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To hell with their humanities professor and this damn requirement.
To hell with whoever thought it was a good idea to make them watch this movie of all movies.
Ai-oon slumps in the back row, arms crossed, foot tapping against the metal chair leg, her body wound tight like a spring. Kosol, Ben, and Pang are beside her, but they’re leaning forward, sinking into the screen’s glow like everyone else, while she tries her best not to exist in this moment.
Kosol leans in, voice dipped in mischief. “Would you be mad if I said they look cute together?”
Ai-oon turns her head, slow, deliberate, eyes sharp like she could slice him in half with just a look.
Kosol grins, hands up. “I’m just saying,” he shrugs. “They both won awards for this.”
“Their faces had nothing to do with it,” she mutters. “They’re good actors.”
He hums, amused. “No arguing with you, huh?”
She exhales, hard. Doodles in the margin of her notebook, lets the pen drag in tight, angry circles. The numbers on the clock tick too slow. The whole world moves too slow. She could be spiking a ball, chasing that rush, but instead, she’s here, watching this.
Then the scene shifts.
A ripple moves through the hall, a collective hush, and then—ooohhh.
Kim, the female character in the movie, is in Leng’s lap now— hands in his hair, mouths meeting, breathless declarations of love tumbling between them, the kind that makes people believe in the impossible. The screen fades, but the air in the room still hums, charged.
Ai-oon doesn’t realize her fist is clenched until Pang nudges her.
“If you squeeze any harder, you’re gonna break your own hand,” she deadpans.
Ai-oon exhales through her nose, flicks her eyes to her notebook.
She’s written why the hell am I watching this over and over, the words practically dug into the page, ink pressed deep.
Ai-oon only breathes out when the professor finally pauses the movie, calls time, says they’ll pick up where they left off next class.
Ai-oon makes a mental note not to be there.
They split ways—Kosol and Ben drifting off toward the main building, Pang sticking by her side because there’s no avoiding each other when you share a team, when you spend half your life in the same gym, same drills, same exhaustion dragging you down to the bone.
Pang tries to talk. Throws out random things—something about their next match, about some stupid meme Kosol sent in the group chat, about what she’s having for dinner—but Ai-oon barely responds. Just nods. Grunts. A clipped hmm. A sharp yeah, sure.
By the time they reach the lockers, Pang has had enough. She waits until the room is empty except for the two of them before jabbing a fist against Ai-oon’s arm, not hard, just enough to make a point.
“It’s weird seeing you like this,” she says.
Ai-oon sighs, pulling off her uniform, reaching for her practice gear. “Like what?”
Pang tilts her head, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to get a better read. “Like this. All tense. Brooding. Quiet in the annoying kind of way.” She pauses. Then, like she’s testing the words, “Jealous.”
Ai-oon snorts. “I’m not jealous.”
Pang lifts a brow. “Yeah? Tell that to your face.”
Ai-oon rolls her eyes, shoves one leg, then the other into her practice shorts. She keeps her head down, focuses on tying her shoelaces like they require the utmost concentration.
Pang watches for a moment, arms crossed. “I thought you two had this sorted out back then.”
No answer. Ai-oon loops the lace around her fingers too fast, too tight, unties it just to redo it again.
“Ai—”
“I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Pang exhales, long and slow. She knows Ai-oon too well to push. Knows her since they were barely more than kids, since scraped knees and hand-me-down jerseys and promises made over melted popsicles.
It’s kind of pathetic, but she gets it.
She always does.
“Well,” Pang says, bumping Ai-oon’s knee with her foot, “if you ever feel like discussing it one day, you know where to find me.”
Ai-oon doesn’t look up right away, but when she does, there’s the ghost of a smile there. Barely anything. But it’s enough.
For now.
Most days, she plays like she’s got the universe dangling by its strings—jump, land, block, spike. Easy. Like she was born for this, built for this. She could’ve gone pro last year, could’ve left the whole college thing behind without a second thought. But she made a promise—to the team, to herself—that she would stay until her last season. Ai-oon never breaks promises.
But today... today, she’s not really here.
She asks Pang to help with her spikes, trying to force her body to fall into the familiar rhythm, but her mind keeps wandering. She knows they’re all watching as she goes for one hit after another, feeling the burn of the ball in her palm, the satisfying thud when it hits the other side of the net. It’s a temporary distraction, the pain of it all. The focus of it.
Spike.
A beautiful face flashes through her mind—the woman of her dreams, kissing some man—and Ai-oon’s insides twist in a way she can’t shake.
Spike.
She hears her girlfriend’s voice, calling her name. But it’s drowned out by the sound of her classmates, the chorus of giddiness and awes, when that stupid love scene came on screen a little over an hour ago. The one that made Ai-oon want to punch something.
Spike.
She thinks of dark brown eyes— eyes that pull her in and hold her hostage, the kind of gaze that promises more than she could ever understand. And yet... everything has to stay quiet, has to stay hidden. Two years of this.
Spike.
It goes on. One memory, then another, then another. Each hit stronger than the last. Each slam a little more desperate. Pim gives Pang a questioning look, but Pang just shrugs, playing the part of the oblivious teammate. She sets another ball in Ai-oon’s direction.
“Ingsamak! Come here.”
There it goes. The crack in her armor.
She knows she’s in trouble now.
Ai-oon grunts and marches over to Pim, who tilts her head, the kind of look that says Ai-oon is the last thing she wants to deal with right now.
“Are you trying to get yourself injured?” Pim asks, voice tight with concern.
“I know how to control it,” Ai-oon shoots back, a little too forcefully.
“Yeah, until shit happens, and you fall hard, and your whole damn season is over. Jesus, Ai-oon, we have a qualifying game this weekend,” Pim scolds. Her hands go to her hips, gathering herself, preparing for the inevitable stubbornness that comes with talking to Ai-oon. It’s like trying to lecture a rock—nothing ever gets through.
“Damn, Ai, did you fight with your girlfriend?” Jan calls from behind, teasing with that shit-eating grin that Ai-oon loves to hate.
“Yah, stop that,” Pang jumps in, playing the role of the protector.
“What? I just asked,” Jan argues, raising her hands like she’s been falsely accused.
To her credit, she doesn’t know a damn thing.
“Is that what happened?” Pim asks, brow furrowed, voice softer now.
“What? No.” Ai-oon answers too quickly, but her face betrays her, saying everything Pim needs to know.
Pim sighs, her gaze softening. “Look, I don’t know what your problem is, but don’t get yourself hurt, alright? We have an upcoming game, and we need you. If you’re upset and you don’t feel like practicing, just take a breather—”
“I said I’m okay.”
There’s finality in her voice, something sharp and absolute, and even Pim—the captain, the one who always knows how to keep Ai-oon in check—pauses, taken aback by the force of it.
Ai-oon’s fiery, she’s stubborn, but rarely does she let herself get this far out of control in front of the team. They’re her family, but right now, it feels like she’s losing herself and there’s no one to pull her back.
“Well, alright then. Let’s take five and do one set, yeah?” Pim calls, all business, all captain, and the team answers back in lazy agreement.
Except Ai-oon.
She doesn’t nod, doesn’t say anything, just peels away from the court, heading for the bench like she’s moving through water, slow and heavy, her breath sitting wrong in her chest.
Her phone is there, vibrating like it’s alive, buzzing with the kind of insistence that means pick up, pick up, pick up.
She doesn’t.
She sees the name—May—and something in her stomach clenches, like a fist closing tight. She lets it ring, watches the screen dim, and when she finally presses the button, three missed calls stare back at her. Four unread messages sitting there like landmines.
She could open them. She could let the words in, let them crawl under her skin, let them soften her, but she doesn’t. Can’t. Not when her chest still feels like it’s caving in, not when she can still hear the giggles and sighs from an hour ago, still see that scene playing out in technicolor behind her eyes.
Her name, again—this time from Pim.
“Alright, let’s go!”
Ai-oon shoves the phone into her bag, slams the zipper shut like that’ll keep everything inside.
She’ll deal with it later.
Later, when the adrenaline has settled, when her hands stop shaking, when the phantom taste of jealousy isn’t so fresh on her tongue.
