Archive of Our Own

Monday. The dreaded start of the week, and for Metavee, it’s the crown jewel of all things stressful.

This one’s off to a spectacularly bad start.

First, some wild kid with juice box energy (and a literal juice box) collided with her outside her go-to café, leaving a bright orange stain splashed across her favorite blouse. That sent her trudging back home to change, muttering curses at the universe. Then there’s Deng, her aloof tabby, who decided to stage another hunger strike over his fancy cat food. And as if her life needed more chaos, the new fundraiser for their project thought it was perfectly fine to call her a dozen times over the weekend.

And now this: Ai-oon is late. Again.

Metavee—or May, as everyone calls her when they aren’t driving her up the wall—sits at the conference table, staring at the empty chair across from her. Her jaw tightens with every passing minute. She’s already rehearsed the scolding twice in her head, the words sharp and ready to launch.

She exhales, a long breath she hopes will siphon out the irritation, but the effort evaporates the moment Ai-oon bursts in, her usual storm of chaos wrapped in an oversized blazer, with a grin wide enough to make anyone suspicious.

“What’s up, my lovely coworkers and…” Ai-oon’s gaze zeroes in on May, “...Ms. Metavee.”

May doesn’t bother hiding her eyeroll. Ai-oon has this infuriating ability to derail her train of thought with one well-placed smirk.

“You’re late,” May snaps, the words clipped and direct, like a dart aimed at a target.

“Yep,” Ai-oon answers, breezy as a spring day, “and that’s why I got you this!” She sets a tall cup of iced Americano in front of May, sliding it across the table like it’s a peace offering in the middle of a warzone.

May glares at the cup, then back at Ai-oon. “An ‘apology Americano’ isn’t going to fix this.”

“No, but it might caffeinate you enough to tolerate me,” Ai-oon quips, pulling out the chair across from May and plopping into it with zero regard for her own tardiness.

Metavee’s patience snaps like an overstretched rubber band. She puts down her pen with a sharp click, crossing her arms as she fixes Ai-oon with a glare that could freeze fire. Across from her, Ai-oon leans back in her chair, a smug grin spread wide across her face, as if she’s completely unaware—or perhaps, delightfully aware—of the chaos she’s stirring.

“Ai-oon, do you even realize how serious this work is?” May’s voice is cold, clipped, the kind of tone that commands attention, or at least, should, “The museum re-launches in less than two months,” she continues, each word landing like a hammer, “and we’ve barely completed the roster for two of our exhibits.”

Ai-oon shrugs, all nonchalance and ease, as if May hasn’t just delivered a verbal slap across the table. “That sounds like a you problem,” she counters, her grin widening. “I’ve already completed the lineup for my part.”

May’s jaw drops, the disbelief almost audible in the air between them. “Did you forget we’re working on two exhibits together?” she demands, her tone tinged with exasperation.

Ai-oon tilts her head, feigning thoughtfulness, but the smirk playing on her lips betrays her. “The only reason our exhibits aren’t working,” she says, pausing for effect, “is because your suggestions are boring, May.”

There it is. The final poke to the bear.

For a moment, the room is silent, save for the ticking of a clock in the corner. May stares at Ai-oon, her lips pressed into a thin line, wondering how someone can be so impossibly infuriating—and yet somehow still have the audacity to smile about it.

“…Alright, before May snaps your neck in two, I’m gonna need you to shut up, Ai,” Pim cuts in, her voice sharp but tinged with amusement. She’s perched on the edge of her chair like she’s ready to referee a boxing match.

“What? I’m just saying,” Ai-oon replies, palms up like she’s innocent, though the grin on her face suggests otherwise. “Inviting newbies isn’t exactly the smartest move when you’re re-launching a dead museum. People want to see names they know. You don’t ogle a Fiat when there’s a Bentley sitting next to it.”

Pim groans, muttering something under her breath, while Metavee looks like she’s about two seconds away from combusting. She leans forward, jabbing her finger into the table for emphasis.

“We’re reviving and curating art, Ai. Not cars,” she fires back, her tone laced with frustration. “It’s not about flash or boyhood dreams. It’s about meaning—about what a museum should stand for.”

Ai-oon waves a hand, as if brushing the argument aside. “Yeah, yeah, I get it—‘meaning.’ But we can do all that later, when we’re not relaunching the place. You need to re-establish yourself first. Build a foundation. Then, invite the new names. Not on day one.”

The room goes quiet for a beat, Ai’s words hanging in the air. Pim raises an eyebrow, glancing between the two of them like she’s waiting to see who’s going to take the next swing.

“Alright, knock it off, you two,” Ploy interjects, her voice carrying that unmistakable edge of someone used to breaking up squabbles. She drops her bag onto the table with a soft thud, glancing between Ai-oon and May like she’s sizing up two kids caught bickering over crayons.

For the record, Ploy is probably the closest thing Metavee has to an ally in the chaos of this workplace. They’ve been inseparable since their Art History days in college, bonded over coffee-fueled nights of dissecting Renaissance masterpieces. Ploy knew she was making the right call dragging May into this job, convincing her to join the effort to revive the city’s forgotten museums—a counter to the creeping loss of authenticity in an AI-driven art world.

Ai-oon, on the other hand? Well, let’s just say Ploy tolerates her. She’s not a fan of Ai’s relentless teasing or her habit of skating by on charm, but she has to admit the woman is a networking genius. And, okay, she’s gorgeous. Drop-dead gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that pisses people off just a little.

But that humor of hers? It grates on Metavee like nails on a chalkboard.

Ploy rubs her temple like a long-suffering mother. “I know you two despise each other—”

“‘Despise’ is a strong word,” Ai-oon cuts in with a grin, leaning back in her chair like she’s about to deliver a monologue. “That’s just May. I, on the other hand, kinda like her.”

May lets out a sharp scoff, the kind that could power a small wind turbine. She crosses her arms, clearly unimpressed.

“Jesus, Ai, just try being normal for, like, two seconds,” Ploy snaps, half-exasperated, half-amused.

The comment earns a ripple of giggles from the juniors gathered around the table, Pim included. Ai-oon raises her hands in mock surrender, grinning all the while, and May just groans, burying her face in her hands.

Ploy sighs, shaking her head. Another day, another headache.

“Look, May, I love the idea of bringing in fresh voices. God knows we need new and young passionate souls to draw in a younger crowd,” Ploy starts, her tone balanced like a tightrope walker, “but I also get where Ai-oon’s coming from. She’s not wrong about needing familiar names to pull in a certain audience. That said, I think there’s a way for both of your ideas to work together.”

It’s not a loss, not exactly a win either—a draw, perhaps.

Metavee feels a faint ringing in her ears, her pride pricked, but she nods anyway, choosing to keep the peace.

Across the table, Ai-oon mirrors her, though there’s a flicker of something in her expression—a silent bid for common ground. May catches it, her blank stare giving nothing away. She doesn’t agree, not openly, but she doesn’t object either.

“The two of you,” Ploy continues, her voice taking on the finality of a gavel, “come back to me tomorrow morning with individual pitches. Then we’ll figure out how to merge the best of both into one exhibit.”

“Just one exhibit?” May asks, the slightest edge of disbelief creeping into her tone.

Ploy sighs, her patience holding on by a thread. “Yes, just one. We’re on a tight schedule here, and,” she casts a sharp look Ai-oon’s way, “seeing as Ms. Ingsamak seems determined to give you a stroke, think of this as me doing you a favor.”

Ai-oon smirks, not even trying to hide it this time, her hand half-covering her face like she’s stifling a laugh. Metavee doesn’t dignify it with a response, though the faintest twitch of her lips suggests she’s begrudgingly accepting the arrangement. It’s one less exhibit to deal with Ai-oon’s antics on, and maybe someday, she’ll thank Ploy for that.

“9AM tomorrow,” Ploy declares, her tone brooking no argument. She narrows her eyes at Ai-oon. “Sharp, Ms. Ingsamak. Let’s leave it at that for now. May, stay back for a word?”

