Archive of Our Own

Yoonchae finished the rest of her nightly skincare routine on autopilot.

Cleanser rinsed away, foam swirling down the drain; toner tapped into her skin, a slightly tacky feeling left behind; moisturizer smoothed over her cheeks until the air conditioning cools the product on her skin. The bathroom mirror had fogged up just enough with the leftover heat of her shower that her reflection had gone soft around the edges, blurrier, too.

She pads into her bedroom, bare feet sinking into the white plush of the rug, and reaches for her phone on her bedside table. It’s Friday night, finally. There’s no homework looming over her, no basketball practice for her body to dread. It’s just her, her bed, and the K-Drama she’s been saving for when she actually has both the time and energy to sit still for a few hours, pay attention, and get to fully enjoy it.

She’s nearly in her bed, can nearly taste the warmth of her comforter, when—

HOOOOOOOOOONK.

Yoonchae jolts, hand flying to her chest.

The sound, loud and obnoxious, cuts through the silence of her neighborhood, followed almost immediately by her phone buzzing incessantly in her hand.

She double taps the screen, squinting down at it when it comes to life.

mei-yok 🍒 (9:38 pm):

LOOK OUTSIDEDEEEE
HELLLLOOOOO???
YOOOOONNNNNCHAEEEEE
bro. stop taking a dump
im soooo serious
OMLLL 🙄🙄
come othisde bf i make u

Yoonchae bites the inside of her cheek to stifle the smile curling onto her face. She lets a single huff of air slip past her lips as she types back.

yoonchip 🍪 (9:39 pm):

You are very loud.
And very rude.

Another honk blares from outside her window, held longer this time, blatantly petulant this time.

mei-yok 🍒 (9:40 pm):

WOW
k.
sorry i geuss i’ll just DIE out here
because my best firned APPARENTLY hates me 🖕🖕

Yoonchae snorts despite herself and walks over to the window in front of her bed. She pushes the curtain aside just enough so she can peek out.

Megan’s car—that unmistakable black BMW—is parked crookedly against the curb, headlights still left on. Yoonchae rolls her eyes when she sees that. She never listens. Megan is inside, barely visible in the dim lighting, but Yoonchae can tell she’s hunched over her phone, her thumbs are probably flying faster than her brain can keep up with spelling.

Yoonchae steals another glance at Megan before typing back with one hand.

yoonchip 🍪 (9:42 pm):

So dramatic.
Go back home, Megan.

Megan’s reply comes back instantly.

mei-yok 🍒 (9:42 pm):

?????
YOU go home
god ur such an asshole
y r we friends again??

There’s another honk that follows directly behind the buzz of the last message, but before Yoonchae can even lower her phone, it starts buzzing again.

mei-yok 🍒 (9:43 pm):

plz come outside chip 😞
i came all this way
haha came 😂😂
but fr come out
don’t make me look stupid any longer 😿🙏

Yoonchae’s mouth twists, half-smile, half-grimace. She could very well keep this bit going—she’s very good at keeping a bit going—but Megan’s horn starts blaring once again, and this one redefines what excessive means.

She taps Megan’s contact photo and then the phone icon underneath her nickname before she lifts the phone to her ear.

“What do you want,” Yoonchae says, making sure to convey her displeasure with Megan’s behavior.

“Thank god,” Megan breathes out, loud and relieved and only slightly hysterical. “You’re alive. I was starting to worry you’d fallen in the toilet.”

“You are so childish, Megan,” Yoonchae replies, calm as ever, now leaning her shoulder against the wall. “And stop honking. You’re going to make all my neighbors hate me.”

“Who gives a shit about your neighbors? I know I don’t care about them,” Megan says immediately. “I care about you.”

There’s a pause—brief enough that it could easily be explained away by an unstable connection between the two lines, but long enough that it sits between them a little strangely.

Yoonchae blinks a few times, taken aback, then clears her throat. “How are you older than me and still act so childish?”

“I’m impatient,” Megan argues back. “There’s a pretty big difference between the two.”

“No there is not.”

Megan’s sigh on the other end goes a little staticy. It’s dramatic, obviously, Megan doesn’t know how to do it any other way, but it’s laced with something else, something that’s making her sound way too tightly wound for a weekend.

“Whatever, dude,” Yoonchae’s sure that Megan’s rolling her eyes after saying this, even though she knows Yoonchae can’t see her. “Can you just come out here already? Please?”

Yoonchae pauses, just for a second, before she’s rolling her eyes—again, even though she definitely knows Megan can’t see it. “Stop laying on the horn.”

“I will when you promise to come. down. here.”

“Oh my… I’m coming,” Yoonchae says, pushing off from the wall. “Give me a minute to get out of my pajamas.”

“Aww thank you, Yoonchae!” Megan says, voice perking up immediately. “I’ll behave now.”

Yoonchae snorts. “No you won’t.”

“You’re right. I will absolutely not.”

Yoonchae then hangs up before Megan can say something else that’ll only distract her from getting ready, sliding her phone into her bra strap. She stands there for a second after she does it, listening for a honk that doesn’t come.

To Yoonchae, that alone raises some suspicion.

She glances back to the window again, half-expecting Megan to suddenly have a change of heart and start laying on the horn again just to be annoying. But the street is still quiet, headlights still cutting pale beams across a few front lawns.

Yoonchae exhales, slowly, and moves toward her closet.

This should feel as strange as it does, shouldn’t feel like this is something she has to be prepared for. Megan showing up to her house completely unannounced isn’t new, especially since Megan got her license last year. And Megan dragging her somewhere random is hardly new either. However, when Megan usually does this, there’s usually something to go along with it—laughter in the background, music leaking through the other end of the phone call, the distant noises of whatever party she’s getting ready for.

But tonight, it’s just Megan, in a car, waiting for Yoonchae to get down there.

Yoonchae slips her arms through the sleeves of her red hoodie over her tank top, zipping it up only partially. It’s comfortable, a normal outfit for her.

