Work Text:
Lara’s apartment is too small for the number of bodies crammed into it, which is a problem that could have been solved if anyone here had the self-restraint to not also invite fifteen of their closest friends. The air is warm and damp with spilled drinks and perfume layered over perfume, bass rattling the walls until Yoonchae can feel it in her molars. Someone taped black and gold streamers along the ceiling earlier in the night; they’re already peeling at the corners, sagging like they might fall right at any moment. A banner that says 2026 is missing the two and has been creatively rebranded as 0?6.
Yoonchae stands near the kitchen counter because it gives her something solid to lean against and a clear view of the entire place. She’s holding a drink she’s been nursing for the past forty minutes, the ice long since melted. She doesn’t really want it. But it’s easier to blend in at a party while holding something than holding nothing.
The countdown is supposed to happen in ten minutes. People keep announcing this with the sort of exaggerated enthusiasm that only comes from being very young and getting very drunk.
Megan is impossible to miss, which is, Yoonchae suspects, the whole point.
She’s wearing a leopard print minidress that looks less like clothing and more like a second skin: hugging every inch of her body, backless, the open line of her spine exposed down to her hips. It’s objectively insane. But it’s also doing work. Her hair keeps falling into her face; she flips it back with a kind of muscle-memory confidence that suggests she’s done that exact move on too many nights to count. She’s drunk—not falling-over drunk, not crying-in-the-bathroom drunk—just loose enough to be comfortable with herself and with other people and everything in between.
She keeps refilling her cup before it’s even halfway empty.
And she keeps looking across the room.
Yoonchae follows her line of sight without thinking—though she already knows what Megan’s going to see.
Daniela and Sophia are pressed together near the living room, dancing in a way that’s casual enough to pretend it’s nothing and intimate enough that no one actually believes them when they say they’re just good friends. Daniela’s hands rest confidently at Sophia’s waist, thumbs brushing the hem of her top. Sophia is smiling—not her loud, people-pleasing smile, but the smaller one she saves for people who she doesn’t perform for. They’re talking close, heads bent together despite the music, stealing a private moment for themselves despite being in a room full of people.
Yoonchae doesn’t feel jealous. That surprises her, a little, though she doesn’t interrogate it too hard. Jealousy would require the belief that something was being taken from her. This doesn’t feel like that. This feels like watching a train arrive exactly when and where the schedule said it would.
Megan looks at them again, freezes for a half-second too long, then finally drains the entirety of her drink. Someone whoops. Someone else shoves another cup into her hand without asking, because Megan has that kind of feeling about her tonight—bright, a little reckless, easy to be around. She takes it without hesitation, tips it back, and moves on.
Yoonchae watches the way Megan’s shoulders square afterward. It’s a subtle reset, one perfected through party after party surrounded by friends and strangers alike. Megan pivots back into action seamlessly—dancing with whoever’s closest, laughing at jokes that go nowhere, flirting in a way that’s only half-serious. She touches a guy’s arm, lets him spin her once, leans in close enough that he probably thinks he has a shot.
He doesn’t. Yoonchae knows this because she keeps coming back.
Megan ends up near Yoonchae at one point, standing close enough that their shoulders brush when someone passes behind them. She leans in, mouth near Yoonchae’s ear, voice pitched low and casual. “Is it just me, or did it get, like… way hotter in here?”
“It’s been hot,” Yoonchae says.
“Yeah, but now it’s hot hot,” Megan replies, laughing at her own distinction. Her hand lands on Yoonchae’s arm as she says it, fingers curling lightly, as if to emphasize the point. She doesn’t pull away right away. She squeezes once, absent-minded, then drops her hand when she realizes it’s there.
She sways slightly where she stands, then straightens, glancing around the room for something she already knows isn’t going to appear. Her phone comes out of her pocket again. She checks the screen, frowns, slides it back in without having received anything.
Someone bumps into Megan again from behind. She steadies herself automatically by grabbing Yoonchae’s arm again, this time higher up, thumb brushing bare skin. “Sorry,” she says, though she doesn’t sound particularly apologetic. “I swear, Lara packed this place like a fire hazard on purpose.”
“You knew she would,” Yoonchae says, “and you still came.”
Megan grins. “Yeah. Big mistake.”
