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Kim Dokja had always been like this.
As far back as her memory could stretch, even if it usually felt blurred, fragmented, and unreliable — this state of being felt constant.
At the very least, it had been this way since the day her life split in two.
Since the moment smiling and obeying stopped being enough. Since the fragile cover of normalcy her mom had guarded was ripped away violently and irrevocably by a drunken threat and a tragedy born from sheer survival instinct.
It had been self-defense.
She knew that.
Her mother had told her so, again and again, her voice almost desperate — as if repetition alone could carve safety back into reality.
But knowledge did not translate into relief.
Knowing something logically did not mean feeling it emotionally.
From that moment on, Dokja never truly felt safe again — not in rooms, not among people, not even inside her own body. Something fundamental had shifted.
She learned, early and painfully, that family was not an unbreakable concept, nor a shield. That blood did not equal protection.
At the end of the day, everyone remained an individual, locked inside their own limits, their own fears.
And at the end of the day, no one truly wanted to carry someone else’s weight — especially when that weight arrived already cracked, already broken, already inconvenient.
So she adapted.
She learned to stay alert, muscles always slightly tense, senses tuned toward danger even when nothing was happening.
She learned to brace herself for the worst while expecting nothing good in return. Hope became something excessive, almost shameful.
When the bullying started, she didn’t react the way people expected. Her heart didn’t shatter dramatically. She didn’t cry herself to sleep over injustice. She didn’t even feel particularly angry.
Mostly, she felt confirmed.
As if this, too, was simply the natural direction her life was supposed to take. As if this was the logical continuation of someone like her. Someone worthless enough that even breathing felt like a selfish act. Someone greedy for daring to still stand there, alive, after committing such an unforgivable sin.
Sometimes, things got better. Briefly. Inconsistently. Just enough to make her forget how bad it could be.
And sometimes, she was reminded brutally of why she looked at the world with that empty, distant gaze, as if she was always standing a step outside of it.
One day, she tried to end it.
Even that, she failed to do.
The irony of it lingered longer than the act itself.
Maybe she hadn’t truly wanted to die.
Maybe she had just wanted the pain to stop, to quiet down, to loosen its grip for even a moment.
That attempt felt less like a conclusion and more like a desperate signal — an unarticulated scream she didn’t know how to voice.
Somehow, impossibly, she survived it too.
And then, her life changed again: not dramatically, but quietly, almost insultingly so.
She found something to look forward to.
A webnovel.
A story. A slow accumulation of chapters, of development, of characters — complex, flawed, painfully human characters that reached out to her from behind a screen.
Characters she began to appreciate, then to care about, then to invest in with a depth that surprised even herself.
It felt, sometimes, as if they were all inhabiting the same world together, bound by shared stakes and shared suffering.
Her room felt less empty when she was reading a chapter. The silence no longer pressed so hard against her ears.
Her heart ached less, as if it had found a temporary rhythm to follow. Her fingers felt less cold against the glass of her phone, warmed by the steady scroll of text.
And occasionally, her mouth would twitch — tugged into small, unfamiliar smiles she didn’t quite know what to do with.
Even years later, those words still helped her survive. They still functioned like stitches, holding something fragile together.
Yet now, something was off.
This time, she felt different.
She had always been like this, always running away, always escaping into other worlds, other lives. Letting herself be reshaped by the emotions of authors, producers, musicians, artists. Any stranger reaching out through the web. Any form of art, of shared feeling. She let them change her. She let them soothe her. She let them cradle her when nothing else would.
Yet—
This time, something was wrong.
She felt less excited than usual when a new chapter came out. The anticipation was muted, dulled around the edges.
She still read it.
She still felt that faint spark of excitement, that habitual pull. She still devoted herself to every word, clinging to them out of routine if nothing else. However, they felt flat. As if the color had been drained out without her noticing.
Her eyes continued to move across the screen, lines passing by without truly registering. She blinked, then frowned, irritation curling inward as she forced herself to reread the same paragraph again, slower this time. It took more effort than it ever had before.
And afterward?
Nothing.
No satisfaction. No ache. No lingering warmth.
The task of the day was done. That was all.
And that absence — this hollow detachment from something that had once kept her alive — terrified her more than she was willing to admit.
The next day, she got up with difficulty.
It had become routine over the last few weeks — almost ritualistic in its heaviness. She would wake up and stare at the wall for long minutes, eyes unfocused, breathing shallow, as if waiting for something to click back into place.
She would sigh, long and quiet, and still not move. The force she usually relied on — the mechanical impulse that pushed her out of bed no matter how she felt — was absent.
The mechanism simply didn’t start.
Everything felt pointless in a way that went beyond discouragement, in a way that made even the idea of standing up feel excessive.
Eventually, she sighed again and forced herself upright. She didn’t bother fixing the bed. There was no reason to.
She pulled on a sports bra — easier, faster, less demanding — then a shirt, the fabric brushing against her skin without registering much sensation.
She went to the bathroom on autopilot, movements rehearsed, distant.
After finishing up, she walked back to her room, put on her pants and socks, took her bag, then made her way to the door to put on her shoes. With one last glance around the apartment — a look that lingered just a second longer than necessary, as if she was checking whether she had forgotten something important — she walked out and locked the door behind her.
Today was supposed to be a huge day for Dokja, the kind of day that was meant to matter. She was finally going to send in all her reports: it marked the finishing phase of a project she had been working on for months.
Weeks of stress. Sleepless nights. She had overworked herself to exhaustion — but that, in itself, wasn’t unusual. It was something that happened from time to time, something she had grown used to. It wasn’t even that she was putting in extraordinary effort. She wasn’t brilliant, wasn’t exceptional. Mediocre at best, she often thought. The problem was that every single task terrified her. Each email, each deadline, each small decision felt like a looming threat.
Day after day, the accumulation drained her further. She would cry for no clear reason, feel bone-deep exhaustion, and procrastinate until guilt forced her to push herself even harder just to stay afloat.
After months of this cycle, it was finally over.
She walked into the office, took the elevator to her floor, crossed the familiar space to her team’s area, and sat down at her desk. They went through the final verifications together, double-checking details out of habit more than necessity. Then the project was sent in for final checkups. Even if it wasn’t entirely finished, their part, their responsibility, was officially done.
Dokja stared at her screen, at her own reflection faintly visible in it.
And she felt nothing.
No relief. No calm. No joy. No sense of accomplishment. Not even contempt or bitterness.
Just nothing.
A blankness that swallowed what should have been there. She lowered her gaze and sighed softly. Something inside her was undeniably broken, but she had no idea how to name it, no way to understand where the fracture truly was.
“We should go out and celebrate tonight!”
One of her colleagues suggested, voice bright with enthusiasm.
“Sure.”
“You’re coming, Dokja?”
“Yeah.”
She answered quietly, offering them a polite smile that felt carefully assembled.
“Is everything okay?”
“Oh. Sure. I’m just tired. You know… this whole thing was draining.”
“You tell us. It was a nightmare. I really hope we won’t have to work with them again.”
“Right?”
Another colleague chimed in, nodding in agreement.
They kept talking, the conversation flowing naturally without her, and none of them noticed when Dokja slipped out of the room and headed toward the restroom.
Inside, she paused in front of the mirror, meeting her own gaze for a brief second before letting out a slow breath.
Oh.
It was coming.
She walked into one of the stalls and finally let the tears fall. They came easily, too easily. Her body felt unbearably heavy, exhaustion clinging to her bones. She felt terrified — not of anything specific, but of everything at once.
Months of anxiety weighed on her. Months of pushing people away, of isolating herself, of losing interest in the very things she used to live for. She had told herself it was the season, the workload, the project.
That once it was done, everything would settle back into place.
But time had passed.
The project was finished.
So what was wrong with her now?
Her head felt light, thoughts blurring together as she cried, unwilling to dig deeper, unwilling to face the answer she suspected might be waiting.
After a while, the wave passed. She wiped her face, steadying her breathing, and stepped out to splash cold water onto her skin. When she looked presentable enough, when the evidence had been mostly erased — she left the restroom.
As she walked back through the office, she noticed the sun beginning to set, warm light spilling through the windows. She realized, suddenly, how fast the day had slipped by.
Normally, that realization would have thrilled her. It would have felt like release. Right now, it only felt like she had wasted an entire day trapped inside her own head.
She watched her colleagues as they started putting on their coats, laughter already rising again, the mood lifting: the day was officially over.
“Dokja! We thought you ditched us.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
She hummed lightly, lips curving into a grin she knew how to perform by heart, before reaching for her own coat and scarf.
The fabric felt heavier than it should have as she slipped them on, like even clothing required effort tonight.
“Let’s go then.”
“Did you invite some IT guys?”
“Which section?”
Dokja didn’t give the conversation much attention after that. The words blurred together into background noise as she followed them outside, then down the street, then into a bar they frequented so often she could have walked there with her eyes closed.
As soon as she stepped inside, the atmosphere hit her: warm air, overlapping voices, music vibrating through the floor. People were excited, animated, alive in ways she felt painfully disconnected from.
She almost felt uneasy standing there, her smile resurfacing automatically as she walked past tables toward the one her colleagues claimed. She sat down beside them, nodded at a few remarks she didn’t really hear, then, after only a moment, stood up again.
The walls felt too close. The noise too loud. Being surrounded by people who knew her, even superficially, made her chest tighten.
She had the distinct, terrifying feeling that if she stayed, she was going to fall apart right there in front of them.
“Wait, I think I recognize someone. I’ll go say hi.”
She murmured with a grin, the lie slipping out smoothly as she rose. Exhaustion clung to her posture despite her best efforts to hide it.
She threaded her way through the crowd until she reached the bar. The moment she placed her hands against its surface, she inhaled deeply. The surface was cool beneath her palms, grounding, solid. She focused on that small, simple sensation: the contrast between the cold surface and her overheated skin. She felt grateful for anything that could pull her, even slightly, out of her spiraling thoughts.
“Are you okay?”
A voice murmured beside her.
Dokja lifted her gaze.
She blinked.
Standing next to her was a literal goddess. She had sharp, piercing eyes that seemed to cut straight through the noise of the room. Her long, curly black hair were cascading over her shoulders like it belonged in a painting rather than a crowded bar. A long black dress with puffed sleeves hugged her frame effortlessly.
Dokja stared, openly this time, eyes traveling up and down her figure in stunned disbelief.
Why was someone like that even looking at her?
