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Everyone born into the world carried a secret written in gray.
It was a quiet, dormant thing—a tiny scatter of ash-colored specks dusting a patch of skin like stray graphite or dried lavender seeds. For some, the specks rested on the inner bend of an elbow; for others, the nape of the neck, the back of a shoulder, or the arch of a foot. They remained completely lifeless, dull and monochrome, until the exact moment skin met skin with one’s soulmate.
When that happened, the gray exploded. It didn’t just change color; it bloomed. It swept across the flesh in vibrant, iridescent botanicals, swirling nebulae, or intricate stained-glass patterns, staining the skin forever in a breathtaking, one-of-a-kind tapestry.
Wonhee loved soulmate blooms. She obsessed over them. She longed for her own to awaken by the time she's sixteen.
She spent half her childhood staring in awe at her older sister’s shoulder, which looked like a lily garden painted in watercolors of liquid sunrise. She spent her adolescence tracking the love lives of her classmates, watching with pathetic envy whenever a couple walked down the hallway hand-in-hand, their exposed arms or necks displaying matching, pulsing bursts of electric blue or fiery amber.
Wonhee’s own mark was located on the left side of her face—a faint dusting of gray specks sitting right on her cheek, just above the sharp angle of her jawbone.
Because of its placement, Wonhee had daydreamed about her soulmate encounter since she was twelve years old.
In her head, the scene played out like a high-budget romance film. It would be raining, or perhaps soft autumn leaves would be falling. She would look up, and there they would be: a beautiful, mysterious stranger. They would step close, say something impossibly gentle, and slowly reach out to cradle her face. A warm, slender hand would wrap around her jaw, thumb resting right against her mark. The gray specks would ignite. Color would spill across her skin like wet paint on silk, and she would fall instantly, perfectly in love.
It was a flawless daydream.
The only problem was that Wonhee was already eighteen, in her final semester of high school, and her cheek was still as gray as wet concrete.
Then there was the problem of Hokazono Iroha.
If you asked anyone in Class 5-A about Iroha, they would tell you she was an angel. She was smaller than average but impossibly poised, endlessly soft-spoken, and bore the effortless elegance of someone born under a lucky star. Iroha was Class President of 5-A, top student in the entire senior class, captain of the debate team, and favored by literally every teacher on campus.
If you asked Wonhee about Hokazono Iroha, however, she would tell you that Iroha was a cold, calculating, shadow-dwelling arch-nemesis whose sole purpose on Earth was to ruin Lee Wonhee’s life.
It was a feud that Wonhee had nourished like a prized bonsai tree for four solid years.
Wonhee wasn’t stupid, she was smart, but she also had to work for every single thing she achieved. She pulled brutal, grueling all-nighters just to secure a 96% on her calculus exams; Iroha casually scored a 100% while reading a dense French novel in the back of the classroom.
Wonhee spent three sleepless days hand-painting Class 5-B’s banner for the sports fair, her fingers stained with acrylics; Class 5-A unveiled a banner designed by Iroha that looked like it belonged in a contemporary art museum.
Worst of all was Iroha’s attitude.
Iroha was never openly mean. She never bragged, never gloated, and never raised her voice. But to Wonhee, Iroha’s serene, unflappable politeness was the ultimate insult. Every kind gesture from Iroha felt like a subtle, agonizing pat on the head—an unspoken reminder that she was running a marathon while Iroha was taking a leisurely stroll.
Her resentment had taken deep, unshakeable root during freshman year, during the Student Council elections.
Wonhee had spent two weeks preparing her speech. She made color-coded slide decks, practiced her posture in the mirror, and delivered a passionate, fifteen-minute manifesto on student welfare. When she stepped down from the podium, she was trembling, soaked in nervous sweat, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Then Iroha had taken the stage. She had stood up without a single sheet of paper, adjusted her silver-rimmed glasses, and delivered a crisp, elegant, two-minute speech that mesmerized the entire assembly hall.
Iroha won the election by a landslide.
And as Wonhee sat in the back row, humiliated and biting her lip to keep from crying, Iroha had walked over, pulled a crisp linen handkerchief from her blazer pocket, and offered it to her with a quiet, genuinely soft expression.
“You worked very hard, Wonhee. Don’t be discouraged. I hope to see you run for the Council next year. I really look forward to working with you someday,” Iroha had said gently.
To Iroha, it was a gesture of sincere sympathy. To Wonhee, it was the most devastating, patronizing humiliation of her entire young life. From that single second onward, Wonhee swore a silent oath: Hokazono Iroha was her mortal enemy, and Wonhee would rather eat nails than accept an ounce of grace from her.
The mere annoying existence of Iroha along with her still dull and lifeless mark left Wonhee actively agitated for years.
Patience had never truly been Wonhee’s strong suit.
A bitter taste filled her mouth every time she smiled and said 'congrats' to her friends who had already met their soulmate and awakened their soulmate mark.
She wanted her own, desperately. Wanted her own soulmate. And wanted her own mark to bloom and greedily spread color along her skin.
She couldn’t wait. She didn’t want to wait anymore.
