Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sumin almost doesn’t recognize him, at first.

He could be any young man, with dark hair and a winning smile and an easy laugh. Never mind his height, never mind the way his eyes are too bright and clever for his own good.

He could be anyone, until one of the production assistants leans over and says rather unhelpfully, “That’s Park Sieun.”

“Oh,” says Sumin. The corner of her mouth twitches.

Because Sieun is the last person she wants to see — and because, despite that, despite all the time that has passed, she still finds herself staring. Nothing has changed. It’s always Sumin, and Sieun, and the unbridgeable gap in between.

Sumin scowls, and turns away.

The drama had been pitched to Sumin like this: Slice of Love, a romantic comedy about a poor girl from Pohang trying to open her own pizza restaurant in Seoul. With no one but a trusty and slightly annoying delivery boy by her side, she’d take on challenges like poverty, the rival pizza chain across the street, business management, poverty again, and, most importantly, falling head over heels for the aforementioned delivery boy.

Sumin’s first question had been whether or not the drama was being bankrolled by a pizzeria.

Her second and, frankly, more relevant question had been the one of who would play the male lead. Because sure, they wanted her for the protagonist — all well and good. But her experience was limited to webdramas and the occasional commercial appearance, and she wasn’t about to lock lips with someone she barely knew.

To this, her manager responded, “Don’t worry.”

Sumin hadn’t realized what he meant until the headlines started coming out. And on that day, she learned three things:

One, she’d be acting alongside one of her former members.

Two, this member was none other than, well, Sieun.

And three, Sieun had been… busy, to put it lightly, in the five years since they’d last seen each other.

No big deal, right? Especially not the romance-and-eventual-kissing part. Not a big deal at all, and that’s how Sumin ends up at the worst table read she’s ever had in her admittedly short acting career.

It starts like this — Sumin arrives early, if only to prolong the inevitable. She trips on the curb, and the only person who sees her is the ten-times-more-experienced and fifteen-times-more-famous actress playing her rival.

She makes awkward small talk until the rest of the cast and crew arrive. She downs two cups of water from the cooler. She talks to the production assistant, and she regrets it.

Now the room is too warm, and the air conditioner is broken, and the two ancient fans by the open window are doing very little to help. Sumin’s fingertips leave damp imprints of sweat on her script each time she flips a page. To top it all off, the director has had the brilliant idea to place her directly across from Sieun. For the romantic chemistry, he’d proclaimed.

Perfect.

So the table read is going about as well as a table read can go, at least where two estranged ex-idols from the same group are involved. That is to say, it’s great — for anyone who isn’t Sumin.

Sieun is nothing but professional, moving through the script with the perfect balance of emotion and control. Meanwhile Sumin’s voice comes out shaky, teetering on the edge of a barely suppressed desire to scream. Her swallow goes down dry.

“Mirae,” says Sieun, using the name of Sumin’s character, “I want you to know something.”

“What is it?” returns Sumin. She forces herself to look at him, not down at the page.

“I love you.” Sieun’s gaze is clear, flawless, weaponized in its desire. “I always have.”

Sumin wants nothing more than to run. “…I love you, too.”

“How did I not know?”

From across the table, Chaeyoung gives Sumin one of her famous looks. With eyebrow raised in equal parts concern and exasperation, she says, “That’s a really good question. How did you not know?” And just to add insult to injury, she adds, “The news was everywhere.”

“Ah.” Sumin laughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck. “Um, define everywhere?”

Chaeyoung stares, incredulous. “Everywhere — TV, social media, the tabloid papers. When he first came out, Sieun was practically the only person anyone talked about for weeks. And every time he’d hit another milestone on his transition, they’d talk about him again.”

Sumin doesn’t know how to respond to that, so she fills the silence with a long sip of her tea instead.

“Sumin,” says Chaeyoung, “are you telling me—”

“I blacklisted his name on all of my accounts, okay!?” Sumin confesses, or rather, spits. She has to hold up a hand to block the oolong dribbling down her chin.

Chaeyoung decides not to comment on the tea. She slides a napkin across the table and says, “That’s insane. And impossible.”

Sumin takes it and wipes her mouth with as much dignity as she can muster. “Not really. When you live under a rock and you don’t have enough phone storage for most apps, it’s not very hard.”

“Oh, Sumin. I know it’s been hard staying in touch with everyone, but… come on.”

The way Chaeyoung puts it, while blunt, is still leagues nicer than anything Sumin has to say about herself. She hasn’t been the best leader since disbandment. She hasn’t been a leader, period. The fact that Chaeyoung is the only member she sees on a regular basis and the fact that their biweekly lunches are one of the only sources of stability in her life don’t exactly make her out to be the role model that she should.

“Have you been talking with them, then?” Sumin deflects.

“Yeah.” Chaeyoung counts off on her fingers. “Seeun started taking a watercolor class. Yeeun just got a new set of headphones. And Jayoon has been trying to get all her coworkers hooked on that matcha tteokbokki trend.”

“Sorry, did you say matcha tteokbokki?”

“Yes?” Somehow, this seems obvious to Chaeyoung. She shrugs. “Wow. You really do live under a rock.”

Sumin is too busy being distraught at the idea of a dish that is bitter and spicy (and green, no less) that she forgets to field the next question out of her mouth. “And Sieun…?”

“What about Sieun?”

“What’s his deal? What is he up to?”

Whatever Chaeyoung reads from that, she keeps to herself. “You know about him.”

“Do I, though?” Sumin entreats. “Or do I just know what everyone else says about him?”

Cue another eyebrow raise. “That’s the million-dollar question. But based on our conversation just now, I’m not sure you even know that.”

As soon as Sumin gets back to her apartment (seventh floor, studio, lovely view of the alley below), she opens her laptop and puts her fingers to the keys.

Park Sieun, she types out. Then deletes.

Then she wastes fifteen minutes figuring out how to connect to the VPN that Yeeun once set up for her, and another four logging out of all her accounts and opening an incognito tab.

Sumin considers for a moment that this might be excessive. Who’s going to find a D-list celebrity’s search history, really, and who even cares enough to try?

Though, if she’s learned anything, it’s that nothing is ever as much of a secret as she thinks it is.

