Chapter Text
The sleepover at Yunah’s apartment was a symphony of familiar, chaotic noises—the rhythmic pop of bubblegum, the frantic tapping of fingers on phone screens, and the ambient hum of late-night television. But Wonhee was entirely insulated from it, buried beneath a fortress of mismatched throw pillows in the corner of the bed. Her body felt heavy, hollowed out by a grueling forty-hour week split mercilessly between exhausting university lectures and back-to-back shifts at Ink & Brew, the comic shop slash cafe downtown. She was staring blankly at the ceiling, her mind drifting through a gray fog of fatigue, when a sharp, distinct phrase cut through the static of her thoughts.
“—completely real, I’m telling you! It’s not just some internet trend.” Yunah slammed a thick, substantial volume onto the center of the blanket pile, sending a stray bag of chips sliding to the floor.
The book was beautiful in a weathered, forgotten sort of way. Its cover was a deep, faded navy cloth, embossed with peeling gold stars and silver constellations that had lost their luster decades ago. The edges of the pages were soft, frayed, and dyed a deep, dark amber by time.
“My sister’s roommate salvaged it from a vintage bookstore in Manila,” Yunah continued, her eyes wide with a kind of breathless, late-night reverence. “It’s called the Celestial Concordance of True Hearts. And it’s not just folklore, Minju. There’s a literal soulmate alignment ritual inside.”
Minju scoffed, blowing a massive pink bubble before letting it snap loudly against her lips. “Yunah, you believe anything printed in an italicized font. It’s a scam designed to get hopeless romantics to stare at the sky instead of realizing their crushes haven’t texted them back in three weeks.”
“No, listen to the translation!” Yunah flipped the yellowed pages frantically, the rich, comforting scent of vanilla, dust, and old paper wafting through the bedroom. She cleared her throat, tracing a manicured finger along the elegant, archaic script. “When the night is clear and the veil of destiny is thin, trace the lines of your desire across the firmament. Connect the points of light to spell the name of the one whose soul is tethered to thine. If the universe deems the bond true, the signs shall manifest within three suns.”
Wonhee pulled herself upright, rubbing her tired eyes. “Connect the stars to spell a name? That sounds like a lot of geometric effort just to figure out if someone likes you.”
“It’s not just effort, Wonhee, it’s a direct line to the universe,” Yunah insisted, turning her head toward the large bedroom window.
The night sky over the city was unusually clear, a rare, velvet expanse of deep indigo completely devoid of the usual heavy smog, dotted with bright, piercing stars that seemed to vibrate with life.
“Oh my god, look at Orion’s belt! It’s perfectly positioned,” Yunah gasped, grabbing Minju’s wrist. “Come on, we have to try it from the balcony before the clouds roll in. If I don’t spell out Moka’s name right now, I’m going to lose my mind.”
In a flurry of giggles, screeching chair legs, and clumsy tripping over stray blankets, the two girls rushed out of the room, their voices echoing down the hallway before the balcony door clicked shut.
Suddenly, the bedroom was entirely quiet.
Wonhee sat alone on the rumpled sheets. Her eyes slowly drifted down to the center of the bed, where the book lay open, its delicate pages fluttering slightly under the steady, artificial breeze of the ceiling fan. She told herself she was nineteen years old. She was an adult, a rational, pragmatic college student who spent her days balancing cash registers, auditing inventory, and memorizing complex comic book release schedules. She didn’t believe in magic. She didn’t believe in cosmic tethers or destiny written in ancient text.
But she did have a secret. A heavy, quiet, agonizingly tender ache in her chest that had a name.
Iroha.
Iroha, the regular customer who walked past the cafe every single afternoon. Iroha, who possessed a sharp, intimidating elegance that made Wonhee’s hands shake whenever she poured milk into a coffee pitcher.
Slowly, as if drawn by an invisible thread, Wonhee crawled across the mattress and pulled the heavy volume into her lap. Her fingers brushed against the cool paper, reading the words over and over.
The name of the one whose soul is tethered to thine.
Wonhee stood up, her heart beginning a strange, erratic flutter against her ribs. She walked over to the wide window, leaning her forehead against the cool, smooth glass. Below her, the city hummed with life—the distant drone of traffic, the flicker of neon signs—but above it all, the stars burned with an almost demanding clarity.
Slowly, Wonhee raised her right hand. Her index finger unstable as she pointed it at a brilliant cluster of stars resting just above the city’s horizon.
