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zylokv · 21 days ago

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I LEFT YOU EVERYTHING, YOU LEFT ME WAITING. — MINATOZAKI SANA

❝ what if i did a solo performance? just for you. ❞

synopsis — they weren’t supposed to fall. not like that. not in stolen moments behind the cameras or in the quiet lull between takes. but somehow, it happened anyway — slowly, gently, like a secret being kept. and just as quietly, it all fell apart. someone trusted made sure of that. and now it’s been weeks. she still checks her phone in the middle of the night, hoping. you still think about her smile, and wonder if any of it was ever real. both of you still waiting. both of you still in the dark. notice — emotional angst/unrequited love, miscommunication, implied sabotage, idolxnon-idol, written with realism, metaphors, and a slow and painful unravelling love story. pairing — minatozaki sana x reader ! disclaimer ! this is a work of fiction created purely for entertainment purposes. all events are fictional. while this story may feature public figures (e.g., sana from twice), it is not meant to reflect their real thoughts, actions, or relationships. please remember: nothing depicted in this story actually happened.

you’re early, but so’s the sun. it spills over the rooftops like it has nowhere better to be, catching on the palm fronds and rust-red tin of the surf shack across the street. myna birds argue overhead in the breadfruit tree. usual noise.

you lean against the old tour van, logo half-faded, bumper held together by duct tape and denial. the iced coffee in your hand is more ritual than refreshment.

“you hear 'em yet?” comes a voice behind you.

you glance back. keoni’s stepping out of the gear shed, chewing on dried mango, curls smashed under a cap that’s seen better years.

“nah,” you reply, “but if they’re late, you’re doing the intro hike in that hat.”

he laughs. “they’re idols, not royalty.”

you arch a brow. “tell that to the last crew who filmed here and needed someone to ‘escort the mosquitoes away.’”

“i escorted them straight into the gulch.”

you snort. silence settles for a breath. the crew’s been buzzing—two artists visiting on a break, no cameras yet, just a private walk. low-key, but big. some newer guides offered to take it, but they asked for you. probably because you don’t ask for autographs. probably because you don’t talk much.

a van pulls up, sleek and black, windows tinted like a secret.

keoni gives a low whistle. “showtime.”

you push off the bumper, brush the sand off your legs, walk toward the driveway as the door slides open.

first out: sharp eyes, clipboard, no patience. manager. she gives you a look like she’s seen every kind of idiot and hopes you’re the exception.

“you’re the guide?”

“yep. and you’re the one who’ll yell at me if i let them touch sea turtles, right?”

her lip twitches—almost a smile. she steps aside.

and then they step out.

sana, all light and limbs, laughing at something inside the van. miyeon follows, sunglasses too big for her face, waving like there’s a red carpet no one else can see. they look like they were airlifted straight from a magazine into the humidity without even blinking.

you keep your tone easy. “aloha. welcome to hale‘iwa. i’m your guide today. just me. no cameras yet, so you’re stuck with my jokes until they get here.”

sana gives you a once-over, curious but not unfriendly. “we heard you’re the best.”

“that was probably my mom,” you say. “she has a lot of burner accounts.”

miyeon snorts. “yah—if this turns out to be the 'oops i forgot the water' tour, i’m calling dispatch.”

“deluxe package,” you say. “we only lose a few people on that one.”

behind them, keoni appears with a crate of gear. you nod toward him.

“this is keoni. if you fall into a lava tube, he’s in charge of pretending we trained for that.”

he waves. “i left my rope at home.”

“that’s a joke,” you add. “kind of.”

you help distribute water bottles and light packs. miyeon chatters while adjusting her straps, and sana asks about the flower behind a staff member’s ear.

“left side,” you say, overhearing. “means they’re taken. right side, single.”

sana turns, brows up. “and you? which side do you wear yours on?”

her voice is light. but her eyes aren’t.

you look at her, then smile. “depends on the day.”

“mm,” she says, like she’s filing that away.

you gesture toward the path carved between trees. “alright, we’ll head through a shaded route up to a lookout. no drones, no crowds, just us and the mosquitoes. try not to flirt with them. they take it seriously.”

“do they bite harder when you lead them on?” miyeon asks.

“worse,” you say. “they ghost you after.”

sana lets out a small chuckle.

the trail begins with soft ground, old roots reaching like fingers across the dirt. you point out ‘ōhi‘a trees, explain the legends of pele and hi‘iaka. your voice is steady, practiced—but you’re watching them. especially her.

sana stays close. not too close. she asks about the birdsong, the smooth black rock, the kapu signs carved near the tree line. she listens like she’s used to noise and this quiet unnerves her in a good way.

miyeon’s already up ahead, spinning in slow circles, filming her feet.

the wind shifts. you smell the ocean again, faint but constant, and the distant trace of charcoal from someone grilling down by the beach road.

the first scenic stop opens ahead, a bluff over shallow tidepools and lava shelves. the camera crew’s waiting at a distance, giving you space. they haven’t started filming yet.

you pause at the edge, the sun low behind you, painting sana and miyeon in warm orange light. miyeon lifts her phone, posing without being asked.

sana steps beside you.

“you really live here?” she asks.

you nod. “grew up bouncing between islands. this one stuck.”

“doesn’t it get lonely?”

you watch the horizon. “sometimes. but the view’s decent.”

"yeah, it's beautiful."

she turns her head. just slightly. her eyes linger. not on the ocean.

the tide’s gone quiet, pulled back just enough to reveal the black stone pools scattered like mirrors across the lava shelf. water glints in the shallows. a kolea bird watches from the edge, still as carved bone, its eyes sharp like it remembers more than it should.

hermit crabs trace slow spirals in the wet sand. their shells catch the sun like dropped garnets.

you stand off to the side, close enough to explain things, far enough that they’ll cut you out of the final shot. there’s a mic clipped to your collar anyway. the sound tech gave you a thumbs-up earlier like you did something brave. you’re trying not to think about that.

miyeon’s crouched near a tidepool, poking at the reflection of a fish with a twig she definitely wasn’t supposed to take.

“what happens if i fall in?” she asks, grinning.

“free exfoliation,” you say, and then with a glance at the camera, “not recommended.”

sana laughs behind her, clear and bright like she’s never been tired. she’s squinting into the sun, shielding her eyes with one hand and fiddling with the mic pack at her waist with the other. her hair’s clipped up, loose pieces catching the wind. the stylist tries again to help, but sana waves them off.

“this water’s so clear,” she says, leaning closer to the tidepool. “it’s like a glass bowl.” she pauses. “are the crabs single?”

you blink. “…what?”

she glances over her shoulder with a smile too sharp to be innocent. “you said earlier the flower behind your ear means you’re single. what about the crabs? do they wear little hibiscus too?”

“only the hot ones.”

laughter bubbles up—real, from the crew and from miyeon, who actually claps. sana laughs too, cheeks turning slightly pink as she looks away, back toward the water.

“i like you,” she says.

your breath catches.

then—“i mean the dad jokes,” she adds quickly, teasing. “good material.”

you rub the back of your neck. one of the camera guys catches it and snorts behind the lens. you step sideways again, pretending to check the rocks, subtly trying to disappear.

she doesn’t let you, though.

not really.

her gaze follows you whenever she thinks you won’t notice. when you talk, she listens too carefully. when you point out the limu kohu, the petroglyphs carved deep into the lava, she hums under her breath like she wants to memorize the rhythm of your voice.

you talk about the mo‘olelo behind the sea caves, about the bones buried beneath stone that no one touches anymore. miyeon is still skipping ahead, half-dancing over uneven ground, but sana’s gone still.

she only moves again when you do.

“can we take selfies with the rock that looks like a turtle?” miyeon calls out. “i want to send it to our manager and pretend it followed us home.”

“sure,” you say. “i’ll make sure they consent.”

the boom operator snorts. miyeon throws you a wink like you’ve just auditioned for her next sitcom.

they film for twenty more minutes. the wind pulls at sana’s sleeves. sun glints off the curve of her earring. her questions never stop—what flower is that? how old is this lava? did you always live here?

but it’s not the questions that get to you.

it’s the way she asks. like she’s testing something. like she already knows the answer but wants to hear your voice wrap around it anyway. her eyes flick to you when you think she’s distracted. her shoulder brushes yours once. twice. again.

and you—

you pretend not to notice.

mostly.

when the crew finally calls a cut, it’s late enough the rocks are warming underfoot. someone shouts for a break to reset gear. you lead them higher, where the trail plateaus under a grove of hau trees—broad-limbed and slanted toward the sun, their yellow blossoms falling like pieces of afternoon.

you pass around water bottles, then sit off to the side near a beat-up cooler. your shirt sticks slightly to your back, damp from the walk, but you don’t tug at it. miyeon fans herself with a palm frond, dramatically narrating her own personal survival doc. sana drops down near her, sweat at her temples, but still watching you.

you’re talking with one of the writers—older, in a sunhat and sunglasses and a linen shirt that might’ve been white once. her notebook rests on her knees, the pages half-crumpled from years of use.

“you still eat those li hing mui mangoes?” she teases, scribbling something.

you lean back on your hands. “only when i want to experience death recreationally.”

“please. you loved them in college.”

“i had fewer taste buds back then.”

she laughs, and sana turns her head a little.

college?

miyeon’s still babbling into her phone off to the side, pretending to sell lychee juice like it’s the last product on earth. sana doesn’t look at her.

the writer lowers her voice a little. “you know, i told them you don’t really do this.”

you shrug. “i don’t.”

“they asked why. i said it’s usually a no unless i’m the one asking. and even then, only if it’s raining and you’re bored.”

you glance at her, but say nothing.

sana shifts. the wind picks up, shaking petals from the hau branches. they drift like lazy confetti across the dirt.

“so what changed?” she asks suddenly.

you turn. she’s lounging like she doesn’t care, one leg crossed over the other, arms slack, gaze tilted away from yours. but her voice is steady. deceptively so.

“what do you mean?”

“why’d you take this one?” she asks, still looking at the writer, not you. “if you don’t usually take people like us.”

your jaw works quietly. you glance at the writer. she lifts a shoulder, amused.

“they’ve got their reasons,” she says vaguely, biting the cap of her pen. “probably something poetic. i’ve been trying to squeeze it out for a decade.”

you exhale. “it wasn’t the cameras,” you say at last.

sana raises an eyebrow, just slightly.

“it wasn’t the schedule,” you add. “wasn’t the crew. wasn’t the fee.”

“then what was it?” she presses, eyes on you now.

you glance at her, then back at the dirt.

you remind me of someone. “she was really persistent..” you say blaming the write with a slight grin.

sana’s lips part, but miyeon bounds back in at that exact moment, clutching a lychee like it’s her firstborn. “guys. guys. are we talking about how lucky we are yet? because i’d like to thank the academy and also my sweat glands for keeping it real.”

you chuckle under your breath.

sana doesn’t laugh. she just keeps watching you.

“you’re good at this,” she says, quieter now. “talking about hawaii. like it’s not just a place.”

you glance at her.

“like it’s alive,” she finishes. “like it’s part of you.”

you look down at your hands. your thumbs run slow over the ridges of your water bottle.

“it is,” you murmur.

the breeze softens. miyeon flops dramatically onto a picnic blanket, muttering about hydration. the sun slips through the trees like warm syrup, pooling in patches of gold.

sana stretches back with a sigh. “you should be on camera more.”

“not my thing,” you say.

“why not?”

you half-smile. “i’m better off behind it.”

“maybe,” she says. “but you make it hard to look away.”

you glance up.

she’s not looking at you anymore, not exactly. her gaze drifts somewhere just to the side, like she’s already trying to turn that moment into memory.

you don’t answer.

the wind stirs again—leaves rustling, petals spinning—and for a second, you think the island might be answering for you.

don’t touch that—”

crack.

“…never mind.”

you blinked down at the snapped guava branch in miyeon’s hand. she froze like a guilty raccoon. sana stifled a laugh behind her fingers.

