he looked at her.

Yooyeon shifted slightly, pressing closer to him, breathing in the faint scent of him—clean, comforting, familiar.

But then his voice cut through the soft haze of her thoughts.

“That was… unexpected,” he murmured, his fingers absentmindedly tracing slow circles on her back.

She blinked, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. “Unexpected?”

He hesitated, just for a second. Then, with a careful smile, he said, “It’s been a while.”

A while.

The words settled in her mind, stirring something she didn’t quite understand. Of course, it had been a while—she had only woken up to this life weeks ago. But his tone, the way his hand tightened slightly around her waist, made her feel like it was more than that. Like this distance between them wasn’t just from her accident, but something older.

She wanted to ask—why had it been so long?

But the words never left her lips. It wasn’t hard to imagine why. Their relationship was complicated. She might not remember everything, but she could sense it—the hesitance in his touch, the way he always seemed to be holding back, like there was something unspoken between them.

Maybe that was just how marriage worked. Maybe love wasn’t always constant, but something that came and went.

Still, as she rested her head against his chest, the thought lingered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At first, it unsettles you.

The way Yooyeon moves around you so effortlessly, the way she reaches for your hand without hesitation, the way she speaks to you with such natural affection—it’s disorienting.

She doesn’t remember.

She doesn’t remember that your marriage was built on something practical, something strategic. She doesn’t remember that love was never part of the equation.

And yet, she looks at you like it is.

Like it always has been.

You catch yourself hesitating around her more often than not. There’s a strange discomfort in knowing something she doesn’t, in feeling the weight of the truth pressing against your ribs every time she smiles at you. You should tell her. You should set things straight.

But you don’t.

Instead, you find yourself falling into the rhythm of her new version of your life together.

You wake up with her in your arms, and you don’t pull away.

You sit together for breakfast, and when she instinctively places a peeled orange slice on your plate, you take it without thinking.

You come home from work to find her waiting, sometimes with dinner already prepared, other times with stories of her day, filling the house with a warmth that never quite existed before.

And slowly, day by day, you stop resisting.

You settle into married life again—but this time, without hesitation.

She reaches for you first. She falls asleep in your arms, waking up smiling at you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The distance that once defined your relationship is gone, replaced by something warm, something dangerously easy to believe in.

You let yourself fall into the illusion.

One evening, as you sit in the living room, Yooyeon is curled up beside you, flipping through an old photo album she found while reorganizing the shelves.

“Oh,” she says, her fingers tracing over a picture. “I remember this one.”

You glance over. It’s from a ski trip, a company retreat you attended together two winters ago. She had nearly sprained her wrist trying to prove she could keep up with the more experienced skiers. You had ended up guiding her down the slope, an arm around her waist, both of you laughing as she barely managed to stay upright.

“You do?” you ask, cautious.

“Sort of,” she hums. “It’s faint. More like… I remember how I felt.”

You watch her quietly. “And how did you feel?”

She turns to you with a small smile. “Happy.”

Your chest tightens.

There are other moments, too—soft, fleeting, but impossible to ignore.

Nights spent in the kitchen, cooking together, bumping into each other as you move around the stove. She steals bites of whatever you’re preparing, grinning at you when you feign irritation.

Late-night talks, lying in bed with the lights off, her voice quiet but filled with warmth as she tells you about all the things she wants to do, all the places she wants to see. And for the first time, you let yourself imagine being there with her.

She steals kisses—teasingly, playfully, like you’ve always been in love. A kiss on the cheek as she passes by, a lingering press of her lips to yours just before bed. At first, it startles you, but then you start to expect it. Crave it.

And before you realize it, you start kissing her back.

You begin to dream of a life where this isn’t just a lie.

Another time, during dinner, she asks a question you aren’t prepared for.

“What was our first date like?”

You pause, chopsticks hovering midair. “Our first date?”

She nods eagerly, resting her chin in her hand. “I was thinking about it earlier. I tried to remember, but I couldn’t, so… tell me.”

You exhale slowly, setting your chopsticks down. A smile tugs at your lips, unbidden. “You don’t remember sneaking out of that charity banquet when we were seventeen and eating instant ramen at a convenience store?”

Her eyes widen in surprise before a small, delighted laugh escapes her. “That was a date?”

“You called it one,” you say, smirking. “Said it was the best meal you ever had.”

She hums, thoughtful, before grinning. “I must’ve been charming back then.”

“You still are,” you murmur without thinking.

Her expression softens. Then she tilts her head playfully. “That’s cute, but I meant a real date. You know—one where we both knew what it was.”

You hesitate, because you know what she’s really asking.

There was never a first date in the way she’s imagining—no sweet, nervous anticipation, no deliberate choice to step into something romantic. Your relationship had always been tangled in something more complicated.

But now, as she looks at you with expectation, her fingers absentmindedly toying with the edge of her napkin, you find yourself saying—

“Then let’s have one.”

She blinks. “What?”

“A first date,” you say simply, watching her reaction. “One you can remember.”

Her face brightens, eyes gleaming with something warm, something real. “Okay,” she says, smiling. “Let’s do it.”

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—this doesn’t have to be a lie.

You don’t realize when you stop overthinking things.

When she slides her hand into yours while walking through a park, you don’t flinch.

When she leans against you while watching a movie, you don’t stiffen.

When she laughs at something you say, her whole face lighting up, you don’t look away.

And one day, you catch yourself smiling at her when she isn’t looking.

The feeling that stirs inside you is unfamiliar and familiar all at once.

Because the truth is—you’ve always had feelings for her.

You just never let yourself acknowledge them before.

But now, standing in the middle of a life that feels almost real, you wonder if this is a sign.

A sign that maybe, just maybe, you can start again.

And maybe—just maybe—you don’t have to tell her the truth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yooyeon stood in front of the mirror, carefully adjusting the delicate bracelet around her wrist. A soft hum of excitement bubbled in her chest as she checked her reflection one last time. Their first real date—the kind she had always dreamed of. She wanted today to be perfect. Not because it had to be, but because it already felt like it would be.

She had spent the past hour choosing the right outfit, something that felt effortless yet pretty, hoping he would notice. Hoping he would look at her the way she was starting to look at him.

By the time she stepped out of the bedroom, he was already waiting near the door. His gaze flickered over her, lingering just long enough for warmth to spread through her.

“You look nice,” he said simply, his voice softer than usual.

She grinned. “Only nice?”

He exhaled a small chuckle, shaking his head as if she was impossible. Then, more sincerely—“Beautiful.”

Her breath caught. She wanted to tease him, but the way he said it, like he meant it, left her speechless. Before she could find the words, he extended his hand.

