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The green bracelet glows when Megan holds it up to the light. Thin lines drift through the translucent stone, almost like veins, she thinks.
“That one looks pretty,” Yoonchae says, holding up a white bracelet streaked with purple. She cups it in her hand, careful, like it might disappear. Then she sets it down. Megan files it away: she’ll look for one in Yoonchae’s size before they leave.
“It is pretty,” Megan says. She smiles at her. The bracelet is green, deep and cool, but she knows it’s probably dyed glass, not jade. The seller asks something in Vietnamese, words she doesn’t recognize at all.
Some of the sounds are close to Cantonese, familiar shapes with meanings she can’t trust. For a second she considers nodding along anyway. But then she thinks of Yoonchae and wants this to be real, wants to get her the bracelet.
“你識唔識講廣東話?” she asks.
Relief washes over her when the seller switches. Her Cantonese is shaky, but enough. Numbers pass between them. The price lands somewhere reasonable, for a bracelet that only pretends to be jade.
She counts out the right amount of dong and glances at Yoonchae, still absorbed in the jade, fingers lingering over the rings. Megan slips the bracelet into her pocket, saving it for later, already imagining the surprise.
For a moment, she just watches Yoonchae. The way her eyes light up, the careful way she handles each piece.
“I could get one,” Yoonchae says. “You know, so we can match.”
Megan glances at the green on her own wrist, the one her mom picked out for her in Chinatown. Familiar, grounding. Almost comforting.
“Yeah,” Megan says, still looking into Yoonchae’s chocolate-brown eyes. “Let’s find a better one. Most of these are probably fake anyway.”
Yoonchae frowns for a second, then brightens at the idea.
“Okay.”
They walk through the streets, weaving past stalls and vendors shouting over each other, the smell of hot broth and grilled meat hanging heavy in the air. Phu Quoc is loud, chaotic, alive. Nothing like the quiet streets Megan usually drifts through. It reminds her of a night market, except it’s daytime, and everything feels sharper somehow, more present.
She was glad for the small break, just wandering and soaking in the streets. Sophia had begged for a few hours off, and the instructors had relented—reluctantly, of course—on the condition that they show up an hour early for rehearsal before the show.
Yoonchae pokes her shoulder, holding her phone out. Megan squints at the screen, leaning in a little.
“Yoonchae, why is your font so small?” she asks, half-laughing, half-annoyed.
Yoonchae rolls her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching with amusement. “Just read it,” she says, nudging the phone closer like Megan could possibly misinterpret the words if she looked too carefully.
Megan tilts her head, the sun catching the little green bracelet on her wrist. The market seems to swirl around them.
Leader Unnie 💗:
Be back around 7. Don’t do anything stupid. And tell Megan that if she loses you I’m going to lock her out of my Netflix.
Megan rolls her eyes and grabs her phone. Three missed calls from Fifi <3. Oops.
“She has no faith in me,” Megan complains, shoving her phone into her pocket as they walk.
Yoonchae hums, leaning into her side. “I mean… you did get lost that one time in Japan. Phone dead and all.”
Megan groans, pressing a hand over her face. “Don’t remind me,” she whines. “I couldn’t even ask for help.”
Yoonchae smiles and reaches for Megan’s other hand, their fingers fitting together easily. Megan’s used to Yoonchae like this, but whenever she tries to explain that Yoonchae is just a touchy person, the others never believe her.
“I tried to hug her once,” Sophia had said. “She moved to the opposite end of the couch. You’re dreaming, Mei.” Lara was grinning, a glint in her eyes that clearly meant she was going to start something.
“No, I think Megan has a point. Yoonchae’s just only touchy with Megan.” Megan had coughed into her water, most of it making its way back inside the water bottle. She doesn’t really know why she had been so defensive.
“You’re just crazy. I know Yoonchae has hugged you guys before.” Lara gave her a look.
“Megan. She sits on your lap.”
Okay. So Megan didn’t really have a good answer to that. Maybe Yoonchae was just comfortable with her specifically.
She’d talked about it once, during their live—said Megan was just someone she found herself drifting toward.
“It’s because she was always… talking to me,” Yoonchae had explained. “She’d always be like, ‘Yoonchae, come see this! Yoonchae!’”
Megan remembered watching the chat explode after that, even as something warm and familiar settled right beneath her ribs.