The woman leaned in slightly, clearly unimpressed by Dokja’s silence.
“Ah— uhm… What did you say?”
Dokja finally managed, blinking hard as if that might reset her brain.
“I asked if you were okay.”
The woman repeated, her voice low and controlled. A faint frown creased her expression as she took in Dokja’s tired eyes, her stiff posture, the way she seemed to be holding herself together by sheer will.
“Oh, yeah. Sure.”
The response was automatic, empty.
In response, she raised an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. Her gaze shifted briefly, scanning the table Dokja had come from, observing the laughing group with quick, assessing eyes, before returning to the woman beside her.
Dokja felt the scrutiny. Her grip on the edge of the bar tightened slightly as she followed the other’s gaze. A bitter smirk tugged at her lips.
So that’s what it looked like.
All that came was a quiet scoff.
“It’s not them. They’re fine, just… loud.”
Her voice wavered for half a second before she straightened, injecting forced energy into her posture. She flashed another tired grin, hoping foolishly that it could still pass for normal.
The goddess — what else could she be — leaned in again, expression unreadable. There was no pity in her eyes. Instead, something observant flickered beneath the surface.
“I’m guessing loudness isn’t why you look like the world has lost all its meaning.”
She said flatly.
Dokja blinked, then, laughed.
“Wow, okay! Did I stumble into an interrogation or just really bad bartending service?”
The woman leaned back slightly, pressing her back against the bar as her gaze drifted toward the crowd in front of them. She looked utterly unbothered by Dokja’s deflection.
“I don’t work here.”
She replied simply.
Dokja’s grin faltered for just half a second, barely noticeable, but enough to betray her. The sheer absurdity of the situation hit her all at once.
Right.
Of course she didn’t.
She let out another breathy laugh, still too sharp, still too loud, and mimicked the other’s posture, leaning back against the bar with an exaggerated shrug.
“Oops, my bad.”
She said, waving a hand dismissively.
The motion was careless.
Her fingers trembled slightly under the weight of her act.
Her eyes flicked toward her table again, toward her colleagues, before snapping back to the acquaintance she just made with exaggerated, forced casualness.
“So… You just wander up to random exhausted girls at bars?”
She asked lightly, lips quirking upward.
“Or am I special?”
The words were teasing on the surface, playful even, but there was an edge underneath, a challenge.
As if she were daring this goddess-like stranger to answer honestly instead of dodging the way everyone else seemed to these days. As if she were bracing herself for the usual deflection before it even came.
The woman tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharpening as she studied Dokja with unsettling precision. It wasn’t a glance but an assessment.
“If you were just exhausted, fine.”
Her voice was measured.
“Your situation seemed more… serious.”
She glanced back at the table again, eyes sweeping over Dokja’s colleagues, weighing something invisible.
“If it was a people-related problem, I would have taken care of it.”
A pause.
“Since it’s not, I can’t do much.”
She let out a quiet sigh, then raised a hand to signal the barmaid. The shift was smooth as she offered Dokja a grin while taking her Moscow mule into her hand.
When she looked back at Dokja, her expression had softened, just a fraction.
“… Or maybe.”
She hummed thoughtfully.
“Order whatever you want. It’s on me.”
Since they clearly didn’t have hours of therapy ahead of them, settling on a drink felt like a reasonable compromise.
The offer caught Dokja completely off guard.
She had been expecting dismissal, polite indifference, or maybe a cutting remark wrapped in elegance.
Not… this. Not an open gesture that implied time, attention, and choice.
Her eyes lingered on her for a moment, searching for the trick, the catch. The exhaustion eventually won out. The simple promise of a free drink felt like a small mercy she didn’t have the energy to refuse.
A small smile tugged at her lips — genuine this time, unpracticed, even as weariness still clung to her features.
“You really know how to lure someone in, don’t you?”
She said softly, shaking her head in mock disbelief before flagging down the barmaid for a vodka soda.
When the drink was placed in front of her, the other woman raised her glass without breaking eye contact, her full attention still fixed on Dokja as if the rest of the bar had faded into background noise.
Dokja hesitated for a fraction of a second — just long enough to wonder if this was actually happening — before mirroring the gesture. Their glasses met with a small, awkward clink.
“… Cheers?”
She muttered, uncertainty coloring her voice, as if she wasn’t sure what exactly they were toasting to.
Her eyes flicked back to the other’s sharp gaze before she took a sip. The burn of alcohol made her wince faintly, heat spreading down her throat as she swallowed, cursing herself internally.
A brief silence followed.
Dokja cleared her throat and gestured vaguely with the glass still in hand.
“Do you offer drinks often?”
The teasing lilt returned, but it wavered this time.
“Or am I lucky too?”
There it was again, that hesitation beneath the humor. Like part of her actually wanted to hear the answer, even if she pretended not to care.
“I guess you’re lucky.”
The goddess hummed, eyes drifting back toward the table.
“Are you ditching your friends?”
Dokja grinned shyly and lifted her hand in a small wave toward her colleagues.
“Uh… they, uh…”
She avoided eye contact with the table, the gesture stiff, guilty in a way that didn’t quite match the situation.
“They’re occupied.”
She said, forcing a light laugh.
It was only partly a lie. They were absorbed in their work talk, unlikely to notice her absence for a while. Still, the thought of them eventually looking around, realizing she was still gone, made something twist uncomfortably in her chest.
Dokja turned back to the other, silently hoping for a distraction.
She was still watching the table, expression unreadable.
Without really meaning to, Dokja’s gaze dropped. She really was beautiful. Time seemed to slow as she watched her.
Her eyes took in the sharp line of her jaw, the effortless way she carried herself, the almost dangerous grace in the way she moved, the effortless control of her posture, and the way the fabric of her dress clung to her curves, as if it had been made for her and no one else. Even the smallest gestures, lifting her glass, shifting her weight, tilting her head, felt deliberate and composed.
It was dizzying.
She felt unreal, like an untouchable work of art that belonged in a dream. Something to admire from a distance, not something that casually stood at a bar, buying drinks and striking up conversation with a random, exhausted drunk who barely had the energy to hold herself upright.
“Is it just me…”
Dokja finally said, breaking the silence. Her voice came out slightly hoarse, rough around the edges.
“… or do you look too good to be in a place like this?”
The woman took a slow sip of her drink before answering, eyes never leaving Dokja. Then she tilted her head, considering.
“What do you mean?”
She murmured calmly.
A beat.
“Or was that an attempt at flirting?”
“Oh, please.”
Dokja scoffed, letting out another forced laugh as if completely unbothered by the implication.
She leaned back slightly, playing it off with practiced ease, but the faint flush creeping up her cheeks betrayed her far more than she intended.
Her gaze swept over her again, lingering again, before a crooked smirk pulled at her lips.
“I mean…”
She said, voice light but edged with self-mockery.
“You could have your pick of anyone in here, and yet you chose to approach…”
Her words trailed off as she waved a lazy hand over herself, over the dark circles under her eyes, her slumped posture, the exhaustion she couldn’t fully hide.
“… This. Not exactly prime pickings.”
The woman raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.
“Did I pick you?”
She smiled faintly, something sharp and knowing in it.
“I did express concern.”
She continued, tone deceptively casual.
“… but it’s interesting how open you are to the meanings it could have.”
“I—”
Dokja sputtered, words tangling in her mouth.
She should have been offended by the teasing edge, irritated by the playful smirk. She should have shut this down, deflected harder, retreated into humor like she always did.
Instead, she felt flustered and off-balance — uncomfortably aware of her own heartbeat.
“I was just being honest.”
She muttered, lifting her glass and taking a longer gulp than necessary, hoping the alcohol might mask the heat creeping into her face.
“You could’ve bought a drink for anyone here.”
Her eyes flicked back toward her colleague’s table, the implication unspoken but clear. Including them.
The goddess followed her gaze briefly before returning it to Dokja.
“The reasons I offer drinks are different from most people around here.”
She said, voice steady.
“I just thought you could use one.”
She hummed softly, studying Dokja’s expression.
“Even though…”
A pause, almost reluctant,
“You shouldn’t take more than a glass either.”
Dokja nearly choked.
“Excuse me?”
She sputtered, coughing slightly as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She stared at her in disbelief.
“Are you trying to babysit me?”
No way. The idea made her giggle, the first genuine laugh she’d let out all night.
“This is what I get for accepting kindness from strangers?”
The woman didn’t pull away.
Instead, she leaned in slowly, closing the distance just enough to make Dokja acutely aware of her presence — of her warmth, her scent, the quiet seriousness in her eyes.
“Don’t feel offended, sweetheart.”
She murmured, voice low.
“You just seem so exhausted that drinking too much might give you bad ideas.”
Dokja froze.
The sudden closeness stole the air from her lungs. She was too close now. Her breath hitched involuntarily, fingers tightening around her glass as if it were the only solid thing anchoring her to the moment.
“Bad ideas?”
Dokja repeated, her voice dropping into something lower, rougher, scraped raw by nerves and alcohol.
“You’re the one leaning into my personal space with that tone.”
Another beat passed.
And, in that beat, Dokja became acutely aware of her own body: the way her heart was pounding far too fast, the way her pulse thrummed in her ears, the way her breath refused to steady itself. The bar noise faded into a distant hum, the world narrowing down to the space between them.
“Unless you want me to have bad ideas?”
“Oh.”
The woman didn’t pull away. She didn’t even blink.
“I wasn’t referring to those ideas. Something more sinister.”
She paused, eyes dark.
“But I don’t mind what you had in mind.”
She hummed softly.
The words settled between them like a spark dropped into dry air.
Dokja should have backed away. She should have inhaled deeply, forced herself to reset, to reclaim some distance — some control. But exhaustion and alcohol had already worn her defenses thin, and having this goddess so close, so present, made her feel like she was burning from the inside out.
She swallowed hard, throat tight. The glass slipped from her grip just enough to clink against the bar as she set it down deliberately, as if bracing herself. Then she leaned forward, closing what little space remained between them.
“You’re playing with fire.”
She warned quietly, gaze betraying her as it flicked just once toward the other’s lips.
“Interesting.”
The woman’s voice stayed calm, almost curious.
“You don’t seem confident enough to be talking like that.”
Her eyes didn’t miss a thing. They looked straight through Dokja, unflinching.
“Confident?”
Dokja scoffed, but the sound lacked bite. There was a tremor there, faint but undeniable.