A simple gesture. A quiet offering.

She took it without hesitation, her fingers slipping between his, fitting as if they belonged there. He gave her hand a small squeeze, and together, they stepped out into the world beyond their home.

The day unfolded like something out of a dream.

Their first stop was a small bakery-café, the kind nestled between old bookstores and cozy boutiques. It smelled like fresh bread and vanilla, warmth curling in the air like an embrace. Yooyeon picked a selection of pastries for them to share, carefully choosing the ones she thought he would like.

She watched with barely contained excitement as he took a bite of a strawberry tart.

“It’s good,” he admitted, chewing thoughtfully.

“Good?” She gasped, placing a dramatic hand over her chest. “This is art.”

His lips quirked into a smirk. “Alright, it’s art.”

Satisfied, she took her own bite, savoring the sweetness. The café was quiet, filled with the murmur of soft conversations and the gentle notes of a piano melody playing in the background. She found herself stealing glances at him, memorizing the rare ease in his expression, the way the afternoon sunlight kissed his skin.

For the first time in a long time, it felt like they weren’t pretending.

The movie theater was next. She had picked a lighthearted romantic comedy, wanting to keep the mood playful. He hadn’t protested, only giving her an unreadable glance when she insisted it would be fun.

It was.

She found herself laughing at the silliest scenes, and every now and then, when she peeked at him, she caught the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes. He wasn’t laughing outright, but he was watching her more than the movie, and somehow, that made her heart flutter more than anything on the screen.

At one point, when she reached for the popcorn, their hands brushed. Neither of them moved.

Slowly, he intertwined their fingers beneath the dim glow of the screen.

Her heart stuttered. She squeezed his hand lightly.

He squeezed back.

By afternoon, they had made their way to the park, where a small picnic awaited them. She had planned it in advance, packing simple homemade sandwiches and fresh fruit. The air was crisp, the sky stretching endlessly above them, and for a while, they simply enjoyed the peacefulness.

Yooyeon leaned against him, letting her head rest against his shoulder. He didn’t move away. Instead, his hand found its way into her hair, his fingers brushing through it absentmindedly.

Her heart melted.

“I think this is the first time we’ve actually done something like this,” she murmured.

“Like what?”

“Spent a whole day together… just being a normal couple.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, in a voice so low she almost missed it—

“Yeah.”

She smiled, closing her eyes for a brief second, savoring the warmth of him. The world felt quieter like this. Like it had shrunk to just the two of them, existing in a space untouched by the past.

She wanted to stay in this moment forever.

Night had fallen by the time they reached their final stop—a quiet hill overlooking the cityscape. From afar, the lights twinkled like stars, stretching far beyond what the eye could see. The air was cool, crisp against her skin, but standing beside him, she barely noticed.

“I used to come here alone sometimes,” he admitted, his voice softer, more open. “Just to think.”

Yooyeon turned to him, searching his face. “And now?”

He looked at her then—really looked at her. As if seeing her for the first time. As if realizing something he hadn’t before.

“Now, I think I’d rather share it with you.”

Her breath hitched.

The moment stretched between them, delicate and charged.

Without thinking, she stepped closer, lifting a hand to his cheek, her thumb brushing over his skin. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, leaning into her touch, like it was something he had been waiting for.

Her gaze flickered to his lips.

The tension thickened, the world around them fading until there was nothing left but the space between them.

She moved first, closing the distance, pressing her lips to his in a kiss so soft, so tender, it felt like a secret. He inhaled sharply against her mouth, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer.

The kiss deepened, slow and consuming, filled with something warm and terrifyingly sweet.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathless. He pressed his forehead against hers, eyes closed as if grounding himself.

“Maybe we should go home,” he murmured, voice husky.

Yooyeon nodded, still dazed. “Yeah.”

He took her hand again, this time holding it a little tighter as they made their way back.

And deep down, she knew—tonight wasn’t over just yet.

The drive home is quiet, but not tense. Her fingers remain laced with yours the entire way, her grip firm—like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go. You don’t say anything about it. You just hold on.

By the time you step through the door, the house feels different. Warmer, despite the lingering shadows. It’s strange how just her presence can make it feel like home again.

Neither of you turn on the lights. There’s no need. The dim glow from the night city lights outside is enough to guide you through the familiar space. Without a word, you both make your way to the bedroom, as if some unspoken understanding pulls you forward.

And now—here you are.

Sitting side by side at the edge of the bed, your hands still loosely linked. The weight of the night settles over you, thick with all the words that haven’t been spoken yet.

You steal a glance at her, only to find her already looking at you. There’s something different in her eyes tonight—not just longing, not just resolve, but something deeper. Something that makes your breath catch.

You thought you had lost her. And maybe, in a way, you did. But now she’s here, choosing you—not because of old memories, not because of a past you held onto alone, but because of now.

And that’s when it hits you.

You had loved her before. Loved her in quiet ways, in restrained touches, in the unspoken words that always hovered on the tip of your tongue. But now—now, you’ve fallen again. Harder. Deeper.

She tilts her head slightly, waiting. For you to speak, for you to move, for you to reassure her that this isn’t a mistake.

You exhale, threading your fingers through hers, squeezing once. “Yooyeon…”

Her name feels different when you say it this time—like something new and familiar all at once.

She smiles, small but real, and she pressed her lips against you.

And just like that, you fall all over again.

She pulls away, her lips barely parting from yours as she searches your face. There’s warmth in her gaze, a quiet certainty that makes your chest tighten. Then, she smiles—soft, unwavering.

You cradle her face in your hands, and she leans into your touch, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment as if memorizing the feel of you.

You kiss her again. This time, there’s no hesitation—just slow, unhurried intimacy, deepening with every passing second.

Her hands rest lightly against your chest, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your shirt. You can feel her heartbeat, unsteady yet eager, mirroring your own.

Your hand slides up the smooth curve of her thigh, fingers ghosting over her soft skin before slipping under the hem of her skirt. She shudders but doesn’t pull away—if anything, she presses closer, her breath coming faster, anticipation thick in the space between you.

Your lips break apart just as her gaze flickers down—drawn to the movement of your hand between her legs. She knows what’s coming. She wants it.

Without hesitation, your fingers slip beneath her panties, gliding over her soaked heat. A slow, teasing stroke along her slit makes her breath hitch, her thighs twitching in response. You find her clit, circling it with deliberate pressure, and she gasps—soft at first, then louder as your touch grows bolder.

Her head drops onto your shoulder, her body sagging into you, surrendering. You let your free hand tangle in her hair, stroking her, keeping her close as she clings to your other arm. Her grip tightens whenever you rub just right, her body reacting instinctively, desperately.