So, roughly three months ago, feeling the pressure of high school ending without a soulmate in sight, she decided that if fate was taking too long, she would simply drag fate by the collar.
Please, please, please. Cooperate with me! Let my soulmate mark bloom.
Wonhee started deliberately engineering classic romantic meet-cutes around the school campus, hoping her destiny would magically cross her path.
On Tuesday, she tried The Dropped Books trope. The same way her older sister had gained her soulmate bloom. She stacked four thick, heavy hardcover encyclopedias in her arms, waited at the crowded intersection by the library, and fake-tripped right as a tall, handsome boy from the track team walked past. She fell to her knees, scattering pages everywhere, and paused with her hand hovering over a book, waiting for him to reach down, touch her fingers, and glance up into her eyes.
Instead, a crisp, terrifyingly familiar voice cut through the air.
“Your posture is terrible, Wonhee. You’re putting far too much stress on your lumbar spine.”
Before Wonhee could even register the voice, Iroha was kneeling beside her. Iroha didn’t touch her hand. With horrifying, athletic efficiency, Iroha gathered all four heavy books in one smooth motion, stacked them neatly, and handed them to her with a cool, unbothered expression.
“Next time, use a tote bag,” Iroha said neutrally, adjusting her glasses. “And take some iron supplements. You look pale.”
Wonhee had stared at her in utter, venomous silence as Iroha stood up, smoothed down her pristine, unwrinkled uniform blazer, and walked away, effectively turning Wonhee’s romantic grand slam into a medical intervention.
On Friday, Wonhee tried The Rainy Day Umbrella trope. The scene she always fawned over in dramas. A sudden downpour hit the school at dismissal. Perfect. Wonhee stood under the awning of the main building holding a tiny, single-person pink umbrella, pretending her umbrella spine was damaged, waiting for someone to run under the roof and ask to share shelter. Maybe someone would take notice and share their umbrella with her.
Time passed agonizingly slow. She was three minutes into her dramatic sigh when Iroha walked out of the faculty office carrying a massive, institutional-grade black golf umbrella—large enough to shield a small vehicle.
“Class B’s President shouldn’t catch a cold before the inter-school academic summit,” Iroha had remarked, marching right up to her. Without waiting for a response, Iroha shoved the giant umbrella into Wonhee’s hands. “Take this. I have a spare in my bag.”
“I don’t want your stupid umbrella, Hokazono!” Wonhee had yelled over the sound of the rain.
“Too bad. I’m responsible for student council logistics, and that includes keeping you from getting pneumonia,” Iroha replied smoothly, opening a second, equally perfect umbrella and stepping out into the storm without a single hair falling out of place.
On Wednesday of the following week, Wonhee attempted The High Library Shelf trope. She stood on tiptoes in the quiet, narrow aisles of the third-floor stacks, reaching for a dusty poetry anthology perched on the very top shelf. She leaned back, deliberately wobbling on one foot and letting out a soft, helpless squeak, waiting for a tall guy from the basketball team to step up behind her, reach over her shoulder to grab the book, and steady her against the wooden shelves.
Instead, a heavy-duty rolling step stool was shoved smoothly beside her feet with a sharp CLACK.
Wonhee nearly lost her balance for real, scrambling to catch herself against the shelf.
Iroha stood at the end of the aisle holding a long, wooden librarian’s pole, looking utterly unbothered.
“You’re four inches short of the reach safety threshold,” Iroha noted calmly, adjusting her silver-rimmed glasses. “Use the ladder. And wear a mask if you’re going to browse section D—the dust up there has a high mold spore count.”
Wonhee had grumbled under her breath, snatched a random book closest to the floor out of pure spite, and stomped away.
It was infuriating. Every time Wonhee tried to summon destiny, Iroha showed up like a beige brick wall, completely blocking the light.
By the time the annual Cultural Festival rolled around in late May, Wonhee was running on three hours of sleep, two energy drinks, and pure, unadulterated ambition. Every one of her attempt had failed, and she couldn’t wait for the event to end so she can finally do an all-nighter planning another.
Class 5-B had decided to transform their classroom into a Haunted House—specifically called The Abyssal Asylum. It had been an absolute, soul-crushing ordeal to pull off. Wonhee had personally spent forty-eight hours hanging heavy black tarps over every window, wiring red strobe lights, stringing fake cobwebs from the ceiling, and setting up fog machines that kept clogging every twenty minutes. Her back throbbed, her feet felt like lead, her throat was raspy from shouting orders, and her uniform was faintly dusted with fake dried blood and gray prop paint.
She was completely, utterly exhausted.
And yet, she also felt like she was walking on sunshine.
Because The Abyssal Asylum was a monumental, record-shattering success.
The line to enter Class 5-B’s room stretched down the third-floor corridor, wrapped around the stairwell, and spilled out into the courtyard. Meanwhile, Class 5-A’s attraction—a high-concept, ultra-polished French Maid Cafe spearheaded by Iroha—was doing fine, but it wasn’t commanding a two-hour wait time.
Wonhee stood near the entrance of the maze, clutching her clipboard like a royal scepter. She glanced down at the live festival ticket tally on her phone, then looked at the line of already terrified, giggling students waiting to get jump scared.