“that was structural,” you muttered, kneeling to check the low railing.

“it looked like a stick,” miyeon said innocently.

“a stick holding up the hillside,” you replied, brushing dirt from the crumbling base.

“well that’s... poor design,” she offered.

behind her, sana giggled again—soft, melodic, eyes crinkling.

“we’ll glue it back later?” she said.

“yeah,” you deadpanned. “we’ll patch it up with good intentions.”

“or duct tape,” miyeon added helpfully.

“or prayer,” you said under your breath.

keoni passed by, handing you a reflector bag. “i gotta check the van. you’re the boss till i get back.”

you gave him a small salute. “pray for me.”

he winked. “always.”

ahead, a lei-making station sat shaded beneath a wide mango tree, the aunty running it already eyeing you with the kind of mischief only decades could earn.

“eh!”

you flinched automatically.

aunty leina sat cross-legged on a low mat, ti leaves in her lap and a grin on her face that could split coconuts.

“you letting these girls break the valley now?” she called, eyebrows up.

you held up both palms. “not my fault, aunty. i said no touching. they touched anyway.”

“you gotta bring stronger tape,” she said, nodding at miyeon. “or one leash. or two.”

miyeon gasped dramatically. “is this bullying?”

“not unless you cry,” aunty said.

you stepped forward, grinning. “aunty, you still mad about that mango bread or what?”

“i should be. was dry as sand.”

“you ate the whole thing.”

“because i was being polite!”

you laughed and bent into a half-bow, holding both hands out as you approached her mat. she grabbed them immediately, pulling you down beside her with a grunt of approval.

“what you bringing me today?” she asked, glancing past you. “celebrities again?”

“not my fault,” you said. “they keep signing up.”

“bring me someone who knows how to hold scissors.”

“we’re working on it,” you said. “miyeon’s banned from touching plant life.”

aunty leina snorted. “you better be getting overtime for this.”

you looked sheepish. “i got lunch duty instead.”

she nudged you gently with her elbow, her voice lowering. “you still the same,” she said. “all quiet till you get somewhere safe. then boom—talking story like you live in my kitchen.”

“you’ve seen me in your kitchen,” you reminded her.

“exactly,” she said. “you forget to shut up.”

sana and miyeon caught up just as you laughed again, wiping your hands on your pants. miyeon dropped onto the mat and started inspecting the flower piles with the reverence of a child in a candy store.

sana stayed standing, brushing her long skirt with one hand.

aunty leaned closer to you again, voice sly. “eh... that one,” she said, nodding toward sana. “she got the eyes. soft kind. watching you like you grew from this land.”

you pressed your lips together. “aunty...”

“what?” she said, all innocence. “i’m just pointing.”

“you’re matchmaking.”

“same thing.”

sana stepped forward just then, crouching beside you. “these are so beautiful,” she said, eyes bright as she gently touched a strand of plumeria. “i don’t want to ruin them.”

“you won’t,” you said. “ti leaf first. fold it once, then thread the flower. you’ll get it.”

she looked at you. “you’re really patient.”

you shrugged, glancing at aunty leina. “i’ve had good teachers.”

aunty grunted proudly, as if you were her valedictorian.

“besides,” you added, handing sana a flower, “you’re better at this than miyeon.”

“hey,” miyeon called from across the mat, flower crown crooked on her head. “i’m art.”

“you’re chaos,” you corrected.

“art is chaos.”

you shook your head, but your smile betrayed you. the camera crew was still adjusting lenses, not yet rolling, and you—usually quiet, usually distant—were sitting easy in the middle of it all, fingers threading plumeria like you’d been born to do it.

aunty leina turned to one of the interns and whispered—loudly—“see how calm they are? that’s why everyone falls in love on this island.”

you looked up. “aunty…”

“i’m just saying,” she said, holding up her hands. “no shame in being charming. just don’t make her cry, eh?”

you blinked—startled by how quickly the teasing could turn real.

sana glanced between the two of you, the corners of her lips lifting. her shoulder brushed yours as she leaned down again, a little closer this time.

“you really are different when you’re not working,” she said, almost to herself.

you didn’t answer. you just handed her the next flower.

the sun caught the tops of the ti plants just right — sharp, soft green against the red of miyeon’s skirt and the white lei she had somehow managed to drape across her shoulder like a fashion statement. she laughed like the whole valley could hear her. probably could.

you kept to the edge of the clearing.

hands in your pockets. back to the wind.

“shoot, no one told me there’d be bugs with wings this confident.”

miyeon was mid-complaint, swatting gently at the air with the back of her hand as a persistent ʻōpeʻapeʻa hovered near her ear. she wasn’t scared—just annoyed, and dramatically so.

you leaned on the nearest rock, the kind smoothed down by generations of rain. the air smelled like crushed guava and warm dust. your boots pressed soft into the soil. the shade wasn’t much, but it was something. the mountain air was cooler here than down by the coast, and softer too. the kind of breeze that told you rain wasn’t far off.

sana’s hands were slower than miyeon’s, more careful. she looked up once — past the camera, past the boom mic — straight toward where you stood. it was just a glance. quick. not meant to land.

but it did.

you tilted your head a little. said nothing.

“leave the it alone,” someone from the crew called out with a grin. “he’s just flirting.”

“he’s standing like he’s auditioning for a romance movie poster,” miyeon shot back. “brooding by a rock.”

“looks like the quiet type,” the sound tech said. “probably writes poems at lunch.”

“no, he carves them into driftwood,” miyeon said proudly. “and releases them into the tide like messages in a bottle.”

sana, kneeling beside her, let out that light kind of laugh she always used when she was on camera floaty, practiced, just a little amused. but her eyes kept darting to the lei she was threading. fingers slow, deliberate. quieter.

“okay, what about you, sana?” miyeon leaned toward her, flowers half-finished and already tangled in her lap. “you like the sweet ones, right?”

“mm…” sana didn’t look up. her voice was soft, thoughtful. “i like when someone listens. really listens. not because they’re waiting to speak.”

one of the younger staffers made a low “oooh” from the side, and miyeon slapped her own thigh.

“wait, that was good. write that down. someone tweet it.”

the director behind the camera gave them a small cue to keep going, motioning a loop with his fingers. filler talk. b-roll footage. make it fun. make it personal.

you shifted your weight near the back of the set, adjusting the strap of your bag as a local aunty passed by carrying iced tea bottles. she nudged your shoulder with hers.

“you watching the show or the girl?” she whispered, grinning.

you gave her a small smile, shook your head. “watching the flowers, aunty.”

she snorted. “the flowers not the only thing blooming.”

you laughed under your breath and leaned a little on the rock behind you. from where you stood, you had a clean view of the clearing — and sana, who kept looking up with these barely-there glances. like she was checking for something. or someone.

you didn’t plan to step forward. but something pulled you. maybe curiosity. maybe just boredom. maybe it was her voice when she said

“and they should love nature. not like, documentary nature. real nature. messy hair and muddy shoes kind.”

you shifted, curious now, and stepped forward. just a little. just enough to stand behind the cam crew. between the lens and the valley, in a quiet limbo where only the breeze could touch you.

she didn’t say anything, but the look she gave you was new. like the warm part of the tide when it first wraps around your ankles.

sana noticed.

her shoulders straightened. her smile twitched.

she noticed immediately.

but she just blinked once and adjusted the strand of her lei. her expression didn’t change much, but something softened. the gaze she gave the camera next was… steady. direct. like she was saying something without opening her mouth.

miyeon clapped her hands. “i want a hot disaster. where’s my hot disaster?”

“in the microwave,” someone from the audio team muttered.

a few people laughed. you didn’t. you were still watching sana.

she was still watching you.

sana kept her hands moving, threading flower after flower. “it’s not that complicated,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “just want someone who makes you feel like… like you’re home.”

you weren’t sure why that stuck with you. maybe because she didn’t say it to the camera. maybe because she said it like it was true.

but you didn’t say anything. you just looked away.

the petals kept turning in her hands.

and somewhere in the footage, a glance was caught. a quick one, soft, aimed right where you stood — too quick to cut, too subtle to explain.

no one noticed on set. not even you.

not really-

but sana’s next smile lingered longer than the last.

just a little. ;)

the director called cut.

not loud — just a quiet wave of his hand, a soft “okay, let’s reset” as the audio crew unclipped wires from behind sana’s back. miyeon immediately flopped sideways onto the grass like she’d been holding up a skyscraper with her spine.

“i’m done,” she announced. “take me home. return me to factory settings.”

sana laughed, brushing stray petals off her lap. “you’re not even sweating.”

“exactly. that’s how you know i’m serious. this is internal damage.”

“internal damage from what?”

“from life, sana. from living.”

the youngest camera op passed by, hefting the b-cam onto their shoulder. “you’ve been sitting down the whole time.”

miyeon sat up just to glare. “i’ve been emotionally standing.”

aunty leina was already weaving between them with a basket, collecting the finished lei and handing out light scoldings. “no toss ‘em like trash,” she said, wagging a finger at miyeon. “you wear it, you respect it. even if you made it ugly.”

“mine is conceptual,” miyeon said, trying to untangle hers from her sleeve. “it tells a story.”

aunty gave her a look. “yeah. a sad one.”

“she keeps lookin’ at you,” he said.

you didn’t ask who. you just lifted the edge of the tarp, pretending not to hear.

“don’t play,” keoni added, grinning. “you know who.”

“nah,” you said. “too hot to think.”

he snorted. “nah, it’s her making you sweat.”

you were saved by a call from one of the producers — they were wrapping early today to give the team enough time to get footage back to the hotel and prep tomorrow’s shoot. that meant packing up, a long van ride back, and the final few minutes of down-time where everyone felt a little looser.

you ducked out from behind the tree and crossed the clearing again, arms behind your back as the breeze shifted west. your steps slowed when you saw sana still kneeling by the lei-making mat, hands resting in her lap. she looked up at the sound of your boots in the dirt.

“hey,” she said, soft.

you crouched beside her, careful not to knock any of the materials still strewn around. “hey.”

her eyes traced yours for a second. a long one.

she looked at you a second too long to be casual. then, like it was just conversation, “so… is this your main job? or do you have a secret life?”

you blinked. “secret life?”

“mm. spy? florist by day, vigilante by night?”

you gave a small laugh. “nothing that interesting.”

her smile curved. “i don’t believe you.”

you hesitated. normally you kept the line pretty firm — smile, wave, answer only what they needed for the show. but the way she looked at you then, like the question was less for the show and more for herself… you found your voice.

“i help out at a café,” you said, eyes flicking toward the trees. “in town. a friend of my uncle’s runs it. nothing fancy, just coffee, pastries, regulars who like arguing about the weather.”

“sounds cozy,” she said.

“it’s loud.”

“still sounds nice.”

you glanced at her — her hair catching the light, her posture relaxed for the first time all day.

“you work a lot?” she asked.

you shrugged. “depends. here when they need me. café when the schedule’s light. not really the sit-still kind.”

she smiled again, but this time it folded deeper. “me neither.”

you didn’t mean to ask it — it just fell out. “do you ever get tired of cameras?”

her smile turned quiet. “yes,” she said, honest. “but… i like meeting people like this. places like this.”

you didn’t answer. you were still watching her eyes when she reached to adjust the lei near her knees. the thread snagged slightly and she tipped forward to fix it — just a little shift of balance, barely a stumble.

you caught her elbow before she could fall.

“careful.”

sana laughed, a bit breathless. “oops.”

you didn’t let go right away. her skin was warm. soft. a few staff glanced your way, but no one said anything. not this time.

keoni’s voice crackled from the radio on your hip. “van’s ready. we rollin’?”

you tapped the mic. “copy. heading back.”

you let go gently and stood, brushing dirt off your palm. sana followed, slower. her eyes still lingered on your face.

as the group began making their way back toward the main trail, you fell into step behind the crew, trailing just far enough to keep an eye on the path.

sana dropped back too, matching your pace.

after a while, she said — lightly, like it didn’t matter — “so… are you guiding us again tomorrow?”

you paused, then nodded. “yeah. you got me till the end.”

she smiled. bright. quiet.