She looks at the now-private search bar and takes a deep breath. Park Sieun, she types out, and hits enter.

A flood of five and a half million results cascades onto her screen. Acting credits, biographical info, musical projects — STAYC being one of the more significant footnotes. The pictures of him all exude the same confidence. He’s still got that frightening intelligence, that striking balance of youth and maturity.

What shocks Sumin the most, though, is what has changed. It’s subtle, but Sumin sees it immediately. The Sieun she knew always had a careful front in photos: a glossy plastic shell just behind his eyes, just at the corners of his smile.

When Sumin didn’t know any better, she saw it as artificiality. When she learned a little more, she realized it was defense.

And now Sieun doesn’t seem to need it any more.

In this image, dated six months ago, he stands in front of a line of cameras, smiling as if he knows what the reporters have yet to figure out. He has them wrapped around his finger, easy as breathing.

In another, he steps out of a van, one hand on the doorframe, the other pushing back his hair. He’s biting his lip. Since when does Sieun bite his lip?

It scares Sumin. In the last twelve years, Sieun has grown by leaps and bounds. As if he needed to become more unstoppable than he already was, as if Sumin needed another stupid thing to worry about.

To put it another way: the thing that made Sieun human, despite the famous father and the child acting and the crown jewel voice, was that at the end of the day, he still had doubts like anyone else. There were times he hesitated, times he was unsure of himself.

And now? Without that, Sieun is leagues ahead of Sumin — of anyone.

Not fair, Sumin finds herself thinking. You already had it all. Don’t you think that’s a little overpowered, Park Sieun?

The picture beams back at Sumin in white-blue glow. She smothers the power button with her thumb and waits for the screen to go dark.

“You look nice.”

Sumin turns at the voice, startled. She doesn’t recognize it until she sees Sieun, and then she’s embarrassed for not recognizing it in the first place. It’s still his — deeper, but no less effective at pushing her buttons.

“Very funny,” says Sumin, the joke here being that she’s dressed in a bright red pizzeria uniform. The polo shirt and baseball cap do nothing to flatter her appearance.

“I mean it,” says Sieun, and he sounds far too serious for someone wearing the exact same thing.

“Look, if you don’t have anything better to do—”

“We’re shooting promo photos in ten minutes. My hands are going on your waist. I’m trying to make it less awkward, Sumin.”

Right. Because reminding Sumin of what she’s been trying to distract herself from all morning is going to make it less awkward. She grumbles. “How thoughtful of you.”

Sieun seems to find this funny, which in and of itself is infuriating. But then he tilts his head and says, “I watched the drama you were in last year. Full Moon Fling, right? It was good.”

Sumin’s face burns. Sieun might have questionable taste — the kind where he finds it acceptable to recommend fifty-year-old ballads to people his own age — but he’s not an idiot. Full Moon Fling was just plain bad, and even then, Sumin only had a bit part in it as the clumsy, perpetually single best friend. (And that casting choice says nothing about her. Obviously.)

“Thanks,” Sumin manages. “You’re… too kind.”

“The story was cute,” says Sieun, and his sincerity makes Sumin want to hurl.

She deflects. “Yeah, well, I’ve seen some of your stuff, too. You’re not so bad yourself.”

Sumin leaves out the part about actively avoiding any mention of him until about a week ago, when, in a fit of poor judgement, she searched up and marathoned every acting compilation clip she could find.

He’s still got it, she remembers thinking. He’s so different; he’s even better. The person on the screen is him and yet it isn’t, in ways that go far beyond the obvious.

“I didn’t expect you to become an actress,” says Sieun.

“First of all, I’m not an actress. I just happen to get drama gigs sometimes,” asserts Sumin, because actresses are supposed to be good at acting and Sumin most definitely is not. “Second of all, what is that supposed to mean?”

Sieun looks her right in the eye. “Acting attracts a certain kind of person. I’ve always thought you were too honest for that.”

Of the retorts that flash through Sumin’s head (you thought wrong, that doesn’t mean anything, what do you even know about me), she settles on the worst of all: “And that’s why you started so young, isn’t it?”

A flicker of grief — so short-lived that Sumin could have imagined it, and the first emotion she’s seen out of him other than pride — crosses Sieun’s face. “You’re right,” he says. “That’s who I was.”

He concedes so quickly that Sumin almost apologizes. She doesn’t, though, because some sick part of her takes satisfaction in striking a nerve, however briefly, and because it’s just one more thing she doesn’t recognize.

Sieun has never just agreed with her. Not even on the smallest of things. With him it was always push and pull, give and take, capture a knight to lose a queen.

You’re different, Sumin wants to say.

“I’m glad you’re here,” says Sieun, “even if you think otherwise.”

“Good,” says Sumin. “Great.”

A two-minute warning rings out over the set, and suddenly all eyes are on them. Sieun shoots her a glance.

“This has been nice, but it looks like we’re on and we’ve got more than enough catching up to do. Let’s grab lunch together when we’re done. My treat.”

Sumin is almost shocked by the speed of his suggestion. But this is Sieun, after all, whose world moves at a pace Sumin hasn’t had to think about in years, and she’s in no position to turn down free food. She nods dumbly. Sieun takes it as an answer.

“Perfect. Oh, and by the way.” He reaches over, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Sumin’s ear. “You missed a spot.”

There are good things about this, Sumin tells herself. Like fresh air, or like being able to change out of her stupid costume. The weather is beautiful, too, and the feeling of sun on her skin is a blessing after seven hours in a cold studio.

“Anything catch your eye?” asks Sieun.

“Um…” Sumin stares at the menu. She has yet to read or process a single word on it. “I’m still deciding.”

“That’s okay, we have time.” Sieun settles back in his seat. “I’ve always been good at waiting.”

Sumin has no idea what he means by that, and frankly, the implication that she’s slow rubs her the wrong way. “If it’s such a big deal to you, you can order first. Don’t let me hold you back.”

“Never,” says Sieun. “I want us to be on the same page.”

“Okay.” Weirdo, Sumin adds silently.

In the end Sumin gets a sandwich and Sieun gets a rice bowl, and the waiter takes their orders and returns with their food and in between Sumin gets fifteen minutes of peace.

