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It’s past midnight when the lights cut out.
The apartment doesn’t just go quiet—it stills, like it’s holding its breath. One second the ceiling light hums its dull electric lullaby; the next, darkness swallows the room whole. Not the usual kind of dark. The kind that feels deliberate, like someone flipped a switch and decided: Enough.
Sayeon sits frozen on the couch, legs folded beneath her, fingers hooked in her hoodie’s hem. A mug of tea rests in her palm, long gone cold. She doesn’t remember stopping mid-sip. Doesn’t remember the air turning thin and sharp, like the room exhaled and forgot how to breathe again.
Across from her, Ryujin stirs.
A low grunt, rough with sleep, like she’s been dragged up from a dream where she was winning. Her head lifts from the armrest, curls flattened on one side, her T-shirt slipping off one shoulder like it’s given up on pretending. Moonlight spills through the window, tracing the outline of her—one sock half-slipped off, legs tucked beneath her, the kind of disheveled that looks like it took effort.
Sayeon’s been counting the seconds since Ryujin’s breathing evened out. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of watching the rise and fall of her chest, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks.
"Power’s out." Ryujin’s voice is gravel, thick with sleep. She doesn’t sound worried. Just annoyed, like the universe has, once again, failed to meet her already low expectations. She rubs at her eye with a knuckle, then stretches, shoulders cracking. The sound makes Sayeon flinch.
"You’re not freezing your ass off?"
She is. Her fingers are numb. Her toes feel like blocks of ice. But moving would mean admitting something’s changed, and Sayeon has built a career on pretending change is just a variable she hasn’t accounted for yet.
Sayeon shrugs. The fabric of her hoodie rasps against her thumbs. "I’m fine."
A lie. An obvious one. Ryujin’s silence says as much, heavy with the kind of patience that comes right before a fight—or a favor. Then she reaches behind the couch, gropes for the fleece throw they’ve had since their first winter here, and tosses half of it at Sayeon without ceremony.
It lands across her legs, warm and heavy, smelling faintly of Ryujin’s detergent—that cheap citrus stuff Sayeon definitely didn’t pick out because it reminded her of the way Ryujin’s hands smelled after peeling oranges in the kitchen.
Then—
Ryujin slumps back into the cushions, filling the space beside Sayeon as if she’s always belonged there. Her temple rests lightly against Sayeon’s shoulder, a stray curl tickling her jaw. Warmth seeps across her body before Sayeon can think to move.
This isn’t new. They’ve been pressed together in worse places—blood-slick alleys, rooftops with the wind screaming, missions where the only thing keeping them alive was knowing exactly where the other would move before they did. But this—
This is their apartment. Their chipped mugs in the sink. Their radiator wheezing like an old man. No blood. No orders. No excuse for the way Ryujin’s thigh is now pressed against hers, for the way her fingers trace idle patterns near Sayeon’s knee.
Sayeon’s skin prickles.
And just like that, she forgets how to breathe.
"Still not cold?"
Ryujin’s voice is a rumble, close enough that Sayeon feels it more than hears it. Her fingers flex against Sayeon’s sleeve.
Sayeon swallows. "No."
A pause. Ryujin’s grip tightens—not enough to bruise, just enough to hold. Like she knows Sayeon is one wrong move away from bolting.
”You could lean back, you know.” Not an invitation. Not really. Just words dropped between them like a test she already knew the answer to.
Sayeon goes still.
Because if she leans back, she’ll be giving something away. And she doesn’t even know what, only that it’s been clawing up her throat for weeks—months, maybe—and if it comes out, it won’t be words. It’ll be something messier. Something that tastes like citrus soap and the bitter tang of Ryujin’s tea; that feels like her pulse jumping every time Ryujin laughs at something stupid on TV.
So she doesn’t move.
And Ryujin doesn’t push. She just stays there, heavy and warm and maddeningly present, her breathing slow and even like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like she’s done this a hundred times before. Like she knows.
Eventually, Ryujin stirs. Scratches the back of her neck with a yawn that sounds like it’s been ripped from her chest. She stretches, shoulders cracking, and the blanket slumps off her shoulders. Sayeon doesn’t look. Or tries not to. The effort feels ridiculous.
Her voice cuts through the quiet. "Figures." Not angry. Just tired. Like she’s stating a fact she’s long since accepted.
She stands, shaking her head, and Sayeon finally risks a glance—just in time to catch the eye roll. "Night, Glasses." The words are tossed over her shoulder, casual, like she’s already halfway to sleep again.
Ryujin’s footsteps thud down the hall. The couch feels too big without her, the silence too loud. Sayeon counts the seconds, then the minutes, but the numbers blur. She doesn’t realize she’s standing until her knees lock, stiff from the cold.
