Archive of Our Own

The first warning sign is the smell.

Nayeon squints suspiciously at the pan. 

“You’re fine,” she mutters to it, which is exactly what someone says right before something is not fine. “You’re just… on your way to perfection.”

The omelette does not respond, perhaps out of shame. It sits there in the centre of the pan. Its edges are already too brown, the middle is still a bit runny, and the little frilly bits on the sides are turning black at the speed of light.

She jabs it with the spatula. 

It tears.

Hot oil snaps at her wrist. Nayeon yelps, jerks back, and nearly brain-damages herself on the cupboard door.

The smoke alarm above the cooker gives an ominous beep. Testing the waters. Thinking about it.

“Don’t you dare,” Nayeon threatens, pointing the spatula at the ceiling. 

The alarm goes silent again. For now.

She tries to flip the omelette. It folds in on itself and sticks. The edges scrape but don’t lift properly, and every panicked shove of the spatula makes it look less like breakfast and more like a third-grader's scientific experiment gone horribly wrong.

In Nayeon’s defence, she is doing this for love.

It’s their day off, which means zero meetings, deadlines, or urgent LEGO prototypes await them. Last night, as they were brushing their teeth and Mina was half-dozing against the doorframe in one of Nayeon’s shirts, Nayeon had the brilliant idea.

“I’ll make you breakfast tomorrow,” she’d declared with full foam at the corner of her mouth.

Mina had smiled, soft and amused. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Nayeon had insisted. “I am a provider.”

She is now providing carbon.

Possibly carbon monoxide poisoning at this rate.

The toast pops up from the toaster, startling her. She looks over. The slices are, generously, on the darker end of “golden-brown.” 

“Okay,” she mutters. “We’re still going full menu.”

Nayeon slaps them onto plates because she refuses to admit defeat this early in the day. She can scrape the worst of it off. People pay good money for “smoky” flavours nowadays anyway. It’s basically artisanal.

The bedroom door creaks open behind her.

Nayeon straightens instinctively, suddenly hyper-aware of everything.

The state of the pan, the definitely-not-burning omelette, the smell, the fact that she’s in old shorts and an oversized T-shirt with sauce stains on the hem. She drags a hand through her hair, smearing flour across her cheek.

Soft footsteps pad across the hallway.

Mina appears in the kitchen doorway, and Nayeon’s brain forgets how to do basic processing.

It’s not like she’s never seen Mina in her clothes before. She has an entire mental archive dedicated to it. They’ve been roommates for ages, and officially dating for three months, this sight should come bearing no surprise at all.

But something about this morning is particularly offensive to her nervous system.

Mina’s wearing one of her old promotional tees, grey and worn, the faded logo stretched across her chest. It hangs off one of her shoulders, the neckline loose. The hem falls mid-thigh, covering a pair of shorts that only show when she moves. Her hair is a little tangled from sleep, falling around her face. Her eyes are puffy, cheeks soft with pillow lines.

She looks like every “woke up in my girlfriend’s shirt” trope Nayeon has ever secretly bookmarked at 2 AM, and then some.

“You’re staring,” Mina says, voice rough with sleep.

“I am assessing,” Nayeon replies quickly. “Very technical. Completely objective.”

Mina blinks, then smiles, and it’s stupid how much softer the kitchen feels for it. She lifts a hand, rubbing at one eye with the heel of her palm.

“What are you doing?” she asks, nodding at the pan.

“Cooking,” Nayeon says.

The smoke alarm emits another warning chirp.

Mina raises an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Do you want breakfast or not?” Nayeon demands.

Mina leans against the counter, crossing her arms. The shirt slides even further off her shoulder, exposing a sharp line of collarbone and the top of her chest. It should be illegal.

“I always want breakfast,” Mina shrugs. “I just also want to survive it.”

“That’s hurtful. I’m being domestic here.”

“And the building manager will love to have a word regarding our domestic activities if they result in a catastrophic fire that will make the evening news.”

True to form, the omelette chooses that moment to spit another angry pop of oil. A tiny drop lands on the hob near her finger, sizzling. Nayeon flinches back and swears.

Mina pushes herself off the counter, laughing quietly. 

“Let me help you out,” she says, reaching for the spatula.

“I’ve got it,” Nayeon insists, stepping sideways to block her. “I’m proving myself.”

“As what? A hazard?”

She tries to twist away to shield her creation from judgment. Mina simply steps in closer, sliding into the tiny gap between Nayeon and the cooker.

“Let me,” Mina murmurs. “Please?”

Her chest brushes Nayeon’s shoulder. Her front presses lightly against Nayeon’s back as she reaches around her for the handle. The contact is casual, unthinking. 

It also ensues immediate, total destruction.

Nayeon’s brain shorts out so hard she actually forgets what she was arguing about.

She can feel everything. The warmth of Mina’s body, the weight of her against her, the way her chin almost, almost touches Nayeon’s shoulder. Mina’s hair tickles her jaw. The faint scent of Mina’s shampoo mixes with the burnt-egg air in a way that is extremely unfair. 

“This is very unsafe,” Nayeon manages, except it comes out sounding nothing like a complaint.

“I agree,” Mina says mildly, her hand closing over Nayeon’s on the spatula. “You were going to scrape half the pan into oblivion.”

She nudges the spatula under the mess, her wrist turning efficiently. With her other hand, she reaches past Nayeon to flick the hob off. The movement presses her in closer, her chest flush against Nayeon’s back for a second.

Nayeon stops breathing for the duration.

“See?” Mina says, gently lifting the ruined omelette. It comes loose in patchy, half-torn pieces. “Salvageable.”

“Barely,” Nayeon mutters, doing her best not to stare down the line of Mina’s arm, at the way the too-big sleeve has fallen back to expose her forearm. There is no reason this should be hot. 

And yet.

Mina glances sideways, catching her profile. Her mouth tilts into a small, knowing smile. “I appreciate the effort,” she says.

“You’re mocking me.”

“I’m… affectionate,” Mina corrects her, which is somehow worse.

The smoke alarm beeps again, louder this time, objecting to their proximity. Mina stretches up with a sigh, one hand leaving Nayeon’s to press the test button. It quiets, but not before Nayeon gets a very good view of how her shirt rides up when she reaches.

“I hate this apartment,” Nayeon says weakly.

“You love this apartment,” says Mina. “It has good light and a balcony and street noise you pretend to complain about but secretly find comforting.”

Mina doesn’t need to add that’s the sole reason why they’re together at all.

“Wow,” says Nayeon. “One session and now she does therapy voice before breakfast.”

Mina chuckles. She slides the remains of the omelette onto a plate with minimal carnage. It looks… not good, but less like arson than a minute ago.

The toast remains a problem. Nayeon eyes it, then grabs the knife and starts scraping the black bits off over the sink. 

Mina stands beside her, hip bumping hers. 

“You know,” she says, “we could order in.”

“No,” Nayeon insists, fiercely protective of her disaster now. “I said I’d make you breakfast. I’m making you breakfast.”

Mina watches her for a few seconds, eyes drifting over the flour on her cheek, the smudge of egg near her wrist, and the determined set of her mouth.

“Okay,” she says softly. “We’re eating it.”

Nayeon’s chest does a weird, tight thing. She looks away quickly, pretending to focus very hard on the second piece of toast.

By the time she’s done attacking them both, they’ve gone from “disconcertingly dark” to “rustic.” She arranges them on the plates with exaggerated care, hiding the worst of the damage underneath the least offensive pieces of omelette. The final touch is a small handful of grapes and some sliced banana from the fridge, which she adds like an afterthought to make it look intentional.

“Voilà,” she announces, holding one plate out with a flourish. “Breakfast, a la Im.”

Mina takes it with solemn ceremony. “Even when you nearly got charged with arson in the process.”

“You’re still going to eat it, though.”

Mina hesitates for exactly half a second, then nods. “Yeah,” she says. “I am.”

They sit at the tiny table by the window. The city is quieter than usual for a late morning, the usual weekday chaos replaced with weekend laziness. Sunlight spills in across the table, catching the steam rising from the mugs of coffee Nayeon managed not to ruin.

Mina picks up her fork, cuts a cautious piece of omelette, and pops it into her mouth.

Nayeon watches her like she’s waiting for a verdict on a death row appeal.

Her expression does not turn to horror, which Nayeon takes as a promising sign.

“Well?” Nayeon demands, leaning forward.

Mina’s lips twitch. “It’s…” She searches for words. “Smoky.”

“That’s flavour.”

“And… textured.”

“Also flavour.”

Mina gives up and starts laughing, her shoulders shaking. It’s ridiculous how proud of herself Nayeon feels for causing it.

“It’s good,” Mina says finally, and even if that’s a lie, it’s a kind one. “Really. It has… character.”

Nayeon exhales, pretending she wasn’t holding her breath. 

“Exactly what I was going for,” she says. “Character.”

Mina reaches across the table with her free hand, her fingers brushing the flour still streaked on Nayeon’s cheek. 

“You’ve got character here too,” she says, wiping it off gently.

Nayeon’s heart does that stupid flip again. 

“Hazard of being a domestic goddess,” she declares.

Mina smiles at her, soft and bright and a little shy, and leans over the table. Before Nayeon can fully process what’s happening, Mina presses a quick kiss to her cheek.

“Thank you for breakfast,” she murmurs, lingering close enough that Nayeon can feel her breath.

Nayeon freezes. Her mind, already operating at reduced capacity, fully disconnects from the network.

She manages to say, “You’re welcome,” in a tone that hopefully doesn’t betray the fact that she is currently experiencing cardiac difficulties.

Mina pulls back, satisfied, and returns to dissecting the rest of the plate like it’s a perfectly normal meal and not the charred remains of Nayeon’s pride.

Across the table, Nayeon pokes her own toast, smiling into her coffee mug despite herself.

Soft, she thinks, watching Mina tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, sunlight outlining her in gold.

Chaotic, she thinks, looking at the pan still smoking gently on the hob.

The two of them. An absolute menace of a combination.

And somehow, miraculously, hers.

The carton box has been staring at her for three weeks.

It lurks in the corner of the living room, flat and smug, with that blue-and-yellow logo beaming up at her every time she dares to look away from the TV. During the work week, she’s ignored it on principle. Today, apparently, is the day her hubris catches up.

“This,” Nayeon announces, hands planted on her hips, “is our Everest.”

Mina looks up from the sofa, where she’s curled with her legs under her, her mug cupped in both hands. 

“It’s a bookcase, Nayeonnie,” she says, amused.

“A bookcase with three shelves, may I remind you,” Nayeon insists. “And I am going to build it with my bare hands. Like a pioneer. In… very cute pyjama shorts.”

Mina lets her gaze drift down, taking in said shorts and Nayeon’s old T-shirt. “Did pioneers wear strawberries?” she teases.

“They would have, if they had taste,” Nayeon replies, already dragging the box further into the middle of the room.

She grabs a pair of scissors from the kitchen, slices through the tape, and unfolds the cardboard with a flourish that immediately loses effect when a bundle of wooden planks slides out and nearly crushes her toes.

Mina jolts up from her seat. “Careful.”

“No, no. Stay where you are. I am in control,” Nayeon says, hopping back. One of the smaller panels still clips her ankle. “Mostly.”

A plastic packet of screws and metal bits clatters across the floor, scattering malevolently. A rolled-up paper manual flops out last, landing innocently in the middle of the mess.

Mina sets her mug down with a fond sigh and gets up. 

“Do you want help?” she asks.

“No,” Nayeon declines too quickly. “This is my mission. My journey. You build dreams for a living. I can build one small gay bookcase.”

Mina raises a brow at her. “The bookcase isn’t gay.”

“It’s going in our living room,” Nayeon says. “It’s absolutely gay.”

Mina considers this, then nods. “Fair point.”

She comes over anyway, stepping around the planks with the kind of instinctive spatial awareness that Nayeon deeply resents. Mina picks up the manual and unrolls it, smoothing the creases with careful fingers.

Nayeon looks at it warily. “I don’t need that,” she says. “Instructions are for cowards.”

Mina only nods along out of principle as she just flicks to the first page, scanning it with terrifying focus.

“There are only nine steps,” she says. “This won’t take long.”

“That’s exactly what they want you to think,” Nayeon mutters, grabbing what she assumes is one of the side panels and propping it upright. “It’s psychological warfare.”

She locates the little wooden dowels and metal screws, pours them into an empty bowl so they don’t roll away, and promptly knocks the bowl over with her knee. Bits ping off in all directions.

“Exhibit A,” she adds as Mina holds back a laugh.

“You’re doing amazing,” Mina says, voice very gentle. It’s unclear if she means it.

They settle on the floor, cross-legged opposite each other amid a sea of flat-pack carnage. 

Mina sits with the manual open in front of her while Nayeon grabs one of the longer panels and a handful of dowels, cracked determination etched into her face.

“Step one,” Mina reads. “Attach the side panels to the bottom piece using dowels A and screws B.”

“Easy as pie”, says Nayeon with full smugness.

She jams a dowel into the wrong hole with more force than required. It sticks out at an angle.

Mina hums. “I… don’t think that’s where it should be.”

“And I shall file that under ‘quirky design choices’,” Nayeon huffs. 

“Or… we could do it correctly,” Mina says, gently pulling the panel towards her. Her fingers brush Nayeon’s in the process, light and quick, but it sends a stupid little spark up her arm anyway.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Nayeon grumbles, but she watches more carefully as Mina lines the dowel up with the right hole and presses it in with a neat, controlled push.

“There we go,” Mina says. “Gentle but firm.”

“Don’t say things like that while we’re on the floor,” Nayeon complains.

Mina flushes the faintest pink. “You’re the one who made it weird,” she says.

They work through the first two steps with minimal incident, mostly because Mina quietly rescues every piece Nayeon manhandles too aggressively. It’s almost soothing, in a way. 

Nayeon starts to feel a bit cocky.

“I think I’ve got the hang of this,” she announces, grabbing the little plastic hammer that came with the kit. “Look at us. Building furniture. Furnishing our home. This is so lesbian-coded.”

“Please don’t hit anything yet,” Mina says, eyes flicking from the hammer to Nayeon’s face and back again.

“I’m just tamping it down,” says Nayeon, giving one of the dowels a very gentle tap. 

Then a slightly less gentle one. Then another. The third one makes the side panel jolt.

