Archive of Our Own ^beta

The needle hummed its familiar song against skin, a sound Haewon had long ago learned to find meditative. She worked in careful strokes, shading the delicate wings of a butterfly across her client's shoulder blade. Outside, raindrops adorned the windows of her studio in Hongdae, blurring the neon signs into watercolor streaks.

"Is it going to hurt even more?" the client asked, not for the first time.

"Beauty usually does," Haewon said, then softened. "But you're doing great. Almost done."

She'd given this answer so many times it had worn smooth in her mouth, like a broken record. What she never said was that she wouldn't know. See, for someone who spent her days making art permanent on other people's bodies, her own skin remained stubbornly blank. A canvas she'd never been able to bring herself to mark.

Her colleagues found it amusing. Her mother found it ironic. Hell, even Haewon thinks it’s a bit ridiculous for a tattoo artist to not have any ink on her body. 

The truth was that permanence terrified her in a way she could never quite articulate. Every time she considered getting a tattoo—and she had! Dozens of times actually. Had even sketched designs and booked appointments with herself but then at the last moment, she’ll freeze. Because choosing what to carry forever meant accepting that some part of her would never change, never grow beyond that choice. 

And after watching her father disappear in an instant, after learning that permanence was a lie the universe told to make people feel safe, she couldn't bring herself to believe in it.

The client left happy, and Haewon cleaned her station with the efficiency of someone who has done this a thousand times. She stopped in her tracks as she was about to close the shop—it was such a busy day that she didn’t realize…

It was her birthday. Which explains the notifications coming from her KakaoTalk, from her mom, a few high school friends and even her old roommate. 

If you ask Haewon, twenty-five felt exactly like twenty-four had, which felt exactly like twenty-three. She'd stopped expecting birthdays to mean something after her father died when she was nineteen—the last birthday he'd sung to her, off-key and enthusiastic, his voice filling their small apartment with a joy that felt impossible to recreate now.

The only thing left of him was herself. She'd inherited his creative restlessness, the way he'd move from canvas to canvas, never quite satisfied. He used to say that art was about capturing moments, not creating monuments. That the beauty was in the impermanence. Her mother had rolled her eyes at his philosophy, but Haewon understood it. Understood the fear of committing to one vision when there were infinite ideas out there. 

She locked up and walked home through the rain, declining her friends' dinner invitations with the same excuse she always used: an early appointment tomorrow. The truth was simpler and more pathetic—she didn't want to watch them check their soulmate marks throughout the night, that unconscious gesture of touching the name written on their skin. Confirming it was still there. That they were still chosen.

Her apartment was dark and quiet. She microwaved leftover fried chicken, scrolled through her phone, ignored the happy birthday messages that made her feel obligated to perform gratitude. At midnight, she showered and collapsed into bed without ceremony.

She woke to sunlight and a burning sensation across her ribcage.

Haewon knew immediately what it was—the same way you know you're falling in a dream. Her hands shook as she lifted her shirt in front of the bathroom mirror, twisting to see.

There, in elegant hanja, black as fresh ink: 珍. Jin.

"No," she whispered. 

Then, louder: "No, no, no."

She scrubbed at it with soap, with makeup remover, with the kind of desperate fury that left her skin red and raw. The character didn't smudge. Of course it didn't. 

The universe had marked her without permission, had written permanence onto her body in a way she'd spent twenty-five years avoiding.

What the fuck.

Haewon had spent six years marking other people with their choices, their memories, their declarations of love and loss. She'd always believed that permanence should be intentional. That you should choose what you carry on your skin. That the weight of forever should be something you accepted willingly, with open eyes and steady hands.

This…this—she hadn't chosen. This was the universe deciding her body belonged to someone else's story.

She called in sick for the first time in two years.

Three days later, she returned to work with the mark hidden under a bandage and a convincing lie about a clumsy encounter with hot oil. Her apprentice, Kyujin, eyed her with concern but didn't push. Kyujin understood boundaries in the way that only people who'd had theirs violated could.

"You have a walk-in at two," Kyujin said, adjusting her thick-rimmed glasses. "She didn't book ahead, but she said she'd wait. Very polite. Very..." She paused, searching for the word. "Intense? But in a soft way. Like a rottweiler puppy."

Haewon found the client in the waiting area, studying the flash designs plastered on the wall with the focus of someone memorizing scripture. She was smaller than Haewon, with an open face that seemed incapable of guile. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, revealing delicate features and a nervousness that manifested in the way she kept adjusting her collar. There was something about the way she moved. Careful, like she was stepping on eggshells trying not to make any noise—that suggested someone who'd learned to take up less space than she deserved.

"Hi," the woman said, and her smile was immediate and almost alarming with the way warmth spread throughout the room. It transformed her entire face, turning nervousness into something radiant. "I'm Lily. I don't have an appointment, but I was hoping—"

"That's fine," Haewon interrupted, more curtly than intended. Something about this stranger made her feel exposed, like Lily could see beneath her skin to the mark she was hiding. 

"What are you looking for?"

"A cover-up." Lily's hand drifted to her collarbone, fingers resting against fabric. The gesture was unconscious, habitual. "Of my soulmate mark."

Haewon's stomach dropped. What is this feeling? "You want to cover your mark?"

"Is that... is that okay? I know some artists won't—"

"No, I'll do it." The words came out too quickly. "I just need to see what we're working with."

In the private room, Lily unbuttoned the top of her blouse with shaking fingers. The mark sat just below her left collarbone, the characters stark against pale skin: 海嫄. Haewon.

The room tilted. Haewon unknowingly gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white.

"Are you alright?" Lily asked, concern flooding her features. Her hand moved as if to reach out, then stopped, uncertain.

"Fine. Just—" Haewon forced herself to breathe. To think. The mark said Haewon, but that didn't mean anything. It was a common enough name. And this woman had introduced herself as Lily, not Jin. The universe wasn't that cruel or that obvious. "Give me a second, will you?"

She turned away, pretending to organize her supplies while her heart tried to break through her ribs. When she turned back, she'd assembled her professional mask—the one she wore for clients who cried during their sessions, who needed her to be steady when they couldn't be.

"How long have you had it?" Haewon asked, pulling on fresh gloves with practiced efficiency.

"Three years." Lily's voice was quiet, almost apologetic. "I got it when I turned twenty-two."

"And you've never met them? Your Haewon?"

Something complicated crossed Lily's face—hope and grief tangled together like vines. 

"I thought I did. Once. There was a barista at a café I used to go to. Her name tag said Haewon. I worked up the courage to talk to her, showed her my mark." Lily's laugh was bitter. "She was already married. No mark at all. She felt bad for me, though. Gave me free coffee for a week."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It taught me that these marks don't come with instruction manuals." Lily met her eyes. "They just come with expectations."

Haewon stepped closer, examining the mark with clinical detachment she didn't feel. The characters were beautifully formed, as all soulmate marks were. Some cosmic calligrapher with a steady hand and no regard for consent.

"Tell me why you want to cover it," Haewon said. It was something she asked all her cover-up clients, but this time it felt like she was asking for herself.

Lily was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice carried the weight of someone who'd rehearsed these words but never spoken them aloud.

"Because I'm tired of being haunted by someone who doesn't exist. Or who exists but doesn't want to be found. Either way, I'm tired of touching this mark every morning and wondering if today's the day. If the next person I meet will be them. I'm tired of feeling like I'm waiting for my life to start." She paused, and when she continued, her voice was softer. "I'm tired of my body feeling like it belongs to someone else."

Haewon's throat tightened. She understood that feeling more than she wanted to admit—the sense of being suspended, unfinished. She'd just never had a mark to blame it on before. Now she did, and she hated it with the same intensity she saw reflected in Lily's eyes.

"What do you want instead?" she asked.

"Forget-me-nots," Lily said immediately. "My grandmother used to grow them in her garden back in my hometown. She died last year, and I… I want to carry something I chose. Something that means something to me, not to fate. She always said..." Lily's voice caught. "She always said that remembering was a choice. That we decide what we hold onto."

Haewon nodded slowly, something loosening in her chest. Here was someone who understood. Who knew that what you carried on your skin should be yours to decide.