“good,” she said. “i was hoping so.”

you didn’t say anything — not out loud. but you felt something shift in the way she looked at you again.

like she was filing something away. tucking it behind her smile.

you kept walking.

ahead, miyeon tripped over a root and screamed something about cursed trees. the crew laughed.

sana didn’t.

she just looked at you again.

the clouds barely held together above hanapēpē, drifting thin and drowsy like they'd overslept. the air smelled faintly of seawater and roasted beans.

you had your head bent over the espresso machine, steam hissing softly, a practiced hand steadying the portafilter. your apron, worn and flecked with milk dust, hung loose over your frame. same routine, different day. behind you, the regulars muttered about surf forecasts and the price of mangoes. someone’s kid laughed near the pastry counter. outside, the breeze carried the chime of a wind-battered bell on the door.

you didn’t look up right away when it opened.

your head was down, one hand steadying the portafilter as the espresso ran slow into the shot glass. the smell of milk steaming, the sound of someone slicing into banana bread behind you. your sleeves were rolled up above your elbows.

you glanced up, halfway through a pour.

and there she was.

sana stood near the door like she hadn’t just scoured the whole damn town for you. her hair pulled loosely back, a light blue tank just visible beneath an open white button-down that fluttered slightly when the door shut behind her. a floral skirt swayed at her ankles — patterned, soft, the same blue as her top. like sunlight filtered through water.

you blinked once. nearly over-poured.

she smiled.

"hey," she said, a little breathless. “so… you do exist outside of trailheads.”

your first thought was she matched me. your second was she looks like summer on purpose.

your third was somewhere between how the hell did she find me and don’t smile too much, you’ll look ridiculous.

“only on days off,” you replied, sliding the used portafilter aside. “and only when i need to fund my overly lavish lifestyle.”

she gave a soft laugh, stepping closer to the counter. her hands touched the wood like she was testing its warmth. “mystery solved.”

you raised a brow. “you asked around?”

her cheeks tinted just barely. “i didn’t have that much to go on. miyeon was no help. she said something like, ‘if you wander around with fate in your heart, you’ll find them.’”

you snorted. “sounds like her.”

“and… i did find you.”

you stared at her, fingers stilling on the counter. you weren’t used to people looking for you like that. especially not in a skirt that matched your whole outfit.

“what’ll you have?” you asked after a pause, because you needed to do something, because standing still in front of her felt dangerous.

sana leaned her arms on the counter, watching your face. “something simple. americano.”

“iced or hot?”

“surprise me.”

you glanced down at her skirt again. “iced. you look like you’ve been outside too long.”

she laughed, head tilting. “i have.”

as you prepped the shot, she watched — not in that casual way tourists do, but carefully. you realized you kind of liked her watching. you kind of hated how much you liked it.

“so…” she said, her voice light, “you didn't really say where this beautiful coffee shop were”

you shrugged, keeping your eyes on the espresso. “didn’t think you’d want more caffeine after miyeon.”

“well. miyeon and i got lunch. and then i wandered.” she shrugs slightly feeling as it wasn't worth to mention how she walked for an hour to find you and already had two coffee with miyeon earlier.

you looked up at her then. “wandered?”

her smile twitched. “yeah. i have a good sense of direction.”

you stared for a beat longer. you tamped the espresso with more pressure than necessary.

you didn’t answer.

steam rose between you. she leaned closer through it.

“i like when you’re like this,” she said, and her voice was gentle, not teasing. “you’re… not what i expected.”

you just turned back to the drink. because that thing in your chest — that old twitchy thing that didn’t like being seen — was already shifting too much.

“you’ve got a lot of expectations for someone you’ve known three days,” you said.

“maybe.” she reached out — just a little. and brushed her fingers against a napkin holder. like she wanted to reach you, but was afraid of spooking something. “but you let me ask questions. you don’t stop me.”

“not yet.”

“i think that’s why i came.”

you handed her the cup, warm between both palms. her fingers brushed yours when she took it.

“try not to spill,” you said. you reached for a ragged towel that seen better days while wiping the counter

she took it, brushing her fingers against yours. “are you always this soft when you flirt?”

you blinked confused still wiping the counter clean. “i’m not flirting.”

“okay,” she said, sipping anyway. “but you still haven’t told me if you’re single.”

that made your hand freeze mid-wipe on the counter.

you looked at her carefully. “you always open with that?”

“only when i’ve already watched someone make coffee for me, be soft with a group of grandmothers, and explain lava rock to a camera with their hands behind their back like they don’t want to exist.”

she let her fingertips trace along the edge of her cup, soft and aimless, like she didn’t know what to do with the silence she’d created. you watched her, the slope of her lashes, how the sunlight through the window caught in her hair like it belonged there. like she belonged here.

you wiped your hand on a cloth and came around. you sat across from sana by the window, the light slanting gold between you both.

you opened your mouth. closed it.

then: “...i’m single.”

you didn’t mean to speak. but your voice came out anyway.

she smiled, looking down at her cup like it was just a casual thing. the corner of her mouth lifted, not a smirk, not a grin—something lighter. quieter. like she'd known but wanted to hear it anyway.

“thought so,” she said. low, teasing, but her gaze dropped a second too late for it to be casual.

you leaned your forearms against the table, shoulder tilted in her direction. “you’re very confident for someone who called me mysterious like twelve times this week.”

“i didn’t say mysterious,” she replied, a little sing-song. “i said quiet. and maybe avoidant.”

you rolled your eyes. “you’re not helping your case.”

her laugh was soft. she swirled her cup absently, like she was stalling. then turned her head to you, half-curious, half-playful. “so… do you know who we are?”

you blinked. “you and miyeon?”

she made a face. “nooo, i mean, yes, but—like... the group i’m in.”

you tilted your head at her slowly. “uhh... twice.”

her brows rose, impressed. “you do know.”

you shrugged. “teenage girl i know is a fan.”

her eyes lit up. “really?”

“she’s not here,” you said. “so you’re safe.”

sana laughed, the real kind that crinkles the skin around her eyes. “and you?”

“me?”

“do you like us?”

i like you.

the words came up like steam, fogging your thoughts. but you didn’t say them. you just leaned a little forward and said, “i haven’t heard enough to say.”

her gaze caught yours. “maybe you should.”

“you offering a concert?”

she leaned forward a little. “i could.”

“hm.” she tapped her fingers on the side of her cup. “what if i did a solo performance? just for you.”

your pulse hitched. you blinked once, then exhaled a little laugh into your sleeve.

“you’re too fast,” you murmured.

“you’re too slow,” she shot back, still smiling.

another pause, a longer one. the room faded around her for a second.

your pulse did something strange.

you looked down, biting back a smile,

“so,” she said eventually, her chin resting on her hand. “how’s life these days? giving tours in the morning, drinks in the afternoon?”

“normal,” you said. “no camera at least ”

“i missed you guys already,” she teased. “keoni was my favorite.”

“he liked you too.”

she tilted her head. “what about you?” she leaned forward slightly, like the distance between your knees wasn’t already criminal.

you blinked. “what about me?”

“do you like me?”

it knocked the breath out of your chest. she was smiling, that same bright grin she gave everyone, but there was a question behind it she hadn’t quite hidden. her eyes didn’t match the joke.

you didn’t answer right away. your gaze dropped to her hands wrapped around her cup. the chipped polish on her nails. the slight red tint on her knuckles from the sun.

“i think you’re good at talking,” you said slowly.

she squinted, suspicious. “that’s not a yes.”

you shook your head, a quiet huff of a laugh leaving your lips. “that’s a very nervous yes.”

her smile curled, softer now. she looked at you like you’d just given her a secret.

she leaned forward a little, elbows on the table. “you never answer my real questions.”

“you keep asking them in public,” you said. “that’s your fault.”

she tilted her head. “is this public?”

your throat dried. the café was mostly quiet now, the only sounds the soft clatter of dishes in the back and the hum of a machine you’d forgotten was running. one of the baristas, kahi, glanced over.

you raised your hand, beckoning her.

“can you take over for a bit?” you asked. “gonna take my break.”

kahi smiled knowingly. “sure. take your time.”

sana leaned back in her chair like she’d just won something.

“so,” she said again, grinning. “do you get bored of guiding people around here?”

you shook your head. “not really.”

“why not?”

“because most people leave. and when they do, it’s quiet again.”

she tilted her head. “you like it quiet?”

you looked at her. “i like it when people mean it when they say they’ll remember.”

sana blinked. her lips parted just slightly, like she wanted to ask something else, but her phone buzzed on the table. her eyes flicked to the screen. miyeon.

she picked it up and typed something quick. then she stood slowly, brushing her skirt down.

“i have to go,” she said. “miyeon’s waiting.” she reached for her cup, drank the last of it, then hesitated. her fingers played with the edge of the saucer.

you nodded, standing too, out of instinct more than anything.

she took her time standing, fingers lingering on the table’s edge. the hem of her white overshirt fluttered a little when she turned toward the door.

you stood with her.

she hesitated there, right by the frame, like the sunlight didn’t know which one of you to choose.

you walked her out.

she turned once, soft steps pausing near the corner. “hey... do you have instagram?”

you hesitated. blinked. “uh… i mean. i barely use it.”

“but you have one?”

“…yeah.”

“give it to me anyway,” she smiled.

your fingers hesitated, then reached into your apron for your phone. you pulled it out and handed it over, watching her eyes light up as she typed.

she took it like it was normal, like this happened all the time. except she wasn’t searching for the usual account.

her thumb hovered.

“i’m giving you my private one,” she said.

you blinked again.

“don’t tell anyone.” her smile curved, just a little. “miyeon doesn’t even know i give this out.”

you stared at her.

she tapped around on your phone for a moment, then stifled a laugh.

“wait,” she said, flashing the screen at you. “this is really your username? brewing.beach?”

you looked. winced.

“you said you didn’t really use it,” she said, scrolling. “but this is criminal. zero posts?”

“i wasn’t lying.”

“no bio. no story. no highlights.” her eyes were wide with mock horror. “you’re just… a digital ghost.”

you took your phone back. “i log in. i just don’t live there.”

“yeah, i can tell.” she grinned. “i feel like i followed a shadow.”

“it’s mysterious,” you said flatly.

“it’s suspicious,” she corrected. “feels like i just gave my private account to a tourist who might disappear into the ocean.”

you raised an eyebrow. “isn’t that what you’re doing this week?”

she gasped. hand to chest. “that’s cold.”

you almost smiled. almost. “you’ll survive.”

“i better,” she said. “i just gave my secret account to a stranger with no posts and an unflattering username.”

you shrugged. “you didn’t have to.”

“mm,” she hummed, slow and dramatic. “but i wanted to.”

then her voice lowered. “don’t make me regret it.”

and then she looked up, full eye contact, like she could hear your heart going off in your chest. “that okay?”

“yeah,” you said, but it came out hoarse. “yeah. i won’t tell.”

her smile softened. she typed, handed your phone back, and her username was already followed.

then she didn’t move.

neither did you.

and that was when something in the air changed.

you thought she was about to leave, she even glanced toward the door, like she should—but her feet didn’t follow. instead, she turned back around.

and stepped closer.

your breath caught.

there was barely a handspan between you. her perfume was faint but sweet, like citrus and skin-warmed flowers. your heart thudded stupidly loud in your ears.