Class 5-B was beating Class 5-A by over two hundred tickets.
A wave of pure, intoxicating smugness washed over Wonhee. For four long, agonizing years, Hokazono Iroha had claimed every victory—every academic rank, every council vote, every single compliment from the faculty. But today? Today, Wonhee had built an empire of cardboard and fog, and she was officially crushing Iroha into the dust.
Wonhee practically purred with delight, crossing her arms and tapping her foot to the rhythm of her own triumphant heartbeat. She was basking in the glorious, golden glow of impending total victory.
“Wonhee! Quick, look at the entrance!” whispered Moka, her Vice President, ducking out from behind a prop bookshelf dressed as a blood-stained nurse.
Wonhee turned her flashlight toward the heavy black curtain at the front entrance, her smug smile still firmly in place.
There stood Iroha.
She was being dragged by her own Vice President, a loud, energetic girl named Yunah. Iroha looked profoundly out of her element. Her usual impenetrable, stoic expression had a tiny crack in it; her dark eyes were darting around the dark, misty room with subtle, guarded unease.
“I heard Yunah made a bet with her,” Moka giggled, leaning in close. “If Class A sold fewer tickets for their maid cafe than we did for the horror house, Iroha had to go through our maze completely alone. And she hates jump scares!”
Wonhee’s jaw dropped. The cosmic ledger hadn’t just tipped in her favor—it had collapsed into a mountain of pure gold.
Hokazono Iroha had lost the ticket battle. Hokazono Iroha was forced to enter Class 3-B’s domain in defeat. And Hokazono Iroha was terrified of jump scares.
This wasn’t just a victory; it was a divine mandate. The cosmos was handing Wonhee the ultimate crown, and she was going to wear it with malicious delight.
“Give me that,” Wonhee hissed, her smug grin turning downright diabolical as she grabbed a long, tangled black ringeau-style ghost wig and a terrifying, bone-white demonic mask from the prop table.
“Wait, Wonhee, you’re supposed to be supervising—”
“I am supervising,” Wonhee whispered back, pulling the greasy black wig over her hair and strapping the horror mask over her face. “I’m supervising our rival’s utter humiliation.”
Wonhee slipped silently into the shadows of the maze, bypassing the first two scare stations. She knew the layout of the haunted house by heart. She ducked into a narrow, unlit alcove right before the final exit—a section flanked by hanging plastic chains and a fog machine.
She waited. Her heart beat with petty, thrilled anticipation.
Footsteps echoed down the narrow corridor. Slow. Hesitant.
Iroha came into view. She was walking with her arms rigidly at her sides, her jaw set, trying desperately to maintain her cool, dignified presidential demeanor. But every time a piece of hanging string touched her shoulder, she flinched slightly.
Three... two... one...
Wonhee lunged out of the darkness.
She didn’t just step out; she threw her entire body forward, raising her hands like claws and letting out a blood-curdling, wild screech right in Iroha’s face.
The scare worked. It worked beyond Wonhee’s wildest, pettiest dreams.
Iroha didn’t just gasp. She let out an unholy, shrill yelp, her composure shattering into a million pieces. But in that split second of primal, terrified panic, Iroha’s instincts took over—not to flee, but to fight.
WHACK.
Iroha’s right arm whipped out in a violent, blind reflex. Her open palm swung through the dark and connected squarely, heavily, and loudly with Wonhee’s left cheek.
The sound echoed through the cardboard hallway like a gunshot.
Wonhee’s head snapped to the side. The sheer force of the slap sent her stumbling back into the hanging plastic chains, her heels tangling in the curtain.
Beneath the sharp, burning sting of the slap, Wonhee felt something else—a sudden, faint, electric spark. A subtle, prickling sensation of warmth flared right where Iroha’s right palm had struck her left cheek, like a hidden ember catching light. It was small, brief, and strange, but distinct enough to make her breath hitch in confusion.
Silence descended on the maze, save for the looping sound of eerie laughter on the speaker.
Iroha stood frozen, her chest heaving, her right hand still raised in the air. As her brain caught up with what had just happened, her eyes widened in absolute horror.
“Oh my god,” Iroha gasped. Her voice broke, entirely devoid of its usual calm authority. “Oh my god! I—I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!”
Iroha scrambled forward, dropping to her knees beside Wonhee, her hands hovering in the dark, desperate to help.
“Are you okay?! I didn’t mean to strike you—it was an instinct, I swear! Please, let me see—are you hurt?!”
Iroha’s voice was laced with genuine, frantic panic. She reached out a hand and crept under the ghost mask, her fingers trembling, desperate to check on the actor she had just slapped hard as if her life depended on it.
Skin finally met skin. Iroha’s warm right hand gently, tenderly cradled Wonhee’s left jawline, her fingers wrapping around the curve of Wonhee’s face to hold her steady.
And then it happened.
The moment Iroha’s palm cupped her face in that desperate, gentle hold, the tiny spark from the slap erupted into a full-scale cosmic supernova.
The small sensation dissolved instantly. In its place burst a wave of pure, searing, blinding warmth. It felt like liquid sunlight pouring directly beneath her skin, an electric, vibrant tingling that raced outward from her jawline like wildfire catching dry grass.