"I can do that. But I have to tell you—covering a soulmate mark, it doesn't make it go away. Not really. You'll always know it's there underneath."

"I know," Lily said. "But maybe if I can't see it, I can stop believing in it. Maybe I can start believing in myself instead."

They scheduled the appointment for the following week. Haewon spent the intervening days in a state of careful denial, designing forget-me-nots with obsessive precision. She sketched them in her notebook during quiet moments at the shop, filled pages with different arrangements and compositions. Some designs were delicate and realistic, others more stylized and bold. She told herself she was being professional, that she gave this level of attention to all her important clients.

She didn't let herself think about the mark on her own ribs. About Jin. About the impossible coincidence of names that felt less like coincidence and more like the universe laughing at her.

On the fourth night, she sat at her apartment's small kitchen table, surrounded by sketches, and let herself cry. Not because she believed in soulmates or destiny, but because her body had been marked without her permission, and now she had to tattoo someone who wanted to erase the very mark that might connect them. The irony was suffocating.

Lily arrived fifteen minutes early, carrying two iced americanos and wearing the same nervous energy from their first meeting.

"I wasn't sure how you took your coffee," she said, offering one to Haewon with an apologetic smile. "So I got it black. There's sugar in my bag if you want it."

"Black's perfect," Haewon said, accepting the cup. Their fingers brushed, and she felt it like a static shock—a jolt of recognition that traveled up her arm and lodged somewhere near her heart. "Thank you. You didn't have to."

"I wanted to." Lily's smile was soft, sincere. "You're doing me a huge favor. Most artists I contacted said no immediately. One told me I was spitting on the grave of true love. Another said she couldn't participate in my self-destruction."

"Why do you think that is?" Haewon asked as she led Lily to her station, past Kyujin who was working on an intricate dragon piece.

"Because people want to believe in soulmates. In destiny. Covering a mark feels like... I don't know, sacrilegious? Like I'm spitting in the face of the universe." Lily settled into the chair, her movements more confident than last time. "But the universe marked me without asking. So maybe we're even."

"Maybe the universe should mind its own business," Haewon muttered.

Lily laughed—bright and unexpected, the kind of laugh that made other people want to join in. "Exactly! That's exactly how I feel. Everyone acts like I'm supposed to be grateful for this cosmic matchmaking service I never signed up for."

Haewon found herself smiling despite herself. "You never asked for a mark?"

"Never. I'm Australian. We don't grow up with the same cultural weight around soulmate marks that you do here. My parents don't have marks. Most of my friends back home don't. When mine appeared, I thought it was... I don't know, special? Romantic?" Lily's expression turned rueful. "I moved to Korea because of it. I learned the language, got a job teaching English. I thought I was following destiny. Turns out I was just running from my actual life."

"And now?"

"Now I think destiny is just a pretty word for obligation."

Haewon prepped her station in silence, thinking about her father. He'd never had a mark either—met her mother in college, fell in love the old-fashioned way. He used to say that choosing someone was more romantic than being chosen by fate. That love without destiny was love without doubt. That, the daily decision to stay, to work, to forgive—that was real love.

Her mother had disagreed. After he died, she'd touched her bare wrist often, as if checking for a mark that might appear and explain why she'd been allowed to love and lose someone who wasn't cosmically ordained. As if a mark would have protected him from the aneurysm that struck while he was painting in his studio, brush still in hand.

"You ready?" Haewon asked.

Lily settled into the chair and unbuttoned her shirt with less hesitation than last time. The mark seemed to taunt Haewon: 海嫄. Her own name, watching her from someone else's skin.

"This is going to take a few sessions," Haewon explained, forcing some professionalism into her voice. "The mark is dark, and we need to make sure the cover-up is thorough. Today we'll do the initial coverage and outline. You'll need to come back in six weeks for the second session, then probably one more for detail work and color saturation."

"I can do that."

Haewon positioned the stencil carefully, the forget-me-nots arranged to bloom across Lily's collarbone like they were growing from beneath her skin. The design she'd settled on was delicate but bold—small flowers clustering together, their petals detailed enough to seem real but stylized enough to read as art. When she pressed the stencil down, her fingers lingered a moment too long against Lily's shoulder, feeling the warmth of her skin, the subtle movement of breath.

"Cold?" Haewon asked, noticing goosebumps rise under her touch.

"Nervous," Lily admitted. "Not about the pain. About... after. About not having the mark anymore."

"You can change your mind."

"I don't want to." But Lily's hand came up, fingers hovering over the mark one last time. "It's just strange. I've had this for three years. It's been part of my body longer than most things I own. Longer than I've lived in Korea. Longer than I've known what I wanted to do with my life."

"We don't have to do this today."

"No, I want to. I need to." Lily lowered her hand, meeting Haewon's eyes in the mirror. 

"Tell me about you. Why'd you become a tattoo artist?"

Haewon started the needle, grateful for the distraction. The buzz filled the small room, familiar and grounding.

"My father was an artist. Painted traditional landscapes, sold them at markets. He wanted to be in galleries, but..." She trailed off, focusing on the first line. The needle moved across Lily's skin with precision, beginning the work of transformation. "He taught me that art doesn't have to be precious to matter. That making something for someone, something they'll carry with them—is its own kind of legacy."

"He sounds wonderful."

"He was." The past tense usage still hurt, even six years later. "He died when I was nineteen."

"I'm sorry," Lily said quietly, and somehow it didn't sound like an empty platitude. It sounded like genuine grief for a man she'd never known.

They fell into silence broken only by the needle's buzz. Haewon worked carefully, methodically, covering the first character of the mark. Ocean. 海. She wondered if Lily knew what the characters meant, if she'd looked up her soulmate's name and imagined the person behind it. Had she pictured someone cool and calming? Like the waves crashing onto the shore? Or did Lily think that her Haewon was a deep thinker with thoughts that would sink on the ocean floor? 

"You can talk if you want," Haewon said after a while. "Some people find that it helps with the pain."

"It doesn't hurt that much. You have light hands." Lily paused. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Do you have a mark?"

Haewon's hand stuttered almost imperceptibly. She recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. Lily had noticed.

"Why do you ask?"

"I've just noticed—you never talk about soulmates the way other people do. You don't have that... I don't know, reverent tone? And you're willing to cover my mark when others wouldn't. I thought maybe..." Lily trailed off. 

"Sorry. That's too personal."

"I got mine recently," Haewon heard herself say. "On my twenty-fifth birthday."

"Recently? But that's—" Lily sounded genuinely surprised. "That's so late. That must have been shocking. Do you know who they are?"

"No. Just a name. Jin."

She felt Lily tense beneath her hands, every muscle going rigid.

"That's... that's my Korean name," Lily said slowly, carefully, like she was testing the words. 

"Jin. Well, 珍. My mom chose it when I was born. She's Korean, wanted me to have a connection to her culture even though we lived in Australia. I've always gone by Lily—it's easier, less complicated—but legally, officially, on my birth certificate and passport—I'm Jin."

The needle slipped and pierced hard onto the skin. Just barely, just a millimeter, but enough that Lily gasped in pain.

"Shit, sorry—" Haewon pulled back, her heart in her throat. She grabbed a paper towel, dabbing at the tiny bead of blood.

"It's okay," Lily said, but her voice was strange. Distant and close at the same time. 

"Haewon. Your name is Haewon."

It wasn't a question.

The air between them felt charged, heavy with recognition neither of them had asked for. Haewon set down her machine with trembling hands.

"We should take a break," she managed.

"We have each other's marks." Lily sat up slowly, one hand pressed to her collarbone where the tattoo was half-finished, flowers blooming over her own name. "You have my name. I have yours. We're—"

"Don't say it." Haewon interjects.

"We're soulmates."

The word hung between them like a challenge, like an accusation. Haewon stood abruptly, pulling off her gloves with sharp, angry movements that made them snap.

"This doesn't mean anything," she said. "It's just—coincidence. Biology. Whatever causes these marks, it's not magic. It's not destiny. It's just chemicals and compatibility markers and the universe's idea of a cruel joke."

"Then why are you shaking?"

Haewon looked down at her hands. Lily was right. She forced them still through sheer will.

