Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Momo pushed open the café door, the little bell chiming like a wind-up toy trying its best. Jeongyeon slipped in behind her, already talking about something like traffic, or a dog she saw, or maybe both. Momo wasn’t sure; the words slid past her ears like water over smooth stone.

They found a table near the window. Momo sat, folded her hands, and stared at the faint reflection of the street behind her. Jeongyeon barely paused before launching into her next commentary, oblivious to the fact that Momo was offering only the occasional nod—small, polite, and mostly misplaced.

“You’re not listening,” Jeongyeon said, squinting playfully.

“I am,” Momo replied. Technically true, just not to her.

The café had its own heartbeat today; a soft thrum of milk steaming, gentle chatter, clinking cups. Everything normal, but Momo felt a strange tug under her ribs, like the air itself was bracing for something. Or someone.

Jeongyeon checked her phone. “Jihyo said she’s almost here. Knowing her, that means five minutes. Tops.”

Momo’s gaze flicked to the door before she could stop it. She pretended she was just checking the time on the hanging clock behind it.

Jeongyeon didn’t notice; she was too busy scrolling. “Did you see her new haircut? She looks like she walked out of a CF again. Who has time to look that polished?”

Momo shrugged as if the topic were bland oatmeal. Inside, though, a tight little coil twisted—not unpleasant, just inconvenient.

The door chimed again.

Momo didn’t jerk her head toward it, but every atom in her body did. Jeongyeon glanced up casually. Momo kept staring at her iced coffee like it held the secret of life.

“Ah—speaking of the angel” Jeongyeon said, waving.

Jihyo stepped inside, sunlight catching her hair just right, as if it had been waiting outside with her. She moved with a confidence that made the room part slightly without anyone realizing it.

Momo felt it immediately, the shift, the quiet gravity, the way her pulse tapped at her wrist like it wanted out.

Jihyo approached with that familiar bright smile. “Hey, Am I late?”

“Hey,” Jeongyeon replied. “Not really, the café that you initially wanted was closed.”

Momo said nothing at first—just a soft, almost invisible lift of her chin. Barely an acknowledgment. Barely anything at all.

Except Jihyo saw it.

Of course she did.

Her smile faltered in a way Jeongyeon completely missed as she scooted over to make room.

Momo’s heartbeat, however, did not miss a thing. And the air between her and Jihyo hummed—soft, steady, stubborn—like a secret soundtrack only the two of them could hear.

They have always been like this, even back then during college days. Sometimes hot, all the time cold. Their friends were used to this considering what their history is. It is better left alone. Closed. Locked and keys thrown away and lost with no point of being found.

Jihyo slid into the chair across from her, sunlight catching in her hair like it still had a personal pact with her. Momo kept her expression neutral—aloof, practiced, safe. She lifted her iced drink to her lips just to have something to do with her hands.

Jeongyeon grinned, blissfully unaware of the silent electricity weaving itself between the two women. “Perfect timing. I was just telling Momo—”

But Momo wasn’t listening again.

She felt the air shift the second Jihyo arrived. Felt it settle around her like an old coat she’d forgotten she owned. It wasn’t heavy, just familiar. Too familiar.

Her gaze drifted barely toward Jihyo’s hands as she reached for her cup. Steady. Elegant. The same hands that once pulled Momo through crowded bars when the music was too loud and their inhibitions too soft. She could almost smell the mix of tequila, sweat, and neon lights clinging to those memories.

God. Stop.

She tried to drag her thoughts back to the present.

But the past had always had sticky fingers.

They weren’t exes. That would’ve made the whole thing simpler, cleaner, something with a proper beginning and an acceptable end. No—what they had floated somewhere in the foggy middle. Nights that blurred together, not because of alcohol, but because they never bothered to define anything. They were just… drawn to each other.

Lonely nights made them bold. Cheap beer made them reckless.

Tequila made them honest.

Momo remembered Jihyo laughing, head thrown back, hand gripping her arm as if steadying herself. She remembered Jihyo pulling her close on nights when the city felt too big, whispering things that sounded like secrets but tasted like temptations.

And she remembered the feel of Jihyo’s breath against her lips. Warm, sweet, slightly sharp from lime, right before they crossed that thin line that friends shouldn’t cross.

Once.

Twice.

More times than either admitted.

“Momo?” Jeongyeon waved a hand in front of her face.

She blinked. “Hm?”

“You zoned out,” Jeongyeon teased. “Again. You’re like… spiritually buffering today.”

Momo shrugged, feigning indifference. “Just tired.”

But Jihyo’s eyes flicked toward her, soft and knowing, like she could hear every thought Momo didn’t say.

Like she remembered those nights too.

“Long day?” Jihyo asked gently.

Momo nodded once, eyes on her drink. “Something like that.”

What she didn’t say was that seeing Jihyo again felt like someone had pressed play on a film she’d packed away ages ago.

What she didn’t say was that some ghosts weren’t scary at all. They were warm, intoxicating, and incredibly inconvenient.

Jeongyeon kept talking, oblivious.

Jihyo kept smiling, controlled.

And Momo, with her blank face and racing pulse, kept pretending the past wasn’t sitting in the empty space between them—quiet, alive, and waiting to be acknowledged.

But no. Momo knows herself. She will never allow herself to be affected about something that she, herself, destroyed.

The conversation drifted around her like background noise—Jeongyeon rambling about work, Jihyo adding comments in that smooth, confident tone she’d perfected over the years. Momo tried to focus on the condensation sliding down her glass.

Then she heard it.

Jihyo, laughing softly. “—and yeah, I ended up crashing at his place. I was too drunk to go home.”

A tiny pause.

One second of silence where Momo felt something sharp flick across her chest.Jeongyeon smirked. “You crashed at his place or you slept at his place?”

Jihyo rolled her eyes but her lips curved upward. “Both, I guess.”

Momo didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

She kept her expression blank, bored even.

Inside, a thin thread snapped. Not dramatically—more like the quiet break of a cheap bracelet. Something small, stupid, but still felt.

Good for her, Momo lied to herself.

She can do whatever she wants.

Another lie.

It’s not like she owes me anything.

The biggest lie.

She lifted her straw and took a slow sip of iced coffee, hoping the cold would numb the heat rising in her chest.

“Right, Momo?” Jeongyeon nudged her. Momo blinked back into the moment. “Hm? Yeah. Cool.”

“Cool?” Jeongyeon laughed. “You didn’t even hear it.”

Jihyo studied her for a beat—eyes soft, curious, maybe even knowing. Momo looked away before she drowned in that look again.

The topic shifted then, mercifully.

“Oh! Dahyun’s birthday is coming up,” Jeongyeon said, tapping the table. “You guys got her gifts already?”

Momo froze.

Gifts.

Birthday.

Dahyun.

She had not only forgotten—she had violently forgotten. “Uhh…” Momo reached for her drink again like it could shield her. “When… is it?”

Jeongyeon’s jaw dropped. “Seriously? You forgot again?”

Momo made a noncommittal noise. Something between a grunt and a slow-death wheeze. Jihyo laughed—not mean, just amused. “It’s next week. You should set reminders, Momo.”

The irritation that had been simmering from earlier—the part where Jihyo casually slept with someone—bubbled back up, petty and immediate. So when Jeongyeon added, “Well, Jihyo’s birthday comes first anyway,” Momo didn’t miss a beat.

“Oh?” she said, tilting her head. “When’s that?”

Both of them stared at her like she’d grown a second head.

Jeongyeon stopped mid-sip. “Momo… you’re joking, right?”

“No?” Momo deadpanned, brows slightly raised. “Do you want me to guess?”

Jeongyeon slapped the table. “There is NO WAY you forgot Jihyo’s birthday. You always remember hers!” She turned to Jihyo. “She even showed up early that one year—like, who shows up early?”

Momo shrugged. “Must’ve slipped my mind.” It was an elegant lie. A masterpiece of pettiness. If pettiness could be framed in a museum, this moment belonged in the center hall.

Jihyo stared at her, lips parted, something unreadable flickering in her eyes—confusion, disappointment, or maybe realization.

Momo kept her face blank, the picture of disinterest. Inside, though, she felt the tiniest, cruelest spark of satisfaction. If Jihyo could pretend the past meant nothing, then Momo could pretend her birthday did too.

Oh yes—revenge came in many forms. Hers just happened to be small, quiet, and delivered with a straight face.

Jeongyeon reacted exactly as expected: loud disbelief, dramatic hand gestures, a gasp big enough to pull in half the café’s oxygen.

But Jihyo…

Jihyo said nothing.

She just went still.

Her fingers tightened around her cup for a second, barely noticeable unless you’d memorized her hands the way Momo once had. Her smile didn’t break, but it faltered just enough that Momo felt it like a punch straight to the ribs.

No anger.

No teasing.

No calling her out.

Just quiet.

And somehow that was a thousand times worse.

Momo stared at her iced drink, pretending she hadn’t noticed. Pretending she didn’t feel Jihyo’s silence pressing against her like guilt with a heartbeat.

Why did I do that?

Because I’m petty.

Why am I petty?

Because I’m stupid.

Why do I care at all? It’s been years.

Exactly. Years. Ancient history. Fossils.

She should not still be reacting like some lovesick teenager who saw her crush holding someone else’s hand behind the school building.

She wanted to smack herself. Hard.

What they had was years ago—messy nights, blurred lines, cheap liquor, accidental kisses that weren’t accidents. All of it long dead, buried under sobriety and adulthood. Jihyo didn’t owe her anything. Not explanations. Not loyalty. Not a pause before saying she slept with someone.

So why did Momo feel like she’d swallowed a whole lemon?

Jeongyeon was still talking, something about party planning, cakes, balloons—but her voice faded into background static as Momo’s guilt crawled up her throat.

Jihyo still hadn’t said a word.

