Chapter Text
Mondays at Artemis
The bell above the door didn’t chime—because on Mondays, Artemis didn’t open.
Yeojin pushed her way in anyway, sleep still in her bones and a takeout coffee threatening to spill as she kicked the door closed behind her with her foot.
“Morning,” she called, voice rough with disuse, “or whatever hellish version of it this is.”
From behind the counter, Chaewon popped up like a squirrel caught mid-theft, arms buried in crates. “You’re early.”
Yeojin stared at her, blank. Then slowly raised her coffee cup like an offering to the gods. “Only for you. And only because you bribed me with last week’s truffle fries.”
“You ate two baskets.”
“I have no regrets,” Yeojin said, dragging herself toward the bar and slumping onto a stool like gravity had personally wronged her.
Chaewon laughed, brushing her bangs back as she straightened up. “Thanks for covering delivery day again. I owe you.”
“You owe me a permanent punch card to your soul,” Yeojin said flatly. “Also your left kidney. Maybe both if that wine crate from last week bruised my foot.”
“That was your fault. Who stores wine like it’s Jenga?” Chaewon pulled a clipboard from under the counter and tossed it onto the bar. “Besides, you’re surprisingly good at inventory for someone who barely shows up to her own tapings on time.”
Yeojin made a wounded noise. “That’s slander. I always show up.”
“Exactly on the minute.”
“Why waste energy on being early?”
Chaewon rolled her eyes and reached for her carry-on, neatly packed by the door. Her passport peeked out from a folder beside it. “Well, since you’re already here, I’m off to JFK.”
Yeojin perked up, eyes narrowing. “New York, huh? Fancy. Wait—” she grinned, “—is Hyeju going?”
Chaewon’s hands paused. Her ears, predictably, turned pink.
“I don’t know,” she said, very carefully casual. “She said she might drop by the opening if her schedule clears.”
“Oh,” Yeojin said, dragging out the syllable, smug as hell. “So you’re hoping she does.”
Chaewon tried to busy herself with folding a napkin that didn’t need folding.
Yeojin sipped her coffee, victorious.
“I hate you,” Chaewon muttered.
“No, you don’t,” Yeojin said, cheery now. “Now go. I’ll keep your fortress running.”
“Don’t bully the wine guy,” Chaewon warned as she headed for the door.
Yeojin raised a brow. “There’s a wine guy?”
“You’ve met her,” Chaewon said. “Masked. Always wears a cap. You said she looked like a K-drama cameo in a grape field.”
Yeojin frowned. “That sounds like me. I don’t remember her, though.”
“She’s nice,” Chaewon said, lingering by the door. “Quiet. But you’ll like her.”
Yeojin made a skeptical face. “Doubt.”
Then the door shut, and Yeojin was left with a half-drunk coffee, a clipboard of incoming produce, and the distant hum of Monday deliveries on the street outside.
🍷🍷🍷
It’s almost 9 a.m., and the morning sun is now in full bloom through the skylights of Artemis, painting everything in a soft, golden glaze. Yeojin lets out a triumphant little “ha!” as she ticks off the final box on her clipboard — the last batch of dairy, logged and labeled. She stretches her arms overhead, back cracking like bubble wrap, before letting herself collapse dramatically onto the stool behind the front counter.
Moments later, a warm clink pulls her back to life.
Another cup of coffee. Not her usual take-out kind, but freshly brewed in one of Artemis’s speckled stone mugs — placed in front of her by Sooyoung, the kitchen’s longtime manager and resident unbothered queen. Next to the mug sits a generous slice of pie.
Yeojin squints at it.
“Wait. Since when do we serve pie in the morning?”
Sooyoung shrugs without much interest. “We don’t. That’s from Yerim.”
Yeojin blinks. “Yerim?”
Another shrug. “The wine guy.”
Yeojin raises an eyebrow. “Chaewon’s wine supplier Yerim?”
“Mm.” A shrug. “She brought a box this morning. Sometimes she brings sweets when she delivers. Last week it was lemon cake.”
Yeojin leans over the counter to stare at the pie like it might explode. “That’s weirdly wholesome for a wine dealer.”
Sooyoung shrugs again, because she has the energy of someone who’s seen stranger things and lived to ignore them.
“She just… brings baked goods?” Yeojin asks.