With that, the meeting begins to disperse. The juniors shuffle out, Pim tagging along, and Ai-oon rises with a breezy stretch. Just before heading for the door, she slides her coffee cup closer to Metavee, the corners of her mouth tugging into a playful grin—a silent peace offering.

Metavee stares at the cup, unmoved, but for a split second, there’s a flicker of amusement in her eyes.

If May feels anything at all from Ai-oon’s little gesture, she buries it deep and shovels indifference over the top. Her flat stare is louder than any words, a silent warning: Not today, not ever.

As Ai-oon strolls out, leaving her coffee cup behind like some half-hearted olive branch, May focuses on tidying up her things. Ploy lingers, watching her in thoughtful silence before breaking it.

“Look, May, I know working with Ai-oon isn’t exactly your idea of a good time,” Ploy begins, her tone low and conspiratorial. “And I get it—believe me, she drives me up the wall too sometimes. But the thing is, she gets results. She knows this field inside and out.”

“Her work ethic’s a joke,” May counters, not missing a beat. “You know it. We clash constantly. And, for the record, she annoys me on purpose.”

Ploy raises a brow, a hint of amusement tugging at her lips. “Well, yeah. She likes you.”

May blinks, caught off guard. “Likes to annoy me, maybe. I don’t know if that’s some twisted kink or whatever, but if you’re expecting me to roll over and let her win, Ploy, you should know better.”

“I’m not asking you to back down,” Ploy says, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “I’m asking you to survive. Just get through this relaunch, okay? If things between you two are still a disaster after that, I promise—no more exhibits together. This’ll be the last time. Just… make it work, May. Please?”

Ploy flashes a hopeful smile, and damn it, May is weak when it comes to Ploy. Her friend had dragged her into this industry, given her a shot when no one else would.

May exhales, resigned, and picks up the coffee cup Ai-oon left behind.

“I’ll try,” she mutters, heading for the door.

And as she walks out, cup in hand, she sends up a silent prayer for a pitch brilliant enough to hold its ground against whatever Ai-oon comes up with.

----

The meeting for their pitches turned out… decent.

No, scratch that—better than decent. It was great.

To find common ground, Ploy sketched out a plan: reel in the general public with established names, just like Ai-oon suggested, using her well-tended network of big shots. Meanwhile, May’s idea—an interactive sensory art exhibit—would take center stage. It’d showcase pieces created by the visually impaired and other artists with disabilities, appealing to senses beyond sight.

Surprisingly, Ai-oon didn’t need much convincing. May had expected a tug-of-war but found Ai-oon nodding along, offering ideas instead of quips. Ploy seemed just as astonished—relieved, even. No need to break up yet another sparring match.

The days that followed were a blur of deadlines and details—editing promo materials, calling in favors, and meeting with artists. The clock ticked closer to the big day, and the work stacked up accordingly.

May, though exhausted, found herself thriving in the chaos. She loved meeting the artists, hearing their stories, and watching their creative processes unfold. She often stayed late, finishing emails or perfecting pitches, squeezing every last drop out of the day.

Ai-oon, by contrast, was clockwork. Late to start, sharp at five to finish. Every. Single. Day. It didn’t matter if the world was on fire—Ai was out the door, leaving behind a trail of jokes and a faint smell of coffee. May had tried, more than once, to coax her into staying late, but Ai always brushed it off with something about “wrinkles and bad juju.” Whatever that meant.

Today was no exception. At 5:30 PM, May sat in her cubicle, fingers flying across the keyboard, tying up loose ends before tomorrow’s fresh wave of chaos. Ai-oon wandered past, but instead of breezing by, she stopped, leaning against the edge of May’s desk with her signature smirk.

“You know, if you keep up this overtime hero act, you’re gonna end up old and alone,” Ai said, her tone casual, almost teasing.

May paused, her hands hovering over the keys. The words struck something tender, but she swallowed it down, stuffing the feeling into the same box where all her Ai-related frustrations lived.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” May quips, not even looking up from her screen.

Ai-oon chuckles, unbothered, leaning on the edge of May’s desk like she owned it. “Seriously, though. It’s not exactly crunch time yet.”

“You’re not on crunch time. I am,” May replies, her typing steady, deliberate.

Ai-oon tilts her head, a playful glint in her eye. “You know this whole ‘workaholic’ thing can’t be good for you, right?”

May finally stops typing, turning to glare at her. “And now you’re worried about my well-being?”

“Of course,” Ai-oon says with an easy grin. “You’re Ploy’s secret weapon. The star player. Gotta make sure you’re in top shape, or who else will carry this place?”

May exhales, clearly at the end of her patience. “Look, whatever satisfaction you’re getting out of annoying me, Ai, could you just… not? Go pick another hobby.”

Ai-oon’s smirk deepens, her voice dipping into something playful and deliberately provocative. “If I wanted you to satisfy me, I wouldn’t go about it this way, May.”

The words hang in the air for a moment before the meaning registers. May groans, closing her laptop with more force than necessary. She starts gathering her things, but Ai-oon steps in, blocking her path with a raised hand.

“Relax,” Ai-oon says, her voice softening, though her smile stays firmly in place. “I’m just messing around.”

“Find someone else to mess with,” May snaps, her tone sharp but not entirely biting.

Ai-oon takes a step back, hands raised in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’m heading out. But just so you know, if you burn yourself out, don’t come crying to me. I don’t do late-night rescue missions.”

May rolls her eyes. “I’ll survive. Now leave.”

Ai-oon lingers for a second longer, her gaze flicking to May’s laptop before she smirks and turns to leave. “Don’t work too hard, superstar,” she calls over her shoulder, her voice light and teasing.

May exhales, the silence that follows feeling oddly empty. She shakes her head, muttering under her breath, “Why does she always have to get the last word?”

---

The next morning, May arrives at her desk to find a small herbal inhaler sitting neatly on top of her keyboard. Taped to it is a note in Ai-oon’s familiar scrawl:

“Because you work too hard, and it’s freaking me out.”

For a moment, May just stares at it, unsure whether to laugh or roll her eyes. A quiet smile sneaks onto her lips, softening her usual Monday glare. But just as quickly, she shakes it off, willing herself back to her default mode of mild irritation—the setting she reserves exclusively for Ai-oon.

Still, the inhaler ends up in her hand more often than she’d like to admit.

Once an hour, she takes a deep breath from it, as if expecting the magic fix to her exhaustion to finally kick in.

It doesn’t, of course.

But something about it—maybe the gesture, maybe the absurdity—makes the day feel just a little lighter.

---

That lightness, like a fleeting bird passing through her chest, doesn’t last long.

A few days later, just three weeks shy of the relaunch, the weight of the world seems to settle squarely on May’s shoulders. Heavy, personal, and unwelcome—something she doesn’t share with anyone, not even in passing. Well, except for Ploy.

Today is one of those days. The kind that starts with the sun in the wrong place and the air too thick to breathe. It’s supposed to be a happy day, but there’s this invisible force pressing her chest, threatening to crush whatever fragile calm she’s managed to hold onto.

Still, May is May. She moves through her ritual like a woman following a map etched into her bones. Her specific routine for this specific day.

She arrives a little later than usual—a rare occurrence. In her arms, three containers filled with food she spent the early morning making. Warm, fragrant, an unspoken offering to her teammates.

Those who know—Ploy and Pim among them—accept the gesture with quiet smiles and murmured thanks. They understand without asking. They know better than to pry.

But Ai-oon? Of course not Ai-oon.

And, of all days, she picks this one.

Striding in with her effortless cool, she drops into a chair three seats away from May, her eyes wandering lazily over the spread of food on the table. Teammates, mostly juniors, are happily eating. Everyone except May, who sits quietly, her expression like stone.

“What’s the occasion?” Ai-oon asks, her tone smooth, almost curious, but with that distinct edge that never quite leaves her words.