The same feeling comes back when Yoonchae squeezes her fingers, pointing excitedly at a stall selling tiny porcelain animals. They’re delicate in the same way as dishes, fine china, the kind of things meant to be handled carefully—like Yoonchae’s favorite mug back at the apartment she shares with Sophia.
There’d been some random shop in Koreatown selling mugs, and one of them had a monster printed on it. White and furry, with a strangely human, striped face. Jangsanbeom, Megan remembered, thinking of Yoonchae’s Monster High character. There were Korean characters printed beneath it too, but Megan hadn’t bothered trying to feed them into Google Translate. Some things, she’d decided, were okay to leave half-understood.
It had felt like good timing then. Yoonchae’s birthday was still a month away, tour not quite looming yet. Megan remembers the way she unwrapped the mug slowly, pausing when she saw the characters, reading them under her breath before saying them out loud, like she wanted to get it right.
“밤이 부르면 따라오지 마. If the night calls, don’t follow.”
Yoonchae had looked up at her, smiling, gift paper spread across the floor, fallen by accident. The light caught in her eyes, turning them faintly golden. Even after the show—hair loose, cheeks warm—she’d looked unreal, like she belonged to the moment more than anyone else in the room.
“Thank you,” she’d said quietly, fingers curled around the mug, careful, protective.
Later—weeks after, maybe longer—Megan noticed it in the apartment, set apart in its own cupboard. Not with the others. Not with Sophia’s loud, mismatched collection. It had been given a place of its own.
Sophia had laughed when Megan asked. Said Yoonchae never let it near the dishwasher, always insisted on washing it by hand.
Yoonchae had flushed at that, swatting Sophia’s shoulder, eyes falling down to her lap.
“I just don’t want it to fade.”
A soft hum snaps her out of her thoughts, and Megan turns.
She watches as Yoonchae lifts a tiny fox, its shape a little uneven but still somehow charming.
“If it had nine tails, it could be a huli jing,” Yoonchae says, passing it to Megan, eyes following every turn as Megan inspects it in her hands.
“It could just be a really sexy fox,” Megan teases, winking. Yoonchae flushes, looking down and picking up a small white cat instead.
“I used to have a cat,” she murmurs, fingers tracing the smooth curve of its ear. “He died when I was ten.”
Megan tucks that detail away with all the other little things Yoonchae has ever told her.
“I’m sorry,” Megan says softly. “Do you… miss him?”
Yoonchae hums, thoughtful, fingers tracing a line along the cat’s spine, over its tail, again and again.
“It doesn’t… what’s the word?” she says after a pause. “I don’t think about him that much anymore. When he first died, I missed him a lot. He used to curl up in my bed at night. I couldn’t sleep without him.”
Yoonchae sets the cat back among the others, then lifts a small dog, turning it over in her palm. “Now when I think about him, I know he’s happy,” she says softly. “Probably chasing mice somewhere. We never let him outside.”
Megan nods, searching for the right words. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’s fine.”
Yoonchae meets her gaze and doesn’t exactly smile, but her eyes are soft, and Megan knows she’s appreciated the reassurance.
Megan lifts the cat and the fox, turning toward the seller. The woman doesn’t speak Cantonese, but each price is on a small sticker, so exchanging money is easy enough.
She hands the cat to Yoonchae and slips the fox into her pocket. Yoonchae gives her a crooked smile, then holds out her hand again. Megan takes it, letting herself be led down the street.
They eventually stop at a beach. Megan bends down, slipping off her sandals and rolling up her cargo pants. Yoonchae does the same, then starts walking toward the water, shoes dangling from her fingers. Megan watches her for a moment. The way the wind catches her hair, the gentle curve of her shoulder, the relaxed way she carries herself.
Megan has to jog to catch up, but Yoonchae stops just before the water laps at her feet. She’s staring into the distance, eyes fixed on the sun as it sinks lower, painting the sky in soft pinks. Megan follows her gaze and sees a bridge, split by a small gap, the two halves hovering apart like they’re daring someone to cross.
Yoonchae’s eyes sparkle, and she turns to Megan. “You go on the right, and I’ll go on the left.”
Then she’s off, sprinting toward the other side of the beach.
Megan laughs, a mix of disbelief and excitement, and bolts to the right. People glance at her as she runs. She probably looks ridiculous. But she told Sophia she wouldn’t lose Yoonchae, and besides, who is she to refuse anything Yoonchae asks of her?