Then, she looks down at the sweatpants she’s wearing, thinking as she does, Megan can be so unpredictable during these impromptu hangouts.

Yoonchae doesn’t bother looking at them for another second before she’s peeling them off and swapping them for a pair of baggy gray jeans instead, shimmying into them quickly. If Megan decides that they’re going somewhere that would require her to step out of the car—and Megan absolutely would do that without warning—Yoonchae would not be caught dead wearing pajamas anywhere except the comfort of her own house, a friend’s house, or the local Walmart.

As she’s about to step outside into the hallways, she hesitates again. She remembers sitting in her third period chemistry, bored out of her mind as the teacher was droning on about Avogadro's number and whatnot, and how she’d checked the weather for the rest of the day on her computer to try to stave off some of that boredom. She remembers how it was predicted for the heat to rapidly drop tonight.

Her eyes drift to the back of her desk chair that her burgundy leather jacket is hanging off of. She stares at it for just a moment before she grabs it and shrugs it over her zip-up hoodie. The added weight settles across her upper body, grounding her.

Her reflection in the small circular mirror on her desk looks more put-together than she feels she should be for a spontaneous Friday night hangout.

Yoonchae studies herself for a second, eyebrows knitting together.

What could she have planned?

The thought comes to her, uninvited, and Yoonchae can’t decide if the pit she feels growing in her stomach is of the dreadful kind or anticipation. She shakes it off before it can get too big. Megan is many, many things, but predictable is not one of them. Her showing up unannounced could mean anything. It’s probably nothing.

She runs a hand through her hair once, quickly checking her reflection in the mirror without really looking, then heads towards her bedroom door.

The hallway is dim, lit only by the warm spill of light coming from the living room. The TV is playing at a low volume, the bright LEDs harsh against the incandescent bulbs the lamps have—some re-runs of an old sitcom that her parents aren’t really paying attention to, background noise more than anything.

Her mom is the first to look up when Yoonchae steps into the room, eyebrows lifting to the crown of her head. Her dad follows a second later, remote paused mid-click.

“Where are you going,” her mom asks, glancing down at her watch, “at almost 10?”

“Just out,” Yoonchae says with a shrug, already making her way towards the shoe rack by the door.

“With who?” her dad adds.

“Megan.”

And that, surprisingly, is all it takes to convince them.

Yoonchae watches as both of them relax almost immediately, shoulders dropping—but she doesn’t miss that split-second where their eyes widen just a little too much, surprise overtaking their features before they’re schooled into more neutral ones.

“Megan?” her mom parrots back at her. “Right now?”

Yoonchae nods, slipping her feet into her shoes. “Yeah. She’s outside now.”

Her dad mirrors the nod, considering. “...Okay. Don’t be out too late.”

“I won’t.”

Her mom smiles over at her, softer than usual. “Tell her we said hi and that she should come over for dinner soon. We miss having her over here all the time.”

Yoonchae nods once more as she opens the door, cool night air brushing her face, and steps outside.

Once outside, the first thing she notices is that Megan’s headlights are still on. Because why would they not be? This is Megan.

Megan’s car sits crookedly along the curb because Megan’s never been the best at parking, but Yoonchae’s never felt like she could have a say in Megan’s driving since she doesn’t have a license herself. The engine is still running idly and there’s music humming fairly through the closed windows, something bass-heavy and low. Megan herself is barely visible through the tinted windshields, head tipped down, thumbs moving across her phone screen faster than Yoonchae has ever seen.

Yoonchae stalks over to the driver’s side and, without warning, raps her knuckles sharply against the glass.

Megan yelps—shoulders jerking backwards, phone flying out of her hands and being slammed face-down onto the center console.

Yoonchae raises an eyebrow at her.

The glare Megan shoots her through the window is immediate and vicious.

Could Megan be any more suspicious?

Yoonchae takes her time walking around the front of the car, Megan’s eyes tracking her the entire way like a predator does to its prey. When she does open the passenger-side door and slides into the seat, Megan’s immediate response is to shove her shoulder.

“Dude what the actual hell is wrong with you?” Megan asks, exasperated. “Do you want me to die from a heart attack?”

Yoonchae closed the door calmly. “Obviously. I can’t believe it took you this long to find out.”

Megan makes a loud, indigent noise in the back of her throat. “Wow. Okay. So, screw you. Like, seriously? After everything I’ve done for you?”

Yoonchae then moves to buckle her seatbelt, still having yet to meet Megan’s gaze. “Name one thing.”

When Megan gasps, Yoonchae finally turns to look at her. She sees Megan’s hands fly to her chest, clearly offended. “I gave you the bigger half of my popsicle in second grade! Have you forgotten that?”

Yoonchae blinks at her. “And then you dropped yours in the dirt. And then told me we had to share my half.”

“That is so not the point!” Megan squawks, arms flying into the air. “I shared with you first. That’s how we became friends. I mourn the loss of my popsicle.”

Yoonchae’s mouth twitches despite her best interests. But she doesn’t say anything further, choosing to let silence stretch between them as Megan continues to stew in her fury.

Then, as if she’d finally come to the realization, Megan squints at her.

“...You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

Yoonchae tilts her head innocently.

“You’re rage-baiting me for fun.”

A smug little smirk finally breaks across Yoonchae’s face.

Megan groans loudly and swats at her shoulder. “God, you’re so annoying sometimes.”

Yoonchae snorts. “I’m annoying? Have you looked in the mirror recently?”

Megan huffs, snatches her phone from the console, and opens her music app with an exaggerated aggression. She turns the volume dial up a little louder than necessary, then tosses her phone into the cup holder.

“We’re getting food,” Megan says, shifting the car from ‘P’ into ‘D’ and pulling away from the curb.

Yoonchae watches as houses fly past her window, familiar street signs going blurry under the glow of streetlights and Megan pressing down on the gas pedal a little hard. Friday night traffic swerves around them—cars headed towards parties, towards the noise, towards places where Megan usually already has one foot in the door by now.