“Sometimes. Depends on her mood, I guess.” Then, as an afterthought: “Good pie, though.”
Yeojin eyes the slice suspiciously. It looks good — golden crust, glossy cherry filling, edges just shy of rustic. It smells even better. Like slow afternoons and warm kitchens. She leans in, then hesitates.
“She didn’t, like, say anything? Leave a note?”
“Nope.” Sooyoung is already halfway out of the room.
Yeojin watches her disappear through the swinging door, then spins toward the back exit on impulse. If this Yerim person is still here, she wants a look. Preferably before pie starts clouding her judgment.
She bolts to the receiving area, skids around a crate, and yanks the door open—
Just in time to see the back of a pick-up truck turning the corner. Faint hum of tires on gravel, tailgate slightly rusted. Gone.
Yeojin frowns, then trudges back inside and resumes her dramatic lean over the counter.
She stares at the pie again. It is free. She is hungry. And it is ... calling her.
One bite.
The crust flakes like it’s been folded with actual love. The filling is a burst of tart and warmth — not too sweet, not too syrupy. There’s something faintly floral in the aftertaste. Unexpected. Familiar.
Yeojin pauses mid-chew.
She frowns.
It tastes like something she should remember. Or someone. But the memory is just out of reach, like a name on the tip of her tongue.
She finishes the slice in three more bites.
“Chaewon should put that in the rotation,” she mutters, brushing crumbs off her shirt. “Seriously.”
Then she glances toward the back door again.
Who is this wine supplier?
The Notes Begin
It’s been a few weeks since the cherry pie. Yeojin told herself she wouldn’t overthink it — it was just pie. A very good pie. From a wine supplier who maybe just liked to bake. Case closed.
But the taste still sneaks up on her sometimes. On quiet mornings. In rerun dreams. That warmth behind her teeth, the memory of something almost remembered.
Today, she’s not even supposed to be here.
The network finally wrapped the last episode of her variety show’s season, and instead of celebrating like a normal person, she found herself on a bus to Artemis. Something about the idea of free food and a clean-smelling kitchen felt comforting. Familiar. Like being wrapped in a hoodie two sizes too big.
When she arrives, Chaewon is sitting alone at one of the corner tables near the bar, hunched over a mountain of receipts and folders like they personally insulted her.
Yeojin snorts. “You really need an accountant.”
Chaewon doesn’t even look up. “I want to be more hands-on with the books this year.”
Yeojin slides into the chair across from her. “Right. Until you go cross-eyed trying to balance a week’s worth of dessert sales.”
Chaewon hums without argument, pen scribbling furiously, but her phone buzzes a few seconds later. She glances at it, sighs, and stands.
“Supplier call. Be back in a few.”
Yeojin nods, not thinking much of it — until the kitchen doors swing open and Sooyoung marches through, arms full of what looks like canned goods and two bags of rock salt. Another staffer follows behind her, equally loaded.
Instinct kicks in. Yeojin hops up and follows them toward the back, brushing past the flaps of the swinging door.
“Yah,” Sooyoung calls over her shoulder when she sees her. “You’re not staff.”
“Consider it a limited-time volunteer voucher,” Yeojin grins. “You guys backed up?”
“Something like that. Late delivery.”
Yeojin doesn’t ask further. She slips into the flow of movement easily, sidestepping crates, holding open the door to the receiving area—when she sees her.
Back turned. Black hoodie, cap low over the eyes. The kind of casual no-nonsense look that screams “don’t talk to me,” and yet… there’s something strangely gentle about the way she moves.
She’s lifting a crate of wine bottles from the back of an old pickup. No grunt, no dramatic effort — just strong, practiced motion. Like she’s done it a hundred times.
Yeojin halts.
That must be her.
Yerim.
Even from this distance, there’s something sharp and focused about her silhouette — compact and sure. A bit mysterious. And far quieter than Yeojin imagined. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t even glance up. Just unloads one crate, then another. Efficient. Intentionally invisible.
Yeojin leans subtly against the doorframe, arms crossed. Watching.
She tries not to stare, but her curiosity flares like a lighter flicked on low.
This is the one bringing pie?
Before she can think too hard, Yerim turns slightly, adjusting her grip on a box. Her cap tilts just enough for Yeojin to catch a sliver of her face — sharp jawline, pale cheek, lips set in neutral.