Then Sieun snaps his chopsticks apart and it’s gone. “Talk to me,” he says.

“I did,” says Sumin. “I am.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t count?”

“We haven’t spoken in so long,” says Sieun. “I wanted to catch up, get to know you again.”

Considering all they’ve gone through, Sumin doesn’t think there’s anything left for him to know, fatal flaws and all. “You already do. Like you said, you watched my drama and everything.”

“As good as your acting was,” says Sieun (and Sumin knows he’s lying through his teeth), “it isn’t you. How are you these days, Sumin?”

That simple question strikes at something Sumin hasn’t even realized has been bothering her. She’s spent so long defining herself by her work, with no one but her manager and occasionally Chaeyoung for company, and though she keeps casual acquaintances and sends texts when she remembers, every night she goes home and makes dinner for one.

It’s become so easy to disappear. Not just for her — Yeeun works behind-the-scenes, Chaeyoung has left the public eye entirely — but it’s jarring. She’s alone, fighting an uphill battle, because what they had as six is so much weaker in its individual parts.

“Hey.” Sieun’s voice pokes a pinhole in her thoughts. “Are you okay?”

“You mean it.” Sumin can’t even make it a question. “You really want to know.”

Sieun looks at her like it’s obvious. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I?”

Because you’re you and I’m me — because you survived the slow death of our group and an audience to your entire transition and your whole life under a microscope and yet you still came out on top. “Because I’m not that interesting.” Sumin forces out her next sentence with more emotion than she intends. “Because I’m not doing well.”

“And those things don’t bother me, as long as you’re willing to share.” Sieun leans forward. “I wouldn’t have taken this job if it wasn’t for you, Sumin. Let’s start ourselves over again. Better late than never.”

“…and then I told him I’ve been watching Olympic cricket matches to fall asleep.”

“Wow.” Chaeyoung blinks. “Just… wow.”

“Please don’t make fun of me,” says Sumin.

“Honesty is a virtue, but it’s not good first date material.”

“Don’t say that.” Sumin points a finger at Chaeyoung’s chest. “It was not a date, and it will never be.”

“It’s a figure of speech,” says Chaeyoung, wholly unconvincing. “And anyways, after seven years of playing nice on camera, you’d think you two would eventually learn how to have a real conversation.”

“That’s the thing, though.” Sumin groans, rubbing at her temples. “On camera. We were fine on camera. But any other time, it was just so… so… ugh!” She cries out in frustration, a little too loud for the nice restaurant they’re in.

Chaeyoung manages an apologetic glance at a passing waitress. “I know. I was there.”

Sumin winces. The waitress still gives her a dirty look. “Sorry, by the way. It must have been worrying to watch.”

“Hm.” Chaeyoung raises her glass to her lips, staring Sumin down over the rim. “Worrying, no. Frustrating, ridiculous, and unnecessary, on the other hand? Yes.”

“It was frustrating for you?” Sumin, though agitated, makes a point to keep her voice at a reasonable level. “Imagine how it was for me!”

“I don’t know,” says Chaeyoung, “sometimes it even seemed like you were having fun.”

“There is nothing fun about trying to figure out what’s in Sieun’s head.”

Chaeyoung empties her drink and sets the glass down. “If you say so.”

“I’m serious!” Sumin crosses her arms. “He’s one way when you’re with other people and another way when you’re alone, and he can never make up his mind between making fun of you or shutting you out.”

“That’s weird, because I never had any trouble communicating with him.”

“Because you weren’t in—” Sumin catches herself. She closes her eyes, breathing out a sigh through her nose. “Just… can we talk about something else?”

“Sure, but before you beat yourself up, it really wasn’t all bad. It was even funny sometimes,” Chaeyoung says. “You know, we had a bet going.”

This is news to Sumin. “A bet? On what?”

“I’m not telling,” says Chaeyoung.

“Nothing? Not even a hint?” Sumin frowns. “Come on, Chaeyoung, throw me a bone.”

“I would, but I made a promise to the other girls. Just know that I’m very confident in my choice.”

She’s got to be kidding. Sumin throws her hands in the air and asks, “And what would that be, then?”

Chaeyoung just looks at her and laughs. “Still not telling.”

“Action!”

Sieun pokes his head around the door to the kitchen, cardboard box tucked under one arm. “Got the bell peppers, Mirae. Just like you asked.”

Sumin turns, trying to deliver her lines without shriveling up and dying from the sheer absurdity of them. She plants her fists on her hips. “Took you long enough. I’m working on the new recipe, pass them here.”

“What’s the magic word?” asks Sieun.

“Please,” says Sumin, rolling her eyes.

“Bzzzt!” Sieun makes a noise like a game show buzzer and steps inside, leaning across the counter to hold the box in front of Sumin’s nose. “Wrong answer. I’ll give you two more chances.”

Sumin swipes at the box, but Sieun pulls it away, just like they rehearsed. She presses her lips together and huffs. “Stop being such a child.”

Bold words for someone who spends a good eight episodes having the spinal constitution of a jellyfish, but neither Sumin nor Sieun acknowledge this. Sieun just grins. “You’ve been working so hard trying to get this place off the ground, I thought you deserved a little fun.”

“I don’t need fun, I need to focus. The grand opening is everything.”

“All right, then. Show me what you’re made of.”

Sieun holds the box out again. In the script, Sumin lunges for it, Sieun holds it over his head. Cue the slow mo, the close-ups, the accidental embrace.

Instead, what happens is this: Sumin physically and mentally slams on the brakes. She skids to a halt on the flour-dusted tile, hands mere centimeters away from Sieun’s chest, caught in a vision of the past.

“Don’t look at me,” hisses a Sieun from ten years ago, scrubbing at red-rimmed eyes in a broom closet backstage at Show Champion. “Go away.”

“What’s wrong?” asks a younger and stupider Sumin, even as she notices the way Sieun hunches with arms crossed over that tight pink tube top. “If something’s up with your outfit, you should let the stylist know.”

“Yeah,” says Sieun, venomous, “I’ll be sure to do that.”

“Cut!” Behind the camera, back in the present, the director makes a slicing motion. “Sumin, what are you doing?”