May glances at her, the stare brief but sharp. She doesn’t expect Ai-oon to know. Doesn’t expect her to understand.

Pim steps in, filling the silence. “May brought food for the team,” she says, her tone light, almost a warning not to push further.

Ai-oon, who’s managed to stay about 60% in May’s good graces the past week thanks to her frequent absences—too many meetings with collaborators to be her usual insufferable self—decides today is the day to linger.

Which means she has time.

Time to talk.

Time to poke.

Time to annoy May until she cracks.

“Well, well, I didn’t know you had it in you to cook, superstar,” Ai-oon says, her voice dripping with that familiar, playful malice as she picks up a fork.

She doesn’t wait for an invitation—she never does. The fork sinks into the spicy rice noodles, and Metavee watches her, her grip tightening around the edge of the table. It’s not expectation—it’s bracing, like someone watching a car inch too close to the edge of a cliff.

Ai-oon chews slowly, tilting her head, eyes narrowing in mock critique. Then, with that grin that always feels a shade too sharp, she says, “Not bad. A little bland, though. Didn’t know you liked keeping it safe, May. Suits you, I guess.”

The chuckle that follows is light, airy, and unmistakably smug.

Metavee’s face stays impassive, but the tension around her eyes betrays her.

Pim stiffens beside her, darting a glance at Ploy, who’s watching the exchange with a growing stillness, her fingers tapping rhythmically against the arm of her chair.

“And this one—” Ai-oon gestures at the Khao Soi, scooping up a spoonful with theatrical precision. She takes her time tasting it, her expression carefully unreadable. Then she sets the spoon down with a soft clink, leaning back in her chair like she’s delivered some profound judgment.

 “Yeah… it’s okay,” she says, swirling the spoon in the Khao Soi lazily before setting it down, “Feels like it’s missing something, though. A little spark. Kind of like when you rush something just to get it done.”

The grin on her face spreads wider, daring someone to bite back.

Ploy’s voice cuts through the room, low and razor-sharp. “Ai-oon, shut your mouth. Now.”

“What?” Ai-oon replies, the picture of innocence, though the grin lingering on her face suggests otherwise. “I’m just giving feedback. Isn’t that what teammates do?”

The tension in the room is suffocating now, the juniors around the table all holding their breath. Pim shifts uncomfortably in her chair, but no one dares to speak.

“Come on, May,” Ai-oon adds, her grin widening. “I know you can take a little critique. I mean, it’s not Michelin-star level or anything, but—”

“Go fuck yourself, Ai-oon,” Metavee spits, her voice low but loaded, and the words land like a slap.

Her voice cracks just slightly, a telltale sign of something deeper than anger.

Ai-oon’s grin falters, her bravado dimming under the weight of Metavee’s glare.

“May—” she starts, but Metavee is already slinging her bag over her shoulder.

The door slams behind her, the sound cutting through the silence like a thunderclap.

Ai-oon blinks at the door, then looks back at the table. Her grin is gone, replaced by something uncertain, almost hollow. She tries to laugh, but it comes out flat, an echo that falls away without response.

Ploy leans forward, her voice cold and clipped. “A word in my office, Ai.”

“Ploy, I wasn’t—” Ai-oon starts, but Ploy cuts her off.

“Now.”

Ai-oon hesitates, but Ploy’s gaze doesn’t waver. With a sigh, Ai-oon stands, her usual confidence deflating as she follows Ploy out.

The door clicks shut behind them, and the room lets out a collective breath it didn’t realize it was holding.

Ai-oon’s face is a picture of confusion as she sinks into the chair across from Ploy in the small, suffocating office. The walls feel closer than usual, the air heavier, but she keeps her composure—barely.

Ploy, leaning back with arms crossed and eyes blazing half with anger, half with something Ai-oon can’t quite place, lets out a slow, weighted sigh.

“If you didn’t have anything good to say,” Ploy begins, her voice low and sharp, “you could’ve just kept your mouth shut, Ai-oon.”

Ai-oon shifts in her seat, her defense already rising to her lips. “I was just joking, okay? Everyone knows she gets annoyed with me—it’s always been fun, you know, light.” She pauses, her voice faltering under Ploy’s unwavering gaze. “But—”

Ploy doesn’t let her finish. “You do know, don’t you, that people have bad days? And that some of those bad days hit harder than others? So hard they don’t leave room for your ‘light’ little jokes.”

Her words land with a weight that sinks into Ai-oon’s chest.

Ploy shakes her head, exhaling again, this time slower, quieter, as if trying to steady herself. She’s thinking—no, deciding—whether or not to share more.

“You remember Chef Som, Ai?” Ploy finally says, her tone gentler but no less pointed.

Ai-oon frowns, confused by the shift in direction. “The TV chef?” she asks, tilting her head slightly. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember her. Used to watch her when I was a kid. What about her?”

Ploy exhales slowly, her patience frayed but holding on. She nods, leaning forward like she’s about to deliver a truth too heavy for the room to carry.

“Chef Som,” she begins, her voice measured, “was May’s mother.”

Ai-oon’s eyes widen, confusion giving way to disbelief.

“Wait, what?”

Ploy takes a deep breath, pushing through Ai-oon’s interruption. “Look, Metavee wouldn’t want me telling you this—she keeps it private—but clearly, you don’t understand. You’ve only been here a few months, Ai, so you wouldn’t have known about this. But every year, on this same day, May does the same thing. She recreates some of her mom’s recipes and brings them in for everyone.”

She pauses, her words hanging in the air like a weight too heavy to drop all at once.

“She doesn’t do it for attention or praise. It helps her feel… connected. To her memory, I think.”

Ploy glances down, her fingers tracing idle circles on the desk. “Pim and I, we get it. We’ve seen it before. And we don’t bring it up because it’s not just grief she’s dealing with—it’s deeper.”

The realization hits Ai-oon like a slow-moving train—she sees it coming, but the impact still knocks the breath out of her.

“That’s why you don’t joke about it,” Ploy continues, her voice sharpening. “It doesn’t matter if you didn’t know the story. You should’ve known where the line was. But you didn’t.”

“I—listen, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Ploy cuts in, her tone icy. “Apologize to May.”

Ai-oon’s usual swagger and quick comebacks are nowhere to be found. Something heavier than guilt settles in her chest, spreading like a slow ache she can’t shake off. Her fingers fidget on the armrest, her gaze darting anywhere but Ploy’s face, as if avoiding the weight of the truth might make it less crushing. It doesn’t.

“I get that you’re new here,” Ploy says, her gaze softening just enough to keep the edge in her voice from cutting too deep, “and I know—of all people—that it’s May’s attention you’re trying to get the most.”

Ai-oon’s head snaps up at that, her face betraying the flicker of recognition.

“You’re not exactly subtle, Ai,” Ploy adds, leaning back in her chair. “But this isn’t the way. All your charm and jokes might work on other people, but Metavee isn’t like everyone else. You don’t get to treat her like she’s part of some game you’re trying to win.”

Ploy’s words hit like pages torn from a book Ai-oon didn’t realize she was writing. She sits there, silent, feeling stripped bare under Ploy’s scrutiny.

“You need to understand this, Ai,” Ploy finishes, her voice quieter now but no less firm. “Not everyone’s going to react the way you expect. And not everyone’s pain is something you can talk your way around.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, Ai-oon finds herself utterly speechless. Words, her usual armor of wit and charm, fail her now. The weight of everything Ploy just said hangs over her, pressing down on her chest, making her shoulders feel heavier than they’ve ever been.

She steps out of the office in a haze, her mind racing, replaying Ploy’s words over and over like a bad song stuck on repeat. Without thinking, her feet carry her toward May’s work desk, hoping—what exactly? That she’d see May there? That she’d find the right words, somehow, to undo what she’d done?