She was so close to prove her wrong, to act on every reckless impulse she had dragged to the surface without even trying. And yet, her unreadable gaze twisted something sharp and aching in her chest, frustration curling into self-awareness.
“You’re… right.”
She snapped suddenly, jerking back half a step as if the realization itself had burned her.
A bitter laugh tore free as she dragged a hand through her already messy hair, fingers catching briefly, trembling.
“I don’t even know why I’m doing this.”
She admitted, voice cracking just enough to hurt.
“Why I’m here.”
The words hung between them, an admission of defeat she hadn’t planned on making.
“It’s fine, sweetheart.”
The woman’s tone softened.
“I can take the lead.”
She lifted a hand and gently cupped Dokja’s cheek, her touch unhurried. Her smile was calm, reassuring in a way that felt dangerous.
“What’s your name?”
The touch sent an involuntary shiver down Dokja’s spine. Her usual defenses crumbled at the casual pet name, at the warmth of the palm against her skin.
Sweetheart.
Before she could stop herself, Dokja leaned into the touch, just slightly, just for a moment, her eyes fluttering closed as she savored the unexpected comfort.
“… Kim Dokja.”
She murmured quietly, lifting her gaze again to meet the other’s.
She nodded once, committing it to memory, before her eyes drifted elsewhere.
“… Yoo Joonghyuk.”
She paused.
“I myself am here because of social obligations.”
She said calmly, glancing back toward another table.
Friends, Dokja realized distantly as she followed her gaze. Not colleagues — their behavior was too relaxed, too openly fond. There was no professional stiffness there, no polite distance.
When Joonghyuk looked back at her, Dokja had already lowered her gaze again.
It seemed that every second she wasn’t actively engaging — talking, reacting, anchoring herself — Dokja slipped further inward. Each pause pulled her deeper into her own head. Her eyes grew glossy, unfocused, that hollow, distant look settling in — one that might have unsettled anyone else.
“Still here?”
Joonghyuk murmured softly.
She wasn’t sure why the thought unsettled her, but she didn’t want Dokja to slip away just yet.
At the gentle question, Dokja startled, her gaze snapping back up with a small, disoriented jerk. Her eyes cleared gradually as she processed the words, blinking like someone waking from shallow sleep.
She hadn’t even realized she’d started drifting again — sliding into that familiar state of half-presence, half-absence.
“Yeah. Yes.”
Dokja answered quickly, the word scraping its way out of her throat more like a croak than a proper reply.
“I’m still here.”
Her voice wavered, thin around the edges, betraying just how much effort it took to stay anchored to the present moment.
Joonghyuk took another sip of her drink, eyes on Dokja, consistently there. She drank slowly, thoughtfully, glancing at Dokja from time to time before setting the now-empty glass back against the counter with a soft sound.
“What do you do in life?”
There was a beat of pure, dazed confusion.
Dokja blinked, her tired brain lagging behind the simplicity of the question. What did she do in life? The answers that surfaced first were unhelpful and heavy. Drink. Drink some more. Procrastinate. Work herself into the ground. Repeat.
Her gaze dropped to her unfinished glass, shoulders slumping as her lips curved downward into a faint frown.
“I work in Quality Assurance.”
“Interesting.”
Joonghyuk murmured, watching as Dokja reached for her drink again.
Under normal circumstances, Dokja might’ve bristled. The bluntness of the question, paired with her own exhaustion, could have easily felt condescending. Another reminder that she wasn’t at her sharpest.
But Joonghyuk’s tone lacked judgment. Her gaze was attentive, as if she were genuinely trying to understand rather than categorize.
Dokja nodded weakly, swirling what remained of her drink before downing it in one decisive gulp.
“Not exactly the most glamorous job.”
She quipped dryly, the edges of her words slightly blurred.
“Spending most days staring at my screen and trying not to fall asleep at my desk.”
“You’re describing most people’s jobs in this city.”
Joonghyuk scoffed softly, tilting her head, amused.
“For how long?”
Dokja laughed, but it came out almost brittle.
“Too long.”
She admitted before she could stop herself. Her fingers tapped an absent rhythm against the counter, as if counting invisible marks only she could see.
“Three… ? Four?”
She shook her head, the motion slow, tired.
“Honestly, I’ve lost track at this point.”
Silence settled briefly between them.
Then, as if remembering she was supposed to be lighthearted, Dokja added with forced cheer.
“At least I have benefits now.”
Her words landed flat, even she could hear it.
Joonghyuk merely nodded, letting out a quiet huff before turning her attention fully back to Dokja.
“You really look exhausted.”
She said plainly.
Dokja’s jaw tightened. Like she hadn’t noticed.
“Wow, what a shocking revelation.”
She deadpanned, sarcasm cutting weakly through the air.
“Is it the dark circles? Or the way I’m basically leaning on this counter for structural support?”
The deflection barely held. Exhaustion finally caught up with her, and a yawn slipped out before she could stop it, stretching her jaw wide. She blinked rapidly afterward, embarrassed.
Joonghyuk wasn’t entirely sure why, but something about Dokja’s bluntness paired with visible collapse felt almost endearing.
“Well…”
She said after a moment.
“What are your plans for tonight?”
Her plans?
The word felt foreign. On nights like this, Dokja’s routine was painfully predictable: reheated food, half-watched shows, lying awake in the dark while her thoughts spiraled. Nothing worth calling a plan.
But with Joonghyuk’s calm, expectant gaze on her, it suddenly felt like she should have an answer.
“I, uh…”
She started, fingers drumming nervously against the counter.
“Don’t really have any. Sleep, I guess.”
“Alone?”
Joonghyuk hummed, not subtle in the slightest.
Heat crept up Dokja’s already flushed cheeks as she fiddled with the empty glass, deliberately avoiding Joonghyuk’s eyes.
“… Yeah.”
She said after a brief pause.
“Alone.”
The word tasted bitter. A reminder that her bed would be cold tonight. That her apartment would greet her with the same hollow quiet it always did.
“How sad.”
Joonghyuk murmured, turning slightly to face the bar as she let the words settle.
“Me too.”
Dokja let out a surprised huff before she could stop herself. The absurdity of it all hit her at once. Two strangers, equally alone, leaning against the same bar, quietly admitting their loneliness between drinks.
It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so depressing.
“Yeah… ‘sad’ pretty much sums it up.”
Dokja muttered, absently toying with the rim of her empty glass. Her fingers traced slow, circular patterns against the cold surface.
“At least we can be…”
She paused, searching for the right words, then huffed softly.
“What’s the cliché phrase again? Misery pals?”
“Yeah?”
Joonghyuk hummed thoughtfully, tilting her head just slightly.
“I was hinting at something else.”
Dokja blinked.
Her gaze lifted, instinctively scanning Joonghyuk before dropping back down to herself, to the wrinkled shirt she’d worn all day, to the suit she hadn’t bothered to straighten, to her bangs — disheveled and uneven. And to the way she felt painfully out of place standing next to her.
… So she was hinting at her?
Dokja’s entire body locked up.
Wait. What?
Her thoughts short-circuited completely for a solid three seconds as she stared at Joonghyuk in open disbelief. Was she actually—
A strangled sound escaped Dokja’s throat before she could stop it.
“Me?!”
Her voice cracked halfway through the word, turning it into a question despite herself. She looked down again, frantic this time before snapping her gaze back up, eyes wide.
“… Are you drunk?”
“A bit.”
Joonghyuk hummed, a small grin tugging at her lips.
“Aren’t you?”
“… More than a ‘bit’.”
Dokja admitted, letting out a rueful laugh. The alcohol was undeniably doing its work, making the world feel looser, hazier, almost dreamlike.
She leaned further back against the bar, suddenly aware of how close they were. Joonghyuk smelled faintly of something sweet and citrusy, clean and warm all at once, and it made Dokja’s already muddled thoughts blur even more.
“But you… you weren’t actually… hinting at me, were you?”
She asked cautiously, still half-convinced this was some elaborate hallucination her brain had cooked up to cope.
“Oh, I did.”
Joonghyuk replied easily, scoffing under her breath.
“It’s been a moment, so maybe I’m doing a shit job at it.”
Dokja blinked.
The realization made her stomach flip violently, disbelief tangling with a rush of something dangerously close to excitement.
It felt insane, too good to be true.
And yet, here they were. Joonghyuk was still looking at her, like Dokja was something worth choosing.
“… Why?”
The word came out hoarse, barely audible.
“Why not?”
Joonghyuk murmured.
“You’re pretty cute. You seem miserable and yet so perceptive.”
The words landed harder than Dokja expected.
Heat flooded her cheeks again, the alcohol and exhaustion stripping away her usual armor. She opened her mouth, searching for something clever, something snarky, anything to deflect and regain control.
Instead, what slipped out was soft and painfully sincere.
“… You think I’m cute?”
How long had it been since anyone had called her that?
“Yes.”
Joonghyuk huffed softly, leaning in just a little.
Before Dokja could react, Joonghyuk pressed a brief kiss to her cheek.
“Your reactions are making me ache a little.”
The casualness of it stunned her.
The warmth of Joonghyuk’s lips lingered against her skin long after she pulled away, leaving a trail of heat that made her head spin. Dokja’s thoughts tangled into an incoherent mess, scrambling to make sense of what was happening.
One moment, she’d been sitting alone, numb and invisible. The next, this walking embodiment of perfection was flirting with her, calling her cute and kissing her cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Her fingers dug into the edge of the bar, knuckles whitening as she fought the urge to shake.
“… You’re toying with me.”
She accused weakly, though there was no real bite behind it.
“Wanna find out?”
Joonghyuk hummed, her grin soft but unmistakably challenging.
Dokja’s breath hitched despite herself. Her pulse picked up, adrenaline coursing through her veins as something reckless sparked to life inside her chest.
“What the hell.”
She muttered, drawing in a steadying breath before flashing Joonghyuk a sharp, daring grin.
“Prove it, then, goddess.”
“Here?”
Joonghyuk hummed, clearly satisfied by the challenge in Dokja’s tone, by the way the question carried both doubt and daring.
“Goddess?”
She added, raising an eyebrow ever so slightly, amusement flickering across her expression.
It took a moment for Dokja’s alcohol-addled mind to catch up. When it finally did, she rolled her eyes with deliberate nonchalance — as if her heart wasn’t currently slamming against her ribs, loud enough to drown out every rational thought she should be having.