She fumbles for the lie. “I, uh, forgot my lines. All of them.”

The director pinches the bridge of his nose. “Go get your script. Everyone else, take five!”

The crew scatters, and Sumin makes the walk of shame over to her bag, fishing out the highlighter-stained pages by the staple that holds them together. Sieun isn’t far behind.

“There’s no way you forgot your lines,” he starts.

“Wow, okay.” Sumin doesn’t even have to feign annoyance. “I think I’m allowed to make mistakes, actually.”

He continues. “You were note-perfect until just now.”

“Yeah, and then I wasn’t. It happens.”

“You stopped because you didn’t want to touch my chest,” says Sieun, not so much a bullseye as an execution. “Why?”

Another Sieun, this time from eight years ago, pulls away from Sumin’s side, breaking the hug. “I need to go.”

Sumin, from her place on the couch, feels a stab of something — guilt, betrayal, all of the above. “All of a sudden? Was it something I did?”

“No. Yes.” Sieun’s shoulders are tense. “Whatever. You wouldn’t get it.”

The memory still stings, old as it is. Sumin chooses her words carefully. “I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” she decides.

Sieun regards her for a moment, expression unreadable. Finally, he says, “…I appreciate that. I really do.”

Then he takes Sumin’s hand, presses it over his own heart. “You have my permission,” he says, “and not just for this show. I trust you.”

Sieun’s chest is smooth and warm under Sumin’s fingers. She takes in a breath, and can only nod.

The first week of filming wraps up, and the cast and crew decide to go out for a round of drinks.

They really love this, Sumin realizes, watching her coworkers slosh foam across tables and slap each other on the backs. This is what they enjoy, and this is how they unwind.

Unfortunately for Sumin, it has the complete opposite effect. She’s resigned herself to sitting at the far end, smiling and holding a soju bottle for show. Every so often, someone will try to slur through a conversation with her, to which she’ll respond with polite small talk before being forgotten again.

She really wants to go home. But everyone is here, and she doesn’t want to come off as a poor sport, so she settles for the next best thing — escaping to the bar’s outdoor patio.

Out here, the air is cool. A dark blue wash has settled over the city, broken up by the twinkling orange pinpricks of windows and headlights. Sumin, for the first time today, lets herself breathe.

She’s not alone, though. A few feet away, Sieun has his back turned to her, breeze ruffling his short hair as he looks out from the hilltop view.

“Hey.” Despite herself, Sumin moves closer to the railing. “Mind if I join you?”

Sieun scoots over to give her more room. “Not at all.”

“You’re not drinking?” asks Sumin.

“No,” says Sieun, even though Sumin already knows the answer. “It’s not my thing.”

Even once they were allowed to, even once the girl-next-door image started getting phased out, Sieun was never really interested in alcohol. Sumin always suspected it was similar to her own reasons, something about the loss of control, but she’d never admit it.

“It’s too loud in there,” says Sieun. “I don’t know why we couldn’t have just gotten dinner or something.”

Sumin’s stomach rumbles. “Ugh, don’t remind me.”

“Sorry.” He grins. “Leave it to our production team to pick the one bar in the entire country that doesn’t serve food.”

As he says it, there’s something in his voice with more weight than a joke. Sumin shoots him a sideways look. “You don’t like them?”

“Mixed feelings. Fun fact,” adds Sieun, as if it’s somehow unrelated, “they have a lot to say about you and me.”

Sumin frowns. “Like what?”

“Nothing you haven’t already heard. That we’re too careful with each other, that we were never friends.” He locks eyes with Sumin. “That we were in love.”

“Um, okay. Whatever,” says Sumin, making a face one beat too late. “Who knows where they got that crazy idea?”

“Maybe they were playing a game,” Sieun suggests. “Two truths and a lie.”

“More like one opinion, some made-up gossip, and an unproven hypothesis.”

“Unproven,” repeats Sieun.

Sumin realizes her mistake. “They don’t have evidence. People see what they want to see,” she defends.

Sieun doesn’t push the envelope. He just lets the words hang in the air between them, filling the muted silence that follows. He’s always been good at silences. Sumin has always hated them.

“You don’t have to be scared of me,” he says, finally.

Sumin scoffs. “And you don’t have to be so full of yourself. I’m not scared of you — don’t be ridiculous.”

Sieun doesn’t laugh. “Then why are you holding yourself back? Why are you so weird around me?”

“Weird?” Sumin whips around to face him. “You’re the one who’s weird! Taking me out to lunch, following me around trying to talk to me when you know how I feel!”

“No, I don’t. I don’t know how you feel,” says Sieun. “That’s why I’m trying to find out.”

The thought makes no sense to Sumin — that she’s the enigma here and not the other way around. Who is he to come crashing back into her life, with all the dust and debris it entails? Who is he to joke about love?

Sieun grows serious. He faces her, the dusky sky framing him in silhouette.

“Sumin,” he says, “we’re not members of an idol group anymore. No company or contract is going to tell us what to do, and neither will anyone else unless you let them.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve already made the leap. It’s yours, too, if you want it.”

With that, he leaves, disappearing back into the orange glow of the bar. The glass door shuts behind him with a click.

Sumin stays on the balcony for another hour, listening to the night wind whistle past her face.

Sumin knows that things are getting better.

Which, yes. If she has to say that, then of course they’re still far from perfect.

She remembers, even now, the fear. The handbooks they were made to follow. The dark circles under Seeun’s eyes, sick with worry for her brother. The night Chaeyoung knocked on her bedroom door, tears in her eyes, whispering, caving in, I have something to tell you.

Now the handbooks are gone and Seeun’s brother is safe and Chaeyoung is happy. But Sumin remembers, because that sort of thing is difficult to forget, and because, even then, it’s an imperfect explanation.

It’s yours, too, if you want it. The way Sieun puts it is so simple. Forget what other people think, forget the law beaten into her bones. And yet — the masses are one thing, her own mind is another.

I’ve already made the leap.

As if Sumin needs one more category to lose in. As if it’s not Sieun first across the finish line, all the time, leaving Sumin trailing pitifully behind.