She just sat with her hands folded neatly around her cup, looking at the table like the silence between them might spill over if she made the wrong move.

Momo’s chest tightened.

Great. Amazing. I hurt her feelings. For what? Because she moved on? Because she acted like a normal functioning adult?

Her face stayed unreadable, but inside she was clawing at herself.

Finally, before she could drown in her own stupidity, Momo pushed her chair back abruptly.

“I—” Her voice came out too sharp. She cleared her throat. “I’m gonna step out. Need a smoke.”

Jeongyeon blinked. “Since when do you—”

“Just need air.” The words tumbled out. “Or nicotine. Or both. I don’t know.”

She stood up too fast, nearly knocking her knee against the table. She avoided looking at Jihyo completely—because she knew if she saw her face right now, even for a second, she’d either apologize on the spot or implode.

Neither option felt safe.

The café’s bell chimed as she walked out, cold air slapping her cheeks and making her feel even more ridiculous.

She leaned against the wall outside, exhaling shakily. She didn’t even say anything, Momo thought miserably. She didn’t have to. That’s what makes it worse.

She rubbed her face with both hands.

Years ago. All of it years ago. Why was she still reacting like she had something to lose?

When Momo reentered the café, she already knew something was wrong. The air felt different—colder, heavier, like someone had turned down the warmth but left the lights on. She scanned their table and found only one figure still there.

Jihyo.

No Jeongyeon. No buffer. No excuses.

Just her. Exactly the situation Momo had been trying to avoid.

Jihyo didn’t look up immediately, but Momo could tell she’d heard the bell. Her shoulders stiffened, just a little, in a way that made guilt crawl down Momo’s spine like a slow-dripping leak.

Momo walked back anyway. What else was she supposed to do? leave? Run? Pretend none of this mattered? She sat down carefully, as if the chair might break under the weight of everything neither of them was saying.

“Where’s Jeongyeon?” she asked, though it didn’t matter.

“She left.” Jihyo’s answer was simple. Sharp. Clean. “Said she had an errand. She didn’t think you’d take long.”

“Oh.”

Silence. The kind that tasted like metal.

Momo rested her arms on the table. Jihyo kept hers folded tightly, like she was holding herself together with her own grip.

“You okay?” Momo asked, because it felt like something she should say.

Jihyo laughed, not a pleased laugh, not soft or warm. A tired, humorless breath. “I’m fine.”

“Right.” Momo stared at her drink. “You look… mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

But her jaw was clenched. Her fingers were digging crescents into her palms. Her eyes had that glassy shine she got when she was trying not to feel anything too loudly.

“Okay,” Momo said weakly. “You’re not mad.”

Jihyo’s gaze finally snapped up. “You don’t get to say it like that.”

Momo leaned back, stung. “Like what?”

“Like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t,” Momo lied.

Jihyo’s eyes flashed—hurt, irritated, something tangled between the two. “You pretending to forget my birthday was… childish.”

Momo’s mouth twitched. “Yeah? Well, hearing about who you sleep with isn’t exactly my favorite lunchtime topic.”

The silence that followed was sharper, darker. A held breath between two people standing on old, cracked ground.

Jihyo looked away, jaw tightening. “You asked why I’m mad? That’s why. Why are you still acting like this, Momo? What the fuck is still fucking wrong with you?”

Ah, there she is. Momo thought, the Jihyo that she remembered the last time they talked before everything went shit.

“I don’t remember asking,” Momo muttered.

“You didn’t have to,” Jihyo snapped.

Momo bit the inside of her cheek until it hurt. “What did you want me to do? Clap? Be supportive?”

“I didn’t want anything from you!” Jihyo’s voice rose before she caught herself, then lowered, strained. “I wasn’t saying it for you.”

That one hurt more than it should’ve.

Momo crossed her arms, suddenly cold. “Well, it sounded like you were.”

Jihyo laughed again—bitter, small. “Everything sounds like something to you, doesn’t it?”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means,” Jihyo said, staring at her cup like she wished it were stronger than coffee, “you react like you’re still allowed to. Like you still have… a place.”

Ouch.

That one cut clean.

Momo swallowed hard. “I don’t think I understand.”

“You do,” Jihyo said quietly. “You just don’t want to.”

The words hung in the air—heavy, raw. Momo’s fingers twitched, desperate for something to hold onto.

Years ago, they would’ve reached for each other without thinking. Years ago, they would’ve crossed this distance in one breath.

But now?

Now the space between them felt like an old wound being peeled open.

Momo stared at her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “For earlier. For… forgetting.”

Jihyo didn’t soften. Not this time. “You didn’t forget.”

Momo flinched. “I know.”

Another silence settled—darker, uglier. Not angry. Not explosive.

Just… sad. Exhausted.

Jihyo exhaled shakily. “I don’t know why we’re doing this, Momo.”

Momo didn’t know either. Pretending. Acting unaffected. Hurting each other in stupid, tiny ways because the real hurt was older and bigger and too complicated to look at directly.

When Momo finally spoke, her voice was low. “There’s no sense in pretending, huh?”

Jihyo looked at her—really looked—and for the first time that afternoon, the bitterness softened, not into warmth, but into resignation.

“No,” she whispered. “There isn’t.”

Momo nodded slowly, feeling something inside her crumble just a little.

Not enough to break her open.

But enough to bruise.

They sat there in the quiet aftermath, staring at anything except each other, both of them pretending they weren’t remembering everything they’d built and ruined without ever calling it what it was.

Not love.

Not friendship.

Just a ghost neither of them knew how to send away.

And no Jeongyeon was coming to save them from it.

-

The door clicked shut behind her, muffling the faint hum of the street. Momo leaned against it for a moment, letting the quiet of her apartment press against her like a weight she’d been carrying all day. The city outside buzzed and flickered, but here, it was still. Empty. Safe. And yet… it wasn’t. Not really. Not after today.

She kicked off her shoes and left them where they fell. The apartment smelled faintly of dust and lingering coffee from the morning, the kind of neutral smell that should have been calming, but instead felt accusatory. Because it reminded her she was alone. And she was thinking. Thinking too much.

Her thoughts returned instantly to Jihyo. To the way she’d sat across from her, still and poised, controlled even when Momo had tried to bait her with petty lies and childish games. That silence—so quiet, so full—had been louder than any argument. The kind of silence that burrows in your chest, digs in, and refuses to leave.

Momo stalked to the small kitchen, opened the cabinet, and pulled down a bottle of whiskey. The amber liquid caught the light and glimmered like something sacred—or dangerous. She poured herself a heavy glass, no ice, and took a sip. The burn traveled all the way down, loosening the tight knot in her chest, but it didn’t touch the knot in her mind.

She grabbed a packet of cigarettes from the counter, tossed one into her mouth, and fumbled for a lighter. The flame flickered, caught, and she inhaled sharply. Smoke filled her lungs, sharp and acrid, and for a moment, she thought she might choke. But she didn’t. She liked the burn. Liked how it left a bitter trace at the back of her throat, just like today.

She sat down on the edge of her bed, one foot on the floor, one on the mattress, staring at the dark ceiling like it had answers she didn’t trust. Her glass of whiskey trembled slightly in her hand. She sipped again. Bitter. Hot. Necessary.

Jihyo.

Why couldn’t she stop thinking about Jihyo?

Momo’s mind scrolled through every second of the café, every glance, every flicker of expression she’d tried and failed to ignore. That small smile when Momo asked the wrong question. The way her hands curled around the cup. The tilt of her head. The faint gleam in her eyes when Momo tried to hurt her a little, to push her off balance, to test her like they used to test each other in younger, wilder nights.

And she was so beautiful.

God, she was beautiful.

And that was the worst part. That was what made Momo want to throw the whiskey against the wall, punch the air, scream at herself. Because it shouldn’t matter. She shouldn’t still feel… anything. She shouldn’t remember every detail as if she had a right to. She shouldn’t be twisted up in resentment and desire all at once, unable to separate one from the other.

She drank. Took another cigarette. Let the smoke curl around her like an apology she couldn’t speak. Her stomach churned. Her chest burned. Her mind shouted at her to grow up, to let go, to stop feeling like this, stop feeling anything at all.

But she couldn’t.

Every time she tried to push Jihyo out of her mind, she found the image again: confident, radiant, impossibly calm. The way sunlight had caught her hair in the café, haloing her in a way that made Momo want to hate her for it. And she did hate her, just a little. For being so effortlessly… everything.

The whiskey burned deeper now, filling her veins with fire. The cigarette smoldered in her fingers, sending trails of blue-gray into the dim room. Momo leaned back, letting the wall press against her shoulders, wishing she could press herself into it and disappear.

She thought of the old nights—the cheap beer, the tequila, the way they used to fill their loneliness with each other, with noise, with warmth, with touches that weren’t meant to mean anything and yet did. And then she thought of today, how different it all felt. How grown-up, how cold, how complicated. How much she hated herself for feeling the same sparks and burns even after all these years.

Her glass was half-empty now. She took another long sip. The alcohol filled her chest, the smoke clawed at her lungs, and for a moment, she closed her eyes and imagined being someone else. Someone who didn’t care. Someone who didn’t replay every glance, every smile, every unspoken word. Someone who didn’t hate and lust and mourn all at once.

But she wasn’t that person.

She never would be.

And maybe that was the cruelest thing of all.

She finished the whiskey. The cigarette was down to a stub. She let herself collapse back onto the balcony chair, staring at the endless city lights, lungs full of smoke, mind full of Jihyo. Every sharp, intoxicating memory. Every unfairly bright, impossible glance. Every bitter, delicious thing that made her feel alive and miserable all at once.

And Momo hated herself for it.

And maybe… she hated Jihyo too.

And maybe… she didn’t.

And the lights didn’t care. The whiskey didn’t care. The smoke curled into corners and vanished into nothing, and Momo was left with herself, with her thoughts, and with a memory she’d never be able to escape.