“Well.”
She drawled, shrugging faintly.
“You’re not exactly dressed like your average mortal.”
Her gaze dragged over Joonghyuk slowly, openly. Everything about her looked untouchable.
“Not to mention…”
Dokja continued, a crooked smirk tugging at her lips,
“How else am I supposed to refer to someone who could have anyone… And yet is standing here flirting with me?”
Joonghyuk hummed again, this time softer. She appreciated the compliments more than she expected. Usually, praise slid off her like water: unwanted, irritating. But coming from Dokja, raw and unpolished and clearly unpracticed, it settled somewhere warm in her chest. Something about it felt honest.
She leaned in without another word, closing the distance with quiet certainty. Her hand pressed gently but firmly against Dokja’s thigh for leverage as she kissed her.
Dokja’s entire body froze for a split second.
Her brain short-circuited completely as the weight of what was happening finally landed — real lips, real warmth, not imagined.
And then, with no hesitation left in her alcohol-loosened mind, she kissed back.
Her hands fumbled at first, clumsy and uncertain, before finding their way into Joonghyuk’s hair. God. It felt like silk slipping through her fingers, impossibly soft — so real it made her chest ache. As if she needed the texture, the sensation, just to convince herself this wasn’t some fever dream her exhausted mind had conjured.
The bar dissolved around them.
The noise, the lights, the people — it all blurred into nothing. All that existed was the warmth of another person’s mouth against hers, and an impossible goddess pressed close enough to make Dokja forget every single reason why this shouldn’t be happening.
Her mind went hazy.
She felt bittersweet — tempted, overwhelmed, completely undone. Her heart still ached, heavy with all the thoughts she carried, all the feelings she never gave herself space to breathe. And yet, she welcomed this distraction with something close to desperation.
She realized, painfully clearly, how much she needed something else to focus on just to survive.
So for one reckless, vulnerable moment, she poured everything she had ever swallowed down into the kiss.
Her doubts. Her fears. Her exhaustion. The stress she wore like a second skin.
She became enamored, clinging to Joonghyuk’s presence as if it could replace everything else. As if this closeness could quiet the noise inside her head.
Joonghyuk felt it.
Her breath hitched slightly as she registered the intensity of the kiss — understanding, at least in part, that this wasn’t just about attraction, or alcohol, or passing curiosity. This was need.
She leaned back just a fraction, barely breaking the contact, her own heart beating faster from the force of everything Dokja had poured into her. She blinked, searching Dokja’s eyes, trying to read her expression, trying to understand.
When they finally broke apart, Dokja’s breath left her in a gasp, as though she hadn’t been getting enough oxygen the entire time. Her thoughts swam, overwhelmed by the sheer force of it all: the dam breaking, everything she’d been holding back spilling out at once.
She locked onto Joonghyuk’s gaze.
Her chest rose and fell unevenly, her body still buzzing with adrenaline, her expression completely stripped of its usual defenses. For once, she looked utterly unguarded and vulnerable.
“Don’t…”
She whispered hoarsely.
“… Don’t stop.”
“And give them a free show?”
Joonghyuk murmured softly.
She was still close, her attention flicking briefly toward the table where Dokja’s colleagues sat before returning to her. Her voice gentled as she spoke again.
“Let’s get you home, hm?”
Her eyes softened when she took in the desperation written plainly across Dokja’s face. She didn’t understand why she suddenly felt responsible for her, why Dokja’s misery tugged at something protective in her chest, but she couldn’t ignore it.
The rational part of Dokja knew it was a terrible idea. Going home with a complete stranger, in the middle of the night, after just meeting.
Yet…
The thought of returning to her empty apartment, to a silent space and a cold bed with only a pillow for company, felt unbearable.
She nodded sharply, her body caught in a mess of conflicting emotions, wants, and desperate needs.
“Yeah.”
She managed, her breath still unsteady.
“Yeah. Home. Let’s go.”
Joonghyuk nodded, rising with her and steadying Dokja as she guided her toward the exit. She lifted a hand to nod and wave at her table — message clear — before continuing on beside Dokja, one arm wrapped around her to help her lean, anchoring her as they walked.
As they left the crowded bar and stepped out into the crisp night air, the noise and heat fell away all at once, replaced by cool silence and the distant hum of the city settling into itself.
Dokja let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and instinctively leaned into Joonghyuk’s side, seeking the warmth and steadiness she offered without question.
Joonghyuk was solid beside her and Dokja clung to that presence like a lifeline.
It all felt unreal.
Just moments ago, she’d been miserable, bone-tired, halfway drunk and convinced the night would end the same way all her nights did.
And now, somehow, impossibly, a literal goddess had her arm around her waist and was helping her walk back to her apartment as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
Her mind stayed hazy, thoughts drifting in and out like fog rolling over a quiet street. Everything felt dulled and heightened all at once.
The city lights blurred slightly at the edges of her vision, sounds coming from far away.
One thought stayed stubbornly clear, looping over and over again.
She’s warm.
Warm in a way that seeped through fabric and skin, steadying Dokja’s uncooperative body. Warm in a way that made her feel held.
“Do you live far away?”
Joonghyuk murmured when they were finally clear of the bar, pausing briefly to look around and orient herself.
It took Dokja a second to process the question.
The fog in her mind — thick with alcohol and the lingering echo of the kiss — made even simple thoughts feel like they had to swim upstream.
She blinked, focusing hard.
“No.”
She said at last, her voice slightly slurred but still mostly coherent.
“Just a few blocks… that way.”
She lifted a hand and pointed shakily down the street, the gesture imprecise but sincere, before her arm dropped again and she leaned more heavily into Joonghyuk’s side without apology.
Joonghyuk nodded, adjusting her hold without thinking about it, one arm firming around Dokja’s waist, anchoring her more securely.
She guided her forward with calm efficiency, heels clicking in a steady rhythm against the pavement.
The sound echoed through the quiet streets, sharp and deliberate, a contrast to Dokja’s uneven, clumsy steps as she struggled to keep pace.
Where Dokja wavered, Joonghyuk compensated without comment, her grip subtly correcting each stumble.
They moved like that all the way to the apartment complex.
Joonghyuk helped Dokja inside, holding the door when her hands fumbled with it. She guided her toward the elevator, waited patiently as Dokja squinted at the buttons before mumbling directions, and replied which floor they needed.
When they arrived, she helped her unlock the apartment door, ushering her gently inside. She took her time helping Dokja shrug out of her coat and slip off her shoes, movements unhurried. She didn’t want to jostle her more than necessary.
Once Dokja was safely inside, Joonghyuk finally let her gaze wander.
She took in the apartment slowly, assessing how Dokja lived.
It was… strange.
Nothing looked dirty. There was no grime, no neglect in the traditional sense. But every surface seemed occupied — documents spread across tables, bags slung over chairs, empty containers stacked where they’d been set down and never quite moved again. Piles rather than mess. Accumulation rather than chaos.
Joonghyuk blinked, quietly wondering if it was a lack of storage or simply a lack of energy. Whether Dokja just didn’t have it in her to put things back once they’d been used.
She helped her walk a few more meters down the hallway and into the bedroom.
It looked much the same.
As they reached the bed, Dokja’s body finally gave in to the exhaustion she’d been holding at bay all night. Her shoulders sagged, the tension draining out of her as if she’d crossed some invisible threshold.
In her room, clothes were draped over chairs and strewn across the floor, books and paperwork stacked in uneven piles, empty food containers gathered in one corner like evidence of nights spent running on fumes.
But none of that mattered to her now.
Joonghyuk helped her sit, then eased her back onto the mattress, guiding her gently until Dokja sank into the soft sheets with a faint sound of relief.
The bed seemed to swallow her whole, cradling her tired body in a way the bar, the city, the world hadn’t.
All Dokja wanted and all she could think about was warmth, rest, and the quiet promise of forgetting everything else for a little while.
Joonghyuk’s presence, however, was like a beacon in the dimness of the room, impossible to ignore.
Dokja shifted slightly on the bed and looked back at her, instinctively reaching out and holding onto Joonghyuk as she leaned back against her, seeking closeness without quite knowing how to ask for it. She wanted more kisses. She wanted distraction. She wanted something she could hold onto — something immediate, tangible, controllable — anything that would keep her from sinking back into her own thoughts.
Joonghyuk noticed.
She blinked once and gently leaned away just enough to look at her properly.
“You’re not feeling well,”
She commented quietly, as her hand came up to softly caress Dokja’s head.
That’s the understatement of the century, Dokja wanted to snap back, the thought sharp and bitter on instinct, but the words never made it past her throat.
The moment Joonghyuk’s fingers slid through her hair, slow and careful, whatever defiance she had dissolved.
Dokja’s eyes fluttered shut, a small, unconscious sound rising in the back of her throat as she leaned into the touch without thinking, her body betraying her far more honestly than her words ever could.
“I’m fine.”
She muttered weakly anyway, stubborn even now, clinging to the idea of being okay despite everything.
Despite the exhaustion dragging her under. Despite how badly she needed this — the warmth, the attention, the gentleness.
Joonghyuk didn’t contradict her.
She simply continued to look at Dokja softly, her expression unreadable even to herself.
She didn’t fully understand why she was acting this way: why she’d cared enough to bring her back here, why she was still in a stranger’s bedroom, why her hands were moving through Dokja’s hair as if she were handling something fragile, precious.
She didn’t stop.
For some reason, being around Dokja felt appeasing, calming.
Joonghyuk was always hyper-aware, always measured, always restrained.
Not here. Not with her. Around Dokja, she found herself acting more on instinct, more spontaneous than she ever allowed herself to be.
She kept caressing her head thoughtfully, her fingers tracing slow, grounding paths through her hair as she wondered how she could help her — how someone so guarded might open up without breaking.
Dokja was already stretched thin, held together by sheer will, and Joonghyuk had felt it when they kissed. Through the intensity, through the desperation, she’d sensed how much fear and sadness hid beneath the surface.
It lingered, heavily.
The combination of exhaustion and Joonghyuk’s gentle touch made it harder and harder for Dokja to hold onto any kind of resistance.
Her shoulders sagged, tension draining out of her as her body instinctively leaned further into Joonghyuk’s hand. She could feel fatigue pulling at every muscle, dragging her down — but still, she didn’t want this moment to end. She didn’t want to be alone again.
“… Don’t stop.”
She mumbled softly, the words barely above a whisper: a simple plea, almost pathetic in its honesty.
