Chapter Text
It’s 9:13 a.m., and Wonyoung might as well be floating. Her steps are light, her smile even lighter, like she’s been kissed by the morning sun itself. She’s wearing her favourite lip gloss. Even applied twice, because the first coat didn’t shine nearly enough. This one? It sparkles. Because the stakes are high. What if Yujin doesn’t notice? What if she just stands there again, lost in thought, staring into nothing with those moody, broody eyes like a background character in a Netflix teen drama who accidentally wandered into the spotlight?
Wonyoung’s head is a swirl of glittery chaos and determined intention. Because there is Yujin, just across the hallway. Hoodie up. Sleeves tugged down past her palms like she’s trying to vanish into cotton. One earbud sits snug in her left ear, the other likely tucked in its case deep in her pocket because wearing both makes her feel like she’s drowning, like the world becomes too loud in its quiet. She’s leaning against the wall, still and almost too casual. She looks like she’s been standing there forever, waiting for the day to pass her by without asking anything of her. Without noticing her at all.
But Wonyoung notices. Always.
And Yujin? She looks like she’s thinking about something deep. Maybe wondering how to phase through solid matter. Maybe wondering why feelings exist. Or why her heart keeps trying to leap out of her chest every time Wonyoung walks into the room. Wonyoung lights up like someone flipped a switch inside her.
“Yujiiiiin~!”
Yujin jolts like she’s just been electrocuted. One headphone pops out and swings uselessly. “Hey,” she mumbles, clearly bracing herself. Her whole posture stiffens, like she’s preparing for a natural disaster.
Too late.
Wonyoung’s already walking over, steps light and bouncy, like she’s in a musical only she can hear. She reaches for Yujin’s sleeve with a gentleness that’s so deliberate it feels like magic. Her fingers trail down the fabric, then slide easily into Yujin’s hand. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Yujin’s brain? Gone. Just… gone.
Panic level? 8. No—9. Definitely a 9.
She glances around like she’s being hunted. There are 6 students nearby. 2 open lockers. 1 guy from the tutorial room who definitely runs a group chat called “Gay Gossip: Morning Edition.” Her hand, meanwhile, is completely limp. A useless noodle. She has no idea how to hold hands. No idea how to do this.
Why are we doing this here? She screams internally. Why are her hands so warm? Why is she so shiny? Why do I like this so much?
Of course, Wonyoung notices. She always does. But instead of pulling away, she starts gently swinging their hands back and forth like they’re walking through a park, not a hallway full of judgmental eyes. She hums a little, carefree. Like Yujin isn’t internally combusting. Like her and Yujin holding hands is the most ordinary thing in the world. Like she hasn’t just set off every panic alarm in Yujin’s soul.
Yujin, bless her scrambled soul, is really trying to be chill. To look normal. Calm. Functioning. But beneath her carefully blank expression, her heart is breakdancing like it’s auditioning for a street crew. Her fight or flight response is doing backflips, flipping coins, writing pros and cons lists—but every outcome ends with her, in flames.
She wants to be the cool girlfriend. The type who doesn’t break into a full body existential meltdown every time her girlfriend breathes in her direction. But God, why is holding hands suddenly the most intimate, terrifying thing in the universe?
And yet despite the chaos, her body moves on autopilot. She reaches out and adjusts the strap of Wonyoung’s tote bag where it’s slipping off her shoulder. No fumbling. No hesitation. Her fingers move like they’ve done it 100 times before. Like muscle memory. Like instinct.
She slides the strap over her own shoulder with a practiced ease that almost makes her look sane. As if she isn’t currently mentally shrieking in 7 different languages. She just carries the bag like she always does. Because somewhere in the middle of her spiralling thoughts, there’s one truth. She loves Wonyoung. And if carrying her girlfriend’s tote bag while trying not to implode is the cost of loving her, then fine. She’ll pay it.
Every time.
They walk side by side. Their steps are in sync, but the rhythm means 2 very different things.
For Wonyoung, it’s light and effortless, as if the world is singing beneath her shoes. There’s a bounce in her step, like she’s got a secret song playing just for her. Her whole presence is like sunshine in a bottle, and walking beside her feels like strolling through springtime.
Yujin? It’s a full blown disaster soundtrack inside her head. A loud, messy orchestra of panic. Okay. Be cool. Just walk. Left foot, right foot. You’re walking, not dying. Breathe. Don’t stare at her. Why does she smell like grapes? Who smells like that? Focus. You’re normal. Or… you were. Before she showed up in lip gloss and pure chaos.
Then Wonyoung leans in. No warning. No build up. Just a soft tilt of her head, like it is the most natural thing in the world. Her cheek brushes Yujin’s shoulder gently. Just enough to say I choose her. Yujin? She short-circuits. Her body goes stiff like someone hit the panic button. Her spine straightens, muscles lock up, and her brain flatlines. Her earbud nearly flies off from the sheer shock of it. But it’s not the touch that does her in, it’s what it means.
The softness.
The fact that it’s public.
That it says I’m hers. Let them look.
And Yujin’s not ready. Her chest is tight, her thoughts are spiralling. What if someone sees? What if they know? What if they talk?