And that’s the thing that’s still tripping Yoonchae up.

Yoonchae glances sideways at Megan. She’s got one hand on the wheel, the other is being rhythmically tapped against her thigh, but her jaw is firmly set in its place and she hasn’t spared another glance at Yoonchae since turning up the music.

What confuses her the most about this whole situation is that this is the time, for about two years now, that Megan is getting ready. She should be at about three outfit changes by now or complaining about how hard it is to do winged eyeliner or texting Lara, Adela, and Emily about where everyone’s meeting and who’s bringing what.

Not… whatever she’s doing with Yoonchae now.

Yoonchae considers ripping off the band-aid and asking her outright—Why aren’t you partying tonight?—but the question dies on her tongue before it even has the chance to fully form. Megan, from what she can tell, already feels a little too tightly wound tonight, her edges sharper than usual. Intentionally pricking her finger on those edges doesn’t seem like the best of ideas right now.

So instead of pressing the issue, she asks, “What food are we getting?”

Megan exhales and reaches over to finally turn down the music to a reasonable volume. “I’m craving Chinese takeout.”

“Why are you trying so hard to be nonchalant?”

“Oh whatever—” Megan rolls her eyes, huffing. “I want some comfort food. And if that comfort food happens to be greasy, slightly questionable, probably bad for me Chinese takeout? Then so be it.”

Yoonchae snorts, fixing her gaze back out to the road ahead. “Don’t complain to me later when your stomach starts hurting.”

Megan doesn’t look at her this time—she just lifts her hand off the wheel to flip her off before she turns the music up again and rolls down the windows.

Cold air rushes into the car all at once, tousling both Megan and Yoonchae’s hair as they merge onto the highway. The speedometer ticks higher and higher—first sixty, then seventy-five-ish—the wind lashes against the open windows, whipping through the car and carrying the music away with it.

Yoonchae leans back further into her seat, watching through partially hair-clouded vision, and watches as Megan leans into the wind hitting her face.

And then all of a sudden, the why doesn’t matter all that much to her. She’s just happy to be with Megan.

***

Yoonchae knows they’d ordered too much food the second when the only smells coming from inside the car are grease and soy sauce. Brown paper bags rest on her lap, warming both her legs and hands as she steadies them.

Los Angeles stretches out wider as Megan drives further into the heart of the city, buildings growing taller than the last, lights stacking on top of one another until they blur in an ugly fluorescent sun Yoonchae can’t bear to look at any longer. Megan hadn’t mentioned where they’re heading, and Yoonchae doesn’t bother to ask.

However, Yoonchae quickly figures out where—or better yet what—they’re headed to when the light coming through the windows is all artificial and the road curves sharply to the left. Megan is mindful enough to slow down just enough so she can smoothly follow the curve of the ramp.

They passed the first floor.

Then the second.

The turns are tight, repetitive, spiraling, the kind that reminds Yoonchae of those black-and-white spiral-things magicians use to hypnotize people into thinking they’re a chicken. Or something like that.

Yoonchae glances over at Megan.

She’s focused. Very focused. Too focused for something as routine and as normal as getting food and hanging out with your best friend.

Another turn. One more ramp to pass over. And then, open air.

The lifeless gray concrete ceiling disappears as they pull onto the top level of the parking garage, the night sky rushing back in all at once. The city, from this new angle, stretches out far past what Yoochae can take in all at once.

Megan drives them to the farthest corner, as far as she can get away from other cars, and parks.

She cuts the engine and just like that, it’s quiet.

But Megan doesn’t let that silence sit for more than a second as she’s already unbuckling her seatbelt, pushing her door open, and heading for the trunk of her car.

Yoonchae frowns slightly, shifting the bags on her lap before following Megan’s lead and opening her own door and stepping out onto the asphalt.

“What are you doing?” she asks, moving around the car.

“Just wait,” Megan says over her shoulder, popping the trunk. “I got this all under control.”

Yoonchae steps behind Megan a moment later to peer over her shoulder to see a quilt and a pack of cigarettes. And when Megan reaches for the quilt, her shirt shifts and clings to her body just enough for Yoonchae to catch the faint outline of a vape against the striped fabric. She looks away and steps aside, biting down on the inside of her cheek.

Megan slams the trunk close and straightens, quilt in one hand, and the other pointed at the bags. “Hold this too.”

Yoonchae huffs, rolling her eyes as she moves both bags into one hand so she can take the quilt from Megan.

“We’re having a picnic here?” Yoonchae asks, skeptical. “You don’t want to eat in your car? This is new development.”

Megan ignores that particular jab completely.

“Tonight’s a nice night is all,” she says, shrugging and starts walking towards the corner with no further explanation.

Yoonchae sighs and makes her way over to the corner, juggling the quilt awkwardly with the food. “You know it’s unfair to make me carry everything when you were the one who planned this.”

“You’re an athlete,” Megan shoots back without missing a beat, looking back to meet Yoonchae’s eyes. “Think of this as extra strength training. Honestly, your coach should probably thank me for it. You’ve been kinda slacking off lately.”

Yoonchae snorts. “You haven’t come to my games in a while. How would you know?”

“I don’t need to see you play,” Megan fixes her gaze forward again. “I just know.”

“Oh yeah? Based on what?”

Megan shrugs her shoulders and Yoonchae can almost picture the exact face she’s making right now. “I dunno. Intuition? Maybe having been your best friend for, like, ten years?”

“Intuition,” Yoonchae parrots back flatly.

“Yeah.”

“That’s not…”

“Anyways,” Megan draws the last syllable out until she comes to a stop near the edge of the rooftop. “You’ve reached your final destination.”

Ignoring the terrible impersonation of Siri, Yoonchae catches up to where Megan is. This part of the rooftop is darker than the rest, streetlights not quite reaching it and the low wall surrounding the edge shadowing it too. But just beyond that wall, Yoonchae can see as she peeks over it, is Los Angeles. It’s nothing like she’s ever seen before.