----
The gym lights buzz overhead, dimmer now, softer in the way everything feels softer after a long practice—muscles aching, sweat cooling, heartbeat finally steady. Ai-oon walks home slow, the weight of the night pressing down on her, the court still echoing somewhere in the back of her mind.
She should check her phone. She knows that. But she doesn’t.
The elevator hums as it carries her up to her floor, and when she pushes the key into the lock, she’s already bracing herself for the quiet.
But when she swings the door open, she sees her.
May.
Asleep on the couch, curled up like she belongs there, like she hasn’t spent the last few hours setting Ai-oon’s chest on fire.
Ai-oon stops, breath catching somewhere between a sigh and something more desperate. She toes off her shoes, sets her bag down too hard, and May stirs, blinking awake, confused and soft in the dim apartment light.
“Ai,” May mumbles, voice thick with sleep, blinking at her like she’s something dreamlike, unreal.
Ai-oon doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to hold this moment without breaking it. She just stands there, looking at May, who is here, who is real, who is hers.
And despite everything, despite the tightness in her chest, despite the jealousy still simmering under her ribs, all Ai-oon wants to do is close the distance between them.
Ai-oon exhales, long and slow, like she can let go of the knots tightening in her chest if she just breathes deep enough. It doesn’t really work. May is still here, like she’s been waiting for Ai-oon all night, and maybe she has.
“You—why are you here?” Ai-oon asks again, but it comes out soft this time.
May blinks up at her, sleep still clinging to the edges of her, and gives a little shrug. “Because you weren’t answering your calls.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it was never even a question.
Ai-oon presses her lips together, feeling something tight settle in her throat. She glances at her bag, at the phone tucked deep inside, at all the messages she’d ignored because she couldn’t bring herself to read them without feeling that ugly twist of jealousy creeping in again.
“You could’ve slept in my room,” Ai-oon murmurs, like she means it, like she doesn’t want May to have spent the night here alone, waiting for a door that took too long to open, “Or stayed somewhere with friends while waiting.”
May just smiles, small, amused, the kind that makes Ai-oon’s heart ache. “It’s okay. I have a key, remember?”
She says it so easily, so casually, like it’s nothing, but Ai-oon knows better. She remembers giving May that key—remembers pressing it into her palm in some quiet moment when love had been simple, when all she’d wanted was for May to have a way in, always. That part hasn’t changed.
“Shouldn’t you be filming?” Ai-oon asks, trying to shift the conversation, trying to be normal even though her stomach is still in knots.
May stretches a little, stands up, moving slow and careful like she knows Ai-oon is on edge. “We wrapped early,” she says, watching her. “I wanted to see you.”
Ai-oon swallows, hard. Because God, that should be enough. It is enough. May is here. May is looking at her like she’s the only thing that matters.
She wants to let it go. She wants to just close the space between them, let herself be pulled in like she always is. But the images from earlier still linger, clawing at the edges of her mind—May on screen, May kissing someone else, May’s voice saying someone else’s name. She knows it’s acting, knows it’s part of the job, knows it doesn’t mean anything, but—
But Ai-oon isn’t used to sharing. Not like this. Not with the whole world watching.
May steps even closer now, her gaze soft, questioning. “Ai,” she says gently, “what’s wrong?”
And Ai-oon—Ai-oon doesn’t know how to say I’m jealous without sounding ridiculous. She doesn’t know how to say I know it’s just a movie, but I hate seeing you with someone else without feeling selfish.
So instead, she just exhales, long and slow again, and looks at May, who is here, who came to see her, who always chooses her.
And despite the jealousy still simmering somewhere deep inside her, all Ai-oon wants to do is pull her in, press her face into May’s shoulder, and let herself have this moment.
May watches her like she already knows—like she sees right through every wall Ai-oon is trying to put up.
“Ai,” she says, voice soft, careful, reaching.
Ai-oon swallows, looking away, tugging at the hem of her practice shirt like the loose threads there might hold her together. “I’m fine,” she says, too fast, too flat.
May tilts her head, unconvinced. “Are you?”
Ai-oon exhales through her nose, shakes her head like she can shake off the feeling curling in her chest. She should just say it, should let it out instead of letting it sit there between them like a weight neither of them can name. But she can’t. She doesn’t know how to without sounding ridiculous, without letting it spill out in a way she can’t take back.
“I’m just tired,” she says instead, offering a small, tired smile that May doesn’t buy for a second.
There’s a beat where May looks like she might push, might ask again, but then she just nods, like she knows Ai-oon needs space to circle around it on her own. “Okay,” she says, simple and easy, and Ai-oon feels something in her ribs loosen just a little.
Ai-oon orders Chinese takeout for dinner, May’s comfort food. They eat in quiet. Ai-oon picks at her food, shoving bites into her mouth but not really tasting anything. May eats like she’s waiting, like she’s letting the silence settle for a while before deciding whether or not to break it.
It’s a little tense, and Ai-oon hates that—hates the space between them, hates that she let this feeling sink its claws in deep enough to put distance where there should be none.
May is patient. She always has been. But even she has her limits.
After a while, she puts her chopsticks down with a small clink and leans forward, elbows on the table, voice gentle but unwavering. “Ai,” she says, “if something’s wrong, you can tell me.”
Ai-oon grips her own chopsticks tighter, gaze stuck to her half-empty plate. “It’s nothing.”
May sighs, and Ai-oon can feel her staring. “You know I don’t believe that.”
Ai-oon forces out a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah,” she says, “I know.”
May doesn’t push right away. She lets the quiet settle, lets it stretch, but Ai-oon feels it pressing in from all sides. The weight of unspoken things, the way May is watching her like she’s waiting for Ai-oon to open a door that she’s too afraid to touch.
Ai-oon wants to be normal about this. She wants to laugh it off, crack a joke, shift the conversation somewhere lighter, safer. But it’s stuck in her chest, this thing—this stupid, ugly feeling she doesn’t want to name.
May drums her fingers lightly on the table, thinking. Then, softer now, she says, “If it’s work or—I don’t know, anything about this whole mess of a job that makes it harder for you, you can tell me, you know?”
Ai-oon flinches, just barely. May doesn’t call her out on it, but she notices—of course she notices.
“It’s not—” Ai-oon stops herself. Because it is, isn’t it? Not in the way May thinks, not completely, but close enough that she doesn’t know how to deny it, “Well, I don’t know.” She exhales, sets her chopsticks down. “I just…” She hesitates, the words fragile, unsteady. “Do you ever get tired of this?”
May’s brow furrows. “Of what?”
Ai-oon gestures vaguely between them. “Of us. Of—having to be so careful all the time.” She laughs a little, but it’s thin, tired. “Sometimes, I think you’re better off dating someone you can freely hang out with.”
May presses just a little more, seeing bit by bit where this is truly coming from, “and who would that be?”
Ai-oon huffs, almost in disbelief that they’re having this conversation now, “I don’t know, someone in the same industry. Maybe a costar, sounds a lot easier,” she purports, her voice heavy with insecurity.
May’s expression softens, her voice gentle when she speaks. “Ai,” she says, and it’s so simple, the way she says her name, but it makes Ai-oon’s throat tighten.
The words are still there, tangled and aching, and she has to let them out. She doesn’t even know what she’s asking for, but it’s something she needs to hear.
“You’d tell me, right?” she asks, voice small, almost like a whisper. “If something ever changed. If one day, I wasn’t—” She cuts herself off, the words heavy in her throat, twisting, too hard to say.
May’s heart breaks at that, confusion flickering in her eyes before they settle into something steady. She leans forward, her voice low and insistent. “Tell you what?”
She shakes her head, eyes focused on her hands, trying to steady herself. “If I wasn’t enough.”
May’s hand moves then, reaching across the table and wrapping around Ai-oon’s. Her fingers are warm, grounding, like they’re saying something Ai-oon hasn’t been able to hear yet.
“Ai-oon,” May says, her voice soft but strong. “Hey, look at me.”
Ai-oon hesitates, but she does. She meets May’s gaze, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the tension in her chest begins to loosen.