She’s soaked now, dripping, her slickness coating your fingers as you ease one inside her. She tenses, then relaxes, her walls fluttering around you as you curl your finger, testing, teasing.

“Hnnng…” A breathy moan spills from her lips, her body trembling against yours.

She leans into you, eyes wide and desperate as they lock onto yours—raw, pleading, and hungry for more. You can tell she’s craving every inch of this moment, and you’re more than ready to deliver.

“Can... can I—like, you... lie down?” she asks shyly, her voice low and breathy.

“Sure,” you reply, a mix of confusion and intrigue in your tone as you both head for the bed. Once there, she starts undressing, and you watch, not quite sure what she’s planning.

“Should I... too?” you ask with a playful smirk.

“Ye—yes,” she stammers, her voice thick with anticipation.

Before long, you’re shedding your shirt, pants, and boxers, leaving you completely bare as you wait for Yooyeon to finish. With a final, deliberate move, she slips off her soaked panties, revealing everything. Her eyes linger hungrily on your throbbing package, and after a deep, steadying breath, she crawls over and positions herself on top of you.

Meeting your gaze, she confesses, “It’s because... last time, you teased me way too much,” her cheeks flushing with both embarrassment and desire.

Before you can even reach out for a cuddle, her hand finds your cock, stroking it with a confident, teasing rhythm.

“Yooyeon...” you murmur, barely above a whisper.

Without missing a beat, she shifts so that her dripping, slick pussy meets your throbbing tip. Her natural juices make every touch wet and irresistible.

“Hnnng…” she breathes as she slowly pushes down on you, her warm, inviting opening taking you in inch by inch. Her body settles over yours, fully engulfing you as she adjusts to the sensation.

Then. Her hips start moving—first slow and deliberate, then quickening into a relentless, pulsing rhythm. The heat of her body surrounds you as she rides you hard, every thrust drawing you deeper into a night of raw, unfiltered passion.

“I can feel it twitch…” she breathes, her voice husky as she asks, “Do—does it feel good?”

“Yeah, Yooyeon… it feels amazing,” you reply, your words thick with desire.

Your lips collide, entangling in a deep, fervent kiss as your fingers cradle her cheeks. The kiss intensifies, every touch stoking the fire between you. Rising slightly, she quickens her pace—her desperation unmistakable as she chases her own pleasure.

Before long, exhaustion begins to claim her, and her movements slow; yet even as she gasps for air, her hips remain insistent, grinding slowly despite her fatigue. Sensing an unspoken urge, you murmur, “Yooyeon, there’s something I want to try,” offering an excuse in case she’s too shy to ask outright.

A quick nod is all you need. You reposition her gently to your side, guiding her so that her head rests on your arm. With her back to you, you slide into her again, savoring the fresh angle as both your rhythms realign. Her moans return, matching the new, steady pace that builds once more.

As your hands explore, hers finds yours, fingers interlocking tightly as the intensity escalates. Your other hand wanders over her breasts, teasing her hardened nipples with every deliberate stroke. “I’m—I'm close,” Yooyeon confesses, her voice trembling with anticipation.

Noticing her gaze drifting back to you, you grasp her chin and pull her into another searing kiss, your tongues dancing together. Shifting once again, you climb atop her, pressing her flat against the bed as you prepare to drive her to the edge. “I’m close too,” you murmur between kisses, the admission fusing your sensations into one.

The pace quickens; her moans grow louder, her movements erratic as both your breaths come in ragged bursts. The heat between you becomes almost unbearable, every thrust and every touch amplifying the approaching climax. “Cum with me… please,” she pleads, her voice raw with need.

In that electrifying moment, her body convulses in overwhelming pleasure. You feel your own climax surge through you as you pull away, releasing your heated burst onto her back. The space between you, though charged with the remnants of passion, holds the echo of every gasp, every moan, and every shared moment of unbridled ecstasy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lying in bed, Yooyeon feels the warmth of his arm draped over her waist, the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back. The room is dim, the only light coming from the soft glow of the city outside. She should be at peace, comforted by his presence—yet something gnaws at her, an unease she can’t quite place.

She traces slow circles on the back of his hand with her fingertips, a habit that feels instinctual, familiar, though she can’t remember why. The motion soothes her, but the ache in her chest lingers. Without thinking, she murmurs,

“You always used to hate holding hands.”

His entire body stiffens.

She feels it instantly—the tension in his muscles, the way his breath halts for a split second before resuming, just a little too controlled.

She blinks, turning to look at him. His face is carefully blank, but she knows better now. Knows enough to recognize the way his guard snaps into place.

“…Didn’t you?” she presses, searching his face for an answer.

He exhales slowly, withdrawing his hand. “I don’t remember saying that.”

But she knows he does.

Her memories aren’t whole—just flickers, shadows of something real but unreachable. Yet, in those fragments, there’s a truth she can’t ignore.

She starts noticing it more—the subtle moments when he pulls away. The slight hesitation before he responds to her touch. The darkness in his eyes when she speaks too easily of their love.

And it starts to hurt.

One night, the weight of it all crashes into her. “Why do you act like this?” she asks, voice trembling. “Like you’re afraid of me?”

His expression hardens. “I’m not.”

“You are,” she insists, stepping closer. “I see it in your eyes. Every time I talk about us, about our past, you look at me like—” Her throat tightens. “Like you’re waiting for something to fall apart.”

His jaw clenches. He looks away. “Yooyeon, drop it.”

But she can’t. She won’t.

“Why did we choose the beach?” she asks suddenly, searching his face for the truth she feels slipping through her fingers.

His arm stiffens around her shoulders. “You wanted something grand.”

No. The memory surfaces, unbidden. I wanted it small. Private. Just us.

His gaze is raw, almost pained, as if she’s a ghost he can’t touch. When she reaches for him, he hesitates—a heartbeat too long—before brushing a kiss to her temple.

Something inside her cracks.

The fear she’s been trying to suppress rises to the surface, wrapping around her throat, making it hard to breathe. She needs to hear it. Needs him to say it.

“Did you love me from the start?” she whispers in bed that night, her palm flat against his chest, feeling the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat.

He goes still. Seconds stretch into something unbearable before he answers,

“Yes.”

But it’s the wrong kind of yes—heavy with guilt, not devotion.

She sits up, the sheets pooling around her. “Then why does it feel like you’re lying to me?”

His jaw tightens. Moonlight catches the sheen of sweat at his temple.

“Yooyeon—”

“Tell me the truth.” Her voice cracks. “Please.”

He turns away, his silhouette rigid against the night. “You’re still recovering. We shouldn’t—”

“Stop treating me like I’ll break!” The words burst out sharper than she intends. When she grabs his wrist, he flinches.

