Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun climbed lazily across the sky, spilling warm light through the half-closed blinds. Stripes of gold stretched across the room, and somewhere outside, birds stitched their songs through the quiet morning air.

“Yoonchae! Time for school!” her sister’s voice called from the hallway.

A low groan escaped Yoonchae’s lips as she stirred beneath the covers, squinting against the sunlight that slanted into the room. For a moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the warmth settle on her skin — the only warmth she ever seemed to feel in that house.

She couldn’t remember the last time her father had actually been home. Her mother’s voice was the one that filled the house now — sharp, commanding, relentless. If she were honest, Yoonchae had nearly forgotten what it felt like to be loved.

Eunchae, her sister, was the golden child — spoiled, adored, the family’s pride. A flicker of envy stirred in Yoonchae, but Eunchae had always been gentle. In a house that felt cold and unfeeling, she was the only warmth Yoonchae could count on.

Yoonchae inhaled sharply and stepped into the bathroom, a towel draped loosely over her shoulders. From the corner of her eye, she caught her parents talking in hushed tones in the living room. They stopped the moment they saw her. A shiver of unease ran down her spine, but she didn’t ask. She had learned long ago that questions only earned her silence.

St. Celestine Academy towered ahead of them later that morning — an elegant sprawl of brick and marble built for the city’s brightest and wealthiest. Both Yoonchae and Eunchae attended on scholarship, though only one of them ever seemed to feel the weight of that fact.

Most of their classmates kept to themselves, too busy maintaining their own images to care about others.

Except...

Megan.

Yoonchae couldn’t explain it, but Megan rarely spoke and hardly ever looked at anyone. Her silence said enough. Her friends, though, were always ready to find a target — laughing, whispering, tearing others down just to see them flinch.

And somehow, Yoonchae had ended up at the top of that list.

She was always the one they picked on. Always the one at the receiving end of quiet insults and cruel jokes. Megan never joined in — and that was the worst part.

She never said a word.

Not to Yoonchae, not even to her friends. Her gaze stayed impassive, bored, as if nothing and no one at St. Celestine could possibly interest her. Sometimes, she’d glance at Yoonchae with that same detached look — unimpressed, unreadable.

But Yoonchae had noticed something: when Megan was around, her friends’ cruelty seemed to dull. The laughter wasn’t as loud, the comments not as sharp. It was as if Megan’s silence carried a weight that kept them in check — though never enough to save Yoonchae completely.

After showering and slipping into her uniform, Yoonchae left home with Eunchae.

“What were they talking about earlier?” she asked, unable to keep the curiosity — or the unease — from her voice.

Eunchae adjusted the strap of her bag. “Something about M&T Corp’s CEO reaching out with a solution to our bankruptcy. They didn’t say what it was, but... they looked pretty shaken.”

“M&T?” Yoonchae frowned. “I’ve never even heard of that company before.”

“Same,” Eunchae said with a careless shrug, “but they seemed to be considering it.”

The rest of the walk to school passed in silence. Eunchae hummed softly beside her, and for a brief moment, it almost felt peaceful. But Yoonchae’s thoughts refused to rest.

Inevitably, they drifted back to Megan and her friends.

Megan had never said anything cruel to her — not once — and yet Yoonchae couldn’t stand her. Maybe it was the way her friends acted, or maybe it was because Megan seemed untouchable. Cold. Perfect. Unreachable.

What made it worse was that Eunchae adored her.

Yoonchae didn’t understand the appeal — what everyone else saw in Megan’s impassive stares and sharp-edged beauty. Sure, she was objectively attractive, but to Yoonchae, Megan was a blank canvas: pretty, but empty.

Still, she hoped Eunchae would eventually move on. Their parents would never understand. Even the smallest hint of difference was enough to earn their scorn.

She had tried to warn her sister once — and it had ended in tears, accusations, and their mother’s fury echoing through the house.

Yoonchae had been beaten for daring to suggest that their parents might hurt Eunchae if they found out. But the moment Eunchae cried, everything shifted. Their mother’s “motherly instincts” flickered to life — and somehow, Yoonchae became the villain.

She loved Eunchae with everything she had. But her sister was naive. She truly believed their parents would understand — that they would see her for who she was.

Yoonchae knew better. Her parents didn’t know how to love unconditionally. They judged. They demanded. They wanted perfection — nothing less.

And Yoonchae was envious. Not because Eunchae was loved more, but because she was allowed to be loved.

She had done everything right — obedient, quiet, perfect. More servant than daughter. She fulfilled every duty asked of her, yet most of her rights had been quietly taken away. While Eunchae was free to play and laugh, Yoonchae was sent to study. Even the toys their grandparents had given them ended up in Eunchae’s hands — though she already had plenty of her own.

By the time they reached St. Celestine’s gates, the sun had climbed high. The air buzzed with chatter and the sharp click of polished shoes against the pavement. Yoonchae’s stomach tightened. She prayed she wouldn’t run into any of her bullies.

Especially Megan.

The mere thought of Megan Skiendiel made her grimace. Even her name tasted bitter on Yoonchae’s tongue — funny how, for Eunchae, it tasted like sugar.

Their walk to class passed without a single sight of Megan or her sidekicks. Outwardly, Yoonchae looked calm, but inside she was almost giddy with relief. Maybe, just maybe, today wouldn’t start with whispered insults and mocking laughter.

But peace never lasted long — not in the Jeung household.

Her father had once trusted one of his company’s directors completely — a man who knew every corner of the business. That trust became his downfall. The director had fallen deep into gambling, and when he ran out of his own money, he turned to Yoonchae’s father, promising to repay him with interest. He never did.

What her father didn’t realize was that the man had already been siphoning company funds to feed his addiction. By the time the truth came out, it was too late. The losses were catastrophic.

Desperate to repair the damage, her father spent countless nights at the office, sleeping under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, trying to salvage what little was left. But no matter how many reports he pored over or meetings he called, the numbers refused to make sense. The company slipped quietly into bankruptcy — and for now, the public had no idea.

But for how long?

One thing about Yoonchae’s parents: they could endure living in rags, but never being seen that way. Their reputation was everything. The idea of being looked down upon — of losing their place among the city’s elite — was unthinkable.

Her father had poured his blood, sweat, and years into that company. It was his pride, his proof of worth. To see it collapse before him was unbearable. He would rather die than live in disgrace — or worse, live poor.

The first few periods before lunch passed in a blur. Teachers came and went, lectures repeated themselves, and Yoonchae listened dutifully. It was boring, predictable, but she absorbed it all. She had always been the top student—a product of years of pressure, high expectations, and constant comparisons. Her parents didn't care about her achievements, but she had learned early on to perform anyway, to seek approval where none would come. 

The lunch bell rang, and Yoonchae made her way to the quiet corner of the gym, her usual refuge from the chatter and chaos. Eunchae, despite being kind, was always surrounded by her own set of friends, and Yoonchae didn't feel like interrupting that bubble. Besides, with her pitiful social life and lack of social skills, it was easier to stay invisible. In her own eyes, she was the antisocial final boss.

Settling into a quiet corner of the gym, far from anyone who might notice her, Yoonchae unwrapped the sandwich she'd picked up on her way to school and reached for the packet of juice. She was just taking a bite when a familiar, sharp voice echoed across the space—one of Megan's friends.

"Dude. Where is she? She doesn't even text us if she is coming to school or not..." one spoke.

"I don't know, maybe something came up? It sucks, anyway, though."

"Yeah... It's weird. Megan never just disappears like this," another said, frowning. "She's usually on time, sitting there like she owns the place, ignoring everyone."

"She seems off nowadays," the first girl added, a note of concern creeping into her voice. "I don’t know… It’s like she’s not herself."

"Yeah," the other agreed, shrugging. "I’ve been noticing it too. Maybe something’s going on at home or… whatever."

There was a pause, the faint clatter of trays and shoes filling the quiet space between them. None of them spoke Megan’s name again, but the worry lingered, subtle and unspoken.

Yoonchae drew a sharp breath, sinking lower into her corner of the gym. They sat in a circle, still completely unaware of her presence. How am I going to get out of this mess? Quick, Yoonchae, think quick! Panic surged through her brain, short-circuiting every rational thought.

"Funny how we didn't see that nerd anywhere either!" one of them barked a laugh.

Shit.

"Weird," another said, smirking. "We'd run into her at least three to five times a day. Guess the girl's having a lucky day."

Yoonchae's heart pounded. She pressed herself against the wall, silently willing herself to disappear entirely.

Until the bell rang and they all filed out of the gym, Yoonchae stayed pressed into her corner, neither sipping nor eating to avoid making a sound. Once the coast was clear, she finally allowed herself to take the rest of her sandwich and juice, eating quickly before tossing the wrappers into the nearest bin.

The remaining hours passed in a quiet blur. Yoonchae felt as if the day were a fever dream—she hadn't been insulted once, hadn't run into Megan, and hadn't even crossed paths with her friends. For once, it had been... a good day.

However, a good day can't really last forever, can it?

After school, Yoonchae met Eunchae at the gates, as they did most days.

"Mom and Dad told us to come to the company," Eunchae said, her voice light, though a hint of confusion lingered beneath it.

"Did they tell you why?" Yoonchae asked, her brows furrowing. 

"No, but they said we had to get there as soon as possible," Eunchae replied, a hint of unease in her tone.

The walk to the company felt like pure hell for both Eunchae and Yoonchae. With their father unable to pay the employees, there were no chauffeurs to drive them—just two girls trudging along the streets. Yoonchae was secretly glad for all the sports she'd done over the years; it at least made the effort bearable.

By the time they neared the company, Yoonchae was practically dragging Eunchae along. Her sister complained constantly, whining about how her legs were giving out, but Yoonchae ignored it. She had learned long ago that whining never got anyone anywhere—especially not in their family. Somehow, though, Eunchae always did.

They rode the lift up to their father's office floor, where his assistant informed them that everyone was waiting in the boardroom.

As they approached, Eunchae reached for the door handle, ready to barge in, but Yoonchae held her back and knocked lightly first.

At the muffled "come in," they stepped inside.

A tall, slender man sat opposite their parents, his expression calm and unreadable, as if nothing in the room could rattle him.

"Girls! Meet Mr. William, the CEO of M&T Corp," their father announced. 

Yoonchae froze, struck by how polite and composed her father sounded—almost... pleasant. It was a tone she rarely heard, and it made her uneasy.

Mr. William stood and extended his hand toward Yoonchae, who was standing closest to his seat, and then to Eunchae, who was beside her.

"Nice to meet you, girls!" he said, his tone even and composed.

"Nice to meet you, too, sir," Yoonchae replied politely, while Eunchae simply nodded, still a little overwhelmed.

"Take a seat," their father said after William sat down. Both girls obeyed without a word.

"Why we wanted you both here," their father continued, his voice wavering slightly under William's intense, unreadable gaze, "is because Mr. William has suggested a solution for our company's situation..."

"A bind," William said, his tone calm but firm, letting the weight of his words hang in the room.

Their father's brows furrowed. "A bind...? What exactly do you mean by that, William?"

William leaned back slightly, fingers steepled. "Your company is in a precarious position. The solution I suggest... involved a union between families. A contractual marriage, if you will. It would stabilize finances, consolidate influence, and preserve your family's reputation."

Yoonchae's stomach dropped. She felt as if the floor had tilted beneath her. A marriage contract?

Her father's jaw tightened. "A marriage? Are you saying... between my daughters and...?"

William nodded smoothly. "Precisely. It's the most efficient way to secure the company's future. Time is critical."

Eunchae's mouth fell open slightly, but Yoonchae barely registered her sister. Her mind was racing—fear, disbelief, and a stubborn flicker of anger all at once.

William's fingers tapped lightly on the table. "I should clarify—my son is out of the question. He's already in a relationship and, well, he's... committed." He paused, as if gauging their reactions. "But my daughter... she is single, and of comparable age to your daughters. A future engagement could be arranged."

Their father's brows knitted tightly, jaw tightening as he struggled to reconcile his pride with the suggestion. "A same-sex arrangement?" His voice was clipped, low, tinged with disapproval.

"Yes," William said evenly. "It may not be traditional, but in terms of protecting both families' interests—finances, influence, reputation—it is the most practical solution. The arrangement would be formalized when the girls are older, but planning can begin now."

Yoonchae's chest tightened. Her parents' rigid faces, the weight of their social expectations, made her stomach knot. 

Her father's hand flexed into a fist on the table. "I... It's not ideal. It's... improper, but... if it secures the company and preserves our standing... then it must be considered."

Her mother's gaze flicked to Yoonchae and Eunchae, as if measuring which daughter would better preserve the family image.

William's tone remained calm. "The final decision must come from you. Speak with your daughters, and ensure they understand the gravity of the situation. This is about family, reputation, and legacy."

There was a long pause. Yoonchae could feel every look in the room burning into her. 

Finally, her father exhaled, jaw still tight. "Eunchae... she is the picture of virtue, flawless in the public eye. Such an arrangement with her... would invite scrutiny we cannot afford. Yoonchae, however... obedient, quiet... You are the safer choice. The family's image remains intact."

Yoonchae's stomach sank. She had always known obedience had its uses, but to be chosen like this—as if her life were a business asset—made her blood run cold. 

William nodded once, decisive. "Then it is settled in principle. Speak with your daughters. Ensure they grasp the seriousness of what is being discussed. Time is of the essence."