It didn’t just flicker—it exploded into a breathtaking, full bloom.
Wonhee gasped, a sound choked in her throat as she felt the color sweeping up her cheek, wrapping around her jaw, spilling down her neck, and cascading all the way to her collarbone.
What?
Wait.
Oh no.
No.
No, no, no, no.
Panic—pure, unadulterated, astronomical panic—flooded Wonhee’s veins. She didn’t let Iroha hold her face a second longer.
“Don’t touch me!” Wonhee squeaked out, her voice horribly muffled by the plastic mask.
Before Iroha could react, Wonhee shoved herself off the floor, scrambled backward through the hidden staff exit flap behind the curtain, and bolted.
“Wait! Please!” Iroha’s frantic voice echoed behind her, but Wonhee didn’t stop.
She sprinted down the narrow back hallway, past startled classmates holding extra prop blood, and yanked open the door to the small, cramped backstage changing room. She threw herself inside, slammed the door shut, and locked it.
Chest heaving, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, Wonhee backed up until her hips hit the vanity table.
Trembling, she reached up and tore the demonic mask and wig off her head, tossing them onto the floor.
She turned slowly to face the mirror.
The changing room was lit by a single overhead fluorescent tube, throwing harsh white light over the vanity. Wonhee raised her hands, her fingers hovering an inch above her skin, afraid to even touch herself.
The dull, ash-gray specks on her left cheek were gone.
In their place was an explosion of color so staggering, so magnificent, it looked like a cosmic painting. From the top of her cheekbone, brilliant swirls of deep royal indigo and fiery, sunset magenta radiated outward. Delicate, fern-like tendrils of shimmering gold and deep lavender traced down her cheek, wrapping tightly around the curve of her jaw, spilling down her neck in intricate, blooming waves. It swept past her throat and cascaded down, dipping right past her collarbone in a gorgeous, permanent tapestry.
It was the most beautiful soulmate bloom Wonhee had ever seen in her entire life.
And it had been triggered because Hokazono Iroha slapped her in the face and then frantically cradled her jaw.
What followed was a masterclass in psychological collapse and pure, unadulterated denial.
“No,” Wonhee whimpered, staring at her reflection. “No, no, no. This isn’t happening. This is a scientific impossibility. It should be!”
She leaned in close to the glass, poking at her jaw.
“It’s an allergic reaction,” she decided out loud, her voice rising in pitched panic. “Yes. That’s it! Iroha had peanut butter on her hands. Or hand sanitizer? It’s a chemical burn! A friction rash! Friction burns can look purple and gold, right?!”
Wonhee grabbed a container of industrial-strength makeup remover wipes from the dressing table. She pulled out three wipes at once and began frantically, violently scrubbing at her cheek. She scrubbed until her skin turned raw and bright red, until tears of pain stung her eyes.
She looked back up at the mirror.
The color was still there. If anything, the friction had made the radiant indigo and gold pulse even brighter, shimmering under the harsh fluorescent light like liquid jewelry.
“Why?!” Wonhee shrieked softly, dropping the wipes onto the counter and clutching her head in her hands. “Why would the universe do this to me?!”
Her mind spun into a dizzying vortex of mental gymnastics. Fate was supposed to be romantic! Fate was supposed to be poetic!
For six years, Wonhee had built her entire emotional identity around her soft, cinematic daydream. She was supposed to fall in love with a gentle artist, or a mysterious poet, or literally anyone who didn’t spend their free time filing prefect reports and scoring 100% on calculus exams!
How could her soulmate be the girl who made Wonhee feel painfully inadequate every single day? The girl who handed her handkerchiefs when she cried? The girl she had spent four years swearing to destroy?!
“It was an accident,” Wonhee whispered frantically to her reflection, rationalizing at a mile a minute. “The soulmate connection requires intent! It requires mutual romantic affection! Slapping someone out of terror and then grabbing their face in a panic doesn’t count. It’s a false positive! A glitch in the soulmate system!”
She paced the length of the tiny changing room, biting her nails down to the quick.
“If I don’t acknowledge it, it doesn’t exist,” she reasoned, her breathing fast and shallow. “Iroha doesn’t know it was me. She didn’t see my face under the mask. She didn’t even see the bloom! So if I cover it up, and I never let her touch me again, the universe will realize it made a mistake and reset the mark! That’s it!”
It was complete, utter nonsense. Soulmate marks were permanent. Everyone knew that. But Wonhee’s ego and pride were currently locked in a deadly wrestling match with reality, and pride was winning by a landslide.
“I am taking this secret to my grave,” Wonhee declared solemnly to the empty room. “I will die before Hokazono Iroha finds out she’s my soulmate.”
Denial is a powerful force, and Wonhee embraced it with the fervor of a religious zealot.
The next morning, Wonhee woke up at 5:00 AM. She sat in front of her vanity mirror with three different brands of heavy-duty, waterproof, high-coverage theatrical concealer, green color-correcting primer, and a setting powder strong enough to withstand a hurricane.