Mina’s hand shoots out, steadying it. 

“Okay,” she says, “maybe we should use our hands for this part.”

Nayeon considers the panel, then her, then tosses the hammer aside with a sigh. “Fine. I will use my delicate lady hands.”

Between them, the skeleton of the bookcase starts to emerge. The bottom shelf sits more or less where it’s supposed to. The sides aren’t exactly square, but they’re trying their best.

Nayeon goes to join the second shelf to the frame, squinting at the pre-drilled holes. They look wrong. The angle feels wrong. She angles the screw, determined, and begins to twist with all the stubbornness of someone who has never let physics stop her before.

The wood makes a small, alarming creak.

“Nayeonnie,” Mina says immediately, hand closing over Nayeon’s wrist. “You’re stripping it.”

“I’m what?”

“The thread,” says Mina. “You’re stripping the thread. You’re forcing it in at the wrong angle.”

Nayeon opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. It is, unfortunately, not the first time someone has said a sentence like that to her, but never in a context this tame.

She resists the very strong urge to make it worse.

“Fine,” she says instead. “Correct me, then.”

Mina shifts closer, moving onto her knees behind her, leaning over her shoulder to see properly. From this angle, she can guide Nayeon’s hand to align the screw with the correct hole. Her chest presses lightly against Nayeon’s back, thighs bracketing either side of her hips.

It is, from a purely structural perspective, the most efficient position.

From Nayeon’s perspective, it is also the most unfair.

“Like this,” Mina says softly, her fingers wrapping around Nayeon’s. 

She adjusts their grip together, nudging the screw until it slides into place.

Her breath ghosts over Nayeon’s cheek as she lowers her head to see. A strand of hair falls forward, tickling the side of Nayeon’s neck.

The world shrinks to that one point of contact. The room, the shelves, the screws, everything fades into background noise.

“Relax your hand,” Mina murmurs, not noticing the chaos she’s causing. “You’re gripping too hard.”

“I’m having a crisis,” Nayeon says weakly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Mina gently guides her hand through the twisting motion, slow and even. The screw goes in smoothly this time, threads catching properly. Nayeon tries very hard to focus on the physics of torque, not on how Mina’s body fits against hers, like they’re part of some unhelpfully suggestive IKEA illustration.

“See?” Mina says. “Better.”

“You’re assuming I saw anything just now,” Nayeon mumbles.

Mina laughs quietly, the sound vibrating against her back. “I believe in you,” she says.

That is, of course, the killing blow.

She shouldn’t be affected by this. They’ve kissed more times than she can count. Mina falling asleep on her shoulder, Mina stealing her hoodies, Mina wrapping herself around Nayeon on the sofa like some sort of polite octopus. It’s all standard now.

But something about the combination of this—Mina’s arms around her, Mina’s voice in her ear, the quiet domesticity of struggling with a mass-produced shelf together—tips something inside her.

She stays still even after the screw is fully seated, her hand lingering, not in a rush to move. Mina doesn’t move either, maybe because she hasn’t registered that the excuse to be pressed up against her has technically expired.

“Next one,” Mina says after a beat, sounding a little distracted herself.

Nayeon’s heart kicks. She shifts the panel and reaches for the next screw. Mina’s hands follow.

They go through two more like that, their motions synchronised, a ridiculous, intimate little assembly line with Mina aligning, Nayeon twisting, their bodies moulded together. Each time, Mina’s hands encompass hers, warm and sure. And each time, Nayeon’s ability to think in complete sentences decreases further.

By the time the middle shelf is secured, she’s sweating. Not from effort.

“You’re very warm,” Mina remarks, finally noting it.

“I’m expending emotional energy,” Nayeon says.

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Do you have any idea how intense this is?” Nayeon demands.

Mina glances down at their joined hands, then back up. “Screwing?”

Nayeon makes a strangled noise. 

“Okay,” she says. “You are not allowed to say that word in that tone while you’re physically attached to me.”

Mina goes very still. Then, slowly, she seems to realise the full extent of their positioning. The way she’s basically embracing Nayeon from behind, chest pressed to her back, chin close to her shoulder, thighs framing her hips.

Colour floods her cheeks.

“Oh,” she says.

“Yeah,” Nayeon says, her voice coming out lower than she intends.

They are surrounded by wood and screws and the faint smell of cardboard, suspended in something heavy and fragile. The half-assembled frame in front of them lists slightly, leaning against Nayeon’s knee.

Nayeon turns her head a little, just enough that her nose brushes Mina’s temple. Mina inhales sharply.

“We can—” Mina starts.

“Stop?” Nayeon says. 

The word tastes like self-sabotage.

“—take a break,” Mina finishes.

Nayeon weighs it. Every part of her that’s trying to be decent screams yes, give her space, don’t do this here, you’re literally on the floor with an Allen key. Another part—the one that’s been held in check for weeks now, the one that wakes up every time Mina climbs into her lap—leans in.

“We can,” she says. “Or we could…” 

Her free hand lifts, hesitates, then covers one of Mina’s, where it still rests on her own.

Mina swallows. Nayeon feels it against her back.

“This is a terrible idea,” Mina murmurs. “The shelf poses a hazard.”

“Most of my ideas are,” Nayeon says. “Some of them are fun, though.”

She turns a little more, twisting at the waist, forcing one knee up so she can pivot. Mina shifts with her automatically, trying not to topple the frame. They end up half-facing each other, one of Mina’s knees still braced by Nayeon’s hip, the other on the floor. 

Their faces are suddenly very close.

Mina’s eyes flick down to her mouth and back up.

For a heartbeat, Nayeon forgets about screws. For another heartbeat, she forgets about being good.

She can feel the easy pull of sliding into the familiar shape of Mina’s mouth against hers. 

The half-built shelf gives a tiny, offended wobble against Nayeon’s knee.

It’s barely movement, but it’s enough to remind them that they’re sitting on the floor surrounded by loose panels and judgmental bits of hardware, one wrong shift away from a very stupid obituary.

Mina huffs a laugh, then reaches past Nayeon’s shoulder, steadying the frame with one hand. Her other hand stays on Nayeon’s wrist for half a second longer than necessary, warm and anchoring.

Nayeon’s mouth twitches. “Are you… turning me down for furniture?”

Mina’s cheeks flush. “I’m turning you down for our livelihood.”

“That’s fair,” Nayeon concedes, because she does enjoy having a skull that remains uncracked.

They go back to work. The moment has settled into something quieter. Every time their fingers brush, every time Mina leans over to check a joint, every time her knee bumps Nayeon’s, it tugs at that thread of want.

The bookcase, slowly, begins to resemble something like the picture on the box.

And Nayeon, with sweat damp at the nape of her neck, heart doing stupid gymnastic routines in her chest, thinks that if assembling furniture like this isn’t the most domestic thing she’s ever done, she doesn’t know what is.

Eventually, the bookcase survives the onslaught of Nayeon’s manhandling. It now, somehow, stands against the wall, though slightly crooked. Nayeon calls it “charm”.

Mina wipes the back of her hand across her forehead, a faint sheen of sweat on her skin, hair falling out of its clip. She looks at their handiwork with the quiet, satisfied expression she gets when a Lego build finally clicks into its proper shape.

“We did it,” she says.

“We did,” Nayeon agrees, chest puffing a bit. “We have conquered capitalism’s most devious flat-pack puzzle.”

“You stripped three screws,” Mina reminds her.

“Don’t ruin the narrative.”

Her stomach chooses that moment to growl, loud and offended. Mina’s does a second later in sympathetic protest.

“Okay,” Nayeon says, pressing a hand dramatically to her midsection. “We are clearly dying. What do you want? Chicken? Jjajangmyeon? Pizza that I don’t personally burn?”

Mina considers it. “Jjajangmyeon,” she decides. “And maybe tangsuyuk?”

Nayeon points at her like she’s just solved world hunger. “This is why I’m dating you.”

“That’s not a very high bar,” Mina shakes her head, but she’s smiling.

They order from the place down the street, the one that knows them by name now because couples who share an address and order the same things at least once a week are, in fact, obvious. While they wait, she and Mina half-heartedly start to clear the battlefield by flattening the cardboard and sweeping the worst of the sawdust and plastic crumbs into a pile.

When the knock comes at the door, Nayeon sprints to get it like she hasn’t eaten in days. 

They spread everything out on the coffee table—bowls of noodles, plastic containers of tangsuyuk with the sauce on the side, little tubs of kimchi and pickled radish. Mina disappears into the kitchen and comes back with chopsticks and cans of something fizzy.

It looks, Nayeon thinks, a little like every fantasy she used to secretly harbour when she lived alone. Same low table, same cheap sofa, same crappy internet. Just…this time there’s someone else on the other end of the sofa. Someone half-tucked under a blanket with her, bare legs brushing Nayeon’s thigh, wearing her shirt and smiling at her like breakfast wasn’t a small disaster.

“Eat,” Mina says, nudging a bowl towards her.

“Yes, mum,” Nayeon replies, because she can’t not.

She twirls noodles around her chopsticks and slurps them inelegantly, sauce dotting the corner of her mouth.

Mina reaches over without thinking and wipes it away with her thumb.

Nayeon’s heart does that stupid lurch thing again. She can feel herself grinning before she can stop it, something loose and dumb and warm spreading across her face. Mina catches it and ducks her head, a shy smile pulling at her own mouth.

“This is very married behaviour,” says Nayeon.

“We assembled furniture together,” Mina points out. “We passed the test.”

“Is that the test?” Nayeon asks. “I thought the test was not killing each other while driving to IKEA.”

“That’s your test,” Mina says dryly. 

Nayeon gasps, hand to her chest. “I am an excellent driver.”

“You attempted to change lanes on a red light.”

“I was anticipating.”

“Right,” Mina nods along. “Anticipate a very heavy fine, indeed.”

Despite herself, Nayeon laughs. She reaches for a piece of tangsuyuk, dips it into the sauce, and holds it up to Mina’s mouth.

“Say ‘ah’,” she says.

Mina gives her a flat look, which loses all power because she’s already leaning forward. She takes the bite carefully, lips brushing Nayeon’s fingers for a split second.

Nayeon barely resists the urge to throw the entire tray off the table and kiss her instead.

“Mmm,” Mina says, chewing. “Good choice.”

“I do occasionally have taste,” Nayeon says. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

That earns her a quiet, pleased smile that settles somewhere deep in her chest.

They eat like that for a while, alternating between feeding themselves and each other. Sometimes Mina holds a piece out to her without comment, and Nayeon leans forward automatically. Sometimes Nayeon sticks chopsticks in front of her face until Mina laughs and gives in.

It’s easy. Too easy. So easy that if she thinks about how fast she got used to this, she might actually start screaming.

Three months isn’t a long time, objectively. People can barely get through the talking phase of casual dating in three months. Nayeon, in her grand tradition of doing everything too fast, took approximately four weeks to tell Mina she loved her.

She hadn’t meant to. 

Obviously, she hadn’t meant to. 

They’d been on the rooftop, the same stupid rooftop where she’d kissed her for the first time, sharing a can of cheap beer and a bag of crisps, talking about nothing and everything. Mina had said her name in that soft, slightly incredulous way she does when she’s still getting used to saying it as a girlfriend instead of a roommate.

Nayeon’s heart had done a kamikaze dive off the edge of her rib cage, and she’d just said it.

“I love you.”

Like an idiot.

Which really ruined the five billion romantic scenarios in her head where she’d have had this heart-stuttering build-up and grand entrances. 

But no, Im Nayeon just strung out the words heavy and bright and terrifying like that on a rooftop of all the places. The second they were out, she’d wanted to claw them back, shove them into her mouth, pretend she’d said something else entirely.

Fitting, she’d had thought then, if the answer was no, there was a solution right at her feet.

The look on Mina’s face—wide-eyed, startled, all the colour draining and then flooding back—had made Nayeon’s stomach flip. The silence that followed felt like falling without a parachute.

“I mean,” she’d tried, instantly scrambling, “no pressure, obviously. You don’t have to—I just—it escaped, I think I’m defective, please don’t panic—”

Mina had cut her off by putting a steady hand on her cheek. 

“I love you, too,” she’d said, voice quiet but so, so certain.

Nayeon can feel it even now, sitting on the floor with plastic containers around them, sauce on her fingers and Mina’s knee pressed against her thigh. That moment where the worst-case scenario she’d been bracing for—Mina freezing, Mina pulling away, Mina telling her she was too much—never came.

“You know,” Mina had added, later, when they were lying side by side staring at the stars like idiots. “You’re not too loud, or too intense, or too much. And I just…” She’d trailed off then, searching for the words. “I love you exactly as you are. I didn’t fall for you because you’re careful.”

Nayeon still doesn’t know what to do with that. With being liked—loved—for the same things everyone else used to complain about. When she’d been younger, “too much” had been an accusation. With Mina, it’s somehow a compliment.

She’s still suspicious about it. Grateful. Horribly, embarrassingly soft.

She shoves another piece of tangsuyuk into her own mouth to stop herself from saying something sincere.

Mina finishes the last of her noodles, pushes the bowl away a little, and sits up straighter, stretching one arm over her head. The hem of her shirt lifts as she moves. Nayeon does not look. She absolutely does not.

“I want to finish the garden,” Mina announces.

“The what now?” Nayeon asks around a chunk of radish.

“My LEGO garden,” she says, as if that is a normal phrase and not the cutest thing Nayeon has ever heard. “The bonsai. And the little side builds.”

 “Soon we won’t be able to walk in here without stepping on something that wants to destroy my feet,” Nayeon gestures to the LEGO collections around their apartment.

“You already can’t,” Mina points out. “You’re just not learning.”

“Harsh,” Nayeon says. “True, but harsh.”

Mina stands, gathering up the empties. “I’ll put these in the sink. Could you get the set from my room?”

“Yes, boss,” Nayeon says, saluting with her chopsticks.

She dumps the remaining trash into the bin, stacks the bowls by the sink, and heads into Mina’s room. The LEGO set is exactly where she left it on the desk. 

A low, sprawling garden extension with stone paths, tiny lanterns, and clusters of flowers no bigger than Nayeon’s fingernail.

She carries the whole thing out carefully, tongue peeking between her teeth with concentration, and sets it down on the coffee table. By the time she plops down onto the sofa, Mina’s back.

“Careful,” Mina says automatically, assessing the set-up.