He actually flinches.

Her breath catches. “You… you’re scared of me.”

“No.” But his pulse is racing beneath her fingers.

“Then why won’t you look at me?” She cups his face, forcing his gaze to meet hers. What she sees there steals the air from her lungs—anguish, regret, something deeper, darker.

His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“Because when you remember everything… you’ll wish I hadn’t.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You notice it the moment you step inside.

The air feels different—thicker, colder, heavy in a way that has nothing to do with temperature. Some of the lights are off, casting the house in an eerie dimness, as if it were holding its breath.

And Yooyeon—she isn’t there to greet you.

That alone makes you pause. Even on days when she’s distracted, even when she’s lost in thought, she always turns at the sound of the door unlocking. Always lifts her head, always meets your gaze.

But tonight, she doesn’t.

Your chest tightens. You don’t even take off your coat before stepping further inside, following the faint glow of the living room lamp.

Then you see her.

She’s sitting on the couch, unnaturally still. Her hands rest in her lap as if she’s forcing them to stay there. But it’s her eyes that give her away—locked onto something on the table, unblinking.

A single sheet of paper.

Something prickles at the back of your neck.

“…Yooyeon.”

She flinches. It’s subtle, barely noticeable, but you catch it.

Then, like a switch, she turns to you, a smile flickering onto her lips—too practiced, too forced. “You’re home.”

Your gut twists. Something is wrong.

Still, you don’t press. You nod, greeting her quietly. She nods back, but her fingers tighten against the fabric of her dress, her nervousness seeping into you.

You tell yourself to let it go. To wait. If it’s important, she’ll bring it up.

So you step away, heading toward your home office. The silence follows you.

You place your briefcase down, reaching for the drawer to put away your documents—

—and stop.

The drawer is open.

Your heart stutters.

It shouldn’t be. You always keep it locked. You always make sure.

Your breath is shallow as your eyes lower—and then you see it.

The contract.

The one detailing everything. The terms of your marriage.

The proof of how pragmatic your relationship was.

The paper that stands in direct contrast to the warmth you’ve built with her now.

Your pulse pounds.

Yooyeon.

She saw it.

You’re moving before you can think, your footsteps brisk as you retrace your steps, each second stretching unbearably long.

When you step into the living room again, she’s already looking at you.

Panic. That’s what you see first. She opens her mouth, stumbling over her words, voice thin and desperate, like she’s trying to contain a flood. “I—I found it when I was cleaning. I didn’t mean to pry, I just—”

She stops, swallowing hard. Then, softer, like she already knows she won’t like the answer:

“…What does it mean?”

Your throat tightens.

The weight of it crashes between you, an invisible force pressing against your chest, against your ribs.

She knows.

She doesn’t know.

Not completely. Not yet. But she’s one breath away from understanding.

You could lie. You could say it was nothing. That it was just an old, forgotten document. You could keep pretending.

But you don’t.

Because the truth is already here, unraveling between you.

You exhale, stepping forward, your voice quiet, steady.

“Yooyeon… there’s something I need to tell you.”

The silence is suffocating.

Yooyeon doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. You see it in her eyes. The confusion, the disbelief, the quiet, desperate hope that this isn’t what she thinks it is.

You wish you could spare her. Wish you could rewind to a moment before she found that damned contract, before she looked at you with that kind of fragile, breaking expression.

But you can’t.

So you force yourself to meet her gaze, force yourself to let the truth spill before it’s too late.

“Our marriage wasn’t… real. At least, not the way you think it was.”

Her breath catches.

You don’t look away. “It was arranged. A contract. Your parents and mine, they wanted us to marry. We went along with it.”

Her lips part, but no words come out. You can see the gears turning in her head, the memories she’s tried so hard to piece together now twisting into something cruel, something she never saw coming.

She swallows. “So… so you’re saying…” Her voice shakes. “It was all fake?”

Something twists in your chest.

“No,” you say immediately. Desperately. “No, I—” You drag a hand down your face, frustration clawing at you. “It wasn’t like that. Not for me.”

She flinches.

And that’s when it happens—the moment her heart breaks.

You can see it, feel it, the way her entire body tenses like she’s trying to hold herself together, but the cracks are already there, spreading, widening.

“…Every time you told me you loved me,” she whispers, “was it just part of the act?”

“Yooyeon.” Your voice is strained, pleading. “I didn’t lie about loving you. I just never had the courage to tell you the truth.”

She stares at you.

Then she lets out a quiet, shaky laugh—one that isn’t amused at all.

She takes a step back. Then another.

Your stomach drops.

She’s leaving.

You don’t know where, don’t know if she even has anywhere to go, but she’s walking away from you.

“Yooyeon, wait—”

She shakes her head. “I need to think.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I just… I need to think.”

Everything in you screams to stop her. To explain, to beg, to do anything but let her go.

But you don’t.

Instead, you inhale sharply and take a step back first.

“I’ll give you space,” you say, though it nearly kills you. “But don’t leave. Please.”

She hesitates.

You reach for her hand—just barely, just enough for her to know you would still hold on if she let you.

And finally, finally, she exhales, her shoulders dropping as if she’s too exhausted to fight anymore.

“…Okay,” she whispers.

She stays.

But the distance between you has never felt wider.

You exhale, slow and measured, though everything inside you is fraying at the edges.

“I’ll stay at a hotel,” you say, voice quiet but firm. “For as long as you need.”

Yooyeon doesn’t respond right away. She’s still looking at you like she doesn’t know who you are anymore. Like she’s seeing you for the first time and hating that she ever trusted you.

It’s unbearable.

“I don’t want you to feel trapped here,” you continue, forcing the words out despite the knot in your throat. “I don’t want you to think I’m keeping you in a place built on lies.”

Her breath stutters, but she quickly masks it. She’s still trying to be strong.

You wish she wouldn’t.

You wish she’d yell at you, cry, say something that doesn’t feel like an unbearable silence stretching between you.

“Okay,” she finally whispers.

You nod, forcing yourself to move. To walk away first, even when every instinct in you screams to stay.

But before you reach the door, her voice stops you.

“How long?”

You turn, eyes meeting hers.

“How long were you going to keep this from me?” she asks, arms wrapping around herself. “If I hadn’t found out… would you have ever told me?”

The truth is cruel, but it’s the only thing she deserves now.

“…I don’t know.”

Yooyeon swallows, then looks away.

That’s when you realize—you’ve broken something that might never be fixed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yooyeon wakes up alone.

The bed feels bigger now, colder, the silence stretching around her like an unwelcome embrace. She lies there for a moment, staring at the empty space beside her, before finally sitting up.