Joonghyuk nodded faintly, as if acknowledging something unspoken, and continued her soothing motions.
After a moment, her gaze drifted back over the room — the forgotten plastic bags, the empty containers, the uneven piles of documents scattered across every surface.
She took it all in quietly.
Nothing slipped through her calm expression when she looked back at Dokja.
Dokja cracked her eyes open just enough to notice Joonghyuk’s attention lingering on the room, the strange, unreadable look on her face making something uncomfortable twist in her stomach.
She knew what her apartment looked like.
She knew it was a mess. She was a mess.
But seeing someone else witness it, someone like Joonghyuk who felt so composed, so put together — it made her chest tighten painfully.
As if all the cracks she tried so hard to ignore had suddenly been illuminated, impossible to hide.
And for the first time that night, the distraction she’d been clinging to wavered, replaced by a quiet, creeping vulnerability she wasn’t sure she was ready to face.
Dokja felt her insides turning outward without her consent. She shifted slightly on the bed, her shoulders curling inward almost unconsciously, as if she could somehow fold herself smaller, hide within the blankets, disappear into the space she occupied.
“I’m… I’m working on cleaning it.”
She mumbled weakly, the words barely audible, already knowing how flimsy the excuse sounded even as it left her mouth.
Joonghyuk hummed and shrugged, the movement easy, unbothered.
“I’m not living here. You are.”
She replied calmly, then paused — just enough for a flicker of discomfort to cross her features.
She hadn’t meant to make it an issue. If anything, she felt bad that the subject had come up at all.
The simplicity of her response hit Dokja harder than any judgment could have. It made an uncomfortable pang of guilt bloom in her chest.
This woman who had been a complete stranger just hours ago was now in her apartment, in her room, looking after her, showing her more care and patience than Dokja had shown herself in longer than she could remember.
Her throat tightened.
She swallowed back the lump forming there and shook her head slightly, as if that might dislodge the feeling.
“You… you must think I’m a mess.”
She muttered, voice small, half-hoping — half-begging — that Joonghyuk would contradict her.
“You are.”
Joonghyuk replied easily, tilting her head as if this were simply a fact being acknowledged.
“I thought we made this clear in the bar.”
There was a teasing lilt to her tone, light enough to soften the words without taking them back.
Dokja’s lips tugged into a tired scowl, her sluggish mind struggling to come up with anything sharp or clever in response.
“Shut up.”
She muttered.
She tried to sound annoyed, she tried to put some bite into it. It came out more like a whine.
The exhaustion in her voice stripped the protest of any real edge, leaving it sounding embarrassingly soft, almost endearing.
She didn’t want to think about how she must look right now — drunk, worn down, surrounded by clutter, emotionally threadbare: pathetic.
Joonghyuk was still here, fingers gently moving through her hair, teasing her with that calm expression like none of it repulsed her.
Something twisted in Dokja’s chest again.
“Don’t mock me.”
She added in a weak murmure, forcing herself to keep her eyes open even as they burned with fatigue.
She wasn’t ready to completely let go yet, not when she felt this exposed.
Joonghyuk studied her for a moment before speaking again.
“How are you feeling?”
Her tone was practical.
“I’ll pinch you if you say ‘fine’. I want to make sure you’re not nauseous.”
That earned a quiet huff of reluctant laughter from Dokja, her lips twitching into a faint, tired smile despite herself.
“You’re a strange one.”
She murmured, and found — to her own surprise — that she meant it fondly.
She took a moment to actually check in with herself, focusing on her body instead of the noise in her head. The haze of alcohol was still there, dull and heavy, but the sharp edge of sickness had faded.
“… Not nauseous.”
She answered after a pause.
“Just… really tired.”
Joonghyuk nodded softly at that, her gaze returning to Dokja before drifting away again, as if she were running through possibilities she wasn’t sure how to act on.
For the first time since they’d met, she hesitated.
Dokja noticed.
She watched as that hesitation settled in, replacing the earlier confidence with something quieter. Despite herself, a small, selfish part of her panicked at the thought of Joonghyuk leaving.
She crushed the feeling down immediately.
She didn’t want to be a burden. Not to someone who’d already given her more kindness than she deserved tonight.
“… You don’t have to stay here, you know.”
Dokja said quietly.
The words felt heavy on her tongue, her body tensing as she braced for the possibility that Joonghyuk might agree.
“I want to.”
Joonghyuk murmured back.
She let out a small sigh, releasing some of the tension coiled in her chest. Dokja didn’t seem to be doing well — really not well — and the realization left her feeling strangely helpless. She could leave. She knew that.
There was nothing obligating her to stay.
Yet, walking away now wouldn’t sit right with her — not after seeing the cracks so clearly.
She turned her head back toward Dokja, studying her again, trying futilely to grasp even a fraction of the thoughts swirling behind her tired eyes.
Her simple and direct response made Dokja’s heart flip painfully in her chest. She felt torn in two.
Her rational mind whispered that this was a bad idea. That she should be alone. That she shouldn’t drag another person into the wreckage of her life, into the weight she barely knew how to carry herself. She’d learned long ago that needing people only led to disappointment.
But something deeper pushed back just as hard. Something that craved human contact. Warmth. Presence.
For once, just this once.
Her eyes searched Joonghyuk’s face, her gaze unfocused and glossy, her brain far too tired to build walls or hide behind deflection anymore.
“… Then stay.”
She whispered.
The words felt fragile as they left her mouth, like they might shatter the moment they were heard.
A bitter scoff slipped past her lips, twisting into something that almost resembled a smile. She felt pathetic for saying it — for sounding so corny, so needy, so exposed. She looked up at Joonghyuk, trying to read her expression, but her lip trembled before she could stop it.
She felt awful.
She felt small.
And that familiar guilt — the one that followed every want, every need, every moment of weakness — rose up to choke her again.
Dokja shifted, pushing herself up slightly so she could face Joonghyuk more directly, and guided her closer, hands tentative but insistent.
Joonghyuk blinked at the movement, surprise flickering across her face, but she didn’t pull away. She kept looking at Dokja — curious, wary, unsettled by the glassy, unfocused shine in her eyes.
For a moment, Joonghyuk hesitated, her expression softening as if she wanted to say something.
Dokja didn’t give her the chance.
She leaned in and kissed her softly in a restrained, almost reverent way. It wasn’t like before. It wasn’t overwhelming or desperate.
And yet, before she could pour any more of herself into it, before the kiss could turn into something heavier, Dokja pulled back as if burned.
Her gaze dropped immediately, shame crashing over her in a wave.
Her hands stayed where they were, resting against Joonghyuk’s thighs. Her fingers brushed over the fabric of her dress, registering the softness beneath her touch.
Then she noticed it.
Small, round marks darkening the fabric beneath her hands.
Oh.
She was crying.
Joonghyuk frowned, her chest tightening painfully at the realization. The fact that Dokja cried so silently felt wrong, like something she’d learned to do out of necessity.
She lifted her hands without hesitation, cupping Dokja’s face gently, thumbs warm against her cheeks as she forced her to look up.
“Hey…”
The sound was quiet, almost swallowed by the room.
A small sob escaped Dokja the moment her face was held, her exhausted mind finally losing its grip on whatever control she had left.
The tears came faster now. They were hot, silent, humiliating — and spilling over without restraint.
She hated it. She hated how pathetic she must look.
The tenderness of Joonghyuk’s touch clashed cruelly with the harshness of her own thoughts, and her voice came out fractured, broken by choked hitches she couldn’t stop.
“… I’m sorry.”
She forced out, breath shuddering.
“I’m being so pathetic.”
“You’re not.”
Joonghyuk shook her head immediately, firmly — visibly rejecting the conclusion. Her gaze stayed on Dokja’s face as her thumb traced a soothing line along her cheek, while her other hand slid down to her lower back, resting there in a steady, grounding caress.
The simple gesture shattered her.
A sharp, shaky inhale tore from Dokja’s chest as her tears continued to fall.
Everything felt like too much — the exhaustion, the exposure, the ache in her chest, the way her stupid body reacted so strongly to even the smallest sign of care.
She almost hated herself for how instinctively she leaned into the touch, pressing closer without thinking.
It made her feel ridiculous.
“You’re… You’re being too nice.”
She choked out weakly.
Joonghyuk didn’t answer.
Instead, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around Dokja, pulling her into a gentle, steady embrace.
She felt sorry for her, deeply, painfully so — but she also felt small in the face of such overwhelming emotion. She knew she wasn’t equipped to fix this. She knew she didn’t have the right words, or the right answers.
And Dokja didn’t seem like someone who knew how to reach out when it became this intense.
So she stayed quiet.
She held her.
Dokja’s body trembled slightly in her arms, her hands tightening in the fabric of Joonghyuk’s dress as if she were afraid she might disappear if she let go. She hated how weak she felt — how exposed, how dependent — but at the same time…
It felt so good to be held like this.
Her breathing slowly evened out against Joonghyuk’s shoulder, the sobs fading into uneven breaths.
Her grip loosened just a little as exhaustion finally claimed its victory, her body surrendering to the safety she’d been denying herself for so long.
“… Don’t leave.”
She mumbled drowsily into the fabric of Joonghyuk’s dress, less a conscious request now than a half-asleep plea pulled from somewhere deep and unguarded.
Joonghyuk nodded softly, the movement slow, anchoring the promise into place.
“I won’t.”
She reassured quietly, her gaze lingering on Dokja’s slackening features.
The unadorned promise was enough.
Dokja’s grip loosened completely, her fingers relaxing as the last remnants of tension finally drained from her body. Her breathing evened out, shoulders sinking as exhaustion claimed her without resistance this time.
The last thing she registered before sleep took her fully was Joonghyuk’s steady presence beside her.
For once, that thought alone was enough to feel safe.
A small, fragile part of Dokja hoped this wasn’t just some alcohol-fueled dream.
Dokja woke up with a splitting headache.
It took a moment for consciousness to fully settle in, pain blooming behind her eyes as she groaned softly and lifted a hand to massage her forehead. Her limbs felt heavy, sluggish, like they didn’t quite belong to her yet.
She squinted at the clock on her nightstand through her tired haze.
4:03 a.m.
Still the middle of the night.
With a quiet sigh, Dokja pushed herself up, carefully swinging her legs off the bed as she pressed her fingers more firmly into her temples, trying to dull the ache.