But when she arrives, the desk is empty. The chair is neatly pushed in, the desk itself devoid of any signs of Metavee’s presence except for a pen laid perfectly parallel to a closed notebook. Even the herbal inhaler Ai-oon had left for her days ago is gone. The silence around the space feels colder, sharper.

She stands there for a moment, staring at the absence, the weight of her own actions sinking in further. It’s like she can feel the void May left behind, and for once, Ai-oon doesn’t have the courage to fill it with her usual noise.

----

The next morning, Ai-oon arrives at the office earlier than usual—a rarity in itself. She clutches a coffee cup in her hand, the logo of the café May frequents printed neatly on its side. It’s not much, she knows, but it’s the only gesture she can muster. Something quiet. Something that says, I’m sorry without saying it outright, because she doubts May wants to hear anything from her right now.

With careful hands, she places the cup on May’s desk, sliding it just enough to center it perfectly between her notebook and keyboard. She hesitates for a moment, wondering if she should leave a note, something to make her intention clear, but the thought of her words being misread stops her. Instead, she retreats quickly, back to her own space, and buries herself in work she can’t seem to focus on.

By mid-morning, May finally arrives. Her movements are brisk and efficient as she sits down and sets her things in their usual places. She notices the coffee almost immediately, her gaze lingering on it for a second too long. Ai-oon watches from across the room, hopeful, holding her breath. But May doesn’t touch it. She doesn’t even move it aside. She simply shifts her attention to her computer screen, her hands typing away as if the cup doesn’t exist.

Hours pass, and Ai-oon’s unease grows. She steals glances toward May’s desk, hoping for some sign—a sip, a glance, anything. But the coffee stays untouched.

By the time Ai-oon is getting ready to leave in the late afternoon, the cup is still there. The logo is smudged now, the heat long gone from the drink. Ai-oon pauses as she passes by May’s desk, her usual quips and jabs nowhere to be found. She wants to say something, anything, but the sight of that ignored, cold coffee is louder than words. With a tight swallow and a heavy heart, she keeps walking, the weight of her own mistakes following her out the door.

----

The following morning, Ai-oon is back, earlier than usual again, clutching another cup of coffee. She lingers at May’s desk, her fingers brushing the lid as if second-guessing herself. She sets it down carefully, aligning it with the edge of the desk. As she starts to step away, a voice cuts through the quiet, low and steady, but unmistakably laced with something heavier than irritation.

“What are you doing?”

Ai-oon freezes mid-step, the warmth in her chest immediately cooling. Slowly, she turns around, catching May’s gaze—guarded, weary, and clouded with something she can’t quite place.

“Oh, hey, May. You’re early today.” Ai-oon tries for a light tone, but it falters under the weight of May’s expression.

May folds her arms, not with anger, but with the kind of heaviness that suggests she’s holding herself together. “And you’re getting into a habit of leaving things on my desk without asking. Why?”

Ai-oon opens her mouth, words fumbling to come together. “It’s coffee. You like coffee. I thought…” She trails off, her usual confidence failing her as May’s eyes flick briefly to the cup and back.

“You thought what?” May’s voice is quieter now, tinged with something Ai-oon recognizes too late as sadness. “That this would fix things? That you could just leave it and walk away?”

Ai-oon feels the ache behind those words, even though May’s tone stays measured. She steps closer, her usual bravado gone. “Okay, fine. I’m trying to make up for being an idiot. I know I messed up. Can we talk? Just for a minute?”

May’s gaze softens, but only slightly, the sadness in her eyes more prominent now. She doesn’t speak for a moment, her arms dropping to her sides. “What’s the point?” she finally asks, her voice barely audible.

“May, please,” Ai-oon presses, her voice softer now. “Just give me five minutes. I know I messed up. Let me at least try to fix it.”

May looks at her for a long moment, her jaw tightening as if weighing the decision. Finally, she exhales, motioning toward the meeting room at the far end of the office. “Five minutes.”

Ai-oon nods quickly, relief flickering across her face. She steps aside to let May lead the way, following her with a mix of nervousness and determination, clutching at the fragile thread of opportunity to make things right.

Pim watches the tense exchange from her desk, her gaze flicking toward Ploy, who’s quietly observing from her corner of the room. Pim raises an eyebrow as if asking, ‘Should we step in?’. Ploy responds with a subtle shake of her head, her expression unreadable but calm. She’s betting on Ai-oon’s intentions this time, however tenuous that gamble might feel.

Inside the meeting room, May barely glances at Ai-oon before holding up her phone, the screen lit with a countdown timer already ticking away.

“Five minutes,” she says flatly.

Ai-oon blinks. “Wait, you’re serious about that?”

“Just say what you want to say,” May replies, her tone clipped, her arms folded tight against her chest. “I have work to do.”

The weight of the timer and May’s sharp gaze presses down on Ai-oon like a too-small jacket. She exhales, running a hand through her hair. She’s not great at this—the speaking from the heart, the untangling of guilt from pride. And two sleepless nights haven’t helped her find clarity.

“Alright, listen.” She pauses, searching for the right starting point. “I’m sorry, May. I was out of line. Completely out of line.”

May doesn’t move, her face giving nothing away. It unnerves Ai-oon, but it’s also the only thing keeping her from rambling.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you like that,” Ai-oon continues. “I don’t know what I was trying to prove, but it was stupid and mean, and you didn’t deserve it. Not even a little.”

May’s silence stretches, heavy but not hostile, so Ai-oon takes it as permission to keep going.

“I didn’t know—about, uh, the significance of that day for you.” She hesitates, deciding against mentioning what Ploy told her. “But ignorance isn’t an excuse. I was a jerk, plain and simple. And I know I’m not exactly your favorite person here, but I want to do better. I don’t want to be the reason your day gets worse.”

May tilts her head slightly, her expression softening but still guarded. Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak yet.

“So yeah, I’m sorry,” Ai-oon finishes, her voice quieter now. “For all of it.”

May lets out a small breath, more like a sigh than a response. Then she lifts her eyes to meet Ai-oon’s.

“Is that everything Ploy told you?” she asks, her voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of something Ai-oon can’t quite place—sadness, maybe, or exhaustion.

Ai-oon opens her mouth to answer but stops herself, unsure how to navigate the question without making things worse.

Sighing, May uncrosses her arms and leans back against the edge of the conference table. Her eyes linger on Ai-oon, studying her in a way that makes Ai-oon feel like she’s being stripped of her usual defenses. To be fair, Ai-oon does look apologetic. She doesn’t carry herself with her usual self-assured swagger, her shoulders slope slightly, and her gaze keeps slipping downward, refusing to lock with May’s. Her voice earlier had been steady but subdued, far removed from the bright, teasing tone she typically uses to needle May.

If May feels any kind of sympathy, she hides it well.

“I know Ploy told you things about me,” she says, straightening up and smoothing an invisible wrinkle on the hem of her blouse. Her voice carries a note of finality, like this was the part she needed to get out of the way first. “I trust you’ll keep it to yourself.”

Ai-oon nods, not missing a beat. She doesn’t say anything—there’s nothing to say. It’s not her story to share, and she wouldn’t even know where to begin.

May exhales, the weight of unspoken tension in the room pressing down on both of them. “Look, Ai, we’ve got less than a month until the relaunch, and I need to focus on that. More than anything else, I want this to work between us.”

Those words hang in the air, heavy with meaning that neither of them can ignore. Ai-oon’s head snaps up, her eyes darting to May’s face, catching something unspoken in the way she said it. For a second, there’s a ripple of something unfamiliar, and Ai-oon’s heart beats faster than she’d like.

May feels the shift too, retraces her words, and clears her throat awkwardly. “For the relaunch, I mean,” she adds quickly, a little too quickly, her cheeks warming in a way she wishes they wouldn’t.