Not completely.

Not ever.

The bottle was empty, the last cigarette smoldering in its ashtray like a dying ember. Momo sat slumped on the floor, back against the wall, glassy-eyed and trembling. Her phone was in her hand before she even realized it. Her thumb hovered over Mina’s contact, and then she dialed.

The line rang twice. Three times. And then Mina’s voice, warm and cautious, broke through the haze.

“Momo? Are you—are you okay? It’s late.”

Momo laughed, sharp and broken, a sound that made her wince immediately. “No. No, I’m… I’m fine,” she slurred, trying to sound casual, normal, controlled. She was none of those things.

“Mina.” She exhaled, slow, deliberate, trying to sound casual. “I just needed to talk to someone. Not that it matters.”

“Uh-huh. Sounds like a weird day,” Mina said, voice soft but teasing. “Spiraling again?”

Momo snorted lightly. “No. Not spiraling. Just… thinking.”

Mina laughed. “That doesn’t sound like you. What are you thinking about?”

Momo shrugged, even though Mina couldn’t see it. “Some people… some people just don’t change. Or maybe they do, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.”

There was a pause. Mina’s soft hum came through. “Are you drunk?”

Momo tilted her head, taking a slow sip of whiskey. “I wouldn’t call it that.” She wanted to sound aloof, unbothered. She almost did. “It’s… frustrating, I guess. Seeing someone and realizing they’re still… something. Still… too much. Too perfect.”

Mina was quiet. “You sound miserable.”

“I’m not miserable,” Momo said quickly, too quickly. “I’m tired. I’m tired of being reminded.”

“Reminded of what?”

Momo shrugged again, letting the silence stretch. She was careful—careful not to name names, careful not to reveal the shape of the ache. “Of things. People. How… impossible they can be. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t get it anyway.”

Mina said nothing, but her soft hum, the one Momo always hated and secretly needed filled the line.

Momo tapped the glass against the counter, staring at the amber liquid. “Anyway,” she said, voice flat again, “I just wanted to tell someone that… some people can still be too much, even years later. Still annoyingly, ridiculously beautiful. And it… makes you feel like a fool.”

“Wow,” Mina said quietly. “You sound pitiful.”

Momo laughed, dry and bitter. “Yeah. That’s the word for it. Pitiful. That’s me.” She took another sip of whiskey, letting the burn slide down her throat. “I’d be mad at them, I guess. But really… I’m just mad at myself. For noticing. For still noticing. For… letting it matter.”

“Sounds like you care a lot more than you want to admit,” Mina said softly.

Momo shrugged one last time, almost defeated. “Yeah. Maybe. But no one else needs to know that. Least of all… anyone else.”

She ended the call without waiting for a reply, setting the phone down and staring at the ceiling. Aloof. Detached. Pitiful. Still.

And all the while, in the quiet apartment filled with smoke and whiskey, the thought of that one night, the one that she keeps coming back to, that one memory she cherishes so much she wished she had the ability to forget.

-

(Memory 1)

The room smelled of spilled beer and instant noodles, a lingering haze of cheap perfume and laughter clinging to the corners. College dorm rooms were never meant to hold this much chaos, but somehow, tonight it did.

Momo leaned back against the wall, glass in hand, feeling the familiar warmth spreading through her chest. She wasn’t drunk—well, not completely but the edges of the room were softer, fuzzier, like the world had been painted with a brush dipped in amber light.

Nayeon was sprawled on the bed, laughing so loud it echoed off the bare walls. “You don’t know how to kiss, do you?” she slurred, pointing a shaky finger at Jihyo, who sat cross-legged on the floor, cheeks flushed, hair falling into her eyes.

Jihyo frowned, swatting Nayeon’s hand away. “Shut up! I do know how to kiss!”

“Do you, though?” Nayeon teased, rolling onto her side so she could get a better view. “I bet you don’t. You’ve never kissed anyone properly. You should ask Momo to teach you.”

Momo froze mid-sip, glass halfway to her lips. The words were harmless enough on their own, but the way Nayeon had said them half teasing, half provocation made Momo’s chest tighten. She didn’t move, didn’t respond. Just watched.

Jihyo’s eyes flicked to Momo, sharp and challenging. A spark ignited there, subtle but undeniable.

“What?” Jihyo asked, voice slightly higher than usual, cheeks warming further. “Why would I ask her?”

Momo shrugged, casual and aloof, though her heart was suddenly thudding like it wanted to escape her chest. “I’m not really the teaching type,” she said, voice flat, but there was a weight in it she couldn’t mask.

“Come on!” Nayeon cackled. “You have to teach her, Momo! I insist. This is a public service.” She waved her hand dramatically like she was conducting an orchestra.

Jihyo groaned, covering her face with her hands, but Momo could see the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly. The alcohol made her bold, but the flush in her cheeks betrayed something deeper—something curious, something unspoken.

Momo set her glass down on the floor, leaning back a little further, watching Jihyo. “You’re overthinking it,” she said casually. “It’s not complicated. You just  follow the other person. Pay attention. Don’t panic.”

Jihyo peeked through her fingers, daring Momo to continue. “Oh really? That’s it? That’s your great wisdom?”

Momo smirked faintly, shrugging as if she didn’t care, even though every fiber of her body was suddenly alert. “Pretty much. That’s the trick. Don’t think. Just… do.”

The words hung in the air. Nayeon leaned forward, grinning like a cat, clearly enjoying the show. “Ohhh, the tension! I knew there was something between you two!”

Momo ignored her, but her gaze didn’t leave Jihyo. Jihyo, despite herself, was looking back. Eyes bright, lips slightly parted, leaning just a fraction closer than necessary.

The room felt smaller, tighter, hotter. The air thickened with something that wasn’t alcohol or smoke. It was curiosity. It was the dangerous little electricity of two people testing boundaries without ever admitting it.

Momo shook her head slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if to warn herself not to get caught up. And yet the corner of her mouth twitched upward. She was aware of every line of Jihyo’s face, every shift in her posture, every subtle spark in her dark eyes.

Nayeon, oblivious to the tension she’d orchestrated, clapped her hands. “Alright! Momo, teach her! I demand it!”

Momo picked up her glass again, took a slow, deliberate sip, and let her eyes linger on Jihyo for a long beat. Then, flatly: “You really want me to?”

Jihyo’s cheeks burned brighter, a mixture of defiance and something Momo couldn’t name. “I… maybe,” she said, voice low, challenging. “If you’re offering.”

And that was it. That tiny, almost insignificant exchange—the tilt of a head, a half-smile, a word left unspoken—was the beginning. The moment the air shifted, subtly, irrevocably. It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t even meant to be anything serious.

The room had shrunk to the three of them, but soon it felt like it was just Momo and Jihyo, a separate universe folded quietly into the corner of the dorm. Nayeon’s snores, loud and unsteady, rose and fell like waves against the soft rhythm of the night, but they were nothing more than background noise to Momo’s awareness.

Jihyo shifted closer, just enough to brush her knee against Momo’s. The touch was light, accidental or maybe deliberate, but Momo felt it like a spark landing against dry kindling. She didn’t move away.

“Teach me,” Jihyo whispered, just above a breath. Her voice was low, intimate, and somehow trembling—not with fear, Momo realized, but with anticipation.

Momo’s pulse skipped. The words made her heart beat too fast, her mind scramble for something clever to say, but all cleverness evaporated the moment she looked at Jihyo. The room was dim, a faint yellow glow from the bedside lamp painting Jihyo’s face in warm light. Her lips were slightly parted, eyes dark and questioning, and Momo knew, with a clarity that made her breath catch, that this was no longer about teaching.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Her hands found their way to Jihyo’s waist, holding her steady, almost possessively, as if she could prevent the rest of the world from intruding.

And then she leaned in.

Slowly. Deliberately. Their foreheads touched first, a soft brush that sent heat crawling across Momo’s skin. She felt Jihyo shiver under her, small, almost imperceptible, but enough to make Momo’s own chest tighten.

Her lips found Jihyo’s. Gentle at first, testing, tentative but already loaded with the gravity of everything unsaid between them. The world contracted until there was nothing but the press of lips, the sharp, intoxicating heat, the faint taste of beer and tequila and something sweet that was just Jihyo.

Jihyo’s hands went to Momo’s shoulders, pulling her closer, pressing her into the quiet curve of her body. Their breath mingled, shallow and uneven, hearts hammering in synchrony. Every inch of the kiss was deliberate, each motion careful but desperate, as if they both feared breaking the fragile tension they’d spent months tiptoeing around.

“Slowly, steady and tilt your head this way, Ji” Jihyo nodded her head, gaze unfocused and fingers trembling while gripping Momo’s shirt.

Momo’s tongue brushed Jihyo’s lower lip, tentative, asking, and Jihyo responded instantly, parting, meeting her halfway. The kiss deepened, became hotter, more urgent. It wasn’t raw or careless, it was controlled chaos, a collision of restraint and desire that made Momo dizzy and reckless all at once.

Time slowed. The dim light flickered across Jihyo’s hair, across her flushed cheeks, across the curve of her jaw that Momo suddenly wanted to trace with her hands. Every inhale was shared. Every exhale drawn in closer. The kiss spoke of everything neither had dared to name—the loneliness they filled for each other, the thrill of being dangerously close, the unspoken promises they weren’t ready to voice.

When they finally broke apart, just barely, their foreheads still touching, both were breathing hard, flushed, hearts still hammering. Jihyo’s eyes glimmered, wide, shimmering, and for a moment, Momo saw the same wild, sharp exhilaration mirrored in her own reflection.

“Wow,” Jihyo whispered, a single word that carried more weight than any sentence could.

Momo smirked, leaning back just slightly, aloof again—or at least trying. “Don’t say it like that. You’re supposed to be learning.”