She laughs, loud enough that it almost convinces Yoonchae. Then Megan is stepping away to talk to someone else—a quick joke, a laugh that goes a second too long—and Yoonchae assumes that’s the end of it.
It isn’t.
A few minutes later, Megan is back again, crowding her space under the pretense of speaking over the music. “What song is this?” she asks, even though the answer doesn’t matter and neither of them are really listening.
“No idea.”
Megan leans closer anyway, nodding. Her fingers catch the hem of Yoonchae’s sleeve this time, brushing bare skin when it rides up. The contact is brief, but too deliberate to dismiss.
“You having fun?” Megan asks.
Yoonchae considers the question. “Sure.”
Megan laughs at that, high and sweet, but Yoonchae doesn’t know what was funny, so she ignores it. Megan’s hand returns, resting lightly at Yoonchae’s elbow, thumb pressing absentmindedly into the muscle there. Yoonchae can smell everything on her—alcohol, perfume working double time to mask the sweat she accumulated from dancing, and an underlying scent that is just Megan—but she wishes she couldn't.
Across the room, Daniela’s laugh cuts through the noise. Megan stiffens almost imperceptibly, her hand tightening for half a second before she pulls away and straightens.
She drifts off again and Yoonchae lets her.
And then, inevitably, she’s back—closer this time, pressed in by the crowd, shoulder to shoulder. Megan doesn’t even bother pretending now. Her hand slides down Yoonchae’s arm and stays there, fingers warm, grounding. She says something about needing another drink, about how the music’s too loud, about how she’s definitely dancing later, maybe—it’s all filler, all nonsense.
Yoonchae notices the pattern and doesn’t comment on it. There’s no point in pretending not to understand what this is. Megan does want her. That part is obvious in the way she keeps circling back, in the way her attention keeps snagging here even when she’s trying to scatter it elsewhere.
Wanting someone, however, is not the same thing as choosing them, and Yoonchae has learned not to confuse the two.
She understands, distantly, why Megan is drinking the way she is. There’s a relief in naming it, even if it’s just to herself. Wanting something you can’t have makes people strange. Wanting someone who is actively choosing someone else makes them louder, shinier, more exhausting to watch.
Yoonchae takes a sip of her drink and grimaces. It still tastes like cheap vodka, which, apparently, doesn’t improve with time. She considers setting it down and forgetting about it entirely, but the counter is sticky, and she doesn’t feel like moving. Plus, it’s not worth the trouble. She drains the cup instead.
Megan brushes her arm again—accidental enough to be deniable, intentional enough to count. “Hey,” she says, leaning in close to be heard over the music, breath warm and wine-sweet. “You’re being quiet.”
“I’m always quiet,” Yoonchae says.
Megan grins, too wide and unnatural to be genuine. Then her gaze slides past Yoonchae when Daniela laughs at something Sophia says and tilts her head back, hair catching the light. Sophia’s hand is still at her waist. Megan’s smile falters for the briefest of moments before snapping back into place like a rubber band that’d been pulled back too far.
“Do a shot with me,” Megan says, already reaching for the bottle, already assuming that flooding her system with more alcohol will solve whatever thought just passed through her head.
Yoonchae doesn’t answer right away. She watches Megan’s hands instead. The faint tremor in her fingers. The freshly done set of nails that are already slightly chipped from tonight. Yoonchae notices things. She always has. It’s easier than admitting what that means.
“Maybe later,” she says.
Megan shrugs, knocking the shot back herself, hissing as it burns, then laughs it off. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. For a brief second, she looks straight at Yoonchae—really looks—and something open flickers there. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude. The comfort of familiarity.
Then it’s gone.
The room shifts as someone yells that it’s almost time. Bodies surge toward the living room, phones already out, voices stacking over one another. The music dies down. Anticipation thickens the air, turns it sharp.
Megan’s expression tightens as if the walls have closed in on her. She exhales hard, eyes darting once more toward Daniela and Sophia, now fully wrapped around each other, unbothered, settled. Whatever fight Megan’s been holding on to tonight seems to lose momentum all at once.
“I need air,” she mutters, more to herself than anyone else, already moving toward the door that leads to the fire escape.
She doesn’t look back.
Yoonchae follows anyway.
The door shuts behind them with a dull metal click, muting the party to a distant, throbbing pulse. The cold hits immediately—sharp, sobering. City noise rushes in to fill the silence: traffic a few floors down, a siren somewhere far enough away to feel unreal, voices drifting up from the street. Megan exhales and her breath clouds in front of her face. She shivers.