Yoonchae's hands curled into fists in her lap, her heart hammering. She could barely breathe. The room felt impossibly small, and the weight of inevitability pressed down on her chest.

Soon, William took his leave, his composed aura lingering like a shadow even after he stepped out of the room.

"The arrangement... between the same sex is unacceptable!" her father roared, slamming a fist on the table. His face was flushed, brows furrowed, jaw tight—every inch of him radiated outrage.

Her mother sat stiffly beside him, lips pressed into a thin line, trying to mask her own unease. "I... I understand your frustration," she said carefully, her voice quieter, but there was a tremor of worry underneath.

Yoonchae stayed silent, heart hammering, hands clenched tightly in her lap. She knew better than to speak—her parents' anger was directed at the idea, not her. Yet every word cut like a knife, a reminder that her life was being bartered as if she were property.

Yoonchae spared a glance at Eunchae, who also had her hands balled into fists in her lap. She felt a deep, aching sorrow for her sister—her closeted pansexuality a secret only Yoonchae had known, and one she had quietly tried to protect.

She had warned her before, pleaded with her to be cautious. And yet... Eunchae still clung to the hope that their parents would choose their child over their irrational hatred for what was less common. Yoonchae knew better. She had seen firsthand that love and acceptance rarely factored into her parents' calculations. 

By nightfall, Yoonchae was summoned to the living room.

"We want you to pack your things. You won't be going to school tomorrow," her father said, his voice detached, each word slipping out as if it tasted bitter in his own mouth.

"William mentioned that his daughter and you should live under the same roof, to... bond before the contract is signed," he continued, letting out a sigh. "I expect you to behave properly," he added, his tone sharp, leaving no room for argument.

Yoonchae felt her chest tighten, a cold knot of panic twisting in her stomach. Live under the same roof... with her... The words echoed in her mind, each repetition making the reality sink deeper.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. Anger bubbled under the fear—anger at her parents for treating her like a commodity, anger at William for orchestrating this, anger at the unfairness of it all.

She glanced toward the door, imagining the path ahead: the meetings, the forced smiles, the carefully measured words she'd have to speak around strangers. And then... the stranger she was supposed to live under the same roof with.

The thought made her stomach churn. Great. Just Great. My life just went from unbearable to impossible.

Yoonchae drew in a shaky breath, forcing herself to stand straighter. There was no arguing. No pleading. Obedience had always been her armor. She would survive this—she always did.

But deep down, a stubborn flame of resentment ignited. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn crept through the blinds, painting the room in muted gold. Yoonchae sat up, stiff and restless, her mind buzzing with the events of the previous night.  
 

Today... it begins, she thought, heart hammering. Her bags were already packed, but that didn't make the reality any less terrifying.
 

She had no idea what the house—or the family—would be like. All she knew was that she was being sent to live under the same roof as a stranger. Someone she already disliked before even meeting.
 

As she got up and freshened herself, a strange, bittersweet feeling tugged at her chest. Growing up, her home had never been a place of warmth or memories worth smiling at—but leaving behind everything familiar, everything she had known since she could remember, still felt like heartbreak.
 

Once she was ready, Yoonchae threw on a black tee and a worn pair of trousers. Simple, unassuming—but somehow still charming. By 7:25, she was in the living room, greeted by a man waiting with rigid professionalism next to a sleek, black car.

"I'll send the car at 7:30 sharp," William said last night, his tone crisp, professional. Clearly, his punctuality leaves no room for discussion.

Yoonchae mentally took notes. These people run on time. Good to know.
 

"Yoonchae—right on time! This is Oliver, Mr. William's assistant!" her father said, forced enthusiasm slipping through. Yoonchae sensed Oliver noticed it too, his polite smile almost apologetic as he stepped forward. 

"Let me take that," he said, lifting her bags with ease after calling for Michael, the driver. He loaded them into the car, muttering under his breath that William would blame him if he allowed her to carry even a single bag.

The ride took about half an hour, the car gliding through the quiet streets before pulling up in front of a newly built house. It was sleek and modern, all clean lines and glass—too perfect, too untouched. 
 

Oliver cleared his throat. "The young master will be arriving later tonight. If you need anything, this is my number. I'll take my leave now, Miss Yoonchae."
 

And just like that, the house was silent. The faint hum of the air conditioner was the only sound. Yoonchae stepped forward, shoes clicking softly against the polished floors. Every surface gleamed; every corner smelled of fresh paint. 

The kitchen was immaculate—marble counters, black cabinets, and not a speck of dust. She wandered down the hallway: an empty study, a guest room with just a desk and chair, and finally, the master bedroom.

A single bed stood at its center, crisp and intimidating. Her heart sank. This was where she'd be staying. 

With her.

Yoonchae sat down carefully at the edge of the bed, glancing around. Everything looked expensive, but cold. The kind of place that made her feel like she didn't belong. She sighed, lying back against the mattress.
 

This was going to take a while to get used to.
 

~

An hour passed. Then another. 
 

Yoonchae found herself sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the felt. The silence in the house was unbearable—no footsteps, no chatter, not even the faint hum of a television. Just her, the hum of the air conditioner, and the low buzz of her thoughts refusing to quiet down.
 

Unable to keep her thoughts at bay, Yoonchae let herself spiral a little.
 

Who was this girl she was supposed to marry?
 

Would they get along?
 

Would she be kind, or cruel, or just indifferent?
 

Was she even okay with this whole thing—or was she trapped too, tangled in the same cold contract?
 

Her fingers fidgeted with the bedsheets as she exhaled shakily. The questions were endless, and the quiet didn't help.
 

Somewhere deep inside, she hoped—foolishly—that whoever she was wouldn't be like her parents.
 

A soft notification beep snapped her out of her spiraling thoughts.
 

Eunchae: Hey, sorry... I couldn't say goodbye to you. I miss you.
 

Yoonchae's lips twitched into a faint smile. Her sister's messages were always like this—warm, a little clumsy, and full of feelings Yoonchae could never express out loud.
 

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a few seconds before she typed back.
 

Yoonchae: It's fine. I miss you too. Study hard.
 

A reply came almost instantly. 
 

Eunchae: You sound like Mom, lol. Be safe, okay? Oh—and let me know if my sister-in-law is a hottie~
 

Yoonchae exhaled through her nose.
 

Yoonchae: I am not gay, unnie.
 

Eunchae: Didn't say you were~

Eunchae: Also, Megan came to school today! She looked so out of it... But she's still so hot. It's unfair.
 

Yoonchae stared at the screen, her sister's messages lighting up one after another. A small, reluctant smirk tugged at her lips before quickly fading.

Yoonchae: You have questionable taste.

She hit send before she could think twice, tossing her phone aside on the bed. Megan again. Even when she wasn't at school, that name somehow followed her around. 

Her chest tightened slightly—an involuntary reaction she didn't care to name. Megan Skiendiel was the last person she wanted to think about.

She leaned back, eyes tracing the white ceiling above. "Of all people," she muttered under her breath, "why her?"

And as if the universe had decided to mock her, the quiet hum of an engine pulled up outside. Tires rolled over gravel, steady and deliberate. 

Someone was here.

Yoonchae's heart picked up its pace as she made her way downstairs. 

The front door opened, and a woman stepped in—graceful, poised, her smile warm enough to soften the edges of the quiet house.

“Hello, Yoonchae,” she said, voice smooth and kind. “I’m Sylvia—William’s wife. I just wanted to check if there’s anything you might need while you settle in.”

Before Yoonchae could respond, Sylvia closed the distance between them and pulled her into a brief, gentle hug. It caught Yoonchae off guard—the scent of soft perfume, the warmth of genuine affection—so different from the cold, distant embrace she was used to at home.

When Sylvia pulled back, her eyes sparkled with a teasing glint.
“Oh, Mei will absolutely love you,” she said with a grin. “You are definitely her type.”

Yoonchae blinked, caught between confusion and embarrassment. “I—uh—her type?”

Sylvia laughed lightly, waving off the question. “You’ll see soon enough,” she said, tone playful but knowing. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Just be yourself. She’ll come around faster than you think.”

Yoonchae nodded again. Everything about this woman's warmth felt foreign—almost dizzying. She was so used to her own mother, who barked orders from room to room, a mother who could be triggered by the smallest mistake and wasn't afraid to punish her daughter for it.

 
This... this was different. Too different.

It felt... safe.

But even as that unfamiliar comfort settled in, Yoonchae's thoughts twisted quietly in the back of her mind. She didn't want Meiyok to "come around." If anything, she'd settle for civility—maybe friendship, if things didn't turn out awful. That would be enough. Romance, though? No. She wasn't built for that—especially not with a girl.
 

“There’s only one bed, I believe,” Sylvia explained, glancing toward the master bedroom. “Meiyok’s father had it built for her eighteenth birthday. He thought it might be nice to give it to her a little early.”

Something about the phrasing made Yoonchae’s stomach tighten—not because of the bed itself, but because of what it might imply. She quickly brushed the thought away before it could root too deep.

Sylvia moved into the kitchen, hands resting on her hips as she surveyed the bare counters.

“Oh my,” she said with a soft gasp. “There’s really nothing in here—we’ll have to stock it up properly.”

Yoonchae followed a few steps behind, quiet and cautious. The way Sylvia moved through the house—so comfortably, like it was already lived in—made the space feel less intimidating, even if only a little.

“So… her name is Meiyok?” Yoonchae asked carefully, her voice tentative.

“Yes! My baby,” Sylvia said, her tone immediately brightening. “She can be a bit aloof around strangers and… well, a little weird at times. But don’t mind that. Once she’s comfortable, she’s the sweetest girl you’ll ever meet.”

Yoonchae nodded, unsure how to respond. Sylvia’s warmth was genuine, but it only added to the strange weight settling in her chest.

After a hesitant pause, Yoonchae blurted, “Uh—I hope you don’t mind me asking—but is she… uhm… homosexual?”

Sylvia’s smile softened, though a flicker of surprise crossed her face. “Darling… would it bother you in any way if she were?” Her tone stayed gentle, but there was something sharper underneath it—a quiet disappointment, maybe.

The question made Yoonchae’s pulse spike. She shook her head quickly, words stumbling out before she could think. “No—no! Not like that. I just—Mr. William said his daughter was single and… would be a choice. I just wondered if she… knew. If she agreed to it. I—I'm sorry, Miss Sylvia, I shouldn’t have asked.”

She kept her eyes on the floor, cheeks burning. The air felt thick around her, though she couldn’t quite explain why. It wasn’t disgust—it was discomfort she didn’t know how to name, something she’d carried for so long it felt natural to her.

“She said it wouldn’t necessarily matter to her,” Sylvia replied softly, eyes kind but searching. “But she wanted to make sure you aren’t being forced into this arrangement.” She paused, her tone lightening again. “She’s bisexual, Yoonchae. But I promise you, she’s not someone to be afraid of. Treat her normally, and she’ll do the same.”

Yoonchae nodded, the words slow to sink in. Sylvia’s calm was reassuring, but the thought still made something coil tight inside her. She didn’t understand why the idea unsettled her—only that it did.

“Mei will be back after school,” Sylvia said after a moment, clapping her hands lightly. “Would you accompany me to find food to stock this place properly, Yoonchae?”

“Yes, Mrs. Sylvia,” Yoonchae replied, perhaps a little too stiffly.

Sylvia turned, feigning offense. “What did I tell you to call me, Yoonchae?”

“Oh—sorry! Mom,” Yoonchae corrected quickly, her face warming.

Sylvia smiled, satisfied.

Their shopping trip wrapped up around noon. The car was filled with laughter—mostly Sylvia’s—and grocery bags that clinked softly in the back seat.

When they returned, Sylvia helped Yoonchae carry everything into the kitchen, her energy unbothered and warm.

“Alright, darling,” she said as she opened the car door to leave. “I have some work to attend to. Settle in, make yourself comfortable—and don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

Yoonchae nodded, watching the car disappear down the street. The house fell silent again.

Only now, it didn’t feel as empty.
 

Should I make a meal for when Meiyok arrives? she wondered.
 

Either way, she had to eat, so she might as well make something for both of them.
 

With that in mind, Yoonchae moved toward the kitchen, unpacking a few groceries as she went, trying to settle into the strange, quiet rhythm of the house.
 

Yoonchae remembered the telephone number Oliver had given her. After a moment of hesitation, she dialed it. The phone rang once. Twice. Then a calm, melodic voice answered. 
 

"Hello?" 
 

"Hi!" she blurted. "I wanted to ask if she'll eat before coming, or head straight here... I'm making food."
 

"Oh! She won't. She's coming straight home after school," Oliver replied kindly.
 

Yoonchae nodded, words failing her as she hung up, then immediately realized she'd nodded as if Oliver could see her.
 

Did I just… nod? Oh god—what’s wrong with me?!
 

Her gaze drifted over the groceries spread across the counter, the sheer ordinariness of it mocking her indecision. What on earth am I going to make?

After another pause, she picked up her phone. Calling again felt too awkward, too forward. Texting seemed safer. 

Hi, Mom! I'm planning to make something for her when she gets home. Could you let me know what her favorite food is?
 

She hesitated for a moment, then pressed send. Her heart fluttered stupidly while she waited.
 

Almost immediately, a reply came.
 

Hi, Yoonchae! Mei loves Hainanese chicken rice—it's simple, but she adores it. Don't worry too much, darling, she's easy to please. 🙂
 

Relief trickled through her. Hainanese chicken rice. Okay. That's doable.