Her gaze drifted instinctively across the room and froze.
Joonghyuk.
She was sitting in Dokja’s desk chair, posture slightly slumped, fast asleep. Her own coat was draped around her shoulders, pulled close like a makeshift blanket.
The sight made Dokja’s chest tighten.
A wave of guilt washed over her, settling uncomfortably beneath her ribs. She stared at Joonghyuk for a long moment, taking in the unfamiliar vulnerability of her resting form, before quietly turning away toward the bathroom.
She drank water straight from the tap, swallowed a painkiller, and stared at her reflection in the mirror while she waited for it to kick in.
Her face looked… blank, or maybe tired.
She couldn’t tell if she felt dread when she looked at herself, or if she simply felt nothing at all.
The distinction seemed impossible to grasp through the fog. Her throat ached faintly, the sensation unexplained.
She leaned forward, bracing her hands against the cool porcelain of the sink, and let out a bitter sigh.
Her ears rang.
“Dokja. It’s time to go back to reality.”
“Mom?”
The word slipped out before she could stop it.
Dokja blinked and looked around sharply.
Nothing. No one.
She exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging.
Just tired.
Shaking her head, she turned back toward the door and opened it.
“… Should your mom be here?”
Joonghyuk stood just outside, arms crossed loosely.
Dokja jolted, a quiet gasp escaping her before she recovered, shaking her head.
“Oh.”
She murmured, voice hoarse.
“It would be surprising if she was.”
She walked past her and back toward the bedroom, suddenly hyper-aware of her own movements.
“I’m sorry you had to stay.”
She added quietly.
“I… think I’m feeling better. You can go back.”
Joonghyuk didn’t respond immediately.
She looked Dokja up and down slowly, her gaze thoughtful, assessing.
Then, she shook her head.
“I don’t mind waiting more.”
She said evenly.
Joonghyuk had the distinct impression that Dokja wanted to be alone, that she wanted to fold back into herself and seal everything away.
She had a hunch that isolation right now wouldn’t bring peace. It would bring damage.
Dokja stiffened at her response.
She needed to be alone. She needed to put all these embarrassing emotions back where they belonged, to tuck them away and pretend everything was normal again.
The last thing she wanted was this woman — who had already seen her at her weakest — to witness more of it.
Yet…Why did the thought of being left alone make her chest tighten with panic? Why did the idea of Joonghyuk leaving now make her want to reach out and hold her in place?
“… You don’t have to do that.”
She said weakly, eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor.
“Come on.”
Joonghyuk sighed, already turning and gently guiding her back toward the bed.
She helped Dokja lie down again, movements careful. This time, Dokja didn’t let go. She caught Joonghyuk’s wrist and tugged her closer, guiding her down beside her with surprising insistence.
Joonghyuk blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before yielding and lying beside her.
Dokja scoffed softly, glancing at her with a tired, unreadable expression before settling back against the pillow.
“Last time someone was here… it didn’t end well.”
She murmured, her voice low, almost detached, as her fingers traced the line of Joonghyuk’s cheek.
The touch lingered. It felt more confident than Dokja had been earlier. There was something unguarded in the movement, a boldness that felt less like intent and more like exhaustion stripping away what little inhibition she had left.
Joonghyuk didn’t pull away. She simply watched her, attentive, quietly registering the shift.
“How so?”
She asked softly.
“Well…”
Dokja exhaled through her nose, something brittle and hollow ghosting through her expression.
“It’s funny. Really.”
She reached for the hem of her shirt and unbuttoned it, fingers steady despite the weight of what she was about to reveal. She lifted the fabric slowly, exposing the skin along her ribs.
Marks.
Scars.
They were pale now:white, old, long healed but unmistakable. The pattern was precise, parallel, deliberate. There was no ambiguity in them, no room for misinterpretation.
Dokja’s expression didn’t change as the fabric was pushed up, but her gaze dropped, fixed somewhere just past Joonghyuk’s shoulder.
She avoided her face entirely, as if bracing herself for a reaction she didn’t want to see.
She didn’t know why she was showing this, to someone she had met only hours ago: to someone who should, by all logic, have remained a stranger.
But her thoughts felt slow, softened around the edges — still fogged by fatigue, by the strange intimacy of the moment.
The usual alarm bells simply didn’t ring.
Joonghyuk frowned, her breath catching almost imperceptibly. She lifted her hand hesitantly, fingers hovering before finally making contact, tracing the scars with careful reverence.
“It… led to this?”
She asked quietly.
Dokja shook her head.
“No. Not exactly.”
She swallowed, her voice flattening as she continued.
“We were getting intimate. With a colleague. And…”
She paused.
“She saw this.”
Her fingers tightened briefly in the fabric of her shirt.
“She started saying she’d do something I’d regret if I kept going. So I explained to her that threatening someone with an addiction wasn’t exactly a good idea.”
Dokja let out a short, humorless breath and looked away.
“She didn’t seem to reject me.”
She went on.
“She actually seemed concerned. So I started talking. I explained the first time I did it. How I sometimes relapsed. How it felt. How grounded it makes me.”
Her voice remained steady, eerily so.
The bitter smile she usually wore when deflecting was gone. In its place was something blank, emptied out.
“That was very stupid of me.”
She said.
“She started gathering her things as soon as I opened up. I wasn’t even fully processing what was happening. Maybe I was still stunned by the situation, by actually talking about this.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I realized she was leaving only when she closed my door. She ignored me the next day, and I didn’t insist. I was just glad she didn’t spoke about it to others.”
“Dokja.”
Joonghyuk murmured.
Her hand moved again, gentler this time, brushing along Dokja’s ribs in a grounding, reassuring motion. Concern was etched clearly across her face.
“…”
Dokja stayed silent for a moment.
Everything still felt unreal, distant — like she was floating just above her own body.
She sighed.
“Yes?”
“I won’t do anything like this.”
Dokja let out a soft, bitter laugh and smiled faintly, though there was no humor in it.
“You know.”
She said after a moment.
“You remind me so much of my comfort character.”
Her gaze drifted to her nightstand, to her phone resting beside an empty water bottle.
“I think I’m just not used to talking to people.”
She continued quietly.
“We’re all lonely at some point, and reading made that manageable. As long as they read something, humans won’t be lonely. I probably wanted to believe this. And for so long, it helped me.”
Her voice wavered for the first time.
“But now… I can’t even bring myself to read anymore. I can’t appreciate it. I lost my only lifeline.”
Joonghyuk hesitated, then wrapped her arms around her carefully, drawing her into a tentative embrace.
“Those parts of your life aren’t gone.”
She murmured.
“They’re just on hold, for now.”
Dokja huffed weakly, tears blurring her vision as exhaustion pressed down on her chest.
“How can you be so sure?”
She whispered.
“What do you even know about me?”
Joonghyuk didn’t look away.
“I’ve felt it.”
She admitted.
“All the emotions you poured into that kiss. You weren’t broken.”
She swallowed.
“You were desperate to be found.”
Something twisted painfully in Dokja’s chest. Her hands moved on instinct, gripping the fabric of Joonghyuk’s dress, fingers curling tight as if anchoring herself.
Being seen like this — understood — hurt more than being ignored ever had.
“… Stop it.”
She said weakly, her voice trembling. Her fingers shook just slightly where they clutched the fabric.
“Don’t try to understand me.”
Joonghyuk lowered her head slightly, her gaze settling on Dokja with quiet attentiveness. She observed her in silence, searching her face for cues, for anything that might tell her what was needed, what would be too much.
She didn’t know how to react to a situation like this, didn’t know where the line was between presence and intrusion.
After a brief hesitation, she lifted her hand, movements careful and tentative, and began to caress Dokja’s head gently. Her other arm remained around her, steady, holding her close without tightening, without demanding anything.
“I won’t.”
She said softly.
The words were almost understated, and once they left her lips, she didn’t add anything else. She let the silence settle naturally around them. If words weren’t welcome, then she would offer something else: warmth, proximity, just being there.
Dokja closed her eyes, letting out a slow sigh against Joonghyuk’s shoulder, the sound carrying more exhaustion than relief.
Joonghyuk stayed like that, fingers moving idly through her hair as she tried to figure out how to exist around someone so clearly on the edge.
Dokja, meanwhile, didn’t know what to do with the silence. She didn’t know what to do with the way Joonghyuk held her like she was something fragile, as if she was something that could break if mishandled, like she was worth keeping close.
She hated it.
She hated how much she wanted this. She hated how deeply she craved the comfort after so long without anyone even attempting to care, without anyone lingering long enough to notice the cracks.
“… You don’t have to lie.”
Dokja muttered eventually, her voice muffled where her face pressed into Joonghyuk’s shoulder.
“I can tell you’re just saying that.”
The words were sharp with distrust, almost reflexive.
Despite them, her body betrayed her completely. She stayed pressed tightly against Joonghyuk, clinging to her warmth as if letting go would cause this moment to slip through her fingers forever.
“I’m not.”
Joonghyuk blinked, looking down at her with a faint frown creasing her features. There was no defensiveness in her tone. She wouldn’t lie, not to her, not even now.
She resumed caressing Dokja’s head, slow and repetitive, unbothered by the accusation.
Dokja scoffed weakly, though there was no real bite to it, and her fingers tightened in Joonghyuk’s dress almost unconsciously.
Being held like this — being so exposed, so seen, by someone she had only just met — was overwhelming in ways she didn’t know how to articulate.
She should hate it. She should be recoiling, pulling away, rebuilding her walls brick by brick.
But instead, something in her chest ached sharply as she leaned further into the touch, the sensation striking her with the realization that she had been craving this kind of comfort for far longer than she’d ever admitted. Maybe for years: long enough that the absence of it had felt normal.
She hated herself for how badly she wanted to stay like this.
Joonghyuk didn’t comment on any of it. She simply stayed, her presence steady, her arms unyielding but gentle.
After a while, she closed her eyes, attuning herself to the subtle shifts in Dokja’s body — the way her tension slowly eased, the way her breathing began to slow, deepen, even out.
The exhaustion of the night eventually caught up to them both again. Their words dwindled into nothing, conversation dissolving into shared silence.
Dokja’s limbs grew heavy where they rested against Joonghyuk, her muscles finally surrendering after hours of holding themselves rigid.
The warmth of the embrace was soothing, almost hypnotic.
Even in her half-conscious state, Dokja pressed closer without realizing it, as if instinctively searching for more contact, more reassurance that this was real and still there.