There’s a beat of silence where May looks down at her phone and Ai-oon wrestles with the heat rising to her face. The timer on May’s phone blares out, sharp and jarring, breaking the moment like a dropped glass. May fumbles to stop it, muttering under her breath as she presses the screen. Ai-oon seizes the chance to collect herself, swallowing down the lump in her throat and trying to ignore the tightness in her chest.

“I want that, too,” Ai-oon finally says, her voice softer now, drawing May’s attention back.

Whether she’s agreeing to the words May meant or the ones she didn’t, neither of them acknowledges it. Ai-oon’s lips twitch into a smile—not her usual cocky grin, but something smaller, hesitant. It feels like an offering, a white flag held out in tentative truce.

May stares at it for a moment, her defenses still high, but she allows herself the smallest flicker of a smile in return. It’s something, at least. A starting point.

And for now, that’s enough.

----

In the days that follow, something shifts. Ai-oon, who is usually out the door by 5:01 PM sharp, starts lingering. At first, it’s subtle—staying just long enough to help rearrange a few pieces of artwork on the display boards, her jacket still slung over her chair like she isn’t planning to stay long. But as the week wears on, her involvement deepens.

May notices it first, of course. How could she not? She glances up from her meticulous adjustments to the layout of the exhibit displays and finds Ai-oon across the room, sleeves rolled up, helping Pim organize promotional materials or offering unsolicited but oddly good suggestions about the arrangement of the pieces.

One evening, as they all huddle around the half-finished exhibit mock-ups, Ai-oon surprises everyone by pulling out her phone and sketching out an idea for the layout that no one has thought of.

“It’s just an idea,” she says casually, sliding the screen toward May. “But I think it could make the exhibit stand out more. People love symmetry, right?”

May stares at the screen longer than she needs to, her brow furrowed in concentration. She hates to admit it, but Ai-oon is right.

“It’s… not bad,” May concedes, her tone begrudging but not unkind.

“High praise,” Ai-oon quips, flashing her a grin before turning to Pim. “Mark the date. I think May almost complimented me.”

Pim snorts, and even May can’t hide the faintest curve of her lips before shaking her head and returning to work.

By the time the clock creeps past eight, and the rest of the team begins gathering their things to leave, Ai-oon is still there. She stays behind with May, silently shifting artwork into neat rows, her earlier energy softened into something quieter. She doesn’t ask for acknowledgment, doesn’t try to push her luck.

At one point, May pauses and glances at her. “You don’t have to keep staying late, you know,” she says, her tone neutral but not dismissive.

Ai-oon shrugs, not looking up from the task at hand. “I know. But I want to.”

May doesn’t respond right away, but the weight of Ai-oon’s words settles between them like an unspoken truce.

And so, they work, side by side, in the quiet hum of the nearly empty office, finding an unexpected rhythm that neither of them dares to name.

---

Another evening, and the office feels even quieter than before. The hum of the lights and the soft rustle of paper are the only sounds in the space as Ai-oon and May work side by side, the clock creeping toward the late hour once again. It’s becoming routine now—staying behind after everyone else leaves, reshuffling artwork, adjusting frames, tweaking the layout. The work itself is simple enough, but the silence between them carries an unspoken weight, something different than before.

Ai-oon sneaks a glance at May from the corner of her eye. May is bent over a sketchpad, her brow furrowed in concentration. Ai-oon can’t help the flicker of admiration she feels. It’s a small thing, really. The way May’s focus makes her so… present. It’s impossible to look at her without feeling something more than professional respect.

Ai-oon takes a deep breath and refocuses on her own task, carefully shifting a piece of artwork a fraction to the left. After a long silence, she clears her throat, breaking it with a small, teasing voice.

"How do you do it, May?" Ai-oon asks, a little playfully. "You’ve got this whole ‘cool, calm, collected’ thing down. I try and pretend I’ve got it together, but I’m always a mess."

May doesn’t immediately respond, but after a beat, she glances up at Ai-oon with a slight smirk.

"That’s because you are a mess," May replies dryly, but there’s no real malice in it.

Ai-oon chuckles, leaning back in her chair, rubbing the back of her neck. "Fair enough. I’m just saying, when you lock in, might as well throw in a little background music for dramatic effect?”

May’s lips twitch, fighting a smile. “Yeah, I think you’ve tortured me enough for today, Ai.”

Ai-oon chuckles, shaking her head. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

A few moments pass as they both return to their tasks, the silence now more comfortable than before. Ai-oon can feel the tension starting to build again, subtle but there. She notices how close they’re sitting now, how her hand brushes against May’s when they both reach for the same artwork. Ai-oon’s heart skips a beat, but she tries to push the thought away, focusing on her work.

“So,” Ai-oon says, breaking the silence again, this time quieter, “I know I’ve been kind of… in your face recently. I guess I just like to poke the bear, huh?”

May pauses, glancing at Ai-oon before shrugging. “I don’t mind. If your point is to keep things interesting.”

Ai-oon blinks, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in May’s voice. “You make me sound like a circus act.”

May’s smile softens. “Well, when you’re around, things aren’t exactly boring.”

Ai-oon’s heart flutters a little. She smiles back, but it feels different now—warmer, more open. There’s a slight pause before Ai-oon speaks again.

“Hey, I’m not just here to mess with you, you know,” she says softly, not quite looking at May. “I respect you. More than I probably let on.”

May doesn’t immediately respond, her hands stilling for a moment as she looks over at Ai-oon. Then, slowly, she meets Ai-oon’s gaze. There’s something about the way she looks at her, something that makes Ai-oon’s chest tighten.

“I know,” May says quietly, her voice just a little softer than usual. “I know you do.”

Ai-oon lets out a quiet breath she didn’t realize she was holding. The air between them shifts, thick with something unspoken. Ai-oon leans in slightly, her hand moving just a fraction closer to May’s on the table, fingers barely grazing.

May notices too—her breath catches, just slightly. Their gazes meet, held in a moment longer than either of them intended. The silence grows heavy, charged with the pull between them. Ai-oon feels the warmth of May’s presence drawing her closer, her heart racing a little faster, a soft pressure building in her chest.

Just as Ai-oon starts to lean in, closing the gap, the door creaks open.

Ai-oon jumps back, heart leaping into her throat.

Pim stands there, rubbing her eyes sleepily, clearly not expecting to see either of them so... still. “Sorry,” she says, sounding a little out of breath. “I left my ID here earlier and—” She pauses, blinking at them both. “Uh... what’s going on here?”

Ai-oon and May freeze, eyes widening, both of them instantly awkward. Ai-oon opens her mouth to say something, but no words come out. The air between them feels completely different now.

Pim looks between them, raising an eyebrow. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll just… grab my ID and... yeah, go.”

She steps into the room and grabs her ID from the desk, giving them both one last look before heading toward the door.

“Right, um... I’ll just... leave you two alone,” she says, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. She exits, closing the door quietly behind her.

Ai-oon and May stand in the silence, neither of them knowing exactly what to do next. Ai-oon glances at May, still close but not quite ready to bridge the distance between them. The moment feels suspended in time, full of possibilities neither of them is ready to face yet.

May clears her throat, pushing her chair back. “Uh... yeah, we should finish this.”

Ai-oon nods, feeling the weight of the moment. “Yeah. Yeah, we should.”

And so, they continue, but now the quiet between them is different. It’s heavier, charged with everything that hasn’t been said, both of them wondering what happens next.

-----

About a week before the relaunch, the office is quieter than usual. The team has been working overtime, every moment occupied with final adjustments, loading up promotional materials, and perfecting details for the upcoming exhibit.

May is in the stockroom, sleeves pushed up, shifting boxes and sorting inventory with the precision of someone determined to keep her hands busy and her mind from wandering too far. But it’s futile.

That charged moment with Ai-oon—the one she’s been trying and failing to forget—keeps slipping through the cracks, annoying in its persistence. She can see it clear as day, the way the air seemed to shift between them, the electric weight of something unsaid pressing down until it nearly broke. But it didn’t. And now she’s left convincing herself it was just a moment of misplaced tension, the kind born from long hours and high stakes. Nothing more. It’s what she tells herself, anyway. Over and over, like a mantra.