She can’t bear the thought of putting herself at the world’s mercy, that much is true. But even more than that, she can’t bear the thought of never being Sieun’s equal.

The director calls it a night, but Sumin can’t celebrate yet. She’s too busy clawing through her bag, eyes darting through the tangled collection of her belongings. “Come on,” she mutters, “please, please be in here somewhere.”

The bag doesn’t answer. Instead, by the seventh pass through her ten-foot charging cord, half-used blister pack of ibuprofen, and long-expired airplane peanuts, she has to accept the unfortunate reality.

She’s screwed.

“Going somewhere?” Sieun steps next to her on the curb, already packed to leave. He has a blue duffel bag slung over his shoulder, not unlike a teenage sleepaway camper, or a particularly outdoorsy dad.

“I’d love to,” grouses Sumin, “except I’m stranded on set.”

“Because?”

“Because I left my apartment keys in my manager’s car and he’s out of town for the next two weeks.”

“Oh. That’s… inconvenient,” says Sieun.

Sumin glares. “No, really.”

He considers this for a moment. “Do you need a place to stay?”

“Not at all. Actually, I figured I’d sleep in the fake pizzeria,” says Sumin, meaning to sound sarcastic but just coming off as miserable.

“That’s gross,” says Sieun. “Your hair is going to look awful tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks for the input, but I can handle myself.” Sumin closes her bag and folds her arms over it. “And no, I’m not staying with you.”

Sixteen minutes later, Sumin walks through the door of Sieun’s apartment.

“This is temporary, okay?” says Sumin.

Sieun ignores her, kicking off his shoes and flicking on a light. “Make yourself at home.”

At a glance, his apartment is neat, but the longer Sumin looks, the more she sees the chaos bubbling up between the cracks. To-do lists pinned to the fridge. Books all over the living room table. A calendar from IU’s 2032 Season’s Greetings, marked with unintelligible scribbles and a bold blue stamp on every past Tuesday.

“Our dorm room was never this clean,” Sumin finds herself saying.

“That’s because you lived there, too.” Sieun tosses his duffel by the couch and starts washing his hands in the kitchen sink. “Do you want something to eat?”

Sumin follows her stomach, then her head, then her heart, in that order. “Food would be great.”

She takes a seat at the counter. Sieun opens the fridge, revealing a scattering of groceries and two large, colorful cartons.

“What’s with all the orange juice?” asks Sumin.

“Top secret boy stuff. No girls allowed, etcetera, etcetera.” At the look on Sumin’s face, Sieun adds, “I’m joking. There’s anecdotal evidence that orange juice helps with testosterone uptake, and I like the taste.”

“…Right. I knew that.” A self-conscious warmth prickles at Sumin’s neck, so she busies herself with looking around the apartment some more and keeping inventory of the things she sees. Egg timer, chapstick, hoodie draped across the back of the couch.

And there, on the end table, a single photo frame with a glossy, yellowing sheet pinched between paperboard and glass. Objectively, it’s a little amateur — the focus is a little shaky, the flash is a bit strong, but the six people in the picture smile like they’ve never been happier than this.

“Our twenty-fifth win,” murmurs Sumin.

“Yeah.” Sieun doesn’t look up from where he’s stirring bouillon paste into boiling water. “It feels like it was so long ago.”

In the photo, Sieun has ash blonde hair, Sumin has fading lilac. A piece of confetti sticks to Sumin’s cheek and an earring is missing from Sieun’s left side. They’re sandwiched in the middle, same as they always were, in the identical platform boots they were always given.

That was before it all went downhill. That was before they’d go home, and Sumin would pull Sieun close behind the bedroom door, and they’d stand there, breathing in time, never making the next move.

“I’m sorry,” Sumin says, several years too late.

“Don’t be sorry,” says Sieun. “We won. We treated the girls to dinner.”

And everything after that? Sumin wants to ask. When I forgot to think it through? When you found out I was an opportunist, and a coward?

“It wasn’t the right time, and I think we both knew that.” Sieun chops a green onion in swift strokes. “I don’t blame you.”

But I do. In many ways, Sumin is still the naive girl who joined as a trainee, wide-eyed and oblivious to the fact that the two years would turn into five, that the training period would turn into a contract would turn into a unremarkable solo career. Always thinking about the target and not the fallout.

“And if you’re going to feel bad about that—” Sieun scoops the onion pieces up against his knife and scatters them into the broth. “—at least be reasonable. It was my fault, too.”

Sumin thinks about distances and walls. She thinks about cold hands pushing her away. She isn’t sure what else to feel.

The green onion is joined by bean sprouts, tofu, store-bought wontons. Black pepper, a few generous stirs. Sieun places a lid on the pot and waits.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. “I couldn’t stand it, Sumin. The idea of being loved. The idea of you loving me for the things I hated about myself.” He stops, swallows. “The idea of you loving me as a woman.”

Sumin doesn’t know where this came from. Who said anything about love, she thinks, getting the sudden impression that the rug has been pulled out from under her. “I… I didn’t realize,” she says.

“So I’m sorry,” he continues. “I’m sorry I didn’t get it right, I’m sorry I had to work myself out before I could even give you a second thought.”

She can’t take it anymore. “What are you talking about?”

Sieun looks her in the eye. “I like you, Sumin. I did and I still do.”

Sumin feels like she’s been punched. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t ever dream of a moment just like this, deep in her chest, close to her ribs, but it’s been so far buried that it’s painful to let it resurface. Rejection would hurt less.

“Please don’t say that,” she whispers.

Confusion crosses Sieun’s face before slowly morphing into concern. “What’s wrong?”

“What is there for you to love? What do you, Park Sieun, see in someone like me?”

Sieun stares at her. “You don’t know?”

“I’m an old washed-up idol who should have quit while I was ahead. I’m not interesting or memorable, and even when we were in STAYC, there was nothing special about me.” A desolate laugh escapes Sumin’s mouth. “I’m so mediocre.”

“You’re not mediocre,” says Sieun. He’s suddenly angry, and it shows in the way that it always has — insistent, measured, ice cold more than burning hot. “And even if you were, would it be so bad? Isn’t it enough to be kind and beautiful and fascinating? Isn’t it enough to just be you?”