She rolled up her sleeves and got to work. The steady rhythm of chopping garlic and ginger calmed her nerves. The scent of simmering broth and steaming rice slowly filled the kitchen, softening the sharp edges of her anxiety.

Still, her mind wandered. What's she like? Aloof? Polite? Or... strange? Sylvia said she's weird. What if she hates what I am making?

She stirred the pot, tasting carefully, adjusting the seasoning by instinct. Each deliberate movement—slice, stir, taste—helped her reclaim a small sense of control in a situation that otherwise felt completely foreign.

By the time the dish was ready, it looked almost professional. The rice glistened under the light, the chicken pale and tender, and the small bowl of aromatic sauce shimmered beside it.

Yoonchae stepped back, breathing in deeply. There. Not bad.

Then the sound of the front door unlocking froze her in place.

Footsteps. Light but steady.

A figure appeared in the doorway—tall, slender. A white T-shirt hung loosely on her frame, paired with faded blue trousers that looked well-worn, lived-in. But it was the mask that drew all of Yoonchae's attention—black, sleek, concealing half her face, revealing only the curve of her mouth and the cool, unreadable eyes above it.

Those eyes flicked around the room once, cool and assessing, before landing on her.

Yoonchae's fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. Okay. Just act normal. Treat her normally.

"Hi," she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I... made this for you."

Meiyok tilted her head slightly. The mask hid most of her expression, but her eyes betrayed a flicker—something like curiosity and surprise.

"I... um... Hope you like it," Yoonchae added quickly. 

The air between them seemed to hold its breath.

Meiyok took a slow step closer, gaze dropping to the plate. The silence stretched, just long enough to make Yoonchae question every decision she'd made that day.

Finally, Meiyok spoke, her voice calm and low—smooth like glass.

"It smells... good."

Yoonchae let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

Okay. Survived the greeting.

Chapter Text

Yoonchae sat across from Meiyok at the dining table, the two of them eating Hainanese chicken rice in heavy, shared silence. The clink of chopsticks against porcelain echoed in the otherwise quiet house, each tap loud enough to make Yoonchae flinch. Every small sound—the scrape of a bowl on the table, the faint rustle of Meiyok’s movements—felt like a signal, like the calm before a storm she couldn’t see.

Sylvia had been right so far—the girl was aloof. And weird. Aloof in a way that didn’t feel unkind, just deliberate, like she’d built a wall and expected everyone else to adjust their height accordingly.

Yoonchae tried not to stare, but she couldn’t help it. The mask fascinated her. Sleek, black, covering the upper half of Meiyok’s face. Not bulky, not decorative—just precise, clean, intimate in its control. Every time Meiyok spoke, the mask shifted slightly, catching the light, drawing attention to her mouth. The lips beneath were calm, unhurried when they moved, sharper when silent.

“You’re staring,” Meiyok said, not even glancing up from her plate.

Heat crawled up Yoonchae’s neck. She set her chopsticks down too quickly, the sharp clatter echoing like a mistake in judgment. “I’m not,” she said flatly, then added under her breath, “You’re just… hard to read.”

“Good,” Meiyok replied dryly. Her voice wasn’t sharp, but it had weight, filling the silence like smoke curling around a candle flame.

A few beats passed. Then, without looking up, Meiyok said quietly, “Thanks for the meal.” She pushed her empty bowl forward—spotless. The small, meaningless detail stirred something odd in Yoonchae’s chest. Pride? Satisfaction? She shoved it down before it could take root.

“Uh—my name is Y—”

“Yoonchae,” Meiyok interrupted smoothly, finally lifting her gaze. “I know.”

The way her name rolled off Meiyok’s tongue made Yoonchae freeze. It sounded too natural. Too familiar. It shouldn’t have felt… good. But it did.

She blinked rapidly, forcing composure back into her voice. “What should I call you then?”

“Meiyok. Mei. Whatever fits your liking.”

She stood, walked a few paces toward the hall, then paused.

“—or baby.”

The word hit like a jolt to Yoonchae’s chest.

She blinked, certain she’d misheard. “Excuse me?”

But Meiyok was already gone—turning a corner, footsteps light, casual, unhurried.

Yoonchae sat there, staring at the doorway, pulse hammering. Sylvia had said that if she treated Meiyok normally, Meiyok would do the same.

But this?

This wasn’t normal.

This was a trap wrapped in silk.

Cleaning up gave her something to do, but her mind wouldn’t stop replaying it—baby. The word looped in her head like a curse, the way Meiyok said it, confident, deliberate, already knowing how it would hit her.

By the time she reached the bedroom, exhaustion threatened to collapse her. But when she opened the door, her fatigue vanished instantly.

There was only one bed. She forgot about that part.

Large, perfectly made, sheets—smooth and untouched, centered like a spotlight. Yoonchae’s eyes darted around, searching for any alternative—a couch, a spare futon, anything. Nothing. Not even a blanket on the floor. 

Her stomach sank. “No. Nope. Not happening.”

She was still staring at the mattress like it had personally offended her when a low voice came from behind.

“Something wrong?”

Yoonchae spun around.

Meiyok leaned lazily against the doorframe, mask still on, arms folded loosely. The faintest smirk touched her lips, but her eyes—sharp, glinting under the dim light—betrayed amusement.

“There’s only one bed,” Yoonchae blurted, sharper than she meant.

Meiyok tilted her head, feigning confusion. “You noticed.”

“You mean—you knew?”

“Of course,” Meiyok said smoothly. “It’s my room, technically. Unless you plan to sleep standing up, I guess we’ll have to share.”

Her words were casual, almost too casual. Like a statement that expected no argument.

“Share? Absolutely not. I’ll… figure something out,” Yoonchae said quickly, voice tightening.

“Suit yourself.” Meiyok walked past her, brushing close enough that Yoonchae caught a faint trace of perfume—clean, faintly floral, dizzying. She sat on the edge of the bed, graceful and unbothered. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. The floor gets cold.”

“I’ll live,” Yoonchae muttered, pretending her heart wasn’t racing.

“Relax, Yoonchae,” Meiyok said, reclining back on the pillows, her voice lower now—lazy and deliberate. “I don’t bite. Unless you ask nicely.”

Yoonchae stiffened. The air between them thickened, charged.

She grabbed a blanket and pillow from the closet, clutching them like armor. “I’ll sleep in the living area,” she said, not trusting her voice to stay even.

Behind her, Meiyok’s soft laugh followed—low, curling like smoke.
“Sweet dreams, baby.”

The living room was cold. The floor bit through her socks. The couch—small, decorative, almost hostile—barely supported her weight. She wrapped herself in the blanket, staring at the ceiling. The silence felt alive, humming with leftover tension.

Even with walls between them, she could feel Meiyok’s presence—somewhere upstairs, still awake, probably smiling.

How could someone be so calm? So self-assured?

“Stop overthinking,” she whispered.

But she couldn’t. The mask. The voice. The teasing confidence.
They clung to her thoughts like static electricity.

Tomorrow would be different.
Tomorrow she’d keep her distance.

Because if Meiyok kept talking like that, Yoonchae was sure she’d lose her mind.

Morning arrived reluctantly—pale, heavy, too soon.

Yoonchae barely felt like she’d slept. Every creak of the house kept her half-awake. Every faint sound upstairs dragged her back from the edge of rest.

Dragging herself upright, she ran a hand through her tangled hair and shivered. The blanket had fallen to the floor sometime during the night, leaving her chilled and aching.

As she folded it, a faint noise upstairs made her pause. Footsteps. Meiyok. Awake.

Yoonchae told herself she didn’t care. She’d make breakfast. Simple. Quick. Minimal interaction.

In the kitchen, she focused on rhythm. The click of the toaster, the soft hiss of the kettle, butter melting slowly. Ordinary, safe sounds. The smell of toast and coffee filled the room, warm and grounding.

For a moment, she almost believed last night hadn’t happened—that she wasn’t living in a stranger’s house, sharing air with someone who seemed designed to throw her off balance.

Then the air shifted.

She didn’t hear footsteps, but she felt her. Subtle, like static before lightning.

“Good morning, gorgeous. Slept well?”

Yoonchae froze mid-motion, butter knife hovering above the toast.

Meiyok leaned casually against the doorframe, mask still in place. Morning light cut across her face, highlighting gold and shadow. She looked entirely too comfortable for someone about to deliver chaos before breakfast.

“I—uh…” Yoonchae fumbled. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“Mm,” Meiyok hummed, stepping closer. “Sorry to hear that… maybe I can help you feel better?”

Yoonchae’s pulse thudded painfully. Did she just—? No. She wasn’t going there.

“No,” she said sharply. “Just—breakfast.”

Meiyok’s laugh was soft, lingering. “You look better when you’re flustered.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, come on,” Meiyok teased, tilting her head. “Did you just fall for me already? I haven’t even taken this thing off, and here you are—enchanted.”

The word enchanted twisted something inside Yoonchae.

“I said shut up,” she snapped, voice trembling slightly.

“Feisty,” Meiyok murmured, smirk audible. “I like it.”

Yoonchae gripped the counter until her knuckles went white. “I’m not gay,” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than anyone else. “Just go sit down.”

Meiyok chuckled. “If you say so.”

Yoonchae turned away, hands moving mechanically—spread, cut, pour. Normal actions. Controlled motions.

But her mind refused to quiet.

When she looked back, Meiyok was still there, watching. Mask catching light again, eyes impossible to read.

“Tell me something,” Meiyok said softly. “You really not into girls?”

Yoonchae froze. No teasing this time. Only curiosity, edged with unreadable weight.

She swallowed hard. “I’m not.”

Meiyok tilted her head. “Pity.”

The corner of her mouth curved—smile?

“What?” Yoonchae managed.

Meiyok stepped forward, air thinning. Eyes flicked to the toast. “Should I eat that—”

A beat.

“—or you?”

The knife nearly slipped from Yoonchae’s fingers.

Her breath caught—too fast, too sharp.

“Excuse me?”

Meiyok’s smile deepened beneath the mask. “You heard me.”

Yoonchae’s pulse roared. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” Meiyok said simply. “But you’re blushing.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Meiyok said, amusement threading through every word. “Adorable when you try to pretend otherwise.”

Yoonchae exhaled sharply, slamming the plate down. “You think this is funny?”

“I think you’re interesting,” Meiyok replied, unbothered. “And maybe a little cute when you’re angry.”

“Stop talking,” Yoonchae said—weakly.

“Make me.”

Two words. Light. Daring. Dangerous.

Yoonchae didn’t move. Couldn’t. The kitchen felt small, air thick, every nerve screaming at her to leave, but her feet wouldn’t obey.

It wasn’t an attraction. Couldn’t be. Just pressure. Psychological warfare.

Finally, she turned away, clutching her mug. “Eat your damn breakfast,” she muttered. “Before I throw it out the window.”

Meiyok laughed softly, low and satisfied. “See? Feisty and threatening. I like you already.”

“Good for you,” Yoonchae shot back, refusing to look.

Silence followed—but it wasn’t empty. It pulsed.

Yoonchae could feel her watching, could practically hear the smirk in the air.

The smell of coffee hung thick, bitter, grounding.

She realized, sinking with certainty: this was only the beginning.

Meiyok wasn’t going to stop until she completely unraveled her.

And worse—some small, traitorous part of her wasn’t sure she wanted to give Meiyok that satisfaction.

Chapter Text

Being young was about taking risks—or at least, that was what Megan told herself every time she did something her father wouldn't approve of.

Sneaking out.

Kissing girls she'd never see again.

Acting like consequences were optional.

She told herself it was freedom. But lately, even rebellion felt choreographed.

But in their household, risk was a word wrapped in caution tape. Her brother and she had grown up under constant watch, taught to move gracefully through a world that saw everything but them.

Megan had always been the brighter one—or at least, the more visible one. She was passionate, quick-witted, and just unlucky enough in English to make her teachers sigh dramatically. Her brother, quieter, sharper with numbers, had been homeschooled his whole life. Megan, though, had been thrown into the polished chaos of an elite academy—her father's idea of "social education."

Her father, William Skiendiel, was an enigma. Everyone in town knew the brand, but no one knew the man. The company's logo was etched on every billboard, every product, yet his face was a ghost in every room he entered.

Megan's purpose had always been clear: to live without her father's shadow becoming her identity. To exist as Megan Skiendiel, not Mr. Skiendiel's daughter.

At least until she looked around and saw who surrounded her.

The people she spent her time at school with were the offspring of her father's allies—the children of tycoons and investors who treated reputation like oxygen. Every one of them was glossy, loud, and a little bit broken. "Assholes," she often thought...

She was tired of the act, though. Tired of being a walking portrait of composure, of smiling when she wanted to scream. Tired of feigning nonchalance, of pretending not to notice when the same people who flirted with her in the night called her cold in the daylight.

It is a Monday morning, and she sat outside Manon Bannerman's house—Manon, whose family owned half the properties in the district. The girls had been best friends for more than a decade, which meant Megan had spent just as long watching her friend try to burn the world down for fun. 

Manon led them to the backyard, barefoot, reckless, beautiful in that defiant way that money couldn't quite polish. Beside her was Sophia Laforteza—her girlfriend, the golden student who could out-argue any teacher in her school. Opposite them sat Lara Rajagopalan, lounging with her usual quiet amusement, and next to her was Daniela Avanzini, curls haloing her face like firelight.

Here, surrounded by them, Megan could almost breathe.

To her dismay, all of them attended different schools: Manon and Sophia went to one school, while Daniela and Lara attended another. “God knew we’d be too powerful if we all attended the same school,” Lara once said.