“you have this... way of looking at people,” she murmured.

you didn’t know what that meant, but you didn’t ask.

you couldn’t ask. not when she was this close. not when she was tilting her head, eyes flicking down to your mouth for half a second and then back up again.

you opened your mouth to say something—anything—but you didn’t get the chance.

she leaned in.

and kissed your cheek.

but not quickly. not playfully. not the kind you’d brush off with a joke.

no—she pressed her lips there like it meant something.

like it was a secret she couldn’t say out loud yet.

you felt it in your spine. your stomach. your knees.

it was soft. it was slow. it was warm enough to burn through the fabric of your shirt and straight into your bloodstream.

and when she pulled back—barely—her lips ghosted over your skin like she was memorizing it. like maybe she wanted to stay there.

your eyes didn’t open right away.

and when they did, she was smiling.

just a little.

the kind of smile that made the sun look second-best.

“see you around,” she whispered.

then finally—finally—she turned and walked out the door.

and you just stood there.

heart pounding. hand still curled around your phone. breath caught somewhere behind your ribs.

her lipstick light pink, faint, left the softest trace on your cheek.

you didn’t wipe it off.

you weren’t sure you ever could.

your cheek still felt her.

and somewhere in your pocket, your phone buzzed again—new notification. new follower.

shy.shibatozaki accepted your follow request

and suddenly, the room felt like it wasn’t yours anymore.

it was hers.

and you wanted her to come back.

you don’t remember the exact moment your face started heating up for no reason — just that it had something to do with her name lighting up your phone at 11:47 p.m., while the ocean outside your window made that low, steady hush, like even it was trying to hear what she’d say next.

the sheets were tangled around your legs. your hair still damp from the shower. a bead of water slid down your neck, caught in the collar of your shirt. it clung too close at the back. and your chest — it was doing that thing again. not thudding like fear, not fluttering like joy, just… loud. constant. like a knock that wouldn’t stop.

shy.shibatozaki 11:47 p.m. guess what me and miyeon are watching ! i missed you already i loved the coffee you gave ~ !

you didn’t even have to guess. you could already imagine her curled under a fuzzy blanket, face half-glowing in tv light, head leaning into miyeon’s shoulder. something warm stirred in your stomach.

shy.shibatozaki 11:48 p.m. also me and miyeon are wearing our matching pjs 💙🩷 anddd she took the yellow bear headband >:(( not fair right?? :(

a photo came with that one. slightly blurry, but enough to make your chest tighten — sana in blue pajamas, she was wearing her glasses and it was slipping down her nose, hair tied back lazily with a few strands falling over her cheek. miyeon was beside her, grinning while mid jump, wearing a yellow bear headband. it looked like home. she looked like the kind of perfect you didn’t want to blink at in case it vanished.

you bit your pillow and groaned into it.

then you answered. (on some nonchalant shi she aint even know it)

you 11:51 p.m. perhaps queen of tears..? thats the only kdrama i know hahaa...

shy.shibatozaki 11:52 p.m. HEYYY we're not watching qot! HOMETOWN CHA-CHA-CHA!! miyeon said i act like yoon hye jin..? BUT NO >:( anddd they eat so much in this drama :( i luvvv hawaii food but like ugh i miss korean foods :(

you stared at that message longer than necessary. something about it made you sit up. the air had cooled — you hadn’t noticed — but the breeze coming in smelled faintly of rain and seaweed. maybe you were imagining it, but it felt like a different kind of night.

you told yourself she was just being cute. she was always cute. it didn’t mean anything. her cheeks didn’t make your fingers tingle. her texts didn’t sit warm in your pocket. your chest wasn’t rising like tidewater with every buzz.

you were not smiling.

your phone buzzed again.

shy.shibatozaki 11:55 p.m. hellooo did u fall asleep..? earth to tour guide cutie?

you blinked.

cutie???

your legs were moving before your thoughts could catch up. you grabbed your keys. hoodie. slippers. hair still damp. didn’t care. you stepped outside. paused. cursed. ran back in for your wallet. stepped out again.

the streets were quiet — wet pavement glowing gold beneath the streetlights. your footsteps echoed softly. your hoodie clung to your back. a gecko darted across the sidewalk near your foot, but you didn’t flinch. your head was somewhere else. somewhere with blue pajamas and sleepy eyes that missed korean foods at midnight.

you passed the surfboard rental hut. slowed. stopped.

on impulse — stupid, reckless, flirt-level impulse — you pulled out your phone and sent a photo. an old one. from earlier this week. waves curling over the shore, a bright sky behind it, and someone surfing in the distance.

you 12:04 a.m hey, isn't chief hong like a surfer.. or something..? maybe i can help you learn how to surf yk? :) i'm good at riding the waves.

the second it sent, regret bloomed full-bodied through your spine.

wow, you regretted even saying that.

holy fuck should i delete that? was i too straight forward? was that too much? was that real? should you delete it? why did you say that???

shy.shibatozaki 12:05 a.m. WHATT YOU SURF!! AHHH YES maybe you can teach me when i do come back :) ill rate your flips maybeee from you arms~

you almost tripped over the curb outside the store.

you couldn’t even laugh properly. just gripped your phone, heart thrashing, and slipped inside the brightly lit corner mart like it might hold answers on a shelf.

you needed to focus. get the food. get out. do not spontaneously combust in the ramen aisle.

you got ramen. rice cakes. gim. sesame oil. carrots. pickled radish. banana milk. a new blender blade. more gochujang than one person should legally own. frozen mangoes. why. who knew.

you stared at the shopping cart.

“what the hell am i doing,” you whispered.

you don’t even like smoothies.

but your hand still reaches for strawberries.

back home, you dropped the bags on the counter, half-shivering from the night air, half-sweating from the chaos inside your chest. turned on a recipe video. leaned too close. muted it again. swore when the rice stuck to your hands. tried again. heartbeat climbing steadily, unreasonably, like it knew where this night was heading before you did.

you were mid-slice — carrots wet and bright on the cutting board — when your phone buzzed again.

incoming video call:

shy.shibatozaki

you wiped your hands on a dish towel and answered without thinking.

“yaaaah,” she whined, face filling your screen, voice low like she was trying not to wake miyeon. “where did you go? you disappeared.”

you pressed your lips together,

“just stepped out.”

“you didn’t reply to my text for like... nine minutes.”

“how do you know the exact time?”

“because i counted,” she whined. “you’re so mean...”

“just… had something to do,” you said, camera aimed slightly too high on purpose. the kitchen lights were on behind you.

“mmm,” she narrowed her eyes. “are you cooking?”

you tried not to look guilty. “why would i be cooking at midnight?”

“are you at your kitchen..?” she whispered.

you blinked, heart thudding. “...you’re seeing things.”

she pouted. “liar.”

you turned away, pretending to check something on the stove — when really, you were just trying to hide the dumb smile spreading across your face.

on her side, sana yawned. the blanket now tucked under her chin. her glasses had started slipping again, and she didn’t fix them.

“you’re not telling me what you’re making…” she mumbled, eyes blinking slower now.

“nothing important.”

“hmm.” she let that go, surprisingly. “oh, by the way… we might start preparing for our next comeback soon. nothing confirmed but i’m kinda excited. i want a sexy theme” she grinned sleepily. “if we get one… i’ll tell you first.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. you didn’t move. just kept spreading rice over gim like your hands had never learned to do anything else. your chest felt… weird. tight. like standing thigh-deep in surf, waiting for a wave you couldn’t see coming.

“and maybe,” she mumbled, almost to herself, “i’ll bring you something from seoul... like a signed photocard... or a bag of korean snacks... or me.”

or me.

your breath stalled.

she didn’t even seem to notice. her eyes fluttered shut, cheek pressed into her pillow. hair all tangled. lips parted slightly, like she didn’t even realize what she said.

your ears were on fire.

you didn’t say a word. didn’t dare to breathe too loud. just finished wrapping the kimbap roll with your heart pounding like it had picked up the rhythm of every wave slapping the shore that night.

not falling. you were not falling. this was just... curiosity. friendliness. a professional obligation to keep her happy and full.

you smiled. not because of what she said — but because she didn’t finish the sentence. her breathing slowed, soft. the blanket shifted a little as she turned, and her hand stayed on her cheek, curled like she was dreaming something warm.

the strawberry not yet a smoothie. the wind outside whispered her name again — like it was in on the joke. like the waves knew exactly how hard your heart was crashing tonight.

you didn’t wake her.

then you sat down on the floor.

looked at her again.

you weren’t falling. you didn’t do this. you didn’t blush. you didn’t cook for people who flirted with you at midnight. you didn’t send surfing thirst traps.

you weren’t insane.

some mornings feel scripted.

not by the sky or the sun or even the alarm — but by something quieter. something like fate, or a dream that refuses to end.

this is one of those mornings.

the first thing sana sees is the curve of light spilling through the curtains. the second is the soft hum of her phone, still propped under the pillow like a secret. the screen glows faintly at the foot of the bed. not loud, not obvious. just there. waiting.

“...miyeon?” she whispers, still half-asleep.

“present,” miyeon chirps from across the room, already in glam-mode with one eyebrow lined and her pink pajama slightly askew. she’s crouched near the mirror, filming, one hand holding a blush brush like a dagger.

“why is the call still—”

“shhh. don’t ruin it. we’re in the middle of a cinematic masterpiece.”

sana squints. the image is angled badly, tilted like someone dropped the phone and never bothered fixing it. the camera lens is fogged a little from the a/c, edges soft and cloudy like a dream.

but it’s enough.

you’re not speaking. not even looking. just... there. folding a shirt. your hair’s still damp from the shower. your white tank top clings slightly at the back, and the loose white trousers hang soft and low at your hips as you lean over to straighten something on the floor.

the light hits the back of your neck like it missed you all night.

like you were born inside a slow-motion montage. like the universe forgot to warn her that people like you exist in real life.

sana forgets to breathe.

“...why do they look like that,” she mumbles, blinking hard.

“right??” miyeon says, spinning the phone to record sana now. “like excuse me, who gave them the right to clean so attractively.”

“do they even know we’re still on the call…”

“and they’ve been like that for an hour. just tidying things in slow motion like they’re filming a skincare ad for lonely people.”

sana groans and hides her face in the pillow. “don’t say that…”

“you’re blushing.”

“i’m not.”

“you’re in love.”

“shut up—”

“you’re so in love it’s embarrassing,” miyeon says gleefully, zooming in on her. “look at how they're dressed up, they clean up good.”

sana peeks from behind the bear. “…they’re just… really clean.”

“do you think they're an ISFJ? they’re that quiet, competent character who always walks their lover home and then disappears without asking for anything.”

“miyeonnn—”

“sana,” miyeon sing-songs. “do you—wait for it—do you likey~?”

sana groans, kicking at the blanket harder. “you’re the worst.”

but then you look up.

no rush. no shock. just a glance at your screen like you already knew it was still on. your gaze flickers, soft and unhurried, before your lips curl into the gentlest, sleep-warm smile.

your hand lifts in a lazy wave.

“morning,” you say, voice low and quiet. “hope you two slept well. we’ve got the atv tour today, so… time to get up.”

sana short-circuits.

miyeon howls with laughter in the corner.

“you didn’t hang up…?” sana manages, barely above a whisper.

you scratch the side of your neck. “why would i?”

you sound so casual. too casual. like you didn’t just make her heart skip two entire steps.

but then — you pause.

just enough to tilt your head a little, like something’s still on your mind.

“also,” you say, almost as an afterthought. “you didn’t finish what you were gonna say last night.”

sana freezes.

miyeon drops her brush on the table in slow motion.

“so,” you add, still smiling, “i didn’t want to hang up.”

and that’s it. no dramatic music. no fireworks.

sana dies.

just the most quietly romantic thing anyone’s ever said to her.

sana curls deeper into the blanket, face burning so red it could power a city.

miyeon is filming everything.

“okay, bye now,” you say, eyes already scanning off-screen. “gotta get the keys from keoni.”

click.

call ended.

the screen goes black.

sana stares at the screen like she’s been hit by a truck made of flower petals and longing.

her fingers twitch.

her soul leaves her body and ascends into the soft sheets of the afterlife.

then she lets out a squeak so high-pitched it sounds like a dolphin being emotionally overwhelmed.