It took forty-five minutes of meticulous spackling, but by the time she was done, the vibrant indigo and gold bloom stretching across her face, neck, and collarbone was entirely invisible, buried beneath a thick layer of flesh-toned spackle.
To top it off, despite the warm late-spring weather, Wonhee put on a thick, dark brown turtleneck sweater under her school blazer, wrapping a silk scarf tightly around her throat for good measure.
Phase One was complete: Cover the crime scene.
Phase Two was simple: Never, under any circumstances, allow Hokazono Iroha within ten feet of her ever again.
For the next two weeks, Wonhee executed Phase Two with military precision.
When Iroha walked down the main hallway toward the student council room, Wonhee immediately turned around and ducked into the nearest janitor’s closet, hiding among the mops until the coast was clear.
When Iroha sat down at her usual table in the cafeteria, Wonhee took her lunch tray, crawled under a corner table, and ate her sandwich on the floor.
When Iroha tried to approach Wonhee near the lockers—looking visibly anxious, holding a stack of event feedback forms—Wonhee didn’t even wait for her to speak. She literally turned on her heel, vaulted over a porch railing, and sprinted across the track field like a startled deer.
It was exhausting, humiliating, and completely unsustainable. But as far as Wonhee was concerned, it was the only way to protect her sanity. If Iroha never saw the bloom, Iroha would never know. And if Iroha never knew, Wonhee could pretend her soulmate was a nice, gentle painter who lived in Italy and was just running very late.
Unfortunately, the universe was not done playing with Wonhee.
“I’ve had enough of this childish nonsense,” Ms. Park, the senior faculty advisor, declared, slamming a thick stack of blue folders onto her desk.
It was 4:30 PM on a Thursday. The school was mostly empty, save for a few sports clubs practicing outside. Wonhee sat in a hard wooden chair in the faculty office, her turtleneck pulled up to her chin, her arms crossed defensively.
Sitting in the chair right next to her was Iroha.
“The district audit is tomorrow morning,” Ms. Park continued, rubbing her temples in exhaustion. “Class 5-A and Class 5-B still have not submitted their joint financial reconciliation for the Cultural Festival. The two of you are the Class Presidents. You will sit in the Student Council workroom together tonight, and you will not leave until every single receipt is accounted for and signed by both of you.”
“Ms. Park, please,” Wonhee pleaded, her voice strained. “I can do Class B’s half in our classroom! I don’t need to—”
“No, Wonhee,” Ms. Park interrupted sternly. “Every time I see you lately, you’re hiding under desks or sprinting down hallways. I don’t know what kind of petty feud you two have going on, but it ends tonight. The workroom key is on the desk. Lock up when you’re done.”
With that, the advisor grabbed her briefcase, stood up, and walked out of the office, slamming the door behind her.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a car.
Wonhee sat frozen, staring straight ahead at the wall. Beside her, she could feel Iroha’s gaze—intense, sharp, and lingering.
“So,” Iroha said quietly. Her voice was lower than usual, carrying a subtle, dangerous edge. “Are you going to run away through the window, or are we going to the workroom?”
Wonhee gritted her teeth, standing up so fast her chair screeched against the linoleum. “Workroom. Let’s get this over with.”
The Student Council workroom was a small, tidy space on the third floor, lined with metal filing cabinets, long wooden tables, and high windows that overlooked the quiet courtyard.
They set up at opposite ends of the longest table. Wonhee dragged her chair as far away from Iroha as the walls allowed, sitting practically in the corner. She unrolled her ledger, pulled out her calculator, and began furiously slapping keys, refusing to look up.
Iroha sat at the head of the table. She had taken off her blazer and accessories, rolling her crisp white shirt sleeves up to her elbows.
Wonhee deliberately kept her eyes glued to her paper, but out of her side vision, she couldn’t help but notice Iroha’s bare forearms. Specifically, Iroha’s left wrist.
Iroha’s soulmate mark was located on the inside of her left wrist, right where her pulse throbbed. Wonhee had seen it a hundred times over the past four years—a tiny, unremarkable cluster of dark gray dots. It was usually partially covered by the leather strap of her silver watch.
Wonhee swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around her pen until her knuckles turned white.
Her mark is still gray, Wonhee thought, a strange, painful lump forming in her throat. Of course it is. I haven’t touched her there or anywhere else. Thank the gods I never tried to touch her even for a second all these time.
A quiet rustle of paper broke the heavy silence.
“Wonhee,” Iroha said softly.
“I’m calculating the booth equipment rentals,” Wonhee snapped, staring at a column of numbers that was beginning to blur together. “Don’t talk to me. It ruins my concentration.”
“You’ve been keying in the same three numbers for ten minutes,” Iroha pointed out gently.
Wonhee stiffened. “I’m double-checking!”
“Why are you wearing a turtleneck and a scarf?” Iroha asked. Her tone wasn’t mocking; it was filled with a quiet, persistent curiosity that made Wonhee’s stomach flip. “It’s twenty-three degrees outside. You look like you’re preparing for a blizzard.”
“I have a throat condition,” Wonhee lied horribly, not looking up. “It’s extremely sensitive to draft.”
“Right. A draft condition that requires heavy theatrical foundation along your jawline.”