"So... what should we do today?" Manon asked, twirling a glass of soda like it was champagne.

"Sleep," Sophia said flatly.

"Drink," Lara suggested.

"Cry," Daniela added.

Megan laughed, for real, after a long time. "All of the above, maybe."

The ease shattered when her phone buzzed, the ringtone slicing through the chatter. Every girl turned toward it like it had insulted them.

"Work call?" Manon teased.

Megan glanced at the screen. "Dad," she murmured.

"Yikes."

"Yeah."

She stepped away, picking up. "Hey, Dad," she said, trying to sound casual.

A pause. His voice was low, controlled.

"Come home. We need to talk."

No greeting, no reason. Just that.

"Okay," she said softly.

When she hung up, the laughter from the backyard suddenly felt distant. "I've gotta go,"

Manon frowned. "Again?"

"Yeah," Megan sighed. "He probably found out I failed that calculus quiz."

Manon rolled her eyes but didn't argue. "Want me to drop you off?"

Megan nodded, grateful. Within minutes, she was sliding into Manon's car; the drive home was quiet, except for the hum of traffic and Sophia's Broadway playlist playing from the Bluetooth.

By the time the car stopped in front of the towering gates of her family estate, Megan's stomach had tied itself into neat, nervous knots.

The mansion loomed ahead, sleek and symmetrical. It looked less like a home and more like an exhibit—expensive, cold, untouchable.

Inside, the air was still, and silence filled the room. Her mother sat in the living area, reading by the window in a soft cardigan, framed by sunlight.

"Sweetie!" Sylvia called, looking up with a bright smile, her eyes disappearing into crescents. "Your father's waiting for you in the study."

Of course, he was.

Megan smiled back faintly. "Thanks, Mom."

She made her way down the corridor, her steps silent on the marble floor. The house smelled faintly of jasmine tea and paper—a scent that always clung to her father's workspace.

She stopped at the study room, exhaled once, then knocked twice.

"Come in," came the familiar voice.

She pushed the door open.

Her father sat behind his desk, posture straight, eyes cool and focused. His presence filled the room like gravity.

"Megan," he said. "Sit."

She dropped into the chair opposite him, feigning ease. "So... what did I do this time?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he set down his pen and looked at her—really looked. His expression didn't soften, but something in his gaze did.

"You've been going out a lot lately."

"Yeah, well, I'm seventeen, not seventy," she said, crossing her legs.

"And kissing girls in alleys?" he asked casually, flipping through a folder.

Megan blinked. "You've been spying on me again?"

"Spying is a strong word," he said mildly. "Let's call it... concerned parenting."

She groaned, slouching. "So this is about that?"

He ignored the question entirely. "You're reckless, Megan. Brilliant, but reckless. You think youth excuses everything."

"Doesn't it?" she shot back, half-smiling.

His lips twitched, almost amused. "Not when you carry our name."

There it was—the family reminder. The invisible leash.

Megan exhaled. "Fine. You win. What's this really about?"

He leaned back slightly, eyes unreadable. "A proposal."

Her head snapped up. "What kind of proposal?"

"A partnership," he said, tone neutral. "With the M&T Corp. and another firm in Korea. They're going through financial restructuring, but the patriarch—Mr. Han has potential."

Megan frowned. "So, business stuff. Okay. Still not sure why I'm here."

"You'll be staying in the house I had built for you," he said. "The other party's daughter will be staying there as well. You'll live together for a while. I want you to move there tomorrow itself."

She blinked. "Wait—live together?"

"It's not permanent," he said calmly. "It's... an arrangement. I want you to get to know her, understand her. See if a partnership—personal or professional—could benefit both families."

"Dad." Her voice dropped. "That sounds like an arranged marriage."

He didn't deny it.

"You're unbelievable," she muttered, rubbing her temple. "You're trying to make me play house with some random stranger because it'll 'benefit the family?'"

"You'll still be in control," he said quietly. "If you don't get along, you leave. No one's forcing anything. But I expect you to try."

Megan huffed out a laugh. "You expect a lot of things, though."

He met her gaze evenly. "I expect you to grow."

Her jaw clenched. "And what if she doesn't want this?"

His tone softened—barely. "That's her choice."

"Good," Megan said. "Because I'm not doing this unless she's free to walk away."

He nodded once. 

Then Megan sighed, sinking back in her chair. "So, what's her name?"

Her father hesitated. "... I don't remember."

She blinked. "You don't remember?"

"I didn't write it down." He looked thoughtful, almost detached. "It was something soft. Korean. I'll have your mother check the papers."

Megan stared at him in disbelief. "You want me to live with a stranger and you can't even remember her name?"

"She's near your age," he said evenly. "Quiet, from what I gathered. You'll find out soon enough."

Megan let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. "You're unreal."

"I'd like to think that I'm practical," he corrected.

"You're insane," she countered.

He gave a faint smile. "And you're my daughter. Which means you'll handle it."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the small, reluctant smile tugging at her lips. "You really think this will work?"

"I think," he said, voice calm but warm underneath, "you'll surprise yourself."

She studied him for a beat, then sighed. "Fine. I'll do it. But if she's miserable, I'm walking out,"

"Fair," he said simply.

She stood, half-turning toward the door. "Guess I should start packing."

He nodded once. "And Megan?"

She looked back.

"I'm proud of you," he said quietly. "Even if you're reckless."

The words hung there, unexpected and heavy.

For a moment, she didn't know what to say. So she just smiled faintly. "Don't get sappy, old man."

"I'll try not to," he murmured, returning to his papers.

Megan shut the study door behind her, pressing her back to the cool wood for a moment. 

The muffled hum of her father's voice on another call slipped through the wall—steady, composed, untouchable.

She hated that tone. 

The one that made people say yes before they even realized they had a choice.

She made her way upstairs, the quiet grandeur of the Skiendiel mansion swallowing her footsteps. The place always felt too clean, too large—like a museum built to prove a point. 

In her room, the late afternoon light cut through the curtains, painting the floor gold. She kicked off her shoes and fell back on her bed, staring at the ceiling. 

An arranged cohabitation. 

With some girl her father couldn't even remember the name of. 

Fantastic.

She grabbed a pillow and groaned into it. "What the hell, Dad?"

~

It wasn't that she was against helping him. She understood the game. Connections, loyalty, alliances—they all built the empire she'd been born into. But living with a stranger? Playing nice to please the shareholders?

That wasn't really her.

She rolled onto her side, picking absently at a thread on her comforter. The girl—whoever she was—was someone probably just as unwilling as Megan.

Still, Megan wasn't about to make it easy for her.

'If she wanted to leave,' Megan thought, she'd make sure she wanted to.

All she had to do was be herself. Not the carefully edited daughter her parents paraded at fundraisers, but the real her—the unpredictable one. The one who skipped etiquette lessons and broke hearts out of boredom.

Her father wanted this to fail quietly if it had to. So that's what she'd give him—a quiet failure. Controlled chaos.

A slow smile crept onto her lips. "If she's smart, she'll pack up within a week."

But something about the idea didn't sit right.

She wasn't cruel. 

Not really.

Megan pressed a hand to her forehead, sighing. She didn't even know what this girl looked like. Didn't know what kind of person she was. For all she knew, she might as well be a daughter trying to survive her father's decisions.

The thought dimmed the humor from her grin.

Fine. 

She'd meet her.

She'd be civil—at first.

But if the girl got clingy or awkward or started talking about "future plans," Megan would find a way to make her walk away.

A week. Maybe two. 

No hard feelings.

Her mind spun through the possibilities like a chessboard she hadn't asked to play on. 

Maybe she'd start by being impossible to read—quiet, cold, uninterested. That always scared people off faster than insults. If that didn't work, she could ramp it up—be unbearable, sarcastic, detached.

Not cruel. Just... intolerably rude.

Yes. That would work. That should do the work.

Her gaze drifted to the dance medals lined up on her shelf. She’d worked for years for them, her father calling it “discipline.”
But what was discipline without choice?

She sat up slowly, rubbing at her temples.

Somewhere downstairs, her mother’s laughter floated faintly through the halls. For a second, Megan wanted to run down there, tell her that her husband had officially lost his mind—but what would that change?

Nothing ever did.

So instead, she stood, crossed to her window, and stared out at the garden below. The koi pond glimmered under the fading light, calm and oblivious.

“How do you make someone leave,” she murmured to herself, “without becoming the villain?”

No answer came.

But she’d figure it out. She always did.

By nightfall, her room was dark except for the glow of her phone screen. Manon had texted three times—

Manon: so what'd he want?

Manon: ur silence is suspicious

Manon: Don't tell me he found out about the girl from the club

Megan snorted, typing back,

Megan: worse. I'm getting a roommate.

Seconds later, her phone lit up again. 

Manon: u mean like a hostage situation??

Megan: Basically.

Manon: Is she cute tho?

Megan paused. Then typed:

Megan: No clue. Dad forgot her name.

Manon: lmao he's gonna die with secrets. Keep me posted. Also. If she's annoying. I'll kidnap u.

Megan smiled faintly, thumbs hesitating above the screen before replying:

Megan: If she lasts more than a week, I'll be impressed.

She set the phone down and stared at the ceiling again.

It wasn't fear that kept her awake that night. It was curiosity—unfamiliar, and unwelcome.

Whoever the girl was, she had no idea what she was walking into.

And Megan Skiendiel, reckless and restless, wasn't sure if she was more interested in making her leave...

Or seeing how long she could stand her ground.

Chapter Text

The next day rolled in like a punishment. 

Her alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. sharp, the shrill beeping echoing off the walls of her room. Megan groaned, rolling over and dragging a pillow over her face. The sound kept stabbing through the silence until she smacked the side table hard enough to make it stop.

She stared at the ceiling for a long moment, breathing through the dull ache in her chest.

Today was moving day.

She was supposed to leave this house—the one that smelled like polished wood and mother's perfume, the one that had always felt like a gilded cage—and move into that house. The one her father had built for her. The one she'd share with someone else she didn't know.

Someone who, technically, was supposed to be her future.

"Oh, I'm going to miss my freedom," she muttered, dragging herself upright. Her voice came out hoarse, soaked in sarcasm.

Being seventeen wasn't supposed to feel this heavy. She hadn't even graduated high school yet, and here she was—living inside her father's idea of stability. Marriage before meaning. Partnership before choice.

Megan hated the whole concept. Arranged marriage. What an archaic joke. It was nothing more than a business deal, prettied up with vows and fine china. 

Love? She almost laughed at the thought.

Love was a word people used to justify foolishness. The ultimate excuse to lose yourself in someone else and call it growth. She didn't want that. She didn't want to belong to anyone.

No—love wasn't enough. Love didn't hold people together when the cracks appeared. She'd seen that firsthand. Her parents had screamed at each other for days—cold silences, closed doors, whispered threats that echoed down the hall. But somehow, they always circled back.

It wasn't love that fixed them. It was a choice. Commitment.

The mutual understanding that even when times were tough, they wouldn't leave.

That was what Megan respected. Not love—loyalty.

So yeah, Megan Meiyok Skiendiel didn't believe in fairytales. 

And she wasn't about to chain herself to one girl for the sake of saving face. 

Her solution had always been simple—be the heartbreaker before someone breaks you.

Not that she'd actually broken any hearts. Her flings were brief, shallow things. Exchanges of attention, not affection. A few late-night calls, stolen glances at parties, the kind of kisses that meant nothing and ended easily.

It was easier that way. Cleaner.

She stretched, finally swinging her legs off the bed. Her uniform hung neatly on the chair, pressed and perfect—Sylvia's doing, probably. Everything in her life was pressed and perfect. Except her.

The bathroom tiles were cold under her feet as she stepped in. She turned on the shower, waiting for the steam to fill the space before stepping under the hot spray. The water beat down against her skin, tracing a path down her spine.

For a few seconds, she just stood there—eyes closed, breathing in the smell of soap and steam. Trying not to think about the girl she'd be meeting soon.

Her father hadn't even remembered the girl's name. That alone told her how little it mattered who the other person was. She was a placeholder. A convenient link between two families. 

Megan ran a hand through her wet hair and sighed.

"Thanks, Dad," she muttered under her breath, voice lost in the noise of the water.

She finished quickly—shower, brush, uniform. Every movement was mechanical, efficient. No time to think. No space for panic.

By the time she walked down the stairs, Holly was already waiting for her at the door, standing neat and proper beside her luggage. Holly had worked under Oliver—her father's right-hand man—for years. Loyal, quiet, dependable.

"Have a good day at school, Miss Megan," Holly said with a polite smile.

Megan nodded, slinging her bag over one shoulder. "I'll try."

She slid into the backseat of the black sedan, the door closing with a soft, expensive click. The house loomed behind her, massive and silent, its white walls gleaming in the early light.

As the driver started the car, Megan leaned her forehead against the cool window and watched her home blur into the distance. 

The city passed in muted color. Trees. Buildings. Faces she didn't know. The world felt like it was moving on without her, and she was stuck in slow motion, waiting for something to change.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Lara.

Lara: Girl, did you die or something? 

Lara: Daniela thinks you're eloping.

Megan scoffed softly.

Megan: Not eloping. Being sold off like a corporate share.

The reply came instantly. 

Lara: So... same thing?

She smiled faintly despite herself. Lara always knew how to make her laugh, even in the middle of a breakdown.

Still, the smile faded just as fast.