But Wonyoung, of course, notices. She always notices. That’s her real superpower. Not just the beauty, not the confidence. It’s her attention. It’s the fact that she sees everything. Every little twitch of Yujin’s mouth, every stiff breath. She notices it all, and she doesn’t brush it off. She studies it. She understands.
Wonyoung lifts her head, eyes locking with Yujin’s. No teasing grin this time. No dramatic gasp. Just a tiny, soft pout. Her voice is low, sweet. “Still shy?”
The words pierce right through Yujin's armour. She exhales like the hallway itself just turned against her. “No… I mean, yeah… I mean—” She stumbles through the words like she suddenly forgot how to speak English. “I’m not used to this.”
She wants to explain. Really, she does. But how do you explain the way your entire body turns into a traitor every time the girl you like touches you? How do you admit that you’ve trained yourself for years to avoid being seen, only to fall in love with someone who insists on looking at you like you’re the center of the universe?
But Wonyoung doesn’t let her run. Doesn’t let her hide in the mess of her thoughts. She tilts her head, eyes soft—not teasing, but understanding. Patient. Intentional. “This,” she repeats, like she’s testing the word, letting it settle in the air. Then, with a smile so bright it could light the whole hallway, she says, “You mean… love?”
The word lands like a grenade. Yujin flinches. Physically. The hallway’s still the same. Students still pass by, lost in their own drama. But Yujin? She feels like she just dropped into an ocean, everything muffled and far away. Did Wonyoung really just say that out loud? In that tone? Like it was casual? Like love is just something you say between classes?
“Stop saying stuff like that out loud,” Yujin whispers, her eyes darting left and right in quiet panic. There could be ears anywhere. Observers. Gossips. Classmates who would take this soft, sacred moment and make it loud, tangled, complicated.
But Wonyoung doesn’t budge. There’s something different in her gaze. No teasing. Just honest curiosity wrapped in gentle insistence. “You like it though, right?” Simple question. Yes or no. Easy. It shouldn’t be this hard. But Yujin’s throat locks up like she’s being asked to confess to a crime.
Because the answer is yes. Yes. God, yes. She likes it so much it scares her. She likes how Wonyoung doesn’t tiptoe around her weirdness. How she just knows when to push, when to wait. How she touches her like it’s casual and crucial at the same time. How affection becomes air in Wonyoung’s hands.
And that’s exactly the problem.
Because they’re still in the hallway. Still in the open. People are watching. Even if no one says a word, Yujin can feel it. The weight of glances presses in from every side.
Yujin shifts, scanning for ghosts or exits. Anywhere to escape. But then her eyes drift back to Wonyoung, and suddenly, all the noise gets muffled. Wonyoung is just looking at her. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just looking. Hopeful. Bright like springtime after a long winter. It’s unfair, really, how easy she makes it look. How she manages to hold her heart in her hands without trembling. Like she trusts Yujin not to drop it.
Wonyoung tilts her head, a slow grin blooming across her lips. There’s a flicker of mischief now, a spark behind her eyes that makes Yujin go tense on instinct. “Then give me a kiss,” Wonyoung says, so casually it might as well be a weather report.
Yujin immediately short-circuits. Her breath catches in her throat like it’s been sucker-punched. “Right now?!” she coughs, as if the hallway has suddenly turned into a courtroom and she’s been handed a surprise subpoena.
Wonyoung shrugs, unbothered, eyes dancing with mischief. “There’s no one around,” she says, voice dripping with innocence.
It’s a lie so bold, so shameless, that the hallway itself should press charges. Because not 15 meters away, Rei is most definitely crouched in the corner pretending —very poorly— to tie her shoe. Except her shoe has been “untied” for nearly 6 minutes now and her phone is pointed suspiciously steadily in their direction. The girl is aiming her camera like a nosy aunt at a family gathering.
Yujin instinctively ducks her head. “Not on the lips,” she hisses, her voice so high-pitched it nearly cracks. Panic has taken the wheel, and her dignity is curled up somewhere in a corner waving a tiny white flag.
Wonyoung clicks her tongue dramatically, as if she’s the one being emotionally violated. “Forehead then?”
Yujin winced. “That’s worse.” And it was. Because why did it sound so much more intimate?
Wonyoung hums, thoughtful for all half a second. “Cheek?” She offers, and without waiting for a response, she turns her head with the elegance of a ballerina as she sticks her cheek out. “Come on. You can do it. I believe it you.”
Yujin’s entire soul leaves her body. She stares at Wonyoung. At the offered cheek, at the slight curve of her lips, at the way she’s trying so hard not to smile even though the delight is practically leaking out of her pores. Yujin’s gaze drops to the floor. Then at the cheek again. And again on the floor. Her brain throws up an internal error message. Warning. Warning. Social threat detected. Abort mission.
But Wonyoung isn’t pulling back. She’s still there. Still waiting. Still believing in her. And somehow that belief is louder than the anxiety.
Yujin leans in.
It’s not dramatic. No orchestral swell. No sweeping music. No fireworks. It’s not some slow motion, K-drama, kissed by fate moment that Wonyoung would’ve waxed poetic about in one of her fanfics. It’s a kiss so brief, so feather-light, it barely qualifies as contact. The tiniest brush of lips to cheek. There and gone before the hallway even has time to gasp.
And yet, it shifts the earth.