Another day.

She moves through the house like a ghost, her footsteps quiet, her routine unchanged—yet everything feels different. The kitchen table where they used to share quiet breakfasts, the couch where he used to sit, sifting through papers while she curled up beside him. It’s all the same, and yet it isn’t.

Because he’s not here.

He never called. Never came back.

She should be relieved. This is what she wanted, wasn’t it? Space. Time.

But instead, all she feels is this aching loneliness.

Her eyes fall to the coffee table, where the contract still sits, edges curled from how often she’s touched it, read it, searched it for something—anything—that could make this hurt less.

Each word, each line, feels heavier now. A binding agreement, an arrangement born from necessity. But as the days pass, as she reads it over and over, something in her shifts.

It was never just that.

Her mind drifts back to that night—his voice, raw with emotion.

"I didn’t lie about loving you. I just never had the courage to tell you the truth."

She remembers the way he looked at her, desperate, conflicted, afraid. She hadn’t been able to see it then, too consumed by the betrayal, by the weight of everything she didn’t know. But now, with time, with distance—

Hadn’t she felt the same way?

She rests a hand over the contract, fingers trembling slightly.

Her memories come in fragments. Unclear at first, like pieces of a puzzle she can’t quite fit together. But slowly—painfully, inevitably—they start to return.

She remembers loving him. Wanting him. Long before marriage was even a question.

They had been friends first, before their parents had forced them together. But she had never felt trapped, had never resented the idea. Because she had wanted it too.

She had been happy, at first. Happy at the opportunity to be something more, to step into a future where she could love him freely.

But then—she hesitated.

Fear had crept in, silencing her before she could say the words, before she could risk what they already had. She had told herself it was better this way. Safer.

And then—

The accident.

The memories she had lost. The love she had forgotten.

Yooyeon lets out a shaky breath, pressing her palm against her forehead.

She had already fallen for him before the marriage.

And now—she's not going to lose him again.

She already lost him once to her memories. She won’t let it happen a second time.

It doesn’t matter how it all started, doesn’t matter what had happened before. She had fallen for him before. More importantly is that she fell for him again.

She loves him. Now.

And that’s enough.

Her hands tighten around the contract for a moment before she exhales, setting it aside. She grabs her coat, her keys. She needs to see him.

She needs to fix this.

Without another thought, she heads for the door, heart pounding as she makes her way to his hotel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You weren’t expecting her.

Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

Days had passed, stretching into something unbearable, something you forced yourself to endure because it was what she needed. Space. Time. A chance to decide if she even wanted to come back.

You had told yourself you wouldn’t wait forever. That if she wanted to leave, you would let her. That you wouldn’t be selfish—not anymore.

But when the knock comes, sharp and hesitant against the hotel door, your heart betrays you.

You open it, and there she is.

Yooyeon stands in the dim hallway, arms wrapped around herself, eyes flickering with uncertainty. Her hair is slightly damp, as if she’d rushed here without thinking twice. Her lips part, as if searching for something to say—something to explain why she’s here at all.

But then she steps forward.

Her hands reach for you first, fingers curling into your shirt, and before you can ask, before you can even breathe—

She kisses you.

It’s not careful. Not hesitant. Not like before.

It’s deep, unrestrained, filled with something desperate and aching, like she’s trying to grasp something that’s always felt just out of reach.

You’re stunned. For half a second, your body locks up—because how could you have prepared for this? For her? For the way she clings to you, pressing herself close like she’s afraid to let go?

And then you give in.

Your arms wrap around her, pulling her fully into you, returning the kiss with everything you’ve held back for too long.

She came back.

She wants this.

When she finally pulls away, her forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the small space between you. “I don’t want to remember a love we pretended to have.” Her voice is quiet, steady despite the way her fingers tremble against your chest. “I want to love you for real.”

The words hit harder than you expect.

You swallow, pressing your lips together, hands tightening at her waist. “Are you sure?”

Her answer is immediate. “Yes.”

And that’s all you need.

You don’t know how you make it to the bed. Only that she doesn’t let go. That every step, every kiss, every touch feels like something slipping back into place—like something that had always been there, waiting to be found.

She’s warm against you, tucked under the sheets, her body curled into yours as if she belongs there.

And maybe she does.

Her head rests against your chest, fingers playing absently with the fabric of your shirt. She’s quiet, but not distant. Not like before.

You hesitate, then run a hand down her back, slow, deliberate. She shivers, but doesn’t pull away.

“I thought I lost you,” you admit, voice low in the quiet.

She shifts, tilting her head up to meet your gaze. In the dim light, her eyes are soft, filled with something painfully tender.

“I won’t leave you,” she murmurs.

You inhale sharply.

She presses her hand against your chest, right where your heartbeat pounds—steady, strong.

“Not again.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Their steps were slow, unhurried, yet every kiss, every touch, pulled them further inside, as if gravity itself was drawing them together. Yooyeon wasn’t even sure who was leading. It didn’t matter. Between soft sighs and the heat of his hands on her waist, guiding her closer, she only realized they had reached the bed when the backs of her knees met the edge.

She looked up at him, breathless, her pulse thrumming with anticipation. There was no hesitation this time, no uncertainty. Just them.

She kissed him again, rising onto her toes to meet him, her lips warm and insistent. He responded without pause, deepening the kiss, his hands steady on her waist as he pulled her closer. The sensation of him, solid and warm, sent a shiver racing down her spine.

Then, he pulled away just enough to rise above her, his gaze heavy with intent. Yooyeon’s breath caught, her skin buzzing with anticipation as his fingers found the hem of her sweater. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted it, the fabric sliding over her skin, gathering just above her chest. Cool air met the warmth of her body, sending a shiver through her as her stomach and the lace-covered swell of her breasts were revealed to him.

Her heart pounded as he leaned down, his lips tracing a slow, unhurried path along her jaw, then lower, down the delicate curve of her neck. Every press of his mouth left her skin tingling, warmth pooling deep inside her. His hands followed, tender yet assured, cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks. A quiet sigh escaped her, her back arching instinctively into his touch, silently urging him on.

His fingers skimmed the slope of her waist, tracing along her ribs before venturing lower. The anticipation made her breath stutter, her senses sharpening as his hand found the waistband of her jeans. She felt his fingers slip past the fabric with ease, the heat of his touch pressing against the thin lace of her panties.

A sharp breath hitched in her throat as he explored, teasing at her center with slow, deliberate strokes. The sensation was electric, sending waves of pleasure curling through her. She clung to his shoulders, her grip tightening as he pushed her further into sensation—patient, unhurried, savoring every reaction she gave him.