She weaves past people, past kids playing, feeling the hard wood beneath her bare feet as she races across the bridge. For a moment, the other side looks empty, and Megan gasps, lungs burning for air. Then she spots Yoonchae, waiting patiently, and grips her shoes tighter, pushing herself toward the end of her side.
Megan leans over the edge after setting her shoes down. Yoonchae mirrors her, leaning over the other side, eyes locked on Megan. The gap between them is small enough that they can reach each other, link hands, lean close.
Megan reaches into her pocket and pulls out the white-and-purple bracelet. She holds it out over the bridge with trembling hands, praying for it not to fall into the water below. Yoonchae gasps softly, then takes it, slipping it into her own pocket.
“Help me put it on later?”
Megan nods, throat too dry for words.
“This is nice,” Yoonchae says softly, hair tousled, chocolate-brown eyes warm and open. She glances toward the sunset, and Megan wants to say something, anything. But the words stick, trapped somewhere in her chest.
“Yoonchae,” she starts softly, then looks away, cheeks burning. She doesn’t know what to say. Nothing is leaving her mouth.
Yoonchae watches her, still soft, still open. She leans forward slightly, and Megan’s breath catches, sudden and sharp. One of Yoonchae’s hands lifts to cup the side of Megan’s face, and Megan leans into the touch, unable to look at her.
“Mei,” Yoonchae murmurs softly—the same way she always says it, gentle, as if Megan’s name fits perfectly in her mouth. Megan keeps her eyes shut. She doesn’t want to admit anything to Yoonchae yet, tell her that this flutter in her chest whenever she’s near her is something real.
“Open your eyes,” Yoonchae whispers, almost pleading. Megan obeys, and in that moment, Yoonchae closes the distance between them.
Soft. That’s all Megan can think as Yoonchae’s lips meet hers, hand still cupping her cheek. Megan tilts her head, deepening the kiss, pressing closer into Yoonchae. She can taste the vanilla of Yoonchae’s chapstick, mixing with her own cherry lip gloss into something entirely new. The faint scent of citrus drifts around them, mingling with the salty tang of the sea air. It's addicting, kissing Yoonchae. She could definitely get used to this.
It’s Megan who pulls back first, flushed and breathless, watching the sunset spill over Yoonchae in shades of pink. Yoonchae’s thumb brushes gently against her lips.
Megan just stares at Yoonchae for a while, taking in the way the wind lifts strands of hair, curling them softly at the ends. Her pupils are dilated, cheeks flushed with a pink Megan knows isn’t just from the setting sun.
“I love you, Yoonchae,” Megan blurts, not meaning for it to slip out, but knowing it’s true. Knowing it’s been true for a while, it just took her far too long to do something about it. Too many nights spent falling asleep next to Yoonchae airports, buses, hotel rooms, too many chances to say something, and Megan never taking them.
“You don’t—don’t have to say it back,” Megan says, pulling back, stumbling over her own words. “I know it’s probably weird, and I don’t even know how long you’ve liked me back—”
Yoonchae smiles, leaning over the bridge, placing another soft kiss to Megan’s lips.
“Don’t you know?” she murmurs, chocolate-brown eyes locking with Megan’s hazel, eighteen meeting nineteen, finally both young adults, no gap between them except the bridge they’re standing on. “I’ve loved you for a long time.”
Megan’s eyes blur with tears, and Yoonchae brushes one away with her thumb. “Don’t cry, Megan,” she murmurs. “I love you.” Megan wants to cry harder, because Yoonchae’s being so sweet, and she hadn’t expected anything to go like this. She wouldn’t really change anything, though.
They stay like that for a while, quiet, until Megan reluctantly pulls out her phone and checks the time.
“Shoot. It’s 6:30. We should start heading back.”
Yoonchae nods, still smiling, cheeks flushed. The sun has fully dipped below the horizon, leaving only a rapidly darkening sky.
“I’ll see you on the beach,” Megan says, hesitating. Yoonchae reaches over and pulls her in for one quick kiss.
“I’ll be there.”
Megan walks—no, runs—across her side of the bridge, not looking back, not needing to. She already knows Yoonchae will be waiting for her.
On the beach, in the hotel room, onstage, back in LA.
Megan and Yoonchae.
Cherry, seashell.
Nineteen, eighteen.
Orange, pink.
She finally reaches the beach, and sees Yoonchae waiting for her, shoes in hand, smiling, her other hand already reaching out.
Megan takes it.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”