Wonyoung lets out a muffled squeal behind her hand, the kind that makes it sound like she just witnessed the second coming of Christ, and Yujin swears she sees actual sparkles form in the air. “You’re getting better,” Wonyoung teases, voice high and bright with glee.
Yujin grimaces like she’s just licked a live battery. Her heart is going feral. Her stomach twisted in knots. Her veins buzz like she’s been struck by lightning that smells like Wonyoung’s shampoo and tastes like lip balm and danger. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up,” she mutters, half to herself, half to the god of embarrassment who clearly has it out for her.
But Wonyoung is blissfully, willfully unbothered as usual. She beams down at Yujin like a deity of affection, eyes glittering, arms still looped around her like they belong there. “You’re adorable,” she declares, and her voice is so warm, so matter-of-fact, that it feels less like a compliment and more like a diagnosis.
Yujin groans and drops her forehead to Wonyoung’s shoulder. Gave up. Let gravity win. Everything is burning—her ears, her face, her entire existence. “You’re a menace.” Her voice came out hoarse, her words soaked in defeat and disbelief and something warm she couldn’t name. There is no bite to it. Just exhaustion. And… fondness. The kind that sneaks in through the cracks.
And somewhere down the hallway, Rei finally stands up from her very fake, very dramatic shoelace situation like a spy emerging from cover. Her phone is already tucked away, screen off, looking every bit the picture of a concerned friend.
She walks over casually, like she hasn’t just spent 5 straight minutes secretly filming them. Her eyes sparkle with barely hidden mischief. “You okay, Yujin?” she asks, voice dripping with fake innocence. “Blink twice if you need help.”
Without missing a beat, Yujin blinks.
Twice.
Very deliberately.
Across from them, Rei raises an eyebrow, already pulling out her imaginary clipboard. “I’ll call the authorities,” she says flatly, voice dripping with mock concern as her phone shifts to video mode.
Wonyoung gasps —gasps— like someone has accused her of insider trading or skincare fraud. She pulls back just enough to glare at Rei, the betrayal painted across her face. “You traitor! I’m literally making her happy!”
“You’re holding her hostage with love,” Rei replies, thumb adjusting her phone grip with the casual ease of someone who’s been waiting her entire life for this moment. “I saw her hand go limp. Like a fish on land. I have evidence.”
Wonyoung huffs, tightening her hold on Yujin, arms clinging like a very clingy koala to the last eucalyptus tree on Earth. “Dead fish hand means she loves me,” she declares, eyes narrowed like it’s a known scientific fact.
Against her shoulder, Yujin groans. It’s muffled in Wonyoung’s hair, barely audible, but the words are clear. “I do love you.”
Everything stops.
Wonyoung freezes mid-cuddle, hair swaying with the sudden stillness. Slowly, she pulls back to look at Yujin properly, eyes wide. Her mouth parts in a soft, shocked breath. The kind of dramatic gasp that belongs onstage, under a spotlight, right before the big twist.
“You said it,” she whispers, one hand flying to her chest like she has to physically hold her heart in. “Rei, did you hear that? Write it down. Historical moment.”
Rei is already typing with the speed of a journalist. “Typed,” she confirms, tone flat but eyes twinkling. “Also making it today’s quote of the day. Thinking of embroidering it on a pillow. Possibly a tote bag.”
Yujin, now red to the very tips of her ears, starts the slow process of disappearing into her hoodie. She pulls the neckline up like a turtle retreating into its shell, inch by inch. If she could physically crawl inside the fabric and vanish, she would. No question.
Before Wonyoung can even think about stopping herself, her hand rises and cradles Yujin’s cheek, like she’s holding something precious. Hers. Her thumbs graze warm skin, flushed with fluster and emotion, and her eyes shimmering with more joy than one person should be able to hold. There’s no teasing in her smile this time. Just something soft. Pure. Stupidly, impossibly fond. Her smile threatens to split her face open, and for one tiny second, she thinks she might cry.
She doesn’t, but she could.
And then she leans in, slow and certain, and presses a kiss to Yujin’s cheek. It’s less of a kiss, more of a mwah that is as light as air. But it lands with the force of a meteor. Not because of how it looks, but because of what it means. There’s no hesitation in it.
It’s just Wonyoung being… Wonyoung.
All affection, no warning.
All heart.
Yujin flinches like she’s been electrocuted. Her whole body tenses. Her eyes go wide, too wide, like a deer caught in headlights. The warmth from Wonyoung’s lips stays on her skin like a brand. It’s too much. Too sweet. Too real. She blinks once. Twice. 5 times in a row, like her entire brain is trying to restart.
Her ears? Fully crimson.
Her breath? Nowhere to be found.
Her dignity? Missing, presumed dead.
And Wonyoung giggles. Like a real giggle that should come with sparkles and sound effects. She takes a step back, still holding Yujin’s hand like it’s an anchor keeping her from floating away. “I knew it,” she sings, bouncing slightly. Her whole body is practically vibrating with joy. “You’re sooo soft.”
Yujin lets out a sound, somewhere between a groan and a whimper. Slowly, like she’s rebooting frame by frame, she ducks her head down and buries her face into her hoodie collar. “You’re going to kill me,” she mutters, voice muffled. She isn’t sure if it’s a complaint or a confession.