Beside her, his warmth enveloped her, grounding her even as his fingers continued their slow, teasing rhythm. Every movement was precise, coaxing, igniting a fire deep within her. She could feel the way her hips responded, rising instinctively to meet his touch, chasing the pleasure he so expertly drew from her.

Her breath came in quiet, uneven gasps, each one only spurring him on. His gaze flickered between her flushed face and the way her body moved under his touch, drinking in every sound, every shiver.

Then, seamlessly, their position shifted. He sat up, pulling her with him, his arms wrapping around her as he cradled her against his chest. Her head rested against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, her breath shaky, her body trembling in his hold. Yet his hand remained between her thighs, never faltering, never rushing—just holding her there, guiding her deeper into sensation.

She clung to him, her fingers gripping his shirt as if anchoring herself against the pleasure that threatened to consume her entirely.

“Yooyeon…” He whispers her name, his voice deep and coaxing.

His free hand stroked her hair, tender and grounding—a stark contrast to the way his other hand moved with aching precision. She gasped, thighs trembling around his wrist, and he tightened his hold around her, murmuring soft reassurances against her temple.

She could feel his arousal pressing against her through his pants, heat radiating from him. Instinctively, her hand drifted down, palm grazing over the rigid outline. A quiet sigh escaped him at her touch.

“I want to make you feel good,” she whispered, her voice laced with quiet desire.

A silent agreement passed between them as he slowly withdrew his hand from between her thighs, releasing her just long enough to let them shift.

Yooyeon pulled her sweater over her head, the fabric slipping away to reveal bare skin beneath. He helped her, his fingers grazing along her arms as he eased it off. She returned the gesture, undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it from his shoulders, baring him to her touch.

Piece by piece, they undressed—her bra, her jeans, the soft slide of lace slipping down her legs until nothing remained between them. She moved closer, hands finding the buckle of his belt, unfastening it with deliberate care. He watched her, breath shallow, as she worked the zipper down, easing his pants over his hips and letting them pool at his feet.

Left only in his boxers, his arousal strained against the fabric, the tension between them thick with anticipation. Settling between his legs, Yooyeon reached for the waistband, fingers curling around it as she tugged it down, inch by inch. The moment the fabric gave way, his erection sprang free, no longer bound by restraint.

She glanced up at him, lips slightly parted, her breath warm against his skin. He looked down at her, eyes dark with something between restraint and longing.

“Yooyeon… you don’t have to,” he murmured, his voice low, hesitant.

She shook her head, her heart aching at how gentle he was with her. “But I want to.”

And she did. It wasn’t just about desire—it was something deeper, something that went beyond the heat simmering between them. She wanted to show him how much he meant to her, how much she trusted him, how much she loved him. Every touch he had given her had been filled with tenderness, with devotion. She wanted to give that back to him now, to see him unravel because of her.

Holding his gaze, she leaned in, letting her lips brush against him first—soft, deliberate, reverent. His breath caught. Encouraged, she let her tongue flick out, tasting him, before slowly taking him into her mouth. He twitched against her tongue, and a quiet groan slipped from his lips. The sound sent warmth curling through her, not just from arousal, but from the knowledge that she could bring him pleasure like this. That he would let her. That he wanted her to.

She moved slowly, savoring the weight of him, the heat, the way his fingers threaded through her hair—not to guide her, not to demand, but simply to touch, to hold. His restraint was palpable, and it only made her more determined to make him feel good.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and the sight of him nearly stole her breath. His jaw was clenched, his brows drawn together, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. But it was his eyes that struck her most—heavy-lidded, filled with something deep, something raw. It wasn’t just lust. It was trust. It was need. It was him letting her in, completely.

She took him deeper, her fingers gripping his thighs as she found a rhythm—slow, unhurried, giving him everything she had. She wanted him to feel it—to feel her. To know that this was more than just pleasure, that it was her love, her devotion, poured into every movement.

“Yooyeon…” His voice was strained, rough with need.

She stilled immediately, understanding him without question. He wasn’t asking her to stop—he just wanted something different. Something more.

He reached for her, his hands open, waiting. Without hesitation, she took them, letting him guide her up, pulling her closer.

She followed his lead, moving effortlessly into his lap, their bodies pressing together as she settled atop him. Face to face now, her knees hugged his sides, her chest brushing against his with every breath. A sharp shiver ran through her as she felt him—hot, hard, pressing against her stomach, the intimacy of their position making her pulse race.

She gazed at him, her fingers trailing over his shoulders, his neck, his jaw, memorizing every inch of him. His eyes, dark and unreadable, searched hers, and for a moment, they simply breathed together, held in the gravity of this moment.

Slowly, tenderly, she leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss—one filled with everything she couldn’t say out loud.

But she wanted to show him. To give him everything.

Her gaze drifted downward as she reached between them, her fingers grazing along his hardness, feeling the heat of him against her palm. A quiet shiver ran through her as she caressed him, taking her time, savoring the way he responded to her touch. With careful precision, she guided him, adjusting her position, her body instinctively preparing to take him in.

And then, without hesitation, she moved.

A quiet gasp left her lips as she slowly enveloped him, her body stretching to accommodate him, every inch sending waves of sensation through her. Her arms wrapped around his neck, seeking both support and connection, her forehead resting briefly against his as she took a steadying breath.

She felt him—deep, warm, filling her completely. But more than anything, what she felt was joy. A slow, radiant smile formed on her lips as she met his gaze, her heart swelling with something beyond just pleasure.

And then, as if that smile was all the invitation he needed, he began to move.

The first thrust sent a sharp, sweet pleasure rippling through her, her breath catching before it spilled out in a quiet moan. The next had her clutching onto him, overwhelmed by the intensity of feeling. The sound of their mingled breaths, the heat between them, the way their bodies moved together—it was all-consuming.

She melted into him, lost in the rhythm, lost in him.

The intensity overwhelmed him, and he fell back, bringing her with him. A gasp left Yooyeon’s lips as she followed, her body molding against his as his thrusts remained unrelenting. His hands moved to her hips, then lower, gripping her firmly as he guided her movements, driving her deeper into pleasure.

She felt the heat, the desperation between them, the way their bodies refused to part even for a second. Every movement sent another wave of sensation crashing through her, pushing her closer to the edge.

But she wanted more than just the pleasure. She wanted him—completely.

Yooyeon cupped his face, her fingers threading into his damp hair as she looked down at him. His jaw was clenched, his brows furrowed, lost in the sheer intensity of their connection. She could see it, feel it—the tension coiling tight within him.

So she kissed him.