Sumin freezes. “You think I’m kind.”

“And beautiful, and fascinating,” Sieun reminds her.

“You don’t have to think that about me. I wasn’t very good to you,” says Sumin.

“We were dumb twenty-somethings with chips on our shoulders,” says Sieun. “I wasn’t good to you, either. But I want to be. I want to learn how, together.”

In the beginning, it was adolescent cruelty — jealousy and ego. Then it was compromise, then friction, then renegotiation.

And at the end of it all, it was codependence. Sumin remembers watching a video about young bull elk, their antlers irreversibly locked together after the initial strike, fated to remain together when all they wanted at first was to fight. What would they do, then, with five years of separation?

“I don’t need an answer right now,” says Sieun.

Sumin wouldn’t have one, anyways. “And if I need space?”

“Take it. Take your time.” Sieun ladles the finished soup into a bowl and slides it across the counter. “Where we are, where we’ve made it to, we have more than enough.”

“Sumin. Earth to Sumin.”

Sumin snaps out of her stupor and nearly spills microwaved ramyeon onto Chaeyoung’s lap. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry—”

“Breathe.” Chaeyoung places her hands on Sumin’s shoulders and dramatically takes in a breath, motioning for her to follow along. “The world isn’t ending, no matter how much you think it is.”

She’s said these same words to Sumin a million times over, through thick and thin and Yeeun accidentally letting a rat into the dorms, and they still work. Sumin breathes.

“There you go,” says Chaeyoung. “Now what’s going on?”

The time is thirty minutes past midnight, and Sieun is asleep, as most people are. Sumin, on the other hand, has asked Chaeyoung in an all-caps text with three siren emojis to meet her in the 24-hour convenience store nearby.

“I’m having problems,” Sumin says, slowly.

“Okay.” Chaeyoung pulls the foil cover off her yogurt drink. “Let’s hear them.”

“I mean…” Sumin picks at the splintering wood of her complimentary chopsticks. “They’re kind of silly…”

“Silly enough to send me a message that says, quote, EMERGENCY HELP HELP WHAT DO I DO?”

Sumin shuts up. A big piece of the chopstick comes off into her ramyeon, and she sighs. “I know, I know. But I don’t even know what to ask you for help with.”

“Let’s start small. Family drama?”

“No.”

“Tax season?”

“I wish.”

“Back pain?”

Sumin shoots her a glare. “I’m only a year older than you.”

“Still worth mentioning, because good posture is very important,” says Chaeyoung. She’s folded the foil lid in half and in half again, forming a shiny quarter-circle in her hand. She looks up. “I’m going to be honest, Sumin, I can guess all night, but I can’t really help you until I know for sure.”

She’s right, and it’s terrible. Chaeyoung has always been good at getting to the point, the perfect counter to Sumin’s “smile-and-shrug-it-off” technique and an indispensable skill.

Still, Sumin has to work up the courage. She digs her nails into her palms and asks, timidly, “What does it feel like to be in love?”

Chaeyoung blinks. Then she breaks into a smile, her eyes curving into their trademark crescents as she singsongs, “Oh, do you have feelings for someone?”

“Stop, it’s not like that,” Sumin protests. “It’s — it’s complicated, that’s why I’m asking.”

“Complicated can mean a lot of things,” says Chaeyoung.

“We’re…” Sumin trails off, lost in thought. There’s a million factors she could consider, but in the simplest terms: “He already likes me. He said so himself. I just don’t know if I like him back.”

Chaeyoung listens to this and nods. “What are reasons you’d want to be in a relationship with him?”

“He’s… confident. He’s charming, I guess, and he knows me really well,” says Sumin. “He cares in his own weird, subtle ways.” She hesitates, before taking a deep breath and continuing. “…He’s someone I admire and respect.”

“Does it go both ways?”

“Yeah, somehow.” Sumin picks at her ramyeon. “Not sure how that happened.”

“And what are reasons you wouldn’t want to be in a relationship with him?”

Sumin sighs into her hands. “That’s the problem. They’re all the same things, but at their extremes — he knows me too well, he shows his love in ways I don’t get, and I have no idea why he picked me of all people.” She grimaces. “He’s just… so much.”

“Relationships are strange that way. The things you want have so much overlap with the things that scare you.” Chaeyoung presses her nail into the top of her foil slice, forming a red-and-silver heart. “Even I’ve had my fair share of doubts.”

This surprises Sumin. “But your girlfriend’s really sweet,” she says. “I always thought it would have been so easy for you to like her.”

“You’re right. My girlfriend is perfect and amazing and I can’t wait to get married next spring,” says Chaeyoung, “but that’s not what love is about. Are you willing to put in the work? Are you willing to make that choice, to keep caring about someone even when you see their messy, unfinished sides? I’m not saying you should be with someone who won’t value who you are, but even the best people have flaws. It’s up to you to decide if you love someone for more than what they are on the outside.”

Sumin takes this, mulls it over. She wavers. “What if I take too long?”

“If he’s really right for you, then that won’t matter.” Chaeyoung reaches over and squeezes her hand. “Good luck, Sumin. I’m rooting for you.”

In her second year of elementary school, there was a boy who sat next to Sumin and who would always reach over to tug on her pigtails.

“It’s because he likes you,” her mom said at the time, even though it turned out to be both untrue and unhelpful. Sumin stopped reading into cliches after that.

But now she sits on Sieun’s couch, the morning after talking with Chaeyoung, letting his hands guide her hair into two neat braids. He works with deft fingers — left, right, over; right, left, over — coaxing the black strands into neat, careful rows.

“You’re thirty-one years old,” says Sieun. “You’d think you’d know how to braid your hair by now.”

Sumin grumbles, though her heart isn’t in it. “I haven’t been doing my own hair for a while.”

“And I haven’t had long hair since 2028.”

That shouldn’t be as funny as it is, so Sumin sticks out her tongue to suppress the laugh. “Ha, ha. I have a bad memory, okay?”

“Then it’s a good thing you have me.” Sieun ties off the last braid, leaning back to examine his work. “There. That’s the last one.”

The light tug on Sumin’s scalp brings with it a sense of deja vu. It’s because he likes you, she remembers. Her face goes warm.