Wonyoung beams so wide her eyes scrunch up, her cheeks puffed with delight, fingers still laced tight through Yujin’s. “With love!” she chirps, bouncing again like the hallway’s a trampoline. “Best way to go.”
And honestly? Yujin can’t argue with that. Not with her heart still racing. Not with her cheek still warm. Not with Wonyoung looking at her like she’s the most wonderful thing in the world. Like kissing her is the most natural thing in the universe.
Yujin exhales hard, dragging a hand through her hair like she can physically swipe away the fluster clinging to her. The static of embarrassment still hums under her skin. She doesn’t look at Wonyoung—can’t. Eye contact right now would be lethal. “Don’t kiss me in public,” she mutters. “Or make me do the kiss thing again.”
Wonyoung doesn’t even try to look sorry. Her smile is slow and dazzling, the kind that practically glows with mischief. She looks like she’s already 5 steps ahead, like she’s mapping out her next 10 moves in sparkly pink pen.
“No promises,” she says breezily, like Yujin just asked her to pass the salt, not to spare what little remains of her emotional dignity.
Yujin groans. “I’m serious.”
“Mmhmm,” Wonyoung hums, completely unrepentant. Her voice is sing-song, almost joyful. “I already scheduled it for tomorrow. Same hallway. Better lighting.”
Behind them, Rei watches the whole exchange with the weary fondness of someone who’s seen this show before—binged all the episodes, knows the tropes by heart. She sighs long and loud, unlocking her phone with the muscle memory of a veteran drama spectator.
“10 minutes,” she announces, tapping into her timer app. “I give it 10 minutes before the next fake breakup.”
Exactly ten minutes later—on the dot, like the universe has a sense of comedic timing—Wonyoung’s voice echoes dramatically down the corridor, the sound bouncing off the lockers like an opera of heartbreak. “YOU DIDN’T SAY I LOVE YOU BACK. WE’RE DONE. I’M TAKING THE DOG.”
Her fingers rip free from Yujin’s with all the flair of someone yanking off a betrayal ring. Her footsteps stomp behind her, fast and angry and clearly meant to be heard. She’s got her arms crossed like a furious kindergartener, her bottom lip pushed out in a pout that belongs on stage, and her eyes blazing with all the fire of a scorned drama queen.
Yujin doesn’t even flinch. As if this exact scenario has been rehearsed multiple times. (It has. Weekly.) “We don’t have a dog,” she replies, deadpan. Dry as toast. Face betraying absolutely nothing, but her ears? Her ears are redder than they should be.
Wonyoung, now halfway down the hallway but not slowing even a little, turns on her heel dramatically. Her voice soars higher, full of righteous fury. “I’M BUYING ONE. THEN I’M TAKING IT.”
Rei doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t laugh. Just nods, solemn as a court clerk. She scrolls through her shopping app with the efficiency of someone who’s done this before. “Guess I’m pitching in for a fake custody lawyer this time,” she mutters, already filtering for plush poodles Wonyoung can dramatically snatch during the next breakup.
Not even ten minutes after the so-called fake breakup—an incident so emotionally charged that Wonyoung might one day dedicate a full chapter to it in her memoir—she’s back. Just like that. As if nothing happened. As if she hadn’t just declared an emotional cold war over something as soul-shakingly tragic as Yujin taking longer than one second to say “I love you” back.
Wonyoung never mind that Yujin did say it eventually with her usual quiet sincerity. She had already spiralled by then because apparently, in her book, anything slower than a second reciprocation was treason.
And now here she is again, clinging to Yujin’s arm with all the determined grace of ivy on old stone. Light in weight, but absolutely immovable. Her fingers slip into the crook of Yujin’s sleeve like they belong there, like her hand has a home and it just happens to be Yujin. And honestly? Yujin stopped questioning the physics of Wonyoung’s affection a long time ago.
Wonyoung leans in close, breath warm against Yujin’s shoulder, her voice dipping into a dramatic whisper laced with scandal. “Professor Nam just assigned a whole assignment,” she groans, as if reporting a war crime. “And it’s due in 2 weeks. 2. That’s, like… negative time.”
Yujin, who’s just trying to navigate the sidewalk without tripping over someone’s aggressively parked bicycle, glances sideways. “That’s literally the normal amount of time for an assignment.”
Wonyoung stops dead in her tracks, eyes wide and mouth open in theatrical outrage. Her voice lifts in that signature, exaggerated pitch that only she could make feel both ridiculous and completely justified. “Exactly! Normal. For normal people. Do I look normal to you?”
Yujin considers answering, but Wonyoung’s already plowing ahead, eyes dramatic and mouth even more so. “I have a social calendar, babe. And emotional needs. And skincare. There’s not enough time in the day to be this pretty and academically oppressed.”
A few paces behind them, Rei trudges along like a weary chaperone who regrets volunteering. Her tone is flat, a deadpan delivery perfected over years of knowing Wonyoung. “You’re going to start it the night before. Again.”
Wonyoung gasps, hand to chest like Rei just accused her of a federal crime. “That is slanderous. You can’t just—”
“You did it last time,” Rei cuts in, unbothered. “And the time before that.”
Yujin doesn’t even try to mask the grin tugging at her lips now. Her voice comes out with an airy, almost fond amusement. “And still got full marks.”