Jihyo laughed softly, breathless, pressing a finger lightly to Momo’s chest, right over her heart. “I’m… learning.”

Momo felt a laugh bubble up from deep inside, hot and sharp, but it was laced with something else—something electric, messy, dangerous, and thrilling all at once. And as she watched Jihyo tilt her head, still flushed, still daring her to cross another line, Momo knew that nothing would ever be the same.

Not after this.

Not ever.

Chapter Text

Momo woke with a dry mouth and a pulse that hadn’t yet calmed from the night before. The sunlight creeping across the dorm room floor felt too soft for how sharp the memories were. Her mind went straight to Jihyo before she could stop it.

Her lips still remembered.

Her hands still remembered.

Her whole body remembered.

It annoyed her.

The kiss hadn’t been some romantic revelation. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t sweet. It was warm and slow and strangely deliberate, the kind of kiss that sank into muscle memory instead of emotion. Momo could still feel the shape of it, the slide of Jihyo’s mouth against hers, the startled inhale Jihyo made when Momo deepened it, the faint tremble in her fingers when she touched Momo’s jaw.

Heat crept up Momo’s neck. She hated how her body remembered before her brain could block it. Slowly, she opened her eyes and saw Jihyo was sitting at the foot of the bed, not doing anything interesting, not staring at Momo. She’s just minding her own business, scrolling through her phone with calm focus.

But Momo saw her differently now, which annoyed her even more.

The curve of Jihyo’s shoulders looked unfairly elegant for someone hungover. Her neck had that faint flush from last night’s drinks. Her lips, Momo should not be looking at her lips this early in the morning—were a shade deeper, like the kiss had left a small imprint that only she could see.

Momo dragged her gaze away, feeling strangely caught even though Jihyo hadn't noticed anything. Nayeon snored loudly, a reminder that the night had been messy, stupid, normal.

Except one part wasn’t normal anymore.

Jihyo finally glanced up. “Oh, you’re awake.”

Her tone was light, casual, exactly what it had always been. Momo forced a nod. “Yeah.”

The air between them wasn’t tense. It wasn’t awkward per se, it was simply charged, at least for Momo. Jihyo didn’t seem bothered. Wasn’t even seem flustered. Didn’t seem like she had spent the last ten seconds analyzing the memory of someone else’s mouth.

Momo envied that.

Jihyo brushed hair behind her ear. “Your head okay?”

“Fine,” Momo said, a little too quickly, then adjusted. “Just hungover.”

Jihyo let out a soft laugh. “We drank too much.”

“Yeah.”

Normal exchange and ordinary words, but Momo was acutely aware of the small distance between them. Last night had erased that distance, pressed them close, blurred a line she didn’t know she’d been guarding until it disappeared.

Jihyo stood, stretching slightly. Her shirt lifted just enough to reveal a sliver of skin, and Momo immediately looked away, irritated at her own reaction.

No romantic butterflies.

No aching longing.

Just pure, inconvenient attraction that struck her harder now that she knew exactly how Jihyo kissed.

“I was going to get breakfast,” Jihyo said. “Do you want anything?”

Momo surprised herself by hesitating, not because she didn’t want food, but because hearing Jihyo talk so casually after last night felt strangely grounding. Comforting, even.

“Yeah,” she finally said. “Maybe coffee. Black.”

“Okay.” Jihyo smiled. “I’ll bring some back.”

The smile did something stupid to Momo’s chest which she ignored it expertly. Jihyo slipped on her shoes and left the room; the door clicked softly behind her.

Momo blew out a breath the moment she was alone, her thoughts scrambled for order. She wasn’t swooning. She knows she didn’t want a relationship. She wasn’t imagining some romantic meaning behind a drunken kiss in a cramped dorm room. But the attraction was alive now, it’s clear and undeniable. Too vivid for her peace of mind.

She pressed her palms over her eyes, groaning.

Great.

Just perfect.

Because now she couldn’t unsee it, couldn’t unknow it.

Jihyo was attractive. Stupidly attractive. And last night had only made that fact burn brighter in her memory. Momo turned her face into the pillow, trying not to think too deeply about how close Jihyo had been, how warm, how inviting.

She wasn’t in love. She wasn’t soft like that. But she was curious now. Very, very curious.

And curiosity was dangerous.

-

Nayeon wakes up like a malfunctioning animatronic—one eye opening first, then the rest of her body catching up with a violent twitch. She inhales sharply, clutches her stomach, and immediately lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a groan and a dying whale call.

The room is dim but not dim enough for her suffering. Morning light sneaks through the blinds like an unwanted guest, slicing across her face. She tries to escape it by rolling over and she rolls straight into the wall.

“Who built this room so small?” she mutters, rubbing her forehead. “I demand renovations.”

From the other side of the room, Momo looks over from her bed, already awake and pretending to be unaffected by everything that happened last night. She’s scrolling her phone with deadpan precision, trying very hard not to think about the taste of Jihyo’s mouth or the fact that her heartbeat still feels suspiciously like it’s skipping choreography counts.

Nayeon pushes herself upright, hair sticking in five different directions, mascara smudged to her temples like war paint. “Momo-yah,” she croaks, “why is the ceiling spinning?”

“It’s not,” Momo says without looking up. “You’re hungover.”

“Oh.” Nayeon blinks. “Then why does it feel like gravity hates me specifically?”

“Because you drank like you were auditioning for a survival show.”

Nayeon dramatically flops face-first onto her pillow. “And yet I survived. Well, Barely. I deserve a medal.”

Momo just hums. Nayeon’s always the most dramatic after drinking herself to sleep. After a long suffering groan, Nayeon peeks one eye out. “Where’s Jihyo? She should be here feeding me soup. Or electrolytes. Or compliments.”

“She went to get breakfast.”

“Traitor,” Nayeon whispers into the pillow. “How dare she leave me in my hour of need.” Another groan. She sits up again, slowly this time and squints suspiciously at Momo.

“You,” she says, pointing a shaky finger. “Why do you look so awake? Did you sleep? Are you secretly immortal? Are you not hungover? That’s not fair.”

Momo lifts one shoulder. “I drink responsibly.”

“That is the most boring sentence you’ve ever said.” Nayeon holds her head, wincing. “Also it hurts. Everything you say hurts.”

Momo gives her a flat look. “Everything hurts because you tried racing your own shadow outside at 2 a.m.”

Nayeon gasps. “I did not!”

“You did. And you lost.”

“I would like to speak to the universe’s manager,” Nayeon grumbles, then freezes. “Wait. Wait.” She leans in, narrowing her eyes at Momo with the intensity of a detective who’s solved absolutely nothing.

“Something feels… weird,” she says slowly.

Momo keeps her face blank. “Weird how?”

“Like… like-” Nayeon snaps her fingers. “Like you’ve committed a foolish crime. Or kissed someone. Or murdered someone. Or kissed someone while murdering someone.”

Momo stares. “What kind of logic is that?”

“I’m hungover,” Nayeon says defensively. “My intuition is heightened.”

“No, it’s not.”

Nayeon squints harder. “Momo, did something happen last night?”

Momo’s heart jumps, but her face doesn’t move an inch. “No.”

“No drama?”

“Nope.”

“No explosions?”

“None.”

“No secret romances unfolding while I was unconscious?”

Momo doesn’t blink. “Definitely not.”

Nayeon studies her for a full five seconds before sighing dramatically and collapsing backward again. “Fine. I believe you. If something interesting happened, I would’ve sensed it with my hangover chakra.”

Momo lets out a tiny exhale she didn’t know she was holding. Nayeon, still sprawled, whines, “Can you get me water? Please? I’ll die if I move.”

“You’re not dying.”

“I am. This is how I go. Tell the world I lived fabulously.”

Momo rolls her eyes but gets up anyway, grabbing a bottle of water and handing it to her. Nayeon takes it with the reverence of someone receiving a sacred artifact. “Thank you. You are my dearest friend. My truest ally. My—” She cracks it open, drinks, and freezes mid-sip.

“Wait… did Jihyo look extra pretty last night?” she asks casually.

Momo chokes on nothing.

“Why,” Momo manages, “would you ask that?”

“I dunno.” Nayeon shrugs and gulps more water. “Just felt like she was glowing or something. Maybe it was the alcohol.”

Momo forces her expression into a pout of boredom. “Probably.” Nayeon nods, satisfied, and drops back on the bed. “Ugh. Okay. Wake me up when food arrives. Or when my soul returns to my body. Whichever happens first.”

She’s out again within seconds snoring softly, one arm dangling off the bed, looking like a defeated raccoon. And Momo just sits there, staring at the ceiling, trying not to replay the night in her mind but replaying it anyway.

When Nayeon falls back into unconsciousness, the room finally quiets. Only the hum of the old AC fills the space. Momo sits at the edge of her bed, fingers fidgeting with the loose thread on her blanket, eyes unfocused on the far wall.

She wonders just briefly, just enough to annoy herself if she should’ve told Nayeon the truth. Well, not the whole truth. God, no. But maybe a fraction or a hint. Something softer than silence.

Nayeon would have laughed, probably and just teased her, called it “college stupidity” or “alcohol-fueled curiosity.” Turned it into a joke until it lost its weight.

And maybe that would’ve been easier. Clean. Simple.

But the moment Momo imagines Nayeon raising her eyebrows, smirking like she knows too much, tossing playful comments that land too close to a wound Momo refuses to acknowledge, she knows she made the right choice.

Or at least the comfortable one.

Momo drags a hand through her hair, letting her head tilt back against the wall. The ceiling is cracked in one corner, a thin fracture that spiders out like it’s been trying to split open for years.

She stares at it, thinking it looks familiar.