Then their eyes meet.
Brief. Direct.
Yerim blinks once, then looks away.
But Yeojin doesn’t move. Something about the glance feels… out of sync with the rest of her. Her body language says “don’t notice me.” But her eyes? They lingered. Just a fraction longer than necessary.
Sooyoung breezes past again, tapping Yeojin on the elbow. “You spacing out?”
Yeojin jerks a little. “No, just… taking inventory with my eyes.”
Sooyoung smirks but doesn’t press.
Back inside, Yeojin helps stack crates in the kitchen, washes her hands, and flops dramatically into a barstool near the walk-in fridge. Chaewon is still on the phone somewhere.
She taps her fingers on the counter.
Then she notices it — a Post-it. Pale yellow. Stuck on the corner of one of the unopened wine crates.
“Try this with strawberries.”
She frowns, tilts her head.
Cute. Kind of poetic, actually.
Yeojin blinks.
Okay.
She picks it up, reads it again.
She places it back and tries to brush it off. Probably just… wine supplier things.
Chaewon’s voice floats in from behind her.
“You’re staring at that like it’s a love letter.”
Yeojin jumps slightly in her seat. “You scared me.”
Chaewon steps closer, peering over her shoulder. She plucks the Post-it off the crate and glances at the bottles below it. Then, without a word, she shifts her gaze from the label to Yeojin — who now looks up at her like a kid caught reading someone else's diary.
Chaewon raises a brow.
Behind them, Sooyoung emerges from the kitchen, clocking the scene — and without a word, offers Chaewon a subtle, knowing smirk before disappearing back inside.
Yeojin narrows her eyes at that exchange. “What was that? Did you two just… mind-meld or something?”
Chaewon ignores the question and reaches for one of the bottles. She wipes the condensation off the glass with the side of her apron and hands it to Yeojin. “Here.”
Yeojin blinks. “What, you’re giving me wine now?”
“You’ve worked here unpaid for weeks,” Chaewon deadpans. “Think of it as… partial backpay.”
Yeojin squints at the label. “Backpay, huh. Sounds like Artemis is becoming generous.”
Chaewon smirks. “Just try it. With strawberries. Like it said.”
Yeojin snorts. “Look at you, speaking in riddles now. Did Yerim leave you her wine wisdom in a will or something?”
“Just take the bottle, Yeojin.”
“Fine, fine.” She hops off the barstool, holding the wine like she’s just been handed a sacred relic. “But if this ruins my palate, I’m blaming you personally.”
Chaewon’s only response is a shake of the head and a half-smile, already walking off toward the kitchen again — leaving Yeojin alone with the wine, the Post-it, and a new itch in the back of her mind she can’t quite scratch.
🍷🍷🍷
It starts out innocently enough.
A few weeks after the strawberry wine, Yeojin starts showing up at Artemis more often — Mondays, in particular. Early. Earlier than a night owl like her should be awake. She insists it’s just for the ambiance. Or the coffee. Or Chaewon’s face when she realizes Yeojin beat her to the restaurant.
“It’s getting suspicious,” Jinsol, one of Chaewon’s staff teases one morning as she wipes down the pastry display. “You sure you’re not gunning for my job?”
“She’s gunning for mine,” Chaewon adds from behind the bar, dry as ever.
Yeojin scoffs. “Please. I make terrible coffee, and make EVEN MORE terrible food. I’d bring this place down in a week.”
“So apply for front-of-house,” Sooyoung offers, grinning. “You’ve got the banter. Terrible attitude, but some people like that.”
“Yeah,” Yeojin deadpans. “Like my boss.”
Laughter ripples through the café. Someone tosses her a warm croissant as a peace offering. She catches it and pretends not to smile.
Still, she doesn’t deny it when Chaewon jokingly tells her to quit being a PD and join the Artemis crew full-time.
She just shrugs and says, “Maybe I will.”
Mondays become ritual.
Yeojin always volunteers to receive the wine deliveries. No one even asks anymore — she just does it. Every week, she acts surprised when the crates arrive earlier than expected, as if she hadn’t been checking the time since six.
And Yerim?
Yerim never stays long.
She unloads the crates quickly, scribbles something in a clipboard, gives a polite nod — and she’s off again. Always soft-spoken. Always in a rush. But their glances linger a little longer each time. Not quite a conversation, but not quite silence either.