Her thoughts began to blur, the sharp edges of her awareness softening as the tension melted out of her body. Sleep crept in slowly, gently, pulling her under as the world lost its clarity and faded into something distant and hazy — leaving only the steady rise and fall of Joonghyuk’s breathing, and the quiet certainty of not being alone.
An hour later, Dokja’s alarm clock shattered the quietness of the room with its shrill insistence.
Joonghyuk stiffened immediately against her, body reacting before her mind fully caught up.
With a low groan, she reached out on instinct and turned it off, the abrupt silence almost jarring after the noise. She rubbed at her forehead with the heel of her palm, eyes still half-closed, irritation and grogginess pulling at her features.
She didn’t exactly have office hours.
Early mornings weren’t something she was used to — especially not this early — even if she was usually awake in the morning to clean, to move around, to prepare herself slowly for the day.
Being woken up like this, suddenly and without warning, felt disorienting.
Dokja groaned too, blinking her bleary eyes open as if the world had been dropped back onto her head all at once.
For a few seconds, she just lay there, staring blankly ahead, utterly disoriented.
Then memory came crashing back.
Last night.
The bar.
The kisses.
The tears.
The way she’d clung to Joonghyuk like a lifeline.
Her cheeks burned as realization set in, heat creeping up her neck. She shifted and froze.
She was holding onto Joonghyuk, tightly.
With a sharp inhale, she startled and pulled away, scrambling to sit up far too quickly. Her hair stuck out in every direction, tangled and flattened in strange places, and her shirt was still partially unbuttoned from the night before.
“… What time is it?”
She mumbled quietly, voice thick with sleep and lingering embarrassment.
“5:40 a.m.”
Joonghyuk blinked, finally turning to look at her properly before sitting up a little herself, posture stiff and unsure.
“Why would you be up that early?”
She added, the question slipping out in a low murmur.
“I start around 7:30.”
Dokja replied.
Joonghyuk blinked again, clearly surprised.
Dokja ran her fingers through her hair in a futile attempt to tame the mess, the motion more habitual than effective.
She looked at Joonghyuk with a tired, dulled expression, still too exhausted to feel the full force of embarrassment she knew was waiting just beneath the surface.
“Transports take a while.”
She lied nonchalantly, looking away as she focused on buttoning up her shirt, fingers moving a little too quickly.
She couldn’t explain that she stared into the void for minutes after waking up and that it would usually took her half an hour to get up.
Joonghyuk simply nodded before standing up herself. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do now. Usually, she would already be gone before the other person even woke up, slipping out quietly, without explanations or lingering looks.
Still, it wasn’t like they had done anything last night. And yet, she felt strangely off-balance: unsure of how to act, unsure of how to feel.
So she sat back down in Dokja’s desk chair instead, hands resting loosely on her thighs.
After a while, Dokja finally stood and went to the bathroom without a word. She brushed her teeth, fixed her hair as best she could, splashed water on her face until the lingering fog cleared just enough.
When she returned to the room to get dressed properly, Joonghyuk was still there, watching.
She wasn’t intrusive, she was just quietly observing as Dokja moved around, getting ready.
Dokja dressed with mechanical efficiency, her face carefully blank as she pulled a fresh shirt from the drawer and stepped into her slacks.
Every movement was controlled, as if she could keep everything contained if she didn’t slow down.
The silence was heavy.
It pressed down on her chest, thick with things unsaid, with the remnants of last night still hanging between them.
She glanced at Joonghyuk sitting stiffly in the chair, then looked away just as fast.
“… You can stay if you want.”
She muttered under her breath while buttoning up her new shirt, refusing to meet her eyes.
It came out too casual, like it didn’t matter either way.
“Ah, I wouldn’t dare.”
Joonghyuk blinked, then shrugged lightly.
“I have to go home to freshen up anyway.”
She paused, looking back at Dokja before adding, almost thoughtfully.
“I can come back later, if you want. When do you finish?”
“I get off at 6 p.m.”
The words slipped out too easily.
What was she doing? Why did she want this woman to come back so badly?
There had to be something wrong with her. There had to be.
She pushed down the annoying spark of hope rising in her chest, biting the inside of her cheek in quiet frustration.
Why was she even offering in the first place?
“… Just. Do what you want.”
She muttered in a forced nonchalant tone, shoulders tense, gaze fixed anywhere but Joonghyuk.
As if that would make it true.
Joonghyuk nodded, considering her words for a moment before getting up and stretching, joints cracking softly in the quiet room.
“Okay.”
She replied simply.
She reached out and patted Dokja’s back in a brief, gentle gesture.
“Have a nice day.”
She murmured before turning and walking out of the room.
Dokja watched her leave with a confusing knot of relief and disappointment tightening in her chest.
Her body reacted before her mind could catch up, tensing at the soft pat on her back as if it had short-circuited something inside her.
She hated how badly she wanted to grab onto Joonghyuk’s dress. She hated the urge to pull her back, to plead even though she knew she had no right to ask. She hated how her heart ached like something cracked clean through as she watched Joonghyuk walk away.
“You too.”
She murmured quietly, the words barely audible in the empty room.
When she was finally alone, Dokja’s gaze dropped to the floor.
The silence pressed in immediately.
She replayed everything in her head — how vulnerable she’d let herself be, how openly emotional she’d become, how easily Joonghyuk had seen parts of her she usually kept locked away.
And now, how empty she felt with no one else there.
She sat back down on her bed, shoulders slumping, staring at nothing in particular as her thoughts slowly disconnected from her body.
Time slipped by without her really noticing. At some point, her head turned on its own to look at the clock.
Work.
Right.
She moved through the rest of her routine mechanically, finishing getting ready and stepping outside before she could think too hard about it.
When she arrived at her office, she blinked faintly, realizing she couldn’t entirely remember how she’d gotten there.
The day crawled by.
She was exhausted, barely holding herself together. Every task felt heavier than it should have, every conversation an effort she had to consciously push through. The hours blurred together into something dull and oppressive, her brain running on fumes.
Her thoughts kept drifting — back to Joonghyuk.
Her touch.
Her voice.
How she stayed.
It was distracting in the worst way.
The hours dragged on painfully slow. Dokja found herself stealing glances at her phone, again and again, hoping for anything, a text, a call, some sign that last night hadn’t just been a fleeting accident.
And then it hit her, sharp and humiliating.
They hadn’t exchanged numbers.
By the time 6 p.m. finally rolled around, she felt like she was on the verge of breaking down from the constant internal strain.
She put on her earphones and got on the subway, the familiar rumble beneath her feet doing nothing to steady her.
Her vision blurred slightly as tears threatened to spill over, and she sighed, overwhelmed.
She hoped people assumed something reasonable.
That she’d been broken up with.
That someone had died.
Anything more acceptable than I’m anxious and I don’t even know why.
Her grip tightened around her phone as she scrolled through nothing, the screen glowing uselessly back at her.
The fluorescent subway lights smeared faintly through her tears.
So stupid.
She ducked her head lower, willing herself not to cry.
Then — a notification.
Her breath hitched. Maybe it was a new chapter?
Only for it to be an automated work email about tomorrow’s schedule. The disappointment burned sharper than anything else.
When she finally reached her station, her body once again slipped into autopilot.
Before she realized it, she was standing in front of her apartment door, staring blankly at the lock. She blinked, as if surprised to find herself there, before opening it.
The apartment greeted her with silence.
She stepped inside, glanced briefly toward the kitchen and then went straight to her bedroom.
Her body trembled with a restless mix of anger and anxiety, but the nausea curling in her stomach made the thought of food unbearable.
She lay down, closing her eyes, trying to sleep — or at least rest — but her heart refused to slow. It thudded painfully, loud enough that she felt it in her throat.
She wanted to cry more.
She needed to cry more.
But nothing came.
She felt trapped inside her own body, suspended in that awful space between emotional numbness and complete overwhelm.
Miserable, but unable to release it.
The silence of her apartment only amplified everything, loneliness seeping deep into her bones. She tossed and turned, the sheets feeling too heavy, too close, as if they were weighing her down.
Every small sound echoed far too loudly.
All she wanted was relief.
A moment of ease.
To stop feeling so unbearably empty.
Her eyes stung again as tears welled up instinctively.
This was stupid.
She felt so pathetic, like some needy child who didn’t know how to exist on her own. That thought hurt most of all.
After about an hour, a knock echoed through the apartment.
It was soft, almost tentative — but loud enough to slice through the haze Dokja had been drifting in.
She groaned quietly and stared at the ceiling, weighing her options.
Pretending she hadn’t heard it felt tempting. Easier. Safer. No expectations, no interactions, no need to pull herself together for anyone.
She lingered there for a moment longer than necessary before finally forcing herself upright. Her body protested every movement, limbs heavy as if gravity had doubled since she lay down. Dragging her feet across the floor, she made her way toward the door, already rehearsing a tired apology in her head.
When she opened it, her expression was flat, exhausted —
— and then she froze.
Joonghyuk was standing there.
For a second, Dokja genuinely thought she was hallucinating.
Her attire was completely different from the night before. Gone was the elegant dress, the sharp, almost divine presence that had felt untouchable.
Instead, she was dressed down in a casual sweatshirt and loose pants, sneakers peeking out beneath the fabric with a bag in her hand. Her face was just as striking, just as calm, just as unreadable as before.
Dokja got lost in her eyes for a long, disoriented moment before blinking hard, breath hitching as reality settled in.
She wasn’t dreaming.
Joonghyuk smiled faintly at the look on her face. It was soft, amused in a way that didn’t mock her. She gently nudged past her as Dokja leaned away from the door on instinct to let her in.
Without a word, Joonghyuk walked toward the kitchen.
She moved with an easy familiarity, opening cabinets and pulling out cups like she’d been there before. Dokja watched her prepare the blend that she took out of her bag — chamomile mixed with dried fruit, the faint scent already starting to bloom in the air.
Joonghyuk poured hot water into two cups, steam curling upward as she worked.
As she waited for it to steep, she glanced back at Dokja.
“How was your day?”
She asked quietly.
The sight of Joonghyuk standing there felt like oxygen flooding back into Dokja’s lungs. The suffocating stillness of the apartment loosened its grip just a little.
Enough to breathe.
“Terrible.”
The word slipped out before she could soften it.
She sank into the chair at the table, shoulders slumping forward as the weight of the day finally settled in fully.