She goes straight to the railing, palms flat against the cold metal, leaning forward as though the night might tip her over if she’s not careful. She sways a little.
“That was getting… loud,” Megan says, after a moment. Her voice is softer out here, stripped of the performance she cakes on like a bad makeup artist.
“Yeah,” Yoonchae replies. She stays by the door at first, hands tucked into the sleeves of her jacket. Megan’s dress is criminally thin for the weather—the open back leaves her skin exposed, goosebumped and pink-tinted already.
“You okay?” Yoonchae asks, because it’s the easiest thing to say.
Megan shrugs without turning around. “Just needed a minute.”
She rubs her arms absently, then drops them, stubborn. Vulnerable in a way she refuses to name. Yoonchae steps closer and leans beside her, close enough to share body heat without calling it that.
The music thumps faintly through the wall. Someone inside screams with laughter.
“Lara really did go all out,” Megan says, staring down at the street. “I think she invited, like, everyone she’s ever met.”
“Mm. Fire code nightmare.”
Megan laughs quietly at that, then goes still again. Her fingers tap the railing in an uneven rhythm. She doesn’t mention Daniela. She doesn’t need to.
Yoonchae watches the way Megan keeps shifting her weight, like she can’t get comfortable in her own body. The way her shoulders tense every time the music spikes, every time the countdown inside gets louder.
Inside, someone yells, “Ten!” followed by a chorus of voices, off-key and excited.
Megan exhales once again, long and shaky. She tilts her head back, eyes closed, lashes dark against her cheeks. When she speaks, it’s not playful. It’s not fishing. It’s just… tired.
“God,” she says softly. “I don’t even have anyone to kiss this year.”
As the words are left to hang there, Yoonchae understands it immediately. Megan wants someone. She already knows it won’t be. And she knows—though she won’t say it, can’t say it—that Yoonchae is here.
The countdown continues inside, the voices growing louder, closer to zero. Yoonchae stays where she is, heart steady, already braced against what she’s about to give—and what she isn’t going to get back.
She doesn’t think maybe this will change things. She doesn’t think maybe this will be enough to tip the scale. That kind of hope is loud and reckless, and Yoonchae knows better. This is quieter than that. More precise.
I would rather be wanted second than not at all.
It isn’t self-pity. It isn’t delusion. It’s a decision, made with open eyes and a clear mind. She knows the cost because she’s been paying it in small increments for a while now.
Inside, someone screams, “Three!”
Megan is still leaning back against the railing, chin tipped up toward the sky like she’s desperately trying not to look at Yoonchae. Her breath fogs again in the cold. Her hands are clenched at her sides now, knuckles pale, holding herself in place.
“Two!”
Yoonchae takes a steps forward, closing the space between them with the same calm she’s carried all night, the same steadiness she uses when she chooses things that hurt but feel honest. She reaches up, one hand firm at Megan’s jaw, grounding, unmistakable.
“One!”
And then the world explodes inside—cheering, fireworks cracking somewhere above the buildings, Auld Lang Syne surging to life because it waits an entire year for this exact moment.
Yoonchae kisses her, deliberately.
Her mouth presses against Megan’s with intention, with clarity. This is her stepping forward instead of waiting to be pulled in. This is her saying I’m here without asking for anything in return.
Megan kisses her back immediately.
There’s no pause, no startled breath. She responds like she’s been holding herself back for hours, like she’s been waiting for permission she could never ask for. Her hands come up fast—one at Yoonchae’s waist, the other slipping into the fabric of her jacket, fingers curling tight. Yoonchae parts her lips slightly beneath Megan’s, deepening the kiss.
For a moment, it’s almost easy to pretend everything she feels is reflecting back at her.
Megan leans into it, desperate in a way that’s unmistakable, like she needs this to anchor her through the noise and the disappointment and the night itself. She kisses like she means it—like she wants it—mouth warm and insistent, breath hitching when Yoonchae presses even closer.
And yet, Yoonchae feels the restraint in Megan’s hands—the way her grip tightens but doesn’t pull. It’s subtle, but impossible to miss.
It’s a limit.