It’s not that it’s some secret she’s desperate to protect. It’s not sacred or romantic or any of those stupid, soft things. It was just a kiss. A hot one, sure. A surprisingly good one. A kiss that left her ears burning in a way she’s still pretending is just leftover alcohol.

But still, it belonged to last night. In the dark. In that quiet pocket of drunken confidence and proximity and bad decisions. A moment that felt too sharp and too fragile at the same time.

She doesn’t want Nayeon poking at it like it’s a balloon waiting to pop.

And she definitely doesn’t want to explain why her pulse jumped when Jihyo’s fingers brushed her jaw. Or why she woke up thinking about the shape of Jihyo’s mouth instead of the headache she should’ve had.

Those thoughts feel private. Not intimate, just inconvenient. Personal in the way embarrassing things are personal.

Momo sighs and lets herself fall backward onto the mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling again. Maybe she should’ve said something. Maybe hiding it makes it heavier.

But the truth sits tight in her chest, snug and stubborn, and she knows she won’t let it go. Not yet.

Not until the heat of it fades back into something she can laugh about. Something she can brush off. Something that won’t make her stomach jolt stupidly when she remembers Jihyo whispering, Teach me.

God, that fucking voice will hunt her for years. Jihyo’s voice has always been melodic and comforting. In the way she laughs or just simply talks. Everybody knows the power of that voice. But, does everybody know how Jihyo sounds like when she’s asking for a kiss? Ha! fuck maybe just her, or that one Ex that Momo decided to loathe just because.

Speaking of Jihyo, Momo knows she should talk to Jihyo.

The thought lands quietly, without drama, without panic just a dry, inevitable fact. Like realizing you forgot to do laundry or remembering an assignment is due tomorrow. Mildly annoying. Mildly stressful. Completely unavoidable.

She closes her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her thumb.

Talking to Jihyo…

Yeah, that’s a disaster waiting to happen.

Not because she’s afraid. She isn’t. She just hates conversations with too many sharp edges, and Jihyo, confident, straightforward, disarmingly steady Jihyo—has always been the type to pick up truth like it’s something clean, something easy to touch.

Momo doesn’t know how to do that. She handles truth like a cat handles water, reluctantly, with her claws out.

Still, pretending nothing happened would be worse. The kiss wasn’t some accidental brush of lips in a hallway. It was intentional. Warm. Lingering. Hot enough that her brain, useless traitor that it is, keeps replaying it in flashes that make her toes curl.

She groans into her pillow, annoyed at herself.

This is ridiculous.

They’re adults. They’re friends. Sort of. Something adjacent. Last night was just alcohol and sleep deprivation and Nayeon’s terrible suggestions echoing in their ears.

It should be simple to talk it out, set boundaries and maybe, laugh it off.

Except nothing about Jihyo feels simple this morning.

Momo huffs and sits up again, staring at the ceiling crack like it might offer advice.

She needs to talk to her, not because she’s worried Jihyo will freak out. Jihyo never freaks out, but because Momo can already feel the tension building under her skin like static. If she avoids it, it’ll just grow, stretching between them like a wire pulled too tight.

And God knows the last thing she needs is to make things weird. They’re not… anything. They’re not even close enough for drama.

So why does her chest feel tight every time she thinks about it?

Momo drags a hand down her face, groaning again.

She has to talk to Jihyo.

And she hates that she knows it.

__________________________________________________

A week had passed, and Momo was genuinely considering smashing her forehead against a wall just to knock some sense into herself. Every day she told herself today’s the day, and every day she managed to make herself look like a socially stunted goldfish instead.

And the worst part, the part that twisted in her chest like a stubborn knot, was that Jihyo was trying too.

Quietly, gently, in that restrained Jihyo way that never demanded but always asked without words.

Subtle moments that Momo felt down to her bones.

Jihyo slowing her steps when she noticed Momo behind her, as if waiting. Jihyo lingering at the end of a table during group lunch, leaving a space beside her that only Momo didn’t take. Jihyo turning her head whenever Momo entered a room, expression softening just a fraction, an invitation so small it would’ve been invisible to anyone but her. Jihyo meeting her eyes for a moment too long, as if opening the door just enough for Momo to step through.

And Momo, idiot that she was, kept pretending she didn’t see it.

She wasn’t blind. She wasn’t that dense. She could feel Jihyo’s subtle attempts like heat brushing the back of her neck, an unspoken Hey, can we… talk? wrapped inside every quiet glance, every hesitant half-smile. Jihyo’s charisma wasn’t loud when it came to personal things; it softened, gentled itself, became something careful, something cautious and respectful.

Which only made Momo feel more like the world’s biggest coward.

She’d catch the look in Jihyo’s eyes, one part patience, one part confusion, one part something Momo refused to analyze and she’d freeze, lock up, shut down and then walk away like an idiot.

The worst moment had been yesterday. Jihyo had been sitting on the dorm steps, waiting for someone, maybe even her. She had looked up when Momo approached, brushing hair behind her ear in that soft way that made Momo’s stomach twist. She gave a tiny smile, small enough to pretend it wasn’t there if Momo needed to.

Momo had paused.

Opened her mouth.

Felt the words rise, About that night—

And then, for absolutely no logical reason, she panicked, spun on her heel, and pretended she forgot her charger upstairs.

Her charger was in her bag.

Jihyo blinked after her, confusion tightening her eyes. Not hurt. Not angry. Just… lost.

Momo spent the next hour wanting to drop-kick herself into the sun.

She wasn’t usually like this. She didn’t avoid things. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t do emotional spirals or shy silences. She was supposed to be cool. Aloof. Disconnected in the way people joked about. Unbothered.

But this wasn’t unbothered, this was anything but.

Every time she saw Jihyo’s small efforts, Jihyo waiting a heartbeat longer for her to speak, Jihyo leaning close enough for a quiet conversation, Jihyo sending her a soft, uncertain look, Momo felt her chest tighten with a messy mix of guilt and heat and something she refused to name.

And every time she failed to respond, Jihyo pulled back a little. Not dramatically, not angrily, just enough to make Momo’s stomach sink. It was like watching something delicate fray thread by thread and Momo was the one holding the scissors.

By the seventh day, she was so fed up with herself she genuinely wanted to smack her own face. Hard. Maybe twice.

Momo finally reached the point where she couldn’t take another day of this self‑inflicted torment. A full week of avoiding a conversation that was supposed to be simple. A week of dodging Jihyo in hallways and pretending she didn’t hear her name being called. A week of feeling her stomach twist every time Jihyo’s eyes lingered too long, as if waiting, as if asking silently, Are we ever going to talk about that night?

And Momo knew, she knew that Jihyo was trying too. In her own awkward, stiff‑shouldered, emotionally jammed way. It was pathetic on both sides. Momo wanted to throw herself down a flight of stairs out of sheer secondhand embarrassment at the sight of Jihyo visibly gearing up to speak only for Momo to rabbit‑run away like she had a deathly allergy to closure.

Fine. Enough. No more cowardice. No more running. Today she would finally talk to her. Today she’d stop pretending last week didn’t happen, stop pretending her brain didn’t fry every time she thought of Jihyo’s hands, her breath, her lips—

No. Not thinking about it. Not now.

She squared her shoulders, she’d do it. She’d walk right up to her, maybe catch her after class, maybe casually bring it up like adults. Like people who didn’t spontaneously lose all motor function at the thought of a conversation.

She took a step toward the hallway and that’s when she heard it. Sana, motherfucking Minatozaki Sana, loud, chatty and disastrously timed.

“I swear she’s really cute when she smiles like that,” Sana said.

Mina just rolled her eyes “Please, you’ve had a crush on her for months.”

“Well, maybe I’ll finally ask her out.”

Momo froze. Her hand still mid‑air, reaching for the doorframe. Her chest tightened not in that fluttery way Jihyo sometimes caused but in the pitiful, sinking, oh of course the universe hates me kind of way.

Sana… wanted to date Jihyo.

Of course, Sana did. Why wouldn’t she? Jihyo was beautiful and warm and entirely crush‑worthy in a way that made people trip over their own tongues. And Momo? Momo had kissed her in a moment that probably meant nothing to Jihyo. A curiosity, a practice run, a hiccup in their college drunkenness.

Talking about it now, clarifying anything, would be stupid. Worse than stupid actually. It might be Inconvenient or messy. A humiliation waiting to happen.

She dropped her hand and stepped back into the stairwell, heart thudding in a way she refused to interpret.

It wasn’t like she cared.

It wasn’t like it meant anything.

And it definitely wasn’t like she had any right to be upset. Jihyo could date whoever she wanted. Of course she could. Why would Jihyo want to talk about something that was probably already forgotten? One kiss, probably meaningless, and she—

Momo clicked her tongue, annoyed at herself. Annoyed at the situation. Annoyed at her own chest for feeling heavier than it should.

Fine. If someone wanted to ask Jihyo out, then good for them. Momo wasn’t going to get in the way. She wasn’t going to drag Jihyo into an awkward conversation just because her own pride was wobbling like a sad baby deer.

She shoved her hands into her pockets, jaw tight.

Talking could wait. Or never happen.

Whatever.

Not like it mattered. She didn’t care.

Not even a little.

Absolutely not.

And if she felt something crack quietly inside her ribcage, well—she ignored that too.

And what’s the best next thing Momo could do?

Of course, Alcohol.

_____________________________________________________

The bar was a blur of neon light and muffled music, perfect for pretending she was someone else for a few hours. Momo perched on a stool, swirling her drink lazily, watching the amber liquid twist in the glass. Normally, she didn’t care for places like this, too loud, too bright, too many people breathing too close. But tonight, it was a sanctuary or a distraction. Whatever she could cling to while her mind refused to settle.

Jeongyeon, sitting across from her, studied her carefully. “You’ve changed,” she said, voice low, almost hesitant. “You’re being—” she gestured vaguely at the way Momo laughed at a group of girls passing by, at the small tilt of her head when someone winked, at the way she lingered just a second too long with a smile that wasn’t meant for her. “Flirty.”