“What’s wrong?” asks Sieun.

“Nothing.” Sumin looks away. “…They look nice. Thank you.”

No one says anything when Sumin and Sieun start arriving on set together, and no one says anything when they leave together, too. Rehearsals continue, filming continues, and Sumin sleeps on Sieun’s couch and eats in his kitchen and the world keeps on spinning.

It’s strange, Sumin thinks, how easy it is to settle back into a life she thought she left. There’s nothing unfamiliar about waking up with Sieun. There’s nothing new about getting ready at the same bathroom counter, about going to work in the same car. More than muscle memory, it’s ease, even comfort.

But true to his word, Sieun gives Sumin her space. He never pushes, waiting in the open for whatever comes next. In exchange, Sumin finds it in her to take her own steps forward.

They cook. They fold laundry together. They have dinners after work that run long into the night, where Sumin tells Sieun about working in a movie theater for three months, about promising to officiate Chaeyoung’s wedding.

“Cute. So she’ll also officiate for you, right?” asks Sieun.

Sumin flushes. “Don’t get so ahead of yourself. Does it look like I’m getting married anytime soon?”

She lets herself be honest, even if it’s sometimes embarrassing, even if it’s sometimes scary. She learns, too, about how the years have passed around her.

Sieun cut his hair the February after disbandment. Announced it to the world in April. Took his first T shot in May, got top surgery three years later, kept his name through all of it because he didn’t mind and because it was already on the tip of everyone’s tongue.

“It’s all about the brand recognition,” he jokes.

Sumin swats his shoulder. “You’re awful.”

All this time, Sumin was so resistant to the idea of showing her real self to Sieun. Even in their idol days, she felt the need for a certain amount of distance — as if the lie would somehow last when they spent every waking hour together — and yet she still craved the closeness that lay just out of reach.

She knows better, now. She can only have one or the other. Between self-preservation and intimacy, it’s a matter of which she wants more.

All she has to do is make up her mind.

“Are we okay now?” Sumin asks, one night.

“I don’t know,” says Sieun. He’s taken to sleeping on the living room floor, keeping Sumin company as she crashes on the couch. “What do you think?”

“I don’t hate you,” says Sumin, “in case you were wondering.”

Sieun snorts. “Is the bar that low?”

“I never hated you,” Sumin feels the need to clarify.

Sieun rolls over on his side to face her. “Never?”

“Never.” Well, with one caveat, now that she thinks about it. “Except when we were trainees and we had GFRIEND’s ‘Me Gustas Tu’ as an evaluation song and you completely nailed it right after I cracked my voice on the high note.”

“Wow,” says Sieun. “You still remember that.”

“I was jealous,” says Sumin. “I got so caught up in the competition and I didn’t know any better. We’re better now, aren’t we?”

Sieun looks at her, propping himself up on one arm. “I would really hope so. Though, I should be asking you the same thing.”

His gaze holds the same gravity as it did all those nights ago — patience and longing in the same breath, a stillness that matches the faint moonlit glow from the window. That same stillness belies the storm in Sumin’s heart when Sieun says, “It doesn’t have to be anything if you don’t want it to.”

And what if she does? And what if she thinks it might be possible, and she’s willing to try, to know for certain?

She waits a moment too long. Sieun blinks, and the spell is broken. He settles back into his blankets. “Good night, Sumin.”

She holds onto her questions for a little while longer. “Good night.”

The director claps his hands and stands up. “Great work today, everybody. See you bright and early tomorrow for rehearsal!”

There’s a chorus of agreement and a few sideways glances. A few of the gaffers start whispering among themselves.

Tomorrow is the test run for the big, climactic episode. The one where Sumin’s and Sieun’s characters get caught in the rain, and the music swells, and the plot stops in its tracks for a good quarter of the runtime.

In other words, the kiss scene.

Sumin tries not to let it bother her. And evidently, neither do the rest of her coworkers, because they all want to go out to karaoke tonight to celebrate the most recently released episode hitting a viewership rating of 25 percent.

“It’s not even a good episode,” says Sieun, on the way to the venue. “The whole thing is focused on your character’s ridiculous backstory.”

“I don’t know,” replies Sumin. “I mean, developing a passion for pizza-making at age seven, after finding a lone Italian traveler washed up on Bukbu Beach? It doesn’t get much better than that.”

Sieun smiles, despite himself. “You’re right. Just wait until they get to mine, and it’s a thirty-minute flashback to being disowned by a traveling circus.”

They pull into the parking lot and head through the door. People have already started singing, even though they can’t be more than ten minutes behind, and a half-eaten plate of cheese balls sits on the low table.

“Sumin, Sieun!” exclaims one of the camera operators as they sit down. Pink and green lights flash across his face to the beat of the music. “You should go next!”

He’s clearly already drunk, which should make for some interesting shots tomorrow, but Sumin shakes her head politely and says, “Sorry, it’s not really my thing.”

“Not your thing?” He has to shout to be heard over the pounding bass and someone’s wailing vocals. “Didn’t you literally debut as a singer?”

“She’s just a good sport,” Sieun chimes in. “Doesn’t want to make you all look bad, you know?”

“Hey, I get it. Maybe towards the end of the night, then!” says the camera operator, grinning over his shoulder as he leaves to get another beer.

“Bold words,” says Sumin, once he’s gone. “I don’t think I’m outdoing anyone tonight, at least not with you around.”

“You never know, maybe you should have been the main vocalist all along.” Sieun picks up the plate in front of them and holds it out. “Cheese ball?”

Sumin accepts with a good-natured eye roll. “Now you’re just rubbing it in.”

Surprisingly, the session ends up being a good time — much more than the other nights Sumin has gone out with the cast and crew, at least. It’s fun to find out that her costars are less intimidating when they’re crooning old Monday Kiz songs, or when they’re waving to the beat with their tambourines and phone flashlights. Sumin claps along and smiles.

Every so often, though, she’ll sneak a look at Sieun, watching the way the disco ball throws luminous little squares across his face. They look like freckles, or stars, even, and in the light he seems at once so timeless and so new.

Maybe, not for the first time, this means something real. And maybe, just maybe, everything leading up to this moment was worth it, just for this.