"I don't believe in soulmates," Haewon said, each word deliberate. "I believe in choice. In intention. In the work that two people put into building something together. These marks—they're just the universe's idea of a suggestion. A push. We don't have to listen."

"I came here to cover mine," Lily pointed out quietly. "I don't believe in them either. Or I didn't. But now—" She touched the half-finished tattoo, her fingers gentle on inflamed skin. 

"This feels like more than coincidence. What are the odds?"

"I don't know. I don't care." But even as Haewon said it, she felt the lie in her bones. Felt the way her mark had burned when Lily walked into her shop. The way her hands had steadied the moment she started tattooing Lily's skin, like this was what they were made for. Like every other person she'd tattooed had been practice for this moment.

"Why don't you believe in soulmates?" Lily asked, and there was no judgment in her voice. Just curiosity, gentle and genuine.

"Because my parents weren't soulmates, and they had the best love I've ever seen. Because my father died and my mother's still alive, and if they were cosmically bound, shouldn't she have died too? Shouldn't the universe have taken her when it took him?" Haewon's voice cracked. 

"Because believing in soulmates means believing that love is something that happens to you. That you don't choose it. That it's inevitable and fated and beyond your control. And I refuse to accept that. I refuse to believe that the most important thing in life is something we have no say in."

"What if it's both?" Lily stood, buttoning her shirt carefully over the unfinished tattoo. "What if we're soulmates and we still get to choose? What if the marks just point us in a direction, but we decide whether to walk that path?"

"That's not how it works." Haewon whispers under her breath.

"How do you know? Have you ever asked someone who found their soulmate?" Lily stepped closer, and Haewon felt pinned by her gaze—not trapped, but seen. Truly seen in a way that was terrifying and exhilarating. "I've spent three years running from this mark. Three years trying to prove I didn't need it. And maybe I don't. Maybe I would've been fine never meeting you. But I did meet you, and—"

"And what?"

"And I felt it." Lily's voice dropped to a whisper. "When you touched my shoulder. When our hands brushed over the coffee. I felt like I was coming home to a place I'd never been. Like I recognized you without ever having seen you before. And I think you felt it too."

Haewon wanted to deny it. Wanted to say that attraction wasn't destiny, that chemistry wasn't proof of cosmic design. That the flutter in her chest when Lily smiled was just biology, neurons firing, dopamine and oxytocin doing their happy dance. But the words wouldn't come.

"I need air," she said instead, and fled her own studio.

She ended up at the Han River, watching the evening light turn the water bronze and gold. The autumn air was cool against her flushed skin, carrying the smell of roasted chestnuts from a nearby vendor. Her phone buzzed with messages from Kyujin asking if everything was okay, if the client had left, if Haewon was coming back.

She texted back a single word: No.

Twenty minutes later, Lily found her.

"Kyujin told me where you might be," Lily said, sitting down on the bench beside her. She'd buttoned her shirt wrong, Haewon noticed, one side higher than the other. It was endearing in a way that made her chest ache. "She seems worried about you. Also, she told me to tell you that you're being an idiot. Her words, not mine."

"She's not wrong." Haewon laughed without humor.

"I should go," Lily said, but she didn't move. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm not." Haewon turned to look at her. In the golden hour light, Lily looked almost ethereal—soft and warm and impossible. "I spent six years building a career around giving people control over their bodies, over what they carry permanently. And then the universe decides to mark me without my permission. With your name." She gestured helplessly. "Do you understand how violating that feels? How powerless?"

"Yes," Lily said simply. "That's why I wanted to cover my mark. Because it felt like my body wasn't my own anymore. Like I was just a vessel for someone else's destiny. Like I didn't get a vote in the most permanent thing that had ever happened to me."

"And now? Now that you know?"

Lily was quiet for a long moment. A couple walked past, hand in hand, and Haewon felt a sharp stab of envy for their simplicity.

"Now I'm terrified," Lily admitted finally. "Because part of me wants to believe in this. In you. In the impossible coincidence that brought us together. And I don't trust that part of myself anymore. For three years, I wanted to believe so badly that I saw signs everywhere. Every Haewon I met could have been the one. Every moment felt significant. I drove myself crazy trying to find meaning in randomness."

"So what changed?"

"I stopped looking." Lily turned to face her fully. "I decided that if my soulmate was out there, they could find me. That I was done organizing my life around a maybe. I got the tattoo appointment as a symbol. I was choosing myself over destiny. Over waiting. And then..."

"And then I was the one who showed up to do it."

"Yeah." Lily's smile was sad. "The universe has a terrible sense of humor."

"We could ignore it," Haewon suggested, even though the words felt hollow. "Pretend we never figured it out. I could refer you to another artist for the rest of the sessions."

"Could you do that? Really? Could you hand my name—literally my name on someone else's skin to another artist and just... walk away?"

Haewon thought about it. Thought about never seeing Lily again, about going back to her apartment alone, about seeing that half-finished tattoo in nightmares, about wondering. Always wondering. About what might have been if she'd been braver. If she'd chosen possibility over fear.

"No," she said finally. "I don't think I could."

"Me neither."

They sat in silence as the sun sank lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and purple. Around them, life continued—couples walking, children playing, street vendors calling out their wares. The world moved forward, indifferent to cosmic revelations.

"I have a proposal," Lily said eventually. "What if we start over? Not as soulmates. Just as people who met and might want to know each other better."

"You mean like dating?"

"I mean like coffee. Like conversations. Like seeing if we actually like each other beyond whatever biological imperative is telling us we should." Lily shifted to face her more fully. "The marks don't tell us anything except our names. They don't tell us if we'll make each other laugh. If we want the same things. If we're compatible in any of the ways that actually matter. If you like pineapple on pizza and I think that's a crime against nature—"

"So.. dating—Wait, do you really—"

"It's delicious and you can't convince me otherwise." Lily grinned, and Haewon felt something in her chest crack open. "See? Important information that the marks don't provide."

"So we ignore the marks and just... see what happens?"

"We acknowledge the marks," Lily corrected. "But we don't let them decide for us. We decide for us. We date like normal people. We figure out if we actually like each other. And if it doesn't work, if we're terrible together, then we'll know it's not about the marks. That soulmates are just a myth and we're two incompatible people who happened to have each other's names."

It was, Haewon thought, the most reasonable approach to an unreasonable situation. And yet.

"What if we try and it doesn't work?" she asked, voicing the fear that sat like a stone in her stomach. "What if we're terrible for each other? What if the marks were wrong?"

"Then we'll survive." Lily's voice was steady, certain. "I've survived worse than a failed relationship. And at least we'll know. At least we won't spend the rest of our lives wondering."

"And what about your tattoo?"

Lily touched her collarbone, her fingers gentle on the bandage Haewon had applied before she fled. "I still want it finished. Regardless of what happens between us, I still want to choose what I carry. Is that okay?"

It shouldn't have made Haewon's heart feel lighter, but it did. The idea that Lily wasn't going to let the marks dictate her choices, even now. That she was claiming her body as her own, regardless of cosmic strings.

"Yeah," Haewon said. "That's okay. That's more than okay."

"So... coffee?" Lily held out her hand—not for a handshake, just an offering.

Haewon took it. Their fingers intertwined easily, naturally, like they'd done this a thousand times before.

"Coffee," she agreed.

They met three days later at a café in Yeonnam-dong, chosen specifically because it was neutral territory—not near Haewon's studio or Lily's apartment in Mapo. The café was small and cozy, with mismatched furniture and walls covered in local art. They sat across from each other at a small table by the window, where they could watch people pass by on the street.

"I don't know where to start," Lily admitted, wrapping her hands around her cup of chamomile tea. She'd ordered it without hesitation, no coffee, and Haewon filed that information away on a new folder in her brain like it mattered.

"Tell me about Australia," Haewon said. "Tell me about your life before the mark."

So Lily did. She talked about growing up in a small town called Marysville, about her Korean mother and Australian father, about feeling caught between cultures in a way that was sometimes painful but mostly just confusing. She described her childhood home near this beautiful fall and the mountains surrounding her home, the way her father would drive two hours for them to go to the ocean—that she learned how to surf before she could even ride a bike. 