The car turned into the school gates, and her stomach felt tight with unease. She had classes to sit through, friends to lie to, and a secret future waiting for her that she wanted no part of.

And later—after the bell rang, after she pretended everything was fine—she'd be moving into that house.

Her father's gift to her.

Her cage.

~

School was unbearable.

The kind of unbearable that made every clock tick sound like mockery.

Every voice grated against her nerves.

Every fake laugh from her classmates felt like static in her head.

Megan wasn't even trying to listen. She'd tuned out the teacher halfway through first period, her chin resting on her hand as she stared out the window. The morning sunlight did nothing to warm the heavy knot in her chest.

She'd always been the type of girl people gravitated toward—bright, composed, intimidatingly untouchable. But today, every gaze on her felt heavier, sharper. Word traveled fast in their circle; one rumor, one whisper, and suddenly everyone thought they were entitled to know everything about her life.

"Megan, you've been weird lately," Emily said during lunch, her brows furrowing as she nudged Megan's tray with her fork. "You barely text anymore. What's going on?"

"Nothing," Megan said flatly, stabbing at her food without interest.

Adéla snorted. "Nothing, my ass. You disappeared, and your head isn't anywhere here when you are here."

Megan's jaw tightened. She didn't look up.

Lexie raised a brow, leaning in with the kind of curiosity that could slice. "Now you are avoiding, what are you hiding?"

The table buzzed with knowing laughter, but Megan didn't join in. She could feel their eyes on her, expectant and pressing.

Then Emily's voice cut through—careless, biting. 

"Speaking of... where's that weird girl? Yoonchae? Haven't seen her since yesterday. Maybe she finally realized she doesn't belong here."

Megan froze mid-bite.

"She probably dropped out," Lexie added with a shrug. "Not like she ever talked to anyone anyway. Always acting like she's above us—"

"Lay it off," Megan said quietly.

It wasn't loud. 

It wasn't sharp.

But the tone—cold, deliberate—made the whole table still.

Emily blinked, thrown. "What?"

"I said, lay it off," Megan repeated, finally lifting her gaze. Her expression didn't waver, but her voice carried an edge that cut through the chatter. "She didn't do anything to you. Just drop it."

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable.

Adéla frowned. "Since when do you care? Megan, she's literally—"

"I don't," Megan interrupted, voice calm but taut. "But you're all acting like she kicked your dog or something. Just... enough."

It was too much honesty, too quickly.

And the backlash came just as fast.

Lexie leaned back, arms crossed. "What the hell happened to you? You used to be fun. Now you're—what? Defending nobodies?"

Adéla scoffed. "Yeah, what's with this sudden moral compass? Since when do you go soft?"

"I didn't," Megan said, standing up. Her chair scraped the floor, the sound sharp enough to make a few heads turn from nearby tables. "I just grew tired of watching you tear people down for sport."

Emily laughed under her breath. "Wow. You really changed, huh?"

Maybe she had. Maybe she hadn't. Megan wasn't sure anymore.

But as she turned and walked away, she realized she didn't care what they thought.

By the time the final bell rang, the weight of their words had already faded into background noise. She had bigger things to worry about. 

Like moving into her house, where a stranger will be staying.

The car ride home was quiet. Too quiet. The city blurred by in streaks of gold and gray, and Megan caught her reflection in the tinted window. Composed. Collected. Perfect.
All a performance.

By the time the car slowed to a stop in front of the new house, she felt something inside her twist—half anxiety, half curiosity, and a small, reckless spark of excitement she didn’t want to name.

Nervous. Excited.
Cruel.

That’s how she felt.

She stepped out of the car, her shoes crunching against the gravel driveway. The house stood tall and modern, built with the kind of quiet luxury that screamed Skiendiel money—her father’s brand of affection.

The front door loomed.
Megan inhaled once, steadying herself, then turned the knob.

The air inside was warm.
And then it hit her—

A smell.

Soft. Familiar. Hainanese chicken rice.
Her favorite.

Her stomach twisted in confusion. Who the hell—

She followed the scent through the corridor, each step slower than the last, until she reached the kitchen.

And froze.

There she was. 

The girl standing in her kitchen, moving around like she belonged there—soft movements, hair tied loosely, sleeves rolled up—

Yoonchae.

Megan's breath caught for a fraction of a second. Just one.

Enough to make her chest tighten before she pulled it all back in.

Of course, it's her.

The one girl she'd never expected to see again—the one her friends used to talk about like a punchline, like a toy to mock when boredom hit.

And now, here she was, standing in her kitchen, carefully plating her favorite dish.

The irony wasn’t lost on Megan.
She almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, she leaned against the doorway, letting the silence stretch. The faint hum of the refrigerator filled the space — too quiet, too still.
She needed a moment to gather herself, to decide what version of Meiyok to wear.

Calm. Controlled. Unreadable.

The black mask helped. It was more than just anonymity — it was armor.

Yoonchae turned, startled by the sound of her footsteps.
When their eyes met, Megan felt something odd — a flicker, a shift.

She’d spent years learning how to read people, how to dismantle them with precision. But with Yoonchae, all she could do was stare back, quietly aware that her chest felt too tight for no reason she wanted to name.

The girl looked like she’d seen a ghost — or maybe a stranger she wanted to run from.

“Hi,” Yoonchae said softly. “I… made this for you.”

Her voice was small, careful.
The kind of voice that didn’t expect kindness in return.

Megan tilted her head slightly, buying time to breathe.
She could feel the weight of Yoonchae’s stare, waiting for judgment.

Her eyes dropped to the dish — Hainanese chicken rice, the same kind Sylvia used to make when she was younger.
It looked good. Better than she’d expected. Too familiar for comfort.

Something fluttered, unwanted, deep in her chest.
She ignored it.

“I… um… Hope you like it,” Yoonchae added quickly, voice trembling at the edges.

Megan said nothing at first. Just let the quiet thicken, her gaze steady but unreadable.
Her mind, however, was anything but calm.

Why her? Out of everyone, why did it have to be her?

The smell, the memory, the years of teenage cruelty echoing faintly in her ears — it all clashed with the way Yoonchae was standing there now, nervous but still trying to hold herself together.

Finally, Megan spoke.
“It smells… good.”

The words were simple, almost dismissive, but her tone betrayed the smallest slip — something too soft, too sincere.

Yoonchae exhaled, visibly relieved.
And Megan had to look away, before that relief made her feel something she didn’t want to.

Although inside, her thoughts wouldn't quiet. 

She'd spent years avoiding things that made her feel. Feelings complicated control. And now she was standing here, pretending this wasn't the same girl whose eyes she'd watched dull with humiliation years ago when Emily and the others whispered in the hallways.

Yoonchae hadn't deserved that.

She'd known it then, and she knew it now.

But knowing didn't stop her from staying silent.

And now, life had forced them under one roof.

Her father's voice echoed faintly in her head.

"But I expect you to try."

She had agreed. Out of duty. Out of pride.
And maybe, deep down, because she wanted to see what kind of person would be desperate enough — strong enough — to survive the weight of their name.

And apparently, it was her.

Megan’s lips curved under the mask — not into a smile, but something close.

“This should be interesting,” she murmured to herself.

From the doorway, she watched Yoonchae move again — setting the table, adjusting the plates like it mattered if they were perfectly straight.
The simplicity of it all — the effort, the normalcy — it grated and intrigued her in equal measure.

Yoonchae was careful, deliberate, every action polished by the need to not be too much.
And Megan, who had spent her whole life being too much, found that quietly infuriating.

Still, she said nothing.

Not yet.

Instead, she took a step forward, the faint creak of the floor making Yoonchae glance up again.
Megan met her gaze head-on, her voice smooth, low, and practiced.

“It smells good,” she repeated, this time letting her tone drop just slightly —
not enough to be kind, but enough to be noticed.

Then she crossed the kitchen, brushed past Yoonchae just close enough for the faintest hint of her perfume to linger, and reached for a glass of water.

And just like that—the walls were built, the game began, and no one knew whether Megan's next move would be mercy or cruelty.

Chapter Text

Yoonchae tried.

She really did.

She tried not to combust, not to dissolve into atoms under Meiyok's relentless presence. But the girl was unbearable.

She couldn't, for the life of her, understand why Meiyok was flirting this much— or at all

"I'm not gay," Yoonchae had told her, a little too firmly, voice cracking somewhere in the middle.

It didn't make the slightest difference.

Meiyok had just tilted her head, that infuriating little smirk partly hidden behind the mask, but obvious in her tone when she said,

"Pity."

But somehow, it almost felt like that single word flipped a switch—one labeled I’ll be gay enough for the both of us.

Yoonchae swore her brain short-circuited on the spot.

So she spent the rest of the morning trying to act normal. Whatever that meant.

When she came downstairs, dressed neatly in her school uniform, the scent of toasted bread from before faintly filled the kitchen. Meiyok was already there—leaning against the counter, mask still on, hoodie hanging loosely over her frame, and oversized sweatpants pooling around her ankles.

No uniform, Yoonchae noticed. Of course.

Meiyok turned slightly, eyes flicking over Yoonchae from head to toe in a single, lazy sweep.

“Cute,” she said simply, reaching for a slice of toast.

Yoonchae blinked. “You’re not going to school?”

“I am,” Meiyok replied around a bite, “just not the same kind of school.”

The response made no sense, and Yoonchae knew better than to ask. So she just grabbed her bag, muttered something that could’ve been have a good day, and headed toward the car waiting outside.

The drive was quiet. Not awkward—just charged. Every so often, Yoonchae could feel Meiyok’s gaze shift her way, like she was being studied.

When the car stopped at the school gates, Yoonchae hurried to get out.

“See you,” she said quickly.

“Count on it,” Meiyok answered, tone unreadable behind the mask.

The car rolled away, disappearing into traffic.

Yoonchae let out a slow breath, adjusting her bag before stepping onto school grounds.

For a few blissful moments, it almost felt normal again.

Until it didn’t.

She rounded the corner of the hallway and froze.

Her bullies.

They were standing near her locker—laughing, leaning against the wall like they owned the place. She tried to turn around, but one of them stepped right into her path.

“Watch where you’re going next time, loser,” one sneered before brushing past her shoulder.

Yoonchae stumbled, catching herself against the wall.

Weird.

That was… weird.

They never let her off that easy.

It doesn’t end so easily for me, she thought.

It never does.

The rest of the day passed like static. Her classmates whispered, teachers lectured, the clock ticked—and through it all, something in the air felt off.

Because Megan Skiendiel—the girl who always had a crowd orbiting her—was sitting alone.

Her so-called friends weren’t with her.

No laughter, no chaos. Just silence.

And somehow, that silence felt louder than anything else in the room.

Yoonchae didn’t know what to make of it.

Didn’t want to know.

Anything involving Megan was… complicated. Too tangled. Too dangerous.

So she minded her business—like she always did.

She made her way to the gym during lunch, clutching her tray and searching for the quietest spot possible. The gym was usually empty at this hour. An escape. A place where she could breathe and maybe pretend she wasn’t constantly watched.

But luck had an expiration date.

And hers ran out the second she heard footsteps behind her.

Not heavy—deliberate.

Yoonchae didn’t see them at first.

She had taken her usual path—down the hallway past the trophy case, past the faded banners, past the gym doors with the squeaky hinge everyone avoided.

Her safe spot.

Her invisible hour.

Except today—

Nothing was safe.

A hand shoved her shoulder before she could even step inside.

Yoonchae stumbled, her bag slipping off her arm.

Lexie stood in front of her, arms crossed.

Adéla leaned against the wall, chewing gum lazily.

Emily twirled her hair like they were in some stupid movie scene.

Three against one.

As always.

But today—Something was different.

Their smiles were too sharp.

Like they were… pissed.

Not bored.

Not casually cruel.

Purposefully cruel.

Lexie cocked her head. “So. Did you sleep with Megan? Or something like that? She's been acting weird.”

Yoonchae blinked. 'As if?' she thought.

“I… don’t know what you're talking about.”

“You don’t?” Emily laughed, stepping closer.
“You’re seriously going to pretend you didn’t do something?”

Adéla pushed off the wall and straightened, eyes narrowing.

“She didn’t come to school the day before yesterday. And she didn’t answer our calls. And today she isn’t sitting with us. Guess who she defended yesterday?" 

Her hand shot out, gripping Yoonchae’s chin—not gently.

“You.”

Yoonchae’s breath hitched.

She wanted to tell them the truth. That she didn’t even know Megan like that. Yoonchae doesn't even know Megan's voice. Megan hasn't talked to her at all. That there was no world where someone like Megan would choose her.

But explaining to people like them never helped.

So she stayed quiet.

Which, apparently, was the wrong answer.

Lexie sneered, leaning forward, lips curling into something vicious. “You think she likes you?”

Yoonchae froze.

And that was it.

That was the button they wanted.

Emily laughed like it was funny. Adéla rolled her shoulders like she was warming up. Lexie's fingers tightened in the fabric of Yoonchae’s collar.

“Let me make this real clear,” Lexie whispered, voice almost gentle—which somehow made it worse.

“You don’t get to ruin our group. You don’t get to take her from us. You’re nothing. You hear me?”

Something cracked—not physically, not visibly—but it felt like it did.

Yoonchae didn’t push them back.

Didn’t fight.

Didn’t scream.

She just… existed.

Quiet.

Still.

And somehow that irritated Lexie more.

She shoved Yoonchae back against the gym storage door.

Hard.

Yoonchae’s breath left her chest in a small, silent sound.