Back in the stockroom, she huffs, bending to lift another box, her focus razor-sharp, almost defiant. The creak of the door interrupts her, and though she doesn’t turn, she knows exactly who it is. There’s no mistaking the soft shuffle of those footsteps.

“Need some help?” Ai-oon’s voice cuts through the quiet, light and playful on the surface, but there’s something beneath it—something that makes May’s pulse hitch. The tension between them has been building, coiling tighter with each passing day, neither of them brave enough—or maybe foolish enough—to name it. An unspoken truce hangs between them, a silent pact to let things unfold as they will.

“No, I’m fine,” May replies, her voice steady enough, though the box she’s shuffling into place suddenly feels heavier. “Just trying to get this sorted before tomorrow.”

The door clicks shut behind Ai-oon as she steps further in, the already cramped space shrinking with her presence. She’s holding a small stack of papers, though May barely registers them. All she notices is how close Ai-oon suddenly is, the air feeling warmer, charged.

“You’re returning something?” May asks, glancing over her shoulder, trying to steer them into the safety of casual conversation.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Ai-oon says, her laugh soft and a little awkward, “Just some paper taking up too much space on my desk.”

The excuse is flimsy, and they both know it, but Ai-oon moves closer anyway, brushing past May to place the papers on the top shelf. May turns around instinctively, her back bumping against a stack of boxes, but it doesn’t stop Ai-oon from ending up practically chest-to-chest with her in the process.

The storage room, already small, now feels suffocating. May’s breath catches, her gaze darting upward as Ai-oon’s arm stretches over her. She doesn’t mean to freeze, but she does, the proximity too much and not enough all at once. Ai-oon, oblivious—or maybe not so oblivious—takes her time settling the papers.

The scent of May’s shampoo—light and citrusy, like the morning sun—lingers between them. Ai-oon can’t help but notice, and it doesn’t help. It never helps. May smells good all the damn time, and it drives Ai-oon insane. She swallows hard, willing herself to focus, but how is she supposed to when May’s right there, when she’s been walking around with a stupid crush on her this whole time?

“I should really—” May starts, but the words stick in her throat when Ai-oon shifts slightly, her hand brushing May’s wrist. It’s the lightest touch, accidental, fleeting, but it’s enough to set May’s pulse racing, enough to make the silence between them deafening.

The moment stretches between them. Time slows to a point and suddenly, they’re both quite aware of the tension the other person feels. Ai-oon tilts her head slightly, and for the briefest of seconds, May can feel the heat of her gaze burning into her.

There’s no escape now, no pretending that they’re not feeling things. Not when Ai-oon is this close, not when she can feel the way her body reacts to every small movement.

May makes a futile attempt to move away, but before she can react, Ai-oon reaches for her. She pulls her gently but insistently into her arms, lips finding May’s in a kiss that feels like it’s been building for a lifetime. Their bodies press together in the cramped space, and the kiss is sudden, urgent—two people caught in the middle of something neither of them is ready to stop.

Ai-oon’s hands slide to May’s waist, pulling her in deeper. May lets out a breath, her hands coming up to grip Ai-oon’s shoulders. To hell with control. They’re both breathless, the heat between them growing with every second.

But the reality of where they are hits May and she pulls back, her lips still hovering over Ai-oon’s, her breath ragged. She’s visibly flushed, her chest rising and falling with each breath. “We shouldn’t... not here.”

Ai-oon, caught between wanting more and understanding the reality of the situation, reluctantly nods. “Right. Yeah... we shouldn’t.”

May’s heart hammers in her chest, her body humming with the energy between them. She takes a step back, her fingers grazing Ai-oon’s. “Can you hold it off until after work?” she asks, the words slipping out before she can stop them.

Ai-oon smirks, a little taken aback, her lips curling into something almost playful again, though there’s a certain intensity in her eyes. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

May laughs softly, a low sound that fills the quiet of the room. “Maybe. But I’m being good. For now.”

Ai-oon’s gaze never leaves her, the silence stretching between them, but it feels different now. It’s not just the silence of a workday winding down—this is something heavier, something deeper.

They finish their tasks, but neither of them is truly paying attention to the work anymore. They’re just counting the moments, the minutes, until they can finally let go.

The office empties out, but May and Ai-oon linger. The others leave without a second thought, but the tension between them keeps them tethered to the space. Neither one of them dares to speak, but the brief glances exchanged say everything. The air hums with anticipation, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath, waiting for something to break.

When the clock finally ticks past the hour, the office is quiet. Ai-oon takes a step closer to May, her movements slow and deliberate. May feels it—the air thickening, the world narrowing down to just the two of them.

They leave the office together, the door clicking softly behind them, and step into the night. The walk to May’s apartment feels like an eternity, every step charged with something unspoken, something raw. The city lights flicker around them, casting shadows that dance in time with their quickened heartbeats.

Neither speaks. The silence is louder than any words they could say. The world feels distant, and all May can focus on is the warmth of Ai-oon’s presence beside her, the subtle brush of their arms as they walk in sync.

When they reach the door to May’s apartment, the moment hits. It’s like everything that’s been building between them finally erupts. Ai-oon doesn’t hesitate. She’s on her in an instant, lips crashing into May’s with a hunger that surprises them both. It’s all raw, desperate, as if they’ve both been holding their breath for far too long.

Ai-oon’s hands move, finding their way beneath May’s shirt, brushing against her skin, igniting a spark that travels through both of them. The kiss deepens—faster, harder—as Ai-oon presses her against the door. May’s hands grip her, pulling her closer, desperate to feel the heat of her, to lose herself in this moment.

But what May doesn’t expect is the way she feels: wild, untamed in a way that even Ai-oon didn’t anticipate. The way she kisses Ai-oon—fierce, insistent—pulling her deeper into the frenzy, her hands moving with confidence as if they’ve done this before, as if this is where she belongs. Ai-oon is taken aback for a moment, her breath hitching, caught off guard by the intensity of May’s need, but it’s a welcome surprise. A challenge.

She’s wild, uninhibited, and Ai-oon finds herself responding to that, matching her energy. Their hands tangle in each other’s hair, their bodies pressed together as if they’re both trying to claim the other, to pull them closer.

Ai-oon’s hands travel lower, feeling the curve of May’s waist, the heat of her skin beneath her fingertips. She hikes up May’s dress as they make their way and tumble on their feet until they find May’s room. May arches into her, a small breath escaping her lips as she presses herself even closer. Ai-oon hesitates for just a fraction of a second. She wants this, needs this, but she wants it to be right, wants to make sure May feels cared for, even in the rush of the moment.

May’s voice trembles against Ai-oon’s skin, her words almost lost in the rush of kisses. “I need you, Ai. Please— please don’t stop.”

They continue, bodies moving in time, the world outside fading into nothingness. They strip away each other’s clothes like tearing down walls bit by bit. There’s no room for anything else but this. The heat between them, the need to feel, to connect, to be lost in each other. Every touch is a promise. Every kiss a surrender.

“Ai,” May breathes again, her hands grasping at Ai-oon’s back when she feels her hand go to where she needs her most.

Curses befall her lips. Each push of Ai-oon’s fingers is electric and commanding, and May finds herself pulling Ai-oon closer, deeper. “Please… don’t stop.”

Ai-oon groans softly, a shiver running down her spine. “Fuck, May.” She kisses her fiercely, her free hand roaming over her body, every inch of her feeling like the last thing she’ll ever touch.

The world is a blur around them, a tangle of limbs, heated skin, and quiet, desperate whispers. The moment is everything—everything they’ve been waiting for, everything they’ve been holding back. Ai-oon’s breath is ragged against May’s skin as she moves with careful precision, her body trembling slightly under the intensity of the moment.