“THEY SAID THAT???” she cries into the pillow.

“they remembered i didn’t finish what i was saying,” she whispers into the pillow, half-horrified, half-melting. “and they said it in their morning voice…”

“they didn’t want to end the call,” miyeon repeats, gleefully filming the aftermath. “do you understand what level of romance that is? that’s a novel ending. that’s page 374 of a fanfic. that’s—”

“i can’t go on the atv,” sana groans, burying herself completely now. “i’ll crash it just looking at them.. i’ll never recover.”

miyeon just smiles like the devil herself.

“you’ve already crashed,” she says, scrolling back to rewatch the smile. “and you’re so not getting up.”

sana bolts upright. “you recorded it, right..?”

“duh.” miyeon holds the phone aloft like it’s a national treasure. “my phone was already rolling since you were asleep. i got the back muscles, the tank top, the morning voice, the part where they said they didn’t want to hang up because you weren’t done talking—”

sana lunges. “let me see it!!”

“oHOH,” miyeon squeals, twisting away like a gremlin, phone clutched to her chest. “you want the video?? you need the video???”

“miyeon, please.”

“say the magic words~”

“i will literally cry,” sana threatens, face already turning red as she tries to grab the phone again. “give me the—miyeon, i’m serious!”

“you’re serious?? like serious-serious??” miyeon’s eyes sparkle like she’s hosting a game show. “on a scale from one to ‘i’m-down-bad,’ how serious are we talking?”

“i won't buy you those tanned friends”

“no you won’t,” miyeon says smugly. “you’re too in love to be mean.”

sana lets out a wail and collapses into the blanket, face burning. “miyeoooonnn…”

“oh my gosh, she folded.” miyeon falls dramatically beside her. “someone’s in loooove.”

sana peeks from the covers. “just let me watch it once.”

miyeon hums. “what’s the magic word?”

sana glares. “airdrop it.”

miyeon gasps, delighted. “OH. OH??? she said airdrop!! she’s desperate. this is beautiful. hold on—lemme queue it up for full emotional impact—rewinding to the part where they scratch their neck, ready—aaaand play.”

sana watches.

watches the exact moment your voice, all soft and quiet and unbearably gentle, says it again.

“you didn’t finish what you were gonna say.”

“so i didn’t want to hang up.”

she actually squeaks. like a mouse. or a broken record. or a seventeen-year-old girl watching her first romance drama in 4k.

and then she slaps miyeon’s arm, hard.

“DON’T PLAY IT AGAIN—”

“TOO LATE, I’M LOOPING IT.”

“STOPPP—”

“it’s okay,” miyeon sighs, falling back onto the bed beside her. “if they looked at me like that and said that in that voice, i’d record it in 4k and build a shrine.”

sana turns slowly. “you mean you did record it in 4k.”

the atvs are parked in a half-circle near the trail’s edge, their engines quiet but still radiating heat. someone’s checking the tires, someone else is untangling cords for the mounted cameras. the air smells like red dirt and sun-dried leaves.

you’re wiping down the atv with a rag that was clean twenty minutes ago. the handlebar grips are dusted over, already sweating beneath your hands. your white tank clings a little from the humidity, loose at the edges but damp at the spine. the same white cotton trousers from earlier—creased, stained faintly at the knees—hang low and light at your hips. your black backpack leans forgotten by the tire, half-zipped, a water bottle poking out.

you don’t notice them watching you.

sana notices all of it. unintentionally.

“they’re gonna get dirty again in five minutes,” keoni says loudly from where he’s standing with sana and miyeon, watching you from across the lot.

“they’re too clean to accept that,” miyeon replies, biting back a grin. “look at that form. they’re washing it like it’s a first date.”

keoni raises a brow. “i’m just sayin’. no point polishing a pig.”

“don’t say that,” sana says, elbowing him with a soft smile. “the atvs are cute.”

“the atvs,” keoni mutters. “or them.”

before anyone can respond, you stand and stretch your arm out—then toss the dirty rag in a perfect arc. it lands square on keoni’s chest, leaving a dark smear on his light shirt.

he stares down at it.

you smirk, still flushed from the sun. “guess now you’re the dirty one.”

keoni lifts the rag off like it’s cursed. “you’re lucky i can’t throw this back. you’re wearin’ your best heartbreak outfit today.”

sana feels something in her chest clench slightly—unreasonably—but she laughs anyway. miyeon snorts and fans herself dramatically.

you’re laughing now too, leaning into the side of the atv where eunji—the writer—stands beside you, both of you mid-conversation. she says something that makes you tilt your head back and laugh harder, hand on your hip, face tilted toward her like this is normal. like this is yours.

sana blinks.

college, she remembers suddenly. that throwaway comment from before. the way eunji looked at you.

but then she shakes it off. maybe they just go way back. maybe it’s nothing.

“so,” keoni claps his hands once. “we divin’ these up or what?”

“dibs on riding with the prettiest,” miyeon declares, flinging her hand toward sana dramatically.

“alright,” keoni calls, tossing a small bag into the front of the seat. “miyeon—you’re with sana. we don't need you crashing all of us and possibly driving us off.”

a few of the crew laugh. people start pairing up, bags start getting tossed into backs, helmets passed around, bags pulled tight with lazy grunts. the clearing smells like hot dust and engine oil.

eunji is already slipping her sunglasses on, stepping lightly toward you.

you’re tightening the gear bag on the back of your atv, easy and quiet. eunji sits behind you like it’s second nature. your backpack bumps gently into her knee. she leans forward to say something near your ear and whatever it is—it makes you laugh.

sana watches that laugh.

miyeon watches her watching it.

then: “girl, you're jealous,” miyeon says flatly. “do you want me to swap?”

“i’m not—!” sana starts, then stops. “just—get in.”

miyeon grins, climbing on like it’s her birthday.

keoni throws his arm around one of the cameramen. “you better hold the camera steady..”

sana shifts slightly, adjusting the strap of her vest. she’s watching the way how you lean a little, how comfortable you look with her.

then, like it sneaks up on her:

“…shouldn’t they ride with the cameraman?”

it’s soft. too soft for the question to make sense, really.

keoni frowns. “why?”

“aren’t they the better driver?”

miyeon squints at her. “uhhh… why do you care so much all of a sudden?”

sana blinks fast. “i don’t.”

keoni shrugs. “they’re always the better driver. but eunji calls shotgun.”

sana looks away, pretending to adjust her strap.

miyeon leans into her side.

“someone’s jealous,” she sings quietly.

“shut up,” sana whispers, cheeks warm.

miyeon grins wide. “don't worry i'll try my best to hear what they're talking about!"

sana only looked back with a frown trying to make sense when miyeon was further away than her.

and then the engines start, one after another. the grove fills with sound, dust kicking, laughter overlapping, the hum of sun and wheels and things unsaid.

you don’t look back as the atv peels forward.

but sana looks forward at you.

and for a moment, it feels like she missed something that used to be hers, even if it never really was.

the beach greets you with its quiet curve of white sand, hemmed in by palms and black rock. no signs, no tourists—just the hush of waves and a wide blue that feels untouched.

you pull the atv to a slow stop at the edge, tires crunching lightly over shell bits and drift.

behind you, eunji swings off without a word. the sun hits her hair and shoulders like it’s warming up just for her.

“still can’t believe this place,” she says, shielding her eyes. “it’s like a movie set.”

you nod. toss the keys to your palm, slide your black backpack off one shoulder and keep it close.

eunji adjusts her sunglasses and starts toward the trees. you follow a few steps behind, half listening to the sea—until, loud and fast—

“YAAHHHHHH—” “sana ya we’re literally gonna die—”

a second atv swerves into view, kicking sand as it jolts to a stop just a few feet from yours.

sana is at the wheel—white tie-strap beach top, loose blue pants, hair already tangled from the ride. miyeon’s behind her, windblown and yelling, one hand still holding her phone up, clearly filming the chaos.

except....

now she’s wearing a green baseball cap (idk what kinda cap it is sorry.), the brim low and lopsided over her brow. and a pale blue long-sleeve thrown over her top, sleeves pushed up to her elbows like she borrowed it in a hurry.

you blink. she hadn’t had that on earlier.

your first thought is that someone from staff gave it to her. the sun’s stronger now, and she’d been squinting earlier, rubbing at her eyes when she thought no one was looking.

it makes sense.

still… you wonder if she asked. or if someone just noticed. offered before she had to.

you wonder if she would’ve asked you.

and then immediately hate that thought—because what would you have given her? your tank top?

you glance down. white cotton. thin, barely enough for yourself, let alone her. now your shoulders are out, your neck already warm, and you frown.

stupid. why didn’t you bring a hoodie or something?

why didn’t you even think—

sana beams, squinting. “we made it!!”

miyeon coughs dramatically. “barely.”

you’re already stepping forward, one hand steadying the atv.

sana swings her leg off and stumbles slightly, laughing. her eyes meet yours for just a second—and you offer your hand. she takes it without thinking, and you help her down. a little dust clings to her shoulder, and you glance away.

“was i that scary?” sana asks, brushing sand off her wrist.

“you were focused,” you say.

miyeon hops off next. “she was possessed,” she mutters. “she didn’t blink for three whole minutes. i checked.”

sana frowns. “yah. you were screaming into my ear the whole time.”

“i was saying your name in prayer.”

staff start laughing behind them finally arriving. one of the managers lifts a camera, catching the girls mid-bicker.

“let’s take photos before miyeon sweats off her foundation,” someone calls out.

“TOO LATE,” miyeon yells back, fixing her hair.

sana looks around. “wait… this place is way too pretty. i need to mark our territory.”

she digs a stick out from the sand, starts writing their names in huge curved strokes: sana ♥ miyeon. then reaches into her bag, pulls out a flag printout of a selfie—the two of them in bear headbands, cheeks puffed—and plants it in the sand like a little flag.

“perfect.”

it lasted for 20 seconds.

a wave creeps in, silent and sharp—and then rolls straight over it.

“NOOOO—!!” “sana do something!!”

the names dissolve. the flag topples.

you’re already walking toward it, knee-deep in saltwater in seconds. you crouch without a word, lift the soggy print gently, and hand it off as you walk back.

sana accepts it with both hands.

“…you saved it,” she says quietly, blinking down at the wrinkled photo.

you glance down. then back up. “…i mean. i tried.”

she reaches out like she’s being careful not to scare it. takes it from you with both hands. the photo is soggy. the ink’s a little smeared. one corner is folded.

“…still cute,” she says.

you rub the back of your neck. “it’s limited edition now.”

miyeon pouts. “the beach is jealous of our love.”

keoni steps in finally, waving the group into motion. “alright, girls, let’s go. hours to film a reel. and then we can like go shopping for souvenirs” his tone knowing at how influencers are so predictable

sana turns, still cradling the picture. “we’re taking some together, right?”

miyeon perks up. “of course. we need cute poses. maybe one where i pretend to propose.”

“again?” sana laughs.

“yah. it’s tradition.”

they start toward the rocks, still bickering, still smiling.

you follow at a slower pace—off-cam, quiet, steady.

and when sana glances back once, half over her shoulder, like she’s checking something she didn’t mean to leave behind—

you’re already looking at her.

while someone looks at the both of you.

the sky is soft and orange, like someone brushed it gently with gold and peach. the kind of light that makes everything feel like it matters a little more than it should. palm trees lean gently over the patio. somewhere below, the ocean taps against the rocks like it’s trying to get someone’s attention.

they’d just finished shopping—bags half-full, miyeon dragging her feet and whining about not buying enough of those tanned friends—and now everyone’s gathered at the long dinner table for one last shoot. the cameras are rolling. the mics are clipped. this is the final scene.

the ache is there.

you sit behind the camera setups, off to the side, your black backpack’s looped over one shoulder like always, like something unfinished. you haven't touched a plate. you just focus the frame.

you don’t eat.

you just watch the light fade.

and maybe that’s why you don’t realize you’re moving until you’re already pulling eunji aside—out of frame, around the corner of the beach patio where it’s quiet enough to hear the waves.

behind you, sana’s eyes flick up for a moment — casual. automatic.

she sees you turn the corner with eunji. she doesn’t look away.