“I am being reverent,” Nayeon says. “This is art.”

“It’s plastic,” Mina says, but her fingers are gentle when she sits down, pulling the tray closer.

Nayeon slides in beside her, shoulder to shoulder, tucking one leg under herself and stretching the other out so their knees bump. She grabs a bag of crisps from the coffee table and opens it. Every so often, she plucks one out and holds it absently near Mina’s mouth. Mina eats them without looking, her gaze fixed on the instructions, lips parting on reflex when a crisp enters her peripheral vision.

It’s… stupidly endearing.

“What phase of the garden are we in?” Nayeon asks, peering over her shoulder like she understands what she’s seeing.

“Blossoms,” Mina says, eyes scanning the page. “I did the bonsai a while back, now I’m doing adding the little details.”

“The little details,” Nayeon repeats respectfully, as if this is a real horticultural endeavour and not coloured plastic. “Serious business.”

“It is,” Mina says, not catching the humour. 

She picks up a tiny curved piece, then another, clicking them together to form a petal. Her hands move with that same careful precise engineering concentration and unhurried contentment Nayeon has seen a hundred times. 

She leans in, closer than strictly necessary, her chin almost resting on Mina’s shoulder as she watches her slot pieces into place. The evening light from the window has dimmed into something softer. The lamp by the sofa throws a warm pool of glow over Mina’s hair.

Mina keeps talking as she works, almost absent-mindedly. Not filler talk—just soft commentary about the build. The way the petals are layered to mimic real blossoms. How the designers had to think about balance and weight so the branches wouldn’t droop. The little trick of using upside-down pieces to create texture on the “soil” part of the pot.

Most people, Nayeon knows, would find this boring. Or at least politely tune it out.

Nayeon listens like she’s being told the meaning of life.

Not because of the bricks, though she has to admit there’s a weird satisfaction in seeing something so intricate emerge from chaos. 

Because of Mina’s voice. 

The way it goes gentle and focused when she’s in her element, the tiny spark that comes into her eyes when she’s explaining something she loves. Every now and then, she looks at Nayeon to check she’s still following, as if she isn’t already two years deep into following everything about her.

“The thing I like,” Mina says quietly, “is how it all locks together. Even when it doesn’t look like it will. You gotta trust the structure. And eventually it makes sense.”

“I love you, you know that, right?” Nayeon asks out of the blue.

Mina turns her head slightly, enough that Nayeon can see the faint flush rising over her cheeks. 

“I love you, too,” she smiles, pressing a kiss to Nayeon’s cheek before returning her attention to the branches, hands moving with a little more care than before.

Nayeon watches her work for a while, her chin now unabashedly resting on Mina’s shoulder. The LEGO garden grows, blossom by blossom, each cluster clicking into place with a soft, satisfying sound. 

The room feels small and safe, cocooned in this quiet little universe of plastic petals and half-finished furniture and the soft buzz of the fridge humming in the background.

She’s still thinking about that first month as she watches. About the night on the rooftop, when the city lights had looked like spilled stars and her own tongue had betrayed her. About the way panic had flooded her so fast her hands shook.

You’re too much, a little voice had whispered, familiar and cruel. Too intense. Too fast. You’ll scare her off.

Except she hadn’t. Mina’d just looked at her like she’d been waiting, quietly, for the inevitable moment when Nayeon’s mouth would catch up with what her eyes had been saying for weeks.

Now, three months in, Nayeon still doesn’t entirely trust it. She believes it, of course, she does—Mina shows her every day in a thousand tiny, unshowy ways—but there’s still that part of her that expects the floor to drop out from under her.

She would never say that out loud. Not when Mina has already done so much to dismantle it. Not when Mina keeps telling her, in words and touches and domestic rituals, that she is wanted exactly as she is.

Mina assembles another cluster of blossoms, frowning slightly in concentration. A tiny crease appears between her brows.

Without thinking, Nayeon reaches up and smooths it with her thumb.

“You’re frowning,” she says quietly.

“That’s just my face,” Mina parrots back, deadpan.

Nayeon huffs. “Plagiarism.”

Mina’s smile flickers, brief but bright. As she leans forward to attach the blossoms to the main branch, a lock of Nayeon’s hair falls across her cheek. Mina pauses, free hand lifting. She tucks the strand gently behind Nayeon’s ear, fingers brushing the side of her face with unconscious intimacy.

The world tilts, just a little.

A moment where everything lines up into something coherent.

With Mina’s fingers lingering by her ear and the plastic petals slotting into place one by one, Nayeon feels that same swell of feeling rise again. Less terrifying, more inevitable.

She wants. 

She wants so much it aches.

Not just the press of skin and the rush of heat her body keeps loudly petitioning for. She wants this—quiet evenings with takeout and LEGO and Mina unconsciously reaching for her. She wants mornings, disasters and all. She wants future arguments about shelving and curtains and where to put the next plant. She wants a life built brick by brick, structure slowly revealing itself as they go.

“Hey,” she says, before she can stop herself.

Mina glances at her, head tilting slightly. “Hm?”

“Nothing,” Nayeon says, because suddenly saying I love you again feels both too small and too dangerous.

Mina studies her for a second longer, as if she can hear the unsaid words rattling around in Nayeon’s ribcage. Then she smiles, tiny and soft, and turns back to the garden.

“You can pick the next blossom colour,” she says. “Pink or white.”

“Is this a test?” Nayeon asks.

“Absolutely,” Mina replies.

“White,” Nayeon says, because it looks good against the darker green.

Because it’ll make her happy. Because she’s already memorised the things that make Mina’s eyes light up and filed them next to passwords and bank PINs in terms of importance.

Mina nods, reaching for the right pieces. “Good choice,” she says.

Nayeon rests her chin back on her shoulder, watching as the tree slowly comes to life under Mina’s hands, and suspects that if she isn’t careful, she’s going to say something unforgivable again before the night is over.

Something like I want everything with you.

Something like I don’t know how to want less.

The night settles in.

The living room lights are dimmed down to one lamp in the corner, warm and lazy. Outside, the city keeps murmuring, but inside the flat it’s just them, the soft click of LEGO pieces, the quiet of Mina’s concentration.

The courtyard is nearly finished.

Mina slots a tiny lantern into place, frowning slightly as she aligns it with the stone path. Nayeon watches the movement of her hands more than the build itself. The way her fingers press and release. The gentle patience. The little satisfied exhale every time something fits.

Nayeon has her head tipped on Mina’s shoulder, the crisps balanced in her lap, the kind of content that should be enough.

It isn’t.

It never is, these days—not when Mina is this close, this soft, this hers. Not when Mina keeps touching her like it’s natural—tucking hair behind her ear, brushing her thumb over Nayeon’s knuckles when she passes her a piece, leaning in so their thighs press and stay pressed.

It’s the staying pressed that gets her.

Mina reaches for another piece, arm crossing in front of Nayeon, and her elbow nudges Nayeon’s chest lightly. Nayeon catches the corner of her wrist on instinct, steadying it so she doesn’t knock the whole thing over.

Mina pauses.

“Sorry,” she murmurs.

“You’re fine,” Nayeon says. Her voice comes out lower than she expects. She clears her throat and adds, louder, like she can fix it with volume, “Your garden is attacking me.”

Mina’s mouth twitches. “It’s not a garden. It’s a courtyard.”

“Right. A courtyard. In case the bonsai has guests.”

Mina snorts, a quiet little laugh. She turns her head slightly, looking at Nayeon from the corner of her eye.

“You’re in a strange mood,” she says.

Nayeon’s pulse kicks. “I’m always in a strange mood.”

“No,” Mina says, softer. “Strange-er.”

Nayeon shifts, straightening a little, as if sitting up might restore her dignity. It doesn’t. Mina’s shoulder slips out from under her cheek, leaving her suddenly cold where Mina’s warmth used to be.

She hates it. Immediately.

So, she leans in again without thinking, this time not resting her head on Mina’s shoulder, but brushing her cheek against Mina’s jaw. A nuzzle. An accident. A thing that could be written off as nothing if either of them wanted to lie.

Mina goes still.

Nayeon feels her swallow.

Someone turned the volume down on the outside world and up on the sound of Mina breathing.

Nayeon’s hand, still near Mina’s wrist, shifts. Her thumb strokes once over the inside of Mina’s pulse, gentle. It’s barely a touch.

Mina’s breath catches.

Nayeon shouldn’t. She should keep it light. Keep it safe. Keep it at the level where Mina smiles and tucks her hair behind her ear and everything stays sweet and manageable. Because they’ve been doing this dance for a while, and still, Nayeon wants to try to see if the outcome is any different every time. The version of them that never wobbles, never risks anything, never gives either of them a reason to look too closely at what they’re avoiding.

But they’ve been doing this dance for three months now. Heat building, hands roaming, Mina clinging and sighing like she wants it, and then, right at the edge of it, right when Nayeon thinks maybe this time, Mina backs down. Always gentle, always apologetic, always with that same flicker of panic that makes Nayeon’s stomach drop.

And still—stupidly and stubbornly—Nayeon keeps trying again, like if she presses at the same door often enough it’ll eventually open. 

Mina turns then, just slightly, enough that their noses brush. Enough that Nayeon sees Mina’s eyes drop to her mouth.

Nayeon leans in. 

It starts small, because even when she’s losing control, she doesn’t want to scare Mina. Her hand cups Mina’s cheek, thumb resting against the corner of her mouth. Mina lets out a quiet, helpless sound that makes Nayeon’s entire body light up.

Mina kisses her back.

That’s always the thing that ruins her.

Mina’s kisses aren’t loud. They’re not messy. She doesn’t devour. She accepts warmly and thoroughly, as if she’s been waiting for it. Like she wants it just as badly but refuses to rush it. There’s a steadiness to her that makes Nayeon feel both soothed and starved.

Nayeon deepens the kiss anyway, her tongue sliding in slowly, coaxing. Mina’s fingers curl into her shirt, bunching fabric. She shifts closer, climbing partially into Nayeon’s lap without meaning to.

The LEGO courtyard on the table wobbles slightly. Mina doesn’t seem to notice.

Nayeon notices everything else.

Mina is warm against her. The oversized shirt—Nayeon’s shirt—rides up when Mina moves, exposing the soft strip of skin at her waist. Nayeon’s hand, traitorous, slides there, fingers spreading as she pulls Mina in.

Mina’s breath breaks against her mouth.

“Nayeonnie,” she whispers.

Nayeon makes a sound that isn’t quite a response. She kisses Mina again, harder, then softer, chasing the way Mina’s mouth opens for her. Mina’s hands slide up to Nayeon’s shoulders, then her neck, holding her.

Nayeon is already dizzy.

Mina shifts again, and this time she properly ends up straddling her. One knee on either side of Nayeon’s hips, weight sank into her lap, their bodies aligned in a way that makes Nayeon’s thoughts scatter like frightened birds.

Nayeon’s hands move on their own. One presses to Mina’s lower back, the other slips up, under the hem of the shirt, to touch the bare skin.

Mina shivers.

Nayeon kisses her jaw. Then her neck. The place under her ear where Mina always gasps.

She hears it—the soft, involuntary sound Mina makes when Nayeon’s mouth finds the right spot—and it punches straight through her restraint. Nayeon kisses down the line of her throat, slow and hungry, losing her composure in tiny increments. Mina’s fingers tighten in her hair.

For a few seconds, it feels like it’s finally happening. Like the invisible line is gone. Like Mina is here, in her lap, breathing like that, and Nayeon can just—

Mina inhales sharply.

Her hands go tense on Nayeon’s shoulders. Her body stiffens, not away from her—never fully away—but braced, like she’s suddenly remembered a cliff edge.

“Nayeon,” she says again, voice thinner this time. “Wait—”

Nayeon freezes. Someone’s pulled a plug and her whole body has gone still.

She lifts her head, mouth leaving Mina’s neck, and looks up at her.

Mina’s cheeks are flushed, lips parted, eyes too wide. She’s breathing too fast, like her chest is trying to outrun her heartbeat. There’s desire there, but behind it, a flicker of panic that makes Nayeon’s stomach drop.

Mina swallows. “Can we… slow down?” she asks, and she sounds like she hates having to say it.

Nayeon nods, fast. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

Her hands pull back at once, retreating from under Mina’s shirt and settling harmlessly at her waist instead, palms open and still. She doesn’t move Mina off her, not yet, but she eases the pressure and leans back into the sofa so Mina has space to breathe.

Mina’s shoulders sag with relief. Then, her face crumples slightly, guilt flooding in like it always does.

“I’m sorry,” Mina whispers.

“No,” Nayeon says, too quickly, because she can’t stand that sound. “Don’t apologise. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Mina shakes her head, still straddling her, hands hovering as if she isn’t sure where she’s allowed to touch now. “I keep… stopping,” she says, her voice small.

Nayeon swallows hard. She forces herself to stay gentle.

“You’re allowed to stop,” she says. “Anytime. I—Mina, I want you to stop if you need to. That’s the whole point.”

Mina looks at her like she’s trying to believe it. Like she’s afraid Nayeon is only saying the right thing because she has to.

Nayeon hates that. Hates the thought that Mina could ever be scared of her disappointment.

She reaches up slowly, giving Mina time to pull away if she wants, and brushes a thumb over Mina’s cheek. It’s a soft touch. A grounding one.

“Hey,” she murmurs. “I’m not angry.”

“I know,” Mina says, voice breaking a little on the last word. “That’s why it’s worse.”

Nayeon’s chest tightens.

She doesn’t know what to say to that. Not without asking questions that might make Mina shut down more, not without admitting the thing she keeps trying to swallow. That every time Mina stops, a part of Nayeon’s brain immediately turns cruel, turning the blame inward.

You went too fast. You’re too much. You’re ruining it. 

She doesn’t want to put that on Mina. She doesn’t want Mina to carry her insecurity on top of her own.

So, she does what she always does when she’s scared: make it lighter.

“You know,” Nayeon says, voice faintly strained, “we’re also endangering your courtyard.”

Mina lets out a shaky laugh. “My… courtyard,” she echoes, as if remembering it exists.

“It’s trembling,” Nayeon says solemnly. “Your tiny lanterns are judging us.”

Mina’s smile flickers. She shifts her weight, carefully sliding off Nayeon’s lap and tucking herself beside her instead, shoulder pressed to Nayeon’s again. 