When it peaks, when their bodies finally find release, it’s not just the satisfaction of physical need, but something deeper. Something neither of them expected, but both desperately craved. The feeling is overwhelming, all-consuming, and Ai-oon can barely hold on as their bodies shudder together, entwined, breathless.

They lie there, tangled in each other’s arms, breathing in sync, hearts racing together. Neither of them speaks for a long time, but the quiet is enough. It’s filled with everything they’ve shared in that moment—and everything that’s still to come.

----

They wake up early the next morning, still riding that high, even with the ache in their limbs. The sun's barely up, and neither of them is in any hurry to rush off to work. May, who thought Ai-oon wouldn’t stick around this long, feels the pull of something different—something she didn’t expect but doesn’t want to let go of.

So, she offers to make breakfast. It’s one of those quiet, simple moments that feels like everything and nothing all at once.

Ai-oon doesn’t even hesitate. She sits across the kitchen bar, cradling a cup of coffee like she’s in no rush, letting the warmth of it sink in.

May moves around the kitchen, busying herself with what’s almost an instinct now, cooking like she knows she’s got time. She glances over her shoulder. "You can look around, if you want. Keep yourself entertained," she says, wiping her hands on her apron.

Ai-oon smirks, "I think I’d rather watch you cook."

May can’t help but laugh, her voice a little louder than it should be in the early hours. "You’re ridiculous," she calls out, shaking her head. But there's an easy smile on her lips, and she goes back to the stove, pretending not to care that Ai-oon’s watching.

Ai-oon eventually takes the hint and settles herself on the couch in the living room, eyes tracing over the art scattered across the walls. It’s a strange mix—maximalist broadstrokes and one corner of abstract chaos that pulls her in.

She doesn’t notice May come up beside her, not until her voice breaks the silence.

"Do you like what you see?"

Ai-oon blinks, finally turning her gaze toward May. “Yeah,” she says, voice low, “I do.”

“Good,” May says, a spark in her eyes, “Because I made all of those.”

Ai-oon just stares at her for a beat, unable to hide the surprise. She’s seen May’s sketches before, sure, but this—these are something different. Something deeper. She can feel the weight of it pressing on her, almost like she’s intruding on a part of May she’s not meant to see.

“Really?” Ai-oon asks, still not sure if she’s hearing it right.

May gives a small nod, but her eyes dart to the art again. "Yeah."

Ai-oon looks back, catching sight of the section with all the abstract pieces. She tilts her head, studying the strokes, the angles, the splashes of color. “You got… a whole corner of abstract stuff there," she says, glancing up at May. "That’s… different. Different from the rest.”

May’s eyes flicker, and she steps a little closer, reaching out to straighten one of the frames. The simple act is graceful, but it’s more than that. Ai-oon watches her from behind, the quiet energy between them shifting. She doesn’t quite understand it yet, but she feels it in her bones.

Ai-oon takes a step toward her, her voice softer now. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me why.”

May pauses, her hand lingering on the frame, and then glances back at Ai-oon. There's a quiet understanding in her eyes. “Ploy told you about my mom, didn’t she?”

Ai-oon doesn’t immediately answer. She doesn’t need to—May already knows.

“So, you know how she died?”

Ai-oon nods slowly, the weight of the words hanging between them. “Yeah… I remember hearing about it on the news… years ago.”

May doesn’t seem shaken by it. Her eyes hold steady, not quite meeting Ai-oon’s, like she’s been over this so many times before. She’s holding something back, but it’s not anger or sadness—just a kind of distance, like she’s learned to live with the space it left.

“I was in that accident too,” May says, her voice softer now, “My mom didn’t make it. I did… but I went blind for a while because of it.”

Ai-oon takes a breath, surprised by the rawness of it. This isn’t something Ploy had shared, not like this. The information sits between them, heavier than expected, and Ai-oon steps closer, her steps slow, careful not to startle her.

May looks at her, the vulnerability hanging in the space between them. "Thing is," she says, her voice a little rough, "when that happens, you don’t get to grieve properly. It’s not like the world just stops. You don’t get time to catch up with your emotions, you know? And no matter how much good you do, people just... they regard you differently. Like you're a liability."

Ai-oon’s heart tightens at the words, something aching in her chest as she watches May, her eyes searching for something in the space between them.

May shrugs a little, the weight of the past still sitting with her, but there’s no bitterness. There’s just the quiet resilience of someone who’s seen too much to stay down for long. And in this moment, Ai-oon realizes something—something she can’t quite name yet, but it’s real. Something about May, about her strength, about how she wears it like armor, yet there’s still that raw, tender part of her.

May’s gaze shifts downward, a subtle heaviness in her expression, as if the words are coming up from somewhere deep. She steps closer to the painting she had just adjusted, fingers tracing the frame lightly.

“Ploy was the one who reached out to me,” she says, her voice steady, but with a quiet sort of weight. “After the accident. When everyone else turned me away. She was the one who saw my work and… believed in it. She’s the reason I’m even here today.”

Ai-oon stays quiet, letting May’s words fill the space between them. Her heart tightens with an understanding she hadn’t fully grasped before. Ploy hadn’t just given May a place in her office. She’d given her more than that—she’d given her a lifeline.

“I didn’t have anyone, really,” May continues, her eyes locked on the painting, distant. “The art world is… a harsh place, and after the accident, people didn’t know what to do with me. They saw the disability, not the artist. But Ploy saw the artist, and she took me in when no one else would. She gave me a shot.” May’s lips curl into the smallest, grateful smile. “That’s why her office is full of my stuff. I owe her a lot.”

Ai-oon watches her closely, sensing there’s more to this story, more than what she’s letting on. She moves a little closer, but still keeps a respectful distance.

May glances at her, eyes steady but soft. “That’s why the sensory exhibit means so much to me. People with disabilities don’t always get the chances they should. Sometimes, all it takes is someone to believe in them, to see what they’re capable of. I just want to show they’re more than a label—that they can create. That they can contribute and belong.”

Ai-oon takes in the weight of her words, the passion that flares in her eyes when she speaks of it. She hadn’t realized how deeply this all ran for May. It’s not just about art. It’s about recognition, validation, a fight against a world that’s too quick to write people off.

“You’re doing that,” Ai-oon says softly, “You’re already proving that. With your work, with this exhibit. With everything.”

May meets her eyes then, and for a long moment, neither of them speaks. There’s a sense of understanding, of mutual respect, of something that’s growing between them without words. Finally, May gives a quiet, appreciative smile, her fingers lightly brushing against Ai-oon’s hand in a gesture that feels both intimate and comforting.

“Thanks, Ai,” she says, her voice low but filled with gratitude.

Ai-oon doesn’t say anything, but her hand moves just slightly, offering an unspoken reassurance, a silent promise. And in that moment, they both understand something deeper—about the exhibit, about Ploy, about the things May is striving for. It’s all more connected than they realized, and it’s only just beginning.

-----

Later that same day, May and Ai-oon move through the workday like they’re balancing on a wire, careful but with a thrill humming beneath every step.

They work quietly, side by side, stealing glances when they think the other isn’t looking. Ai-oon focuses on sketching final layouts, but her pencil stills every so often, her eyes drifting to where May sits, muttering something to herself as she tinkers with an exhibit outline.

When May catches her looking, Ai-oon doesn’t even pretend to be embarrassed. She leans back, smirking.

“You’re gonna wear a hole through my head if you keep staring like that,” May says, not looking up from her work.

“Oh, yeah?” Ai-oon quips, her voice low enough that only May can hear. “Don’t act like you haven’t been watching me all morning.”

May’s lips twitch, but she shakes her head. “You’re insufferable.”

“But you like it.”

May glances over her laptop, her eyes narrowing, but the blush on her cheeks gives her away.

Throughout the day, the energy between them is impossible to ignore. Their coworkers exchange glances of their own—quick, curious looks when May leans over Ai-oon’s desk to point something out or when Ai-oon brushes a hand against May’s arm as they pass each other. Nobody says a word, but the unspoken tension is palpable.