"My mom would make kimchi jjigae, and my dad would put Vegemite on everything, and I'd sit between them feeling like I was half of two things instead of one whole thing," Lily said, her fingers tracing patterns on her cup. "I spoke Konglish at home and English everywhere else. I celebrated both Lunar New Year and Christmas with equal enthusiasm. I existed in this in-between space."

"That sounds…" Haewon muttered before being cut off.

"Lonely? It was. It wasn't. It was both." Lily smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I had friends, but I always felt like I was performing. Like I was too Australian for my Korean relatives and too Korean for my Australian friends. The mark appearing felt like permission to finally claim the Korean part of myself I'd always wanted to understand."

She talked about teaching herself Korean through dramas and music, about staying up late to watch variety shows with subtitles, about her grandmother's cooking and the way she'd felt both at home and foreign in her grandmother's kitchen.

"I think that's why I was so devastated when I couldn't find you—find my Haewon," Lily corrected quickly. "I'd built this whole narrative about what my mark meant. That it was telling me where I belonged. That Korea was my destiny. When that didn't work out, I felt like I'd failed at being Korean somehow. Like the universe had made a mistake."

"You know that's not how it works, right?" Haewon said gently. "You don't need a soulmate or a mark to claim your culture. You don't need permission to be who you are."

"I know that now. It took therapy and a lot of crying, but I know." Lily's smile was self-deprecating. "What about you? Tell me something real. Not the tattoo artist origin story. Something true."

Haewon thought about what to share. The practiced stories she told on dates, or the truth. 

She chose truth.

"I haven't been in a relationship in four years," she said. "I kept meeting people who were waiting for their marks, or who'd found their soulmates and lost them, or who wanted to make sure I wasn't their soulmate before they'd commit. It felt like everyone was looking through me, waiting for someone else. Like I was a placeholder until their real life started."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It was. It is." Haewon traced the rim of her cup, watching the light play across the surface of her coffee. "After my dad died, my mom became obsessed with soulmates. She'd never cared about them before—she and my dad were proud of their choice, of building something without cosmic interference. But suddenly she was going to fortune tellers, asking them to predict when she'd get a mark. Like if the universe gave her a second chance, it would mean my dad's death wasn't random. That there was some plan."

"Did she ever get one?"

"No. She's fifty-three now, and her skin is still blank." Haewon's throat tightened. "I think that's worse somehow. Waiting forever for permission to move on. She dated a few people over the years, but it never lasted. She'd always find some excuse why it wasn't right. I think she's still waiting for my dad to come back, or for a mark that explains why he left."

Lily reached across the table, her hand stopping just short of Haewon's. A question. Haewon answered it, lacing their fingers together. The touch sent warmth up her arm, settling somewhere in her chest.

"I'm sorry," Lily said. "That's a heavy inheritance."

"What do you mean?"

"Watching your mom wait for permission to live. It makes sense why you'd hate the idea of soulmates. Why you'd see them as a cage instead of a gift."

Haewon had never thought of it that way, but Lily was right. She'd watched her mother shrink herself, waiting for cosmic validation that never came. Watched her turn her grief into a religion, her loss into a life sentence.

"I don't want to be like her," Haewon said quietly. "I don't want to spend my life waiting for something that might never come. Or worse—letting something that did come dictate everything I do."

"Then don't," Lily said simply. "You're not your mom. And I'm not whoever you've been trying not to meet."

They talked for three hours, until the café staff started giving them pointed looks and stacking chairs. They talked about their favorite foods—Lily loved tteokbokki so spicy it made her cry, Haewon preferred the gentle comfort of kimchi jjigae. They argued about whether mint chocolate was a valid ice cream flavor (Lily said yes with an enthusiasm that made Haewon laugh, Haewon said absolutely not and refused to budge). They discovered they both had a weakness for sad indie music that made them feel things they couldn't name, and terrible reality TV that required no emotional investment whatsoever.

"I have a confession," Lily said as they finally stood to leave, the sky outside dark and scattered with stars. "I ugly-cry at every single episode of 'The Return of Superman.' Every single one. I mean they’re just babies but I still cry!"

"That's not embarrassing. That show is designed to destroy you emotionally."

"I once cried at a banchan commercial," Lily admitted. "There was a grandmother in it and she reminded me of my halmoni and I just—" She made a helpless gesture.

Haewon felt something warm unfold in her chest. "I cried during a documentary about pencil-making once."

"What? Why?"

"I don't know! They were just so carefully made, and there was this one craftsman who'd been making pencils for forty years, and he talked about how each one was slightly different, and—" Haewon stopped, laughing at herself. "I'm not explaining this well."

"No, I get it," Lily said, and she sounded like she meant it. "The beauty of small, careful things. The weight of dedication."

They walked out together, and the night air was cool and crisp, carrying the smell of autumn leaves and street food. They stood on the sidewalk, neither quite ready to leave.

"Same time next week?" Lily asked.

"Earlier," Haewon countered. "There's a gallery opening in Samcheong-dong on Saturday. Contemporary art, mostly installations. Some of it's supposed to be interactive. Want to come?"

Lily's smile was answer enough—bright and genuine, transforming her entire face. "I'd love that."

They parted with an awkward half-hug that lasted a moment too long, and Haewon walked home with her hands in her pockets, a smile spreading on her lips, Lily's warmth still imprinted on her skin.

The gallery opening was crowded with the kind of people who dressed in all black and spoke in hushed, reverent tones about negative space and postmodern deconstruction. Haewon spotted Lily immediately—she was wearing a soft blue sweater that made her look like she'd captured a piece of sky, and she was studying a sculpture with genuine interest rather than performative appreciation.

"What do you think?" Haewon asked, coming up beside her.

"I think it looks like someone welded a bunch of bicycle parts together and called it art," Lily said, then glanced at Haewon with worry. "Is that wrong? Am I supposed to see something deeper?"

Haewon laughed, the sound drawing disapproving looks from nearby art enthusiasts. "No, that's exactly what it is. But look at the way the light catches on the metal. See how it creates shadows that look like the piece is moving?"

Lily tilted her head, studying it from a different angle. "Oh. Oh, that's actually beautiful."

They moved through the gallery together, Haewon explaining techniques and movements, Lily asking questions that revealed a sharp, curious mind. In front of a massive canvas covered in what appeared to be random paint splatters, Lily stared for a long moment before speaking.

"It looks like chaos," she said. "But if you look long enough, there are patterns. Little moments of order in the disorder."

"That's the point," Haewon said softly. "The artist's mother had dementia. This is how he described watching her mind—moments of clarity in the confusion."

Eventually, Lily's hand found hers. They stood there for a long time, holding hands in front of someone else's grief rendered in acrylic and canvas.

The interactive installation was in the basement—a room filled with hanging strings of lights that responded to sound. When Lily laughed, they pulsed pink. When Haewon spoke, they shifted to blue. When they stood in silence, the lights dimmed to almost nothing, creating a cocoon of near-darkness.

"Make a sound," Haewon whispered.

"What kind?"

"Any kind."

Lily hummed—soft and melodic—and the lights bloomed gold around them. Haewon joined in, her voice finding harmony, and the room became a sunrise, warm and endless.

"This is magic," Lily breathed.

"It's just technology. Sensors and programming."

"Can't it be both?" Lily turned to her in the golden light. "Magic and science? Fate and choice?"

Haewon didn't answer. Instead, she let herself look—really look—at Lily in the light they'd created together. At the wonder in her eyes, the soft curve of her smile, the way she looked at Haewon like she was seeing something precious.

"We should probably go," Haewon said, though she didn't want to. "Before they kick us out."

They got dinner at a pojangmacha nearby, sitting on plastic stools and sharing tteokbokki and sundae, their knees bumping under the small table. Lily ordered extra tteokbokki and added more gochugaru, making it so spicy that Haewon needed three glasses of water just watching her eat it.

"You're going to destroy your stomach lining," Haewon said.

"Worth it," Lily said, then immediately hiccupped, her eyes watering.

Haewon found herself laughing—really laughing—in a way she hadn't in months. Maybe years.

"Tell me about teaching," Haewon said. "You said you teach English?"

"At an academy in Mapo. Kids aged seven to twelve." Lily's whole face softened when she talked about her students. "They're incredible. Frustrating and exhausting and incredible. Last week, one of my students wrote an essay about his dog dying, and it was so heartbreaking that I had to leave the classroom to cry."