“so, sana-ssi,” miyeon says into her mic, “what are you gonna miss the most about hawaii?”

sana hesitates.

her gaze lingers a beat too long at the edge of the patio.

off-camera.

eunji follows without question. “what’s up?” she asks softly.

you unzip your bag. the black one you’ve carried every day of the tour. from inside, you pull out a small tupperware—wrapped in cloth to keep the shape—and a smoothie bottle. it’s no longer cold. the condensation’s long gone. the ice melted hours ago.

“can you give this to her?” you ask, not looking up. “on the drive back. just say it’s from the crew if you want. i just—i don’t want to make it weird.”

eunji stares at the items. "oh.. kimbab?”

you nod. “and a strawberry smoothie.”

“there’s a note. inside the wrap. give it to her on the drive back. please.”

eunji smiles gently, hesitating on something before she then tucks the food into her own tote. “yeah. of course. i got it.”

you nod once. say nothing more.

and you don’t see the way sana looked up just then from her seat—eyes landing on you and eunji in the shadows. she blinks once. then turns back to miyeon.

on the patio, the camera’s still rolling.

“probably this view,” sana says suddenly, answering the earlier question. “or the shrimp.”

miyeon holds back a smile. “not the crew?”

“they’re part of the view,” sana jokes, looking straight ahead. but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

she doesn’t say what she wanted to say.

not with you just around the corner, not with something she won’t understand tightening in her chest.

she glances toward the ocean.

not you.

the shoot’s over.

it ends in a blur of bowing staff, camera bags thudding shut, thank-yous muffled by tired voices and the low crash of the ocean below. someone’s still scraping plates into a bin. someone else is laughing near the curb. the whole place feels like the backstage of a play that ended five minutes too soon.

you stand by the entryway, tucked between two rusted railings and a low stone planter blooming with yellow hibiscus. your weight shifts slow in your shoes, like the ground isn’t quite yours. your hands stay buried in your pockets. it’s not for warmth. it’s for restraint.

you hear her before you see her. not her voice — not yet — just the soft scuff of her sandals on the pavement. the sound of someone light on their feet, like she’s trying not to disturb the night.

then:

“there you are.”

you turn.

sana’s walking over, hands tucked into her sleeves, eyes already finding yours like she’d been scanning the whole set for them. same soft top. strands of hair stuck to her cheek. her mouth is pinker than it was earlier — maybe from the sun, maybe from the drink miyeon forced her to finish.

and for a second, your heart is stupid enough to think she might run to you.

instead, she walks slowly. calm. unreadable.

“thought you left already,” you say.

“nope,” she replies, easy. “i was looking for you.”

your throat catches around nothing.

“me?”

“mm.” she glances away for a second — then back. “you kinda disappeared after wrap.”

“you noticed?”

she rolls her eyes. “you think i wouldn’t?”

“you were really good today,” you say quickly to avoid an awkward silence. “both of you.”

she blinks. “seriously?”

“yeah. miyeon too. you guys were— i dunno. like a good pair in a romcom..?”

“what if that's what we we're going for?”

“doubt it.”

she grins. a little bashful now.

then you add, “good luck, by the way. with the next comeback.”

“oh.” she tilts her head. “you remember what i said?”

“barely. and miyeon gave me a twice song quiz and uhh i failed...”

sana snorts. “which one did you miss?”

“all of them.”

“wow.”

“i’m a disgrace to my generation.”

she laughs again — and this time, she smooths a crease from your shirt, fingers brushing you so gently it feels like she’s saying goodbye without really saying it.

“hey,” she says. softer now. “thank you. really.”

her eyes flick to your mouth for half a second too long.

you don’t move.

“for what?”

“just… everything. for making this trip feel special. even when the cameras weren’t rolling.”

you swallow.

the words sit too neatly in your chest. they stack themselves like a house you start to believe in.

“same to you,” you say. “you made it easy.”

she glances at you again — not away from you, not past you — at you.

and in that moment, you believe it. you believe she means it.

you believe she’s holding something back, and maybe it’s only distance, maybe it’s only fear — but it’s not indifference.

“i’ll miss you,” she murmurs.

you freeze.

you want to ask if she means it. you want to ask if she’ll text. if this was ever more than just a week of light flirting and pretty lies.

but you smile anyway. not big. just enough. “i’ll keep failing your quizzes from afar.”

“and i’ll be disappointed in you from korea,” she shoots back, but it’s gentle. fond.

she waves once. then again when she’s at the van. you raise your hand, but she’s already turned away.

the door shuts. miyeon says something loud. sana laughs. they drive off.

you wait. just long enough to be sure she’s not coming back. just long enough to be sure that was the end of it.

then you sling your bag over your shoulder. it feels too light, like something’s been taken out of it.

maybe it’s just the part of you that believed you’d get to say more.

you’re halfway to the curb when someone shouts behind you.

“excuse me!”

you turn.

he jogs up, holding a small cloth-wrapped tupperware and a tumbler bottle, slightly fogged over but clearly warm now.

“this was left at the table,” the waiter says. “one of the guests forgot it?”

you stare.

for a second, you don’t move.

you don’t even need to open it.

you know.

the weight of it. the shape. the faint sweet smell leaking through the folds.

then slowly—slowly—you take it. unwrap it. see the handwriting you recognize. your own.

please eat well. you told me you miss this type of food. remember to tell me about your comeback. with all the love i can't say, your guide.

you stare at it.

the kimbab. the smoothie. the whole thing.

your hand curls tighter around the cloth. you feel the glass bottle shift inside. the smoothie’s warm now.

untouched.

you swallow. the ocean sounds louder all of a sudden.

your chest hollows out.

you stare at it for a long time.

not because you don’t understand —

but because you do.

you don’t even think of eunji. she wouldn’t forget something like this, right? not something made with care. not something that mattered to someone else that isn't her.

but sana—

she didn’t forget.

she chose not to bring it.

you rolled the kimbap in silence at 12am, hands shaky from too little sleep. blended the smoothie twice because the first one didn’t taste like you remembered her describing in one of those tv shows she was in. added an extra note. rewrote it when it felt too much.

you imagined her holding it on the ride to the airport. sipping it on the plane. maybe thinking of you, just a little.

you imagined it meant something.

but it didn’t.

not enough. not to her.

and then, without thinking, you turn and walk—past the entrance, down the small stone path that leads to the trash bins. you lift the lid. and drop the whole bundle in.

no hesitation.

just silence.

you let the lid fall.

and walk away with nothing but silence.

not even the lie that she cared.

two weeks.

that’s how long it’s been since hawaii.

since the wind tasted like salt and sunscreen, since your laugh still echoed when she closed her eyes. since miyeon dragged her half-asleep through customs, arms full of souvenirs they didn’t need but bought anyway, because it reminded her of you — stupid stuff, like the peach keyring you touched once at a market stall, the tiny charm shaped like a surfboard.

since sana sat by the plane window for six silent hours, headphones in but music off, the screen in front of her playing some romcom she didn’t watch. just static. just motion. just the city shrinking behind clouds, and the empty weight of a phone that hadn’t buzzed once.

you didn’t text.

and maybe she should’ve known then.

maybe she should’ve let go the moment the message bubble stayed empty. maybe she shouldn’t have memorized the time difference, shouldn’t have set silent alarms for 2:17 a.m., just in case you replied while she was sleeping — as if knowing the exact minute you might’ve sent something could stop her from missing it.

but she couldn’t help it. she was still waiting.

she took more photos than usual. not for instagram. not for the fancafe. just dumb little things — her coffee order, the new hoodie she thought you’d like, the earrings miyeon said made her look “way too pretty to be single.”

she saved them all.

none of them ever got sent.

it’s late now. practice ran long. her hoodie’s damp at the collar, some strands falling loose.

but her fingers are restless.

so she goes live.

the car is dark. quiet. the windows blur with streetlights, smearing gold across her cheekbones, and the screen lights her face just enough to catch the pink gloss still clinging to her bottom lip. her voice is a little hoarse, like it’s been tucked away too long.

“hi~” she says, drawing it out, soft and breathy. “did you miss me?”

hearts explode. comments fire in from all corners of the world.

she laughs, ducking her head, rubbing at her eye with the back of her wrist. “i look like a mess today, huh? no filters. bare face. very exclusive.”

“you look beautiful no matter what!!” someone writes.

she gasps, presses a hand to her heart. “don’t lie to me like this! not when i’m already so weak.”

fans fill the chat with crying emojis and heart showers.

“we had practice all day today,” she says, tucking a flyaway hair behind her ear. “comeback soon, right? do you guys wanna know the concept?”

they scream in the comments. she hums thoughtfully, as if considering.

“hmm~ what if i give you a hint? just a little one,” she says, holding her fingers close together. “okay. one word only. spicy.”

the chaos that follows makes her giggle for real. someone spams pepper emojis. someone else types “IS IT A DANCE SONG IS IT SEDUCTIVE??”

“yah! it’s a secret!” she scolds, then immediately leans closer to whisper, “...yes.”

she leans back with a wink. the mood is light. good. silly in the way she knows how to be.

but her thumb keeps slipping.

to the viewer list. to the names she doesn’t mean to look for.

and then —

@brewing.beach joined.

her breath catches. only for a second. just long enough that something inside her forgets to move.

you’re here.

you’re watching.

your name — your screenname — floats at the top of the list like a bruise she doesn’t want to press, but can’t stop touching.

she swallows. hard. finds her place in the conversation again.

“also,” she says quickly, “nayeon unnie tripped over her own shoe during cooldown. i wish i could show you, it was like… you know those baby deer videos?” she holds up both hands and wiggles them like flailing limbs. “legs everywhere.”

laughs fill the screen. someone tells her she should post the clip. another fan says you’re cuter than a deer though.

she smiles. lets it land somewhere softer. but the glow doesn’t stay long.

someone else asks about hawaii.

“miyeon said you had the idea for the vlog!! what was your favorite part?”

her breath sticks in her throat for a second too long.

but she makes her voice gentle. normal.

“filming was fun,” she says. “but… honestly, i was kind of out of it by the end.”

a beat. the comments fly too fast to catch.

“i think i got sunburned on like… just one ear?” she touches her earlobe. “very fashionable. very cool. right, once?”

they answer with chaos again. sunscreen jokes. marriage proposals. someone starts a fake petition called justice for sana’s ears.

she laughs, but it’s thinner now. quiet at the edges.

you’re still watching.

and still not saying anything.

you never did.

you didn’t say anything the day she left. not when she waved from the van. not when she said she’d miss you, even though her voice cracked on it. you didn’t reply to her message, didn’t text after the plane landed.

you didn’t even react to the gift.

she had made sure of it — she’d written her number on the back of a photocard, one she picked herself from a pack of outtakes. she wasn’t even looking at the camera in it, just smiling off to the side. the same way she always looked at you when she thought no one would notice.

she slipped it into the box. sealed it herself.

and asked eunji — sweet, harmless, helpful eunji — to give it to you while she was shooting with miyeon.

“just slide it to them when you say goodbye,” she whispered. “please?”

eunji smiled. said of course. said sure. said leave it to me.

but you never reached out.

and sana… believed you had gotten it.

for two weeks, she believed it.

in the back of this car, the memory hits her differently.

eunji's laugh too sharp.

her tone too playful.

how she never looked sana in the eye when she came back.

sana’s heart aches in the shape of something slow and sickening.