“Ai,” May repeats, softer this time, “You’re more than enough. You always have been.”
Ai-oon’s heart beats faster, hope starting to rise against the storm in her mind.
“I know it’s not always easy. I know my job makes things complicated. I… I know people have expectations, and I know that’s frustrating.” May pauses, searching Ai-oon’s face. “But I need you to know that I’m here. That I choose to be here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
For the first time in months, Ai-oon feels tears pool in the corners of her eyes, blurring the edges of May’s face. She looks away, because if she keeps looking—if she meets those warm, steady doe eyes—she’ll come undone right here at their tiny kitchen table, and she’s not sure she’ll know how to put herself back together again.
“I know it’s— it’s immature,” she starts, her voice wobbling despite herself. “We’ve talked about this before, and I’m probably being stupid—”
“It’s not stupid because it’s real,” May cuts in, voice gentle but unwavering. “And I get it. I know you support me, I know you trust me, but don’t think for a second that I don’t imagine how much easier it might be for you to be with someone you don’t have to hide. Someone you can introduce to your friends without feeling like you’re putting something at risk.”
The words hit deep, sharp in a way Ai-oon isn’t prepared for, because she’s spent so much time trapped in her own head, drowning in her own insecurities, that she didn’t stop to think—May feels it too. This weight, this ache, this constant negotiation of their lives against the world.
Ai-oon opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
May exhales, shaking her head, and when she speaks again, her voice is softer, but no less pained. “Ai, if you think it would be easier for me to be with someone else, I could say the same thing about you.” She lets out a shaky breath, one hand curling into a fist on the table. “You think I don’t want to take you out on dates without worrying about whether there’s an obsessed fan lurking in the corner? You think I don’t want to watch your games and cheer for you so loudly that your teammates make fun of you for it? You think I don’t want to brag about how good you are to me? How good you are for me?”
Ai-oon’s throat tightens, because she does. She knows.
She knows May would be there in the front row of every match if she could, wearing her number on a hoodie, waiting for her outside the locker room with a stupidly proud grin. She knows May would hold her hand in the street if the world let her, if there weren’t a thousand eyes watching, waiting, ready to take what’s theirs and twist it into something ugly.
Ai-oon swallows hard, fingers curling into the fabric of her sweatpants. She’s spent so much time sitting with this fear, letting it grow, letting it convince her she’s alone in it. But May is here—right in front of her, hands open, heart bare. And maybe Ai-oon isn’t ready to let go of the fear completely, but she can meet May halfway.
She exhales, slow and careful, before reaching across the table, mirroring May’s gesture. Their fingers brush, hesitant at first, until Ai-oon laces them together, grounding herself in the warmth of May’s palm.
“I know,” she says, voice quiet but firm. She squeezes May’s hand once, like an anchor, like a promise. “I know.”
She looks down at their hands, the way they fit together so easily, like something steady in a world that never seems to stop shifting. “It’s just—sometimes it feels like I’m bracing for something to go wrong,” She huffs a small breath, shakes her head. “I don’t want to feel that way. But it’s not easy to turn off.”
May runs her thumb over Ai-oon’s knuckles, slow and steady. “You don’t have to turn it off,” she says. “You just have to let me be here.”
Ai-oon meets her gaze, and for the first time that night, the weight in her chest eases. She lets out a breath, lets herself press into the warmth of May’s touch.
“Okay,” she says. “I can try.”
The apartment is bathed in soft, golden light, and the air feels thick, not with heaviness, but with something more delicate, like the space between words not yet spoken. Ai-oon doesn’t hesitate when May tugs her toward the bathroom, fingers intertwining in a way that suggests both longing and restraint. There’s a gentle pull in May’s movements, as though she’s afraid of letting go too soon, and Ai-oon feels the same, the subtle tug in her chest that speaks of things not yet named.
May glances at Ai-oon, her voice low, almost a whisper. “Let me take care of you,” she breathes, her fingers tracing the edge of Ai-oon’s collarbone as she pulls her closer.
The bath fills slowly, the water rising in a quiet, soothing way. The steam curls around them, caressing the air as May tests the temperature, her wrist dipping delicately beneath the surface. Ai-oon watches the way her fingers move, slow, purposeful, as if every touch is a promise, and her heart skips a beat. The lavender scent from the oil is almost too sweet, wrapping around them both as May pours a little into the water, the rich scent rising like a spell.
Ai-oon slips in first, the warmth of the water enveloping her, and May follows soon after, settling behind her with a soft murmur. The water swirls around them, and Ai-oon feels the subtle press of May’s body against hers, the heat between them almost unbearable. There’s something intoxicating about it—the feel of the water, the closeness of their bodies, and the way May’s breath comes just a little faster when their skin touches.
For a while, neither of them speaks. Ai-oon closes her eyes as May’s hands roam over her arms, slow and deliberate, like she’s memorizing every curve, every inch of skin beneath her fingertips. The touch is almost reverent, as if Ai-oon is something fragile, something precious. May’s hands slide down her back, caressing the curve of her spine, and Ai-oon sighs, her body leaning into the touch, a quiet surrender. May leans forward then, pressing her lips just below Ai-oon’s shoulder, her kiss soft, lingering, like she’s tasting the salt of Ai-oon’s skin. The kiss is followed by another, this time just behind her ear, where the skin is more sensitive, more tender. Ai-oon shivers, a quiet gasp escaping her lips.
May’s hands move lower, gentle, firm, as she massages the tension from Ai-oon’s muscles. Every stroke, every press, sends a wave of heat through Ai-oon’s body, and she can’t help the soft moan that slips from her lips. May’s lips trail down the side of her neck now, barely brushing the skin but leaving a searing path behind them. The water laps softly around them, a gentle rhythm that matches the beating of Ai-oon’s heart, quickening as May moves even closer.
Ai-oon’s breath catches when May’s lips finally find the soft spot at the base of her neck, her teeth grazing just lightly, just enough to send a jolt of electricity through her. The sensation lingers, warming her skin, and she shivers under the heat of it. May pulls back slightly, her eyes dark with desire. Ai-oon shifts, turning her body slightly, just enough to look at May, her eyes meeting hers in that quiet, charged moment. She can see the softness in May’s face, the way her lips are parted just slightly, a breath held between them as if they both know this moment means something, something deeper than either is willing to say just yet. May’s hands rest on Ai-oon’s hips, fingers tracing lazy circles that send warm shivers through her.
“I love you,” Ai-oon says, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her gaze holds May’s, a silent plea, and May responds with nothing more than a low groan, her lips crashing onto Ai-oon’s with a hunger that matches the fire building between them.
The kiss is deep, slow, almost aching, as if they’re both savoring the simplicity of this moment—just them, here, in this space. Ai-oon’s body responds instinctively, her hands sliding into May’s hair, pulling her closer, and May follows, moving with her, as if nothing else in the world matters but the feel of each other’s lips and the quiet intensity between them. Soft, yet insistent, as if they both need this, need to claim each other in this way, if only for a little while.
Later, in the low light of Ai-oon’s bedroom, they settle beneath the sheets, warm and drowsy from the bath. May is already curled into Ai-oon’s side, arm draped loosely over her waist, but Ai-oon stays awake, staring at the ceiling, turning their conversation over in her head.
She feels May shift slightly, the small hitch in her breath that tells Ai-oon she isn’t fully asleep yet.
“I’m sorry,” Ai-oon murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.
May doesn’t move away. Instead, she tightens her hold, pressing closer, her breath warm against Ai-oon’s collarbone. “For what?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep, but there’s something else there too—curiosity, maybe even a little concern.
Ai-oon exhales, her fingers tracing absentminded patterns over the smooth curve of May’s arm, the kind of touch that soothes as much as it aches. “For making this harder than it has to be,” she admits, voice raw. “For… holding onto things in a way that hurts both of us.”
May shifts just enough to look at her, their faces close in the dim light. “You don’t have to apologize for feeling things,” she says softly, and Ai-oon can feel the quiet weight of her words, the certainty in them.