“Morning,” Yeojin says, handing Yerim a bottled water.
“Thanks,” Yerim replies, brushing their fingers together in the exchange. They both pretend not to notice.
Then Yerim is gone.
The deliveries start changing.
One week, it’s a pouch of dried cherries tucked in the corner of the crate. Next, it’s edible flowers sealed in a glass container. Another time, a slice of matcha chiffon in a little box that smells like spring.
Always with a Post-it.
“Steep this in warm tea.”
“Try this with cream.”
“Freeze these overnight and eat them cold.”
Yeojin reads each note. Every time. And every time, she places it back carefully, like it’s not hers to keep.
She assumes it’s for Chaewon. Of course it is. Yerim and Chaewon must be close — wine friends or food friends or whatever kind of friends share desserts and edible flowers and strange, poetic instructions.
Chaewon never makes a big deal out of the gifts. She just lets Yeojin take it, waves her off when she asks, “Are you sure?”
So Yeojin starts collecting them — not the gifts, but the Post-its. She keeps them tucked in the pocket of her planner, like receipts from a dream she hasn’t fully woken up from.
And still, she doesn’t ask.
Because asking might break the spell.
The Cherry Bottle
It’s a quiet Thursday when Yeojin finds it.
She’s in the back cellar, helping Chaewon do inventory — a task she usually avoids under the excuse of “not being a numbers person,” but she’s in a good mood. Or maybe just restless.
She’s halfway through a stack of crates when she sees it: a slim bottle nestled behind a row of sparkling whites, almost like someone had hidden it there on purpose.
Soft pink. No label. No invoice.
Just a Post-it, pale yellow and barely clinging to the glass.
“Drink this on a Thursday. You’ll understand.”
Yeojin blinks.
It’s not on the list. Not on the delivery schedule. Not even Chaewon seems to know where it came from when Yeojin holds it up with a raised brow.
“Looks like one of Yerim’s experiments,” Chaewon says, glancing at the note. “She gets playful sometimes.”
Yeojin turns the bottle over in her hands.
Thursday. It is Thursday.
She opens it alone that night.
No fanfare, no fancy food pairing. Just her, a quiet apartment, and a long day behind her.
The first sip is… soft.
Velvety. Warm. Cherry, but not artificial — ripe and dark, like it was sun-dried before being pressed into wine. Hints of clove. Vanilla. Summer rain on concrete. The kind of taste that lingers on your tongue and then, quietly, somewhere else — in the chest. In the gut. In a memory you forgot you ever had.
Yeojin stills.
There’s something about it. A feeling that starts behind her ribcage and slowly spreads outward.
It tastes like déjà vu.
Like college nights half-remembered, laughter echoing down stairwells, someone looking at her from across a fire escape. Like a scent she’s smelled before — on a sweater, maybe, or between the pages of an old notebook.
She’s met so many people. As a producer, faces blur. Names get filed away. But this?
This doesn’t feel like forgetting.
It feels like someone she should remember.
She stares at the glass for a long time, swirling the liquid gently. Pink catching the kitchen light. Her fingers curled loosely around the stem.
Chaewon finds her like that — seated at the bar the next day, swirling her second glass of the cherry wine, completely out of it.
“You’re spacing,” Chaewon says, sliding a bowl of almonds her way. “Which means one of two things: either you're writing a new show in your head or…”
Yeojin lifts her eyes slowly.
“…you like her,” Chaewon finishes, watching her carefully.
Yeojin chokes. “Who?”
Chaewon snorts. “Don’t do that. You know exactly who.”
“I don’t like her,” Yeojin says too quickly. “I barely know her. I don’t even—”
She falters.
Because what is she supposed to say?
I don’t even know her name… except I do. I asked Jinsol last week after pretending I forgot. I don’t know what her voice sounds like when she isn’t being shy. I don’t know her laugh. I don’t even know what she looks like without the cap and hoodie.
But she does know the way Yerim wraps the desserts she sends—like little treasures folded in wax paper and string, handwritten notes pressed between layers like petals in a journal. The care in them is unmistakable. Thoughtful. Intimate. And when Yerim hands them over—softly, eyes lowered—it never quite feels like she’s giving them to Chaewon. It feels like they’re meant for her.