"Did you give him a good grade?"

"The best. And a hug, which is probably against policy, but I couldn't help it." Lily took another bite of tteokbokki, wincing at the heat. "They're the reason I'm staying in Korea, honestly. Not the mark, not anymore. I love teaching them. I love watching them figure out language, seeing the moment when something clicks."

"You're good at what you do," Haewon said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

"How do you know?"

"Because you talk about it the way I talk about tattooing. Like it's not just a job. Like it matters."

Lily was quiet for a moment, her chopsticks pausing halfway to her mouth. "Thank you. That means a lot."

They talked until the pojangmacha owner started cleaning up around them, a gentle hint that it was time to leave. Haewon walked Lily to the subway station, their pace slowing the closer they got.

"I had a really good time," Lily said at the station entrance.

"Me too."

"Can we do this again? Soon?"

"How about Wednesday? There's a night market in Dongdaemun. It's nothing fancy, just street food and cheap clothes, but—"

"I'd love that," Lily interrupted. "I love night markets. All the chaos and energy and too many people in too small a space."

"Really? I thought you'd hate crowds."

"Why would you think that?"

"I don't know. You seem... quiet. Contained."

Lily laughed. "I'm an extrovert who learned to be quiet because I didn't want to take up space. But I love crowds. I love being around people, feeling their energy. It makes me feel alive."

"I did not know that about you."

"See? This is why we're doing this. Getting to know each other beyond what the marks say." Lily stepped closer. For a moment, Haewon thought she might kiss her, and her heart stuttered in anticipation. But Lily just squeezed her hand. "Goodnight, Haewon."

"Goodnight, Lily."

Haewon watched her disappear down the subway stairs, and only then did she touch her ribs, where Jin's name was written on her skin.

The night market was everything Lily had promised—chaos and color and the overwhelming smell of frying food. They arrived at sunset and stayed until past midnight, wandering through endless stalls selling everything from knock-off designer bags to handmade jewelry to vintage band t-shirts.

Lily tried on a ridiculous hat—a pink fuzzy thing with cat ears—and Haewon's phone was full of photos before she even realized she was taking them.

"You're documenting this?" Lily asked, laughing.

"Evidence," Haewon said. "For when you inevitably claim you'd never wear something like that."

"I'm buying it."

"No…You're not."

Lily bought it. Wore it for the rest of the night, despite Haewon's protests, and looked somehow even more endearing for it.

They ate hotteok and bungeoppang, sotteok-sotteok and grilled squid, sharing bites and debating which stall had the best food. Lily insisted on trying everything, her enthusiasm infectious. When they found a stall selling handmade earrings, Lily spent twenty minutes selecting a pair for Haewon—delicate silver hoops with tiny blue stones.

"You don't have to—" Haewon started.

"I want to. They match your eyes."

"My eyes aren't blue."

"They are in certain light." Lily held them up. "Trust me."

Haewon let her buy them, let Lily lean close to help her put them in, Lily's fingers gentle against her ears. The intimacy of it—the care—made her chest feel too full.

"Perfect," Lily declared, stepping back to admire her work.

They found a quieter corner of the market, away from the main crowds, where vendors were selling antiques and vintage books. Haewon gravitated toward a collection of old photography books while Lily explored a box of vinyl records.

"Haewon, look at this," Lily called out, holding up a record. "Cho Yong-pil. My mom used to play this."

"You should get it."

"I don't have a record player."

"So get one."

Lily laughed. "You make everything sound so simple."

"It is simple. You want it, you should have it."

"Is that how you make all your decisions?"

"No," Haewon admitted. "But I'm trying to be better about it."

Lily bought the record. Haewon bought a book of black and white photographs from the 1970s—images of Seoul before it became the city they knew now. They left the market with full stomachs and arms full of bags, and when Lily stumbled on the uneven pavement, Haewon's arm went around her waist instinctively.

They stayed like that, Haewon's arm around Lily, Lily's head resting briefly on her shoulder. The contact felt natural, inevitable. Right in a way that Haewon had stopped believing in.

"I should get home," Lily said eventually, but she didn't move.

"Yeah."

"I work early tomorrow."

"Yeah."

"Haewon?"

"Hmm?"

"I really like spending time with you."

Haewon's throat felt tight. "I really like spending time with you too."

This time when they parted, the hug lasted longer, and Haewon let herself breathe in the scent of Lily's shampoo—something floral and sweet—and committed it to memory.

They fell into a rhythm over the following weeks. Coffee dates that turned into dinner dates that turned into long walks through neighborhoods neither of them knew well. They went to a pottery class where Lily made a bowl so lopsided it couldn't hold water, and Haewon made a cup that was somehow worse. They took a cooking class and burned the kimchi pancakes so badly the instructor hinted at them to politely not return.

"We're disasters," Lily said, laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes.

"Individually, we're fine," Haewon pointed out. "Together, we're disasters."

"That's probably a bad sign."

"Or the best sign."

Lily came back for her second tattoo session, sitting in Haewon's chair with more confidence than the first time. Haewon worked carefully, adding color and depth to the forget-me-nots, making them bloom across Lily's collarbone with painstaking detail. Her mark—Haewon's name—was completely hidden now, buried under layers of ink and intention.

"Does it feel different?" Haewon asked. "Not being able to see your mark?"

"Yes and no," Lily said thoughtfully. "I know it's still there. But I also know what I chose to put over it. That feels powerful."

"You chose flowers that represent remembering."

"Remembering is different from being haunted," Lily said. "I wanted to remember that I have agency. That I get to decide what defines me."

They still hadn't kissed. The tension built between them like a physical thing—in the way Lily's hand would linger on Haewon's arm, in the way Haewon found herself leaning closer during conversations, in the loaded silences that said everything words couldn't.

It was Lily who finally addressed it.

They were at Haewon's apartment—the first time either of them had invited the other into their private space. Haewon had cooked dinner, or attempted to. The dakgalbi was slightly burned and the rice was too sticky, but Lily praised it like it was a gourmet meal.

"You're a terrible liar," Haewon said.

"I'm a great liar. I teach children. Lying is a survival skill."

They were washing dishes together, Haewon cleaning while Lily dried, when Lily spoke again.

"I need to tell you something," she said, setting down the plate she was holding.

"That sounds ominous."

"It's not. Or maybe it is. I don't know." Lily turned to face her fully. "I'm falling for you. And I don't know if it's because of the marks or in spite of them, and I've realized I don't care anymore. I just know that I think about you all the time. That I'm happier when I'm with you than when I'm not. That when something good happens, you're the first person I want to tell. When something bad happens, you're the first person I want to see."

Haewon's hands were still in the dishwater, soap bubbles clinging to her fingers.

"I want to kiss you," Lily continued, her voice soft but steady. "I have for weeks. But I feel like you're holding back, and I need to know if it's because you don't feel the same way, or if you're still trying to prove something to yourself."

Haewon pulled her hands from the water, dried them on a towel with careful deliberation. She was stalling, and they both knew it.

"I'm scared," she admitted finally. "Because you're right. I have been holding back. I've been trying to separate what I feel from what the marks tell me I should feel, and I don't know if I can. I don't know if anyone can. What if this—" she gestured between them, "—what if it's just biology? What if we're only attracted to each other because of some cosmic chemical reaction?"

"What if we're thinking about this wrong?" Lily moved closer. "What if the marks don't create feelings—they just predict compatibility? Like a really advanced dating algorithm. We still have to choose to act on it. We still have to do the work. We still have to show up for each other every day and choose each other over and over again."

"That's a generous interpretation."

"It's the only interpretation that lets me keep my agency," Lily said firmly. "I refuse to believe I'm just a puppet for cosmic forces. So I'm choosing to believe that the marks are just... information. A hint. A suggestion. And what we do with that information is up to us."

Haewon thought about her father again. About how he used to say that love was a verb, not a noun. That it was something you did, every day, in small and large ways. Making coffee the way your partner liked it. Remembering their stories. Choosing to stay when it would be easier to leave.