I. She traced a single, sharp drop down to a solitary, brilliant star, capping the line with two smaller, delicate pinpricks of light. A soft ache of longing squeezed her heart.
R. She pulled a steady line down from a brilliant silver point, swept a soft, rounded loop back to the top, and kicked a sharp diagonal leg out into the open velvet darkness. Her fingertips began to tremble.
O. She swept her finger in a smooth, continuous curve through the dark velvet, linking a ring of distant suns into a perfect, unbroken circle of silver light. A nervous warmth flared in her chest.
H. She dropped two parallel beams down from twin pairs of bright stars, then bridged the silent gap between them with one swift, horizontal stroke. Her breath hitched in the quiet room.
A. She drew a sharp apex up toward the highest peak of the sky, let both sides slope down into the dark, and bound them together with a delicate silver crossbar. A genuine smile finally reached her eyes.
“Iroha,” Wonhee whispered against the glass.
The name felt heavy on her tongue, a secret confession offered up to the vast emptiness of the night. A violent, hot flush crept up her neck and to her ears, and she immediately pulled her hand back, shaking her head at her own sheer absurdity. She was losing her mind.
Yet, when she sat back down on the bed, she didn’t close the book. Instead, she spent the next three hours huddled under the dim light of her phone flashlight, reading every single page of the Celestial Concordance. She devoured the chapters on cosmic synchronicity, memorizing the specific descriptions of the signs with an intensity she had never applied to her university textbooks: the unbidden alignment of melody, the shared echo of silent desires, the somatic mirror of physical burdens, and finally, the ultimate test of color alignment. By the time Yunah and Minju returned, flushed and shivering from the balcony, Wonhee had quietly tucked the heavy book into the deep pocket of her backpack, casually claiming she wanted to read it for “historical context.”
The next afternoon, the grounding reality of Ink & Brew settled around Wonhee like a familiar blanket. The cafe was a comforting, perpetual chaos—the sharp grinding of espresso beans, the rich hiss of steaming milk, the crisp, distinct smell of fresh ink on glossy paper, and the low, passionate murmurs of students and comic enthusiasts arguing over plot lines. Wonhee stood behind the counter, her fingers moving mechanically across the touch screen of the cash register as she processed orders, gave change, and smiled politely at faces she barely registered.
Because her eyes kept darting to the massive front glass window.
Iroha was a creature of absolute habit. Every single day, without fail, she would walk past the shop around mid-afternoon. Sometimes she came inside to study for hours, her sharp jawline tight with concentration as she stared at her laptop. Sometimes she just passed by, her dark hair falling perfectly across her eyes, casting a fleeting glance toward the interior. To Wonhee, Iroha was a vision of effortless, terrifying cool—an academic titan who looked like she could solve complex economic theorems in her sleep while quietly judging your entire life direction.
At exactly 2:15 PM, Wonhee saw her. Iroha was walking down the sidewalk from a far, her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, her eyes fixed firmly on the ground, carrying an aura of quiet isolation.
Wonhee’s heart did a violent, painful flip against her ribs. Sign number one, her brain whispered, the text from the vintage book flashing vividly in her mind. The Alignment of Melody. If two souls are bound by the firmament, the song of the seeker shall echo unbidden from the lips of the sought.
Wonhee swallowed hard, a sudden wave of desperate, hopeful daring washing over her. She reached into her pocket, pulled out her wired headphones, and slipped the plastic buds into her ears. She kept the volume incredibly low—just a faint, tinny whisper of sound so she could still hear the environment around her. She scrolled through her phone and queued up “Your Universe” by Rico Blanco. The nostalgic, swelling chords of the Filipino alt-rock track filled her ears, heavy with a sweet, melancholy longing.
“Tell me something... I don’t think that you even realize...”
Wonhee hummed the melody quietly under her breath, her heart drumming a frantic rhythm. She stepped out from behind the safety of the cash register, grabbing a fresh stack of newly arrived Demon Slayer manga volumes. She walked over to the display shelves near the front window, pretending to be deeply absorbed in organizing the glossy books, positioning herself just a few feet away from where the regular customers usually browsed.
Within a minute, the brass bell above the door chimed with a familiar, crisp ring. Iroha walked in.