Momo glanced at her without looking. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Jeongyeon said flatly. “And it’s weird. For you. Something’s off.”

Momo took a slow sip of her drink and let her eyes wander back to the crowd. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Not because she was hurt, not because she was in love. God, no. That wasn’t it. She believed that wasn’t it.

She was just confused.

One damn kiss, and somehow her brain was on fire and her stomach felt like it was flipping cartwheels, and her chest kept tightening for reasons she couldn’t name. Nothing else had changed. There wasn’t a romantic undercurrent, she told herself. There wasn’t supposed to be. Jihyo wasn’t hers and one of their friends liked her, so fucking what? They weren’t anything. It was one impulsive, slightly hot, very stupid college-night mistake.

And yet. And yet it lingered in her like smoke she couldn’t blow away. Every time she remembered Jihyo’s warmth, the tilt of her head, the ghost of her lips brushing Momo’s, her body betrayed her with reactions she couldn’t interpret. She didn’t feel anything she could define. No pain. No longing. No heartbreak. Just… electricity she wasn’t supposed to feel.

So, she deflected.

She laughed at the wrong joke, smiled at the wrong girl, let the bartender’s attention linger just a moment too long, and leaned into the distraction. Anything to avoid naming what she couldn’t understand, anything to avoid admitting that she was affected. Anything to preserve the illusion that she was in control, even if she had no clue what was happening inside her.

Jeongyeon leaned back, unconvinced. “You’re really trying tonight,” she murmured. “But it’s not fun. I can see it in your eyes.”

Momo forced a smirk. “I’m having a blast.” she said, letting the words hang like a shield.

Jeongyeon studied her, quiet, patient, refusing to push. Momo stared at the neon reflections on the bar, at the swirl of her drink, at the crowd of strangers. She didn’t feel romantic. She didn’t feel hurt. She just felt off. And that was infuriating.

Because Momo, usually precise and unshakable, had no idea why one kiss could make her feel so unsteady, so distracted, so aware.

And that, more than anything, made her want to vanish into the music, the lights, the alcohol or maybe even other girls. Anything to hide from herself.

Until Jeongyeon leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just enough for Momo to hear clearly.

“Oh, by the way,” she said casually, eyes flicking toward the entrance, “Nayeon and Jihyo are coming.”

Momo froze for half a heartbeat when Jeongyeon said it, the words sliding past her like ice water she hadn’t expected. Nayeon and Jihyo are coming.

Her mind immediately went on a quiet, frenzied loop, imagining the two of them laughing at the entrance, bright and effortlessly magnetic, completely unaware of the way Momo’s chest had been knotted all week. She felt a flicker of panic, the kind that made her toes curl and her stomach twist, but she shoved it down fast.

“Yeah,” she murmured, voice low, casual. Too casual. She leaned back against her chair, letting her fingers drum lightly on the table, pretending the news was nothing more than background noise. “Cool.”

Jeongyeon raised an eyebrow. “Nayeon said she wanted to drink. Figured she’d drag Jihyo along.”

Momo blinked once, hard, letting the information slide into her awareness without betraying any reaction. She lifted her glass in a half-hearted toast to the idea. “Right,” she said, almost too smoothly. “Sounds fun.”

Her stomach was doing cartwheels, her pulse speeding up like a runner gone rogue, but none of that showed on her face. She tilted her head slightly, letting her hair fall over one shoulder, and gave Jeongyeon a look that said I’m fine, really. Totally fine.

Because if she let Jeongyeon see even a fraction of what she was feeling, heat, tension, the messy, irrational storm brewing inside—she’d lose. Lose her composure. Lose the careful wall she’d built around herself all week. So, she smiled a small, neutral curve of lips, and leaned back further, acting nonchalant.

And then they walked in.

Jihyo first, naturally, like the room bent just slightly to make space for her. Momo’s drink paused halfway to her lips as if gravity itself had stopped obeying. The neon lights caught the angles of her face, the soft slope of her shoulders, the way her hair tumbled just enough to be careless without losing the elegance she carried so effortlessly. Her eyes were calm, bright, dangerous in the way that made Momo’s chest tighten.

And Momo couldn’t look away. She didn’t want to.

Nayeon bounced in right after, laughing, sparkling, loud, bright, but none of that mattered. All the sparkles, all the attention, all the color in the room shrank to a dull gray in the presence of Jihyo. The other girls at the bar didn’t even exist in the same spectrum. They were blurred outlines, decoration. Just background noise.

Jihyo moved with casual confidence, heels clicking lightly against the floor, her posture straight but not stiff, the subtle sway of her hips hypnotic, even when she laughed at something Nayeon said. Momo felt heat pool low in her stomach, a slow, spreading fire that had nothing to do with the alcohol. She told herself it was just a biological reflex, purely instinct. Nothing to worry about.

And yet, and yet her pulse betrayed her. It throbbed in a rhythm entirely her own, one that she couldn’t or wouldn’t translate into words.

She tried to study Jihyo’s features objectively; the curve of her jaw, the soft but defined line of her neck, the tilt of her lips when she smiled. All of it, every inch was distracting, infuriatingly magnetic, and she couldn’t decide if it made her want to laugh or cry or run away.

Her mind, muddled with alcohol, went rogue. Dangerous thoughts she would never, ever admit to anyone flared bright, imagining how it would feel to brush past Jihyo, how it might taste to, No. Stop. Don’t think that. And yet she did, every nerve in her body screamed awareness, craving, tension that she had never anticipated.

Momo swallowed hard and tried to take a sip of her drink, only to find her hands trembling slightly, betraying her calculated aloofness. She forced a small, dry smile at Jeongyeon, who raised an eyebrow knowingly but said nothing.

Jihyo’s eyes flicked briefly toward Momo, almost casual, almost absent-minded and Momo’s stomach twisted in a way she refused to analyze. It was like the world had condensed down to the space between them, and every other detail; the music, the lights, the girls flirting across the bar, vanished into static.

The air between them felt heavy, charged, humming in ways Momo couldn’t define. She wanted to look away, she wanted to laugh, she wanted to curse herself for being this affected, for letting one stupid, meaningless kiss shake her equilibrium so thoroughly.

She told herself it wasn’t lust. Fuck not that. Not even romantic. Nothing that mattered. Just… reaction or biological misfire. Chemical chaos in a brain that refused to behave.

And yet the second Jihyo leaned over slightly to talk to Nayeon, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, the scent of her vanilla and something soft, intoxicating wafting toward Momo, she felt heat crawl up the back of her neck, down her arms, pooling between her legs. She wanted to glance away, to act normal, but she couldn’t.

Her thoughts were spinning, her body betraying her, and all she could do was pretend to be casual, pretend to sip her drink, pretend to be anything but aware that Jihyo was in the same room, in the same table, next to her, in the same world, sitting just a few feet away, and somehow making the air itself feel electric.

Momo clenched her jaw and ground her teeth softly. She hated herself for noticing. Her alcohol induced brain is fucking misbehaving.

And Momo realized…

She is fucking craving for a fucking repeat of that night.

There she said it. Admitted it even, the one thing she had been denying herself for the whole week.

Just because Jihyo was in the room, and the rest of the world, the other girls, the entire bar—didn’t even exist.

The night stretched lazily, punctuated by clinking glasses and the low hum of laughter. Momo leaned back against her chair, swirling the amber liquid in her glass, pretending she wasn’t paying attention to anything outside her line of sight. Nayeon was already half-giggling at some joke Jeongyeon had made, tugging Jihyo along with her as if she were being dragged into trouble.

They moved through small talk with the ease of people who didn’t need to talk seriously, their voices overlapping with the music, the bartender’s orders, the occasional cheer from another table. Momo sipped her drink, lips brushing the rim, focusing on the warmth spreading in her chest and pretending it was only the alcohol.

“We’ve got to play this,” Nayeon said suddenly, waving a hand in excitement. “Marry, Kill, Fuck. It’s been forever since we did this.”

Jeongyeon grinned. “Fine, but we do it properly. No repeats. No softballs.”

Momo raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “Sounds educational.”

They took turns, naming celebrities, classmates, and friends with exaggerated deliberation. Each declaration was accompanied by laughter, playful groans, and the occasional blush when someone made a joke too close to home. Momo played along, deliberately detached, letting her answers be quick, sharp, and emotionless. It was all fun, all surface-level, all safe.

Until it wasn’t.

“Okay,” Nayeon said, giggling with a mischievous tilt to her head, “now it’s serious. One round: you can’t pick anyone random. You have to pick someone here.”

The table quieted slightly, half-laughing, half-expecting something messy. Momo’s heart sank just a little, but she kept her face neutral, a small, practiced mask over the tightening coil in her stomach.

Jeongyeon picked first. “Marry—Jihyo,” she said, deadpan. “Kill—Nayeon. Fuck… well, that’s flexible.”

The game rolled around, each pick accompanied by playful protests, groans, and the occasional mock indignation. And then it came back to Jihyo.

She paused, taking a long, deliberate sip of her drink. The bar lights caught her hair, making it shine like something liquid and dangerous. She leaned forward, voice soft but deliberate.

“Marry hmm, Jeongyeon. Kill, Nayeon. Fuck… Momo.”

Time stopped.

Momo froze mid-laugh, glass halfway to her lips. Her chest stuttered, her pulse racing in that familiar, maddening rhythm. She blinked once, twice, hoping she’d misheard. But Jihyo’s eyes were locked on hers, calm, teasing, impossibly confident.

Momo blinked at Jihyo’s words, letting them sink in. Fuck… Momo.