No one else was around. No one would know.

And Megan—who was undoubtedly the reason behind her misery—wasn’t here to see any of it.

No one.

Just Yoonchae.

Small.

Soft.

Cornered.

Again.

Lexie’s eyes flicked down to the tray in Yoonchae’s hands—her lunch, her tiny moment of peace.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

Her fingers closed over the tray and yanked. Yoonchae held on instinctively—too tight, too desperate. But Lexie was stronger.

The tray tilted. Rice and chicken slid. The plate hit the floor with a sharp, echoing crack that rang through the empty gym hallway. Her lunch scattered across the tiles like it wasn’t even meant for a person.

But Lexie didn’t stop there.

She plucked the juice box from Yoonchae’s hand—slow, deliberate—and pressed her thumb into the cardboard until it burst. The cold liquid poured over Yoonchae’s hair, her face, dripping down her collar, soaking through the fabric.

Emily laughed. Adéla didn’t. She just watched—arms crossed, boredom hiding something harder in her stare.

Then Lexie stepped forward.

She placed her shoe on the spilled food.
And pressed.

Once.

Light. Just enough to make the rice smear into something unrecognizable.

“Oops.”

Her voice was sweet.

Mocking. Gentle.

The kind of tone people use with pets.

“You really thought you’d get to sit and eat today?” Lexie asked, leaning close enough that Yoonchae could smell her perfume—vanilla, expensive, suffocating.

Yoonchae didn’t answer. Her throat had closed too tightly for that.

Emily leaned in from the other side. “So. You’re just going to pretend? Like you don’t know why she’s acting weird?”

“I told you,” Yoonchae forced out, voice thin. “I don’t know anything.”

The hallway hummed with fluorescent lights.

Adéla clicked her tongue. “Stop lying.”

Lexie’s hand lifted.

For a moment, Yoonchae flinched, bracing for a slap.

But Lexie didn’t hit her.

No.

What she did was somehow worse.

She reached up and straightened Yoonchae’s collar—like they were friends, like this was casual, like this was normal.

Her voice dropped to a whisper, warm against Yoonchae’s ear.

“You don’t get to take things you don’t deserve.”

The sentence didn’t need volume to carve deep.

Lexie stepped back. Emily smirked. Adéla’s jaw tightened—for reasons Yoonchae couldn’t understand.

Then they simply…walked away.

Just like that.

No dramatic exit.

No need.

The hallway felt enormous when they were gone.

Yoonchae stayed where she stood.

Juice dripping.

Food crushed at her feet.

Chest tight. Breath thin.

She didn’t cry.

She never cried.

Just silence.

Just breathing.

Just existing.

Chapter Text

Yoonchae walked toward the infirmary with slow, deliberate steps, each one feeling heavier than the last. The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly in front of her, buzzing faintly with distant chatter she couldn’t quite make sense of. She kept her head down, eyes fixed on the dull tiles beneath her feet. The last thing she wanted was to be seen like this—disheveled, shaken, barely holding herself upright.

Her uniform clung to her skin in damp, sticky patches where juice had soaked through the fabric. The cold wetness crawled down her spine, making her shiver. Every shift of the fabric reminded her of what had happened—of hands grabbing, voices jeering, laughter that didn’t sound like laughter at all. A sour, dizzy feeling twisted in her stomach, and she tried to swallow it down, trying to just keep walking.

She had thought she understood how to handle them. The petty comments. The snide jokes. The whispered slurs that were meant to sound like humor. They had always been obnoxious and smug—yes—but never truly threatening. They mocked her for being Korean as if it were some shared joke among them, some clever bit of comedy that only they found funny. And the irony of it all—Megan being half-Chinese, if the rumors were true—hung in the background like a line no one bothered to acknowledge.

It was always just words.

And Yoonchae had learned how to survive words.

Eyes forward. Shoulders tucked small. Walk faster. Pretend not to hear. Pretend not to feel. Pretend not to exist.

But today, something had shifted. Something in their eyes. Something in the air. Something sharp.

Today, it wasn’t just mockery.

Today, they shoved her. Pushed her back against the gym storage door hard enough to make a dull thud echo in her bones. The impact bloomed across her shoulder blade, hot and deep and throbbing. The pain hadn’t faded—it clung to her, stubborn and pulsing like her body was forcing her to remember every second.

A warning.

A promise.

… A beginning.

She didn’t want to think about what it meant.

The nurse looked up the moment Yoonchae stepped inside, and her expression shifted immediately—from routine politeness to something tight and concerned. Her eyes swept over her: the stained collar, the damp hair, the faint tremor in her fingers.

“Oh dear,” the nurse murmured, quiet but full of understanding. Without another word, she slipped into the small storage room at the back of the infirmary—a place most students didn’t realize existed.

She returned with a fresh uniform folded neatly over her arm and a soft towel draped across her wrist.

“Here,” she said gently, laying the clothing on the infirmary cot. “Change into this, dear.”

There was no judgment. No prying. Just gentle compassion.

Yoonchae nodded, though her throat felt too tight to speak. She slipped behind the curtains and peeled the soaked fabric from her skin. The cold hit her like a wave, and she sucked in a sharp breath, pressing her lips together to keep them from trembling.

When she stepped back out—clean uniform on, hair towel-dried—the nurse was waiting.

“Dear,” she repeated, even softer now. “What happened to you?”

The question landed heavily. Too directly. Too real.

Yoonchae opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her thoughts tangled, her tongue felt heavy, and the silence stretched.

The nurse didn’t push. She only sighed—a quiet, knowing sound.

“You don’t need to tell me who,” she said gently. “But you do need to tell me if you’re hurt.”

That, somehow, was easier.

“My shoulder,” Yoonchae murmured. “I hit it. Hard.”

The nurse’s touch was gentle as she exclaimed the forming bruise—dark, deep, already blooming beneath her skin.

“You’ll be sore for a while,” she said softly. “I’ll get you something for the pain.”

She left briefly, then returned with pain medication and a cold compress. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t make calls. She simply let Yoonchae rest—offering silence in place of pressure.

The day passed around her. Lunch. Classes. Laughter. The ordinary rhythm of school continued without her.

And still, she remained in that room, watching sunlight soften through the blinds as afternoon inched toward evening. The ache in her shoulder thrummed, but it was distant compared to the hollow weight in her chest.

She didn’t cry.

She never cried.

When the final bell rang, she waited until the halls had emptied before slipping on her shoes and stepping outside.

The air was cool, sharp against her still-damp hair. Students scattered across the courtyard, carefree in ways she had never been able to afford.

She kept her head down.

And that was when she saw her. Just a glimpse. But enough to be sure.

Leaning against a sleek black car just beyond the gates, hood drawn up, black mask covering half her face, hands tucked casually into the pocket of her hoodie—as though she had simply been waiting, for a while.

Meiyok.

She straightened slightly when she noticed Yoonchae approaching—but she didn’t wave. Didn’t call out. Didn’t force familiarity where none existed.

Just stood there.

Unmoving.

Unbothered.

Unmistakably, her.

Yoonchae approached slowly, almost reluctantly. The closer she got, the more exposed she felt under Meiyok’s gaze—like the wind itself was peeling back the careful quiet she had wrapped around herself.

Meiyok’s eyes flickered once, sweeping over her—not dramatically, but with sharp, unerring precision.

The uniform wasn’t the same.

The ends of her hair were frizzy, dried unevenly.

Her shoulder dipped just slightly.

Meiyok noticed everything.

She did.

“... That’s not the uniform you left with this morning.”

Her words were calm, almost lazy in tone—but there was nothing casual in them.

Yoonchae swallowed. She didn’t answer.

Meiyok didn’t say anything again. She simply reached out and opened the door.

Yoonchae slid in. The moment her shoulder touched the seat, pain flared sharply. She hissed—barely, a small sound forced through clenched teeth.

But Meiyok heard it.

The door clicked shut after Meiyok got in, settling beside Yoonchae.

Silence settled inside the car—thick, almost suffocating.

Meiyok didn’t look at her. Didn’t reach for her. Didn’t raise her voice.

She simply said, in a tone so calm it felt dangerous, “Tell me who did it.”

There was no anger. No softness. Just certainty.

Yoonchae didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t.

Her eyes stayed forward, fixed on the windshield. The glass was slightly fogged at the edges from the temperature difference—warm car, cold air. A thin haze. It made the outside world look distant. Blurred. Like she was watching her own life from a step away.

She could feel Meiyok beside her without looking.

Not physically—there was enough space between them—but the presence was unmistakable. Like sitting beside something sharp. Something that didn’t need to move to be dangerous. Like a knife held against your throat that stayed unmoving.

Her throat tightened.

“I don’t know—” she tried, but the words came out thin, cracked. Barely even whole.

Meiyok didn’t scoff. Didn’t sigh. Didn’t laugh.

She simply tilted her head—not much, just enough that her gaze settled fully on Yoonchae. Not invasive. Not demanding. But, seeing.

“You don’t have to play dumb with me, Yoonchae,” she said, voice smooth, leveled.

“You can tell me anything. Anything.”

The care felt too quiet. The air was suddenly too still.

Something about the way she said her name—soft, but certain—made Yoonchae’s chest tighten in a way she didn’t know how to handle.

They barely knew each other.

They were not friends.

Not confidants.

Not anything close.

Just two people bound by a decision neither of them had made.

A contract.

A future neither of them had chosen.

Strangers tied together by signatures and expectations.

What did you tell a person like that?

What could you tell them?

Yoonchae’s fingers curled against her skirt. Her nails pressed into her palm, forming crescent moons—grounding her. Reminding her she still existed. Still breathing.

She could lie.

She wanted to.

She wanted to say something dismissive—like it didn’t matter. That she was fine. That everything was normal.

But her shoulder throbbed.

Her scalp still tingled where fingers had pulled.

And the faint smell of juice still clung to her skin.

And...

Meiyok’s voice didn’t sound like someone fishing for information.

No, it sounded like a promise.

Not warm. Not kind. Not gentle.

It sounded controlled and extremely dangerous.

Yoonchae’s voice, when it came, was barely audible.

“...Lexie.”

Meiyok didn’t react at first.

Not with a sound. Not with a shift. Not with surprise.

Just a slow, measured exhale.

Like she was memorizing the name.

And in that moment, Yoonchae understood something:

Meiyok was not just an annoying flirt.

She was cold, composed, and intentional.

The kind of intentionality that came from learning, very early, that emotion was a weakness you showed only when you chose to—not when it overwhelmed you.

Meiyok hummed, almost thoughtful. “I’ll deal with it.”

There was no drama.

No emphasis.

Just an acknowledgement.

Like she had already known she would.

The silence that settled afterward was different.

Not empty. But less suffocating.

The driver started the car. The engine hummed low, steady.

Meiyok kept her gaze forward, but her jaw was set. Her posture had shifted—shoulders straighter, back taut. Barely perceptible.

But if someone looked closely—really looked—

It said everything.

Yoonchae swallowed.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she said quietly, though her voice trembled. “I just… I just want to go home.”

Meiyok didn’t look at her.

But her hands slid deeper into her pockets.

“I know.”

Her tone didn’t change entirely, but something in it did.

Not softness. Not sympathy. Something else—something unreadable.

“We’re going home,” she said.

The word we hung in the air like a thread pulled taut—thin, fragile, binding.

And then, after a beat, “I won’t ask again,” Meiyok murmured. “But I won’t forget.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a statement.

A quiet promise with very sharp edges.

They soon reached the house—a place that was still unfamiliar in its comfort, too quiet to feel real—the kind of quiet meant for people who never had to look over their shoulders.

The car pulled to a stop. The engine went silent. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Meiyok stepped out first, walking around to open Yoonchae’s door like it was the most natural thing in the world. No impatience. No comment. Just silent insistence.

Yoonchae hesitated before stepping out, her shoulder throbbing with the weight shift. The ground felt steadier than her legs did. She could still feel how her uniform clung to her skin, dried juice leaving a sticky, sickly-sweet film she could feel more than smell.

Meiyok took her school bag from her, without asking, and slung it over her own shoulder. She opened the front door and guided her inside, steps slow enough that Yoonchae didn’t have to keep up so much as simply follow.

The house air was warm. Still. Too still. It made the buzzing in Yoonchae’s head feel louder.

Meiyok set the bag on the single armchair in the living room—a small, simple action that somehow felt deliberate, like she was placing something fragile somewhere safe.

Then her gaze flicked back to Yoonchae.

“Come,” she said quietly.

She led her to the bedroom—not touching, but close enough that if Yoonchae swayed, she wouldn’t fall.

Meiyok stopped near the dresser, opening it with the precision that hinted she knew exactly where she was going.

She pulled out a sweatshirt. Soft. Worn at the sleeves. Comfortable in a way clothes only got after being lived in.

And a pair of loose cotton shorts.

She placed them on the bed. Turned back to her.

“Shower,” she said. “You’re uncomfortable.”

It wasn’t criticism, not even kindness. She simply stated the truth.

Yoonchae’s fingers curled in the hem of her uniform. She swallowed.

“... I can just wear something from my bag,” she murmured.

Meiyok didn’t look away.

“Your things can wait,” she said. Then, quiet—but entirely certain: “Wear these.”

The tone made it sound like there had never been another option.

Heat prickled at the back of Yoonchae’s neck. “You don’t have to—”

Meiyok raised an eyebrow.

Not exaggerated. Not teasing in a loud way.

Just questioning why she was still speaking.