Headlights, a mixture of halogen and LED, slide along distant highways, byways and streets in slow motion. Buildings flash red and white as ambulances whizz by. She swears she can even hear the faint buzz of neon signs that are blocks away.

“Hey, genius, I still need to set up everything so we can eat. Mind handing over the blanket sometime today?”

Yoonchae is broken out of the unprecedented reverie she’d found herself in, but she can seem to tear herself away from the view in front of her. Instead, she drops the quilt unceremoniously and it lands with a small thump.

She hears Megan huff, knees popping slightly as she, presumably, bends down to pick it up. That’s followed by a few snaps and a quiet rush of air.

And then, in that moment, it clicks for Yoonchae.

“You planned this,” she says, finally turning away from the cityscape to face Megan again.

There’s only a slight hesitation by Megan, a nearly insignificant pause before she scoffs back. “Planned what, exactly?”

Yoonchae gestures pointedly at the view, the quilt on the asphalt, and the bag of takeout still in her hand. “All of this. There’s no way this is spontaneous.”

And Yoonchae knows Megan’s lying the second she refuses to meet her eyes, even as she says, “I did not.”

“You’re such a bad liar, Megan.”

“I’m literally not lying. Why would I lie about this?”

Yoonchae opens her mouth to argue back—but Megan has other plans. She reaches up, gets a hold of the sleeve of her leather jacket, and yanks on it hard. Yoonchae, as her balance fails her, ends up falling down with the grace of a newborn deer and a loud oof.

“Megan—!”

“Sit down would you?” Megan says. “The food’s gonna get cold.”

Yoonchae turns to glare at her.

And Megan returns the glare right back at her.

They hold that eye contact for a few more before Yoonchae concedes with a huff, moving the takeout bags so that they’re in the space between them.

“You’re so obnoxious,” she mutters while she hands over a pack of chopsticks.

“Maybe so,” Megan says easily as she opens one of the many paper containers.

The smell—garlic, soy sauce, and that distinctive sharp, tangy scent of sweet and sour sauce—hits Yoonchae’s nose and her stomach responds with a low rumble. She wasn’t even all that hungry before, her mom had dinner ready for her when she’d gotten out of basketball practice, but she’s definitely ready for seconds now. And as Megan said, she’s an athlete. If anything, she needs the extra calories.

Yoonchae reaches forward, opening the paper container that’s closest to her. Steam curls up as she does, fogging the air for a moment before it’s swept away by the wind.

She pokes at the orange chicken inside and glances sideways at Megan.

“You’re weird tonight.”

Megan doesn’t bother to look up from the new container she’s working open. “Isn’t that kind of my whole thing? The weird girl in a hot girl’s body.”

“But I mean, like, extra weird. You are acting extra weird tonight.”

Another carton opens—chow mein this time—and then another. Pan-fried dumplings. And another container that looks like it could be sesame beef, judging by the dark and viscous sauce clinging to the meat.

Yoonchae pauses and stares down at the growing spread. “...Why did you order so much? You know neither of us can eat even half this much food.”

Megan shrugs as she pops a dumpling in her mouth. Around the food she says, “It’s backup.”

“‘Backup’?” Yoonchae questions. “Backup for what?”

“Backup,” Megan swallows before continuing, “in case you do that super annoying thing where you pretend you’re ‘not hungry’.”

Yoonchae, appalled, whips her head to look squarely at her. “I do not do that. You do that.”

“But you do.”

“I do not.”

“You’ll say you’re ‘fine,’” Megan mimics in a monotone voice, waving around a piece of orange chicken. “Then you end up stealing half of my food.”

Yoonchae scoffs as she rolls her eyes. “That only happened one time.”

“No— This happens every time we go to In-N-Out.”

“That is different.”

Megan raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Because you don’t like their fries. And I do.” Megan snorts. “I can’t steal your food if you give it to me.”

There’s a natural lull in the conversation that follows and Yoonchae takes that time to reach into the orange chicken container. She picks up a piece with her chopsticks and brings it to her mouth.

The first bite has Yoonchae pausing. Her teeth close around the food and she chews once, then once more, slower this time, savoring the taste. It’s not even close to the best thing she’s ever eaten, but it’s good. Really, really good. It reminds her of the overcrowded and very Americanized Chinese buffets her and Megan’s families would go to after their taekwondo tournaments—Yoonchae proudly donning her blue first place ribbon and Megan, just as proud, with her yellow participation ribbon.

Across from her, Megan has stilled in her place. And Yoonchae can tell when she’s being watched.

Yoonchae swallows, pretending not to notice the very blatant staring, as she reaches back into the container. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Megan leaning back on her hands and looking far too satisfied with herself.

It’s annoying, Yoonchae decides. Megan is annoying.

“So… You like it?” she asks, smug.

Yoonchae chews once, twice, before answering with, “I have eaten worse.”

Megan’s smugness amplifies as a knowing grin stretches over her face. “You say that, but,” she draws out the last word until Yoonchae’s looking at her with a frown, “your face is saying something else entirely.”

“My face isn’t saying anything,” Yoonchae huffs. “You are delusional.”

“Mhm. Sure.”

“It’s not.”

Megan tilts her head and lifts her hand to her chin, the smugness replaced with an exaggerated focus. “Your face is telling me… that you were two bites away from saying I was right once again.”

Yoonchae opts to pick up a dumpling, shoving it into her mouth, just so she does something else with her other than argue.

She sits there, waiting until there’s no longer any food in her mouth, before she says, “...Okay.”

Megan’s grin returns with full force. “Wow.”

“Don’t start.”

“Okay, but, I just never thought I’d see the day.”

“I said ‘okay,’ Megan. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I’d count that as a win in my book.”

“That does not count.”

“It so does, though.”