Nayeon wraps an arm around her, pulling her close. She doesn’t push. She doesn’t reach under shirts. She just holds her, cheek pressed to Mina’s hair, breathing her in.

Mina relaxes slowly, the tension easing from her spine in increments. She exhales against Nayeon’s collarbone, long and tired.

For a minute, they sit like that. The LEGO set sits half-finished on the table, tiny pieces catching the lamplight like small, harmless things.

Nayeon stares past it, eyes unfocused.

The ache is there, of course. She could laugh it off if she wanted to. 

But it’s not the ache that scares her.

The other one starts now. A creeping worry under her ribs. Mina’s guilt. Mina’s panic. The way her voice trembled around sorry. The way she’d looked like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin for needing to slow down.

And beneath all of that, Nayeon’s own fear asks her.

How long can they hover at the edge of this before it becomes a wound?

Mina’s fingers curl against her knee, small and apologetic.

Nayeon kisses the top of her head, because she doesn’t know what else to do, and because she means it.

“It’s okay,” she whispers into her hair, even as the ache sits there between them like an unanswered question.

Mina nods, eyes closed.

Something in Nayeon’s chest, tender and terrified, begins to plan how to fix this, without breaking them in the process.

By Tuesday afternoon, Nayeon’s brain is a frayed phone charger held together by hope, lip gloss, and spite.

It doesn’t help that Asiance’s open-plan office is built to maximise human interaction with people constantly drifting past her desk like they’re trying to test her patience as a sport. It especially doesn’t help that she’s had Mina on her mind since 7:14 AM, when Mina texted good luck today with a tiny, infuriatingly cute sticker of a rabbit giving a thumbs-up.

Nayeon opens the message again anyway. Like it’s going to evolve into something else if she stares at it hard enough.

Her iced coffee is melting into bitterness. Her to-do list is multiplying. And she is, technically, supposed to be working.

And what better than committing violence on this day at her office?

Ten minutes later, Nayeon’s halfway crouched under Momo’s desk, one knee on the carpet, the other jutting out at a dangerous angle, while Momo keeps watch.

Nayeon peels a sticker off a sheet and presses it onto the underside of Momo’s keyboard tray.

It’s a tiny white label that reads.

THIS DEVICE IS UNDER FBI SURVEILLANCE. Momo leans down next to her, squinting. “Is that… legal?”

“It’s stationery,” Nayeon whispers. “Stationery is always legal.”

“That’s not true,” Momo counters immediately, because Momo is nothing if not confidently wrong.

Nayeon slaps another label on, this one directly on Momo’s monitor stand.

PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE MARKETER.

Momo makes a considering noise. “Should we add one for Jeongyeon?”

“We should,” Nayeon says, and her voice is bright in the way it only gets when she’s trying not to think too hard. “We absolutely should.”

They look at the desk across the aisle. Nayeon and Momo drift over in tandem like a pair of menacing spirits.

Jeongyeon is wearing her headphones, shoulders set, eyes narrowed at her screen. She doesn’t notice them at first, because she’s actually doing her job, like a freak.

Nayeon slides a label onto the back of Jeongyeon’s chair.

WARNING: MAY BITE IF PROVOKED.

Jeongyeon’s chair rolls back. She’s sensed them in her periphery the way prey senses a predator.

“What are you doing?” Jeongyeon asks, without looking up.

“Nothing,” Nayeon replies.

Momo, always one beat behind, says happily. “We’re making art.”

Jeongyeon pulls one earcup off, turns her head, and fixes them with a look.

“Art,” she repeats flatly.

Nayeon flashes an innocent smile. “Team-building,” she says.

Jeongyeon’s gaze flicks to the label on her chair. Then to Nayeon. Then to Momo.

She reaches back, peels it off, and presses it to Nayeon’s forehead.

“Great,” she says. “Now it’s accurate twice.”

Momo snorts loudly á Nayeon pats the label with dignity. “We’re fostering office culture,” she says.

“You’re fostering a complaint,” Jeongyeon replies. “HR is literally—”

She stops, her eyes flicking past them.

Nayeon follows the line of sight and immediately sees Ms Park from HR hovering near the pantry area with a clipboard.

Her soul attempts to exit her body.

Jeongyeon’s voice drops. “—three desks away,” she finishes. “Enough. Enough enough.”

Nayeon straightens in a panic, swiping the remaining sticker sheet into her tote bag.

Momo, being the slow-motion disaster that she is, waves cheerfully at HR. “Hi!”

Jeongyeon looks like she’s going to pass away.

Nayeon grabs Momo by the back of her cardigan and physically steers her away. “We’re working,” she says too loudly, which is always what guilty people say.

Momo blinks. “We are?”

“We are,” Nayeon hisses. “We have always been working. We love corporate structure.”

Jeongyeon drags her chair closer, lowering her voice to the tone she reserves for wild animals and Nayeon specifically. “What’s wrong with you today?”

“Nothing,” Nayeon says.

Jeongyeon tilts her head. “Nayeon.”

Nayeon’s fingers tap the edge of her desk rapidly. Her phone is face down beside her keyboard, silent but heavy, as if it’s judging her for not checking it every twelve seconds.

“She’s fine,” Momo offers helpfully, which is never a good sign. “She’s just… extra.”

Jeongyeon’s eyes narrow. “Extra about what?”

Nayeon makes a strangled sound. “I’m not extra. I’m normal.”

Jeongyeon narrows her eyes.

Momo says, very casually, “She’s distracting herself.”

Nayeon turns on her. “Momo.”

Momo shrugs. “What? It’s true. You’re doing that thing where you get loud when you’re not okay.”

Jeongyeon’s expression shifts. Still annoyed, but more attentive now. “What’s wrong?”

Nayeon scoffs. “I’m fine.”

Jeongyeon leans back, folding her arms. “Right. Fine. That’s why you and Momo are conducting illegal sticker operations in the middle of one of the most important campaigns of the company.”

“It wasn’t illegal,” Nayeon mutters.

Momo brightens, eager to contribute. “We could do a better prank.”

Jeongyeon’s eyes squeeze shut in exasperation. “No.”

“Yes,” Nayeon says at the exact same time, because she is a terrible person and Momo is her enabler.

Jeongyeon stares at them like they’re both incurable. “Absolutely not. Do you want to get reported?”

Nayeon taps her keyboard. “No one will report me. I’m beloved.”

Jeongyeon’s gaze slides to Nayeon’s forehead, where the label still sits. “That’s the defence you wanna go with when you’re reported to HR?”

Momo, helpful again: “She is beloved. Mina—”

Nayeon lunges. “Stop. Stop saying her name out loud at work.”

Jeongyeon’s eyebrows lift. “Ah.”

Nayeon freezes. Too late. She’s already given herself away like a cheap spy.

Jeongyeon’s tone turns flatly diagnostic. “You’re spiralling. And it’s Mina-related.”

“I’m not spiralling,” Nayeon says, suddenly too defensive.

Momo nods. “She’s spiralling.”

Nayeon points at her. “Hirai.”

Momo points back, equally firm. “Im.”

Jeongyeon sighs through her nose. “Okay. So what, you’re going to cope by pranking the entire agency?”

Nayeon says. “It’s called community engagement nowadays.”

Jeongyeon’s eyes flick over her again. Then Jeongyeon’s mouth twitches, just barely.

“You’re lucky I’m busy,” Jeongyeon says.

“Oh?” Nayeon pounces instantly because if she can’t spiral, she can at least deflect. “Busy with what?”

Jeongyeon’s expression shuts down. “Work.”

Nayeon’s grin turns feral. “Liar.”

Momo leans in. “Is it Jihyo?”

Jeongyeon’s ears go pink. “Mind your business, Momo.”

“Oh my God,” Nayeon gasps, loud enough that a designer two desks over glances up. Nayeon lowers her voice by approximately one percent. “You’ve been going on, what, three dates a week now?”

“It’s not three,” Jeongyeon corrects her quickly.

Momo squints, trying to do maths in real time. “Two?”

Jeongyeon refuses to answer.

Nayeon clasps her hands dramatically. “She’s in love.”

Jeongyeon throws a pen at her. Nayeon dodges. The pen bounces off the desk and rolls neatly under Momo’s chair.

Jeongyeon drags a chair closer, her voice low and threatening. “Unlike you, I am not in love. I am dating.”

“Right, dating and trying to speedrun commitment,” Nayeon says.

Jeongyeon’s jaw tightens. “And you’re in love and seems to be speedrunning a crisis.”

Momo holds up her hands. “Wait.”

Nayeon and Jeongyeon pause, both turning to her.

Momo’s eyes narrow in concentration. “Are we all… dating?”

Jeongyeon stares at her. “Yes, Momo. Nayeon and Mina has been insufferably ‘in love’ for about—” she pretends to check her calendar, “—three months now.”

“Three months and twelve days, but who’s counting?” Nayeon mutters.

Momo nods slowly. “Okay.”

Then, like the delayed explosion of a firework, Momo adds, “I might also be dating.”

Nayeon gapes. “Excuse me?”

Jeongyeon turns fully toward her. “Since when?”

Momo shrugs with dangerous casualness. “Since… recently.”

“More like who?” Nayeon demands.

Momo’s gaze flicks away, which is basically a confession. “You know the one that came by as a client and really liked my stickers?” she says.

Nayeon’s mouth falls open. “Minatozaki Sana? The Sana who—oh my God, you’re dating our client? That must violate like, I don’t know, five HR rulebooks or something, right?!”

“Actually, not really,” Jeongyeon shrugs. “I’m more curious about how the hell that happened in the first place.”

“She asked if I wanted coffee. I said yes,” Momo offers the simplest answer ever.

Jeongyeon’s eyes narrow. “That’s not dating.”

Momo’s lips twist, almost shy. “We’ve had coffee. Twice.”

Jeongyeon stares at Momo like she’s trying to decide whether to argue or accept defeat.

“…I hate that this works on you people,” she mutters.

Her attention snaps back to Nayeon. Jeongyeon doesn’t let herself get distracted by Momo’s delayed-romance arc for more than half a second.

“All of this,” Jeongyeon says, pointedly, “still doesn’t explain why you’re trying to distract yourself by becoming a workplace terrorist today.”

Nayeon opens her mouth to deflect on instinct, but nothing comes out.

She could tell them. She could vent. She could say it plainly, lay the whole thing out on the table.

But it’s humiliating, isn’t it? 

It’s humiliating to admit she’s been dating Mina for three months and still feels like she’s teetering on the edge of something fragile. It’s humiliating to admit she’s both desperately in love and quietly frustrated and scared of being the person who ruins things by wanting too much.

“Because,” Nayeon says brightly instead, “my love language is chaos.”

Jeongyeon stares at her and deadpans. “Your love language is avoidance.”

“Wow,” Nayeon clutches her chest. “Okay. You’ve dated Jihyo for like two months, and suddenly now you’re Cupid guru.”

Jeongyeon points a finger at her. “Don’t make me regret personal growth.”

Momo’s eyes drift to Nayeon’s phone again, still face down. Her voice softens. “Did you and Mina fight?”

“No,” Nayeon shakes her head. Then, because Momo has known her too long and Jeongyeon has seen too much, she adds, quieter, “No. We’re good.”

Jeongyeon’s gaze doesn’t move. “But?”

Nayeon exhales, her cheeks heating up. “But nothing.”

Momo tilts her head. “That’s a lie.”

Nayeon glares. “Stop psychoanalysing me.”

Her fingers drum on the desk again. She can feel the urge to say something sharp, something dramatic, something that will change the subject and keep her safe.

She looks away from her friends.

Jeongyeon sighs, long suffering, and points between them. “Work now, and after work, dinner. If you’re going to spiral, do it somewhere that isn’t within HR’s line of sight.”

Nayeon forces a grin back onto her face. “Yes, ma’am.”

Momo salutes. “Yes, ma’am.”

For the next hour, she behaves, mostly, because she’s already planned her next distraction, and it involves a car, and Jeongyeon’s inevitable fear, and a perfectly timed moment to pretend she’s fine while her whole body vibrates with want.

They shuffle back to their desks, chastened for approximately thirty seconds. Nayeon sits down and stares at her campaign deck on her monitor.

Her mind immediately detours, as it always does lately.

An hour later, Momo walks over and pokes at her shoulder.

“We’re going to pick up the print samples.”

Jeongyeon joins her. “I’m driving.”

Nayeon’s mouth opens automatically. “Actually, I can—”

Jeongyeon holds out her palm. “Nope.”

“Yes,” Nayeon protests. “I haven’t driven in ages. I’m rusty. I need practice.”

“That is precisely why you should not drive,” Jeongyeon says.

“Let her,” Momo says, because Momo hates peace. “It’ll be funny.”

Jeongyeon turns to her slowly. “Do you want to die?”

Momo ponders for a moment, then answers. “Not really.”

“Then don’t encourage her.”

Nayeon points at Jeongyeon accusingly. “Why are you acting like I’m incompetent? I have a licence.”

“You also nearly killed us trying to parallel park last time,” Jeongyeon says.

“It worked,” Nayeon argues.

“It worked because the car behind you reversed out of fear,” Jeongyeon deadpans.

Nayeon sits back, scandalised. “This is slander.”

Jeongyeon sighs, then gives in. “Fine,” she says. “You can drive. But if I die, you’re doing the explaining to Jihyo.”

Momo claps in delight. “Road trip!”

“It’s ten minutes away,” Jeongyeon says.

“Still a road,” Momo replies, dead serious.

Nayeon grabs her tote bag and stands up like she’s heading into battle.

She is, in a way. Against traffic. Against herself. Against the way her brain keeps drifting to Mina in the middle of client work like she’s a romantic curse.

The three of them head downstairs. Nayeon is already reaching for the keys before Jeongyeon can change her mind.

She slides into the driver’s seat. “Everyone relax,” she says. 

Momo hops into the back seat and immediately buckles her seatbelt with exaggerated care. Then she buckles the other one too, just in case.

“You’re gripping the wheel too hard,” Jeongyeon says, climbing into the passenger seat. She tugs her seatbelt once. Twice. Then checks it again. “And stop adjusting your mirror. We’re not about to flee a crime scene.”

“It’s called being prepared,” Nayeon says, starting the car.

Momo leans forward between the seats. “You think I should call my mum and tell her I love her?” 

Nayeon glares at her through the rear-view mirror. “Stop being dramatic.”

