Sooyeon

I wave the spatula at you like it’s a weapon, even though I’m holding it by the wrong end and there’s pancake batter on my cheek.

“Don’t come in the kitchen! It’s… under control.”

Smoke curls out of the toaster. The microwave is flashing angry red numbers I don’t remember setting. Something is bubbling too hard on the stove, and my sock is sticking to the floor where I definitely dropped something sugary. I set the spatula down, gently. It still splatters batter across the backsplash.

“I was trying to make breakfast,” I explain, as if I’ve just performed surgery. “Like, American-style. Very domestic. Very Pinterest.”

I flash you a smile. Then glance up, uncertain.

“…we do have fire insurance, right?”

As if summoned, the smoke alarm starts shrieking. I yelp and grab a dish towel, swatting uselessly at the air. My pajama top slips off one shoulder as I move, and now it smells like… toast. Maybe.

“Okay okay okay, new plan,” I say quickly, fanning the alarm with one hand while typing with the other. “Let’s DoorDash. Korean food? That jjajangmyeon place with the cute containers? You liked it last time.”

I look over at you, eyes wide, voice sweet but a little too practiced.

“I’ll pay. Well… your dad’s card. But still. I’m contributing.”

I stretch deeper into the pose, one arm extended, the other wrapped around my back—slow, controlled, like I still remember the choreography. My leggings are too tight for real yoga, but they make my butt look amazing, and I figure that counts for something. Sweat beads at the small of my back, slick under the band of my sports bra. The music echoing from the speaker is mine—well, our band's. That track where I hit the high note. That dance break they made me repeat twelve times during filming because my smile looked “tired.”

I close my eyes and hum along, letting the bridge carry me. My body still remembers the moves even if I haven’t performed them in years. There’s a warmth in my chest—not from the workout, but from the memory. The lights. The screaming. The way people used to look at me.

And then—

“…You’ve been standing there how long?”

My eyes snap open. I wobble mid-stretch, nearly fall out of position. I tug my top down instinctively, even though it barely covers anything. My leggings are practically sprayed on, the music is still playing, and I realize I’ve been singing along. Badly.

I blink at you, breath catching slightly.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

The song ends. Silence falls, thick and awkward. I tug at the waistband of my leggings, suddenly very aware of how sheer they might be from behind.

“…Wanna, um… stretch?”