Soft at first, then deeper, her lips parting to welcome him, their tongues meeting in a slow, tangled dance. She poured herself into the kiss, coaxing, soothing, grounding him even as the pleasure consumed them both.

And slowly, she felt him relax beneath her, surrendering to her touch, to her.

As his pace became less erratic, she adjusted, matching his rhythm with newfound confidence. She learned his movements, feeling the way their bodies aligned, and slowly, she took control—rolling her hips in time with his, meeting each thrust with her own.

Their breaths synced, their bodies moving together in perfect harmony.

She felt it in the way he held her, in the way his hands tightened on her waist, guiding her but letting her lead. A quiet thrill coursed through her at the unspoken understanding between them, at the way he let her set the pace, trusting her, surrendering to her.

Their eyes met, locking in an intimate gaze, the world around them fading away. There were no words—there was no need for them. In that moment, everything was clear.

It was just them.

“Yooyeon… I’m close…” His voice was ragged, strained, barely holding on.

She gasped, her fingers tightening against his shoulders as pleasure coiled tighter inside her. “Me too…” she whispered, her breath hitching. Then, she met his gaze, her eyes soft, full of trust. “You can… it’s fine.”

A shudder ran through him at her words, at the quiet certainty in her voice.

And then, together, they unraveled.

His grip on her waist tightened as he thrust deep, his release spilling into her just as she came undone around him. A sharp, breathless cry escaped her lips as pleasure surged through her, overwhelming, consuming. She trembled in his arms, her body clinging to his as the waves of ecstasy pulsed through them both.

For a long moment, neither of them moved—just the sound of their breaths mingling, their bodies still entwined, the warmth of each other keeping them grounded.

Slowly, Yooyeon melted against his chest, her heart still racing, a soft, contented sigh escaping her.

They had never felt closer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wake up before her.

The first thing you notice is the weight of her arm draped over your chest, her fingers lightly curled against your skin. The second is how deeply she sleeps—peaceful, unguarded, as if she belongs here, as if there was never a time when she didn’t.

Something tight eases in your chest.

You should move, should slip away before she stirs, but you don’t. You just lie there, watching the slow rise and fall of her breathing, the way the early morning light catches the strands of her hair.

She came back.

Not out of obligation. Not because of memories.

But because she chose you.

Your fingers brush over her knuckles, tracing the shape of her hand. She shifts at the touch, her brows scrunching slightly before her eyes flutter open.

For a second, she blinks at you, dazed with sleep. Then, she smiles—small, warm, real. "You're staring."

You huff a quiet laugh. "You're the one who came here in the middle of the night and threw yourself at me."

She flushes, burying her face into your chest. "I did not throw myself at you."

"You did." You smirk, tightening your hold around her. "Not that I’m complaining."

She groans but doesn’t pull away, only presses closer. You feel the sigh she lets out, something soft and content against your skin.

Then, quieter, almost hesitant—“What happens now?”

Your grip on her tightens slightly.

Because the truth is, you don’t know.

There is no contract binding you anymore. No pretense of a marriage built on expectations, no excuse to hide behind the illusion of what you used to be.

There is only this—the love she chose to give you.

And you—the love you’ve always had for her.

You exhale, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “We take it one day at a time.”

She tilts her head up, searching your face. You meet her gaze, your voice quieter when you add, “And this time, we don’t hide.”

Her expression softens. She lifts a hand, cupping your cheek, her thumb brushing just below your eye.

"Okay," she whispers.

And just like that, it’s decided.

This time, it’s real.

No pretending. No distance.

Self-worth

Xinyu (🦊) x Reader (📖)

Word Count: 584

You say it like a disclaimer. Like you need the record straightened before anything else can happen in this room.

"Just to be clear, I didn't hire you to be a prostitute."

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't laugh. Doesn't even look up from where she's tracing the rim of her wine glass with one finger, slow and idle, like she has all the time in the world and every intention of using it however she pleases.

"I know."

The suite hums quietly around you — the soft pulse of city lights bleeding through floor-to-ceiling glass, the low ambient cool of air conditioning, the way expensive rooms always seem to hold their breath. You'd chosen this place for appearances. A weekend. A function. Names in the same social circle, faces that already knew each other just enough to make the arrangement feel almost natural.

Almost.

You look at her. She looks at her wine.

Silence.

You don't say it. You don't have to. The silence does the asking for you — is that what you think this is? The question sits somewhere behind your teeth, unvoiced, because you don't quite know how to ask it without making everything worse. You'd been careful, you thought. Deliberate about the wording, about the boundaries, about making sure she understood that the money was — it was logistics, not a transaction, not that kind of arrangement. But then the weekend happened, and the function happened, and somehow the two of you ended up here, in one room, one bed, the city sprawling indifferent and glittering beyond the glass.

You wonder if she's been thinking it this whole time. If every time you pulled out her chair or rested a hand at the small of her back for the cameras, she'd been quietly tallying it against what you'd paid her. If she'd felt cheap in a way you never intended.

Apparently, to Xinyu it never did.

She sets the glass down.

And then she turns to you, and something in the air shifts — not dramatically, not like a storm, more like the moment before one. Her eyes find yours with the kind of ease that shouldn't belong to someone you've only ever exchanged pleasantries with at mutual friends' parties, whose name you knew but whose attention you'd never quite managed to hold.

Until apparently, you could be persuaded to pay for it.

She crosses the space between you unhurried, like she already knows you're not going anywhere. When she stops, it's close — closer than the arrangement strictly requires, closer than anything written in the terms you'd half-jokingly outlined over coffee three weeks ago. You can smell her perfume now. Something warm. Something that doesn't apologize for itself.

"Oh, baby." Her voice drops, not into something cheap, but into something almost fond — like you've said something endearing without meaning to. "The money you gave me could've bought you a thousand prostitutes, maybe hundreds of escorts."

She tilts her head, just slightly. A small smile playing at the corner of her mouth like a secret she's deciding whether or not to share.

"You never needed a prostitute."

Her eyes don't leave yours. Her hand comes up — barely, just a suggestion of touch at the lapel of your jacket, fingers resting there like punctuation.

"You needed me."

And the worst part — the part that sits hot and unresolved somewhere behind your sternum — is that Xinyu is not wrong, and she knows it, and she's looking at you right now like she's known it longer than you have.

===(0)===

Sought

Mayu (🐰) x Reader (📖)

Word Count: 765

You hear the words begin to form and something in you goes very, very still.

"I love—"

"I love you?"

It comes out wrong. Not soft, not wounded — sharp, the way things come out when they've been held too long in a place that's run out of patience for gentleness. You hear your own voice like it belongs to someone standing slightly behind you, someone who has been waiting a long time for exactly this moment and isn't relieved that it's finally here.