That is Wonyoung’s cue.
She tilts her head up with a pout so devastating it could end wars. It's full of wounded dignity—carefully practiced, of course—but there’s a sparkle of mischief in her eyes that makes Yujin’s heart skip like a scratched record. “I’m emotionally distressed,” Wonyoung declares, already halfway into her next dramatic act. “I deserve another kiss.”
Yujin chokes, not literally but spiritually, her breath catching in the exact way it always does when Wonyoung asks for affection like she was born entitled to it. “Wonyoung—” Yujin warns, but the damage is already done. She can feel the blush crawling up her neck like it’s personally offended by her composure.
“I’ve had such a hard day,” Wonyoung insists, leaning in with calculated innocence, as if getting closer somehow strengthens her case. Her voice turns softer, sadder. Pure heartbreak in audio form.
“I suffered through an assignment announcement. I had to Google what a critical analysis framework even is. And, Yujin—” she leans in, voice dipping into scandal, “—I had to carry my own laptop. All the way to class. Like a commoner.” Yujin presses her lips together to stop the laugh bubbling up. God, she’s ridiculous. Infuriating. Unbearably extra.
And somehow, with all that noise, all that drama, the world feels more alive. It’s not that Wonyoung’s problems are ever really problems, but when she says them like that, with wide eyes and voice hushed like she’s sharing forbidden secrets, they almost become real. Real enough to respond to. Real enough to kiss away.
Yujin glances around. No prying eyes—at least none she catches. She sighs quietly, like she’s preparing to dive off a cliff into feelings she doesn’t quite know how to swim through yet.
And then she leans in.
Not a peck. Not the usual blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kiss she sometimes delivers like a secret code. No, this one lingers. Her lips press against Wonyoung’s temple with a kind of quiet reverence. Like an apology for every unspoken feeling she’s buried. Like she’s finally starting to say something she hasn’t quite figured out how to say aloud.
It’s gentle. Warm. Deliberate.
Wonyoung goes still. Like the kiss flipped a hidden switch inside her. When she looks up, her eyes are shining in the way stars look just before dawn breaks. She grins, slow and sweet and smug all at once, like she just won something big. And maybe she has. “You’re getting better,” she murmurs, the words a little teasing but mostly tender.
Yujin can barely meet her gaze, eyes flickering away like they might betray just how much that one kiss cost her in courage. “I’m learning,” she mumbles, and God, her ears are so red now they could double as traffic lights.
Wonyoung melts like she’s made of soft sugar. Without any hesitation, she clings with the ease of someone who’s made a full-time job out of loving Yujin. Her arms loop around Yujin’s neck, eyes sparkling like she’s just found the perfect excuse to be unbearable again.
And then the kisses begin.
“You’re too good to me,” she whispers, planting a kiss high on Yujin’s cheekbone. Another follows, this time closer to the corner of her mouth. “You’re going to make me emotionally dependent on kisses,” she purrs, pressing yet another kiss to her jaw.
Yujin stiffens slightly, caught between wanting to disappear into the pavement and never leave Wonyoung’s arms again. She’s never been good at receiving this much love so publicly. Especially not from someone who makes even a simple hug feel like a headline-worthy event.
“I should file a complaint,” Wonyoung continues, voice dipping into a dramatic hush as she presses one more kiss to her cheek. “About how kissable you are.” And just like that, she leans to give Yujin a quick, mischievous peck on the lips. Nothing scandalous. Just the quiet period at the end of a sentence filled with affection.
Yujin doesn’t fight it.
How could she?
She’s already too far gone. Tangled up in this ridiculous, radiant girl who loves with no filter and no brakes. The girl who turns every moment into a spectacle of affection. Who gives and gives and gives, until the world feels louder, softer, better. All she can do now is hold her close and hope she keeps learning fast enough to deserve all of it.
As Wonyoung clings to Yujin like the world might spin off its axis without constant physical contact, Rei lifts her phone with the kind of ease that says she’s done this before. The motion is quick, practiced like a wildlife photographer raising their lens to catch a rare creature before it bolts.
This time, her subject is the ever elusive Yujin. Soft around the edges, cheeks faintly pink, smiling in public like it doesn’t require a medical excuse. A rare moment. A precious one. Captured with the reverence of someone who’s been waiting weeks for just the right lighting.
Click.
One shot.
Maybe it’s a little blurry. Maybe the framing is off. Doesn’t matter, it’s enough. Technically, it’s insurance. Possibly emotional blackmail. But really? It’s for the folder named ‘Yujin Soft Hours’ that Rei updates every Sunday night without fail, trying to make money out of it. But Rei barely has time to lock her screen before a voice cuts through the evening like a dagger.
“DELETE IT.”
It’s not a request.
It’s a full-blown royal decree.
Wonyoung’s already halfway spun around, eyes blazing like she’s summoning the fury of a betrayed queen and a sleep deprived theatre kid. Her arm shoots forward, finger pointed straight at Rei with all the intensity of someone declaring a blood feud.
“Why,” she demands, storming over, “do you have the love of my life in your camera roll? Huh? HUH? Are you trying to steal Yujin from me? Is that your goal today, Rei? Because I swear to God, I will go full Greek tragedy over this.”