A flicker of guilt twists inside Ai-oon. She’s been tangled in her own insecurities, drowning in feelings that she doesn’t always know how to name, and yet May—steady, unwavering—never falters in her reassurance.
“Earlier,” Ai-oon starts, hesitating, but deciding that she doesn’t want to keep this to herself. “I was in one of my classes and… they had us watch something.”
May’s fingers still against Ai-oon’s skin for just a second, like she already knows.
“It was your movie,” Ai-oon continues, quieter now. “The one from last year. With Tong.”
She doesn’t look at May right away, doesn’t want to see the understanding that’s surely already there. Because Ai-oon knows she has no reason to feel this way—no right, even—but that doesn’t stop the slow churn of jealousy, the way it made something sharp settle in her chest.
“I didn’t like the way it made me feel,” Ai-oon admits. “Not because of you, not even because of him, just—” she exhales, frustrated with herself. “It stirred something ugly inside of me. And I hate that. I hate that I let it get to me.”
May is silent for a moment, and then she moves, her fingers lifting to Ai-oon’s jaw, tracing slow, deliberate lines like she’s memorizing the shape of her, like she’s grounding her.
Ai-oon exhales, leaning into the touch. “I should have known better,” she murmurs. “I felt like I was punishing you for something that wasn’t even your fault.”
May tilts her head slightly, her hair falling over Ai-oon’s pillow as she watches her, eyes dark, unreadable. Then, softly, she says, “I’m all yours, Ai.”
The words send a slow, warm shiver down Ai-oon’s spine, and she finds herself holding onto them, letting them settle deep.
“I can be surrounded by anyone, anywhere, and I’d still only want you,” May continues, voice quieter now, like she’s offering up something fragile, something true.
Ai-oon swallows. “I know that,” she says. “And I don’t want you to think I can’t handle this. Because I can. I will. It’s just… sometimes it still feels unreal that we’re together.”
May smiles, a quiet, knowing thing. “We are,” she muses, as if it’s the most obvious truth in the world. “As surreal as it sounds, we’re together, Ai.”
Ai-oon swallows past the lump in her throat. “I know,” she says, voice small but steady. “I’m just… I don’t want to keep waiting for things to go wrong. I don’t want to ruin this by being afraid of it.”
May’s fingers brush lightly against Ai-oon’s cheek, a slow, reassuring touch. “You won’t,” she says. “We’ll figure it out together. We always do.”
Ai-oon nods, not trusting her voice, and May smiles, small but sure, before leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss to Ai-oon’s temple.
“Sleep,” May whispers. “I’m right here.”
Ai-oon lets her eyes close, lets the warmth of May’s presence anchor her. And for the first time in a long while, she allows herself to believe that maybe—just maybe—this is something they can hold onto.
----
The next morning feels different. Lighter.
Ai-oon wakes to the scent of fresh coffee and something warm pressed against her back—May, still tangled around her like she’s reluctant to let go. Ai-oon could stay like this, would stay like this, but there’s a class to get to, and a practice after that, and May has filming, so she carefully slips out of bed. May stirs, mumbling something incoherent before blinking up at her, bleary-eyed.
“Morning,” Ai-oon murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before heading to the bathroom.
By the time she steps into the kitchen, May is already up, moving around the space with the kind of easy familiarity that still makes Ai-oon’s chest ache in the best way. The tension from the night before hasn’t vanished entirely, but it’s no longer a weight pressing between them. They move better now, more in sync, as if they both know—without saying—that they don’t want to waste any more time on silence.
“Got you something for practice,” May says, holding up a neatly packed container. “Figured you’d be too tired to make something after class.”
Ai-oon quirks a brow, amused. “Are you trying to bribe me into eating properly?”
May shrugs, smirking. “Maybe. Is it working?”
Ai-oon rolls her eyes but takes the packed meal, setting it in her bag. “Thanks,” she says, softer now. And she means it—not just for the food, but for this. For May knowing exactly what she needs before she even has to ask.
As Ai-oon finishes tying her shoelaces, May leans against the doorframe, watching her. “You’re coming home right after practice?” she asks.
“Mm. Unless you’ve got something else in mind?” Ai-oon looks up, smirking slightly.
May hums, pretending to think. “I’m thinking of spending the night here again.”
Ai-oon snorts. “Maybe we should share rent.”
May pouts, and Ai-oon laughs, shaking her head. They’re okay. They’ll be okay.
Two years ago, they weren’t even close to this.
They’d met in a talent agency, of all places—Ai-oon had been doing an immersion project, something about understanding the behind-the-scenes of the entertainment industry. She hadn’t expected much beyond paperwork and observing from a distance. But then, on a random Tuesday morning, she’d stepped into an elevator, and a girl, practically the same age as her, with sharp but oddly familiar features and tired eyes had rushed in just as the doors were closing—too fast, too distracted, her coffee tilting dangerously in her hand.
Ai-oon had only registered the heat when the spill happened. A sharp gasp, then a string of apologies as May frantically tried to dab at the mess she’d made on Ai-oon’s papers.
“I—shit, I am so sorry. God, I—”
Her production team had laughed it off, but May hadn’t let it go, bowing so deeply in apology that Ai-oon almost felt bad. Almost.
Later that day, lunch had arrived for the department where Ai-oon is assigned—on May’s tab. Ai-oon had been about to thank her in passing when one of her supervising seniors slid a note into her hand.
Let me properly apologize? Coffee, my treat.
A number was scrawled beneath it. Ai-oon had stared at it for a good minute, debating, before tucking it into her pocket.
She hadn’t realized then that May would become a part of her life. That a spilled coffee in an elevator would turn into late-night drives, whispered conversations, shared silences, and hands that always, always knew when to reach for hers.
Now, standing at the door, Ai-oon adjusts her bag, catching the way May is still watching her, still lingering like she’s memorizing this moment.
“I’ll be back before seven tonight,” Ai-oon promises, brushing their fingers together as she passes, “Take care at work, yeah?”
May catches her hand before she can step out completely, pressing a quick, warm kiss to her knuckles. “You, too,” she says simply.
And just like that, Ai-oon steps out into the day, feeling—finally, finally—like she isn’t waiting for something to slip away.
Later that day, Ai-oon settles onto the locker room bench, unzipping her bag and pulling out the lunch May had packed for her. Ai-oon, before, had grumbled about being treated like a child, but the truth was, she liked it. Liked the way May always thought about these things, even when she had a million other things to deal with.
She peels back the lid of the container—salad on one side, a sandwich neatly wrapped on the other—and just as she’s about to take a bite, a small folded note catches her eye.
I love you, don’t get hungry.
Ai-oon huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. Of course.
But before she can tuck it away, a hand swoops in from the side.
“Ohhh, what’s this?”
Ai-oon barely has time to react before Frung, a teammate who’s ever the menace, snatches the note from her fingers.
“Frung,” she warns, but it’s already too late—Frung straightens up, clearing her throat dramatically before reading aloud, “I love you, don’t get hungry.”
The locker room erupts into a chorus of teasing noises, exaggerated awws and whistles.
“Ai-oon has someone writing her love notes,” one of their teammates, Ann, snickers.
“Shut up,” Ai-oon mutters, face warming as she lunges for Frung, but the girl dances out of reach, waving the note in the air like a victory flag.
“Who’s the lucky person?” someone asks, and before Ai-oon can answer, Pim, their captain, cuts in, lounging lazily against her locker with an amused look.
“What’s your girlfriend called again?” she asks.
Ai-oon exhales through her nose. “May.”
Pim hums, as if considering something deeply, before deadpanning, “Was she born in April?”
A beat of silence—then a collective groan.
Frung throws a towel at her. “That was awful.”
“Truly disgraceful,” Pang agrees, before looking at Ai-oon and bobbing her eyebrows for handling the situation quite well, having been the only person around who knows the truth about Ai-oon and May.
Ai-oon just shakes her head, picking up the note and tucking it safely into her bag before giving Pim a flat look.
“Fuck you, Pim.”
Pim grins, completely unbothered, but she raises her hands in surrender as if she knew better than to annoy a hungry Ai-oon.
Ai-oon only groans, shoving a bite of her sandwich into her mouth just to avoid having to respond.