She knows the quiet way their fingers always brush, never quite accidental anymore.
She knows how Yerim doesn’t look at her the way she looks at other people — she always looks twice.
And she knows the cherry wine didn’t taste like something new.
It tasted like something lost.
“God,” Jiwoo mutters from the couch, where she’s been scrolling through her phone unnoticed. “You’re so in love.”
Yeojin turns bright red.
“I’m not—! Shut up!”
“You’ve gone soft,” Jiwoo sings, kicking her foot in the air. “This is so cute. I thought you buried your heart after what’s-her-face in college.”
“She has a name.”
“Exactly. And we don’t say it.”
Chaewon snorts, handing Yeojin a glass of water. “Welcome back to the land of the emotionally available. We missed you.”
Yeojin groans, drops her forehead on the bar, and mumbles into the counter, “This is why I stopped dating.”
But neither of them listens.
Because the pink in her cheeks says everything she won’t.
And the wine is only the beginning.
The Rooftop Memory
The message comes on a Tuesday.
Chaewon:
dinner this friday at artemis 🤍
Jiwoo:
what’s the occasion??
Chaewon:
supplier thanksgiving thing!! all the partner vendors we’ve worked with this past year are coming. figured it’s time i fed everyone who keeps this place alive lol
Hyeju:
is this why u cleaned the wine fridge??
Chaewon:
shut up
Hyunjin:
sooo… are WE also considered supplier partners? 😏
Chaewon:
ur on the guestlist bc u steal my garnishes every time ur here
Heejin:
im coming just to judge everyone’s outfit
Jungeun:
free food. im in.
Yeojin doesn’t reply.
She stares at her phone long after the chat goes quiet, thumb hovering over the keyboard, then locking the screen.
She knows Yerim will be there.
No hoodie. No clipboard. No excuse to stay hidden behind a crate of merlot. Just Yerim. In real clothes. Maybe makeup. Maybe nothing at all but her.
And the idea of that—of seeing her in the warm blur of fairy lights and laughter, with no delivery checklist to separate them—
It terrifies her more than she wants to admit.
She presses her phone to her chest and exhales.
A beat.
Then she mutters to herself, half-resigned, half-dreading:
“…Shit. I need something to wear.”
🍷🍷🍷
Chaewon had been clear in the group chat:
you don’t have to come early!!! my team did everything already!!! just arrive, eat, look cute, thank the supplier people 🫡
But Yeojin has been ready since 5:30.
She paces her living room once, twice. Checks her reflection. Then again.
She adjusts the sleeves of her burnt orange coat—structured, clean lines, warm against the white button-up she didn’t bother tucking in.
Producer uniform. Safe. Polished. Practical.
Not a dress.
Not a risk.
At 6:02, Jiwoo arrives with headlights and honks.
Yeojin slips into the passenger seat, tugging her coat closed like armor.
Jiwoo glances at her sideways. “You okay?”
Yeojin hums. “Yeah.”
Silence.
Jiwoo waits, as she always does, not pushing.
The engine hums. The city passes in warm tones. And then—
“I don’t know what this is,” Yeojin says quietly, fingers playing with the seam of her coat.
Jiwoo doesn’t answer, just turns the music down a notch.
“She’s just… familiar,” Yeojin continues. “Even though I’m convinced we’ve never met before. Not really. But there’s something about her. It’s like—I don’t know. My brain keeps trying to place her, like she’s some actor I saw once in a film I forgot I cried over.”
Jiwoo raises a brow. “Wow. That’s… oddly poetic for you.”
Yeojin side-eyes her. “Don’t start.”
Jiwoo grins. “Just saying. Sounds like someone believes in soulmates.”
Yeojin snorts. “You’ve been hanging out with Heejin too much.”
“Guilty. But seriously…” Jiwoo glances at her again. “You like her?”
Yeojin doesn’t answer right away. She just exhales, barely audible.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I think I’m scared to.”
The rest of the ride hums with that quiet vulnerability. Jiwoo doesn’t pry again. She just drives, letting Yeojin sit in the tension of her own heart, until the soft glow of Artemis comes into view—windows golden, rooftop lights flickering like a heartbeat against the dark.
And Yerim—somewhere inside.