Jeongyeon replies flatly. “Says you.”

They pull out of the lot. Nayeon signals properly, which should earn her points. Unfortunately, two seconds later, her foot hits the gas too hard. She did say she was rusty.

Jeongyeon’s hand tightens on the door handle.

Momo makes a small prayer noise in the back seat.

“You know,” Jeongyeon says carefully, “there is no prize for getting there first.”

“There is,” Nayeon says, eyes focused. “The prize is not being late.”

“We weren’t going to be late,” Jeongyeon replies.

“Late is a mindset,” Nayeon says. “I refuse to live in lateness.”

She changes lanes enthusiastically.

Momo whimpers.

Jeongyeon shuts her eyes. “Good heavens.”

Nayeon glances at them, offended. “I’m doing great.”

“The Fast & Furious franchise is not open for audition right now,” Jeongyeon says.

“Thank you.”

“That was not a compliment.”

They survive. 

Barely. 

They pick up the glossy and expensive print samples, and Nayeon holds them with her dear life because if she smudges even one corner, Jeongyeon will actually kill her.

On the drive back, she tries to be gentler. She really does.

The problem is that her brain keeps doing this fun little thing where it pops up intrusive thoughts mid-traffic, such as:

Mina would look cute in the passenger seat. Mina would hold the samples carefully. Mina would tell her she’s doing fine in that soft voice, and then she’d—

Nayeon nearly misses a turn.

Jeongyeon catches her arm sharply. “Eyes. On. The. Road.”

“I am,” Nayeon says, flustered.

Momo squints at her from the back. “Are you thinking about Mina again?”

Nayeon’s mouth snaps shut.

Jeongyeon’s eyes flick sideways. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

Nayeon clears her throat and says the first thing that comes to mind, which is, “No.”

Momo nods slowly. “That means yes.”

“It means mind your business,” Nayeon says.

Jeongyeon mutters, “We’re all going to die,” 

They make it back. Somehow. Nayeon parks.

It is not straight.

It is, however, impressive.

The car sits diagonally across the line.

Jeongyeon stares at it through the windshield. “You parked diagonally,” she says, her voice faint.

“On purpose,” Nayeon says, because she refuses to show weakness. “It’s modern.”

Momo climbs out with shaky legs. Jeongyeon snatches the samples and marches inside without looking back.

The client's run goes well. The samples look good. The creative director nods. Someone says “great work,” and Nayeon pretends she’s not still thinking about Mina’s hands and Mina’s mouth and Mina’s soft panic every time they get too close to the edge.

By the end of the workday, her patience is threadbare.

Momo catches her staring at her phone again and says, “If you miss her, you can just say that.”

“I never said I don’t miss her,” Nayeon says automatically.

Jeongyeon slings her bag over her shoulder. “Mina’s at work,” she says.

“So am I,” Nayeon replies. “And I reply.”

Jeongyeon gives her a look. “You reply to messages while in meetings. You are not a role model.”

Momo claps her hands together suddenly. “Dinner?”

Jeongyeon nods. “Dinner. And you,” she points at Nayeon, “are not allowed to drive.”

Nayeon opens her mouth to argue. Her phone buzzes on cue.

Mina: how was your day? did you survive?

Nayeon’s heart does that stupid thing where it becomes soft.

She types back immediately.

Nayeon: I survived. nearly killed my colleagues with my driving. miss u

She deletes miss u.

She retypes: miss u

She sends it before she can second-guess herself.

They end up at a little pizza place. The smell of baked dough and garlic hits her as soon as they walk in, and for a brief moment, Nayeon thanks God quietly for something so simple and normal.

Her phone buzzes again.

Mina: i miss you too

Nayeon’s brain goes fuzzy.

Momo leans over the table immediately. “What? What did she say? Did she say ‘i miss you’? Did she say ‘I love you can’t wait to smash tonight’? Did she send a sticker? Show me.”

Nayeon slaps her phone face-down on the table. “Eat your bread,” she says.

Momo gasps. “Is that a yes? To which question?”

Jeongyeon pulls the menu closer. “Order,” she says firmly. “Before the vendor kicks us out.”

They get a large pepperoni to share, plus fries. When it arrives, it’s gorgeous. Cheese bubbling, crust golden, pepperoni crisped at the edges.

Nayeon stares at it like she’s never seen a pizza before.

She picks up a slice, chews once, and realises she cannot taste it. Her entire sensory system is occupied by Mina’s text and the memory of Mina’s breath hitching and Mina’s hands on her shoulders and Mina saying, can we slow down? like she’s apologising for having a body.

She takes another bite. Still nothing.

She eats the crust instead. Just the crust. Small, distracted bites, eyes unfocused. It’s the safest part. 

Across from her, Momo watches this unfold with growing concern. “Are you… okay?” she asks.

Jeongyeon pauses mid-sip of her drink to straight-up ask. “Why are you only eating the crust?”

Nayeon looks down at the sad pile of abandoned pizza triangles on her plate. “I’m eating,” she says.

Jeongyeon says. “That’s punishing yourself.”

Momo leans closer. “Do you need electrolytes?”

Nayeon, who has been holding it together with string and denial, feels something inside her snap.

She drops the crust. It lands on the plate with a soft, pathetic thud.

“I’m dying,” she declares.

Jeongyeon stares. “Medically?”

“Sexually,” Nayeon replies.

Momo’s eyes widen a fraction. “Oh.”

Jeongyeon makes a sound that suggests she regrets asking anything ever.

Nayeon leans forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping. 

“We’ve been dating for three months, right?” she says, counting on her fingers like she needs proof. “Three. Months. We make out. All the time. Constantly. Like—” She gestures vaguely, helpless. “We’re basically a walking public nuisance.”

Jeongyeon nods slowly. “I’ve noticed.”

Momo gapes. “Wait, you make out in public?”

“Not the point,” Nayeon says, flustered. “We make out. We touch. We get close and it’s good and she wants it—she wants it, I can tell—” Her voice cracks with frustration, and she hates herself for it. “And then right when we’re about to, you know. Cross the line. She stops. Every time.”

Jeongyeon’s expression softens a little. “Okay.”

Nayeon presses her palms to her eyes. “I swear. I’m not pushing. I’m not forcing. I’m not—” She drops her hands, eyes bright with sheer pent-up energy. “But I’m going to evaporate from sexual frustration.”

Momo nods with exaggerated seriousness. “Evaporation is real.”

Jeongyeon shoots her a look. “Don’t validate her like that.”

“I’m just saying,” Momo shrugs, “it’s a strong metaphor.”

Nayeon points at Momo like she’s grateful for the support, even if it’s useless. “Thank you.”

Jeongyeon takes a breath, choosing her words carefully. “Have you talked to Mina about this?”

“No,” Nayeon deflates.

Jeongyeon’s eyes narrow. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want her to feel pressured,” Nayeon says, horrified. “Because what if she thinks I’m… disappointed. Because what if I’m too much? Again. Because—” She falters. “Because I’m scared.”

Jeongyeon’s face does that thing where it softens in the most annoying way, like she’s about to be reasonable. “Nayeon,” she says, “communicating isn’t pressuring. It’s just…talking.”

Nayeon makes a strangled noise. “No.”

Momo, who has been listening intently, suddenly brightens. “Wait,” she says. “You haven’t slept together?”

Nayeon turns to her slowly, scandalised beyond belief. “Momo,” she says, “what did you think I was saying?”

Momo shrugs. “I thought you meant you were tired.”

Jeongyeon groans loudly.

Nayeon slaps the table gently. “I am not tired. I am horny and emotionally fragile.”

Momo nods as if this clarifies everything. “Okay, yeah. That’s different.”

Jeongyeon rubs her temple. “You need to talk to her.”

Nayeon sinks lower in her seat. “I can’t.”

“You can,” Jeongyeon says, firm. “You’re thirty. You lead client meetings. You can tell the love of your life that you want to have sex.”

Nayeon chokes on air. “Don’t say love of my life like that.”

Momo tilts her head. “Is she not?”

Nayeon’s face heats. “Shut up.”

Jeongyeon watches her for a beat, then sighs. “Okay. If talking feels too scary, make it easier. Ask her what she’s nervous about. Tell her you’re not in a rush, but you want to understand.”

Nayeon stares at her pizza like it might provide answers.

Momo’s eyes flicker with sudden mischief. “Or,” she suggests slowly, “you could do therapy again.”

“God, no,” Jeongyeon rejects immediately, purely out of survival instinct, but the thought slowly makes its nest in her mind. “Wait a minute…”

“Right?” Momo insists, warming to the idea. “Think about it. You dragged her to therapy to confess. Drag her there again to undress.”

Jeongyeon makes a strangled sound. “That is not—”

Nayeon sits up, intrigued by the thought. Momo might not always be up to speed, but when she has an idea, it hits the spot. 

Momo leans closer, whispering. “Come on, admit it, it’s brilliant.”

Nayeon’s brain latches onto the concept.

Tzuyu’s calm face, the endless note-taking, the way she’d looked at them like they were a romantic drama with a budget. The way she’d said things that were uncomfortably accurate.

You two communicate like people who are afraid of losing one another.

Nayeon swallows and grabs another crust purely to have something to do with her hands. She takes a bite of the crust and, finally, tastes something.

Not the food.

Just the seed of a plan, taking root.

The flat feels… off.

Quieter than usual, like someone’s turned the volume down without telling her. The lights are on, the familiar hum of the fridge is there, and Mina’s shoes are by the door where they always are, but the energy is different somehow.

Nayeon notices it the moment she steps inside.

Mina’s in the living room, perched on the edge of the sofa instead of sprawled across it like she usually is, phone in her hand. She looks up when Nayeon drops her keys into the bowl by the door, smiles automatically, then glances back down at the screen almost immediately.

“Hey,” Nayeon says, toeing off her shoes.

“Hey,” Mina replies a beat too quickly. 

Nayeon narrows her eyes.

Something is truly off.

She dumps her bag, wanders over, and flops down beside Mina with exaggeration, leaning her head against Mina’s shoulder like she always does. Mina stiffens for half a second before relaxing.

“What’s up?” Nayeon asks.

“Nothing,” Mina says automatically, too quick to be convincing. Then she softens it, like she’s patching over a crack. “Just a long day, you know.”

Nayeon hums, leaning her head against Mina’s shoulder anyway, because physical contact is the only language she never second-guesses. Mina smells like clean laundry and that faint, comforting soap she always uses. For a second, Nayeon almost relaxes.

“Did Chaeyoung tire you out?” Nayeon teases.

Mina lets out a small laugh, more startled than amused. “Nayeonnie.”

“What?” Nayeon says. “I’m just asking. She’s tiny. Tiny people are… deceptively energetic.”

Mina turns her head.  Her eyes are warm, a little incredulous, and—annoyingly—fond. “She asked me about a font,” Mina says. 

Nayeon scoffs. “Fonts are intimate.”

Mina’s mouth twitches. “Is it now?”

“It’s irrational. I know,” Nayeon admits, because there’s no point pretending with Mina. “I know there’s nothing there. My brain is just… doing laps.”

Mina’s expression softens further. She nudges Nayeon gently with her shoulder. “I come home to you, remember?”

Nayeon feels her chest ease, just a little. “Good,” she says, trying to make it a joke. “As you should.”

Nayeon knows there is absolutely nothing between them, but she can’t help it, okay? It’s irrational, she knows it. Mina reassures her lightheartedly. Then keeps checking her phone. 

Mina huffs a quiet laugh. She leans in and presses a quick kiss to Nayeon’s temple, then almost immediately drops her gaze to her phone. 

Not in a way that would ping as suspicious on its own, but enough that Nayeon clocks it. A glance here. A swipe there. A quick tap to close something when Nayeon shifts closer.

Mina stands abruptly.

“I’ll—um—light a candle,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward the coffee table.

“We’re not eating dinner yet,” Nayeon says.

“I know,” Mina replies. “I just… ambience, you know?”

She lights one candle. Then another. Then adjusts the angle of the third. She fluffs the throw blanket, straightens the cushions, and moves one pillow an inch to the left. Then the right. Then back again.

Nayeon watches this quiet spiral with growing concern.

“Mina,” she asks gently. “Are we hosting anyone tonight?”

Mina lets out a tiny, startled laugh. “No. No one.”

“So, what’s up with all the staging?”

Mina presses her lips together. “I just want things to be… nice.”

“They’re always nice,” Nayeon says, still puzzled by this sudden wave of home rearrangement that Mina has submerged herself into.

Mina nods too fast. “Right. Yes. Obviously.”

She turns away again, busying herself with the coffee table, and that’s when Nayeon’s curiosity officially outweighs her patience.

She leans forward, reaching for the TV remote, and catches a glimpse of Mina’s open laptop on the side table.

She isn’t trying to snoop. She really isn’t. But the screen is angled just enough that it registers before she can stop herself.

do lesbians get waxed for first time

Nayeon stares at the screen and blinks several times.

“Mina?” she calls over, carefully neutral.

Mina whirls around, sees where Nayeon’s looking, and makes a small, distressed noise.

“I—that’s—it’s not—”

She lunges for the laptop, snapping it shut with more force than strictly necessary.

Nayeon raises both of her hands. “I wasn’t— I mean, I wasn’t looking looking.”

Mina’s face is already pink, spreading rapidly. “I know. I just—”

She trails off, clearly debating whether to pretend that never happened or simply evaporate on the spot.

Nayeon, for once, does not make a joke. She tilts her head, concern in her eyes.

“Are you… nervous?” she asks.

Mina hesitates. She busies herself with another throw pillow. Then, she nods. Barely.

“Okay,” Nayeon says quietly. “That’s totally normal, yeah?”

Mina exhales, her shoulders slumping like she’s been holding herself rigid for hours. “I just want to… do things right.”

Nayeon’s chest tightens at that phrasing.

She shifts closer, resting her elbow on the back of the sofa. As Mina moves to sit again, the laptop lid pops open slightly, and Nayeon catches more than she means to.

A booking page for a waxing studio.

Another tab with muted beige tones, serif fonts, photos of linen sheets and floor-to-ceiling windows.

Boutique Hotel – Five Star Experience

Nayeon swallows.

She doesn’t say anything. She just… watches Mina fumble, watching her own girlfriend accidentally reveal an entire mental landscape through meticulously managed tabs.