By the time Ai-oon gets home, the apartment is bathed in the quiet sounds of May moving—soft footsteps, the rustle of fabric, the faint clinking of dishes. It’s grounding, in a way, walking into this, into her.
The kitchen light is dim, casting a warm glow over May, who stands barefoot, her damp hair curling slightly at the ends. She’s wearing one of Ai-oon’s old university sweatshirts, the fabric swallowing her frame, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the delicate line of her wrists. She looks up when Ai-oon walks in, a tired but undeniably fond smile settling on her face.
“You’re home,” she says, stating the obvious like it’s something she needs to say out loud just to make it real.
Ai-oon exhales, setting her bag down before making her way to her, drawn in by something quiet and unspoken. “I’m home.”
May hums, tilting her head up in silent invitation, and Ai-oon doesn’t hesitate. She leans down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to May’s cheek, her lips trailing just slightly before pulling away. May sighs into the touch, her fingers curling loosely at the hem of Ai-oon’s shirt, like she’s trying to keep her close just a little longer.
“How was practice?” May asks, her voice still thick with the remnants of sleep.
Ai-oon snorts, reaching for a glass. “Oh, you mean besides my very supportive teammates stealing the love note you packed and reading it out loud for everyone?”
May blinks, and then, slowly, horror and amusement blend across her face. “No,” she breathes.
“Oh, yes.” Ai-oon takes a slow sip of water, watching as May buries her face in her hands.
“Tell me they didn’t—”
“They absolutely did.” Ai-oon leans against the counter, setting her glass down, a smirk playing at her lips. “Locker room erupted. A few of them are convinced you’re some insanely romantic poet.”
May groans, shaking her head. “I hate it here.”
Ai-oon grins, stepping closer. “You love it here.”
May peeks at her between her fingers, then sighs in defeat, dropping her hands. “Fine. But only because I’m glad you actually ate. You did eat, right?”
Ai-oon rolls her eyes. “Yes, Mom.”
May narrows her eyes before poking her side, fingers pressing just enough to make Ai-oon squirm. “Don’t Mom me,” she mutters, chasing her with another quick jab. “You run on caffeine and sheer stubborness.”
Ai-oon laughs, dodging her next attempt, the sound light, effortless. The weight from last night still lingers, but it’s different now—not something heavy pressing between them, but something they’re holding together. Something they’re moving through, side by side.
Later, they settle onto the couch, Ai-oon stretching her legs across May’s lap, her head tipping back against the cushions as May’s fingers start tracing slow, absentminded shapes against her shin. The silence between them is thick with something warm, something easy.
After a moment, Ai-oon clears her throat. “Hey, um. We have a qualifying game this weekend.”
May’s fingers still slightly, her eyes flicking up.
“It’s not a huge deal or anything,” Ai-oon continues quickly, as if she’s trying not to make it sound bigger than it is. “Just one of those things we have to win to stay in the running for the season. But, you know, figured I’d tell you.”
May’s gaze softens, and she gives a small nod. She doesn’t offer false promises, doesn’t say I’ll try or maybe I can come. They both know how her schedule works. They both know how this works. But instead of brushing past it, May squeezes Ai-oon’s knee, a quiet acknowledgment, a touch meant to hold rather than fix.
“Thanks for telling me,” she says, simple but certain.
Ai-oon shrugs, looking down at the way May’s fingers curl gently against her leg. “Yeah, well. You should still know.”
There’s a flicker of something in May’s expression before she tugs Ai-oon down, guiding her until their foreheads brush. Ai-oon exhales against her skin, caught in the slow pull of her.
“I love you,” May murmurs, voice low, like a secret meant only for Ai-oon to hear.
Ai-oon’s breath catches, her eyes fluttering shut as she sinks into the warmth of it, into the way it settles deep in her bones. “I love you too,” she whispers, and when May leans in to kiss her, Ai-oon lets herself get lost in it, in the softness, in the slow, unshakable certainty of her.
-----
A few days pass, and the rhythm of Ai-oon’s life settles into something familiar. May is mostly consumed by the final stretch of her shooting, caught up in long hours on set, while Ai-oon is firmly in her world of practice and preparation for the upcoming game. The chaos of their schedules leaves them with little time to sit down together, but it’s not as suffocating as it once might’ve been.
Ai-oon spends her days drilling through plays and footwork, the repetition grounding her. The reflection paper she’s been procrastinating on—the one about the god-awful movie that had set off a ripple of jealousy in her a few nights before—sits on the corner of her desk, still unfinished. But it’s easier now. She’s not stuck in the same swirling spiral of emotion. She’s learned to step back from it, to see it for what it was: an insecurity rooted in her own fears, not May’s actions.
It lingers, like the last notes of a song that won't quite leave her mind. But it doesn’t consume her. Not anymore.
She takes small steps to keep herself in check. She calls May at night when the house is quiet and the world outside feels far away. It’s a delicate dance—May’s schedule isn’t always predictable, but when she can, she picks up. They don’t talk long. Some nights it’s just a few minutes, others, a bit longer. They talk about the usual things—how Ai-oon’s practice went, how May’s day on set went, small details about the world they’re sharing in pieces, the way it should be for now.
The weekend rolls in like a slow tide, and before Ai-oon knows it, game day’s here. The city hums beneath a sky just beginning to burn gold, that last stretch of sun stretching itself long over rooftops, catching in windows, glinting off the pavement like something alive. She pulls her jersey on, the weight of it a familiar anchor, something steady, something real. The rhythm of it all settles into her bones—the pre-game jitters, the pulse of adrenaline curling warm in her stomach, the steady thud of her heartbeat keeping time with the city’s own.
She slings her bag over her shoulder, checks her phone one last time before heading out, thumb hovering over the screen. And then, just as she’s reaching for the door, it lights up with a call. May.
Ai-oon exhales, a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Smiles as she picks up.
“Hey, baby, you ready for your big game?” May’s voice slides through the speaker, warm, familiar, a sound Ai-oon could pick out of a hundred voices in a crowded room.
“Getting there,” Ai-oon says, shifting her weight, adjusting her grip on the strap of her bag. “Just heading out now. I’ll do my best, but no promises.”
May laughs, that soft, lilting kind of laugh that makes something in Ai-oon’s chest ache in the best way. “You always say that,” May teases, “and then you go out there and destroy everyone anyway.”
Ai-oon grins, ducking her head like May can see her. “Maybe. Maybe not. I mean, I am out there trying to crush people.”
“Sure, sure, tough guy.” There’s a beat of silence on the other end, and then—softer, something gentler in the way May breathes out, “I’m sorry I can’t be there.”
Ai-oon leans against the doorframe, lets her head tip back just a little. The weight of it is there, yeah, but she’s already learned how to carry it. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You’ve got your own thing, I get it, May.” She pauses, lets the words settle between them, warm and certain. “I know you’ll be cheering me on anyway.”
“You sure?” May’s voice is quieter now, like she’s standing right next to her, close enough to reach out and touch.
“Of course.” Ai-oon’s voice is soft, sure. “Just take care of yourself, yeah? I want you to be good too.”
“I’ll be good if you win,” May counters, teasing, but there’s something tender in the way she says it, something that tugs at the corners of Ai-oon’s heart.
Ai-oon laughs, shaking her head. “Alright, alright. I’ll do my best to win for you, then.”
“I’ll be rooting for you,” May says, steady and warm. “Always.”
And just like that, Ai-oon feels it—the weight of May’s words curling around her like a steady hand at the small of her back, like a breath against her cheek.
She presses the phone a little closer to her ear, like she can hold the moment there just a second longer. “I’ll make you proud.”
“I know you will,” May murmurs. “Be careful, okay?”
“I’ll call you after,” Ai-oon promises, lips curving as she tugs the door open. “And I’ll have a victory dance ready for you.”
May laughs, soft and sweet. “Can’t wait to see it. Good luck, Ai.”
The line clicks off, but Ai-oon still hears her voice, still feels the warmth of her words sitting somewhere deep in her chest. She steps out into the golden light, the evening stretching wide before her, and yeah, the nerves are there, the fire, the pressure—but May’s with her too. And somehow, that makes it all just a little bit lighter.