Wonhee froze, her hands clutching a manga volume completely upside down. She kept her head lowered, watching through the screen of her hair as Iroha moved with her usual quiet grace straight toward the graphic novel section. She did her absolute best to move closer without coming off as a creep. Iroha didn’t look at her; she simply stopped at the display shelf, her long fingers reaching out to pull a volume of Demon Slayer from the rack. She stood so close that Wonhee could smell the faint, clean scent of her laundry detergent.
Wonhee held her breath, her chest tightening until it genuinely hurt. She waited, every nerve ending in her body strained, listening through the low murmur of the song in her ears.
Iroha flipped open the manga. She tapped the toe of her sneaker lightly against the hardwood floor, keeping a slow, rhythmic beat. And then, with an agonizingly casual, unconscious air, Iroha began to hum.
It wasn’t a random, aimless tune. It was the exact, distinct, lilting melody of the bridge of “Your Universe.”
Wonhee’s heart stopped. She stood absolutely paralyzed, the glossy manga slipping slightly in her fingers. Iroha was humming the precise cadence, perfectly in sync with the music leaking from Wonhee’s low-volume earbuds, her tone soft and entirely unbothered. Oh my god, Wonhee thought, a wild, hysterical sob of pure shock trapped in her throat. It’s real. The book isn’t a joke. The stars actually heard me.
Iroha closed the book with a soft snap, tucked it back into the shelf, and walked casually toward the register to place an order with Wonhee’s co-worker, completely oblivious to the fact that Wonhee was currently having a profound existential and spiritual crisis next to the Shonen Jump section.
Two days later, the initial shock had transformed into a dizzying, addictive hunger for proof. Wonhee decided it was time to test the second sign: The Shared Echo of Desire. The thoughts of the bound shall bend to the silent will of the seeker.
It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon. The cafe was bathed in the warm, golden light of the setting sun, and Wonhee was stationed behind the register. Iroha had entered about twenty minutes prior, immediately secluding herself at a small corner table. She was surrounded by a massive stack of textbooks, her laptop screen reflecting in her focused eyes, her eyebrows pulled together in a look of intense, beautiful stress.
Wonhee watched her from behind the safety of the industrial espresso machine, her heart aching slightly at how tired Iroha looked. Iroha was rubbing her temples, her gaze drifting up to the menu board above the counter as if desperately trying to decide what to order to sustain her through the grueling study session.
Wonhee narrowed her eyes, focusing every ounce of her mental energy entirely on the profile of Iroha’s face. She clasped her hands together beneath the wood of the counter, leaning forward slightly, and began to whisper under her breath like a desperate girl begging for a miracle.
“Buy the matcha bread,” Wonhee whispered, her eyes burning with intensity as she stared at the back of Iroha’s head. “Buy the matcha bread and an iced Americano. You want to eat the matcha bread right now, Iroha. It’s sweet, it’ll make you feel better. Drink the diluted espresso. Matcha bread. Iced Americano. Please, just look over here and buy it.”
As if struck by an invisible physical force, Iroha suddenly blinked, shook her head, and closed her laptop screen. She stood up, smoothing down her shirt, and walked directly over to the counter.
Wonhee immediately straightened up, smoothing her coffee-colored apron and wiping her face of any lingering madness, forcing her lips into a professional, welcoming smile. “Hi! Welcome to Ink & Brew. What can I get started for you today?”
Iroha looked up, her dark eyes meeting Wonhee’s for a fleeting, intense second before she looked down at the glass display case next to the register. Her expression was unreadable, slightly guarded. “Hi. Can I get an iced Americano, please? And... uh...” Iroha paused, her finger hovering over the pastry shelf, her brow furrowing. “Actually, that matcha bread looks really good today. I’ll take one of those too.”
Wonhee’s soul felt like it genuinely left her physical body and floated to the ceiling.
“Sure thing!” Wonhee choked out, her voice cracking slightly, reaching a full octave higher than her normal speaking tone. She punched the items into the register with fingers that were visibly trembling. “That’ll be... twelve dollars exactly.”
The moment Iroha tapped her card, took her receipt, and walked over to the pickup counter where two of the other workers were assembling orders, Wonhee completely collapsed. She dropped below the counter line, falling into a deep squat behind the cash register. She pumped both of her fists into the air in a silent, ecstatic, manic victory dance, her face contorted in a mixture of pure joy and absolute disbelief.
I am a literal witch, Wonhee thought, her chest swelling with a dangerous, giddy happiness that made her feel weightless. The universe is listening to me. She’s listening to me.