Most of the guests were already deep in conversation when Jiwoo and Yeojin stepped into Artemis.
Tables lined the main hall—warm light catching in wine glasses, easy laughter rising above the low thrum of jazz. Familiar suppliers mingled with staff, and Chaewon floated somewhere between host and fairy godmother, refilling glasses and introducing names with ease.
But no Yerim.
Yeojin tried not to care.
Tried not to scan every unfamiliar shoulder, every face not turned her way. But her neck betrayed her. Her gaze wandered. Her heart waited.
After the third circle around the main hall, she gave up. Maybe Yerim wasn’t the type to show up to these things. Maybe she never intended to in the first place.
Yeojin didn’t ask. She didn’t say anything.
She just ate. Drank. Laughed when everyone else did. Nodded along to conversations she couldn’t remember two seconds after they ended.
Jiwoo watched her. So did Chaewon. But neither of them said a word.
They let her cope in peace.
🍷🍷🍷
It’s sometime past ten when Yeojin slips up to the rooftop.
The air is cooler here, laced with early hints of autumn and the faint perfume of herbs from the planter boxes near the edge. The horizon hums in neon and smog. She breathes it in like it might settle the ache in her chest.
Two glasses in. Maybe three.
She isn’t counting.
She’s sitting on a crate, legs curled under her, when another glass of wine is placed gently beside her.
She doesn’t look up right away. Just reaches for it out of habit, fingers brushing the cool stem.
“Thanks,” she mutters.
No answer.
She takes a sip.
And stops.
It hits all at once—soft, slow, sweet.
Cherries.
Not the artificial syrupy kind, but ripe ones. Real ones. Sun-warmed, just-pulled-from-the-branch kind. A little tart. A little dark. Alive.
She closes her eyes, the flavor unspooling memory like thread:
Yeojin, years ago. A rooftop. A party. College.
She remembers the shitty folding chairs. The too-loud Bluetooth speaker someone kept restarting. The half-hearted birthday banner still stuck with masking tape above the water tank.
She hadn’t meant to drink that much. But heartbreak had a way of turning her stomach inside out, and the beer in plastic cups was cold enough to numb the sting of being dumped.
Everyone else had already gone downstairs. Or passed out. Or paired off.
But she stayed.
Yeojin downed the last half of her beer, grimaced, and let the empty cup crumple in her fist.
It wasn’t doing a damn thing.
She stood, a little wobbly, and made her way to the edge of the rooftop—the safe part, where the concrete wall came up to her ribs. She leaned her forearms against it, staring out past the blinking skyline.
The horizon was smeared in gold and gray. Too beautiful for the mess her chest had become.
And then, without thinking, she screamed.
Loud. Raw. Her voice ripping out of her throat in a sound that startled even her.
“FUCK YOU, CHAERIN!”
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
Yeojin laughed bitterly, breath catching. Her throat ached. Her eyes burned. Her heart felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry on a line no one would ever check again.
That’s when a voice called out behind her.
“Don’t jump.”
She blinked, startled—then whipped around with a confused frown.
A girl stood near the door to the rooftop, hands in her jacket pockets, eyes unreadable under the low moonlight.
Yeojin snorted. “Seriously?”
The girl just tilted her head.
Yeojin waved a hand vaguely toward the ledge. “I’m not gonna kill myself over a girl. Jesus. I’m heartbroken, not brain-dead.”
The girl didn’t reply.
Instead, she crossed the space slowly, then sat beside Yeojin, just far enough not to intrude.
The silence settled between them—not heavy, but...intentional. Like neither of them wanted to scare it off.
The moonlight caught on the bottle in the girl's hands. No label. Just a deep green glass, dusty at the neck.
Yeojin squinted.
“What’s that?”
The girl turned it slowly in her hands. “Something I’ve been working on,” she said after a moment. “It’s a new blend. I think... I think I finally got it right.”
Yeojin straightened, curiosity cutting through her haze. “You make wine?”
“Sort of.” A shrug. “I experiment.”
Yeojin leaned her cheek on her hand, watching her. “So you’re, like... a grape whisperer or something.”
That got a small smile.
“Wanna try?” the girl asked, holding it out.
Yeojin nodded, took the bottle, and swigged without ceremony.
It was surprisingly gentle. Sweet, but not too much. Like it had a story to tell but wasn’t in a rush.