"I think about you all the time too," she said quietly. "I wake up and my first thought is wondering if you're awake yet, what you're having for breakfast, if you slept well. I see things throughout the day and want to show you—a dog wearing a ridiculous sweater, the way the light hits a building, a kid eating ice cream. When I'm tattooing, I imagine you sitting in the chair, and my hands don't shake." She met Lily's eyes. "I don't know if it's the marks or just you. But I know I don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose you."

"Then don't," Lily said, and kissed her.

It felt like falling and flying simultaneously. Like recognition and discovery. Like coming home and setting out on a journey. Haewon's hands slipped right into Lily’s waist, and she felt the rightness of it in her bones—the way Lily fit against her, the way their breaths synchronized, the way everything else fell away until there was just this. Just them.

When they pulled apart, they were both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

"So?" Lily asked, her voice slightly unsteady. "Marks or just us?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not even a little bit."

They kissed again, slower this time, taking their time to learn each other. Haewon tasted the sweetness of the dessert wine they'd had with dinner on Lily's lips. Felt the way Lily's breath hitch when her hand traveled its way on Lily’s dimpled back. This wasn't cosmic inevitability—this was choice. This was them, deciding in this moment that they wanted to try. That they wanted each other.

They moved to the couch, tangled together, kissing and talking and laughing when they bumped noses or got their arms stuck in awkward positions. Lily told her about the first time she'd noticed Haewon—not at the studio, but a week before, at a coffee shop.

"You were sketching something, completely focused," Lily said. "I watched you for probably ten minutes like a complete creep. There was something about the way you looked at the paper—like you were seeing something the rest of us couldn't. Like you were translating some secret language."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I was too shy. And I'd promised myself I was done looking for soulmates. That I was just going to live my life." Lily laughed softly. "And then a week later, I walked into your studio."

"Fate is persistent, apparently."

"Or coincidence is just really inconvenient."

They talked until past midnight, curled up together on Haewon's couch, sharing pieces of themselves they'd been holding back. Lily talked about her fears, her goals, her future.

Haewon talked about the pressure she felt to honor her father's legacy, to make art that mattered, to be successful enough to prove that his faith in her hadn't been misplaced. About how every tattoo felt like a test she might fail.

"You know he'd be proud of you regardless, right?" Lily said softly. "You're doing exactly what he taught you—creating art that matters to people. Art they carry with them."

"I hope so."

"I know so."

When Lily finally left, past one in the morning, they kissed goodbye at the door like teenagers, neither wanting to be the first to pull away. Haewon watched from her window as Lily walked to the subway, looking back twice to wave.

She touched her ribs, where Jin's name was written. It didn't feel like a brand anymore. It felt like a beginning.

The weeks that followed were golden—autumn in Seoul at its finest, the trees turning red and gold, the air crisp and perfect. They spent a Sunday afternoon at Olympic Park, lying on a blanket and watching the sky change colors. Lily read aloud from a book of Korean poetry while Haewon sketched her profile when she thought Lily wasn't paying attention.

"You know…” Lily’s words hanged over the air, catching Haewon’s attention. “I know you're drawing me," Lily said without looking up.

"How?"

"I can feel you looking at me. It's different from just looking."

"How is it different?"

Lily finally looked over, her smile soft and knowing. "It feels like being seen. Really seen. Not just looked at."

Haewon showed her the sketch—just rough lines, but somehow capturing the way the sunlight caught in Lily's hair, the peaceful expression on her face.

"Can I keep it?" Lily asked.

"It's not finished."

"I don't care. I want it anyway."

Haewon tore the page carefully from her sketchbook and handed it over. Lily held it like it was precious, like it was something worth treasuring.

They went to a noraebang and discovered that Lily had a beautiful singing voice—clear and strong—while Haewon was tone-deaf but enthusiastic. They sang duets anyway, laughing too hard to hit the high notes. They watched the sun rise from Naksan Park after staying up all night talking, drinking vending machine coffee that tasted like burnt plastic but felt like luxury because they were drinking it together.

Haewon took Lily to meet Kyujin, who took one look at them and said, "Finally. I was beginning to think you were both idiots."

"We were," Haewon said.

"We might still be," Lily added.

"At least you're idiots together now."

Lily's third and final tattoo session arrived on a Tuesday afternoon. The studio was quiet, just them and soft music playing in the background. Haewon worked with careful precision, adding the final details to the forget-me-nots—subtle shading, tiny highlights that made the flowers look three-dimensional, almost real enough to pick.

"It's finished," Haewon said finally, sitting back to admire her work.

Lily stood and moved to the mirror, studying the tattoo with wonder. The forget-me-nots bloomed across her collarbone in delicate clusters, beautiful and permanent and entirely hers.

"It's perfect," Lily whispered. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Lily turned from the mirror, and there were tears in her eyes. "I spent three years hating this mark. Hating what it represented. And now I have something beautiful instead. Something I chose."

Haewon stood, moved closer. "Do you regret it? Covering my name?"

"No." Lily's answer was immediate, certain. "The mark said 'Haewon,' but it didn't tell me who you are. It didn't tell me that you hum when you concentrate, or that you make terrible puns when you're nervous, or that you cry at documentaries about pencil-making. It didn't tell me that you're kind and talented and scared of commitment but trying anyway." She took Haewon's hands. "I learned all of that on my own. And I'm glad I did."

"I'm glad you did too."

They kissed there in the studio, soft and sweet, and when they pulled apart, Lily was smiling through her tears.

"Show me yours?" she asked quietly.

Haewon hesitated. She'd kept her mark hidden—even from Lily, especially from Lily—wrapped in bandages and covered by careful clothing choices. Revealing it felt like admitting something she wasn't sure she was ready to admit.

But she trusted Lily. So she lifted her shirt, revealing her ribs where Jin's name was written in elegant hanja.

Lily's fingers traced the character gently, reverently. "珍. Treasure. That's what my name means."

"I know."

"Have you thought about covering it?"

"Every day. But I can't." Haewon met her eyes. "I don't want to. Not anymore. It's part of my story now. Part of how I found you."

"It's beautiful," Lily said softly.

"It's yours."

Six months later, Haewon woke to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows. It took her a moment to remember she was in Lily's apartment, having stayed over after a late dinner and a movie that neither of them had paid much attention to. They'd been too busy talking, kissing, existing in each other's orbit in that easy way they'd developed—like they'd been doing this for years instead of months.

Lily was still asleep beside her, her hair a mess across the pillow. The tattoo on her collarbone was fully healed now, the forget-me-nots bright and beautiful against her skin. Haewon had taken a photo of it for her portfolio, but she'd never posted it. That felt like Lily's choice to make.

She thought about her own mark. No longer hidden beneath clothes and bandages. She'd stopped covering it at home months ago. Stopped seeing it as a violation and started seeing it as just another part of her body. Something permanent that she couldn't change but could learn to live with. Could even, maybe, be grateful for.

Her phone buzzed with a message from her mom: Bringing soup later. Make sure you're home.

She typed back: At Lily's. Come here instead?

The response came quickly: I want to meet her properly. Not just that one time. Make her my miyeok-guk.

Haewon's stomach flipped. They'd introduced Lily to her mother briefly a few months ago. A casual coffee meeting that had gone surprisingly well. But this was different. This was her mother cooking for Lily, the traditional Korean way of welcoming someone into the family.

"Everything okay?" Lily mumbled, still half-asleep.

"My mom wants to come over. To make you soup."

Lily's eyes opened fully—and sat up like a soldier at the sound of the drill instructor’s morning shout. "Today?"

"If that's okay."

"Is it okay with you? That feels like a big step."

Haewon considered. Her mother would see how they were together, would draw her own conclusions about destiny and cosmic plans. But maybe that was okay. Maybe the marks had brought them together, and what they'd built since was entirely their own. Maybe both things could be true simultaneously.

"Yeah," she said. "It's okay. More than okay."

They spent the morning cleaning Lily's apartment and nervously preparing for the visit. Lily changed her outfit three times before Haewon stopped her with a kiss.

"She's going to love you," Haewon said.

"How do you know?"

"Because I love you."

The words hung in the air between them. They hadn't said it yet, both of them dancing around it for weeks. But it was true, and suddenly Haewon was tired of being scared.