"You love me."

You say it again, quieter, and somehow that's worse. You watch her face — the way it does that thing, that thing she's always done, where she arranges her expression into something soft and open and just uncertain enough to make you feel like the difficult one. You know that face. You built a whole version of yourself around trying to deserve that face.

"After everything."

You don't even know where to start. That's the cruelest part of it — that there's so much, so much ground to cover, that the damage has spread so wide and settled so deep that standing at the edge of it now, you can't even find the beginning. You just know that you're standing in it. That you've been standing in it for a long time, and somewhere along the way you convinced yourself the ground was supposed to feel like this.

She takes a small step toward you.

"Don't." The word leaves you before she can close the distance. "Don't do that."

She stops. And you watch her recalibrate — barely perceptible, the microscopic adjustment, the way she reads the room and finds a new angle. You used to mistake that for emotional intelligence. You used to think it meant she understood you, that she was careful with you. It took you longer than it should have to understand that careful and calculated are not the same thing.

"I mean it," she says. Quietly. Like quiet is the same as sincere.

"I know you think you do." You almost laugh, and what comes out is worse than laughing. "That's always been the problem, Mayu. You always mean it. Right up until it's inconvenient, and then you meant something else, and somehow by the end of it I'm the one apologizing for misunderstanding."

She opens her mouth.

"No — " you cut across her, and your voice doesn't rise, which surprises you, because everything inside you is loud right now, everything is loud — "I need you to hear this. I need you to actually stand there and hear it without finding a way to make it about what I'm doing wrong by saying it."

The room holds still.

"You made me feel insane." The words come out measured, because if you let them come out any other way you're not sure you'll survive the saying of them. "You'd do something — you'd do something, and I'd feel it, I'd know it, and then you'd look at me like that — " your jaw tightens " — exactly like that, and I'd end up convinced I invented it. That I was too sensitive. Too much. That I should be grateful you stayed."

Something moves across her face. You can't tell anymore if it's real. That's what she took from you — the ability to tell.

"How dare you," you say, and it comes out almost quiet, almost gentle, which is the most devastated it's sounded yet. "How dare you stand there and hand me that word like it's an apology. Like it fixes the architecture. Like I'm supposed to feel something good right now."

She looks at you with those eyes that have always known exactly what they're doing.

And that's the thing — that's the thing that keeps you rooted to the floor instead of walking out — because part of you, the part that still lives in all the versions of this that weren't terrible, wants to believe her. Wants to cross the room and let her make it make sense the way she always could, the way she'd fold your anger back into something that felt like your fault, and you'd be grateful for the explanation.

You're so tired of being grateful for the explanation.

"You don't get to say that to me," you say finally. "You don't get to hand me something that big after everything you've taken. That's not love. That's just — " you look at her, really look, and it costs you something " — that's just the last thing you have left to try."

The silence that follows doesn't feel like an ending.

It feels like her, waiting to see if it worked.

===(0)===

Skirt

Kotone (🦭) x Reader (📖)

Word Count: 821

You find her in the hallway outside the function room, half-turned like she was already leaving, like she knew this conversation was coming and gave it a five-minute head start.

"Kotone."

She stops. Doesn't turn around immediately — and that alone is strange, because Kotone has never needed a moment to face anything in her life. You've seen her walk into rooms that didn't want her without breaking stride. You've seen her take a hit during a pick-up game and laugh before she hit the ground.

She turns around, and for a second you almost don't say it.

Almost.

"You said so before, right?" You keep your voice even, careful, like you're handling something you're not sure is loaded. "You love me. Tell me it wasn't a joke."

Something flickers across her face. Fast, and then gone.

"We agreed it was a joke."

"Because we both laughed at it."

"Because—" She stops. Resets. Her jaw shifts the way it does when she's deciding how honest to be. "Because you laughed at it first."

The words land somewhere quiet.

You let them sit there a moment before you say, "Well. I'm not laughing now."

The hallway hums around you — muffled music from inside, the distant clink of glasses, someone's heels on marble. Kotone looks at you the way she used to look at a bad call on the court, like she's deciding whether to argue it or let it go and make you pay for it later.

"And why is that?"

"Kotone, what do you mean—"

"Why now." It isn't a question the second time. Her voice is flat and precise, the way it gets when she means business. "What exactly changed?"

"What? Nothing changed—"

"Bullshit."

The word hits the air clean and final and you go quiet.

She doesn't fill the silence for you. She stands there in the dress — the dress you noticed the moment she walked in, the way everyone noticed, the way you noticed and spent the rest of the evening pretending you hadn't — and she waits, arms crossed, chin lifted, looking more like herself than anything she's wearing.

"What, do you think I'm saying this because you're wearing makeup now?" Your voice comes out more defensive than you intended. "Kotone, do you think I'm that shallow?"

And something breaks open in her expression — not soft, not hurt, something furious and exhausted in equal measure.

"Yes." She says it like she's been holding it. "Call it shallow or whatever you want. You knew Yooyeon for a day — one day — and suddenly you're on your knees. I'm here. I've been here. Your whole life. You threw a water bottle at my head. We cut each other's hair with kitchen scissors at two in the morning because you lost a bet—"

"So you're jealous." You say it before you think better of it. "Is that what this is?"

"Of course I'm jealous." She doesn't even flinch at it, doesn't try to dress it up or take it back, and somehow that honesty is the most disarming thing she's ever done. "But that's not the why. That's not what I'm saying."

She takes a breath. When she speaks again her voice is lower, and that's worse — Kotone quiet is always worse than Kotoneloud.

"I let my hair down. I wore a dress. Fine. But I'm not the only one who changed." Her eyes hold yours. "You opened doors for me. You censored your words. You were nice."

"And I'm supposed to not be?"

"You were supposed to be a friend." The word comes out worn around the edges, like she's carried it too long. "Just that. We made that decision — both of us, together — when we agreed that what I said was a joke. You were supposed to just be that. Just stay that." Her voice drops on the last part, almost to nothing. "Please."

The please is the part that gets you. Kotone doesn't please. Kotone negotiates, argues, wins, concedes on her own terms — she doesn't plead. And she's looking at you now like she already knows what you're going to say and has braced herself for it anyway.

"And if I can't?"

She looks at you for a long moment. Something in her face closes like a door.

"Then at least don't pretend," she says quietly, "that it wasn't because I wore a skirt."

She holds your gaze just long enough to make sure you heard it — really heard it — and then she turns, and this time you don't call her name, because you're not sure you've earned the right to yet.

The hallway feels different after she's gone. Smaller, somehow. Like it took something with her when she left.