“anyway… i’m home now~” she says softly, even though the car is still moving. “i’ll rest. i’ll… i’ll message you guys next time, okay?”

lie.

the fans fill the chat with goodnights. hearts. we love you!!

she ends the live.

the silence after is unbearable.

her driver hums low under his breath. the city leans past the window in smears of yellow and gray. she watches her own reflection. the curve of her mouth. the shine of her eyes.

she unlocks her phone.

scrolls to your name.

still empty.

still no finally got your number.

still no thank you.

no i miss you.

she opens the messages anyway. stares at the blank thread. waits for it to become something else.

but it doesn’t.

it stays quiet.

the same way you did.

her eyes burn first.

but she doesn’t blink. not yet. just breathes.

once. twice.

then —

quietly. gently.

like it doesn’t even belong to her — like the heartache is someone else’s, and she’s just borrowing it for a while — the tears start to fall.

one slips past her cheek. then another. then they don’t stop.

they hit the fabric of her hoodie without a sound. soak into the sleeves she tugs up to her mouth. the kind of crying you do when you're trying not to. the kind that hurts more because no one sees it but you.

she curls tighter in the seat. presses her phone to her chest. wishes she never wrote her number. wishes she didn’t check. wishes she knew how to stop hoping.

the city moves on.

and sana stays behind, muffling her sobs into the hoodie she wore for you.

forgotten.

kino's note — took 2 weeks for this ahh writing.. i miss my beautiful girl so i thought to break my heart with this :D idk abt a part 2 but ill try my best.

167 notes · View notes

utterlyazriel · 5 months ago

Text

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: getting to have them be not in constant danger or emotional turmoil for one chapter? crazy. how do these goobers even flirt <3 as always, thank u for your patience and please let me know what you think!

word count: 4.4k

synopsis: Finally accepting Cassian's invitation to breakfast, Rhys offers you a proposal. You take flight for the first time since that fateful night in Exordor.

CHAPTER TWELVE :: SHRIKE (TO YOUR SHY AND GLORIOUS THORN)

As dawn breaks the next morning, rain pours.

Weather has never been a deterrent for Illyrian warriors. Cassian, Azriel, and yourself rise and head to train all the while, welcoming the extra challenge. Blades and boots swing, slicing through a thousand raindrops, sending graceful arcs of water in their wake.

From a distance, the movements so controlled, you think you might almost get mistaken as Summer soldiers, so adept in the water.

Though, as training draws to a close and you all pack inside, wings shivering from the icy sheets of rain, you steal a long glance at the two towering figures.

Their wings, like your own, make a terrifying silhouette and your matching armour glitters in blackness and rain.

With a glimmer of pride, you rapidly reconsider—there's no mistaking you for anything but what you are: soldiers of the Night.

“Breakfast?” Cassian offers, as he’s done after every one of your training sessions. He's the first to break the tired silence post-training, pulling the bulkier, unneeded armour off his chest.

It appears, despite your constant declinations, Cassian is not one to be discouraged. He still asks and he never seems put out with your answer.

That fact stirs something in you, a warm glow — his easy attempts to always include you mean more to you than he'll likely ever truly know.

You glance at Azriel beside you, silent. He’s scrubbing at his wet hair with a towel, same as yourself, and when you meet his eyes, he tilts his head an inch. If you want to, I will too.

Between training and wandering the halls occasionally, you still haven’t actually spent much time outside your room.

It's a built-in habit you've yet to shake. Fruitless exploring was an expenditure you couldn't afford to waste energy on back in the mountains.

You steal another glance at Azriel.

Friends. That's what you are now. Friends go to breakfast with one another... at least, you think they do.

Besides, eyes darting to Cassian, you have two of them now. Maybe it’s time to start breaking out of your old routine and start forging a new one.

“Alright.” you say, trying to swallow the timidness in your voice.

“Really?” Cassian goads, brows raised high, even as his eyes gleam happily at the accepted invite. A wicked grin takes over his face.

“I’ve been trying to get you to come for weeks and now Az’s here, suddenly you’re in.”

Something in you flusters at his teasing, even if you know his words has no real heat.

You’re saved from having to sputter through an answer when Cassian, forgoing using a towel, shakes his wet hair out much like a dog would.

Cold rains splatters out and you hiss, flicking a drop off the edge of your wing with distaste.

Brows raised, you say, “I’ve wonder why.”

Cassian’s shit-eating grin is his only reply.

You cut a glance to Azriel to find he’s already looking your way, a weary but amused look in his eyes, his shadows lingering around his shoulders, languid and relaxed. He’s had far more years of Cassian's nonsense than you.

Breakfast, you find, is a lot of the food Azriel had brought with him to Exordor.

Ripe, fat berries, fruits of a multitude of colours, and still warm bread fill the ochre tabletop. Jugs and flagons of different juices and the like group in the middle. You're spoiled for choice.

Back home, it would be a feast. Once upon a time, you’d have probably sneered at the display, as you had once at Azriel.

Now, you think of Rhys' words.

You think about earning and deserving.

This change is one of the harder things for you to face… but you know it’s for the best.

The table is set for three. As you sit, you ponder if Cassian’s been setting a place for you each time, never knowing if you’d say yes—and wonder more if he found it aggravating, your constant closedoffness.

A glance at him only reveals his still friendly smile. There’s not a hint of annoyance.

Right. You’re friends.

Cassian takes the seat to your left, Azriel on your right, leaving you in the middle between them. Rhys had explained the uses and limits of the magic of the House to you already and as such, you had become familiar with it fetching meals to your room.

It’s been a plain affair. You’re used to at best, tasteless, and at worst, stomach-churning food. As long as it’s nutritional, it’s on the menu.

How are you supposed to know what else there is? Even the foods Azriel had brought with him weren’t as decadent as these before you.

You find yourself waiting, watching the plates on either side of you to see what they’ll choose. The rain continues outside, a gentle din on the sides of the House.

Cassian’s plate fills first.

You watch, wide-eyed, as several hot, flat brown discs flop onto his plate, still steaming. A drizzle of something thick and sweet follows, a soft caramel colour dolloping in the middle.

It smells heavenly.

“Have you ever had pancakes?” Azriel’s quiet voice from the other side of you speaks up.

You blink, tearing your eyes off Cassian’s breakfast to Azriel and gingerly shake your head.

Pancakes. You steal another glance at the plate and find the name to be aptly fitted.

Azriel’s plate has filled itself too but with something different. There’s some kind of grain, a pottle of something pink, with cubes of different fruit littered over the top.

“Would you like to try some?”

Your eyes dart up from Azriel’s plate to his face, realising he’s still nodding to the pancakes.

You’ll admit the pancakes look far better than whatever you’ve been asking of the House. While the bread supplied was fresher than anything you’d had before, you’d hardly had the imagination to conjure up something like pancakes.

Whatever your face looks like, Azriel can seem to read the answer in it.

“Cass,” He says, jutting his chin to his friend’s plate. “Give them a pancake, will you?”

Cassian, mouth currently full, turns to Azriel with a furrow between his brow. “But—” He starts, then stops. The furrow on his face softens as he glances down at you and, without swallowing, he says exaggeratedly, “Fine. Guess we can share.”

Then he spears two pancakes on his fork and slops them onto your waiting plate.

“You like syrup?” Cassian asks.

The question means nothing to you. From behind you, Azriel shakes his head no, answering for you. From what he recalls of your meal times together, you had screwed your nose up at the too-sweet fruits, too unused to it.

“Butter?” Cassian tries again.

“I suppose.” You answer, confused as to why he’s asking.

Cassian glances up and then a small bowl of softened butter materialises before you. He picks it up and tips it onto your two pancakes with a smile. Then he resumes his eating without another word.

Still hesitant, you shoot one more glance in Azriel’s direction.

You’ve been given food before, by Azriel himself, but not quite like this. Not sharing what’s already on someone’s plate. Some smaller, younger part of you almost wants to sniffle at the abject kindness.

Azriel’s already begun eating but the motion of your head draws his eyes. The small upturn of his lips is encouragement enough. Swallowing back the thickness in your throat, you dig in.

Pancakes… are pretty life-changing.

Azriel is right, you’re not such a fan of the sickly sweet brown fluid that coats the cakes, sweet enough to make your teeth ache. But the butter, melted and velvety with the fluffy pancake— gods.

You take one bite and then quickly stuff in two or three more, just in case Cassian suddenly decides he wants them back. Cassian guffaws at your rapid motions and follows suit, stuffing his mouth full.

He glances at you, catching your eye, both of you chewing through the delicious breakfast. Cassian raises his eyebrows with a pleased, smug smile as if to say I know, right?

You smile at him, without even thinking about it, shovelling the next bite in.

It melts on your tongue. Mother, you're kicking yourself a bit as you chew the mouthful slower this time, turning over every flavour. Turning down Cassian’s invite each morning has been turning down this.

You’re a moron. There’s no doubt you’ll be asking the House for this every morning—and night even, if you’re allowed.

It occurs to you then, as you’re on your fifth bite or so, that you could’ve easily summoned your own stack on pancakes. Or either male could’ve done it for you.

But no, instead Cassian had shared from his plate.

The pancakes suddenly taste sweeter than ever.

"Ah, y/n," Rhys' satiny voice tugs your attention up, to the Male himself, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. "Glad to find you here."

An age-old instinct of obeying commanding warriors sends your spine straightening, your chair scraping harshly against the stone floor.

Cassian snickers good-naturedly and you spot a shadow of Azriel's disappear into his ear—resulting a loud shriek from the warrior.

"You said you wouldn't do that anymore, you bastard!" He all but hisses, leaning forward on the table to glare past you.

Azriel gives a nonchalant shrug, his hazel eyes dancing to you playfully for a quick moment. Rhys and you both watch with varied levels of amusement and boredom.

"Yes, yes, that's enough now children." Rhys comments, a sly smile teasing at his mouth as he fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve.

Cassian, in his centuries old-age, sticks his tongue out in response—then pushes back on his chair so it’s balancing on its back legs, teetering.

Rhys regards him with one bored stare before his attention turns to you, his smile fading, expression turning more serious.

"I have a proposition for you."

Your mouth dries, nerves skittering under your skin. You swallow your mouthful. "A proposition? Like... bad?"

Rhys smiles, feeling your nervousness through your thinning mental wall. He gives it a soft tap to remind you and you inhale sharply, fortifying it instantly.

"Not at all." He assures you calmly. "It's to do with... Let's call it overdue earnings."

Instinctively, your gaze seeks out Azriel to your right.

Shadows swirling his shoulders, you're surprised yet again by how easily you seem to read him with just one quick glimpse of each other. How you can suddenly feel the tangible encouragement forming within you, just behind your ribs.

He smiles, like he knows more than he says, and casts his gaze back to his breakfast.

You glance at Cassian too, maybe your closest friend now, and he simply shrugs, none the wiser.

"What is it?"

Rhys wanders further forward, leaning to rest his forearms atop one of the empty chairs at the table. His violet gaze takes in two of his Inner Circle and decides if you don't mind them hearing, he doesn't either.

Besides, it's not as if it wasn't Azriel's own idea.

"As you know, due to the backward ways in many of Illyrian warcamps, females are not seen as warriors. While many allow them to train, Exordor..."

Rhys jaw clenches tightly over the name. "It had stricter rules that I could not interfere with. Please know, that is not without immense regret."

A glimmer of night ripples across the room as Rhys hard gaze burns into the table, lost in a haze of an angry memory.

Azriel clears his throat and then the night retracts rapidly, gone without a trace after a second. Rhys lifts his head, giving it a slight shake.

"My apologies. This proposition is not about that — this is about The Blood Rite."

Your brows jump, the words out his mouth the very last ones you were expecting to hear. The Blood Rite? The cutlery in your hands suddenly seems heavier. Your wings sink an inch.

As if the mention of it made them darker, the tattoos on the tan skin of each warrior around you seem to glow more prominently.

You swallow to try clear your dry mouth.

“What about it?” You croak.

“Given your circumstances, it’s understandable why partaking in it was not an option.” Rhys begins.

You expect his tone to take on a sympathetic lilt but it does no such thing.