Yoonchae sighs, shaking her head, as she reaches for another dumpling. “Your ego never disappoints me.”

“Yeah,” Megan returns the sigh, still watching her with that same irritatingly pleased expression. “Especially when you keep proving it right.”

Rather than dignifying that with a response, Yoonchae reaches out instead and moves the orange chicken container a little closer to herself as she picks up another piece. She likes how the sauce sticks to her chopsticks only for a moment before it gives way to gravity.

Megan’s eyes stay on her just a little too long—waiting in the wings for a reaction that won’t come—before she leans forward and grabs the chow mein container for herself.

And as easily as conversation had come, it left just as quick.

The only thing left between the two are the small, intimate sounds of cardboard takeout boxes scraping against the quilt, the clink of chopsticks tapping against the edges of containers, and the ambient noise associated with population-dense cities.

Wind moves across the rooftop in uneven waves—soft then strong, push then pull. It’ll tug at the concerts of the quilt, lift a few strands of Yoonchae’s hair into her face before she feels the need to tuck them behind her ear.

Coincidently, Megan reaches for the last dumpling at the same time Yoonchae does. Their knuckles brush by each other, neither one of them making a move to pull away, and they stay like that for a little, fingers grazing the same cardboard edge.

Megan then smiles, laughing quietly as she nudges the container towards Yoonchae. “Go ahead. It’s all yours.”

Yoonchae doesn’t argue with her and takes it.

A minute goes by in silence—maybe more like two or three—before Yoonchae nudges the container of orange chicken she’d been hoarding the entire time closer to Megan’s side of the quilt.

Megan’s eyes flick over to Yoonchae for a second, noticing what she’d done but not commenting or teasing, before she eyes the container and reaches inside it.

A strong gust of wind rolls in, more biting than the others before it, slipping through Megan’s not-enough layers and settling cold on her unprepared skin. Yoonchae’s okay, but she notices the way Megan’s shoulders hitch.

She glances over. Megan’s trying to be fully focused on eating, trying to act like nothing’s wrong, but the free hand she has balled into the sleeve of her shirt is too telling.

The wind comes again, still cold.

When Megan exhales through her nose, though it's more like a shudder. Her shoulders draw in on themselves just a fraction.

Yoonchae watches her suffer for a second more before setting down her chopsticks and shrugging off her leather jacket.

And before Megan can even register what’s happening—

Yoonchae’s jacket hit her square in the face.

“The fuck—” Megan jerks back, grabbing at it before it can hit the ground.

“Put that on,” Yoonchae says, already positioning the chopsticks between her fingers and pointedly ignoring the scowl being thrown her way.

“I’m not even cold,” she huffs, rubbing at her nose.

“Yeah. And I’m in a global girl group.”

“Why did I ever let Lara teach you about sarcasm…” Megan groans. “But, no, seriously. I’m not cold.”

“Megan.”

That makes Megan bite back whatever was coming next. She looks down at the jacket now in her hands, then back at Yoonchae.

Yoonchae, in return, doesn’t look back at her. She just picks a piece of sesame beef, entirely uninterested.

“...This is not on me if you end up freezing your ass off,” Megan mumbles under her breath.

Yoonchae picks at the sleeve of her hoodie. “I still have this. You had a long-sleeved shirt.”

“That thin ass hoodie is not enough to keep you warm.”

“It’s more than you have, so stop complaining and put it on.”

Megan huffs, rolling her eyes along with it, but she complies, slipping her arms through the sleeves and tugging the jacket on. The leather creaks softly as it rests on her shoulders—it’s a little too big, the sleeves running past her wrists. She stops herself just short of the zipper, hands hovering over it for a second, before she pulls it closed.

Yoonchae reaches over to steal some chow mein, saying nothing as Megan leans back onto one hand and the other curls into the fabric of the sleeve.

The rest of the food doesn’t stand much of a chance after that.

Container after container sits open between them, almost entirely picked through. Every so often, Yoonchae’s leaning forward to pick at something else—there’s no real thought behind it, just something to do with her hands.

The wind is still coming and going, but it’s nowhere near as chilling or biting as before.

At some point, Yoonchae lets out a quiet exhale and leans back onto both hands. She’s full, content.

Megan shifts beside her, stretching her legs out from under her with a loud groan. “Holy shit,” she mutters.

Yoonchae glances over to see Megan laying a hand on her stomach, shoulders lifting with the motion. And then—

—Megan burps.

The sound that comes with it is loud and unapologetic, carrying just enough through the open air to feel excessive. It’s loud enough to the point where all Yoonchae feels like she can do is stare. And Megan is meeting her gaze without an ounce of shame.

“...Wow,” Yoonchae says slowly. “That was…”

Megan shrugs. “Impressive?”

“I was going to say gross.”

“Don’t act like you’ve never burped before.”

“I have never burped before, Megan. Burping is disgusting.”

“Oh my god—” Megan rolls her eyes, smiling. “That is the biggest lie I’ve ever heard.”

Yoonchae reaches over and shoves her shoulder. “Shut up.”

Megan lets herself fall with it, propping herself up on her elbows, breaking out into a contagious laugh that Yoonchae cannot help but catch.

Eventually, the laughter dies down and Megan exhales, tipping her head back as she catches her breath.

“...Hey,” she says, picking at a loose thread.

Yoonchae hums in response.

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

There’s something different in the way she’s asking, Yoonchae decides. But that’s as far as she goes with that thought. She just shrugs a shoulder, looking back out to the city. “Since when did you start asking for my permission?”

Megan sticks out her tongue. “Since now, you asshole.”

“Go ahead, then. You should know by now that I don’t mind.”

Megan gives a quick nod before she reaches into the front pocket of her pants. The crinkle coming from the plastic is amplified by the lack of conversation as she pulls it out, tapping the bottom a few times against the heel of her palm before sliding a cigarette and a lighter out.

She places the cigarette into her mouth, bringing up her free hand to shield the flame from the wind that’s trying to snuff it out.