By Thursday, the beautiful coincidences had escalated into something that felt profoundly, terrifyingly intimate.
That morning, while unloading heavy supply crates in the dark stockroom, Wonhee had carelessly slammed her left hand into the sharp metal edge of a delivery rack. It hadn’t broken any bones, but her palm and wrist were throbbing with a dull, constant, aching pain that made it agonizing to hold a heavy coffee pitcher or type on the touchscreen register. She had spent the morning quietly cradling her arm, feeling thoroughly miserable.
At exactly 3:00 PM, the front door chimed. Iroha walked in.
Wonhee looked up from wiping down the counter with her right hand, and the breath was instantly knocked from her lungs. Wrapped neatly, tightly around Iroha’s left hand and wrist was a crisp, stark white medical bandage.
Wonhee stared, her mouth slightly open, her heart dropping into her stomach. The Somatic Mirror, the ancient text had detailed. When the celestial bond deepens, the physical vessel of the sought shall reflect the tribulation of the seeker.
“Rough day?” Wonhee blurted out before her internal filter could stop her. She pointed her good hand toward Iroha’s wrapped wrist as the other girl approached the counter.
Iroha stopped, looking down at her own wrist, her expression catching in her throat. A faint, beautiful pink hue rose rapidly along her jawline and cheeks. “Oh. Yeah. Just a... a stupid accident. Clumsy, I guess.”
“Me too,” Wonhee murmured, her voice thick with an emotion she couldn’t quite define. She lifted her own aching, un-bandaged hand slightly, but Iroha was already looking down at her wallet, her dark hair hiding her face.
An hour later, Iroha was sitting by the large bay window, her laptop open. She was holding her phone to her ear, and because the cafe had quieted down, her low, raspy voice drifted easily across the room. Wonhee was nearby, meticulously restocking the plastic straw dispensers, her ears straining to catch every syllable.
“Yeah, Mom... no, I just got the email,” Iroha was saying. For the first time since Wonhee had known her, Iroha’s voice was completely light, devoid of its usual heavy, academic exhaustion. A massive, radiant smile broke across her face, transforming her entire features. “I got a perfect score. One hundred percent on the advanced econometrics midterm... Yeah, I’m really, really happy.”
At that exact microsecond, before Iroha had even finished pronouncing the word happy, Wonhee felt it.
It was a sudden, violent, overwhelming wave of pure, unadulterated euphoria that washed through Wonhee’s chest like wildfire. It was a dizzying rush of profound joy that had absolutely no logical business belonging to a girl who had a bruised hand, a low bank account, and three chapters of history homework waiting for her at home. It was a happiness so pure it made Wonhee’s eyes prickle with sudden tears.
Wonhee stood frozen by the straw dispenser, her fingers clutching a plastic wrapper, a soft, trembling smile spreading across her lips. It’s her joy, Wonhee realized, her heart aching with a sweetness that felt vast and terrifying. I’m not just watching her. I’m feeling her.
That night, Wonhee sat on her bedroom windowsill, her knees pulled tight against her chest, looking up at the endless sea of stars. The whimsical playfulness of the love spell had completely vanished, replaced by a deep, aching sincerity. She rested her cheek against the cool glass, her chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy sigh.
“Okay, stars,” she whispered into the quiet room, her voice trembling. “You’ve shown me everything. You’ve given me the signs. But I’m scared. I need one definitive answer so I know I’m not just a lonely girl making up a fantasy in her head. Tomorrow... if Iroha and I are truly fated to be together... make her wear red. If she wears red, I promise I’ll find the courage to tell her.”
The next afternoon, the anxiety inside Wonhee was a physical, suffocating weight. She had practically begged the manager, to let her take the 1:00 PM to 4:00 PM counter shift—a time slot she usually fought tooth and nail for because it guaranteed she would be the one to serve Iroha.
Every single time the brass bell above the door chimed, Wonhee’s head snapped up so quickly she nearly gave herself whiplash, her heart leaping into her throat only to drop back down when it was a stranger.
At exactly 2:45 PM, the bell rang with a crisp, clear chime.
Wonhee’s eyes locked onto the entrance. Iroha walked in.
And Wonhee’s world completely shattered.
Iroha was wearing a crisp, blindingly bright, perfectly plain white t-shirt. No red. Not a single thread of red. No red logo on her sneakers, no red accessories, no red accents on her backpack. Just stark, devastating, empty white.