She blinked. “Holy shit.”
The girl smiled again. “That’s the cherries.”
Yeojin turned to look at her then—really look.
And just for a moment, the haze cleared.
Her eyes refocused, the drunken fog parting long enough for the moonlight to catch on the girl’s features.
Dark hair. Bare face. A beauty so quiet, it almost looked like sadness.
Not the kind of girl you'd write poems about after one glance. But the kind that'd linger in your head two weeks later when you're brushing your teeth and suddenly remember the way she tucked her hair behind her ear like she was trying not to be noticed.
Yeojin giggled.
"You're really pretty," she said, more to the moon than the girl beside her. The alcohol blurred her filters, but her voice was gentle, honest.
The girl startled at that—eyes widening slightly as if no one had ever said it before. Her blush rose quick and uneven across her cheeks.
Yeojin pointed at her, not teasing, just... amazed. "See? Even the way you blush is pretty."
The girl laughed then, caught off guard. A real one. Open and round and maybe a little too loud for midnight, but it rang clear across the rooftop like wind chimes.
"If I were actually pretty," she said, shaking her head, "I wouldn’t be the loner weirdo who makes her own wine while her roommate throws a party two feet away."
Yeojin turned her body slightly, studying her. “What’s so wrong with that?” she asked, her tone mellow but certain. “As long as you like what you’re doing… that’s enough, isn’t it?”
The girl smiled again, but didn’t answer. Her eyes dropped to the bottle between them. Fingers brushing over the glass like it was the one thing she could hide behind.
Yeojin tilted her head. “Unless you’re one of those tragic loner weirdo types who’s... never even kissed anyone yet.”
She said it playfully. Light. A tease tossed into the air like confetti. But the way the girl’s shoulders pulled in, the way her thumb fumbled over the bottle cap—it was answer enough.
Yeojin blinked. The silence between them thickened. She felt the wine go bitter in her throat.
Shit.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quickly, voice softer now. She sat up straighter and reached out—not to touch, just to gesture between them. “I was just kidding. I didn’t mean to make you feel—”
She cut herself off, mouth clumsy with regret. The bottle between them clinked as she gently set it down on the cool concrete. Her fingers lingered at its base.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
The girl didn’t look up yet. Just kept her gaze on the city lights, her expression unreadable in the low moonlight.
Then finally, she spoke.
“You should pay for the wine.”
Yeojin blinked. “Huh?”
“You drank, like, half the bottle,” the girl added, still looking ahead—casual in tone, but her voice held the slightest tremble. “That’s gotta be worth something.”
Yeojin stared at her, unsure if she was joking or serious. Slowly, she reached into the back pocket of her jeans, fumbling for a crumpled bill or coins—anything, really.
But before she could pull anything out, a hand reached across and gently stopped her.
“Not with money.”
Yeojin looked up, startled.
The girl’s face was calm now. Braver, somehow. She met Yeojin’s eyes for the first time and said, simply—
“Pay me by giving me my first kiss.”
And just like that, the memory slipped like warm wine over cold lips and the rooftop dissolved into shadows.
Yeojin stared down at the wine glass now sitting in front of her. The rim caught the rooftop lights, glinting like a halo.
She brought it back to her lips, took another sip.
Slow.
Searching.
The taste unfurled across her tongue like a photograph being developed in a darkroom—layer by layer, detail by detail, until the image was undeniable.
There was no mistake.
It was the same wine.
From that night.
From her.
Before Yeojin could even sit with that realization, a hand clapped firmly against her back.
“Yeojin,” Chaewon’s voice cut in, urgent and low, “I need you to come with me to the back kitchen. Now. It’s an emergency.”
Yeojin blinked, the glass still in her hand.
The rooftop lights blurred in her peripheral vision. She stood up slowly, the wine like gravity in her chest.
Something was happening.
Despite the jolt of realization still blooming in her chest, Yeojin rushed after Chaewon, weaving through clusters of guests and kitchen staff like she’d just come up for air.
“Where—?”
“Just move.”
Chaewon yanked open the back kitchen doors, metal hinges groaning, then led Yeojin past the prep stations and straight to the cellar door.
Before Yeojin could question anything, Chaewon gripped her by the shoulders and gave her one solid shove inside.
“Hey—!”