The tip starts glowing as it catches on the third try and Megan inhales, eyes closing as she does. With the exhale of a thin stream of smoke, all the tension that had been in her shoulders loosens.

By the time the second drag has disappeared with the wind, she looks more like herself than she has the entire night.

Yoonchae watches her out of the corner of her eye, not making a thing out of it, but Megan catches her staring. They stare at one another—too long to be considered accidental—before Megan positions the cigarette between her fingers with the filter-side out facing Yoonchae in offering.

On instinct, Yoonchae’s eyes drop to it and she pauses when she’s met with a faint smear of gloss left on the filter.

This isn’t new, the rational part of her brain adds. They’ve shared drinks before, straws, water bottles based back and forth without needing a second thought. They share lip gloss if one of them forgets. Hell, this wouldn’t even be the first cigarette they’ve shared.

This. Is. Not. New.

But—

It feels like it is?

Whatever, the unhelpful part of her brain surmises.

Yoonchae reaches out and takes it, their fingers brushing as she does, bringing it to her lips. The smoke hits the back of her throat harsher than she expects on the inhale, but she doesn’t want to make a fool of herself and ruin whatever is going on right now. Instead, she turns her head slightly to the left, so it doesn’t blow back toward Megan, and exhales.

After she passes it back, they fall into a steady rhythm—drag, exhale, drag, pass—as the cigarette burns down slowly between them.

Somewhere between all of that, maybe under the guise of fearing the flame going out, they’d shifted close enough together that their shoulders brush every now and then with neither of them bothering to move away.

Like all things, it eventually ends as they’d burnt it down to the filter.

Megan takes it back one last time, looking at the smoke still wafting off the end before she twists around and presses it out against the concrete, making sure it’s fully out before she drops it into an empty takeout container.

Now with nothing to fill the space between them, Yoonchae leans back onto her hands, and she can feel the coarse fibres of the quilt digging into her palms as she tilts her head up towards the sky. There’s not all that much to see—too much light pollution bleeding upward from the city—but she squints up at it anyways because she might find something if she looks hard enough.

Next to her, Megan straightens her leg, moving it out in front of her before bending it back, dragging her foot idly against the quilt. The side of her shoe scratches lightly back and forth, creating a soft and repetitive sound to fill the gap that silence left behind.

Yoonchae lowers her gaze after a moment, turning her head just enough to allow her to see Megan in her periphery.

Megan’s looking out at the city. Or, well, that’s what she’s facing, but Yoonchae can see the glazed-over look in her eyes that is a telltale sign that Megan’s not really focused on much of anything.

The wind then decides now is the perfect time to pick up again, cold and curling around them. Megan’s shoulders jump up, and she subconsciously leans into Yoonchae, who mirrors the action with just as much subtlety. Their shoulders now meet with much less uncertainty, the space between them coming to a justified end as any good story does.

Another gust comes soon after, pushing at both of them until it’s Yoonchae’s knee that shifts inwards and bumps against Megan’s.

When neither of them makes a move to pull back, Yoonchae takes that as a chance to adjust her hand against the quilt to balance herself better, and in doing so, her fingers brush against Megan’s wrist. Yoonchae holds her breath—hoping for the best, preparing for the worst—and she lets out a small, shaky sigh of relief when she’s met with more silence.

Below, the city keeps humming, a distant but constant thing.

“...So,” Yoonchae says, voice almost too quiet to be heard.

Megan hums in response.

“Did Lara and them not want to party tonight?”

There’s a pause before Megan’s response, but she snorts and jokes, “What, you miss me that much or something?”

When Yoonchae doesn’t smile at the poor attempt at humor, Megan huffs, shifting herself slightly so that her shoulder presses a little more firmly into Yoonchae’s, trying to laugh this off, but her hands comes up instead—fingers picking at a piece of lint on Yoonchae’s hoodie before casting her gaze to the side, hand still resting near Yoonchae’s chest.

“Partying is overrated anyways…” Megan mutters.

Her fingers still against the fabric as she exhales deeply through her nose. “I guess they’ve all been, like… really lame lately,” she continues after a second. “It’s always the same people, same music, same dumb shit just on a different day.”

Megan trails off after that and she lets her head tip sideways until it’s resting against Yoonchae’s shoulder.

She stays there, cheek pressed gently onto the softness of Yoonchae’s hoodie, her voice coming out muffled as she says, “Like… I don’t even know,” she murmurs. “It’s just that—” Her breath catches on itself, her fingers curling into the fabric near Yoonchae’s collarbone. “—this. This is so much better.”

Yoonchae bites the inside of her cheek at that, feeling heat creeping up onto her cheeks. She does nothing in return but angle her shoulder a little more to the right so Megan is able to rest more comfortably on it, closing that last bit of space between them.

They both go quiet for a little after that—hundreds of what ifs and maybes almost slipping through the cracks—until Megan murmurs, “It’s probably selfish of me to…”

Yoonchae’s eyebrows knit together as she tilts her head down to try and catch her expression. “Selfish for you to do what?”

Megan’s fingers tighten in the fabric of Yoonchae’s hoodie before she loosens them and finally lifts her head. Her eyes meet Yoonchae’s before anything else—red-rimmed and glossy—her ears have a pink tint to them, and her bottom lip is being held hostage between her teeth.

As her breath catches on itself, Yoonchae lifts her hand and cups Megan’s jaw and then runs her thumb along the seam of Megan’s lips to free it from her teeth.

She whispers, softly, “Don’t do that,” and Megan stills under her touch.

Yoonchae is close enough now to see the unevenness in Megan’s breath, the slight part her lips have to them since she’s not biting them, the way her eyes keep flickering from Yoonchae’s eyes to her lips and then back up when she knows she’s been caught.

Her own breathing slows, steadies, as all those what ifs and maybes narrow down to this one, singular moment. And Yoonchae makes her decision.