For a heartbeat, she thought she should be embarrassed, flustered. Mortified even. But instead, a slow, sly grin spread across her face, the kind that only Jeongyeon might recognize as dangerous and self-satisfied. She tipped her head back slightly, letting the dim bar lights catch her eyes in a mischievous glint, alcohol definitely doing shit on her thought process.

“Oh?” she said, voice soft, a teasing lilt that made her feel almost untouchable. “You sure about that?”

The heat of the alcohol made her bold. Not reckless, not desperate—just smug. Inflated, a little giddy with the absurdity of it all. Jihyo’s calm, confident delivery of a single word had done what seven days of obsessing hadn’t it had given Momo a sense of power. Tiny, delicious, and thoroughly unearned.

Jihyo met her gaze evenly, unflinching. But Momo didn’t look away, she let the grin linger, letting her smugness seep into the space between them.

“Interesting choice,” she added, letting the words roll out slowly, deliberately, like she had all the time in the world to savor it. She leaned a little closer, elbows on the table, the smallest hint of daring in her posture. Her drink caught the light, swirling golden, and she raised it ever so slightly in a mock toast, half challenge, half joke.

Jeongyeon, watching with a raised eyebrow and an amused smirk, didn’t even bother commenting. She knew Momo, she knew that behind the aloof exterior, behind the grin, Momo was giddy in that peculiar, private way that came from feeling, however fleetingly, like she had the upper hand.

And Momo let herself feel it, letting it wash over her in waves. For one small, intoxicating moment, she didn’t have to understand her reactions. She didn’t have to label the fire Jihyo ignited. She didn’t have to overthink or pretend or retreat.

And damn, it felt good.

The grin on Momo’s face lingered, sharp and teasing, as she let her gaze trace Jihyo’s features; calm, confident, impossibly magnetic.

Then, almost without thinking, she slid her hand under the table, letting it rest lightly on Jihyo’s thigh. Deliberate but careful, testing boundaries without demanding attention, letting the touch hum quietly between them.

Jihyo froze slightly, subtle tension coiling in her leg, a faint catch in her breath. Momo felt the heat coil low in her stomach, a pulse of electricity that made her chest thrum. The alcohol in her system made her bolder, sharper, yet she didn’t need to explain. She simply let the charge linger, letting the tension speak for itself.

Her fingers traced a slow, playful line along the curve of Jihyo’s thigh, measured and teasing, while her other hand wrapped around her glass, steady, casual. She tilted her head, eyes glinting with challenge.

Jihyo’s lips curved almost imperceptibly, just enough for Momo to notice, a quiet acknowledgment that didn’t demand words. The room, the noise, the laughter, it all melted away, leaving only the electric, intimate tension between them.

And Momo realized she didn’t need words, didn’t need explanations. Sometimes, power was in what you could do and let linger, without saying a thing at all.

______________________________________________

The laughter had finally settled into soft giggles, the low thrum of music from the bar vibrating under their skin. Momo leaned back, glass half-empty, feeling the warmth of the alcohol fuzzing the edges of her thoughts. Her pulse still tickled from the tension earlier, the lingering heat under the table, and she let herself enjoy it.

“We should probably call it a night,” Jeongyeon said, stretching and rubbing her eyes. “I’ve got that early class tomorrow, I need to be upright and coherent.”

Momo tilted her head, smirk tugging at her lips. “Classy,” she muttered, mostly to herself. Then she turned to Nayeon and Jihyo, who were still wobbling slightly on their stools, laughing at a shared joke that had long since lost its punchline. “You guys? You don’t have to go back to your dorms if you don’t want. My place isn’t far, we can crash there.”

Nayeon blinked at her, too intoxicated to process much, and Jihyo’s expression flickered a flash of curiosity, amusement, and something Momo refused to name.

“Your place?” Jihyo asked, calm and steady, letting the words hang between them.

“Yeah,” Momo said, shrugging casually, letting the alcohol bolster her confidence. “It’s closer than the dorms, and no one’s gonna kick us out. We can sleep it off, watch some stupid movie, whatever.”

Jeongyeon groaned and waved her hands. “Nope, I’m out. Early class, you’re on your own, guys.”

Momo’s grin widened imperceptibly. “Fine,” she said, the smallest spark of mischief in her tone. “More fun for us, then.”

Nayeon giggled, wobbling slightly as she stood. “Alright, alright, your place it is!”

Jihyo’s lips curved faintly, a quiet, unreadable acknowledgment, and she slid off the stool with surprising balance. Momo felt that familiar heat flicker low in her stomach as she stepped closer, guiding them out of the bar without a word, letting the subtle tension hum between them.

The cool night air hit them as they stepped outside, streets almost empty. Momo led the way, confident in her stride, letting the quiet ease of the night mask the electric current that had been simmering all evening. Nayeon stumbled slightly, and Momo caught her with one arm, steadying her. Jihyo’s hand brushed against hers, accidental maybe, but Momo felt it like a spark as they wait for their ride to arrive.

-

The apartment smelled faintly of takeout and faint candle smoke, Momo’s small sanctuary in the middle of campus chaos. She flicked on the overhead light, letting it wash the room in a warm glow, and immediately caught sight of Nayeon wobbling on her heels, hair a little mussed from the night.

“Alright, Nayeon,” Momo said, voice low, teasingly patient. “Bedtime.” She guided her gently to her room, and Nayeon collapsed into her bed like a bundle of giggling warmth.

“Can I- can I get a blanket?” Nayeon mumbled, eyes half-closed.

Momo rolled her eyes, though the motion was slow, deliberate, affectionate. “Fine, fine,” she muttered, draping a blanket over her friend. Nayeon instantly curled into it, letting out a sleepy squeak of contentment. Momo stepped back, taking a quiet moment to watch her friend finally surrender to sleep, a small, fond smile tugging at her lips.

Then there was Jihyo on the kitchen counter.

The moment their eyes met across the apartment, the air seemed to thicken. Jihyo leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely, a faint, knowing smile playing at the corner of her lips. Momo’s chest tightened again, heat sparking in a way she still didn’t understand.

“Drinks got you feeling generous, huh?” Jihyo teased lightly, tilting her head.

Momo tilted her own, mimicking a casual nonchalance that was laughably thin. “Maybe,” she said, voice low, almost playful. “Maybe I just know how to take care of my friends.”

Jihyo’s eyes flicked toward the couch, then back at her, and the silence stretched, thick and charged. The tension from earlier the brush of Momo’s hand, the teasing glances hung between them like a low hum. Neither spoke the words, but both felt them all the same.

Momo let herself step a little closer under the pretense of getting something from the fridge. “Alright,” she said softly, “she’s tucked in. You’re next, or are you just going to stand there looking smug?”

Jihyo’s lips twitched, a subtle curve, a spark of amusement or something Momo couldn’t quite name. She leaned casually against the counter, but her gaze followed Momo like gravity, quiet, steady, unrelenting.

Momo felt the pull. She wanted to test it, to tease it, to push the line just a little. She let her fingers brush against the edge of the kitchen counter, letting them linger near where Jihyo could see. “Or maybe you’re too sober to enjoy this part?” she said, half-joking, letting her words hang between teasing and challenge as she offers Jihyo a bottle of beer.

Jihyo raised an eyebrow, and Momo could swear the faintest twitch of a smile on her lips. No words, no explanations. Just the electricity that hummed quietly, dangerously, in the space between them.

And Momo, careful to keep her tone light, kept playing along. Because in the soft light of the apartment, with Nayeon curled up on her room, and Jihyo just a few steps away, the tension was theirs alone. It was delicious, it was maddening, and it was intoxicating in a way Momo had no interest in untangling tonight.

Momo dropped onto the couch, stretching her legs lazily, and grabbed the remote from the coffee table. “Movie?” she asked, voice casual, though her chest still thrummed faintly from earlier.

Jihyo, standing near the counter with a drink in hand, tilted her head, watching Momo’s every move. “Sure,” she said, voice low, teasing. “But let me guess, you picked some artsy indie thing that screams rich money playboy type?”

Momo froze for half a second, then let a faint smirk creep across her lips. “Excuse me?” she asked, voice mock-offended but playful.

Jihyo sauntered closer, bottle of beer dangling from her fingers. “This place,” she said, sweeping her hand vaguely at the apartment; the polished floor, the soft lighting, the subtle way everything was arranged to look effortless—“it’s rich money playboy vibes, Momo. I’m just saying.”

Momo leaned back, letting her arm drape over the back of the couch, deliberately relaxed. “Rich money playboy type, huh?” she repeated, tone teasing but cool, letting the tension hang between them. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Jihyo laughed softly, the sound low and deliberate, and crouched slightly to set her beer on the table beside Momo. “Oh, I’m giving you all the compliments you’re too proud to accept,” she said, eyes glinting with mischief. “Careful.”

Momo tilted her head, pretending to study her, then shrugged. “If that’s what you think,” she said casually, voice smooth, “then you must be imagining a lot more than what’s real.”

Jihyo’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. She plopped onto the couch beside Momo, crossing her legs, and tapped the side of her bottle against Momo’s. “Imagining?” she asked lightly. “You? That would be impossible.”

Momo caught the subtle flick of heat in her chest again, the same coil she’d been holding back all night. She took a sip of her beer, careful to appear calm, measured, untouchable. “You really think so?” she asked, tone low, teasing, letting the words hang in the charged space between them.

“I want you to teach me something,” Jihyo said, voice low, teasing, almost daring.

Momo didn’t wait another second. Her hand shot up, threading through Jihyo’s hair at the nape of her neck, and she pulled her close. The moment their lips met, the world shrank to that instant hot, electric and unrelenting feeeling.

Jihyo’s lips were soft, firm, and impossibly responsive. Momo pressed closer, letting the tension that had been building all night finally spill out in raw, impatient need. She felt Jihyo’s hand brush against her arms, tentative at first, then firmer as the kiss deepened.