"I love you," she said again, more firmly. "I love you, and it has nothing to do with marks or destiny. I love you because you make me laugh. Because you're kind to strangers and patient with children and passionate about things that matter. Because you cry at commercials and eat spicy food that destroys your stomach and wear ridiculous hats without shame. I love you because you see me—really see me—and you still choose to stay."

Lily's eyes filled with tears. "I love you too. So much. I love your terrible jokes and your gentle hands and the way you talk about your father like he's still here. I love how seriously you take your work, how much you care about making people happy. I love that you're scared but brave anyway. I love you."

They kissed, salty with tears and sweet with relief. This was the moment, Haewon thought. Not when they'd discovered their marks matched. Not their first kiss or their first date. This was the moment that mattered. Choosing to say the words, to make the commitment, to admit that what they had was real and worth fighting for.

When Haewon's mother arrived, she brought enough food for a small army—not just miyeok-guk but japchae and bulgogi and three different kinds of banchan. She bustled around Lily's small kitchen like she owned it, and Lily watched with a mixture of amusement and nervousness.

"Your kitchen is too small," Haewon's mother declared.

"Mom," Haewon warned.

"What? I'm just saying. When you two move in together, make sure you have a bigger kitchen."

Lily's face went bright red. "Mrs. Oh—"

"Call me eomma. We're past formalities."

They ate lunch together, and Haewon watched her mother carefully. Watched her notice the way Lily laughed at Haewon's jokes, the way they moved around each other in the small kitchen with practiced ease, the way they shared food without asking, the unconscious intimacy of people who knew each other deeply. Watched her see what Haewon and Lily had built over months of choosing each other, day after day.

"Can I ask you something?" her mother said to Lily as they were cleaning up. "About your tattoo. The forget-me-nots."

Lily's hand went to her collarbone unconsciously, a habit she'd never broken. "Of course."

"Did you cover a soulmate mark?"

The question hung in the air. Haewon tensed, but Lily just nodded calmly.

"I did. I had a mark with Haewon's name for three years before I met her. I wanted to cover it because I was tired of letting it define me. Tired of feeling like I was waiting for my life to start instead of living it."

"And now? Do you regret it?"

"No," Lily said without hesitation. "The mark told me a name, but it didn't tell me who Haewon was. It didn't tell me that she'd make me laugh until I cried, or that she'd hold my hand during scary movies even though she thinks they're silly. That she'd teach me how to see art differently, or that she'd believe in me when I wasn't sure I believed in myself. It didn't tell me that she'd love me despite all my flaws, or maybe because of them." She looked at Haewon, her eyes soft. "I had to learn all of that on my own. And I'm so glad I did. Because now I know it's real. I know it's my choice."

Haewon's mother was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was thick with emotion.

"My husband never had a mark," she said. "Neither did I. For a long time after he died, I thought that was why I lost him. That the universe was punishing us for not waiting for our soulmates. That if we'd had marks, maybe things would have been different. Maybe he'd still be alive."

"Mom," Haewon said softly, reaching for her hand.

"But you know what I realized?" Her mother squeezed back. "That the mark doesn't matter. Not really. Love is love, whether it's written on your skin or written in your choices. Your father and I chose each other every day for twenty-five years. We chose each other when things were good and when things were hard. We chose each other when we were young and stupid and when we were older and still pretty stupid." She smiled through her tears. "And that was enough. That was everything."

She turned to Lily. "You covered Haewon's name because you wanted to choose for yourself. But you're still here. You're still choosing her. That means more than any mark ever could."

Lily was crying now too, and Haewon felt her own eyes burning. Her mother pulled them both into a hug, and they stood there in Lily's tiny kitchen, three women who understood that love, real love, was something you built, not something you were given.

After her mother left, Haewon and Lily sat on the couch in comfortable silence. Lily's head was on Haewon's shoulder, their fingers intertwined, the afternoon light turning everything golden.

"Do you think we would've found each other without the marks?" Lily asked.

"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not." Haewon pressed a kiss to her temple, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo. "But I think we would've found someone. And we would've been happy."

"But we found each other."

"Yeah. We did."

"And are you happy?"

Haewon thought about it. Really thought about it. About the last six months, about the way her life had opened up in ways she hadn't expected. About how she'd stopped feeling like she was waiting for something to begin and started feeling like she was exactly where she needed to be. About how loving Lily felt like the easiest and hardest thing she'd ever done. Easy because it came naturally, hard because it required showing up every day with an open heart.

"Yeah," she said. "I'm happy. Terrified, but happy."

"Why terrified?"

"Because I love you. Because this matters. Because I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you to realize you made a mistake, for the universe to take you away like it took my dad."

Lily shifted to look at her, her expression serious. "The universe doesn't get to decide that. We do. And I'm choosing to stay. I'm choosing you. Not because a mark tells me to, but because I want to. Because you make my life better. Because I can't imagine going back to who I was before I knew you."

"Promise me something," Haewon said quietly.

"Anything."

"Promise me that if this gets hard, and it will get hard… you'll tell me. You'll stay and fight for us instead of running. Promise me you'll keep choosing me, even when it's not easy."

"I promise," Lily said. "As long as you promise the same thing."

"I promise."

They kissed, sealing the promise between them. Not because they were soulmates, though they are—but because they were two people who'd decided to try. Two people who'd chosen each other over and over again, in big ways and small, until choosing each other became as natural as breathing.

Later, as they got ready for bed, Haewon caught sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. Her shirt was off, and her mark was visible—Jin (珍), written in elegant hanja across her ribs. She traced it with one finger, this permanent thing she hadn't chosen but had learned to accept. Had learned, even, to be grateful for, because it had led her to Lily.

"You okay?" Lily asked from the doorway, her own tattoo visible above her tank top—forget-me-nots blooming where Haewon's name had once been.

"I was just thinking," Haewon said. "About my dad. About how he believed that choosing someone was more romantic than being chosen by fate."

"Do you still believe that?"

"I do. But I also think maybe we can have both." She turned to face Lily, reaching out to trace the forget-me-nots on her collarbone with gentle fingers. "The marks might have brought us together, but everything since—that's been us. Our choice. Our work."

"Every day," Lily agreed, catching Haewon's hand and bringing it to her lips.

"Every day."

They fell asleep tangled together on Lily's too-small bed, two people marked by fate but bound by choice. In the morning, Haewon would open her studio and Lily would go to teach her classes, and they'd move through their separate days carrying each other in ways that had nothing to do with ink or destiny.

But for now, they slept. And their marks, hidden and revealed, meant exactly as much as they decided they did.

Three months later, on a cold December morning, Haewon woke early in what had become their apartment—Lily had officially moved into Haewon's place after her lease ended, bringing her record player and her ridiculous hat collection and the sketch Haewon had drawn of her in Olympic Park, now framed and hanging in the living room.

She made coffee quietly, trying not to wake Lily, and settled at the kitchen table with her sketchbook. She'd been working on a new design—something for herself, finally. Something she'd been thinking about for months but had only recently found the courage to commit to.

The design was simple: a small forget-me-not, delicate and detailed, positioned on her left wrist where she'd see it every day. Not to cover her mark—that would stay, Jin written across her ribs like a whispered secret. But this would be her choice. Her first tattoo, at twenty-six years old, after years of marking others.

"Is that for you?" Lily's voice came from behind her, husky from waking up and warm.

Haewon hadn't heard her wake up but replied immediately. "Yeah. I think I'm ready."

Lily wrapped her arms around Haewon's shoulders from behind, resting her chin on top of Haewon's head. "A forget-me-not."

"To remember that I have agency. That I get to decide what defines me." Haewon echoed Lily's words from months ago. "Also because it reminds me of you. Of choosing you."

"Are you going to do it yourself?"

"God, no. I'll have Kyujin do it. My hands would shake too much." Haewon turned in her chair to look up at Lily. "Will you come with me?"

"Of course. I'll hold your other hand."

"I'm going to be insufferable about this, aren't I? After years of telling clients how easy tattoos are."

"Absolutely. And I'm going to enjoy every second of it."

They went to the studio on a quiet afternoon, when the only other people there were Kyujin and one other artist, Minho, working on a client's sleeve. Kyujin had agreed immediately when Haewon asked, and had seemed almost honored.