“Yoonchae,” she said, voice dipping like the faintest smile.

“I wouldn’t have offered it if I didn’t intend it.”

The words hit deeper than they should have.

Her breath stumbled.

She nodded.

Meiyok gestured toward the bathroom with a tilt of her head—not dismissive, but something like permission.

“The shower here stays warm,” she added, quieter.

Yoonchae retreated before her chest could tighten any more.

The door clicked shut.

The water ran.

Steam fogged the mirror. Soap, heat, breath, trembling.

Yoonchae stepped out of the bathroom, towel-dried hair clinging to her cheeks, Meiyok’s oversized sweatshirt hanging a little too loosely on her frame. The faint smell of citrus lingered around her.

Meiyok looked up from the bed, where she’d laid out the first kit. “Come here.”

Yoonchae blinked. “I already—”

“You showered,” Meiyok cut in, tone even. “You didn’t get treated properly.”

Reluctantly, Yoonchae crossed the room and sat on the chair Meiyok motioned to. She watched as Meiyok opened the antiseptic again, movements deliberate. Then Meiyok’s gaze flicked toward her shoulder.

“Take it off.”

Yoonchae froze, fingers curling around the hem of the sweatshirt. “What?”

“The sweatshirt,” Meiyok said simply, as if it were obvious. “I can’t treat what I can’t see.”

“I can just—”

“Yoonchae.”

Her name came out soft but firm. But it left no room to argue.

Yoonchae sighed, hesitated another heartbeat, then tugged the fabric over her head. Her damp hair fell forward, framing the dark bruise spreading over her shoulder blade. Meiyok’s eyes lingered on it—quiet, assessing—but her face stayed unreadable.

“This’ll sting,” she murmured.

Her fingers were cool, steady, careful as they brushed the antiseptic over bruised skin. Yoonchae hissed softly, her shoulder twitching.

“Breathe,” Meiyok said. “You make it worse when you tense up.”

“I’m trying,” Yoonchae muttered.

“Try harder.”

The corner of Meiyok’s mouth twitched—barely there, but enough. When she finished taping the bandage, she sat back slightly, eyes flicking up.

“You clean up nice,” she said. “Didn’t think my clothes would look better on you than on me.”

Yoonchae blinked, caught off guard. “That’s not—I mean—”

“Relax,” Meiyok said, lips curving into something between amusement and warmth. “It’s just an observation. Learn to take a compliment.”

Her gaze lingered for a second longer before she turned away, packing up the kit. “You sleep on the bed tonight,” she said simply.

Yoonchae looked up. “What about you?”

Meiyok didn’t miss a beat. “Just so you know, I’m not crashing on that couch.” Her tone dipped—teasing again, smooth like before. “Hopefully, me being next to you doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

Yoonchae’s face went crimson. “I—That’s not—!”

“Good,” Meiyok said lightly, standing to her full height. She tucked the first aid kit neatly into the dresser’s lower compartment before turning back to face her. Then we’ll get along just fine.”

Her tone was airy—too casual to be serious, too deliberate not to be—but her gaze lingered a beat longer than necessary.

Then, as if nothing had been said, Meiyok’s eyes flicked over Yoonchae, assessing again. “Have you eaten?”

Yoonchae blinked. “I—no… I couldn’t.”

Meiyok hummed, the sound low and thoughtful. “Of course you couldn’t,” she murmured, half to herself, then straightened. “Hopefully, my tragically limited culinary repertoire will impress you anyway.”

Yoonchae frowned, uncertain whether to laugh. “You can cook?”

“Define ‘cook,’” Meiyok replied, already halfway to the door. “If heating things without setting them on fire counts, then yes—expertly.”

Her tone made it sound like a joke, but the way she said ‘expertly’—the faint smirk curving her mouth as she disappeared down the hall—felt like a challenge.

Yoonchae stayed where she was for a moment, staring after her, the warmth of the bandage still seeping through her shoulder.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and citrus.

And something else—something quieter.

Safety, maybe.

Whatever it was, she wasn’t used to it.

When she finally followed the sound clinking from the kitchen, she found Meiyok leaning against the counter, sleeves pushed up, staring at the back of a ramen packet like it contained state secrets. Her brows were drawn together, lips moving soundlessly as if she were sounding out the instructions.

After a moment, she huffed—a small, quiet exhale—and flipped the packet over to look at the pictures instead.

Without glancing up, Meiyok said, “If you’re going to hover, at least make yourself useful. Bowls are in the top cabinet.”

The corner of Yoonchae’s mouth twitched. “So this is your idea of impressing me?”

Meiyok finally looked up, eyes catching the kitchen light—warm, sharp, a little too aware. “I never said I’d succeed,” she said, voice laced with mock solemnity. “Only that I’d try.”

Then, as she tore the packet open—somewhat too forcefully—she added under her breath, “The instructions are overrated anyway.”

Yoonchae bit back a laugh. “You mean you didn’t read them?”

Meiyok shot her a sidelong glance. “I prefer to improvise.”

The way she said—carefree but edged with a hint of practiced deflection—made Yoonchae pause, just long enough to wonder what else Meiyok preferred not to read too closely.

~

Yoonchae stared down at the steaming bowl of ramen placed in front of her. The noodles were a little pale, the broth suspiciously clear, and the egg floating on top looked like it had given up halfway through existing.

Was it good?

… She’d rather not comment.

But she was still questioning how someone could get instant ramen wrong. The packet had literal pictures and text-based instructions.

Still, she lifted her chopsticks without complaint. It wasn’t as if she had the energy to nitpick, and—truthfully—Meiyok didn’t have to do any of this. She could’ve just left Yoonchae alone to sulk in the shower and pretended not to notice anything. Instead, she’d gone through the effort of cooking, if this could be called that.

So Yoonchae said nothing. She just ate quietly.

Meiyok, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watched her for a moment. Then, curiosity—or suspicion—got the better of her.

She pulled a clean fork from the drawer, twisting a few noodles around it, and took a bite.

The wince that followed was instant.

“... You ate this?” she muttered, almost to herself, swallowing like it hurt her pride more than her tongue.

Yoonchae blinked up at her, caught between amusement and guilt. “I—well—you made it.”

Meiyok set the fork down, the faintest frown making its way ghostly behind the mask. For the first time that day, she looked mildly embarrassed.

“I must’ve… misread something.”

Yoonchae tilted her head, “You think?”

Meiyok shot her a look—half a glare, half an admission. “Eat slower. I’ll fix it next time.”

Next time.

The words slipped out so casually that it made Yoonchae pause, chopsticks hovering over the bowl.

She nodded, quietly. “Okay.”

And though the ramen was still bland, something in the silence that followed wasn’t.

Chapter Text

Yoonchae finished the last of the ramen Meiyok had so effortlessly prepared and moved to help with the dishes, which meant standing at the counter, silently watching Meiyok rinse each plate before sliding it into the dishwasher. 

“We should head back and get some sleep—you’ve had a long day,” Meiyok said, brushing imaginary beads of sweat from her forehead, her voice calm but carrying the tiniest speck of concern.

With a nod, Yoonchae followed Meiyok to the bedroom.

She wasn’t sure if it was just her imagination, or if the bed—which had always seemed spacious enough for two adults—suddenly looked smaller, or if it was simply the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders, making everything feel more cramped and heavier than usual.

Yoonchae settled onto the bed while Meiyok rifled through her closet, searching for a tank top and pajama shorts. Towel draped over her shoulders, she stepped into the bathroom, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Inside, she shed her clothes and carefully set her mask by the sink before stepping into the shower. Warm water cascaded over her back, and she let out a long, quiet sigh. Her mind replayed the day’s events, stirring a dull ache of frustration and unease she couldn’t shake. 

She had grown to despise every routine, every obligation tied to their lineage. The Skiendiels—their legacy—was about control, about power. She knew she had life made easier than most, and tried to be grateful. Tried.

She had originally intended to scare away the girl she was forced to live with, to tolerate. She had planned to push buttons, to see just how far she could go. She didn’t like being cast as the villain—that hadn’t changed. But Yoonchae had softened her resolve. The girl had it rough at school, Megan knew. God, she hated herself for doing nothing back then. Discovering it was Yoonchae had stirred something unexpected: a protective impulse she hadn’t anticipated. Deep down, she knew it was partly guilt for standing by when things were “light.” Lexie and the others had stooped so low over something petty, something that could’ve been handled with maturity. 

The spray hissed as water poured over her bare skin. She exhaled, letting the exhaustion of the day flow down the drain.

When she turned off the shower, Megan wrapped a towel around her body and stared at her reflection. Her gaze was sharp, almost predatory, yet the mask waiting at the corner of the sink offered a fragile shield. Slipping it on brought an immediate, hollow calm—a confidence born of concealment. With most of her face hidden, she was unreadable, just slightly less exposed to the world’s scrutiny. 

Once dressed, towel draped over her shoulders again, Megan exited the bathroom, the door clicking softly behind her. The first thing that caught her eye was the book Yoonchae was reading—the title in Korean, the cover modest but inviting. Yoonchae’s hands turned the pages with precise, mechanical calm. Megan’s chest tightened. The girl looked fragile in her clothes, delicate against the bed she now occupied. 

Megan hung the towel on the rack and moved closer, inching toward the bed. Yoonchae glanced up, a faint smile tugging at her lips. 

“Not going to sleep?” Meiyok’s voice cut through the quiet that had settled over the room.

“Just a chapter before I sleep; it helps quiet the noise,” Yoonchae replied. Her tone was even, light—but Megan knew better. 

“Turn off the lights when you’re done,” Megan said, tugging the sheets closer around herself.

The room sank into quiet again: the soft rustle of pages, the rhythm of Megan’s breathing, Yoonchae's. From downstairs came the faint tick-tock of the wall clock, the hum of the refrigerator. Eventually, the page-turning ceased. Meiyok’s brows furrowed, not that anyone could’ve seen. But it did. She opened her eyes only to regret it—the lights still glared, harshly illuminating the space they shared. With a resigned sigh, she got out of bed to switch them off. 

But when she returned, she did the unexpected. She took her pillow and blanket and made her way downstairs to the couch, which seemed as unforgiving as it was elegant. Megan couldn’t risk the mask falling in the night; her carefully constructed persona couldn’t afford to crack.

“Meiyok has to survive for a while,” she whispered to the shadows, or maybe to no one at all.

She closed her eyes, the couch digging into her ribs with every breath. The image of Yoonchae’s bruise refused to leave her mind—purple, angry, a raw reminder of how far things had spiraled. Megan had hoped Lexie and the others might listen, that it wouldn’t come to this. Guilt gnawed at her like fire.

Her father. 

She snatched her phone from the coffee table. 10:23 PM. Not too late. She dialed with steady hands, her pulse quickening with each ring.

“Megan? It’s late,” her father’s deep voice rumbled through the line.

“Yes… I know,” she said, keeping her tone calm, though her chest tightened.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s a situation,” she began, her voice measured. “I’ll handle it, but if it escalates… I want you prepared.”

“I’m listening. What kind of situation?”

“It involves Yoonchae. I’ll explain later, Dad. Just… be ready, okay?”

“Is she in danger?”

“Something like that,” Megan admitted, letting the words hang.

“Alright. Just say the word if anything happens,” he said, steady, unshaken.

“I will. Thank you.”

“Goodnight, Megan.”

“Goodnight,” she whispered, hanging up.

The couch felt harder now, the night heavier. She pressed the phone against her chest for a moment, drawing a shallow breath. Whatever came next, she had to be ready.

Morning slipped through the blinds, golden stripes spilling across the floor. Megan’s alarm buzzed, and she blinked awake. 5:30 AM.

She realized she was facing the back of the couch—and her mask had fallen off. A flicker of panic surged through her, and she quickly slipped it back on. Gathering her blanket and pillow, she made her way back to the bedroom.

Yoonchae was still there, sleeping exactly as she had when Megan left the night before—every muscle still, undisturbed by the hours. A relieved sigh escaped Megan. She smoothed out her side of the bed, arranging the pillow and blankets as if she had slept there but woken earlier. 

After collecting some clothes, Megan headed to the shower. When she was done, she made a quick call to Oliver, asking him to send breakfast.

About fifteen minutes later, Megan’s phone rang—Holly letting her know she had brought breakfast. Megan headed downstairs to open the door. Holly quickly set the table before leaving, her movements brisk and efficient.

Michael was already waiting in the car, ready to drop them off at school.

Megan lingered in the kitchen for a few moments, glancing at the clock. When it hit 6:15 AM, she finally went to wake Yoonchae. 

She walked back to the bedroom, hesitating just outside the door. The girl was still under the covers, eyes closed, peaceful in a way that made Megan’s chest tighten. 

Clearing her throat awkwardly, Meiyok crouched slightly and said, “Uh… Yoonchae? It’s time to wake up.”

Yoonchae stirred but didn’t move immediately, groaning softly. Meiyok shifted from foot to foot, unsure what to do with her hands, feeling the strange, silent gap between them—the distance of two people who barely knew each other but were forced to share a life. 

Finally, Yoonchae cracked one eye open. “Mmm… five more minutes,” she mumbled. 

Meiyok gave a small, awkward smile. “Breakfast’s here. We should probably get up.”

Yoonchae blinked softly, then reluctantly began to stretch, and Meiyok exhaled quietly, a mix of relief and lingering unease. The day had started awkwardly, but at least it had started. 

Chapter Text

Megan shoved the locker room door shut with her shoulder, breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat.