Rei doesn’t blink. Not even a twitch. Years of handling Wonyoung’s emotional typhoons have turned her into a calm, immovable force. She simply scrolls back to the photo, flips her phone around, and holds it out like a peace offering.
“You want it?”
Wonyoung falters just a little. Her arm drops an inch. Her voice falters as she looks down. It’s not even a professional shot. But it might as well be priceless.
Yujin is slightly turned, her smile stretching wide and unguarded in a way that makes her look younger. Her cheeks are dusted with warmth and there are smudges of pink lip gloss scattered across her cheek and jaw. Not obvious, not scandalous, nothing like the telltale red of a cheating husband, but just enough to tint her skin with a delicate hue. It adds color, texture, something tender like affection made visible.
But it’s her eyes that stop the world. There’s an unmistakable shine in them. Soft, stupid, and full. A glowing heart shape blooming right in the center so vividly it’s almost embarrassing. There’s affection brimming in her gaze, like she’s been quietly in love for a while now, and finally forgot to hide it. And anyone who sees that photo—anyone with eyes and a functioning soul—would know exactly what it means.
Yujin is in love.
And somehow, Wonyoung forgets how to breathe. She gasps like she has just witnessed art. Like someone pulled back the curtain on a masterpiece painted just for her. “How much?” she whispers, voice reverent.
Rei smirks as she pulls out her phone, already opening her payment app. She doesn’t even say a number. Wonyoung just taps out the amount like it doesn’t matter. Like money is fake and love is the only real currency. The photo transfers instantly. Saved. Tucked into a locked album with three layers of biometric security.
Then, like a switch flips, Wonyoung jolts back into motion. “NOW DELETE IT,” she shrieks. Her voice spikes like a fire alarm. “DELETE IT FROM YOUR PHONE. FROM YOUR BACKUPS. FROM THE CLOUD. I SWEAR TO GOD, REI. I WILL START A FIRE.”
Rei doesn’t even blink. She's scrolling through her apps like she’s deciding what to order for dinner. “You just bought it off me.”
“That’s DIFFERENT,” Wonyoung counters immediately. “I’m allowed. I’m her girlfriend. Her life partner. Her emotional support siren. You? You’re a civilian. You’re a threat.” Yujin, caught between the two like a bewildered bystander to her own life, covers her face with one hand. She doesn’t even try to stop them.
Rei finally looks up. Her voice is flat, dry as autumn leaves. “I watched Yujin crashed out once because she dropped her favourite pen and it rolled under the vending machine. Do you honestly think I want to deal with that emotional damage?”
That makes Wonyoung pause. Her eyes narrow. She considers it. Really picture Yujin crouched on the floor, quietly spiralling over a runaway pen. Refusing help. Mourning the loss like it was a tiny, plastic comrade. Yeah. That tracks. “…Fair,” Wonyoung admits, slowly. “But I’m still watching you.”
Rei raises a brow. “You bought 5 pictures last week.”
“And I’d buy 5 more,” Wonyoung fires back without hesitation. Chin high. Proud. “Yujin is hot. Sue me.”
Yujin groans, long and low, like her soul is trying to escape through her throat. Her ears are pink again, which seems like an increasingly frequent occurrence these days. She stares up at the sky, expression blank, like she’s waiting for divine intervention… or maybe a spaceship to beam her out of this timeline.
This is her life now.
And maybe —just maybe— she’s starting to love it.
Because for all the chaos and noise, the dramatic accusations and the whispered payments and the locked photo folders, there’s something comforting in it. The way Wonyoung defends her like a knight with glittery armour. The way Rei always knows when to push and when to back off. The way the madness never turns mean.
It’s not just bearable.
It’s home.
And if loving Wonyoung means enduring public auctions of her blushing face and surprise kisses in broad daylight, well… Yujin figures she could get used to that kind of emotional terrorism.
Maybe she already has.
—
They’re back at that restaurant again. The one on the corner, just outside their apartment complex. It looks like it hasn’t changed since the late 90s, and honestly, it probably hasn’t.
It’s not what anyone would call aesthetic. No mood lighting. No reclaimed wood. No indie playlist floating through hidden ceiling speakers. Just old linoleum floors that creak a little near the soda machine, scratched-up booths with foam poking through the seats. The air-conditioners roar loudly like a machine that has something to prove, and cold enough to give you goosebumps even through a hoodie.
But none of that matters. Because the food slaps. It always has. It’s the kind of food that tastes like someone’s grandma has whispered blessings into every single ingredient.
The beef bone soup comes out steaming hot, the broth cloudy and rich, like it’s been simmering for a hundred years straight, drawing flavor from the bones of the universe. The rice? Perfect. Ridiculously fluffy. The grains cling to each other like they’re in love and scared to say goodbye.
They’ve been coming here for almost a year now. At first, it was once a week. Then twice. Then more. Wonyoung had gone on what she dramatically called her beef bone soup arc, dragging Yujin out of bed with sleepy pouts and overly theatrical sighs. Always in the same oversized hoodie, the one that practically swallows her whole. The one she wears when she’s too tired to dress up, but still wants to look like she tried.
Yujin doesn’t even protest anymore. She gave up months ago. You don’t win against a girl who narrates her life like she’s starring in a coming-of-age drama. And honestly? She doesn’t really want to say no anyway.
