Five years. Five years since Zoey left America with tears streaming down her face and your hand clutched in hers until the very last possible second. Five years since she'd whispered "I'll come back to you" against your soaked lips in that airport terminal, tasting like salt and broken hearts trying desperately to stay whole.

But you'd made it work. Somehow, impossibly, you'd made it work.

And now you were here — actually, physically here — in Seoul, in the HUNTR/X penthouse, in her room, watching your girlfriend of eight years ( five of them long-distance ) hunched over her cluttered desk like she'd been doing since you were teenagers sneaking kisses between homework assignments

Zoey could be described as many, many things — a whirlwind of sunshine, the girl who'd held your hand during your first heartbreak ( before becoming the reason your heart felt too full to contain ), a girlfriend who still texted heart emojis, paragraphs of loving messages, and the most unhinged memes at 3am despite the time difference just because she was thinking of you.

But the main thing you could say right now, watching her in the amber glow of her desk lamp: Too precious for this world.

And somehow, miraculously, after all these years and all these miles — still yours.

She was a vision of focused creativity, all soft edges and gentle concentration. Her deep blue locks — dyed now, distinct from the natural dark brown you'd braided countless times before —were styled in her signature do, only messier, strands escaping to frame her pretty face like watercolor brushstrokes. A pastel purple sleep shirt decorated with tiny embroidered stars draped over her smaller frame, one she'd gleefully stolen from her own merchandise collection.

When she'd showed it to you, you'd laughed so hard you'd cried. "What?" she'd protested, your laughter infectious. "I'm supporting the brand!”

The gel pen — green ink, always green, the same preference she'd had even before — sat tucked behind her ear, completely forgotten in her creative trance.

Your heart swelled watching her work. Some things never changed.

The way her lips moved silently as she tested each word, each syllable, the same way she used to whisper your English essay edits to make sure they "sounded right and natural." The gentle thrumming of her fingertips against the desk's edge, keeping time with a melody only she could hear. The soft crinkle of her nose when a line didn't quite work. The way she'd pause mid-thought, gaze drifting — not toward the parking lot of the park back in Burbank like it used to, but toward the Seoul skyline — waiting for inspiration to whisper its secrets.

Then — there — that little gasp of delight when it finally came. Her pen bolted across the pages, green ink flowing without an issue, and the smile that pulled at her cheeks was the same one that had made you fall in love with her at sixteen.

She was too precious for you to resist. Had been for eight years. Would be for eight more. For eighty more.

You shifted among the plushies on her bed — a colorful avalanche of soft friends, some you recognized from her childhood bedroom in America, others new. The ceramic cat you'd won for her at that summer festival five years ago, just weeks before she'd left, nestled beside the cloud-shaped pillow she'd gotten you in return. You'd laughingly declared "joint custody" of them — she kept them in Seoul, you got them when you visited, a silly tradition that meant everything.

Your fuzzy-socked feet — the turtle-patterned ones she'd mailed you for your birthday with a note that said "so we can match even when we're apart" — made no sound against the floorboards as you padded over to her.

Your hands found her shoulders with the familiarity of someone who'd touched this body for years, who'd memorized every curve and plane.

Digits pressed tenderly into the small knots of tension that always gathered there when she worked too long. A gentle, soothing massage — the one she'd text you asking for even when you were thousands of miles away: "wish you were here to fix my shoulders :((”

You peeked at her notebook, smiling at the intricate wordplay only Zoey could bring together. She was so much better at this now, more confident, the raw talent you'd always seen in her finally refined and unleashed. But the heart of it — the genuine emotion, the desire to make people feel seen — that was still purely Zoey.

But she didn't seem to notice you at first. Too immersed in her craft, too focused on that perfect turn of phrase. This wasn't just songwriting anymore — it was her career, her purpose, her way of protecting people. You understood how much this mattered to her, to them. It was why you'd never asked her to choose.

You leaned down slowly, lips pushing the softest of kisses to the elegant curve of her neck. Right where you'd left a hickey two nights ago when she'd picked you up from the airport, when you'd barely made it past her bedroom door before your hands were lost in her hair, hers beneath the layers of fabric veiling your abdomen, and her mouth latched onto yours and she was gasping "missed you, missed you, missed you, need you" between kisses.

A whisper of a kiss over her pulse, another just beside it. Then another, and another still, your lips stroking a gentle path up toward her jaw like you were reclaiming territory, reminding her body that you were here, really here.

"Mhm, hi baby…" Zoey hummed, and fuck, hearing her voice in person would never get tiring. Her left arm extended — that wordless invitation she'd been offering since you were seventeen, since the first time you'd sat in her lap and realized oh. Oh, we're not just friends anymore, are we?

You settled carefully onto her left thigh, and the taut warmth of her beneath, the way her arm snugly wrapped around your waist you made your throat constrict. Real. She was real and here and yours.

Her fingers found the fabric of the hoodie you'd borrowed — her hoodie, the one she'd left at your house the day before she flew to Seoul, the one you'd worn so much it smelled more like you now than her.