It was messy, urgent, intoxicating, but not careless. Every motion carried the weight of moments of suppressed energy, teasing glances, and that low coil of heat that had been simmering between them since the bar or even that night they first kissed. Momo’s chest burned, her pulse racing, yet her mind was razor-sharp with awareness of every inch of Jihyo’s body pressed against hers.

When she finally pulled back slightly, just enough to catch a breath, their foreheads rested together. Neither spoke. The air between them hummed, thick with heat and unspoken acknowledgment, charged with everything that had been building all night.

Momo’s lips curved into a smirk, breath shaky but confident. “Lesson’s started,” she murmured, eyes locking with Jihyo’s, letting the tension linger, dangerous and irresistible.

Jihyo’s lips curved back, mischievous and daring, and the quiet of Momo’s apartment became the perfect arena for something neither of them had yet defined but both already wanted. “I didn’t say what Lesson I want from you yet, though?”

The world outside the apartment the dim hum of the TV, the soft clutter of the living room disappeared. There was only the heat of her body pressed against Jihyo, the slick press of lips, the way their mouths moved together with messy, desperate precision. Momo’s hand roamed along Jihyo’s back, gripping lightly at her shirt as if she could anchor herself through the intensity of the moment.

When she felt Jihyo shift, hesitant but willing, she took the initiative, scooping Jihyo into her lap without breaking the kiss. Jihyo’s arms wrapped around her, one hand tangling in her hair, the other pressing against Momo’s shoulder, grounding them both in the chaos of heat and desire.

Lips collided with urgent hunger, messy and wet, teeth occasionally brushing, tongues testing, teasing. Momo’s hands moved down to Jihyo’s waist, gripping firmly, holding her against herself as if she could keep her there forever. Jihyo’s body pressed back, soft and pliant, responding instinctively, and Momo felt herself losing the careful control she’d fought to maintain all night.

Jihyo’s soft moan broke from between their lips—a sound so intimate, so unguarded, that it made Momo’s stomach coil tighter than she knew was possible. The heat pooled low, spreading in waves, her pulse thundering in her ears. Every nerve screamed, every muscle tensed, and yet she didn’t pull away. Well, she didn’t even want to.

She rocked them slightly into her lap, the couch creaking under the weight and movement, letting the messy, urgent rhythm dictate them. Her hands held Jihyo firm, fingers pressing into the small of her back, memorizing the curve of her waist, the subtle shiver that ran through her with every kiss.

Jihyo’s hands slid up Momo’s arms, then onto her shoulders, grasping, grounding herself, and the soft moans continued, low, breathy, making Momo’s chest tighten with a mix of delirium and desire she refused to name. She felt herself tipping, teetering on a strange edge of control and abandon, intoxicated not by alcohol alone but by the heat and weight of Jihyo pressed into her.

Their lips parted just enough for ragged breaths, then collided again, deeper, messier. Momo tilted her head, letting the kiss roam slightly, testing, claiming, tracing lines with lips and tongue that were both tender and demanding. Every subtle gasp from Jihyo, every shiver, every soft whimper sent fire racing through Momo, making her grip tighten, holding Jihyo as if letting go even for a moment might unravel the delicate chaos between them.

Jihyo’s hand trailed up Momo’s side, fingernails teasing lightly over her abs, sending shivers that made Momo’s chest tighten in a way that was deliciously overwhelming. Momo’s mind was a chaotic storm—drunk, desperate, and utterly captivated, but she held onto the control she always craved.

“You think we should tell them?” Jihyo murmured, voice low, teasing, calm, like she was weighing options that didn’t matter right now.

Momo groaned softly, releasing Jihyo’s lower lip with a soft bite, tilting her head back just enough to catch Jihyo’s eyes, pupils dark, teasing. “Tell them?” she echoed, breath hitching slightly from the subtle scratch of nails over the skin on her stomach. “No. You’re mine. My secret to enjoy for now.”

The words slipped out before she could second-guess them, hot and firm, a declaration wrapped in drunken boldness. She was supposed to be the one asking. The same question pressed on her mind for a week. If she could keep this delicious tension in a form of secrecy, the so be it.

 She remembered Sana, Momo’s jaw tightens and without hesitation, she pulled Jihyo back into a messy, hungry kiss, teeth brushing, tongues mapping the inside of Jihyo’s mouth, pressing their bodies closer until the couch creaked under their weight again. Finders fucking keepers.

As the kiss deepened, Momo’s hands roamed, tracing along Jihyo’s sides, brushing the curve of her ribs, lingering, teasing. When her fingers hovered near the edge of Jihyo’s chest, she paused, pulling back just slightly to search her eyes.

Permission.

Her breath was ragged, lips still hovering over Jihyo’s, eyes dark and searching. The alcohol made her bold, the heat made her reckless, but Momo’s aloofness hadn’t left entirely, she still needed that spark of consent, that silent acknowledgment, before crossing a line she both wanted and feared.

Jihyo met her gaze, eyes dark with amusement and something fiercer that made Momo’s pulse hammer. The subtle nod Jihyo gave was all Momo needed.

Momo’s hands moved deliberately, gently, exploring the curve she had been craving, firm but careful, reading every shiver, every breath, every inch of response. Jihyo’s soft moan punctuated the motion, low and delicious, driving Momo further into the chaos.

When Jihyo’s soft gasp broke between them, Momo took it as an invitation, leaning forward to press her mouth against the smooth line of her jaw, teeth grazing lightly, tongue tasting and claiming.

Jihyo tilted her head, giving her access, and Momo didn’t hold back. She trailed kisses down the side of Jihyo’s neck, letting her teeth graze just enough to elicit that low, breathy moan that made Momo’s pulse spike. Her hands reached to unclasp Jihyo’s bra and throws it somewhere she couldn’t even give a fuck where.

“Lesson 2.” Momo whispered as her palms fondles Jihyo’s breast and squeezes it softly accompanied with the sound Jihyo emits. So fucking soft, urgent, unguarded which sent shivers racing through Momo, tightening the coil in her stomach into something deliciously unforgettable.

Their lips collided again, messy and urgent, tongues tangling briefly before pulling apart, only to press together harder, hungrier as she teases Jihyo’s nipples under her shirt. Momo bit Jihyo’s lower lip gently but firmly, eliciting a small, sharp whimper, and she laughed low in her throat, the sound rough, raw, and entirely unrestrained.

“Fuck baby, you’re making me lose my mind” Momo says as Jihyo jolts under her touch, moans pressed on Momo’s ears as she continues her ministrations with her fingers on Jihyo’s tits.

“You sound like a total fuckboy” Jihyo laughs but moans again when Momo’s head goes under her shirt to suck a nipple while continue teasing the other one.

Jihyo takes her shirt off completely. She felt Jihyo shift in her lap, a subtle weight that was heavier than expected, warmer, intoxicating in its proximity. And then she realized, breath catching slightly the smooth expanse of Jihyo’s skin where her shirt had ridden up.

The faint curve of her waist, the dip just above her hips, the gentle slope of her ribs, all exposed to Momo’s gaze. The alcohol and tension blurred edges, made everything sharper, more vivid; the soft rise and fall of Jihyo’s chest, the tremor of her breath as she leaned into Momo’s hold, the sheen of warmth that made Momo’s pulse jump.

Momo’s fingers itched to touch, to explore, but she held back, letting herself drink in the sight first. Her eyes roamed, deliberately slow, memorizing every line, every shadow, every subtle flex of muscle beneath the skin that seemed impossibly soft, impossibly alive under her hands.

Jihyo cups her jaw and guides her head to suck her tits again. No one’s stopping Momo now. She devoured Jihyo’s breast, leaving hickeys no one can see and only them can remember. Momo’s hands pressed on Jihyo’s waist, guiding her to hump.

If Nayeon decides to wake up, they’re absolutely fucked but Momo couldn’t care about that right now when there’s a fucking pretty girl on her lap right now keeping everything in her occupied.

Momo trails her hands to unbutton Jihyo’s pants as she flicks the nipple on her mouth when Jihyo stops her and guides Momo’s head to level hers. “Keep it for next time?”

Momo just nodded her head, kissed Jihyo’s chest where her heart is, and run her hands on the soft skin of Jihyo’s back.

“Okay”

The apartment was quiet now, save for the soft hum of the city outside and the faint whir of the fridge. Momo’s chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm with Jihyo’s, heat pooling low and leaving a tremor.

Jihyo rested in her lap, shirtless and warm, hair sticking slightly to her flushed skin, eyes half-lidded in a way that made Momo’s pulse spike all over again. Their lips brushed intermittently, messy, teasing, electric, yet neither dared fully pull away.

Momo’s hands lingered on her waist, tracing curves she’d only glimpsed before in passing, savoring the weight, the warmth, the quiet surrender of someone she’d never expected to be so utterly disarming. And yet, even in the fire of desire, a tiny, rational spark whispered “You were so good.”

She tilted her head, lips brushing Jihyo’s temple in a tender, possessive motion, whispering against her skin, “Such a fast learner.”

Jihyo’s soft exhale, a breath that trembled and shivered against Momo’s chest, was all the answer Momo needed. Nothing more was said. Nothing more needed to be said. The world could wait. Friends, dorms, responsibilities—everything outside these four walls was irrelevant.

The movie flickered faintly on the TV, a dim glow bathing their entwined bodies. Outside, the city carried on oblivious to the tension, the heat, the messy, intoxicating chaos that had erupted in a small, quiet apartment.

Momo pressed one last, lazy kiss to Jihyo’s temple, holding her firm, letting the warmth, the weight, and the quiet electricity linger. Her mind, muddled with alcohol, adrenaline, and desire, whispered the same thing over and over: this is only the beginning.

And as the soft rumble of the city night pressed against the windows, Momo let herself sink into the dangerous, intoxicating closeness, letting the night keep its secrets, for now.