Tonight, they’ve snagged their favourite booth. The one in the corner, right beneath the light that can’t decide if it wants to live or die. It blinks on and off like it’s second guessing its entire existence.
Wonyoung has already slipped her shoes off. She’s curled up in the booth, both legs tucked tight to her chest. She looks small like this. Soft around the edges, like she’s trying to fold into herself. She leans into Yujin’s side, warm and close. It’s the kind of closeness that doesn’t ask for attention.
This is how Wonyoung always gets when she’s feeling a little overwhelmed. Like the world is too loud, and she’s searching for something quiet to hold onto. And Yujin— Yujin is that quiet. The kind that wraps around her like a blanket. The kind that makes everything else feel far away.
The dishes are cleared now. Bowls scraped clean. Plates were stacked into a lazy tower at the edge of the table. The ahjumma had stopped by earlier to wipe things down, flashing them a wink and that familiar teasing smile. “Young love makes the food taste better, eh?” she’d said. Wonyoung giggled like she knew some grand secret about the universe. And Yujin just stared into her water glass like it had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world.
Now, Wonyoung is talking. Still. As always. Her voice drifts through the air like music—light, expressive, full of life—even when she’s whining about something completely ridiculous. She’s halfway through telling the story of how she “nearly died a slow, tragic death by cello case” when she throws herself back into the booth like a Victorian heroine. One arm flings over her eyes, the other gesturing wildly as she reenacts the moment.
“And then Mrs. Kim had the audacity to say, ‘Graceful as ever,’” she huffs, her voice high and outraged. “Like—ma’am—I’m bleeding. Do I look graceful to you? My elbow’s got a bruise the size of Jeju Island and my pride is in critical condition.”
Yujin doesn’t say anything. She never interrupts these rants. She just listens, letting Wonyoung's words fill the space between them like background music. She’s leaned back, head resting against the cool wall, eyes not quite focused on anything outside. She looks like she’s here. But also not. Her jaw is relaxed. Her lips tug into a tiny smile. And her hand that is resting in her lap, twitches now and then, trying to work something out. Like it’s having an argument with her ribs about courage.
Wonyoung watches it. Watches her. Something flickers behind her eyes, a thought she doesn’t say yet. She just tilts her body a little more into Yujin’s space, close enough now that their arms are pressed together, warm even through layers of cotton.
And then she notices it.
The pause. That specific stillness. That thing Yujin does when she’s stuck inside her own head. When her mouth stays quiet but her eyes look like they want to speak. When her hand flinches toward affection but doesn’t quite land. Wonyoung goes still. Mid-sentence. Mid-gesture. Eyes narrowing, her dramatics paused like someone hit the brakes on a monologue. “You’re doing it again,” she says quietly. Her voice is soft now, enough to shift the entire mood.
Yujin doesn’t look at her. “Doing what?”
“That thing where you look like you’re about to say something, but then don’t.”
Yujin exhales through her nose, the closest she’ll get to a laugh. “I’m not.”
“You are,” Wonyoung insists, one brow lifting as she shifts to face her fully. There’s a smile curling at the edge of her lips—gentle, teasing, but underneath it, there’s something deeper. A patience that’s been building for months. A kind of faith she’s learned to carry when it comes to Yujin.
Yujin stays quiet. But something shifts in her body, just enough. The tension doesn’t leave, but it softens. Her hand, which has been twitching like it wants to move, finally does.
She doesn’t reach for Wonyoung’s face, doesn’t pull her in like a movie scene. That’s not Yujin’s way. Instead, she reaches for Wonyoung’s hand—the one tugging at the frayed edge of her hoodie—and gently covers it with her own like she’s placing something fragile down between them.
And before Wonyoung can say something like, “Is this character development I smell?” Yujin leans in. Not quickly. Not boldly. But surely. Her lips find Wonyoung’s like they’ve been meaning to for a long time.
The kiss is slow, tentative around the edges, like Yujin’s still asking for permission even now. Wonyoung doesn’t pull away. She leans in just enough. Enough to answer. The kiss deepens. Not in hunger, but in weight. Full of everything they haven’t said. Everything they’ve been carrying in silence.
Yujin’s hand comes up, brushing along Wonyoung’s jaw, her thumb pausing at the corner of her mouth. She can feel the smile there. Even now.
Their lips move together like they’re figuring out a language. One only they understand. Every motion is deliberate. Every pause means something. There’s no noise except for the distant clatter of dishes, the hum of the light above them. But between them? It’s quiet. Sacred. It’s not a grand gesture. Not a fix. But it’s something honest. A vow whispered in skin and breath.
It’s real.
And it’s hers.
When Yujin pulls away, Wonyoung doesn’t move. Her eyes are wide—too wide. Comically wide. The kind of wide that says her brain has just blue-screened and left her stuck between what just happened and please do that again immediately.
“Did you just—?” she breathes, voice barely audible.
Yujin’s cheeks are flushed now, and she suddenly won’t meet her gaze. Her shoulders lift in a casual shrug, like she didn’t just flip their entire universe upside down. “Yeah.”
Wonyoung blinks. Once. Then again. She still doesn’t move. And then, all at once, her whole face crumples—not with tears, but with feeling. So much feeling. Too much, really. The kind that swells in your chest until it leaks into your fingers and your voice and the way you lean forward like your emotions have actual gravity.