The disappointment didn’t just hurt; it physically crushed Wonhee. It felt like a heavy, freezing stone dropping into the pit of her stomach, obliterating every ounce of beautiful, magical whimsy she had built up over the past week, leaving nothing but humiliation. It was all a coincidence, she thought, a hot, burning sting rushing to her eyes as she desperately blinked back tears. You’re an idiot, Wonhee. A lonely, delusional idiot who read a stupid old book and made up a universe because you wanted her to look at you so badly.
Iroha approached the counter, her dark eyes scanning Wonhee’s face, her own expression shifting into something tight and guarded. “Hi. Just a cold brew today, please.”
Wonhee couldn’t bring herself to look Iroha in the eye. She kept her gaze fixed firmly on the glowing register screen, her face completely blank, stripping every single ounce of warmth from her voice until it sounded mechanical, dead. “Twelve-ounce cold brew. That’ll be five-fifty.”
Iroha reached for her wallet, but her fingers froze. She stared at Wonhee, her eyebrows pulling together in a look of genuine, sharp concern. “Are you... is everything okay?”
“Fine,” Wonhee said, clipped, her throat tight as she punched the order through. She didn’t smile. She didn’t offer a pleasantry. She just slid the receipt across the wood with a numb, trembling hand.
The very second Iroha turned toward the pickup counter, Wonhee spun around and grabbed the nearest person by the fabric of their apron, her voice tight, desperate, and fractured. “Yoonchae, please. I need you to take over the counter for me. Right now. I have to go to the back.”
Yoonchae blinked in absolute shock, her hands holding a coffee pitcher. “Wait, what? Wonhee, you literally begged the manager for this shift. You said if you didn’t get the counter slot today you would die.”
“I changed my mind. Please, Yoonchae, just take it,” Wonhee pleaded, her voice cracking dangerously, a tear finally escaping and slipping down her cheek.
Seeing the genuine, raw distress written across Wonhee’s features, Yoonchae’s expression instantly softened into deep concern. “Okay. Okay, go. I’ve got it, Wonhee. Go on.”
Wonhee didn’t look back. She bolted through the heavy swinging wooden doors into the stockroom, running to the farthest, darkest corner between towers of extra large paper cups and cardboard boxes of syrup bottles. She spent the rest of her shift in absolute, miserable exile. She volunteered for every single terrible, grueling chore their manager could think of—she dusted the high, forgotten display shelves, organized the dusty comic archives from five years ago, and spent hours scrubbing the industrial espresso filters until her fingers were raw. She wanted to be completely consumed by physical labor, wanted her body to ache so badly that her brain would finally stop mocking her about the stars.
By the time her shift finally ended, the clock on the concrete wall read 8:00 PM. The cafe was closing.
Wonhee pulled off her dirty apron, untied her hair, letting it fall around her exhausted face, and grabbed her backpack. She walked out into the main floor, which was now dim, the ambient lights turned off, save for the manager locking up the back safe.
“Goodnight,” Wonhee mumbled, her voice faint and hollowed out.
“Night, Wonhee. Get some real rest, okay? You looked like a ghost today,” the manager called back gently.
Wonhee pushed open the heavy glass front door of the cafe, stepping out into the chilly night air. The streetlights were flickering to life, casting long, dramatic shadows across the damp pavement. She wrapped her thin denim jacket tighter around her frame, staring fixedly at the tips of her shoes, prepared for the long, lonely, depressing walk back to her apartment.
“Wonhee?”
The voice was quiet, raspy, and thoroughly unexpected, cutting through the silence of the street.
Wonhee’s head snapped up, her breath catching in her throat.
Leaning against the dark brick wall right next to the cafe entrance, her hands shoved deep into her pockets, was Iroha. But she wasn’t just in her white t-shirt anymore. Layered over it, swallow-me-whole huge and incredibly bright under the amber glow of the streetlamp, was a thick, crimson-red wool varsity jacket.
Wonhee froze completely, her boots glued to the concrete. She looked at the jacket. The red was vibrant, undeniable, screaming into the darkness of the night.
For a second, Wonhee’s brain completely short-circuited. She’s wearing red. But... she wasn’t earlier. She’s waiting for someone. Yeah, she’s definitely waiting for a partner, or a friend, or...
Iroha straightened up, stepping away from the cold brick wall, and walked directly over until she was standing barely a foot away from Wonhee. The cool night breeze carried a faint, sharp, beautiful scent of citrus and coffee between them.