Sieun catches her staring. “Do I have something in my hair?”

“What? No.” Just the sun in his smile, and the world in his eyes. Sumin tries to play it off. “I was wondering if you’re having fun.”

“I am,” says Sieun.

“You’ve been really quiet.”

“No, I know. It’s weird,” says Sieun. He looks around. “I’ll sing in front of a crowd, but this… this is different. It makes me a little nervous.”

“Why?”

He’s silent for a moment before answering. “You can’t look a crowd in the eye. But this close, and this personal, it’s like—”

“No way!” someone interrupts. “You’ll never believe what they have!”

The track preview kicks in and a familiar synth strain floods the room. Sumin’s eyes widen, and from the look that Sieun’s giving her, he recognizes it, too. This is a song they know by heart, from the whisper to the flourishes to the weighty thud of bass.

SO BAD — STAYC, read the words on the monitor. Sumin almost laughs at the fate of it all.

“No way,” echoes Sieun.

“That’s incredible,” says Sumin.

Their coworkers let out a whoop, selecting the track before either of them can get another word in. The song cues up. The speakers pulse with life, and the lights in the room go glittering purple and pink to match.

Like that, the camera op is back, beaming from ear to ear. He holds out a set of microphones. “Care to take the floor?”

“Oh, no,” says Sieun, “I couldn’t possibly—”

Sumin takes one microphone and presses the other into his hand. “Come on,” she says. “If we’re going to sing any song tonight, it has to be this one.”

Sieun pretends to protest, but lets Sumin tug him to the front of the room with little resistance. They share a smile before giving way to their well-worn chant.

“STAYC girls, it’s going down!”

As Sumin starts, the pace of her heart quickens in time. She never thought much of the lyrics when they debuted, writing it off as standard girl group fare, but now they’re almost confessional. She’s older, yes, and things have changed, but that only brings the realization into greater clarity.

She can feel the music unraveling what she’s left unsaid. She’s ready to speak them into being, as unexpected as it is — but most unexpected of all, she’s not alone in this feeling.

Sieun launches into the prechorus, an octave lower than the original, never once taking his eyes off her as he sings, “Baby, no matter how you push me away, things won’t change.” His expression shifts, open, yearning. “It’s clear that I like you. I can’t help it.”

In response, Sumin belts the words she knows and feels. “For real, I want you so bad…” Because it’s true, because it’s right, because it’s taken her so long to figure out and she finally has the answer.

She wants Sieun. She wanted the Sieun she knew then, and she wants the Sieun she knows now, the man with a tenor lilt to his voice and starlight freckles across the bridge of his nose. She wants him in all his beautiful imperfection, no matter the setbacks they’ve had along the way.

To discover this, Sumin only had to let herself see. Across from her, he shines, having been here all along.

And when they reach the bridge, when the choreography calls for Sieun to follow a Sumin that backs away, pushing off, Sumin holds on instead.

The room fades away until it’s just Sieun and her. “I’m scared,” he sings, “but still, I like you.”

“Please know my heart though I’m not good at this, baby.” Sumin is no expert at love, even less so at admitting it, but this is easy.

It could be the two of them, and it could be enough.

When the song finishes, fading out into vibrant reverb, Sumin pulls Sieun close. His chest rises and falls, and he looks at her like he’ll never need anything else.

“So, about tomorrow…”

Sumin leans in, enough courage for twelve years and more. “Who needs rehearsal anyways?”

The night the kiss scene airs, Sumin gets a text from Chaeyoung.

finally, it reads, followed by, jayoon owes me so much money ;)

Sumin blinks, once, twice. sorry?? she sends back.

i won the bet, says Chaeyoung. seeun too, if you were curious

A slow realization finally dawns on the glacier cap that is Sumin’s mind. The new revelation wedges itself into her brain until a slice of it cracks and creaks and sloughs off into the water below. please tell me you’re kidding, she begs.

nope, replies Chaeyoung.

you bet on our KISS???

and it’s been nearly a decade in the making. really sumin, the suspense was killing us.

Sumin tries to imagine it — the four of them, sitting around the table in secret, arguing about their older members’ hopelessly entangled love lives. She doesn’t know what she finds more baffling: Chaeyoung and Seeun saying yes? Jayoon and Yeeun saying no? The whole entire concept of the bet itself?

Her phone lights up again. but seriously, says Chaeyoung, i’m happy for you. i always had faith it would work out someday.

There’s something to be said for Chaeyoung’s peculiar wisdom, but Sumin isn’t about to let it go to her head. you’re welcome, she replies. so next time we go out, you’re buying?

nice try, comes Chaeyoung’s response. save it for dates with your new boyfriend <3

Next to her, Sieun peers over, chin resting on her shoulder. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” says Sumin. She pockets her phone and leans into him, lacing their fingers together. “Just helped someone win a bet, that’s all.”

“I’m not going to pretend to understand what that means,” says Sieun, but he still presses a kiss to her temple. “Congratulations.”

“Yeah,” agrees Sumin. “Congratulations to us.”

“Come on, we’re going to be late for the picnic!”

Sumin runs ahead with the basket in her arms. Sieun follows, amused, watching as she picks her way through the grass.

“No such thing,” he says. “It’s never too late for anything, especially not when Seeun is involved.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that. I hear she’s been learning judo for her newest role,” says Sumin.

He laughs. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

With Sieun, the weeks have bloomed into months, each day a new and welcome surprise. Some mornings it’s the sound of eggs crackling on the stove. Others, it’s the way his hair falls across the pillow, or the feeling of a warm hand in her own.

They’re taking it slow. For the first time in Sumin’s life, she feels no need to hurry. Still, this is a feeling she’s only ever dreamed of, and she tries to savor every moment for what it is.

“Hey,” says Sumin, gazing upwards, “how about that view?”

“It’s beautiful,” Sieun replies.

At the top of the hill, four familiar figures are waiting for them. They’ve picked a big tree to meet underneath, blanket already spread across the soft earth. Chaeyoung looks up and waves.

Sumin waves right back. She turns, a little breathless, and smiles. “Ready?”

Sieun is right by her side. “Always,” he says. “Whenever you are.”