Megan is enjoying this. She needs it. She wants it. But she is not fully giving herself over. There is a part of her—kept carefully back, guarded—that is not here on this fire escape. That part is somewhere else, with someone else, even as Megan’s mouth moves against Yoonchae’s.
And still, Yoonchae does not pull away.
She adjusts instead, softening just enough to stay within the boundary Megan has drawn, kissing her in a way that doesn’t demand more than Megan can give. Her thumb presses lightly at Megan’s jaw, steady, reassuring. This is it. This is where it stops.
Fireworks bloom above them, reflected briefly in the dark windows across the street. They fade in and out in flashes of blue, silver, red, white. The night keeps moving, uncaring.
When they finally part, it’s not abrupt. Megan rests her forehead against Yoonchae’s for a second, breathing hard, eyes still closed. She doesn’t say anything nor does she seem inclined to move.
Yoonchae stays close, exactly where she is, feeling the echo of the kiss settle into her chest—bitter, mutual, uneven.
This is the tragedy of it, she thinks distantly.
Megan exhales, a shaky little laugh slipping out of her. She tips her head back, eyes finally opening, unfocused in a way Yoonchae doesn’t love. The city lights catch in them and don’t quite land.
“Hey,” Megan says, picking up a conversation that never really stopped. Her voice is soft, frayed at the edges. “You wanna—” She gestures vaguely with one hand, the motion wobbling halfway through. “Come back to my place?”
The offer is made sideways, already half-expecting to be refused.
Yoonchae doesn’t give her answer right away. Instead, she chooses to watch Megan sway, just a little, watches the way she repositions her feet. The thin dress does nothing against the cold; Megan’s nose is turning more red by the second, her shoulders tight.
“Okay,” Yoonchae says finally.
Megan’s smile is immediate and relieved, like she hadn’t quite expected a yes. She reaches for Yoonchae’s hand without looking, fingers warm and clumsy. Yoonchae lets her.
The walk is slow. Megan talks the whole way, about nothing—about how cold it is, about how she forgot she hated heels, about how Lara’s neighbors definitely hate her. She laughs at her own sentences halfway through them, loses her train of thought and starts over. By the time they reach her apartment, she’s leaning more of her weight into Yoonchae than she probably realizes.
Inside, it’s quiet in that end-of-the-night way. Shoes kicked off near the door, a lamp left on in the living room, fairy lights glowing faintly along one wall. Megan fumbles with the lock, then gives up and hands the keys to Yoonchae with a huff.
“Sorry,” she mutters, already shrugging out of her jacket. “I didn’t think I was this drunk.”
Yoonchae hums noncommittally, guiding her down the short hallway toward the bedroom. Megan sits on the edge of the bed and immediately tips sideways, laughing again. Yoonchae catches her by the shoulder before she can fully collapse.
“Easy,” she says.
Megan looks up at her, eyes glassy but soft. “You’re very…” She squints, like the word is hiding somewhere just out of reach. “Responsible.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“Sexy word,” Megan decides, pleased with herself. She reaches out and tugs Yoonchae closer by the hem of her shirt. The kiss she goes for is lazy, unfocused, all muscle memory and minimal coordination, because their lips still find each other easily even when Megan’s in a state like this.
Yoonchae lets it happen for a second.
She lets Megan press her mouth there, lets her breathe her in, lets her weight tip forward, lets herself forget, briefly, how careful she’s been all night. Her body reacts before her consciousness does—hands itching, chest tightening. This is the permission.
And she hates how easy it would be to take more.
Megan tastes flammable. Her fingers fumble at Yoonchae’s shirt again, tugging without direction. It would be so simple to lean in, to deepen it, to let this slip into something that feels like she’s being chosen—even if it isn’t really.
And even with all the temptation, Yoonchae still manages to pull herself back. She keeps her hands where they are, steady at Megan’s sides, anchoring instead of asking, grounding both of them.
“Hey,” Yoonchae says, quiet but firm, the way you speak to someone you care about when you’re trying not to scare them. Or yourself.
Megan blinks, lashes fluttering as her brain catches up to her body. For a moment, something like disappointment flickers across her face—quick and unguarded—before it dissolves into confusion. She sways slightly, then steadies, staring directly at Yoonchae.
“Oh,” she says.
Yoonchae licks her lips in response, eyes flicking away briefly. She doesn't fill the silence.