Mina clears her throat, evidently having somewhat thought this through. “You weren’t supposed to see that. It was supposed to be uh… a surprise.”

“It’s okay,” Nayeon closes her hand over Mina’s. “You don’t have to explain.”

Mina sucks in a deep breath, because that’s what grownups do, and says, “I think I do.”

“You don’t have to perform,” Nayeon says. “For me.”

Mina looks down, away from Nayeon and sighs. “I know. That’s the problem.”

She sinks back into the sofa, shoulders curled inward like she’s trying to take up less space. Her gaze drifts to the coffee table, where a small notebook sits, half-hidden under a coaster.

Nayeon recognises it instantly. It’s Mina’s handwriting notebook. The one she uses when she’s overthinking something she won’t say out loud.

With a defeated look, Mina reaches for the notebook and opens it for Nayeon. 

There’s a list with neat, yet frantic bullet points inside.

lighting–warm, not harsh
scents–lavender? vanilla?
room layout–bed closer to window?
music? too cheesy?

Nayeon closes the notebook slowly.

“Mina,” she says, voice rough around the edges now. “You’re… planning like a product presentation.”

Mina winces. “I know. I couldn’t stop myself.”

There’s a long pause. The candles flicker quietly.

Mina stares at her hands. “I have been told that I am… hard to read,” she admits. “That I was too quiet. That I didn’t… initiate enough. Some said I was stiff. Like I wasn’t enjoying myself, even when I was.”

Nayeon feels something cold settle in her chest.

Mina continues, her voice thinning, “I keep thinking—what if I do something wrong? What if I freeze again? What if I finally get this far with you and you realise I’m just… bad at it.”

She laughs, quick and self-deprecating. “I’m great with LEGO. Terrible with flirting.”

Nayeon doesn’t laugh. She sees it, suddenly, with painful clarity. Mina is afraid of being not enough.

She reaches out and cups Mina’s face, thumb brushing under her eye. 

“Hey,” she says. “Look at me.”

Mina does.

“You are not bad at this,” Nayeon says firmly. “You’re careful. That’s not a flaw.”

Mina swallows. “But what if I’m disappointing you?”

Nayeon exhales. “And what if I’ve been scaring you?”

They stare at each other.

Nayeon snorts softly because if she doesn’t break the tension, she might cry. 

“We are… terrible at this.”

Mina lets out a small, watery laugh. “We are.”

A beat passes.

Then, Nayeon, half-jokingly says, “You know… we could ask Tzuyu.”

Mina blinks. “Ask her… what?”

“For help,” Nayeon says. “I mean—we confessed in her office. Might as well troubleshoot our sex life there, too.”

Mina stares at her.

Nayeon braces herself for a no, for embarrassment, for Mina gently shutting it down. 

Instead, Mina considers it. 

Properly considers it.

“…I wouldn’t hate that idea,” she says.

Nayeon’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

Mina nods, cheeks pink but eyes steady. “She’s… safe. And neutral. And she won’t judge.”

Nayeon exhales, a laugh bubbling up from sheer relief. “Thank you.”

Mina leans into her, resting her forehead against Nayeon’s shoulder. “I don’t want to mess us up.”

Nayeon wraps an arm around her, holding her close. “You won’t,” she says. “We’ll mess it up together. Like normal people.”

Mina smiles faintly.

The flat is still quiet, but now it feels softer. And for the first time that night, Nayeon doesn’t feel like she’s running ahead or being held back.

Just… standing with her.

Tzuyu opens the door like she’s been expecting them with that ever calm and composed energy, accompanied by the same ethereal, intimidating serenity that makes Nayeon want to both respect her and bite her, just to see if she’s real.

“Welcome back,” Dr Chou Tzuyu says, voice gentle.

Mina bows slightly out of habit, polite and nervous. “Hello.”

Nayeon bows too, but hers is more of a frantic dip, like she’s entering a courtroom.

Tzuyu steps aside to let them in. Her eyes flick quickly over them once.

Nayeon is almost certain she sees a hint of amusement.

The office is exactly the same as last time. Same soft lighting. Same neutral palette. Same plants that look expensive and judgmental. The sofa looks like it has never known a dropped crisp.

They sit down together. Their knees do not touch, which already feels like a lie.

Before either of them can say anything, Tzuyu crosses to her chair, takes a seat, and opens her notebook.

The pen starts moving.

Nayeon watches the first few strokes in horror.

“Mina,” she whispers out of the corner of her mouth. “She’s writing already.”

Mina keeps her face forward, her voice equally quiet. “That’s what therapists do.”

“She hasn’t even asked us a question.”

Mina’s gaze flicks briefly to Tzuyu’s hands, then away. “It’s probably… time and date.”

Nayeon doesn’t believe that for a second. Tzuyu looks up, her hands folded neatly over the notebook.

“So,” she says. “What brings you two back today?”

The silence lasts one beat too long, because the honest answer is humiliating, and the dishonest answer is… also humiliating, just in a different font.

Nayeon clears her throat.

“We’re stuck,” she says and rushes on, because she’s already started and she’s not brave enough to stop. “I mean not stuck like—physically. Like we’re not glued together. Although sometimes I feel like we might be—emotionally—”

“We’re having sexual issues,” Mina says simply.

Nayeon’s head jerks. “That is—”

“Accurate,” Mina finishes for her, still facing forward, still polite, still somehow condemning them both with seven calm syllables.

Tzuyu nods once as if Mina has just reported that the weather is cloudy. Her pen moves again.

“Thank you for clarifying,” she says. “How long has this been happening?”

“Three months,” Mina answers.

Nayeon turns to stare at her. “Why do you have a timeline?”

Mina’s ears go faintly pink. “You asked me to be honest.”

Tzuyu’s gaze flicks between them. “You’ve been dating for three months,” she summarises, “and you’re experiencing difficulty initiating or following through with intimacy. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Mina confirms.

Nayeon says at the same time, “Sort of.”

Tzuyu’s pen pauses.

She looks at Nayeon. “What does ‘sort of’ mean?”

Nayeon coughs. “It means we… initiate. We just… don’t… arrive.”

Mina’s entire body goes rigid. Her face turns the colour of a warning sign.

Tzuyu’s expression doesn’t change. Her pen, however, begins working overtime.

“Alright,” Tzuyu says calmly. “Let’s start with something simple. Do you both want to have sex with each other?”

Mina’s breath catches. She blinks, swallowed by the directness.

Nayeon feels her own pulse spike, a blend of relief and mortification. She can talk about anything. Campaign budgets. Client crises. The art of convincing strangers to buy moisturiser. Apparently, saying the word sex in a quiet beige room with a beautiful psychologist makes her twelve.

Mina nods first, small and shy. “Yes.”

Nayeon answers immediately, far less delicately. “Absolutely, yes.”

Mina makes a noise that sounds like she’s both laughing and dying.

Tzuyu writes something down and looks up, her voice gentle, “I see that you have strong mutual desires, so, the question here is what’s stopping you?”

Mina’s fingers twist together in her lap. She looks at the cushion beside her like it might offer an escape route. Nayeon tries to hold still. She keeps her hands folded in her lap and concentrates on not interrupting, which is possibly the hardest thing she’s ever done in her life.

Mina exhales slowly. “I overthink,” she says.

Tzuyu nods. “About what?”

“Everything,” Mina admits, and it comes out as a small, embarrassed laugh. “I want it to be… good. And then I start thinking about how to make it good and—” She swallows. “And then I panic.”

“Panic looks like what?” Tzuyu asks.

Mina’s gaze flicks to Nayeon’s face, then away again. “Stopping,” she says quietly. “Making an excuse. Asking to slow down. For next time. Saying I’m not ready.”

Nayeon’s chest tightens.

Tzuyu’s voice remains even. “And why do you panic?”

Mina presses her lips together. Her shoulders lift with a tight inhale. “Because I’m afraid I’ll be awkward,” she says. “Or… not enough. That I’ll do something wrong and she’ll be disappointed.”

Nayeon’s throat aches.

Tzuyu turns slightly towards Nayeon. “Do you feel disappointed?”

Nayeon’s head snaps up. “No.”

Mina looks at her sharply, like she’s trying to decide whether to believe it.

“No,” Nayeon repeats, softer. “Never.”

Tzuyu nods once, satisfied, then returns her attention to Mina. 

“When you imagine doing something wrong,” she asks, “what specifically are you worried about?”

Mina’s face warms again. She hesitates. Tzuyu waits patiently for her.

Mina finally blurts, “I thought about getting a hotel.”

Tzuyu’s pen scratches quietly as she nods, beckoning Mina to continue.

“Because it felt… special,” says Mina. “Like it would help. Like if the environment was right, I’d be right.”

Nayeon’s eyes widen. She opens her mouth, then shuts it, because her first instinct is to joke and she knows that would be cruel.

Tzuyu continues, “What else did you think about?”

Mina’s voice drops to nearly nothing. “Waxing.”

Nayeon makes a strangled sound in her throat.

Tzuyu’s gaze remains calm. “What does waxing represent to you?” she asks Mina.

Mina’s hands curl into fists. “Preparation,” she says, tiny. “Control.”

“And control makes you feel…” Tzuyu prompts.

“Safe,” Mina admits.

Nayeon swallows hard. Mina is trying to build safety out of details because the emotional risk feels too big to hold.

Tzuyu nods slowly, then shifts her attention to Nayeon. 

“What about you?” she says. “What are you afraid of?”

Nayeon feels the weight of four eyes on her. They’ve only had one session with Tzuyu, and now the second session is about one of the most intimate topics ever. But Mina has been honest, and it’d only be fair if she stays honest, too.

Nayeon swallows and says, “Everything.”

Tzuyu waits.

Nayeon exhales, forcing herself to continue. “Pressuring her,” she says first. “Making her feel like she has to say yes because I want it.”

Mina’s fingers loosen a fraction.

“And?” Tzuyu asks.

Nayeon’s jaw tightens. The second one hurts more.

“Being too much,” she admits, voice quieter now. “I’m… loud. I’m intense. I’m fast. I want things. A lot. And Mina is careful and gentle and—” Her throat tightens. “And I’m scared that if I push, I’ll ruin it.”

Tzuyu’s expression softens. “It sounds like you both care deeply about protecting the other person,” she says, “but you’re doing it through avoidance.”

Nayeon flinches. Mina’s shoulders sag.

“You’re trying so hard not to hurt each other,” Tzuyu continues, calm and firm, “that you’ve stopped telling the truth.”

Nayeon feels the heavy words settle in her chest.

Tzuyu flips a page in her notebook. “Sex isn’t a performance,” she says. “It’s a collaboration. You do not ‘get it right’ alone.”

Mina’s eyes shine faintly, like she’s fighting emotion and losing.

Tzuyu’s pen taps. “I’m going to give you homework.”

Nayeon’s whole body tenses. “Homework.”

“Yes,” Tzuyu says, unbothered. “Before you touch each other, I think it might be a good idea for you to talk about what you want. Explicitly.”

Nayeon’s cheeks heat. Mina’s mouth parts, then closes.

“You set boundaries,” Tzuyu continues. “You agree on a safe word. Not because I expect danger. But it permits you to stop without guilt.”

Nayeon nods solemnly for exactly half a second before her brain betrays her.

“Safe word like IKEA?” she blurts. “Or LEGO? No—wait—bonsai feels too emotionally loaded, Mina has a whole courtyard—”

Mina chuckles a genuine laugh as Tzuyu silently considers Nayeon's choice of safe words for several seconds, then jots down a few more lines in her notebook before answering. 

"It could be anything that you're both comfortable with."

Mina’s shoulders relax further at the confirmation.

“And,” Tzuyu says, looking at Mina first, then Nayeon, “perfection is the enemy of intimacy.”

Mina nods, slow and serious, like she’s finally hearing something her brain might accept. Nayeon holds her hand tighter in a wordless reassurance.

Tzuyu’s gaze lingers on them for a beat, then she adds, almost gently, “You can be clumsy. You can be awkward. You can laugh. Those are not failures. Those are signs that you’re present.”

Nayeon’s eyes sting unexpectedly.

Mina takes a shaky breath.

And amidst all that mortification and honesty, Nayeon realises that what initially started as a prank has turned out to be one of the best investments in her entire life.

Then, because Nayeon is Nayeon, and she can’t help it, she blurts out, “Do you have, like… a record of this? Like are we in a file? Is there a folder with our names?”

Tzuyu looks at her, taken aback by the sudden shift in the direction of the conversation.

“It is confidential,” she says.

Nayeon nods. “Okay. Great. Fantastic. Cool. Because if I end up in some psychology textbook—”

Mina reaches over and very gently grabs Nayeon’s sleeve, a silent plea to stop talking.

Tzuyu’s pen slows. She glances down at the notebook, then back up.

Nayeon’s gaze drifts, helplessly, to the cover of the notebook now that it’s tilted slightly toward her.

There’s a printed label taped neatly to it.

Case Study 04 – Emotional Volatility in Digital Age Adults

Nayeon’s soul exits her body as she stares at the words.

Mina leans over, following her gaze, and her eyes widen, too.

Tzuyu, noticing their sudden silence, looks down at her notebook as if she’s only just remembered it exists. She doesn’t even look embarassed.

“It’s a personal organisational system,” she says calmly.

Nayeon asks, her voice strangled. “Am I a case study?”

“You are not identified,” Tzuyu replies, unbothered.

Mina whispers, “Nayeon…”

Nayeon leans toward Mina, whispering back. “She has a title. Mina, she named us.”

Tzuyu’s pen starts moving again, as if documenting this exact reaction.

Nayeon sits back, defeated. Mina covers her face with one hand.

Tzuyu reers them back like horrified sheep with a serene tone. 

“Now,” she says, “do you feel ready to tell each other the truth out loud?”

The ride home is quiet in the way silence becomes its own third passenger.

The shared air between them is heavy with everything Tzuyu has peeled open and set on the table between them like a puzzle they’ve been pretending doesn’t exist. Mina sits by the window, hands folded neatly in her lap, gaze fixed on the blur of streetlights. Nayeon keeps glancing at her and then snapping her eyes forward again, as if looking too long might tip them back into panic.

Sex is not a performance. It is a collaboration.

Nayeon’s fingers press against her own thigh, grounding herself. She can still feel the way Mina’s shoulders had curled inward when she admitted she’d been thinking about hotels and appointments and lighting like she was planning a wedding. The way Nayeon’s own throat had tightened when she had to admit, out loud, that she’s scared of being too much even for the person who keeps choosing her.