She leans in slowly, giving Megan more than enough time to back away, to laugh this off, to turn her head and not disturb the status quo.

But Megan doesn’t—if anything, she’s the one to close the gap.

It’s softer than she expected, Yoonchae realizes, when their lips first meet. And a little tacky from Megan’s cherry-flavored lipgloss. Then it’s a little uncertain, both of them trying to make sense of something that feels so familiar yet entirely unfamiliar at the same time.

Megan’s breath hitches and Yoonchae can feel it against her mouth.

Yoonchae can also taste everything they’ve shared tonight—sugary sweet and artificial from the orange chicken, salty from the chow mein, and the faint bitterness of cigarette smoke underneath all of it.

Kissing Megan should feel strange, it should feel strange to now be able to say she knows what her childhood best friend’s lips feel like, but it doesn’t. It actually feels… right. The kiss lingers long past the point of being casual, and they only part long enough to fill their lungs back up with air.

Yoonchae opens her eyes to see Megan’s chest heaving unevenly and her eyes still half-lidded. The sight makes her hand tighten slightly where it’s still cupping Megan’s jaw, and when she leans in again, there’s less hesitation.

The second kiss is deeper, messier, because that invisible line they’d been toeing has finally disappeared, because neither of them sees the point in pretending anymore. Megan balls the front of Yoonchae’s hoodie in her hand and pulls her closer as she leans back—a little uncoordinated—and Yoonchae lets herself be pulled with it, bracing a hand beside Megan’s waist on the quilt.

Their breathing is growing more erratic by the second, their timing is a little off, and their movements overlap in ways that don’t exactly match up, but neither one of them seems to mind. If anything, that lack of precision is what makes it feel real.

It’s Megan who pulls away first, but she stays close, keeping Yoonchae in her sight.

Her lips part, a little in disbelief, and she looks like she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t. Instead, she lets out a shallow breath, shaky at the ends, and then she’s huffing out a short, humorless laugh.

“So, uh…” she starts saying, dragging a hand over her face before letting it fall back onto Yoonchae’s hoodie, still lightly fisting it. “Yeah.”

Yoonchae, with her hand still resting on Megan’s jaw, parrots back, quieter, “...Yeah.”

Megan’s eyes rake over her face, searching for any of Yoonchae’s microexpressions that would tell her that she should be playing this off. Finding nothing, her fingers hold on the fabric just a little tighter.

“Was… Was this—?” she cuts herself off, biting the inside of her cheek, as she looks off to the side. “Was this, like, a one-time thing, or…?”

Yoonchae shakes her head, once, and watches all the tension—the tightness around her mouth, the stiffness in her shoulders—leave Megan’s body in an instant.

“Wow…” Megan breathes, lighter now. “Okay…yeah.”

After brushing her thumb along Megan’s jaw one more time, Yoonchae lets her hand fall, shifting her weight backwards into them as she leans back against the quilt.

For a second, Megan just looks at Yoonchae, and then she’s leaning into her again. It’s easier for her than it had been before, steadily regaining her confidence in a subject she knew better than anyone else. Her shoulders slot in perfectly against Yoonchae’s side as she moves herself even closer, unwisely choosing to crane her neck just so she can keep looking at Yoonchae.

She doesn’t last two minutes in this position.

“Okay, wait, ow—” Megan winces as she straightens up, the popping of her spine audible to Yoonchae. “I’m sorry but this is, like, actually killing my back.”

Yoonchae huffs out a laugh, side-eying Megan. “No one made you sit like that. You did that.”

“Don’t be like that, ‘chae. It wasn’t like I planned for—” she gestures between them, trying to use vague hand motions to explain everything she can’t put into words, and when that fails she just gives up on the thought entirely. “Fuck, whatever— Just come here.”

Megan’s arm shoots out and latches onto Yoonchae’s sleeve and, before she can even realize it, she is getting dragged down to meet Megan’s prone form on the quilt.

She lands with a soft oof, head resting against Megan’s chest, and one of her arms automatically comes up to slide around her waist. Above her, Megan is settling into a more comfortable position, and then her hand finds its way into Yoonchae’s hair.

The long, slender fingers carding through her hair feels familiar to Yoonchae. Because this is familiar. Despite having been in this position countless times before—on couches, beds, floors, wherever the aftermath of a long day led them—it never felt this easy, this instinctual. There is something about this moment that is whispering this is right where you belong in Yoonchae’s ear, but she pushes that voice to the back of her mind in favor of listening to the steady rhythm of Megan’s breathing. Her hand starts to drift and it finds a strip of skin at Megan’s waist where her shirt had ridden up. Megan’s skin feels warm under her palms and the thumb that is slowly making small circles against her hipbone.

“...I like you,” Yoonchae says, surprising herself by being the one to break the silence. And then, suddenly a little self-conscious, she adds, “Uh, like-like you.”

Megan blinks down at her, no clear emotion visible on her face, but then she’s suddenly bursting into laughter and a whisker-dimpled smile.

Yoonchae’s expression immediately falls. “Are you for real right now, Megan?”

“I’m so sorry—” Megan tries to stifle her laugh, even resorting to bringing her free hand up to cover her mouth, but it does little to help. She does, eventually, get to the point of being able to form sentences again, but there’s still a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth when she looks at Yoonchae. “It’s just that… But we were literally kissing, like, not even five minutes ago. I remember tasting the orange chicken you hogged the whole time on your lips. I think I got the memo.”

“Wow,” Yoonchae mutters, already moving to push herself up. “This is what I get for trying to communicate my feelings? I won’t be doing this again with you.”

Just as she’s about to move to sit up fully, Megan’s arms snake around her neck and she tightens her hold on Yoonchae, sliding a hand between her shoulderblade to keep her pinned where she is. “Hey, hey, hey. There’s no need to do that,” she says all too quickly, tugging Yoonchae back down. “I said I’m sorry.”