Before the echo had even faded, her fingers were yanking open her duffel. Every morning felt harder—slipping into a school 'Meiyok' technically didn't attend, moving straight to the locker rooms like a ghost. She had almost been caught this time. One wrong turn and she could've been written up for trespassing—or something equally humiliating. (and it was still the second day.)

Casual clothes off.

Uniform on.

Mask off.

The moment the mask left her face, she felt naked.

Confidence evaporated faster than steam.

Without it, she had no armor.

No persona.

Just Megan—plain, visible, readable. Boring.

She hated it.

Meiyok could handle anything.

Megan? Not so much.

The uniform clung to her still-warm skin as she dressed at the speed of someone trained to erase every trace of transition. Hoodie and mask shoved back into the bag. Zipper tugged shut. One long exhale. 

Then she eased her expression into the version of Megan everyone expected:

A slow inhale.

Chin up.

Face smooth, polite, borderline intimidating.

Indifference—her secret weapon.

She walked out as if she hadn't just sprinted through the school, heart hammering, trying to get past the gates unnoticed.

Nonchalance.

She wore it like a second skin.

Her heartbeat hadn't even settled when she rounded the corner—and froze, just a fraction.

Them.

The three.

Lexie. Emily. Adéla.

They stared as if she'd spat in their morning matcha.

Lexie's glare was volcanic.

Emily's expression—a tragic soap opera in motion.

Adéla... unreadable. Calm. Watching, like someone deciding whether a burning house was worth saving.

Megan walked past them without flinching.

She owed them no explanation.

She owed them nothing.

And yet—the weight in her chest didn't fully lift. She could feel her anger gnawing at her.

She had let them be awful for years. Not because she agreed—God, no—but because calling them out meant losing them.

Being alone scared her more than being disliked.

Being Megan Skiendiel meant smiling while your world quietly rotted behind you.

And now?

It felt too late.

Too late to apologize.

Too late to say she should've stopped them.

Too late to admit she'd been cowardly. Complicit. Selfish.

Too late, too late, too late.

She pressed her nails into her palms, letting the sting ground her.

At least I said something.

The bar was slow, but she had finally—finally—crossed it.

The day crawled like wet sand stuck to her shoes. For the first time in years, she walked alone. No forced laughter. No Lexie clinging to her arm. No Emily whining about teachers. No Adéla correcting her posture.

Silence. 

Real silence.

And—not that she'd admit it—it felt lighter.

But loneliness was heavy too, settling along her spine like a familiar ache.

By lunchtime, rumors had already spread throughout the school.

Megan Skiendiel had a secret lover.

She cheated.

They cheated.

Someone was betrayed.

Someone was replaced.

Someone slept with someone.

Someone exposed someone.

A telenovela written by toddlers.

She grabbed her tray and slipped to a corner table she'd never used. The cafeteria buzzed around her—whispers, giggles, theories muttered behind hands, someone hissing, "I heard—" 

Para social.

The word flashed across her mind like a neon sign.

Half the school acted as if they knew her, when she didn't even know half of them.

She forced herself to eat. Chew. Swallow. Keep her face neutral.

Anger was unbecoming.

Emotion was undisciplined.

Skiendiel's did not make scenes. 

Her father's rules echoed with every motion.

She looked down at the nutritional label on her juice carton—and the letters twisted. Words blurred. Her eyes stuttered across the print.

Of course.

Of course, today would be the day dyslexia decided to kick her in the shins.

She blinked twice, slowed her reading, and pretended nothing was wrong. Pretending, after all, was what she did best. 

"Hi," someone murmured behind her.

Megan turned to see a girl from her class shifting nervously on her heels, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her tray.

"Hey," Megan replied, voice steady, expression composed, though the moments felt strangely delicate.

“I was wondering if… maybe I could sit with you?” the girl blurted. “You looked a little alone, and if not, that’s totally fine—I can go.”

Megan shook her head lightly. “I don’t mind. You can sit.”

The cafeteria whispers dipped as if everyone had paused to watch her—then slowly drifted back to their own conversations. Only then did Megan notice Lexie, Emily, and Adéla were gone.

Not that she had much time to dwell on it. Her classmate hadn’t stopped talking since she sat down. Megan didn’t mind—the nonstop chatter, mostly about some band the girl adored, was oddly grounding. It filled the silence she had been dreading.

By the time the lunch bell rang, Megan realized she had spent the entire break nodding along to excited rambling.

As they stood to leave, the girl hesitated, then asked if Megan wanted to hang out after school.

And, of course, Megan said yes.

How could she possibly turn down a chance to be around anyone who wasn’t Lexie, Emily, or Adéla?

After school, they ended up in a small café tucked away on a quiet street near campus. Warm, softly lit—the kind of place people pretended to study just for the aesthetic.

“So—what about you, Megan? What are your interests?” Eunchae asked, leaning forward, full of enthusiasm.

Megan blinked, half-amazed at how freely this girl spoke. Eunchae was nothing like Yoonchae—no pauses, no hesitation, no brakes. Almost impressive.

“There’s not much,” Megan said with a shrug. Eunchae’s frown made it clear she wasn’t buying it.

“Impossible,” Eunchae countered. “Everyone has something.”

Megan exhaled. “Fine… I like to dance.”

“That’s so cool!” Eunchae enthused, animated, pretending she hadn’t already memorized Megan’s schedule down to the minute.

They spent a bit more time together before Eunchae murmured something about studying and left. Megan watched her go, then rose herself, deciding it was the perfect moment to visit Manon’s.

Chapter Text

"Mmm—" Sophia whined before dissolving into unrestrained laughter. Manon was still trying—badly—to pry the remote from her hand. Sophia had insisted on watching some painfully generic rom-com, the kind that misplaced the "com" entirely and relied on a laugh track to pretend something—anything—was funny.

But the movie wasn't the issue anymore.

Somewhere in the chaos of their play-fight, they'd ended up tangled together on the couch, Manon practically hovering over Sophia, fingers still teasing at her sides in a last-ditch attempt to reclaim the remote. Maybe it was late-teen hormones, perhaps it was the way moments like this always seemed suspended in the air, but suddenly Manon became hyperaware of their proximity—the warmth, the tension, the shift in Sophia's breath.

How did I even get this close? She wondered, even as she felt herself leaning in a little more, drawn toward Sophia without thinking.

Sophia's laughter faded, leaving a quiet that felt heavy in the best way. She stared up at Manon—open, waiting. Her eyes did what they always did. Every. Single. Time. They flicked from Manon's eyes to her lips, then back again, slow and deliberate, as if she didn't care how obvious she was being.

It was all the invitation Manon needed.

She closed the last sliver of distance between them and pressed her lips to Sophia's.

Her body settled against Sophia's as the kiss deepened—warm, certain, consuming. For a moment, everything felt suspended. The world was soft again, the air gentle, the universe finally aligning instead of tearing at the seams. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing dared to.

Except—

"Uhm—" a voice intruded, slicing through the quiet that had formed between their breaths, between the soft sighs and barely-there hums filling the space.

Manon and Sophia jolted apart as if caught doing something forbidden—as if they were two closeted teenagers sneaking around (which, for the record, they absolutely were not). The culprit stood in the doorway, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, looking every shade of awkward.

"How long were you standing there, you creep?!" Manon snapped, heat rushing up her neck. She poured every ounce of embarrassment into irritation, aiming it squarely at Megan.

"Hello to you too!" Megan chirped, unfazed. "And maybe—just maybe—save that for your room next time," she added, punctuating the suggestion with a pair of dramatic jazz hands.

Sophia sat there flushed scarlet, still tucked close beside her girlfriend. She adored Manon—would probably break at least three known laws of physics to prove it, if given the chance. But kissing her like that?

That was not something she ever wanted an audience for.

Not that kind of kiss, at least.

With a perfectly synchronized sigh, the couple watched Megan saunter over and drop into the single armchair, sprawling like she owned the place. Her legs swung up and landed on the coffee table with the kind of casual confidence only Megan could get away with.

"What are you even watching?" Megan asked, nodding toward the TV—where the same painfully bland rom-com droned on, forgotten entirely by the two girls who'd suffered through it.

"Garbage. I'm changing it," Manon declared, snatching the remote and flipping the screen over to Mean Girls—because of course she did.

Sophia, still pink-cheeked from earlier, rose from the couch and smoothed out her outfit with meticulous little pats. "I'll... make tea," she murmured, barely above a whisper, before retreating toward the kitchen as gracefully as someone fleeing the scene of a crime.

"What's up?" Manon asked once Sophia had retreated to a safe distance—Megan didn't visit often, and never exactly by invitation.

Megan said nothing, only shot Manon a look. Manon caught it instantly. With a knowing nod, they both turned their attention back to the movie.

Soon enough, Sophia returned carrying a tray. She placed teacups in front of both Megan and Manon before settling herself with her own.

"What's up?" she asked, her cheeks back to their natural, unflustered shade.

"I just... missed Manon," Megan admitted, pausing briefly. "—And you too," she added quickly, noticing Sophia's raised eyebrow. "I didn't expect you'd actually be here."

The three of them exchanged a few words, with Manon and Sophia filling Megan in on the latest drama at their school. Manon recounted the disastrous business dinner with her parents, where one of the partners' sons had tried—and failed spectacularly—to flirt with her.

The low rumble of a car engine drew their attention, and Sophia stood. Manon rose as well, and the two shared a brief, gentle kiss before Manon escorted Sophia out to the car, holding the door open for her. Megan lingered at the front door, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she watched them go.

After waving a moment longer, even after the car had disappeared from view, Manon turned back, her brows knitting ever so slightly.

Megan reached into her pocket and produced a cigar and a lighter. With a flick, the flame kissed the tip of the cigar, making it glow a deep, inviting amber. She brought it to her lips, inhaling just enough to taste the smoke before holding it for a heartbeat. Then she exhaled slowly, a thin ribbon of smoke curling upward and dissipating into the evening air. The sharp, earthy scent hung faintly around her as she leaned back against the doorway, letting the quiet weight of the moment sink in.

"Okay... what's wrong?" Manon asked the moment she reached her side.

Megan said nothing, simply extending the pack of cigarettes toward her. Within their friend group, the habitual smokers were only herself and Manon.

"I can't—I promised Sophia," Manon said, glancing down at the pack. "But I guess I'm basically passive-smoking by keeping you company." She declined the offer, and Megan slid the pack back into her pocket without a word.

"I just wish you guys went to Celestine..." Megan murmured, letting the words linger between them.

"Where's this coming from?" Manon asked, her tone edged with confusion, her brow furrowing as she tried to read Megan's expression.

"The girl I'm supposed to live with..." Megan began, taking another slow draw from the cigar before letting the smoke drift out. "It's Yoonchae—the one they've been bullying for as long as I can remember."

"My father told me to wear the mask and go by 'Meiyok.' So she doesn't know it's me. I tried to tell them to stop bullying her—it only made them escalate, push things further... even get physical."

"I just don't get why they don't understand the word 'stop,'" Megan huffed, the cigar balanced lazily between two fingers.

"Maybe it's because you stayed silent all these years, and now finally stood up against them, no less. They probably saw it as betrayal," Manon replied.

This was one of the things Megan liked about Manon. She listened. She let Megan finish her thoughts before offering a word in return. And when she did speak, it was sincere. Real. Logical. It made sense—and somehow, that made the weight Megan carried feel just a little lighter.

"So...what should I do?" Megan asked, exhaling a thin stream of smoke.

"I'd say—you wait. Watch. See how things unfold. And then, act."

The two of them stood side by side until Megan's cigarette neared its end. She dropped it to the ground, pressing it out with her heel, and together they turned back toward the house, stepping inside in silence. 

Earlier that same day, Yoonchae had spent hours tiptoeing through the school halls, doing her utmost to stay out of trouble. Every step was an effort to remain unseen, to stay just out of reach of her bullies. She had even considered not leaving her classroom—but what if they followed her inside, shattering the fragile sense of calm her mind desperately clung to?

The restroom seemed like a safe haven. If she could slip in unnoticed, she could spend the rest of the lunch break tucked away in a cramped cubicle, out of sight and out of reach. 

She hurried toward the restrooms, eyes darting around as she approached, making sure the coast was clear. Reaching them without incident felt like a small blessing—her shoulder still throbbed with every movement, and the thought of being shoved or jostled was more than she could bear. 

But, of course, life had a cruel sense of humor.

The moment Yoonchae pushed the restroom door open, her eyes landed on Lexie, meticulously washing her hands, and Emily, fussing with her hair—Adéla was nowhere in sight. 

“Well, well—look who decided to show up,” Emily sneered, a cruel smirk tugging at her lips.

“You better have thought about what I told you earlier, babe,” Lexie added, striding toward Yoonchae. Each step made Yoonchae instinctively back up until her shoulder hit the wall, sending a sharp sting of pain up her arm.

A cubicle door creaked open, briefly pausing the confrontation. Yoonchae’s gaze flicked to Adéla, who lingered just long enough to finish washing her hands. Her look… almost apologetic. But for what? Yoonchae didn’t let herself entertain the thought that maybe, just maybe, one of her bullies could feel empathy.

Lexie’s eyes narrowed. “Better not come in between us, little girl.” With a flick of her wrist, a splash of water hit Yoonchae, followed immediately by Emily’s imitation. Adéla lingered a heartbeat longer before slipping away, leaving Yoonchae to stare at her soaked sleeve and the lingering sting of humiliation.