They reach home. 

Keys, shoes, the familiar hallway that always smells faintly of someone’s laundry detergent. Mina hangs her coat up too carefully. Nayeon fumbles with her bag strap and nearly drops it, catches it at the last second, and laughs automatically.

Mina smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Nayeon tries to breathe.

In the living room, the LEGO courtyard sits on the coffee table, with its tiny lanterns and tiles in neat rows, absurdly serene.

Nayeon wants to make a joke about it. She wants to throw herself onto the sofa and declare herself emotionally bankrupt. She wants to do anything except open her mouth and say the words she’s been swallowing for three months.

Mina drifts toward her bedroom, then pauses, turning back as if she’s waiting to see if Nayeon will follow.

Nayeon stands there for a second like a person whose body has forgotten how to move. She forces herself forward as they step into Mina’s room.

It’s dimmer here, calmer. Mina’s room always feels like the quieter half of their shared universe. It’s tidy without being cold, soft without being staged. Nayeon’s seen it a thousand times, has sprawled on this bed with her shoes kicked off and her laughter too loud, has stolen Mina’s pillow and been scolded gently for it.

Tonight, it feels different.

Mina sits on the edge of the mattress, hands braced on either side of her thighs. Nayeon hovers awkwardly near the door like she’s visiting a stranger’s house, which is ridiculous because she’s brushed her teeth in Mina’s bathroom and worn Mina’s socks and kissed Mina in this exact space.

She shuts the door with a soft click.

The silence stretches.

Nayeon feels her heartbeat climb. She can hear it in her ears, loud enough to be embarrassing. She has the sudden, irrational urge to open the door again, to retreat to the kitchen and start washing dishes just to have a task.

Talk before touching each other, Tzuyu had said.

Nayeon is apparently the kind of person who would rather run into traffic.

Mina clears her throat first. “Do you… want to talk about it now?” Her voice is careful, like she’s stepping onto thin ice.

Nayeon’s mouth goes dry. She makes herself nod. “Maybe we should,” she manages, and hates how small she sounds.

Mina shifts back on the bed, folding her legs. She pats the space in front of her. A silent invitation.

Nayeon climbs onto the bed too and sits opposite Mina, cross-legged, knees almost touching. Her hands land on her own thighs because she doesn’t know what else to do with them. She wants to reach forward, to lace their fingers together, to do something physical so she doesn’t have to hold her own fear in her chest.

Instead, she stays still.

Mina’s gaze flicks to Nayeon’s hands, then back up. She swallows.

Nayeon can’t take it. She laughs once, soft and strained. “We look like we’re about to do a trust exercise in a corporate retreat.”

Mina’s lips twitch. “We might as well be.”

“I’m sorry,” Nayeon apologises. “I’m just… I’m nervous.”

“I know,” Mina says. Her voice softens. “Me, too.”

Another pause. Mina’s fingers fidget with the hem of her sleeve. Nayeon watches it, the tiny tremor there, and something in her chest loosens with tenderness and dread.

Nayeon inhales. She decides to start where she can.

“So,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “What do you want?”

Mina looks like she didn’t expect the directness. Her eyes widen slightly.

Nayeon rushes to clarify, heat crawling up her neck. “Not—not like in a—I mean, yes, that, but—” She squeezes her eyes shut briefly. “I mean… what do you want, in general. What you want us to do. What you want from me. What would make you feel… safe.”

Mina exhales slowly, like she’s setting something down.

“I want…” She hesitates. “I want to be able to stop without feeling like I’ve ruined it.”

Nayeon’s heart dips. “You haven’t. Never.”

“I know,” Mina says quietly. “I know you’ve never made me feel guilty. That’s the problem. I make myself feel guilty.”

Nayeon swallows.

Mina’s gaze drifts to the wall for a second, searching for the right words. “I want you to tell me what you like,” she says finally. “Because I… guess. And then I panic because guessing feels like failing.”

Nayeon’s lips part. She’s startled by how simple it is, how solvable, if only they’d been able to say it without fear.

“I can do that,” Nayeon says. “I can—I can literally do that. I talk for a living.”

Mina’s smile is faint but real. “I know.”

Nayeon’s throat tightens anyway. “What else?”

Mina’s fingers twist tighter. “I want to stop thinking that there’s one correct way to do it,” she says, voice dropping. “Like a test.”

Nayeon’s chest aches as she says. “You’re not being graded.”

Mina looks at her then, eyes open and vulnerable in a way that makes Nayeon feel like she’s been trusted with something fragile. “My brain thinks I am,” Mina admits.

Nayeon’s hands clench on her thighs. She forces them to relax.

“Okay,” Nayeon says gently. “Then we… build rules. Structure for you. We make it impossible for your brain to turn it into a test.”

Mina asks. “How?”

Nayeon thinks, surprisingly clear. “We pick a safe word,” she says. “Like Tzuyu said. Not because you’re unsafe. Because it gives you permission.”

Mina nods slowly.

Nayeon tries to inject a little humour because she can feel herself tipping into sincerity, and it scares her. “It should be something ridiculous,” she says, remembering the session. “Like ‘IKEA.’”

Mina huffs a quiet laugh. “Why ‘IKEA’ again?”

“Because it’s the source of half our relationship trauma,” Nayeon says, deadpan. “And if you say it, I will stop instantly out of fear.”

Mina’s eyes crinkle slightly. “Okay,” she says. “IKEA, it is.”

“Good,” Nayeon says, relieved. “And maybe… also, like—colour system. Green is good, yellow is slow down, red is stop. Like a traffic light.”

Mina nods again, more firmly this time, like structure is finally something she can hold.

Nayeon takes a breath. Her turn, then.

Mina watches her like she already knows it’s coming, like she’s bracing for something ugly.

Tzuyu’s question echoes: What are you afraid of?

Nayeon’s mouth goes dry again. She forces the truth out anyway.

“I’m afraid of pressuring you,” she says first, because it’s the one that’s easiest to admit. “I’m afraid you’ll say yes because you think you have to, not because you want to.”

Mina’s brows knit. “I want to.”

“I know,” Nayeon says quickly. “I know that, logically. But when you stop—” She cuts herself off, breathing hard. “My brain goes stupid.”

Mina’s expression softens, guilt flickering. “Nayeon…”

Nayeon shakes her head. “No. Don’t apologise. This is my problem. I’m just… saying it out loud.”

Mina nods, silently urging her on.

Nayeon swallows. “I’m afraid I’m too much,” she says, voice quieter now. “Like— I want you. I want you a lot. And I get excited and I talk and I—” She gestures helplessly to her entire existence. “And I’m scared you’ll feel overwhelmed, and you’ll pull away, and then I’ll hate myself for ruining something that matters.”

Mina stares at her, her eyes shining faintly.

Nayeon’s throat tightens. She laughs weakly, because she hates crying. “God, this is so embarrassing.”

“It’s not,” Mina says immediately.

“It is,” Nayeon insists. “I’m thirty. I’m supposed to be… normal.”

Mina’s mouth softens into something almost fond. “You’ve never been normal.”

Nayeon sniffs. “Rude.”

“True,” Mina counters. “But that’s why I love you.”

Nayeon’s breath shakes at the words. She tries to steady herself. 

“And also,” she says, her voice small again, “I’m scared that if we talk about it, you’ll think I only care about sex.”

Mina’s eyes widen. “That’s not true.”

“I know you say that,” Nayeon says quickly, “but—”

Mina reaches forward, then, slow and deliberate, giving Nayeon time to flinch. Her hands come to rest over Nayeon’s—warm, grounding, gentle. It’s the first touch since they sat down, and it makes Nayeon’s entire body go quiet.

“I never think that,” Mina says softly. “I know you. You care about everything. Sometimes too much.”

Nayeon’s eyes sting. She hates it. She lets it happen anyway.

They sit like that for a beat, hands held between them, a small bridge.

Mina inhales, as if gathering courage. “Can I tell you something?” she asks.

Nayeon nods.

Mina’s eyes drop to their hands. “When you said you loved me after a month,” she says quietly, “I wasn’t scared.”

Nayeon’s heart stutters.

“I was surprised,” Mina admits. “Because it was fast. And you looked terrified. But I wasn’t scared of you.”

Nayeon’s breath catches.

Mina looks up then, eyes steady. “You’re not too much for me,” she says. “You never were. I love you exactly as you are.”

The words hit Nayeon like something warm breaking open in her chest. She blinks hard, once, twice, and realises she’s absolutely going to cry like an idiot.

“Mina,” she whispers, voice cracked.

Mina’s thumbs rub gently over her knuckles, soothing. “Do you know what I’m afraid of?” she asks, voice trembling just a little now that she’s started. “I’m afraid I’ll finally… do this with you, and you’ll realise I’m not what you imagined. That I’m awkward. That I don’t know how to be sexy. That I’m…”

“Not enough,” Nayeon finishes softly for her.

Mina’s eyes widen, then she nods once, ashamed.

She squeezes Mina’s hands tighter, anchoring herself in the simple fact of her being here.

“I don’t want perfect,” Nayeon says, voice steady now because this is something she means so fiercely it burns. “I want you. I want you the way you are. If you’re awkward, we’ll be awkward. If you laugh, I’ll laugh. If you need to stop, we stop. I’m not here for… some cinematic first time. I’m here because it’s you.”

Mina’s eyes fill. She laughs softly through it, embarrassed. “I did think about lighting.”

Nayeon snorts, tears threatening anyway. “I know.”

“And hotels,” Mina whispers.

“I know that, too,” Nayeon repeats, gentler this time.

“And—waxing,” Mina says, cheeks going pink again even as her eyes shine.

Nayeon shakes her head, smiling through the ache. “Baby, I do not care. I promise you. I care about you feeling safe. I care about you wanting it. That’s it.”

Mina exhales, long and trembling. She nods like she’s absorbing it, trying to let it sink past old scars.

They sit there for a while longer, saying the things they’ve been circling for months. Nayeon admits what she likes—being kissed slowly, being held tightly, being looked at like she matters. Mina admits what she wants—time, reassurance, the freedom to stumble without shame. They talk about boundaries, about checking in, about how “yellow” means slow down and “IKEA” means stop without guilt.

They laugh, too—because at one point Nayeon says, very sincerely, “I don’t want to die under your anxiety,” and Mina covers her face in mortified laughter.

Eventually, Mina’s hands shift on Nayeon’s. She squeezes once, tentative.

“Are you… okay?” Mina asks.

Nayeon nods. “Yeah.”

Mina swallows. “Do you want to… try?” 

The question comes out carefully.

Nayeon’s heart flips. She forces herself to breathe. “Only if you want to,” she says, because she means it.

Mina nods. “I do.”

Nayeon looks at her, taking in the way Mina’s shoulders are less tense now, the way her gaze holds steady instead of darting away. Still nervous. Still Mina. But present.

Nayeon smiles softly. “Okay,” she whispers. “Then… green?”

Mina’s lips twitch. “Green.”

Only then does Nayeon lean forward.

Only then does she kiss her.

It’s gentle, deliberate, more reverent than hungry. A kiss that says.

I’m here. I’m listening. We can stop. We can laugh. We can do this together.

Mina kisses her back, and Nayeon feels her whole body unclench.

They start slow and careful. She keeps one hand on Mina’s cheek and the other low at her waist, grounded, not roaming unless invited. Mina’s hands slide up her arms, hesitant at first, then firmer as she relaxes into the kiss.

Nayeon pulls back just enough to breathe. “Green?” she whispers.

Mina nods. “Green.”

Nayeon smiles, forehead brushing Mina’s. “And if it’s yellow—”

“I tell you,” Mina finishes, voice steadier than it was an hour ago.

“And if it’s IKEA—”

Mina huffs a tiny laugh. “You stop.”

“Immediately,” Nayeon promises.

Mina looks at her, serious again. “And you?” she asks quietly. “What do you need?”

Nayeon blinks. She’s not used to being asked that in this context. Not with this sincerity.

“I need you to tell me the truth,” she says, after a beat. “Even if you think it’ll disappoint me.”

Mina nods. “Okay.”

Nayeon swallows, fingers tightening gently at Mina’s waist. “And I need you to know I’m not here for perfect,” she adds, voice rough. “I’m here for you.”

Mina’s eyes soften. “I know,” she whispers.

They move together toward the bed, not rushed. Mina sits first, then shifts back, pulling the duvet aside. Nayeon follows, and they end up facing each other on the mattress, knees brushing. Mina’s hand lands on Nayeon’s thigh, thumb stroking once, hesitant.

Nayeon’s breath catches. She makes herself laugh softly, because she can feel the familiar rush of too much trying to rise and swallow her whole.

“This is… very adult,” she murmurs.

Mina’s mouth quirks. “Indeed, very mature.”

She leans in and kisses her, quiet and firm. It shuts Nayeon up instantly.

Nayeon kisses back, deeper this time. Mina’s hands slide to her shoulders, then lower, fingers curling into the fabric of Nayeon’s shirt.

Nayeon pauses, breath unsteady, and asks, “Is it okay if I…?” She lets the question hang, eyes flicking to Mina’s shirt hem.

Mina nods, cheeks pink. “Yes.”

Nayeon moves slowly, giving Mina time to change her mind. She lifts Mina’s shirt carefully, hands shaking just slightly, and Mina helps her—arms raising, hair mussing, a small laugh escaping as the fabric catches for a second and they both fumble like teenagers.

“Sorry,” Mina whispers.

Nayeon laughs softly. “Don’t apologise. This is… adorable.”

Mina covers her face for half a second, then drops her hands when Nayeon kisses her knuckles.

They keep checking in as they go—little murmured questions and answers.

“Okay?” “Yeah.” “Still green?” “Green.” 

It doesn’t kill the mood the way Nayeon used to fear it would. It builds trust instead, like each check-in is another brick clicking into place.

At some point, Mina shifts, breathless, and Nayeon feels her own need surge—hot and dizzy—and she forces herself to slow, to stay with Mina instead of racing ahead of her.

Mina seems to sense it. She looks at Nayeon, eyes dark and shy, and whispers, “Let me.”

Nayeon stills. “You want to—?”

Mina nods, swallowing. Her hands slide to Nayeon’s hips, guiding her back gently onto the pillows.