---
It didn’t even feel like hours later until they’re finally in the moment.
The final drills hum with that electric energy, the usual nerves of the team settling into the rhythm of their movements. Ai-oon can feel the excitement in the air, the crowd slowly gathering inside the venue. Most of them are students, just the usual faces—their friends, their classmates. A few alumni, maybe some curious onlookers, but mostly, it’s just another game. Another qualifier. But it’s still important, damn it. Nationals are on the horizon, and this is the hurdle they need to clear.
The air smells like sweat and anticipation as Ai-oon jogs through her warm-ups, the ball in her hands, her teammates moving in sync beside her. She’s trying to focus, pushing away any lingering thoughts from her phone call with May earlier. The game’s what matters now, the drills, the plays, the court under her feet.
Their coach, arms crossed, watches from the sidelines, eyes sharp, analyzing every movement, every adjustment. "Stay light on your feet," she calls out. "I want reactions, not just moves. Make sure you’re reading them before they read you."
Ai-oon nods to herself, rolling her shoulders, bouncing a little to keep her muscles loose. The coach isn’t one for long speeches, but her words always hit exactly where they need to.
Pim’s voice cuts through next, the captain stepping up as the team gathers around, stretching and getting their last-minute adjustments in. "Alright, listen up," Pim says, her tone sharp but comforting in its way. "This is the one. We’re here for nationals, not just for today. Let’s show them why we’re the ones they need to watch."
Ai-oon nods, pushing herself to give it all, to stay focused. Her mind’s set on the game, but the rest of the gym is buzzing in a way that’s... off. There’s a shift, a subtle change in the atmosphere, as people start looking away from the court. Ai-oon doesn’t catch it at first, too deep in her own thoughts, but Pang notices it—nudges Ai-oon’s shoulder with a knowing grin.
Ai-oon glances over, and that’s when she sees it: a small group entering from the side, turning heads as they make their way through the crowd. Her heart skips a beat when she sees who’s leading them.
It’s May. Or rather, Metavee, as the world knows her. The actress with a presence that could quiet a room without trying. But she doesn’t walk in first. That’s Ploy, May’s friend and colleague, all casual confidence, waving to a few familiar faces, her presence completely natural here as an alum. Ton, Ploy’s boyfriend and May’s cousin and a known musician, walks beside her, nodding in greeting at a few students, blending right in.
And then, a step behind them, walking just a little slower in a plain black shirt, denim jeans, dark and gold glasses on, her head tilted down like she’s listening intently to whatever Ploy is saying—Metavee.
She’s trying to blend in, that much is obvious. She sticks close to her friends, lets them take the lead, doesn’t make any unnecessary movements that might pull more attention to her than what’s already inevitable. But it’s impossible not to notice her—May, with her effortlessly graceful presence, the way even an attempt at subtlety can’t erase the magnetism she carries.
The recognition ripples through the crowd in waves. Some fans whisper excitedly, pointing subtly, while others just stare, eyes wide, knowing they've spotted the actress, even if they don’t know the whole story.
Frung, ever the eagle-eyed one, leans over to Jan, her voice a mix of disbelief and excitement. "Is that... Metavee?" she whispers, eyes glued to the actress. "What’s she doing here?"
Jan squints, following Frung’s gaze. "I think so. Holy shit, she's even more beautiful in person."
Pim, standing at the front, catches the chatter from the back of the group. She glances over her shoulder, raises an eyebrow, and then turns back to the team, her lips quirking into a sly smile. "Don't get distracted, people. The game’s still ahead of us."
Ai-oon chuckles to herself, shaking her head. They don’t know. None of them do.
"Is she really here to watch us?" Frung mutters, still unable to tear her eyes away.
Ai-oon doesn’t respond, focusing instead on keeping her posture straight, her mind pulled back to the game, to the court. Their coach claps once, loud and commanding, pulling them all back in.
"Alright," she says, looking at them one by one. "Lock in. You know what to do."
Pim clears her throat, refocusing. "On the line, everyone!"
Ai-oon snaps back to reality, stepping into place, feeling her teammates' energy settle into that sharp, determined hum. The world outside the court fades, May’s presence a quiet warmth in the back of her mind.
The game was calling. And Ai-oon, as always, would answer.
The place is alive. Not just with sound, but with movement, with heat, with the kind of anticipation that sits thick in the air before the first serve. Ai-oon stands at the net, knees bent, hands loose but ready, eyes tracking the other side. The other team is good—tall, quick, sharp. Their setter has fast hands, their outside hitter knows how to find gaps, but Ai-oon doesn’t let that shake her. She breathes in deep. This is what she knows. This is what she’s built for.
The first whistle blows. Game on.
Pim sends a clean serve over the net, controlled, just enough force to make them work for it. The other team scrambles into position—their libero makes a smooth pass to the setter, who pushes it outside. Ai-oon follows the play before the ball even moves, watching the shift in their formation, the way their outside hitter takes that half-step back for a stronger approach.
Then she jumps.
She times it perfectly, hands pressing over the net just as the hitter swings. The ball slams into her fingers, redirects downward, and the sound it makes when it hits the floor is a full-bodied thunk that echoes through the gym.
The whistle blows, and Ai-oon’s team huddles, adrenaline sparking between them like live wires.
"Keep reading their setter," Pim says, clapping Ai-oon on the back. "She likes to push quicks when she’s under pressure."
Ai-oon nods, eyes flickering toward the other side. They’re adjusting, talking fast. It won’t be that easy again.
And it isn’t.
The next few rallies are brutal, long stretches of sharp serves, hard spikes, and desperate saves. The libero on the other side is insane, reading every attack, pulling up balls that should be dead. Ann tries to put one down on the right, but they dig it. Pim goes for a setter dump—denied. Ai-oon smashes a cross-court hit, but their outside stretches just far enough to get a hand under it.
It’s like that for minutes. Back and forth. Fast and punishing.
Then, a shift.
Ai-oon watches their middle drop back just a second too soon, sees their outside hesitate between blocking and covering. She catches Pim’s eyes, a small nod exchanged in understanding.
The next play, it’s textbook.
Frung passes sharp to Pim. Ai-oon peels off the net for a decoy, dragging their middle blocker with her. Ann speeds up her approach on the left, and Pim barely looks before she sends the ball flying that way.
Ann swings, hard.
There’s no one there. The ball finds the floor untouched.
Cheers explode from their side, but Ai-oon’s already resetting, already thinking ahead.
The game pushes forward, point by point, each one feeling like a war won. The other team isn’t backing down, and soon it’s set point against them, the score teetering too close for comfort.
Ai-oon rolls her shoulders, exhales slow. She’s aware of everything now—the sweat on her back, the way the crowd leans in, the sheer exhaustion creeping into her calves. But then she glances toward the stands, just for a second, and sees her.
Not Metavee the actress. Just May. Her May.
Sitting quietly, tucked between Ploy and Ton, watching.
Ai-oon doesn’t stare. Doesn’t let it distract her. But something in her chest settles.
She turns back to the court, steady.
Their turn to serve. Pim sends it clean over. The ball moves like a bullet, and their libero barely keeps it from shanking. The setter scrambles, pushing it to their outside hitter in a last-ditch attempt. Ai-oon is already there.
She jumps, reaches.
She meets the ball at its peak, hands clamping over it like steel, and for a second, the entire gym holds its breath.
Then it’s down.
Game over.
The whistle shrieks. Ai-oon lands just as the sound of it sinks in.
Then—chaos.
Their side erupts, teammates screaming, grabbing onto each other, shoving in that messy, ecstatic way that only comes after a fight like that. Pim tackles her in a hug, Ann grabs her shoulders, Frung nearly knocks her over.
“Holy shit, guys,” Frung shrieks, voice cracking.
Ai-oon laughs, breathless, running a hand through her damp hair. Her heart is still hammering, but there’s no tension in it now—just the wild, giddy kind of energy that comes with knowing you left everything on the court.
And then, through the blur of movement and sound, her eyes flick up again.