The door slammed shut behind her.
From the other side, Chaewon’s voice rang out, loud and unbothered:
“Figure it out, you emotionally constipated lesbians—before I replace you both with ones who know how to talk.”
Then silence.
Yeojin stood alone in the dim cellar—until she turned.
And froze.
Yerim.
No hoodie. No cap.
Just Yerim. In a dress the color of spilled wine. Soft fabric clinging gently to her frame. Hair tucked neatly behind her ear. And those same eyes, unreadable as always, but no longer hiding behind shadow.
The blur from the rooftop all those years ago focused into crystal clarity.
Yeojin’s breath hitched. Her voice broke around a whisper.
“You were her.”
Yerim nodded.
No smile. No apology.
Just truth, quiet and trembling at the edges.
The Answer
Yerim didn’t move.
Neither did Yeojin.
The air between them vibrated with the tension of everything unsaid—memories resurfacing in soft focus, like a dream sharpened by reality.
Then Yerim stepped forward.
Not too close. Just enough to be within reach.
Yeojin blinked, her throat dry.
“You look really pretty,” she said, voice quieter than she meant it to be.
Yerim let out a light laugh—soft and knowing.
“You said that before too.”
Yeojin froze. The memory clicked into place like the final note of a melody she hadn’t realized she was humming.
Yerim’s smile was small. Shy. But real.
“I thought I dreamed that part,” she said. “Until now.”
Yeojin’s lips parted, flustered. “W–well, you still can’t argue it. You are. Pretty, I mean.”
“Oh?” Yerim tilted her head slightly, stepping closer, her voice teasing but warm. “Is that because I’m no longer a loner weirdo who makes wine while her roommate throws rooftop parties?”
Yeojin tried to will her body to move, but her feet were planted. Her cheeks flushed—this time, not from the wine.
It was the rush.
Of recognition.
Of Yerim.
Of the fact that she wasn’t just pretty—
She was beautiful.
And then Yerim closed the distance just a little more. Close enough that Yeojin could smell the faint scent of cherries and something else—something warm, almost like home.
Moonlight spilled through the small cellar window, catching on the curve of Yerim’s cheekbone.
Her voice dipped lower.
“Or is it because I’m no longer a loner weirdo who hasn’t kissed anyone yet?”
Yeojin felt like she might implode right there—right on the wine cellar floor.
Her heart thundered in her chest.
She wanted to run. To hide. To crack a joke.
But she didn’t move.
Not when Yerim was just an arm’s reach away.
Not when she’d spent all this time unknowingly waiting for her again.
Yerim’s question still lingered in the air, teasing and weightless, but her eyes searched Yeojin’s with a seriousness that made the room feel suddenly smaller.
Yeojin swallowed hard, heart in her throat. “You talk like you were waiting for me.”
Yerim didn’t flinch. “I was.”
Her voice had softened now. Like she wasn’t just saying it for drama, but from something real. Something old. Something still alive between them.
The pause that followed felt sacred.
Then Yerim tilted her head slightly, her eyes lowering to Yeojin’s lips before returning to meet her gaze again.
“Did you forget me?” she asked, almost in a whisper. Not accusing. Just... wondering. Like it mattered more than she’d let on until now.
Yeojin’s breath caught. She let out a short, helpless laugh, like she couldn’t believe how full her chest suddenly felt.
“Only until you reminded me.”
That made Yerim smile. Not wide. Just barely. Like her heart exhaled for the first time in a long time.
Yeojin’s voice dipped, a whisper now too. “You’re really not a weirdo anymore.”
Yerim leaned in just slightly, her tone still playful. “Who says I’m not?”
Yeojin grinned, shaky and unsteady. “Well… I don’t think a weirdo could make me feel like this.”
There was only a hand’s breadth between them now. The scent of cherry wine, the soft cotton of Yerim’s dress, the faint sound of music humming somewhere behind the cellar door.
No more parties. No more Post-its.
Just this.
Yerim leaned in slowly, carefully, her hand brushing Yeojin’s arm like a question.
Yeojin answered by leaning in too—just enough for their foreheads to meet, tentative and tender. Like a second chance passed hand-to-hand, with care.
And when Yerim kissed her—
It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t shy either.
It was quiet.
Certain.
Like they’d both been waiting for the right time to come home.