Chapter Text
The studio no longer felt like a cage. The suffocating scent of turpentine had been replaced by the crisp, sweet aroma of jasmine and the lingering smell of lemon. The piles of discarded, grey sketches had been cleared away, the heavy curtains were pulled back, allowing the soft light of Seoul to spill across the floor.
Shuhua stood before the easel, her hand steady as she applied the final, microscopic dab of white oil paint to the canvas. A highlight in a pair of deep, knowing eyes.
She stepped back, her heart doing a slow, heavy roll in her chest. It was finished.
A soft knocking echoed through the room. “Is the grumpy artist ready to feed her muse?” Miyeon’s voice preceded her, followed by the girl herself, carrying a large bag of fried chicken and a grin that could outshine the studio lights.
Shuhua didn’t snap. She didn’t tell her to be quiet. Instead, she turned around and felt that familiar, electric hum in her blood. “You’re five minutes late. I was about to start eating the paint.”
Miyeon gigled, setting the food down on a small, newly polished wooden table in the center of the room. "You’d probably like the taste. It's as colorful as you've been lately." She paused, looking around the tidy room. "Wow, Shuhua-ya. It’s so... clean. I can actually see the floor. Are you feeling okay? Do you have a fever?"
Shuhua rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched. "I just didn't want my muse to trip over a pile of trash and sue me. Sit down and eat."
They sat on the floor, cushions spread out around the low table. The atmosphere was domestic and warm, the soft hum of a lo-fi playlist playing in the background. They bickered over the last piece of chicken, Shuhua eventually "giving in" by stuffing it into Miyeon’s mouth to stop her from pouting.
"You’re being suspiciously nice today," Miyeon mumbled through a mouthful of chicken, her eyes narrowing playfully. "What did you do? Did you abandon my favorite sunflower?"
"I did something better," Shuhua said, her voice suddenly dropping an octave. She wiped her hands on a napkin, her movements slow and deliberate. The playful energy in the room shifted, turning into something thick, quiet, and profoundly intimate.
Shuhua stood up and walked over to the easel, which was covered by a heavy velvet cloth. Her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears.
"I told you once that fate is an artist," Shuhua said, her back to Miyeon. "And that you were my muse. But I wasn't being entirely honest. I was still hiding."
She grabbed the edge of the cloth.
"I wasn't just stuck because I lacked inspiration. I was stuck because I was terrified that if I started painting you, I’d never be able to stop. And everyone would see exactly what I’ve been trying to bury."
With a soft rustle, Shuhua pulled the cloth away.
The painting was breathtaking. It wasn't just a likeness, it was a soul captured in pigment. It was Miyeon in that golden hour, vibrant, glowing, and surrounded by a world that had been rendered in dull, lifeless greys. It was a visual representation of how Shuhua’s heart functioned. Miyeon was the only source of light.
"It's yours," Shuhua whispered, finally turning to face her. Her "mean" armor was gone, leaving only the raw, vulnerable girl underneath. "A gift. And a confession."
Miyeon stood up, her legs a little shaky. she walked toward the canvas, her fingers trembling as they traced the air just inches from the dried paint. "Shuhua... this is..."
"I love you," Shuhua interrupted, the words tumbling out as if they had been under too much pressure for too long. "I’ve loved you since the very beginning, I’ve loved you since the times you were there for me, helping me. I’ve loved you since the times I pushed you away. I’ve loved you since the moment our eyes met. I was just scared that if I said it, the color would disappear. But it’s the opposite. The world is only bright when you’re near me."
Miyeon turned, a radiant, triumphant smile breaking across her face.
"You're such a dummy, Yeh Shuhua," Miyeon laughed, stepping into Shuhua’s space, the space Shuhua used to guard so fiercely. "You think I stayed because I liked being yelled at? I stayed because I’ve been waiting for you to realize that I’ve been in love with you since before you even picked up a palette."
Miyeon didn't wait for a rebuttal. She reached up, cupping Shuhua’s face with both hands, her thumbs brushing over the artist’s cheekbones.
"I don't care about the painting," Miyeon whispered, her breath warm against Shuhua’s lips. "I just want the artist."
Shuhua didn't pull away. She leaned in, closing the final inch of distance.
The kiss tasted like the end of a long winter. It was soft, hesitant at first, then deep and desperate, as if they were both trying to make up for all the years of push and pull. In that moment, the studio, the art, and the world outside vanished.
Shuhua pulled back just a fraction, her forehead resting against Miyeon’s. Her world wasn't grey anymore.
"Does this mean you’re going to be even more clingy now?" Shuhua murmured, a tiny, playful smirk returning to her lips.
Miyeon laughed, hugging her neck tightly. "Absolutely. You're never getting a moment of peace again."
"Good," Shuhua whispered, holding her tighter. "I think I’m finally ready for that noise."