May is still there. Standing, clapping with her mates, trying not to draw attention, but there. And she’s smiling.
Ai-oon feels something loosen in her chest.
She won.
And somehow, that matters even more because May was there to see it.
Ai-oon doesn’t expect anything dramatic. No grand gestures, no slow-motion sprint onto the court, no love interest crashing into her arms like the final scene of some romcom. That’s not them. That’s not May. But when she meets her eyes again, across the swell of bodies and noise, there’s something there. A quiet knowing. A warmth that settles deep in Ai-oon’s chest, steady as her own heartbeat. And then—just barely—May tilts her chin, her hand shifting at her side, the smallest flicker of movement.
Ai-oon’s brows pull together. What—
Then Pang crashes onto her back, nearly sending her face-first into the court.
"NATIONALS, AI! WE’RE GOING TO NATIONALS!" Pang half-screams, her arms locking around Ai-oon’s neck in something between a hug and an expertly executed chokehold.
Ai-oon barely gets a breath in before the others are on her too—Pim pulling her into a one-armed squeeze, Ann smacking her back so hard she chokes on air, Frung shaking her shoulders like she’s trying to knock loose every single bone in her body. The energy is a wild, pulsing thing, frenzied and alive, the kind of high that only comes after clawing your way through exhaustion and sweat and sheer will to a win that means something. It’s laughter, it’s breathlessness, it’s their bodies pressed together in this tangled mess of victory, and whatever signal May just gave her is lost in the haze of it.
They stumble their way toward the bench, still high on adrenaline, half-drunk on the dizzy euphoria of it all. The game replays itself in bursts—shouts, laughs, someone slapping Ai-oon’s shoulder hard enough to send another shockwave through her already buzzing body. Frung, loudest as always, is in the middle of an over-the-top reenactment of Ai-oon’s last block, arms flailing, sound effects and all.
“And then—BOOM! Lights out! That ball was gone.”
“I think you mean their outside hitter was gone,” Pang corrects, stretching with the smugness of someone who’s been waiting all season for this moment. “That was a full-on denial.”
“Textbook,” Pim agrees, grinning at Ai-oon. “What’s that? Four blocks this game?”
“Five,” Ann corrects, shaking her head, still looking half in awe. “You’re insane, Ai.”
Ai-oon huffs a laugh, rolling out her shoulder. “Just did what I had to do.”
“Oh, shut up,” Pang groans. “Just take the compliment for once.”
Their coach walks up then, arms crossed, expression gruff but not even he can hide the pride tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Alright, alright. Enough celebrating. We still have nationals ahead of us.”
“Not tonight, though,” Frung beams, raising her arms like she’s already calling for another round of celebration. “Tonight, we celebrate.”
Laughter erupts again, loud and shameless, filling up every inch of air around them. Ai-oon lets herself sink into it, lets herself get pulled into the warmth of it. This team, this moment—it’s home. It’s been home for so long she can’t picture anything else.
And then, finally, they start making their way back to the locker room. The energy is still high, everyone moving in the same rhythm, a mix of sore bodies and overexcited voices, groans about exhaustion mixing with plans for post-game food. Ai-oon lets herself get swept up in it, but somewhere in the back of her mind, she circles back to that look May gave her, that almost-hidden gesture toward the exit.
She doesn’t have time to think on it too long, though—because the door swings open—
And someone steps inside.
May.
The noise doesn’t die immediately. It lingers a few seconds longer, laughter trailing into softer murmurs as three people enter, guided gently by someone from the event staff.
Ai-oon notices first—not only May, but the two people behind her.
Ploy and Ton.
Her breath catches in her throat.
Ploy, always calm and composed, looks like she’s trying to keep her expression neutral, though her eyes flick toward Ai-oon briefly, like she already knows this moment is going to explode. Ton, on the other hand, looks deeply amused, hands shoved into his pockets, as if he’s just waiting for the inevitable reaction.
And then there’s May.
May shifts on her feet like she isn’t entirely sure she should be here, like she’s halfway between staying and bolting, but she’s already in too deep. Hands buried in her back pockets, shoulders drawn in just slightly, like she’s trying to fold into herself, take up less space. Like she knows all eyes are on her.
And she’s right.
Because Ai-oon can feel it—the exact second her teammates start putting the pieces together. The way the noise dies, not all at once but in sharp, staggered beats. The shift in energy, the weight of realization settling heavy in the air.
Ann inhales sharply, a sound that slices through the quiet.
Frung, predictably, is the first to react. “Holy shit.”
Jan follows, slower, like her brain’s still catching up. “That’s—”
Ann practically digs her nails into Ai-oon’s arm, voice a stage whisper, urgent like she’s witnessing something absolutely impossible. “Ai. That’s Metavee.”
Ai-oon doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because her brain is still stuck on May is here. May is standing in our locker room.
Then May lifts her head, and her eyes meet Ai-oon’s.
And there it is—that small, familiar smile. The one Ai-oon has memorized, the one she’s seen a hundred times before in the spaces between late-night calls and quiet corners, in moments that belonged only to them. But now, here, in the middle of all this, it feels different. It feels bigger.
Ai-oon swallows, stepping forward.
“Uh—” She clears her throat, but before she can get another word out—
“Sorry for the intrusion,” Ploy cuts in, voice smooth, measured, the kind of tone that knows how to handle an audience. “We tried to wait outside, but, well—” She jerks a thumb toward the event staff lingering in the hallway, looking equal parts nervous and starstruck.
May sighs, finally rubbing the back of her neck, voice softer now. “I told them I’d be quick.”
Ton snorts, crossing his arms. “Yeah? We’ll see about that.”
Something in Ai-oon’s chest tightens, turns over, flips completely.
May shifts a little closer, tentative but steady, and says, “Hey, Ai.”
Ai-oon’s brain short-circuits.
And that’s all it takes for the tension in the room to snap, just a little.
Because Ai-oon knows that voice, knows the way May says her name, familiar and warm, like she’s said it a thousand times before—because she has. And Ai-oon barely has time to process it before she hears Ann suck in another sharp breath beside her.
Ann again, eyes darting wildly between them. “Wait. You two—”
Frung, a full step behind but catching up fast. “You know each other?”
Ai-oon suddenly feels like she’s been dropped in the deep end, wading through her own hesitation. She should say something, should smooth this over, but there’s no script for this moment, no easy way to explain why one of the biggest names in the industry is standing in their locker room, talking to her like this.
So she fumbles. “Uh—yeah, she’s, um—” She stalls, flounders, feels her pulse jump.
And then she says it without thinking.
“May.”
Silence.
A beat. Then two.
And Ai-oon feels it happen—like dominoes tipping over, one realization clicking into the next, the next, the next—Pim’s slow-blinking shock, Ann’s jaw unhinging, Frung’s hands flailing in real-time comprehension.
Pang just sighs. Like she saw this coming. Like she knew it would come to this eventually.
Ann clutches her heart. “No. Way.”
Frung all but screeches. “Your May?!?”
Jan lets out a high-pitched noise. “Wait—wait—like, Ai’s May???”
Ai-oon groans, drags a hand down her face. “I—guys—”
But before she can even attempt damage control, May is suddenly stepping forward, laughing, arms looping around Ai-oon’s shoulders in a quick, shy hug. Warm, solid. Familiar. Ai-oon stiffens for half a second before melting into it, before her hands come up almost instinctively to rest against May’s back.
And then, because she can feel the way her team is watching them like a live drama unfolding in real-time, she blurts out, “I probably smell like sweat.”
May laughs against her shoulder, shaking her head. “You do, a little.”
Ai-oon groans again, but she’s smiling now, helpless against the warmth spreading through her chest. “Great. Love that for me.”
The teasing starts immediately.
Pim exclaims. “Oh my God, are you for real?”
Ann is gripping Frung’s arm so hard it looks like it might bruise. “This is insane. This is insane.”
Frung adds, “we’ve been bamboozled.”
Pang, finally taking pity, claps her hands together, redirecting everyone’s attention. “Alright, alright, let them breathe.” She eyes May, something amused but knowing in her gaze. “Not that I’m complaining, but what are you guys doing here?”