“Yeah,” Megan adds after a second, nodding to herself, like she’s reached the end of an internal argument. “Okay. Yeah.” A small, crooked laugh slips out of her. “I’m… I’m really drunk.”
Yoonchae nods once. Relief and loss tangle together in her chest, familiar and unwelcome.
“I know,” she says gently.
She helps Megan ease back onto the bed, keeping her movements careful. Every instinct in her is pulling forward, asking for more. She ignores it.
This isn’t how she wants Megan.
And it’s not the type of person she wants to be, either.
Megan tips backward onto the bed, arms spread, staring up at the ceiling. “You’re nice,” she says, like this is a conclusion she’s just come to. “Annoyingly nice.”
Yoonchae doesn’t argue. She doesn’t trust herself to. She helps Megan out of the dress instead—all careful and full of restraint, like she’s defusing a bomb instead of unhooking a backless leopard-print minidress that feels actively designed to test her self-control. The zipper sits between her fingers, daring her.
“Wow,” Megan murmurs as Yoonchae’s fingers find the zipper. “Look at that. Guess it finally happened.”
Yoonchae freezes for half a second. “What happened?”
Megan grins, lazy, head lolling slightly to the side. “Your hands. On me.” She sighs dramatically. “I was starting to think it would never happen.”
“That is not what this is,” Yoonchae says, even as her hands continue their careful work, thumbs brushing warm skin at Megan’s sides despite herself and staying there a fraction too long.
“I know,” Megan says cheerfully. “I’m just saying. I wore this dress for a reason, y'know...” She gestures vaguely toward her back, toward the cutouts that have been tempting Yoonchae all night. “I wanted someone to touch me there. Preferably someone with big hands.”
Yoonchae exhales through her nose. For one dangerous second, she imagines what it would’ve been like to be given the invitation. But it was just for a second. She doesn’t pretend any of it was meant for her. She keeps her gaze fixed on the wall, on the shadow of her own hands moving like they belong to someone else. “You’re very talkative for someone who can’t really stand on their own.”
“Mm,” Megan hums. “That’s because I’m honest when I’m drunk. It’s an added feature.” She pauses, then adds, offhanded, “You do have nice hands, though.”
Yoonchae doesn’t respond. Her grip tightens, just slightly, before she loosens it again.
“No, seriously,” Megan continues, thoughtfully. “Big. Warm. Very… grounding.” She laughs softly. “I like hands on my hips. Makes me feel—” She searches for the word, eyes fluttering. “Chosen. Or something super poetic like that.”
Yoonchae slides the dress down Megan’s body with practiced gentleness and efficiency, guiding her out of it. Chosen isn’t the word she’d use. Present, maybe. Willing. Megan stumbles a little, then steadies herself by grabbing Yoonchae’s forearms, fingers curling there with familiar ease. The contact sends a sharp, unwelcome pulse through her.
“Sorry,” she says, immediately and sincerely, lips pursed into a straight line. “I think my inside thoughts are becoming my outside thoughts. Is that weird?”
“No, that’s drunk,” Yoonchae corrects, even as part of her wishes—briefly, selfishly—that drunk Megan would ask for more clearly. She then scolds herself for wanting that.
“Same thing,” Megan decides, letting go and allowing Yoonchae to tug an oversized t-shirt over her head. She flops back onto the bed with a contented noise, hair fanning out on the pillow. Without the dress, without the performance, she looks younger somehow. Less armored. No less complicated. “You’re good at this, by the way. Taking care of people. I don’t know if I said that already but it’s true.”
Yoonchae smooths the shirt down, allows herself that one last second of closeness, then steps back before Megan can reach for her again, before she says something else she doesn’t mean—or means too much.
Yoonchae pulls the blanket up around her shoulders. Megan’s eyes are already fluttering.
“Stay,” Megan mumbles, half-asleep.
Yoonchae pauses. That want rises again—quiet, insistent, selfish—and squashes it beneath her heel before it can do any irreparable damage. Then, “I will,” she says, because that part is easy.
She switches off the light, steps back into the living room, and settles onto the couch, pulling a throw blanket over herself. The apartment hums softly around her—radiator ticking, fireworks still ringing in the new year, city noise bleeding faintly through the windows.
In the other room, Megan sighs in her sleep.
Yoonchae stares up at the ceiling, hands folded neatly over her stomach, heart still steady.
She knows exactly where she is.
And she stays.