Wonhee froze. Her heart stopped beating for a full two seconds.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wonhee whispered, her voice squeaking disastrously.
Iroha sighed, pushing her chair back and standing up. Wonhee’s head snapped up in terror as Iroha began walking toward her, her footsteps quiet against the floorboards.
“Stay back, Hokazono!” Wonhee squeaked, pressing herself flat against the back of her chair. “Social distancing! Respect my personal bubble!”
Iroha stopped two feet away. She didn’t look angry; she looked tired, bewildered, and deeply troubled. She looked down at Wonhee, her dark eyes searching Wonhee’s face with an intensity that made Wonhee feel entirely naked.
“I don’t understand what I did to you,” Iroha said softly. Her composure, usually so impenetrable, cracked just a bit, revealing a raw, vulnerable frustration underneath. “I know you’ve hated me since freshman year. I know you think I’m arrogant, or competitive, or whatever it is you say to Moka when you think I can’t hear you.”
Wonhee blinked, taken aback. “I... what?”
“I’ve tried to be nice to you,” Iroha continued, her hands clenching into loose fists at her sides. “I picked up your books. I gave you my umbrella. I stayed out of your way during the sports fair. But ever since the festival, you look at me like I’m a monster. You literally jumped out of a second-story window to avoid talking to me last Tuesday, Wonhee! Did I hurt you that badly when I... when I reflexively hit that ghost in the maze? Was that ghost someone close to you?”
Wonhee’s jaw dropped. “Wait. You thought...”
Before Iroha could answer, a loud knock echoed at the workroom door.
“Iroha? Are you still in here?”
The door pushed open, and Yunah stepped inside, holding two plastic bags from a local convenience store.
“I brought brain food!” Yunah called out cheerfully, walking right past Wonhee and setting the bags on Iroha’s desk. “I figured you guys would be stuck here till midnight. I brought iced coffee and those salmon rice balls you like.”
Iroha blinked, pulling herself back from whatever intense cloud had just consumed her. “Oh. Thank you, Yunah. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Are you kidding? You’re doing all the heavy lifting for our class,” Yunah laughed. She stepped closer to Iroha, reaching out and casually grabbing Iroha’s left forearm. “You look exhausted, Roha-yah. Look at you, your muscles are all tense!”
Yunah’s hand wrapped right around Iroha’s left wrist—inches away from the dull gray specks of Iroha’s soulmate mark.
Something inside Wonhee’s brain snapped.
It wasn’t a logical thought. It wasn’t a calculated decision. It was a violent, primal, blinding wave of green-eyed, territorial rage that roared through her chest like a hurricane.
That’s her wrist.
That’s MY soulmate’s wrist.
GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER.
“Get out,” Wonhee said.
Yunah paused, looking over her shoulder in confusion. “What?”
Wonhee stood up so fast her chair flipped backward, crashing onto the floor. Her eyes were wide, her chest heaving, her hands shaking with absolute, unhinged fury.
“I said get out!” Wonhee yelled and marched across the room. She shoved right past Yunah, grabbed Iroha firmly by her bare left wrist—skin-to-skin, her fingers locking tightly around the gray specks—and yanked Iroha toward the door.
“Wonhee?!” Iroha gasped, stumbling as she was violently dragged along. “What are you doing?!”
“We are taking a break!” Wonhee barked, not looking back. “We need to discuss... something! In private!”
Wonhee dragged a completely bewildered Iroha out of the workroom, slammed the door in Yunah’s shocked face, and pulled Iroha down the dimly lit hallway toward the emergency stairwell.
“Wonhee, stop! Let go of me!” Iroha demanded, trying to pull her arm back as they burst into the quiet, echoing stairwell. “Have you lost your mind?! What is wrong with—”
Iroha’s voice cut off abruptly.
She stopped dead on the concrete landing.
Because where Wonhee’s hand was gripping Iroha’s left wrist, a sudden, blinding rush of heat burst through Iroha’s skin.
It felt like pure electricity rushing in her veins.
Iroha gasped, her breath catching in her throat, a sharp, audible sound that echoed off the high concrete walls of the stairwell.
Wonhee stopped, suddenly remembering where her hand was. She let go of Iroha’s wrist as if she had just touched a hot stove, stumbling backward against the stairwell railing, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Iroha didn’t move. She stood frozen in the middle of the landing, staring down at her left arm.
Underneath the harsh yellow glow of the stairwell light, the dull gray specks on Iroha’s inner wrist were igniting.
Rich, luminous waves of brilliant cobalt blue, deep violet, and shimmering threads of warm, radiant gold were exploding outward from her skin. They danced up her forearm like climbing ivy, blooming into sweeping, geometric starbursts that wrapped around her wrist, tracing the lines of her pulse, painting her skin in liquid light.
Iroha stared at her arm, her dark eyes wide, her lower lip trembling slightly. The bloom continued to spread, sweeping halfway up her forearm before settling into a warm, gently pulsing glow inside her rolled-up sleeve.
Silence hung in the stairwell, heavy and thick.
Slowly, incredibly slowly, Iroha raised her head. She looked at Wonhee.