—————————————————
The hallway isn’t just dark—it’s wrong. The moon’s been swallowed by clouds, turning the walls into something half-formed, like a sketch someone forgot to finish. Sayeon hates this. Hates the way shadows blur the edges of things, the way the floor and the doorframe melt together until she can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. She likes the world in sharp lines. Defined. Predictable.
Her fingers have gone stiff around the doorknob. The metal’s cold, but that’s not what’s making her chest tight. It’s the way her palm has already learned the shape of it—the grooves worn smooth where Ryujin slams it shut every time she storms out. Sayeon exhales through her nose, counting like it’ll help.
One. Two. Three.
The door swings open before she hits four.
Ryujin doesn’t just stand there. She takes up space, like she’s daring the world to try and move her. The emergency light bleeds over her, painting her skin the color of week-old bruises. Her hair is a mess, curls sticking up where her fingers have raked through it.
Of course she’s awake. Ryujin always is, when Sayeon’s about to do something stupid. It’s the one damn thing she can count on, and it makes her want to throw something.
“What,” Ryujin says. Her voice is rough, scraped raw from sleep.
“The power’s out.” Sayeon’s own voice is steady. Too steady. Her pulse hammers in her throat.
Ryujin blinks. “Yeah. And?”
“And,” Sayeon repeats, because she’s already in too deep to back out now, “the backup generator should kick in in three minutes. If it doesn’t, we’ll have to reset the fuse box.”
Ryujin doesn’t move. Just shifts her weight, just enough to let Sayeon know she’s heard the lie.
The apartment is too quiet. The kind of silence that comes after the power cuts out, when you realize how much you relied on the hum of the fridge, the buzz of the lights, to drown out the sound of your own thoughts.
“I don’t get it,” Sayeon admits. The words taste wrong, like she has swallowed something she cannot spit out.
Ryujin goes very still.
Sayeon’s chest is a fist, squeezing the air out of her. “You—” Her arm jerks between them, fingers twitching like they’re trying to grab the right words out of the air. “That. On the couch. You just—” The sentence crumbles before it can stand.
Comfort, she tells herself when she’s alone. A safe word. A neutral one. Something that doesn’t stick in her throat. Habit, she lies, when Ryujin leaves her earrings on the nightstand, when she steals Sayeon’s hoodies and never gives them back. As if they’ve always belonged there.
But want—
The word scrapes against something raw inside her. Her nails dig into her palms hard enough to leave crescents.
Ryujin’s expression changes. Exasperation, maybe something sharper. Pity. Pity is worse. “Shit.” Ryujin mutters. “You’re actually this dense.”
Sayeon feels the heat crawling up her neck. “I’m not—”
“You are.” Ryujin steps closer. Close enough that Sayeon can see the silver flecks in her gray eyes. Close enough to catch the bitter tang of tea on her breath. Close enough that Sayeon’s brain short-circuits wondering why the hell she’s noticing tea right now.
Ryujin’s hand lifts. Her thumb brushes Sayeon’s jaw, drags along her cheekbone, then lower, tracing the line of her lips like she’s memorizing the shape of them.
“It’s called cuddling, you dramatic fuck.” Her voice is low. Almost gentle. The contrast makes Sayeon’s stomach twist. “Normal people do it. You’re allowed to like it.”
Ryujin’s gaze drops to her mouth. “Also allowed,” she murmurs, “to want it.”
And Sayeon does.
She wants it like a plan finally clicking into place—every variable accounted for, every angle covered, the kind of perfect alignment that makes her breath catch and her pulse sing. She wants it like the first time she snapped her fingers and the world rewound, like the moment before a mission goes right, when the pieces slot together so seamlessly it feels like fate.
Ryujin’s breath warms her lips, thumb pressing just hard enough to feel like a promise. Sayeon hums with it—every nerve alive, every instinct screaming. She wants the weight of Ryujin’s hands, the way her voice goes rough at the edges when she’s close like this. She wants to lean in. She wants to take.
She wants.
And then—
The lights blast back on.
Ryujin’s face is all sharp edges in the glare, no more shadows to hide in. Sayeon blinks, dazzled. For a second, she’d forgotten what the world looked like in focus.
“Power’s back. Shocking,” Ryujin says, rubbing her thumb against her palm as if wiping something off. Her fingers twitch once, then drop. One step back. Another. The space between them hums with the fridge, the fluorescent bulb flickering like it’s mocking them.
“Go to bed, Glasses. I’m not dealing with your shit when you’re—” She gestures vaguely at Sayeon, posture stiff, fingers still dug into her palms. “Like this.”
Sayeon’s chest tightens. She wants to ask what, wants her to finish the sentence. But Ryujin’s already moving, shoulders tense, leaving only a low, “Drink some water or something. You look like hell.”
The door clicks shut behind her. Final.
Sayeon stays frozen, eyes fixed on the closed door. The scowl lingers sharper than the glare. Her fingers brush her lips, still tingling where Ryujin’s thumb had pressed. She swallows slow, holding onto the warmth that hasn’t left her skin yet.