Iroha looked uncharacteristically terrified. Her usual cool, unbothered, intellectual composure was entirely gone, replaced by a tense, modern vulnerability that made her look incredibly fragile. She bit her lower lip, her dark eyes searching Wonhee’s face with a desperation that made Wonhee’s knees feel weak.
“You didn’t smile at me today,” Iroha said directly, her voice carrying a strange, heavy, fractured weight. “When you took my order. You didn’t even look at me, Wonhee. And then you vanished into the back for five hours. I... I didn’t know what to do.”
Wonhee’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. “I... I had some stock to organize,” she stammered, her mind spinning at a million miles an hour. “I’m sorry.”
“Did I do something wrong?” Iroha asked, her eyes softening into something so intensely tender it made Wonhee’s chest ache. “Did I annoy you? I... I noticed you’ve been standing near me the past few days, and I thought... God, I thought we were finally having a moment. I thought you were noticing me. But then today you looked at me like you hated me, and I couldn’t breathe.”
Wonhee wasn’t listening to the words anymore. Her eyes were completely, entirely glued to the bright fabric of the sleeves, the bold red wool of the jacket.
“You’re wearing red,” Wonhee blurted out, her internal filter completely disintegrating into the night air. She let out a high-pitched, desperate, breathless squeal, her hands flying to her mouth as tears flared in her eyes again—this time, from a wild, incomprehensible shock. “Oh my god. You’re wearing red!”
Iroha blinked, completely derailed by the sudden emotional outburst. She looked down at her massive crimson sleeves, then back at Wonhee’s tear-streaked, radiant face, her expression a mix of profound confusion and sheer bewilderment. “Uh... yes? I guess I am?”
“Why?” Wonhee demanded, stepping closer, her heart pounding a furious, joyful rhythm. “Why are you wearing that jacket right now? You didn’t have it on at three o’clock, Iroha!”
Iroha’s cheeks instantly turned a violent, dark shade of crimson that perfectly matched the wool of her sleeves. She rubbed the back of her neck, looking completely sheepish, her eyes darting away to the sidewalk in deep embarrassment.
“I... okay, please don’t laugh at me,” Iroha muttered, her voice dropping to a vulnerable, quiet whisper that felt like a holy confession. “I put on this new perfume today. It was a sample my roommate gave me. And when I came into the cafe earlier, you looked so miserable and cold, and you wouldn’t even look at me. I instantly panicked. I thought... I thought the perfume was too strong and it was making you sick, or you hated the smell of it, or it was pushing you away.”
Wonhee stared at her, completely dumbfounded. “The... perfume?”
“Yeah,” Iroha groaned, covering her face with one bandaged hand, her shoulders slumping. “So I literally ran all the way back to my dorm, grabbed the thickest, heaviest jacket I owned to completely smother the scent so I wouldn’t gross you out, and then I came straight back here. I’ve been... I’ve been sitting on the metal bench across the street since four o’clock. I’ve been waiting for four hours for your shift to end because I couldn’t go home knowing I had made you unhappy. Was it... was it really that bad? The perfume?”
Wonhee stared at Iroha—at the intimidating, brilliant, beautiful Iroha who had apparently spent four hours freezing on a city bench in a giant red jacket because she was worried she had upset the tired cafe cashier.
A sudden, bubbly, uncontrollable laugh burst from Wonhee’s lips. She covered her mouth, but the giggles kept escaping, swelling into a full, bright, beautiful laugh that echoed down the quiet street, washing away every ounce of the day’s misery.
“No!” Wonhee laughed, her eyes shining like the very stars she had traced as she looked up at the red-clad girl. “No, the perfume is fine! It smells amazing, Iroha. It smells like… you.”
Iroha let out a long, dramatic sigh of relief, her shoulders dropping as a soft, relieved, incredibly tender smile finally broke across her face. “Oh thank god. You’re laughing at me. That’s so much better than you being mad.”
“I could never be mad at you,” Wonhee whispered, the confession slipping out effortlessly, blessed by the sky above.
She stepped directly into Iroha’s space, her hand reaching out to gently touch the rough wool of the red sleeve.
“Hey... now that I finally have you standing in front of me... I don't want to let you go just yet. Let's get dinner together?”
Iroha’s smile widened, bright, real, and full of a quiet, burning devotion.
“Yeah. Wonhee, I’d really, really like that.”