“Given the level of skill that both Azriel and Cassian have seen from you,” He waves a casual hand between the two warriors. “I don’t believe it’s a question of if you’d survive.”

The knowledge that they’ve been discussing you, your skill, between them without you there—normally such a thing would make you prickly.

But with what Rhys says… knowing they’re vouching for you instead, the prickly feeling washes away to an embarrassed gratitude. They’re on your side, you have to remember.

“The proposition I have for you is to receive The Blood Rite ceremonial tattoos.”

The grip on your fork loosens, the utensil sliding an inch before you catch it again, but not before it hits the edge of the table with a loud bang. You jump at the noise, wings tucking closer on instinct.

“I—” Words die in your mouth, your eyes screwing shut a moment. When you speak, it’s with a bitter resignation. “I have not completed The Blood Rite. It’s— that- I would hardly be earning it.”

Azriel makes a quiet noise of disagreement beside you, eyes still on his plate, but says nothing more.

Rhys doesn’t look surprised at your rebuttal, merely rolling back his shoulders casually.

“Perhaps, that’s one way to view it. Perhaps there are others. Regardless, your Highlord is offering it, if it’s something you decide you want.”

Cassian scoffs a laugh at his casually thrown out title and you tense, not expecting such outright disrespect.

Rhys, however, simply rolls his eyes and with a flick of his hand sends Cassian’s still teetering chair backward.

Cassian barely saves himself, jolting forward to grip the edge of the table and delivering his brother a scathing glare. Rhys grins back, feline and taunting.

“Still sure you want to be friends with them?”

Azriel’s voice is just above a whisper, words soft and curling into your ear. You turn and find, with a jolt in your chest, that he’s much closer than you’re expecting, leaning over to be closer to you.

Mother.

It’s not as if you forget how beautiful Azriel is but this close, it's impossible to ignore.

His eyelashes are dark and long, his hazel eyes, soft and honey-like. The cupids bow of his lips looks plush. You can trace a scar that carries from his chin up his cheek.

You realise you’re staring after a long moment of silence — eyes darting away, you clear your throat.

“They’re better company than some, believe me.” You say, thinking back to Exordor with a glance back at Azriel.

He’s sat back in his seat and he gives a barely noticeable roll of his eyes. “Yeah, well, that competition is hardly fierce.”

A laugh titters out of you at that — and Azriel’s shadows spring up, as if in response.

Clearing his throat, Rhys calls your attention back to the conversation at hand (now that Cassian was done attempting to pelt him with bits of pancake, which he was subsequently misting, resulting in a fantastic aroma through the kitchen).

“It’s an offer.” Rhys reiterates kindly. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t wish to but… I implore you to think it over.”

He tilts his head toward the windows in the mountain side.

“Spend the day down in Velaris and consider it. And try to consider what we talked about too, about the things we feel we deserve.”

Straightening up, he taps the chair with his knuckles, preparing to leave you be.

“Whatever you choose, I hope you know that there is no wrong answer. Tattoos or not, amongst friends you are already considered a true warrior.”

And despite how the two males on either side of you nod, solemn and truthful, it didn’t purge the feeling that welled inside you—familiar and reminiscent of keeping a secret.

You wonder if you’ll ever stop feeling like a fraud.

—

Even with back to back training, only mere hours of slumber between each session, the gleam good sleep has given you is impossible to miss.

By now, Azriel has seen dozens of early mornings with you.

Back in Exordor, you had looked different in more than one way. Beyond the grime of the mountains and your justified, cold defensiveness, it was your eyes that betrayed you. Eyes that carried a tiredness that never left.

Azriel knew the feeling well.

In the Illyrian mountains, sleep is not rest.

Sleep is a sliver of refuge, letting your aching body recharge just enough to lurch back awake after a couple restless hours. Fuel to keep you going and nothing more.

But this morning, stopping at the threshold out to the balcony, you had peered up at the rain bucketing down and frowned.

Then with a silent huff, you had rubbed the sleep from your eyes and yawned into your hand.

Azriel, watching silently from across the courtyard, felt his shadows spin up in a tizzy at the sight — and he nearly blushed scarlet as they directly disobeyed his instructions to rein themselves in, a few shooting across the courtyard to greet you.

It was the first morning he’d seen you not tired, but sleepy. Azriel couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t adorable either.

He could only hide his smile and warm cheeks with a duck of his head, praying his shadows behaved himself.

But there was no disguising the tug on the mating bond, immeasurably proud and pleased for you.

Whether you noticed it or not, he didn’t know. You’d stepped down, onto the balcony and into rain, and promptly stalked towards the weapons rack, wings held high.

It had been one of the first things Azriel had admired about you—your drive, steely and unflinching.

Even now, thrown into a new place with unfamiliar faces, tossed into a whole new life, your determination doesn’t falter.

Fighting, training, honing yourself into a living weapon—seamlessly using blades as if they’re an extension of your very self—you commit yourself to training fiercely.

But… Azriel can tell that without direction, your ambition is beginning to make you listless.

You’re getting better—that there is no doubt about. Even the slight deafness in your left ear you’ve mastered well enough that if Azriel wasn’t paying attention, he might’ve missed it.

But in Exordor, there had been a goal.

Something to measure up to, to pour your determination towards — and without it in Velaris, Azriel worries about you.

There’s unfinished business waiting for you in Exordor. Your valiant mission is not yet abandoned and if you ever deigned to ask, Azriel knows he would take you there, without hesitation.

However, things have shifted whether you seem to realise it or not.

You’re no longer the only one in your corner. You haven’t been for some months.

True, there had been the matter of your… concealed identity wedged between you and Azriel and it had been reason enough to keep your plans small. You’d explained to him once before, the aid of being unnoticeable.

You’re not anymore. And with the terror of the events in Exordor still fresh enough in his mind, it’s impossible not to fear what might happen when you eventually return.

You aren’t used to living, just for yourself. Of that being enough of a reason to live, to thrive. Azriel fears your ambition will drive you to your death, no matter how honourable.

You would fight until you physically can’t anymore against the injustices of your home.

A threatening pain splices through his chest at the very thought — of just getting you back, gaining your forgiveness, getting the smallest glimpses of your happiness— just to have it ripped away from him again.

His mate, his heart warbles terribly.

His head settled resolutely, he trails behind you to the breakfast table, mission solidified. He needs to show you that your home isn’t among the mountains anymore.

Exordor may have been your birthplace but Velaris, here — with him, something quiet whispered —was where you belonged.

He just needed to show you.

—

“Have you flown since leaving Exordor?”

At the edge of a thousand steps, it’s certainly a warranted question.

The intensity of the early morning rain has waned with the day but it still falls softly. It adds a chill to the breeze — but it’s nothing comparable to the Mother’s Kiss.

You're all taking Rhys' plan and heading down into Velaris for the day. The staircase presents itself as one option but, given the knowledge of wards, there's a clearly more favourable one. Flying.

Azriel’s eyes drift up to the tips of your wings. The sight of the puckered, scarred spaces that once held stakes is enough to inspire a jolt of fierce anger. He swallows a shudder, well aware of the sensitivity of such wings.

Noticing his stare, you shift on your feet and tuck your wings in tighter. His gaze, while unjudging, is enough to make you fidget beneath the attention.

Azriel snaps his eyes back to your face.

“I haven’t. Madja told me I could, uh,” You answer with a wave of your hand, your gaze averted to the long, winding staircase ahead. “About a couple weeks ago but…”

Shrugging, you force yourself to meet Azriel’s gaze. “Well, where would I even go?”

Azriel’s heart wilts in his chest at your words. Nothing without purpose—it's the only way you know how to live.

You’ve had no prying and relentless brothers to push you into doing things as he had. No friends to remind you to live, as well as just survive.

No flying just for the fun of it. You’ve been starved of one of Azriel’s favourite things in the world.

Even him, your first friend, had only encouraged further training. A muscle feathers in Azriel’s jaw. A misgiving he’ll make sure to rectify.

Casting his mind back to a memory from some months ago, he recalls the fervent urge he felt upon returning to Velaris — the want to show you his home from the skies.

Focusing his mind back on the present, Azriel smiles down at you, his dark curls collecting drops of waters.

“Anywhere you like.”

Cassian takes his cue, launching himself up into the sky with ease.

Azriel watches him for a moment and then prepares to follow suit, bracing his thighs and shaking out his wings.

A glance at your face reveals the hint of hesitation.

He searches within him, gripping the bond tightly, to feel for your worry. In response, your anxieties skitter along to him, revealing your heartbreaking reservations and giving them to him — unknowingly soothing you in the process.

Still, Azriel pauses and then, heart in his throat, he lays a scarred hand on your shoulder in assurance. Prays you won’t shift away from him or his touch.

You don’t. In fact, a newer expression shutters across your face, eyelashes fluttering but you hold his stare.

“You won’t fall.”

You don’t question how he can name your fear so easily.

Instead, in a brave face of vulnerability, you ask, voice smaller than you intend, “How can you be sure?”

Azriel grips the bond tighter, letting his assurances pool in the form of unwavering confidence in you. He hopes you feel it — feel it, and believe it too.

“Because you’ve never fallen before. And because,” Azriel sighs softly, an ache creeping up his throat. His voice is low, his hazel eyes earnest. "You might've changed since Exordor but they don't get this. They don't get to take it from you. It's yours."

His hands slips from your shoulder and the bond tightens in his chest, as if urging him back. Azriel ignores it and turns back to face the rainy skies ahead.

Then his boots bear down against the stone as he takes flight, cutting through the drizzle of rain to climb up into the sky. The final step, he knows, has to be taken by you alone.

It doesn’t stop the uncertain waver in Azriel’s chest at leaving you one step behind.

But his faith in you is steadfast.

And a moment later, he’s proven right to do so as an unimaginable pulse of joy shoots down the bond, molten hot.

It’s raw, unfiltered relief.

It mingles with a joy so potent that Azriel’s shadows droop against his neck, as if snuggling up to the blazing warm feeling.

He falters, dipping in altitude momentarily, before he remembers to keep his wings moving.

Through the gloom of the day, Azriel feels you before he sees you coming — though the moment you’re in view, the familiar figure of an Illyrian warrior in flight, your radiancy is all he can see.

“You were right!” You call across the sky, unable to cage the glee in your voice.

There’s an unsteadiness to your motions, adjusting to the loss of drag due to your news scars, but it does nothing to tamp your happiness. You soar towards him through the rain, twirling in an elegant barrel roll that boasts your years of flight.

And it dawns on him, the underlying motive you had admitted to that underpinned the lie you had spun.

What heart-wrenching words had you uttered to him? I just wanted to keep my wings.

Azriel thanks the Mother, the Cauldron, and every star in the sky that you get to.

“I’m only sorry it’s not a better day for it.” Azriel says as you drift to his side, raising his voice so you can hear him. Flight is noisy, even if you’re travelling idly as the pair of your are.

You fly a few metres higher and then glide down with an easy precision, grinning, your face misted from the rain.

“I think it’s perfect.” You call back. Azriel can feel it, trickling along the bond like sweetened syrup, you really mean it.

Waiting leisurely further ahead, it’s evident that Cassian’s patience is waning.

Dipping back and joining the line up, he glides alongside you with a smile that promises mischief.

“Oh, so she can fly!” He drawls, arms tucking up behind his head lazily. “But can she race?”

His brows raise in clear competition and Azriel’s about to remind you that you don’t have to entertain all of Cassian’s antics — when his brother straightens out, shouting, “Go!” and jetting off forward.

You splutter for just one second. “I don’t even know where to go-!”

The end of your sentence blurs as you take off after Cassian, not a clue where you’re going but too competitive to not rise to the challenge. Azriel grins, watching for a moment as you tuck in your wings and dive to pick up speed, nearly disappearing in the fog of the rain.

Your fierce delight streaks along the bond and it’s what Azriel follows as he takes off after you, the invisible string leading his way, glowing like a shooting star.

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