"Finally," Kyujin said, snapping on her gloves. "I've been waiting years for this. I have so many ideas for what you should get next—"

"Let's get through this one first," Haewon said, but she was smiling.

Lily sat beside her, holding her right hand while Kyujin worked on her left wrist. The pain was sharp and bright, different from what she'd imagined. More intense but also more bearable. She understood, suddenly, why people called it addictive—there was something clarifying about it, something that made her feel present in her body in a way she rarely did.

"You're doing great," Lily murmured, squeezing her hand.

"It hurts."

"I know. Beauty usually does."

Haewon laughed despite herself, recognizing her own words thrown back at her. "I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"No, I don't."

Kyujin worked quickly, efficiently, and within an hour, the forget-me-not bloomed on Haewon's wrist—delicate petals in soft blue, a tiny reminder of choice and agency and love. When Jiwoo finished and wiped away the excess ink, Haewon stared at it with wonder.

"It's perfect," she whispered.

"It is," Lily agreed, and there were tears in her eyes. "You're perfect."

That night, they celebrated with takeout pizza and cheap wine on their apartment floor, Haewon's wrist carefully wrapped and Lily's hand never far from hers. They talked about the future in ways they hadn't let themselves before—about maybe getting a dog, about the trip to Australia they were planning so Haewon could meet Lily's parents, about whether they wanted to stay in their current apartment or find something with a bigger kitchen that would make Haewon's mother happy.

"I want to introduce you to my parents as my girlfriend," Lily said. "Not as my soulmate. Is that okay?"

"More than okay. That's exactly what I want."

"They're going to love you. My mom's already seen pictures. She says you have kind eyes."

"Your mom's seen pictures of me?"

"Obviously. I talk about you constantly. My dad's probably sick of hearing your name." Lily grinned. "He asked if you surf."

"I don't surf."

"That's what I told him. He said he'll teach you. Fair warning: he's very intense about surfing. It's his religion."

Haewon imagined it—standing on a beach in Melbourne, trying to balance on a surfboard while Lily laughed at her from the shore. Meeting the people who'd raised the woman she loved, seeing where Lily came from, understanding her more completely. The image filled her with a warmth that had nothing to do with the wine.

"I can't wait," she said simply.

They spent the evening planning, dreaming, building a future together out of words and hope and commitment. At some point, they moved from the floor to the couch, then from the couch to bed, and they fell asleep holding each other, Haewon's new tattoo wrapped carefully and Lily's forget-me-nots pressed against Haewon's shoulder.

Spring arrived slowly, then all at once. The cherry blossoms bloomed throughout Seoul, turning the city pink and white and impossibly beautiful. Haewon and Lily walked through Yeouido Park on a Sunday afternoon, joining the crowds of people taking pictures and spreading picnic blankets under the flowering trees.

They'd been together for almost a year now—long enough that the initial intensity had settled into something deeper, steadier. Long enough that they'd had their first real fight (about whether to get a cat or a dog, resolved by deciding to wait another year), their first difficult conversation (about Lily's occasional homesickness and Haewon's tendency to withdraw when stressed), their first experience of choosing each other even when it was hard.

They were stronger because of it. More real.

"I have something for you," Lily said, stopping under a particularly beautiful tree, petals falling around them like snow.

"It's not my birthday."

"I know. I just wanted to give you something." Lily pulled out a small wrapped package from her bag. "Open it."

Inside was a book—handmade, bound in soft leather. When Haewon opened it, she found pages filled with Lily's handwriting, photographs, ticket stubs, pressed flowers. A year of their relationship, documented and preserved.

"Jin-ah," Haewon breathed, flipping through the pages. There were photos from their first date, the gallery opening, the night market. Lily had written about each memory, small details that Haewon had forgotten or never known—how nervous she'd been before meeting Haewon's mother, how she'd practiced what to say in Korean for three days. How she'd known she was falling in love the night they'd burned the kimchi pancakes and laughed until they couldn't breathe.

"I wanted to make something that was ours," Lily explained, watching Haewon's face. 

"Something that had nothing to do with marks or destiny. Just us. Our story. The one we chose."

Haewon couldn't speak. She pulled Lily into a kiss instead, trying to pour everything she felt into it—gratitude and love and the overwhelming sense of being seen, of being known, of being chosen.

"I love you," she said when they pulled apart. "I love you so much."

"I love you too."

They sat under the cherry tree for hours, reading through the book together, laughing at the photos, adding new memories to the collection of existing ones. Around them, families spread out picnics, couples took selfies, children ran through the falling petals. Life continued, abundant and ordinary and extraordinary all at once.

"Do you ever think about what would have happened if we hadn't figured it out?" Lily asked. "If I'd gone to a different tattoo artist? If you hadn't told me your mark said Jin?"

"Sometimes," Haewon admitted. "But then I remember that you came to me specifically. That you chose my studio out of all the studios in Seoul. That even without knowing about the marks, something pulled you there."

"Fate?"

"Or coincidence. Or luck. Or just... life." Haewon squeezed Lily's hand. "Does it matter?"

"No," Lily said softly. "It doesn't matter at all."

Two years after they met, on a September evening that felt like a mirror of the night they'd first kissed, Haewon found herself standing in front of her bathroom mirror again, looking at the mark on her ribs. Jin. It had faded slightly over time, the way tattoos did, but it was still there. Still permanent.

She no longer saw it as a violation. She saw it as part of her story,the story of how she'd met Lily, how she'd learned that control was an illusion and choice was everything, how she'd discovered that love was both easier and harder than she'd ever imagined.

Lily appeared in the doorway, holding two glasses of wine. They'd just finished dinner. Haewon had cooked dakgalbi, and it had only been slightly burned. They were getting better at the domestic things, slowly, through trial and error and a lot of laughter.

"What are you thinking about?" Lily asked, handing her a glass.

"About marks. About choice. About how I spent so long being afraid of permanence, and now..." Haewon gestured at her wrist, where the forget-me-not had healed beautifully, the colors still bright. "Now I carry permanent reminders of you everywhere."

"Do you regret it?"

"Not even a little bit." Haewon pulled Lily close, careful not to spill the wine. "I used to think permanence was the same as being trapped. But it's not. It's just a promise to keep choosing, even when things change."

"That's very profound for a Tuesday night."

"I have my moments." Haewon says before chuckling.

They moved to the bedroom, settling into their familiar positions—Lily's head on Haewon's shoulder, their legs tangled together, the comfortable silence of people who didn't need to fill every moment with words. Outside, Seoul hummed with life, millions of people living their stories, making their choices, finding their ways.

"Haewon?" Lily's voice was quiet, thoughtful.

"Hmm?"

"If you could go back—back to before your mark appeared—would you do anything differently?"

Haewon considered the question seriously. Would she have avoided her mark if she could? Chosen to never have it appear? The old Haewon, the one who'd been terrified of permanence and cosmic interference, would have said yes immediately.

But that wasn't who she was anymore.

"No," she said finally. "Because it led me to you. And you're the best choice I never knew I was making."

"We're the best choice we never knew we were making," Lily corrected softly. "Both of us. Together."

"Together," Haewon agreed.

They fell asleep like that, marked and unmarked, chosen and choosing, bound by something stronger than ink on skin—the daily decision to stay, to love, to build a life together one choice at a time.

In the morning, Haewon would wake up and make coffee the way Lily liked it—too much sugar, not enough milk. Lily would burn the toast because she always forgot to watch it, and they'd laugh and make new toast and kiss in the kitchen while waiting for it. They'd go about their separate days, Haewon in her studio and Lily in her classroom, carrying each other in the small ways that mattered most.

And at night, they'd come back together, to the home they'd built, to the life they'd chosen, to each other. Not because the universe had written it on their skin, but because they'd written it in their hearts through a thousand small choices, a thousand daily commitments, a thousand moments of choosing love over fear.

The marks were just the beginning. Everything else—the laughter and the fights, the quiet mornings and the late nights, the ordinary moments that made up a life—that was theirs. That was the story they were still writing, one day at a time, one choice at a time.

And it was beautiful.

Haewon lived a hundred seasons without her soulmate, and eight seasons with Jin (seven of those loving her). Maybe the cosmic gods were right after all, she can’t imagine a world without her Jin.