When you'd packed it for this trip, she'd giggled. "You're bringing my hoodie back to me, cutie?"

"It's our hoodie now, Zoey."

One of your palms slipped up to cradle the nape of her neck while your other hand enveloped her cheek. Your thumb brushed over cinnamon-speckled skin — freckles you'd traced on video calls, committing them to memory in case you forgot.

You'd never forgotten, you wouldn't allow it. Your kisses continued their wandering journey across her face, relearning each plane and angle in three dimensions instead of two.

She was fragranced with water lilies and fruits, some gentle body mist she sprayed every morning since sophomore year that had become one with her essence. You'd bought the same scent back home just so you could spray it on your pillow when the missing her got too heavy.

Zoey's lashes fluttered, her expression melting into pure contentment as her whole body softened against you. A tiny, pleased sigh escaped her lips — you'd missed that sound, the little noises she made that were so distinctly her.

"Not that I mind — because you know I loveeeeee when you initiate it…" She murmured, voice warm and wondering like you’d given her an unexpected gift. "But what's all this affection for? You were literally kissing me an hour ago."

"Just missed you," And even though you'd barely left her side since landing, it was still true. "Five years of missing you doesn't go away in that amount of time, Zo.”

At your words, Zoey's pen slipped from her fingers like she'd forgotten it existed. She turned in her chair, giving you her complete, undivided attention— something that used to be as easy as breathing yet had become precious, carved out of busy schedules and time zones and the dreams of being an idol.

Whiskey-brown irises were impossibly soft, glimmering with a light that had made you fall in love with her in your high school library, surrounded by textbooks and the future stretching unknown before you. The whispered giggle that spewed from her lips sounded exactly like it had at sixteen, at eighteen, at twenty.

"Then I'm all yours," she beamed, and then, softer. "Always have been."

Always.

You brought your nose to touch hers — an intimacy that you'd been indulging in constantly since arriving. You were about to close the remaining distance when the forgotten gel pen tucked behind her ear poked your forehead with an indignant little jab.

You both reached for it at the same time, laughing — in some way you'd always been weirdly, chaotically in tune. She got to it first, pulling it free with a little huff and tossing it somewhere over her shoulder without looking.

Her fingers came up to touch along your cheek with such love it made you shiver. She was looking at you like you'd hung the moon, like you'd crossed an ocean to be here ( you had ), like you were something magical she'd been terrified of losing but somehow hadn't.

"Can't believe you're really here," she whispered. "Like actually here. In our place.”

"Our place?" you teased gently, even as warmth stirred your innards. "Pretty sure Mira and Rumi live here too."

"Oh, you know what I mean," Her arms were encircling your waist completely, drawing you closer until you were pressed together, no ounce of space left between. "Can't believe I get to hold you!”

"You have me for two whole weeks," you reminded her, carding your fingers through her hair. "Fourteen days."

"You did the math." She said it with such tender sigh, like you'd done something so life-changing instead of simple multiplication.

"Of course I did the math. I've been counting down since I booked the flight."

"I did the math too," she admitted proudly, yet there was a churning vulnerability within her tone. "336 hours. 20,160 minutes. But who's counting?"

"We both are, apparently." Lips pressed to her brow, then her forehead. "But let's not think about that right now. Let's just be here, okay?"

And then she inched closer, closing the gap with a seal of her lips to yours, this eager sweetness that rendered oxygen useless. But there was something different now — not desperation, not the frantic energy of airport reunions or last kisses before departures. This was settled, certain. We made it. We're still us.

Those impossibly soft lips that always tasted like those sugared lip balms she applied constantly. Sweet and careful, tender and unhurried. Like every kiss was precious, like she wanted to savor each and every one. She kissed you the way she did everything — with her entire heart.

You pulled back suddenly, pretending to shift away, biting back a smile. "Wait, I'm sorry, love. I know you really need to finish those lyrics for the recording session tomorrow…”

An unexpected whimper escaped from Zoey's throat — she actually whimpered — and her gaze broadened, brows endearingly crinkling. "Don't do that," she whined, fingers wounding tighter on your hips. "Don't try to be responsible right now. Let’s be irresponsible."

You couldn’t help but chuckle, brushing through her growing bangs — how they’d fall into her eyes no matter how many times you pushed them back. "I was just—"

"I don't care about the lyrics," There was a fierceness lilting her words, lower lip protruding. "I don't care about the recording session. They can wait, okay? You're here. You're actually here and I—"

Her voice gave out, and oh. Oh, she was crying. Only a bit, but it was perceptible in the shimmer of her hues, that quiet, golden ache right before the first tear descended.

"Hey, hey," You soothed her, palms flushed against her cheeks, thumbs gentle as you dabbed away the tears that clung stubbornly to her lashes. "I'm here. I'm right here, Zo.”