“It’s... you?” Iroha whispered. Her voice was barely a breath, fragile and completely devoid of her usual poise. “You’re... my soulmate?”
Wonhee backed further into the wall, burying her face in her hands. “I hate my life. I hate this world. I hate everything.”
Iroha took a step forward, her brain clearly working at lightning speed, trying to piece together the absolute chaotic puzzle of the last two weeks.
“Wait,” Iroha said slowly. “The wrist... the touch... you grabbed me...”
Iroha stopped. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Wonhee’s panicked, flushed face, taking in the turtleneck, the scarf, the thick makeup along her jawline.
“The festival,” Iroha breathed, the realization hitting her like a freight train. “The ghost in the maze. The actor I hit... and then held... it was you.”
Wonhee whimpered from behind her hands.
“Wonhee,” Iroha said, stepping closer, her voice dropping into a register of utter, incredulous disbelief. “Did your soulmate mark bloom when I slapped your face?!”
Wonhee slowly lowered her hands, glaring at Iroha through tear-filled, mortified eyes.
“Yes!” Wonhee shouted, her voice echoing wildly off the concrete walls. “YES, YOU PSYCHOPATH! You slapped me so hard my entire face and neck lit up like a Christmas tree!”
Iroha stared at her. “I... I slapped you and then held your face...”
“I’ve spent SIX YEARS!” Wonhee yelled, gesturing wildly with her hands, her voice cracking with dramatic, tragic despair. “Six years daydreaming about how my mark would bloom! I wanted a soft, romantic movie scene! I wanted snow! I wanted eye contact! I wanted my soulmate to gently cradle my face under a streetlamp! And what did I get?! I got smacked in the face in a cardboard maze by a panicked cat, and then grabbed by the cheeks while dressed like the girl from The Ring!”
Wonhee squeezed her eyes shut, huffing angrily, her cheeks burning redder than a tomato. “And then I had to spend two weeks slathering three pounds of spackle on my face because my soulmate is my MORTAL ENEMY who ruins all my meet-cutes and gets better grades than me without even trying!”
She paused, chest heaving, waiting for the harsh retort, the cool judgment, or the logical reprimand.
Instead, a strange sound filled the stairwell.
A snort.
Wonhee opened her eyes.
Iroha was covering her mouth with her right hand, her shoulders shaking violently.
“I can't believe this. Are you... are you laughing?!” Wonhee gasped, utterly scandalized. “I am sharing my deep psychological trauma and you are LAUGHING?!”
Iroha let out a bright, helpless laugh—a rich, musical sound that Wonhee had never heard from her before. It wasn’t mean; it was completely breathless, incredulous, and utterly delighted. Iroha bent forward slightly, resting her hands on her knees as she laughed, her face turning pink.
“I’m sorry,” Iroha wheezed, looking up at Wonhee with eyes that were literally sparkling with tears of amusement. “I’m—I’m so sorry, Wonhee, but... you hid under tables for two weeks because I accidentally slapped your soulmate bloom into existence?!”
“It’s not funny!” Wonhee stomped her foot, though her own lips were twitching dangerously. “It was supposed to be romantic!”
Iroha straightened up. The laughter died down, replaced by something so soft, so extraordinarily tender, that Wonhee felt her breath catch in her throat.
Iroha took two slow steps forward, closing the distance between them until she was standing right in front of Wonhee. The scent of rain and subtle lavender drifted off her.
“I am sorry,” Iroha said quietly, her voice dropping to a gentle, sincere murmur. “I am so sorry I ruined your longtime dream, Wonhee.”
Iroha reached out. Her long, slender fingers gently reached up and caught the end of Wonhee’s silk scarf. Slowly, deliberately, Iroha unwound the scarf, letting it drape over Wonhee’s shoulders.
Then, with painstaking care, Iroha reached for the edge of Wonhee’s turtleneck sweater, gently pulling it down past her collarbone.
The sweat and agitation of the evening had rubbed away some of the heavy concealer. Patches of deep indigo, magenta, and shimmering gold peaked through the makeup, glowing softly beneath Wonhee’s skin.
Iroha stared at the exposed bloom on Wonhee’s neck and jaw. Her breath hitched.
“It’s beautiful,” Iroha whispered softly. “You are... absolutely breathtaking, Wonhee.”
Wonhee’s heart did a violent, terrifying backflip inside her chest. “Don’t... don’t say cheesy stuff like that. It doesn’t suit you.”
Iroha smiled—a small, genuinely sweet smile that reached all the way to her dark eyes.
“May I?” Iroha asked quietly, raising her right hand. She didn’t move forward; she waited, giving Wonhee every chance in the world to step back.
Wonhee didn’t step back. She couldn’t have moved if the building was on fire.
Slowly, reverently, Iroha reached out. Her warm, slender fingers slid along the side of Wonhee’s neck, her right palm cupping the sharp turn of Wonhee’s jawline, her thumb coming to rest right on the apple of Wonhee’s left cheek.
The moment skin touched skin again, the faint, covered bloom beneath Wonhee’s makeup ignited with a sudden, surging warmth. A soft, iridescent light seemed to pulse beneath her skin, warming her from the inside out.