Nayeon’s breath stutters. 

“Okay,” she whispers, surprised by the rush of tenderness it brings. 

Mina climbs over her slowly—careful not to crush her, as if Nayeon might break—and for a second she looks hesitant again, hovering like she’s about to retreat.

Nayeon reaches up and cups Mina’s cheek. “Green,” she reminds her softly.

Mina exhales, then nods. “Green.”

She kisses Nayeon—soft, then deeper—finding her rhythm, gaining confidence in small increments. Nayeon lets herself relax under it, lets Mina lead, lets herself be held and wanted without trying to turn it into something that is not them.

There are awkward moments, of course. Someone’s elbow bumps something. Mina’s hair gets in her mouth and she splutters, horrified, and Nayeon laughs so hard she has to hide her face in the pillow.

“Stop laughing at me,” Mina mumbles.

“I’m laughing because I love you,” Nayeon corrects her, voice muffled.

Mina pauses, then laughs too, the sound loosening something in the room.

They find their way back to each other after that with a gentleness that feels almost holy. Nayeon murmurs how beautiful Mina is—how her hands are steady now, how her eyes don’t look frightened, how she’s here, really here. Mina’s breath shudders, and she kisses Nayeon like she’s trying to believe it.

When they finally cross the line they’ve been hovering over for months, it doesn’t feel like a grand performance. It feels like relief. Like honesty. Like the first deep breath after holding it too long.

Nayeon doesn’t keep track of time after that. She only knows the rhythm of Mina’s voice asking, “Okay?” and her answering, “Yes,” and the way Mina’s hands keep returning to her face, her waist, her chest—anchoring, checking, holding.

And when it’s done, when they’re both breathing hard in the dim light, Mina collapses beside her with a shaky, disbelieving laugh.

Nayeon turns her head on the pillow, looking at her.

Mina looks back, eyes wide and tender and a little stunned, like she can’t quite process that she didn’t ruin anything.

Nayeon reaches for her hand and squeezes. “You alright?” she whispers.

Mina nods. Then, immediately, her brow furrows. “Was it… okay?” she asks, voice small again. “I know I overthink and I—”

Nayeon cuts her off by pulling Mina closer, forehead pressing to hers.

“It was perfect because it was us,” Nayeon says softly.

Mina’s eyes fill. “That’s not—”

“It is,” Nayeon insists. “You were not awkward. And even if you were, I would still—” She swallows, voice catching. “I would still choose you. Every time.”

Mina’s lips tremble. She kisses Nayeon again. Gentle and grateful. 

Aftercare is… not what Nayeon thought it would be.

There is no grand sense of we have crossed a threshold and are now changed forever.

But there is water. 

Mina hands her a glass first; her hair is still a mess, and her shirt is thrown on backwards at first until Nayeon fixes it while laughing. 

She takes it obediently, drinks too fast, coughs, and Mina immediately reaches out, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades until her breathing evens out again.

“Careful,” Mina murmurs fondly, like she always does.

Nayeon blinks at her, still a little dazed. “You say that a lot.”

Mina sits beside her on the bed with her knees tucked up. She pulls the duvet up around them both, tucking it around Nayeon’s shoulders with quiet attention, as if she’s been doing this forever.

Nayeon lets herself be tucked in.

That, more than anything, nearly undoes her.

She has spent her whole life moving forward—talking first, feeling loudly, wanting without apology because slowing down always felt like danger. Aftercare, in her head, had been abstract. Something you do because you’re supposed to. Something awkward. Something she’d probably ruin by joking too much or saying the wrong thing.

But this is soft in a way she didn’t know how to prepare for.

She wipes makeup smudges from Mina’s cheek with her thumb and watches Mina’s shoulders finally unclench, the tension easing out of her like something leaving.

They end up under the duvet, tangled together in the new sheets, Mina’s head on Nayeon’s shoulder, Nayeon’s arm wrapped around her.

The candle flickers quietly. The flowers sit on the dresser like a soft, shy confession that survived the night.

Mina murmurs, half-asleep, “We did it.”

Nayeon smiles into her hair. “We did.”

Mina’s hand finds Nayeon’s waist, a small squeeze. “Green,” she whispers, so quiet it’s almost a joke.

Nayeon laughs softly. “Always.”

And for once—finally—there’s no racing ahead, no braking at the edge, no apology hanging in the air.

Just them.

They fall asleep tangled together, the crooked bookcase still standing in the next room like a witness to their new, ridiculous, lovely domestic life.

EPILOGUE

Tzuyu never laughs in session.

That’d be unprofessional. Her face always stays smooth, her voice stays even, her posture stays composed. She doesn’t mirror emotion unless it serves the work. If something is absurd, she’d note it with precision, never with amusement.

Tzuyu understands that her stillness is part of the structure. An unmoving bank for people to crash against without fear of being swept away. Clients can be loud, chaotic, mortified, or unravelled. And she remains the constant. The river doesn’t laugh when stones are thrown into it. It simply holds.

If she reacted, it might turn vulnerability into something that might be judged. 

So, she doesn’t.

And whatever flickers of surprise or humour pass through her mind are filed away neatly, saved for later. When the door is closed, the notes are complete, and professionalism is no longer required.

But in this particular case, by the time she locks up her office and steps into the lift, she can feel the delayed aftershock blooming behind her ribs like a suppressed sneeze.

Two women. Three months. An entire ecosystem of longing, fear, and earnest over-preparation.

Im Nayeon, in particular, is… a lot. True to her client’s words.

Tzuyu watches her reflection in the lift’s mirrored wall and blinks once, slowly, resetting her nervous system. Her pen hand still feels mildly possessed. She’s written enough notes today to qualify as a short novel.

The lift chimes. 

She steps out into the underground car park, walks to her car, and exhales the kind of breath she doesn’t allow herself to take in front of clients. 

It says:

Right. That happened.

She drives home through a Seoul that is beginning to soften into evening, with traffic thinning, streetlights blinking on, and the city’s noise becoming a more distant hum. The rhythm of the road calms her, smoothing out the static.

Still, Nayeon’s voice keeps replaying in her head, bright and panicked.

We’re not glued together. Although sometimes I feel like we might be—

Tzuyu’s lips twitch. She kills the smile immediately. It’s a reflex now.

When she reaches her building, she parks with the same careful precision Myoui Mina would appreciate and Im Nayeon would find personally insulting. She rides the lift up, keys in hand, her mind finally sliding out of clinical focus and into something quieter.

Home.

The door clicks open. Warm light spills into the hallway. The air smells of citrus dish soap and something toasted—sesame oil, maybe, or the remnants of dinner.

Dahyun is in the kitchen, her sleeves rolled up, hair clipped back with a simple pin. There’s a calmness to her that feels like a steady current. She’s chopping something with unhurried rhythm, humming under her breath as if she’s tuned to a frequency nobody else can hear.

Tzuyu slips her shoes off neatly. Hangs her coat. Washes her hands.

Then, she walks up behind Dahyun and wraps both arms around her waist.

It’s an easy, familiar gesture—except tonight, she holds her wife a second longer than usual, cheek resting against Dahyun’s shoulder blade, breathing in the warmth of her.

Dahyun pauses mid-chop. She laughs softly, the sound bright and fond. “What’s gotten into you today?”

Tzuyu closes her eyes. “Nothing.”

Dahyun leans back slightly into her, relaxed. “Mm. That’s a lie right there, doctor.”

Tzuyu tightens her arms. “Am I not allowed to appreciate my wife?”

Dahyun snorts. “You always appreciate me.”

“Yes,” Tzuyu says, voice calm, unblinking sincerity as if she’s in session. “But today, I appreciate you… more.”

Dahyun sets the knife down carefully and turns in her arms, facing Tzuyu properly. Her eyes are warm and amused, her mouth curved like she already knows the answer to a question she hasn’t asked yet.

“Tough day, huh?” Dahyun asks.

Tzuyu considers the phrase tough day and decides it doesn’t cover the full scope of being exposed to Im Nayeon’s entire emotional operating system.

“It was… eventful,” she says.

Dahyun’s hands slide up to Tzuyu’s shoulders, smoothing the faint crease in her blouse. “Do you want tea? Dinner? A hug that lasts longer than two seconds?” she asks, teasing.

Tzuyu’s gaze flicks to Dahyun’s mouth, then back to her eyes. “Yes.”

“All of the above?”

“Yes, please.”

Dahyun laughs again, softer this time, and kisses her—quick and light, as if sealing the conversation. She turns back to the stove. “Have a seat,” she instructs. “I’ll finish this.”

Tzuyu obeys, because if there is one thing she’s learnt after marriage, it’s that Dahyun’s calmness is not negotiable.

She takes a seat at the small dining table. The room is tidy in a lived-in way. Books are stacked neatly, a throw blanket folded over the sofa arm, a small vase with something pale on the counter because Dahyun likes small softnesses in the middle of daily life.

Tzuyu watches her wife move around the kitchen, unhurried, and feels the last tension of her day begin to drain out of her shoulders.

Dahyun sets the dinner plates down, then pours tea. She sits opposite of Tzuyu, folding one leg under herself with comfortable ease.

For a moment, they just eat. Quiet. Domestic. A silence that doesn’t demand anything.

Then, casually, between bites, Dahyun speaks. “You’re doing the thing.”

Tzuyu looks up. “What thing?”

Dahyun gestures vaguely with her chopsticks. “Your eyes have that… processing look. Like you’re mentally filing paperwork.”

Tzuyu shakes the look that Dahyun said she has off her face. “I do not have a processing look.”

“You do,” Dahyun says, unbothered. “It’s the same look you had when our neighbour’s dog started wearing socks for the first time.”

“That was a remarkable development,” Tzuyu says.

Dahyun’s smile deepens. “So...”

Tzuyu sighs. “You know I can’t tell you the details.”

“I know,” Dahyun says easily. “I don’t want details. Just give me the vibe.”

Tzuyu pauses, considering how to summarise the emotional chaos of two women who are desperately trying not to hurt each other while simultaneously hurting themselves through avoidance.

She settles on honesty.

“They’re in love,” she says.

Dahyun’s expression softens instantly. “Ah.”

“And they’re afraid,” Tzuyu adds.

“Of what?”

Tzuyu looks down at her tea for a second. “Of being too much,” she says, voice even. “And of being not enough. Of ruining something important.”

Dahyun nods slowly, as if this makes perfect sense. “That’s… very human.”

Tzuyu exhales. “Yes.”

Dahyun watches her over the rim of her cup. “And where do you come into this?” she asks, amused. “Besides being the calm river that they crash into.”

Tzuyu smiles. “I gave them homework.”

Dahyun’s eyes sparkle. “You always give homework.”

“This time,” Tzuyu continues, “it involved safe words.”

Dahyun pauses mid-sip. “Oh?”

“One of the suggested safe words was ‘IKEA.’”

Dahyun chokes. Not dramatically. Enough to cough once, her eyes watering. “No,” she wheezes.

Tzuyu nods solemnly. “Yes.”

Dahyun presses a fist to her mouth, trying to regain composure. “And you kept a straight face the entire time?”

“I did,” Tzuyu confirms.

Dahyun’s shoulders shake with laughter. “How?”

Tzuyu thinks of Im Nayeon’s expression—so earnest, so desperate, as if this ridiculous little word might be the rope that pulls them out of their fear.

“It was clinically appropriate,” Tzuyu says, which is not an answer, and they both know it.

Dahyun reaches across the table and squeezes Tzuyu’s hand. “You’re a good therapist,” she says, simple and sure.

Tzuyu’s fingers curl around Dahyun’s. “I do try.”

Dahyun’s tone turns playful again, because she never lets sentiment sit too long without balancing it. “Did you take unhinged notes?”

Tzuyu’s gaze flicks away, the closest thing she ever does to looking guilty.

Dahyun’s eyebrows lift. “You did.”

Tzuyu clears her throat. “It is documentation for my research.”

“It’s an obsession, love,” Dahyun corrects her.

“It is not an obsession.”

Dahyun smiles. “I bet you labelled them like research subjects.”

Tzuyu’s face stays calm. Her ears, however, begin to warm slightly.

Dahyun watches that tiny tell with quiet triumph. “Oh my, you totally did,” she says, delighted. 

Tzuyu sets her chopsticks down with deliberate grace. “Dahyun.”

Dahyun leans forward. “What was the title?” she whispers, eyes bright. “Tell me.”

Tzuyu holds her gaze for two full seconds, as if weighing the ethics. Then, very softly, she answers, “Emotional volatility in digital age adults.”

Dahyun’s laughter is immediate and helpless.

Tzuyu watches her wife laugh like that—head tipped back slightly, eyes crinkled, warmth spilling into the room—and feels something in her chest loosen further.

She stands, walks around the table, and reaches down to kiss Dahyun’s forehead.

Dahyun looks up at her, still smiling. “You really did have a day.”

Tzuyu’s hands slide to Dahyun’s shoulders, gentle. “I did.”

“And you came home and chose to show how much you appreciate me,” Dahyun teases. 

Tzuyu considers that. “Well, at the moment, I chose… perspective.”

Dahyun hums. “And what does that perspective say?”

Tzuyu exhales, gaze softening in a way she would never allow in her office. She says quietly, “I sat with two people today who were terrified of touching each other wrong. Terrified of wanting too much. Terrified of being loved incorrectly.”

Dahyun’s smile fades into something tender.

“Then,” Tzuyu continues, “I came home and realised I don’t want to take this for granted.”

Dahyun reaches up and cups Tzuyu’s jaw, thumb brushing gently along her cheek. “You don’t,” she murmurs.

“I know,” Tzuyu says. Then, after a beat, she adds, “But I still want to hug you from behind. Excessively.”

Dahyun’s mouth curves again. “That is approved.”

Tzuyu leans in and wraps her arms around Dahyun’s shoulders, pulling her in. Dahyun’s hands slide around her waist, easy and sure.

They stay like that for a while.

In Tzuyu’s mind, Im Nayeon’s chaos flickers like fireworks and Myoui Mina’s careful perfectionism stacks itself like bricks. Two different storms, both made of love and fear.

Tzuyu presses a kiss to Dahyun’s temple and thinks, with quiet certainty, that intimacy isn’t something you perform into existence.

It’s something you keep choosing.

And tonight, she chooses her wife—calm as a river, laughing softly in her arms—over and over again.