May finally steps back, and Ploy, ever the composed one, holds up a bag in each hand. “We brought drinks.”
Ton hefts another bag onto the bench. “And food.”
Frung gasps. “You come bearing gifts?”
May, a little sheepish now, nods. “We just—we wanted to say congratulations. You guys played really well.” Her gaze flicks to Ai-oon again, softer now. “You played really well.”
Ai-oon exhales, heart flipping, but before she can respond, Ann grabs Pang’s arm and shakes her. “Pang. Pang. Do you understand how insane this is?”
Pang deadpans. “Yes, Ann. I’ve known this whole time.”
Ann almost collapses. “You—WHAT?”
Ai-oon rubs the back of her neck, trying not to let her face burn. “It’s—complicated.”
May, suddenly serious again, steps forward, hands back in her back pockets. “Actually, um.” She hesitates, then glances around at all of them. “Would you guys mind, you know… keeping this quiet?”
The room sobers slightly.
May doesn’t have to explain. Everyone knows what it would mean if this got out, what kind of scrutiny would follow.
Pang nods first. “Of course.”
Frung huffs. “As if we’d sell out Ai like that.”
Pim and Ann nod eagerly, and even the more skeptical ones seem to come around.
Ai-oon watches the way May relaxes just a little at their reactions, the subtle release of tension in her shoulders, and something in her softens.
And just like that, the teasing, the laughter, the energy picks up again, like the room hasn’t just been flipped on its head. Like this—this whole thing, May standing here, bringing them food, hugging Ai-oon like it’s the most natural thing in the world—isn’t something crazy, but something warm, something good.
Something real.
----
Later on, Ai-oon’s team spills out into the night to celebrate, their laughter bouncing off the streets, high on the thrill of the win. They invite May, of course, the warmth of their voices spilling over, urging her to join, but she glances at the time and shakes her head, a soft regret in her eyes. “I’ve got to get back to set before eight,” she says, her voice quiet, and Ai-oon gets it, really gets it, more now than ever before. Back when they first started, the distance between their worlds had been sharper, a constant reminder of what they couldn’t always have. But now? Now it’s just a part of the rhythm of their life, something she understands deeply, without the sting it used to carry.
Ai-oon celebrates with her team until it’s finally midnight. Dinner lingers in Ai-oon’s bones, the laughter of her teammates still ringing in her ears, the warmth of shared victories settling somewhere deep in her chest.
She walks home slow, lets the neon lights paint her skin, lets the night air press cool against the sweat still clinging to her. It’s a good feeling, the exhaustion, the weight of a win sitting comfortably in her limbs, but there’s something else too—something softer, a thread of warmth winding through her, tugging her somewhere she can’t quite name.
She exhales as she reaches her apartment, presses her key into the lock, pushes the door open—
And stops.
May.
Inside.
An oversized shirt pulled up, loose sweats hanging off her frame like she’s just slipped into something comfortable, like she belongs here. There’s the faintest trace of makeup still smudged at the corner of her eye, but mostly, she looks like May. Just May. Like she’s home.
Ai-oon huffs a laugh, shaking her head in slight disbelief, but something inside her is melting. “You’re supposed to be on set.”
May exhales, rubs a hand over her face like she’s already run through this in her head a hundred times before saying it out loud. “I was,” she says. “I went straight here after we wrapped about an hour ago…” She pauses, meets Ai-oon’s gaze, something steady, something intentional in the way she says, “I wanted to be here.”
Ai-oon swallows, lets her bag slide off her shoulder, drop onto the floor with a quiet thud. “May,” she starts, voice softer now, careful, “you must be exhausted from work. You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” May interrupts, voice gentle but firm. She steps closer, reaching out, fingertips grazing Ai-oon’s wrist, grounding. “I know this isn’t—” She stops, shakes her head, starts again. “We don’t always get this. That I can’t always be around. And I hate that.” Her voice dips lower, quieter. “But I don’t want you to ever think I wouldn’t be here if I could.”
Ai-oon lets out a slow breath, looking at her, really looking at her—tired eyes, soft mouth, something vulnerable just beneath the surface. It’s the thing May never says out loud, the weight of a life split between two worlds, the constant push and pull of wanting and having to wait.
Ai-oon reaches for her then, tilts her chin up just slightly. “You know I don’t expect you to choose, right?” she murmurs. “I never want you to feel like you have to.”
May’s eyes flicker with something warm, something that settles deep in her chest. “Hmm,” she hums. “But I want to. I want to be here more.”
Ai-oon’s throat tightens. “You sure?”
May smiles then, small but real, the kind Ai-oon has memorized in the quiet moments between takes, between goodbyes, between the spaces where May has always found her way back.
“Come on,” she says, thumb brushing over Ai-oon’s knuckles. “I ran you a bath.”
Ai-oon snorts, but her heart is aching in the best way. “You’re ridiculous.”
May lifts a brow, half-amused. “You played an entire game today, and you smell like a yakiniku restaurant. I figured you could use one.”
Ai-oon groans, burying her face in May’s shoulder, arms looping around her waist. “I knew you had an ulterior motive.”
May laughs, and Ai-oon feels it, warm and real against her skin.
They stand like that for a moment, just breathing, wrapped in the quiet hum of the city outside, the steady thrum of something safe between them.
Then May tilts her head, presses a soft kiss to Ai-oon’s temple, then her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. “Come on,” she murmurs, fingers brushing down Ai-oon’s arm, lacing them together. “Before the water gets cold.”
The bathroom is warm, the soft scent of lavender curling in the steam rising from the tub. Ai-oon exhales as she sinks into the water, muscles unraveling, the ache of the game finally giving way to something softer. May perches on the edge, sleeves pushed up, fingers tracing absentminded circles on Ai-oon’s damp shoulder.
“You really did this?” Ai-oon murmurs, eyes fluttering closed.
“Mhm,” May hums. “Took me two tries. Thought I broke your faucet.”
Ai-oon laughs, eyes flicking open. “May.”
May grins, leans down, presses a kiss to her forehead. “Relax,” she says. “I got it right in the end.”
Ai-oon watches her for a moment, the way the light catches the curve of her jaw, the quiet ease in her expression. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”
May tilts her head. “I wanted to,” she says simply. “I don’t get to do things like this for you often.”
Ai-oon swallows. “Yeah, but… it’s not your fault.”
“I know,” May murmurs. “But it still feels like it sometimes.”
Ai-oon reaches up, fingers catching May’s wrist, thumb brushing over her pulse. “We make do,” she says. “We always have.”
May studies her for a long moment, then nods. “Yeah,” she says, quieter now. “But maybe we don’t always have to.”
Ai-oon blinks. “What do you mean?”
May exhales, brushing her fingers through the damp strands of Ai-oon’s hair. “Filming’s almost done,” she says. “Like done done. No reshoots. No last-minute script changes. Just… time.”
Ai-oon stares at her. “You’re serious?”
May nods. “I want to make up for lost time.” Her voice is so sure, so steady. “I want to actually be here. Maybe take you to places if I can.”
Ai-oon pulls back slightly, her eyes locking with May’s.
She can feel the warmth of the moment pressing into her chest, and her words tumble out before she can stop them. "I didn’t expect you to show up at the game," she says, voice low, the sincerity running deep. "But I’m glad you did. Really."
May smiles softly, the weight of her affection unspoken but clear. She leans closer, her hand finding its way to Ai-oon’s cheek. There’s a quiet understanding between them, a shared space carved out of years of hidden moments. And then, without a word, May closes the gap, her lips pressing to Ai-oon’s in a kiss—slow, deep, a quiet kind of urgency building between them. Ai-oon’s breath catches, the world outside fading for a beat, for a long moment that stretches into something more than just a kiss.
When they part, breath mingling, Ai-oon lets out something close to a sigh, her forehead barely brushing against May’s.
May’s voice is quiet, steady. "We’ll get better at this, Ai."
Ai-oon closes her eyes for a moment, lets it settle. Then she nods, just enough for May to feel it.
And this time, when she kisses her again, it’s not for reassurance—it’s just because she wants to.