Iroha stepped closer, leaning in until there were only inches between their faces. Her right hand remained firmly, tenderly cradling Wonhee’s face, holding her like something precious, fragile, and irreplaceable.
“Is this better?” Iroha whispered, her thumb gently tracing the curve of Wonhee’s cheekbone. “Is this closer to your daydream?”
Wonhee’s hands crept up on their own accord, her fingers clutching tightly at the lapels of Iroha’s open blazer. Her heart was hammering so loudly she was certain Iroha could hear it.
“It’s... it’s acceptable,” Wonhee squeaked out, her stubborn pride fighting a losing battle against the molten goo her brain had turned into. “You’re still an annoying overachiever.”
Iroha let out a quiet, breathless chuckle, her eyes dropping to Wonhee’s lips for a fraction of a second before returning to her eyes.
“And you’re a dramatic, chaotic nightmare,” Iroha murmured fondly. “And apparently, you’re mine.”
“Hey! I haven’t decided if I’m keeping you yet,” Wonhee grumbled, though she leaned her face deeper into Iroha’s palm, closing her eyes as the soothing warmth of the bloom washed over her.
“Too late,” Iroha whispered. “The mark doesn’t wash off. You can’t trade me for anyone else. Absolutely not. I won’t let you.”
Iroha tilted her head slightly and leaned in, pressing her lips against Wonhee’s in a soft, quiet, unhurried kiss.
It wasn’t like the slap. It wasn’t frantic or chaotic. It was sweet, warm, and lingering—a quiet promise made in a concrete stairwell while the rain began to fall against the high glass windows above them.
When Iroha pulled back, her forehead rested against Wonhee’s, her breath warm against Wonhee’s skin. Her left hand—the one now covered in vibrant, blooming blue and gold—reached up to gently intertwine her fingers with Wonhee’s.
Wonhee opened her eyes, looking at Iroha’s flustered, smiling face, then down at their joined hands, where the two matching blooms seemed to meet and pulse in a shared, harmonious rhythm.
“We still have to finish the financial reconciliation,” Wonhee whispered weakly, though she made no effort to move away.
Iroha smiled, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Wonhee’s bloom-stained jaw.
“Let Yunah do it,” Iroha murmured into her skin. “I’m taking my soulmate home.”
Wonhee blinked, a small, genuine smile finally breaking across her own face. “You know... for a mortal enemy, Hokazono, you’re really not the worst.”
“High praise, Class President,” Iroha teased gently, tightening her grip on Wonhee’s hand. “High praise indeed.”
For a long while, neither of them moved. They stood together on the quiet concrete landing for minutes, the quiet hum of the building fading into background noise as their fingers remained tightly intertwined. Iroha didn’t say a word, simply staring at Wonhee with a soft, persistent smile that refused to fade.
“Stop staring at me like that,” Wonhee grumbled, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink. “It’s weird.”
“I’m looking at my soulmate,” Iroha replied smoothly, her smile widening just a fraction.
Wonhee huffed, rolling her eyes, and gave Iroha’s hand a firm yank, pulling her toward the stairwell door. “Come on. We have to go back to the workroom.”
Iroha actually let out a quiet, pathetic whine, hanging back like a reluctant child. “Do we have to? Can’t we just let Yunah handle the reconciliation?”
Wonhee froze, turning to blink at her in absolute shock. Hokazono Iroha—the pristine, hyper-responsible Class President—was whining and actively suggesting they abandon student council work.
Wonhee promptly reached out with her free hand and pinched Iroha’s arm.
“Ow!” Iroha squeaked, rubbing her sleeve with a tiny pout.
“We are Class Presidents,” Wonhee scolded, placing her hand on her hip while maintaining her grip on Iroha’s other hand. “We take responsibility for our own paperwork! Besides...” She looked away, clearing her throat and muttering under her breath, “...I should probably apologize to Yunah for screaming at her to get out earlier.”
Iroha chuckled softly, her dark eyes warm. “Fair enough. But you know...” She stepped closer, giving Wonhee’s hand a gentle, teasing squeeze. “...you can’t take it back now, Wonhee. You’re my soulmate. Permanently.”
“Like I have a choice,” Wonhee grumbled with a dramatic sigh, though there was no real bite to her voice. She pointed a stern finger at Iroha. “You’re going to make it up to me, Hokazono. Tomorrow, you’re buying me lunch. And not the cheap stuff—I want the iron-plate steak from the far cafeteria.”
Iroha’s face lit up in an instant. “Deal.”
As they pushed open the heavy door and walked down the hallway toward the workroom, Iroha began happily humming a light tune under her breath. Wonhee stole a glance sideways—at the pristine Class President who was humming like a smitten idiot, her wrist glowing with matching indigo and gold—and quickly looked away to hide the small, insuppressible smile tugging at her own lips.
Maybe, Wonhee thought, this wasn’t too bad after all.
It wasn’t the fairytale daydream she had spent years imagining, but standing in the quiet hallway with her hand locked in Iroha’s, Wonhee wouldn’t trade the slap for anything in the world.
Fate really does have a weird sense of humor.