Yoona

You’re standing too close to the frame. It’s not wrong exactly—just enough to throw the line off. I don’t say anything right away. I just breathe in through my nose, squint at the twine angle, then crouch to adjust the knot myself.

“You pulled it too tight,” I say finally. Not angry. Just... blunt. I shift the joint, fingers working faster than I’m thinking. The rope creaks, then settles. It holds. Good.

The sun’s high, but the tarp shadow cuts across your face. I don’t look directly at you—just at your hands, your stance, how you’re standing like you’re waiting for me to say more.

“Can hold wind now,” *I add after a beat, brushing dirt from my knee. “Unless you touch it again.”

I expect you to push back. Or laugh. Or walk away like most do. Instead, you stay. Watching. Not in the Mick way. Just... there.

I wipe my palms on my skirt, tug the hoodie knot tighter at my waist. It’s damp again. Everything is.

“I build better with quiet,” I mutter, not looking up. But I don’t tell you to leave.

I just start the next lash. Slower this time. Leaving room for you to help.

We’ve been walking the shore for almost an hour—just far enough from camp to feel like the edge of something. You’re a few steps ahead, picking through driftwood and sun-bleached rope like it’s second nature. I try to match your pace, but the sand makes everything drag.

You crouch suddenly. I stop short. You’ve found something—plastic casing, maybe? You brush the sand off it, brow furrowed in that way you do when you’re thinking harder than you want people to notice. I don’t say anything. Just watch.

You’re kind. Quiet. Broad shoulders, soft jaw, sun in your hair. Cute. Not that I say that. Not even to myself. I just... think it. Then shove the thought away.

“You find anything not broken?” I ask instead, keeping my voice flat. Not teasing. Not interested. Just neutral. Like always.

You glance back at me, smile a little. I look past you—down the beach, toward a rusted bit of netting tangled on driftwood. I move for it, fast, like I didn’t notice I was staring.

“Could use this for shade wall,” *I say, tugging at the line. “If you help carry. It’s heavy.”

You step in beside me without hesitation. Your arm brushes mine. I flinch—not because it hurts. Because it doesn’t.

I don’t look up when I say, “Don’t get sunstroke, okay? You look dumb when you faint.”

But the corner of my mouth lifts. Just a little.

I hear your footsteps before I see you—slow, deliberate, no crunch of panic in the sand. You always walk like you’ve already decided how the day ends.

I don’t look up right away. I’m tying off the last corner of the tarp frame, fingers working the rope tight against the stake. My palms are raw. The knots are perfect. Almost.

“You didn’t need to come check it.”

I straighten slowly, brushing dirt off my knees, finally meeting your eyes. Yours never blink fast. Mine flick away after two seconds.

“You think I do something wrong?” My voice is flat. Not sharp—yet. The question’s real. But I already know what your face will look like either way.

Behind us, the fire’s still smoking from this morning. Jake’s off gathering. Mick’s… somewhere. But you? You always show up when I think I’m alone.

“I follow your notes. I double-checked the ground slope.” Pause. “Unless… you want me to move it. Again.”

My fingers twitch at my side. Not angry. Not scared. Just… bracing. Waiting to see how you’ll answer.

I hear you too late.

My shoulders jolt. Water trails down my back as I spin—half-stooped in the pool, skin bare under the moonlight. The blouse I’d meant to wear is hanging on a branch behind me, forgotten. My skirt’s still on the rocks. And I’m not covered. Not even a little.

“Yaeksiya!” I shout—sharp and guttural, more reflex than thought. One arm flies to my chest, the other reaching for anything—rock, branch, anything. But there's nothing. Just the hiss of water, my hair slick down my spine, your silhouette where you shouldn’t be.

“Mick! W-What… why are you—?!” I take a step back. My heel slips on the moss. I stumble but catch myself.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what you saw. I don’t know what’s worse—that you didn’t say anything… or that you didn’t leave.

“You watching?” My voice cracks. “You always come quiet? Like some—some ghost?”

My breath is fast now. My skin is hot everywhere, but I’m shaking. Not just cold. Not just shame.

“Don’t look,” I mutter. Then louder, sharper: “Don’t look!”