“Long. Draining.”
She admitted, staring down at the tabletop instead of meeting Joonghyuk’s gaze.
Joonghyuk didn’t rush to respond.
She nodded once, quietly, then carried the cups over and set them on the table between them. From her bag, she pulled out a small packet of biscuits and placed them carefully beside the tea.
She sat across from Dokja, posture relaxed, eyes attentive, but she didn’t interrupt. She just waited.
Dokja hadn’t been able to stomach anything when she got home earlier. Even the thought of food had made her nauseous. But now, sitting there, the tightness in her stomach had shifted.
The nausea was gone, replaced with a hollow, aching emptiness.
And… hunger.
Her gaze lingered on the biscuits.
She brought food.
The realization hit her. Kindness like this felt undeserved, like it came with invisible rules she didn’t know how to follow. She lifted the cup and took a cautious sip.
The tea was warm, lightly sweetened with honey, floral and soothing. For just a second, her hands stopped trembling.
“… Thanks.”
She muttered into the rim of the cup before glancing up through her lashes.
“For coming back, and the food.”
“No problem.”
Joonghyuk replied easily.
She took a sip of her own tea, eyes closing briefly as if savoring the warmth, then opened them again, letting her gaze wander over the apartment she’d only seen briefly the night before.
“I read that routines help sometimes.”
She said after a moment.
“So if you’re not against it, I don’t mind sharing some tea at the end of the day with you.”
Dokja’s fingers tightened slightly around the cup.
A routine. The word settled heavy and strange in her chest.
She didn’t have routines. She had cycles — burnout, isolation, self-neglect. Patterns that kept her stuck. But this felt unfamiliar, almost hopeful, and that scared her more than anything.
“… You don’t have to do that.”
She murmured, but there was no real protest behind it this time, just disbelief.
Her eyes flicked up to Joonghyuk’s face, searching for a hint of humor or obligation. Did people really offer things like this without wanting something in return?
“Well.”
Joonghyuk replied softly, shaking her head.
“I’m the one asking if that’s okay.”
She met Dokja’s gaze again, something thoughtful flickering behind her eyes.
Part of her tried to understand why she felt so drawn to this woman. Why Dokja’s quiet misery had lodged itself somewhere under her skin.
Yet, it didn’t feel urgent to explain. It just was.
The lack of conditions left Dokja off-balance.
“Why?”
She asked finally, exhaustion stripping the filter from her voice.
“Why are you doing this? We barely know each other.”
Joonghyuk looked away for a moment, scoffing quietly under her breath before answering.
“Well… You looked awful yesterday.”
She said plainly.
“Worse than my worst. I didn’t even know it was possible.”
She glanced back at Dokja, expression unguarded.
“I just felt… sad. But you didn’t look like someone who was ready to give up either.”
She paused, fingers tightening slightly around her cup.
“I don’t really know why myself. I just wanted to share the weight of some of those feelings.”
Her voice was calm but there was something sincere beneath it. This cut cleanly through the carefully built defenses Dokja had relied on for years, lodging themselves somewhere deep and tender in her chest.
She stared at Joonghyuk, genuinely speechless.
She cared enough to stay. Enough to offer help without knowing anything about her. Enough to sit here, drinking tea, acting as if Dokja’s unraveling wasn’t something repulsive or inconvenient.
“You… You’re not even bothered by my messed up life?”
She murmured finally, her voice barely louder than the hum of the room.
“You don’t think I’m pathetic?”
“No. Not really.”
Joonghyuk shook her head gently before looking back at her.
Even as she thought that eventually she wouldn’t be enough, that Dokja would need something more structured than shared tea and calm presence… She didn’t let that show. She didn’t pull away.
Dokja’s breath hitched at the answer, her fingers curling into fists against the tabletop as if grounding herself.
No. Not really.
Such simple words. Thin, maybe fragile, but enough to cling to. Enough to make her wonder if maybe she wasn’t as fundamentally broken as she’d always believed.
“… You’re going to regret this.”
She muttered halfheartedly, pushing her chair back before pausing mid-motion.
Then, quieter, almost shy.
“… What time should I make tea?”
Joonghyuk shrugged at the warning, a soft grin tugging at her lips.
“I’ll do it when I arrive. I’m not sure I can be here at the same time each day.”
She murmured before looking back at Dokja.
The casual ease of the response made something flip in Dokja’s chest again. She’ll show up, just like that, because she wants to.
No obligation. No expectation. No debt.
Dokja swallowed, suddenly feeling exposed without her usual armor of sarcasm and emotional distance.
“Alright.”
She agreed quietly, her voice barely there.
“… And if you don’t come?”
“I’ll text you.”
Joonghyuk replied, glancing down at her cup before taking another sip.
The promise eased something tight in Dokja’s chest that she hadn’t even realized was clenched. A fragile part of her, long neglected, loosened just a fraction.
They sat in silence for a few beats after that.
Dokja traced the rim of her cup absently, thoughts tumbling over themselves as she tried to make sense of how this — her — had happened. How someone could walk into her life so suddenly and make the loneliness feel just a little less suffocating.
“… Do you have to go now?”
She asked suddenly.
The words sounded too small to her own ears, too honest and needy.
“… Not right away. I can stay for a while.”
Joonghyuk murmured.
She reached into her bag, pulled out her phone, opened her contacts, and held it out toward Dokja without ceremony.
She’d stay.
The simple fact eased a pressure Dokja hadn’t known she was carrying until it lifted.
She took the phone, fingers slightly unsteady as she typed her number in. Her heart thudded uncomfortably hard against her ribs, one thought looping endlessly in her mind:
Someone is choosing to stay.
She handed the phone back, the silence between them suddenly charged with something soft and unfamiliar.
After they finished their tea, Joonghyuk stayed a little longer.
Sometimes the room was quiet, the silence settling into something almost comfortable.
Sometimes Dokja spoke — asking questions, making self-deprecating remarks she didn’t quite mean.
Sometimes Joonghyuk responded calmly, grounding the conversation without trying to steer it anywhere.
Eventually, Joonghyuk stood and gathered some of the empty water bottles after asking Dokja, tossing them out with quiet efficiency.
It was a step.
As Joonghyuk tidied up, Dokja lingered near the sink, feeling strangely off-balance without her usual walls firmly in place.
She hated this, needing someone, how her chest tightened whenever Joonghyuk moved around the apartment.
She shouldn’t get attached.
She couldn’t.
… But when Joonghyuk turned back and met her gaze, expression softer, something in Dokja’s chest fluttered anyway.
And that scared her more than anything else.
They stood there in awkward silence for a few seconds — long enough for Dokja to feel the weight of it settle in her chest. Long enough for her to recognize the subtle shift in Joonghyuk’s posture, the slight inhale that meant she was about to speak.
Goodbye.
Dokja could see it coming. The way Joonghyuk’s lips parted, the way her shoulders squared as if preparing to leave.
Before her logical brain could catch up, before it could berate her for being a weak fool for wanting more, the words slipped out.
“You should come back tomorrow too.”
The sentence landed heavier than she intended.
It almost sounded like an order — the old version of herself surfacing instinctively, the one who spoke with confidence because it was safer than admitting need. The one who demanded instead of asked.
Her body betrayed her: the way her eyes met Joonghyuk’s shyly, the way her voice dropped to something barely above a whisper, the way her hands stayed rigid at her sides like she was bracing for rejection.
For a heartbeat, she thought she might have overstepped.
“Ah.”
Joonghyuk blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before nodding.
“That was the plan, yes.”
The words came with a small smile, as if this had never been a question to her at all.
She stepped closer before Dokja could process it, her presence suddenly filling the space between them. Then, gently, she pressed a careful kiss to Dokja’s cheek.
It was brief, light and devastating.
Joonghyuk walked away as if she hadn’t just shifted something fundamental inside her.
She’d come back.
The thought echoed inside Dokja’s mind like a song she hadn’t known she’d been waiting to hear. It was sweet, disorienting, and almost painful in their warmth.
Her cynical thoughts tried to shove them away, tried to dull the sound before it could take root.
It didn’t work.
The memory of Joonghyuk’s lips against her cheek lingered, the sensation blooming like a delayed shock. Heat rushed to her face, spreading up to her ears, down her neck, settling somewhere deep.
She reached up without thinking, fingertips brushing the spot as if to confirm it had really happened. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs.
When she was alone again, the rhythm didn’t slow.
This time, though, it wasn’t shyness or the ghost of closeness still clinging to her skin.
It was dread.
Her expression fell as the familiar weight settled back in, cold and inevitable.
She was still herself, still the same person with the same broken patterns, the same spiraling thoughts — no matter how kind Joonghyuk had been, no matter that she’d come to her place, no matter that she said she’d return.
Niceness didn’t fix her.
She sighed softly, the sound barely filling the apartment, and dragged herself to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth mechanically, avoiding her own reflection before retreating back to bed.
When she closed her eyes, sleep came reluctantly, tangled with restless thoughts and lingering warmth she didn’t know what to do with.
The next day, when she woke up, she still felt awful.
Her body moved out of habit — tidying herself, getting dressed, preparing for work with dull precision.
The disconnection was still there, the emotional numbness clinging stubbornly to her like a second skin.
Still…
Some parts of herself felt less sharp.
Not healed. Not light. Just less jagged.
She worked through the morning as usual, the hours blurring together.
When lunchtime came, she left without thinking, without deciding where to go.
Her feet carried her outside until she found herself sitting on a bench in front of the building.
She closed her eyes.
The sunlight reached her skin gently, warm and patient, as if it had nowhere else to be.
It brushed against her face in a way that felt almost intimate. Her throat tightened unexpectedly, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes from how soft it felt.
She wasn’t used to gentleness.
But unlike before, she could feel it now, even if only faintly.
When she opened her eyes again, her phone buzzed in her hand.
A notification.
”What flavor of cake do you prefer?”
Dokja blinked at the screen, the simple question cutting cleanly through the haze that usually swallowed her thoughts.
Cake?
For a second, she just stared, her mind lagging behind reality. Then, a slow and tiny smile tugged at her lips.
No one had asked her something so mundane, so casually kind, in a very long time.
She typed a response, fingers lighter than they’d been in days.
When she looked back up at the street around her, the nausea that usually churned in her stomach felt muted: not gone but quieter.
And for the first time in a long time, she realized something else too: fragile, and almost frightening in its simplicity.
She had something to look forward to.