"I know," she breathed, laughter seeping through the cracks. "I know, I just — god, I’m so happy. Like really happy I get to touch you, to hold you, to—"

You kissed her, cutting off her rambling with your mouth on hers, swallowing her laughter, her tears, her joy. A tiny, broken sound against you — part-sob, part-giggle — emerged from her throat. Soft hands slipped beneath your thighs and then she was moving, clumsy and urgent, rolling the chair towards her bed.

"I've gotten stronger, baby," you felt her please smile as she stood with you in her arms. "You've noticed it right? Like, I betcha I couldn't do this before."

Of course you had noticed. How could you not? She'd sent you pictures — playful flexing selfies with exaggerated tough-guy faces that made you laugh, post-mission shots where the strength was evident even through her exhaustion, candid concert photos where her toned arms were on full display as she performed. Her slimness had gained this perfectly sculpted muscle —nothing overdone, just beautifully proportioned and strong.

And of course, you'd felt it these past few days with every touch you'd been granted each other. The firmness of shoulders when you grasped, the definition of forearms when she’d tug you in, the strength in her thighs when you'd been tangled together. Hell, you got VIP tickets for personal closeups and physical contact.

"You definitely couldn't," you agreed, remembering her fumbling attempts back then. "You dropped me on the floor. More than once."

"Oh my gosh, I had noodle arms then."

“I loved your noodle arms then, Zoey,” your palms appreciatively ran over her biceps, giving a few squeezes that had her giggling at the sensation. "And I love your arms now. Either or, it’s really hot.”

Her cheeks flushed that pretty pink, pleased and flustered. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Very hot. Like, extremely hot."

“Well, then, all that training really did me miracles." Her chin tilted, glowing with such pride, you couldn’t resist laughing because by fuck, she was adorable.

She toppled you both down among plushies that told the story of your relationship — ones from before, ones mailed as gifts, ones purchased here and photographed to send back home. She crawled over you , positioning herself between your legs, and the substance of her, the solid reality of her, brought a sharp prickling of tears to your eyes.

"Hi," she breathed, suspended above you, blue locks cascading down to create an intimate veil around both your faces.

“Hi,” you murmured back, your smile trembling — joy catching in your throat, her warmth too contagious, too much to hold still.

"I love you." The words oozed with honeyed feeling. "I love you so impossibly much, y’know that right? Thank you for coming. Thank you for being here—”

"Zoey." You reached upward, fingers sifting through her roots to tug her down into a kiss that eclipsed the one before — this one deeper, more eager. "I love you too. How could I not come?”

She kissed you then as though she could compress eight years of devotion into this single instant. As though she could commit every element to permanent memory past sheer force of yearning. Your cheek nuzzled into her palm with infinite tenderness, and when she drew back to study your features, her irises swam with affection, with desire, and something luminous that resembled hope itself.

"You're so fucking pretty, Zoey," you whispered, intoxicated at the sight of her — lips parted and blushed from the press of your mouth, cheeks painted the tender hue of dawn, gaze alight with joy.

"Shhhh, you’re fucking pretty," Her smile stretched so wide it carved happiness into the corners of her eyes — that authentic expression you'd tumbled headlong into and had been falling toward ever since, in this endless loop of becoming.

And she dipped down, her smile pressing sweetly against yours, unable to fully commit because she just couldn't stop grinning like a mad man.

"Love you," she punctured into the space between one kiss and the next. " I love you, love you, love you.”

She arranged herself beside you, drawing you into the circle of her arms until your head found its home in the curve of her neck, right where her pulse beat its steady rhythm. You could feel it— constant and boisterous.

"Stay?" she exhaled. "Right here. In my bed, in my arms."

"I'm not going anywhere, love.”

She radiantly grinned. "Stuck together," words mushed against your temple .

"Stuck together," you promised, and the words transformed into a promise that defied geography and time zones and all the maddening practicalities of loving someone whose life unfolded here while yours existed elsewhere.

You'd figure it out. You always did. Because this — her heartbeat beneath your ear, her fingers drawing whimsical and shapeless figures on your back, the warmth of her surrounding you — this was worth everything.

Later, when her breathing had evened out into sleep, you remained wakeful awhile longer, just memorizing her, the profound peace settled over her sleeping features. And possibly snapping a picture of her, with the drool gathering at the corner of her mouth and drenching your shirt.

Yeah. Zoey was too precious for this world. With her beautiful heart that loved so fiercely, that stayed constant through everything, that chose you again and again.

She was yours. And you were hers. Stuck together by something stronger than distance, stronger than all the obstacles that should have pulled you apart but somehow never did.

...

When morning came and Zoey surfaced from sleep to find you still there — not some ephemeral dream that dissolved with daylight — she smiled before consciousness fully returned, before her eyes even opened.

"Morning, pretty girl..." you were already wide awake, keeping vigil over her peaceful rest.

"Best morning," she whispered in return, burrowing deeper into your cozy form. "Every morning that has you in it is the bestest of the bestest mornings."

"Sap," you teased softly, though your own smile betrayed you, nose nudging hers.

"Your sap," she amended with sleepy satisfaction, and kissed you breathless all over again.