“You kissed me first,” she says. It’s still a whisper. Like she can’t quite believe it, even though it just happened. Even though she felt it.
Yujin finally looks up. There’s hesitation in her eyes. Like she’s bracing for judgment, regret, a teasing joke. Like she’s already halfway out the door in her head. “Is that… bad?” she asks.
Wonyoung shakes her head so fast her ponytail slaps her in the face. She doesn’t care. “No,” she says, breathless. “It’s just—I didn’t ask. And you still did it. You wanted to. All on your own.” They fall into silence. But not the awkward kind. Not heavy. Just… quiet. The kind of quiet that hums with something sacred, like the world is pausing to give them space to feel.
Yujin’s eyes drop to their hands that are now linked together, fingers threaded naturally, like they were always supposed to be. Her thumb brushes over Wonyoung’s knuckles. Light. Hesitant. Like she’s still learning how to touch without asking permission first. Like she’s still getting used to the idea that she’s allowed.
Allowed to reach.
Allowed to want.
Allowed to try.
Her thumb keeps moving, soft and slow. And when she speaks, her voice is so quiet it barely stirs the air. “I figured,” she says, “you shouldn’t always have to be the one who reaches out.”
Wonyoung makes a sound somewhere between a gasp, a squeal, and a sob. It sounds like a kettle boiling over with emotion. A second later, she launches herself at Yujin like she’s been fired from a feelings-powered cannon. Her limbs tangle around Yujin’s like ivy, her face burying itself into her neck with so much force that the booth lets out a loud creak beneath them. They almost tip sideways.
Yujin startles. “Wha—” She doesn’t get to finish. Wonyoung wails into her hoodie.
“YOU’RE SO STUPID,” she cries, muffled and wobbly. “YOU’RE SO STUPID AND I LOVE YOU SO MUCH AND I’M GOING TO CRY AND IT’S YOUR FAULT.”
Yujin blinks. Her hands hover, stunned for half a second, then settle instinctively on Wonyoung’s waist. They fit there like they’ve been there a thousand times before. From the half-hugs to the sleepy cuddles to the lazy mornings spent avoiding responsibilities.
Her breath shakes on the way out. Then a soft laugh catches in her throat, quiet and surprised, like a secret slipping out. “It’s just a kiss,” she murmurs, half to herself. As if saying it aloud might shrink it down. Make it less terrifying. Less everything.
But Wonyoung lifts her head, just enough to glare at her. Eyes glossy, lashes wet, lips trembling. “No, it’s not,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “It’s you. Reaching for me. In public.” She sniffs, breath catching. “You hate doing that. You look away when I call you cute in the grocery store. You almost passed out when I tried to hold your hand in line at the campus bookstore. But you still—you did it anyway.”
Her voice cracks on that last word. Like her heart can’t quite hold the weight of finally getting what it’s been waiting for. And her whole body shakes from the sheer force of wanting something so badly for so long that having it now feels like too much. Like her chest might split open from the pressure.
Yujin doesn’t say anything right away. She just holds her, letting the truth of Wonyoung’s words sink in, settle into her bones like something permanent. Then, gently, she leans in and presses her cheek to Wonyoung’s hair. She breathes her in—shampoo, warm soup, strawberry lip balm—and holds her tighter. Like she’s something fragile. Something precious. Which, of course, she is. All drama. All heart. Sugar spun so thin it might snap under the weight of its own love.
But still so beautiful.
“You make it easier,” Yujin says softly, into her hair. No poetry. No big speech. Just the truth. Wonyoung pulls back a little. Just enough to see her face. Just enough to make sure this is real.
Wonyoung is a mess in the prettiest way. Wet lashes, blotchy cheeks, nose starting to turn that telltale pink she gets when she cries too hard. And still, she glows. Lit from the inside out, like joy cracked her open and now it’s spilling everywhere. “Yujin?” she says, voice trembling now, like the storm is passing but the thunder’s still echoing.
“Yeah?” Yujin answers, brushing her thumb gently across Wonyoung’s cheekbone. She catches a stray tear like it matters. Like it’s worth holding onto. Her hand moves the way it always does when she pets the stray cat behind their apartment—careful, patient, full of love she doesn’t always say out loud.
Wonyoung stares at her, eyes full of something ancient and young and endless all at once. “You’re never allowed to break up with me.”
Yujin’s lips curve. Not wide, not cocky, just soft and certain, like this moment feels solid beneath her feet. “I wasn’t planning to,” she says. And it sounds like she means it, like loving Wonyoung was never a choice. It was just gravity.
And Wonyoung kisses her again. This time it’s slower, longer. Not because anyone’s watching, but because she needs to. Because she’s full to the brim with everything she’s ever wanted, and this kiss is the only way she knows how to keep from overflowing.
A thank you.
A finally.
A don’t you dare forget this.
Because to Wonyoung, that kiss felt like the world shifted. Like the stars rearranged themselves just so Yujin could find her courage tonight. Like the sky cracked open and instead of running, Yujin reached up, took a star, and placed it gently in her hands. No questions. No conditions. Just love.
And Wonyoung takes it with both hands.
A little dramatic.
A little weepy.
But so, so in love.