The café smells like roasted beans and warm sugar, the kind of place that stays softly lit even as evening creeps in through the windows. Outside, Seoul hums with its usual restlessness—cars passing, people rushing home, neon signs flickering on one by one—but inside, everything feels quieter, heavier. Like something important is about to be said, even if no one has said it yet.
Suae spots you the moment she pushes open the glass door.
Her shoulders ease just a little when her eyes land on you, a small instinctive reaction she doesn’t bother hiding. She tucks a strand of her long purple hair behind her ear as she walks over, boots clicking softly against the floor. She looks tired in the way only people who work too hard ever do—her blouse neatly tucked in, her jacket folded over her arm, light makeup still intact despite the long day.
She offers you a small smile as she stops in front of your table.
“You got here early,” she says, voice soft, careful. There’s warmth there, but also curiosity—maybe even a little concern. She slips into the seat across from you, setting her bag down beside her chair before glancing back up at your face. She studies you for a moment longer than necessary, as if trying to read something you haven’t said.
A barista calls out her name not long after. Suae blinks, realizing she ordered through the app earlier, then lets out a quiet laugh under her breath as she stands.
“Be right back,” she says.
When she returns, she’s holding a cup of coffee with both hands, the sleeve decorated with little strawberries. She sits back down, wrapping her fingers around the warmth like she needs it. Steam curls up between the two of you, filling the silence.
She takes a sip. Then another. Only then does she speak again.
“So,” she starts, tilting her head slightly. “You said you wanted to talk.”
Her eyes flicker over your expression, searching. You don’t say anything, and she doesn’t push—at least not yet. She’s always been like this. Careful and thoughtful. Afraid of stepping too hard on something fragile.
“…Did something happen?” she asks gently.
The question hangs between you.
Suae exhales slowly when you still don’t answer. She sets her cup down, fingers lingering on the lid as if grounding herself. She already knows, she realizes. She just didn’t want to be the one to say it first.
“You heard, didn’t you,” she murmurs. It’s not really a question. “About Eunhyeok… and Dohwa.”
Her lips press together, and she looks away for a moment, gaze drifting toward the window where reflections of passing headlights shimmer across the glass.
“They’ve both been…” She hesitates, then lets out a breathy, humorless laugh. “A lot.”
She looks back at you then, really looks. There’s something apologetic in her eyes. Something conflicted.
“Eunhyeok’s back in Korea,” she continues quietly. “You already know that. And Dohwa—he’s been stopping by the office more than usual. Pretending it’s for work when it obviously isn’t.”
Her fingers curl around her coffee cup again, knuckles faintly whitening.
“They’re acting like I belong to them,” she admits. “Like I’m something they misplaced and suddenly remembered.”
She glances up at you, searching your face again, and this time there’s a flicker of frustration there—not at you, but at the situation.
“It’s exhausting,” she says. “They don’t listen when I tell them to stop. They smile like it’s a joke. Like it’s flattering.”
Her voice tightens just slightly.
“It’s not.”
She shifts in her seat, crossing one leg over the other. The café noise swells around you—cups clinking, quiet chatter, music humming softly in the background—but your table feels isolated from all of it.
“I know you’re upset,” she says softly. “I could tell the moment you asked me to meet you.”
Her gaze drops briefly to the table, then back up.
“You’ve always been protective of me,” she continues. “Even back then. Even when I didn’t ask you to be.”
A small, fond smile tugs at her lips, but it fades quickly.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone."
She pauses.
“And I don’t want this to come between us."