With disbelief evident on Yoonchae’s face, Megan shifts her body so she can look more properly at her, expression softening now that her laughter has died down. “I am sorry,” she repeats, quieter this time, breath tickling Yoonchae’s ear as she does. “It’s—” She exhales, biting back a smile as she shakes her head one, twice. “I appreciate you saying it. Thank you.”

They stay suspended like that for a moment, before Megan is lowering her gaze before she raises it again just as fast, a little less steady this time. "And I like you too, by the way,” she adds, softer than anything else she’s said tonight. “If I hadn’t made that obvious.”

Yoonchae studies her for a second, watching, before she hums under her breath. “Why are you being shy again?”

“Oh my god, will you shut up—”

“But you are,” Yoonchae continues, undeterred, a smug smirk creeping up from the corner of her mouth. “It is kind of embarrassing for you. I know I would be so embarrassed…”

Megan narrows her eyes. “Who taught you to be this annoying?”

“Does it matter who?” Yoonchae shoots back. “You like me regardless of how annoying you think I am.”

“Yoonchae. Shut up.”

“Why don’t you make me?”

Megan looks at Yoonchae for a second, a mixture of equal parts annoyance and affection in her expression, before she gives in and reaches down to pull Yoonchae up by the front of her hoodie.

When their lips meet this time it’s quicker, landing a bit hurriedly and off-center as a result. Megan inhales sharply on contact, her breath slipping between their slotted lips along with a small, half-suppressed laugh, her smile getting in the way, making the kiss just a bit too toothy to be perfect. But Yoonchae doesn’t really mind the imperfections and she ends up smiling into the kiss.

It ends just as quickly as it began, with both of them pulling back with the same grins, their faces a little too close.

Yoonchae takes a moment just to stare at Megan, to get a really good look at her. And then she’s drawing her eyebrows together, smiling fading off her face ever so slightly.

“Hey,” she says, but it comes off harsher than she means. She then clears her throat and tries again, “Hey, um, so I was wondering… What does this mean for us now?”

Megan chooses to just blink at her in response.

“This,” Yoonchae gestures to everything between them—the quilt, empty food containers, the pack of cigarettes that is only missing a few, the fact they just kissed—just as Megan had. “We like each other, sure, but are we just… best friends who kiss now, or…?”

Yoonchae doesn’t know what to expect as she lets the question trail off, but the last thing she expected was Megan to groan. Like, an actual, full-on, heading tipping back as she drags a hand over her face groan.

Naturally, Yoonchae’s frown deepens in response. “What now? Why are you doing that?”

Megan lowers her head, smiling slightly to herself and shaking it out a few times. "No, it's not like that I just—" She exhales again, closing her eyes "I was literally trying to ask you on a date. Tonight."

Yoonchae comes to a complete halt. “…Huh?”

“Yeah,” Megan says, huffing out another small laugh, this one more embarrassed than anything. “This whole thing?” She looks around, eyes scanning everything. “This was supposed to be a date. Lara helped me plan it and everything.”

Megan shrugs a shoulder, suddenly unable to hold Yoonchae’s gaze for too long. “I just… didn’t call it that,” she admits, quieter now. “I got nervous. Thought you’d say no or something and then it’d just—” She makes a vague, helpless motion with her hands. “Mess everything up for us.”

“The last thing I’d want to do is lose you,” she adds, a soft smile sneaking onto her face. “Having you in my life in some way was better than not having you at all.”

Megan sniffs, blinking a little faster than usual before she brings her hand up to rub at her eyes. “Sorry,” she mutters, already trying to laugh it off. “I’m not— I’m not gonna cry, that’s so, ugh—”

Yoonchae reaches up before she can wipe at it properly, thumb brushing just under Megan’s eye, catching the tear before it can fall. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Megan huffs, disbelieving. “I’m literally crying on you right now.”

“So?” Yoonchae questions, dead serious. “You are allowed to feel things.” Her hand lingers after that, thumb brushing along her cheek as she adds, almost absentmindedly, “I… like that about you.”

Megan furrows her brows at that. “You like what?”

“The way you feel things,” Yoonchae says simply. “You care a lot. You’re—” She pauses, searching for the right word, and she ends up settling on, “empathetic.”

“Oh yeah?” Megan lets out a quiet, wet laugh. “What else do you like about me?”

“Okay,” Yoonchae rolls her eyes, “now you are fishing for compliments.”

“I am not—”

“You are, but,” Yoonchae cuts her off, smiling a little so Megan knows she’s not being serious. “I also like your smile. A lot.”

“The smile I remember you being afraid to show others,” Yoonchae adds, glancing at her briefly. “And I have a favorite part of your smile,” she gestures to her own cheek. “Your dimples.”

"And I like that you can go from being really loud and annoying to—this, bashful," Yoonchae continues, lips brushing where Megan's dimples are. "Very quickly." She watches Megan swallow, throat bobbing with it. And almost as an afterthought, Yoonchae says, "And I like that you're like this with me. Comfortable.”

With that, Megan’s composure breaks open like a dam, a small, choked laugh slipping out as she brings both hands up to her face. “You’re so unfair, Yoonchae,” she mumbles, voice thick with tears. “You can’t just say all that stuff when I’m already so emotional.”

Yoonchae moves in closer, her hand moving to Megan's side and rubbing up and down in calm, steady lines in the way she's done a hundred times before. It has the same effect it always does—Megan’s breathing evening out little by little, the tears slowing until they stop altogether.

For a few moments, neither of them says anything, the only sound being a car horn blaring as it passes by.

And then—

“So…” Yoonchae starts, picking at the fuzz on Megan’s shirt. “Girlfriends?”

Megan snorts, swatting her shoulder lightly. “Yes, you asshole, I’d love to be your girlfriend.”

Yoonchae hums at her answer, satisfied.

“And I’m taking you out on an actual date tomorrow,” Megan adds, jabbing a finger at her. “A real one. And I won’t chicken out this time.”

Yoonchae shifts closer, nuzzling into her. “I can’t wait.”