By the time evening rolls around, the office is almost empty. Ploy is the last to leave, standing by the door with her bag slung over her shoulder. She glances between them—May engrossed in her notes, Ai-oon stealing one more look at her profile. Her lips curve into a faint smirk.

“Don’t stay too late,” Ploy says, her tone casual but her eyes sharp with implication. She doesn’t wait for a response before stepping out, her footsteps fading into the hall.

Ai-oon lingers near her own desk, pretending to read over notes she’s already memorized. She sneaks a glance at May, who’s still seated at her own workstation, fingers flying over her keyboard in bursts before stopping to read her screen.

The weight of being the last two in the room presses down on them, a soft, electric hum that neither acknowledges outright. Ai-oon inches closer under the guise of grabbing something from a nearby shelf, her movements slow and deliberate. She’s close enough now to catch the faint scent of May’s perfume, something light and citrusy that lingers just enough to distract her.

May doesn’t look up, but Ai-oon notices the slight shift in her posture, the way her shoulders tense as if she’s hyperaware of Ai-oon’s presence.

“Still working hard, huh?” Ai-oon teases lightly, her voice breaking the quiet.

May finally glances over, arching an eyebrow. “Unlike some people, I don’t just sit around pretending to look busy.”

Ai-oon grins, leaning a little against the edge of May’s desk. “Hey, I’m very good at pretending. Takes skill, you know.”

May rolls her eyes, but there’s a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Go back to your desk, Ai-oon.”

“I’m fine here,” Ai-oon says, her tone playful but soft. She doesn’t move, doesn’t break the gaze they’ve now locked into.

The tension builds, neither of them saying much, but their proximity speaks louder than words. Ai-oon watches as May’s focus wavers, her fingers pausing mid-keystroke.

Finally, it’s May who lets out a small, exasperated laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re annoyed,” Ai-oon shoots back, stepping closer still.

May doesn’t have time to retort. Ai-oon dips her head slightly, testing the waters. May tilts her face up, meeting her halfway, and their lips press together. It starts soft, tentative, but the familiarity from the night before sparks quickly between them.

The kiss deepens for a brief, breathless moment before May pulls back, her cheeks flushed. She doesn’t look away, though. Instead, she smiles, biting her bottom lip like she’s trying to hold onto the moment.

“Okay,” she says quietly, almost to herself. “Okay.”

Ai-oon tilts her head. “Okay, what?”

May lets out a soft laugh, though it’s tinged with nervousness. “I just… I need to know something.”

Ai-oon straightens, her focus sharpening as she searches May’s face. “What is it?” she asks softly.

May takes a breath, her fingers brushing against the desk as if steadying herself. “I need to know if last night was just… I don’t know, something fun for you.”

Worry crawls up Ai-oon’s neck like a slow burn. She wonders if something she did—some careless word, some offbeat joke—made May think like that. Doubt digs its claws in, sharp and relentless.

She shakes her head, quick and fervent, almost offended by the idea. But she gets it. Of course, she gets it. She’s not exactly chivalry wrapped in a bow. She’s a flirt, loud and brash, and she’s made a habit out of annoying May like it’s her life’s calling. If anyone could be misunderstood, it’d be her.

“Listen, this is gonna sound childish as hell, but I’ve got a crush on you, okay?” she blurts, the words tumbling out before she can second-guess herself. Her voice softens, though, as she looks at May. “I mean, it’s not just… that. It’s more, y’know? I…” She trails off, scratching the back of her neck, embarrassed. “When you got mad at me last time and Ploy gave me that whole lecture, she told me it was obvious. Like, painfully obvious.”

A self-deprecating chuckle escapes her, and she shakes her head again, mostly at herself. “Guess I didn’t realize I was wearing it all over my face. But yeah, I like you, May. A lot.”

May doesn’t say anything right away, but there’s a smile building on her lips—warm and soft, like a sunrise that doesn’t rush itself. She looks at Ai-oon in that way she sometimes does, like she’s trying to piece together the words Ai-oon isn’t saying outright.

Ai-oon presses on, her words spilling out faster now, as if she’s afraid of the silence. “I don’t want you thinking you’re just… some fleeting thing for me. You’re not. You’re the opposite of that. And if you need me to act— I don’t know— more serious or something so you know where I stand, I’ll—” She stumbles over the words, frantic, her hands gesturing between them. “I’ll do that. Whatever you need.”

May steps in, cutting her off with a shake of her head, her hand reaching for Ai-oon’s. “I like you this way,” she says, her voice steady, but quiet in the way that carries weight, “As annoying as you can be, I begrudgingly prefer this.”

The words hit Ai-oon like a jolt, happiness bubbling up inside her so fast she can’t stop the grin that splits her face. Her fingers tighten around May’s without thinking, her touch saying all the things she can’t find the words for right now.

May’s eyes lock on Ai-oon’s. Her voice softens further, almost a whisper now. “I just… I needed to hear it. From you.”

Ai-oon lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, her grin softening into something smaller but no less genuine. “Well, now you know,” she murmurs, her thumb brushing over the back of May’s hand. “And for the record, I’m glad you like me this way. I’d be terrible at pretending to be anything else.”

May’s quiet laugh fills the space between them, light and unguarded, and Ai-oon feels the warmth of it settle deep in her chest.

“Do you mind if we take it slow?” May asks, her voice careful, like she’s treading on thin ice.

Ai-oon arches an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching up into a smirk. “If slow’s the plan, we’re already terrible at it, considering we’ve already had sex, May.”

May lets out an exasperated laugh, slapping Ai-oon’s arm lightly. “Not like that, dummy,” she says, though her grin betrays her. “I meant… we keep it on the down low? We’re working on this project together, Ai. We’re technically workmates. And we’re around so many people all the time.”

Her smile fades a little, and she glances down, her fingers brushing over the seam of her pants. “Stuff like this… it can get messy if it moves too fast. If we’re not careful.”

Ai-oon feels the shift in May’s tone, the way her words carry the weight of what she isn’t saying outright.

She gets it—really gets it. This relaunch isn’t just some job for May. It’s her heart and soul laid bare for the world. It’s her passion project. Ai-oon wouldn’t dare do anything to put that at risk.

“Okay,” she says softly, her usual sharpness replaced by something gentler. She reaches out, her hand brushing May’s before taking it. “You call the shots on this. Whatever pace you need, I’m good with it.”

May looks up, her eyes meeting Ai-oon’s. There’s a flicker of relief there, like she hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear those words.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, her lips curving into a small, grateful smile.

Ai-oon squeezes her hand lightly, her grin returning but softer now, like a whisper instead of a shout. “But just so we’re clear,” she says, leaning in slightly, her voice dipping into something teasing, “I’m not gonna stop flirting with you. That’s non-negotiable.”

May rolls her eyes, but her laugh is warm, chasing away the tension between them. “Yeah, I figured,” she says, shaking her head but smiling all the same. “Just… let’s just try not to be too obvious, alright?”

“No promises,” Ai-oon quips, but her tone is light, playful.

May gives her a mock glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” Ai-oon fires back, a spark in her eyes.

May laughs again, her shoulders relaxing. “Alright, alright. But seriously, Ai—thank you.”

The weight of unspoken worries seems to lift, replaced by a quiet understanding, a shared promise without the need for grand declarations. For Ai-oon, it’s enough to see the tension ease from May’s shoulders, her smile soft and real. And for May, it’s enough to feel a sense of ease she hasn’t allowed herself in years, knowing that, for once, she’s not navigating everything alone. The moment feels small, almost fleeting, but beneath it is the quiet, unshakable foundation of something that might actually last.

----

The days roll by like a river, fast and steady, each one marked by the hum of emails, phone calls, and the rush of the office as the deadline for the relaunch draws near. Ai-oon’s fingers fly across her phone as she reaches out to every last artist May needs, her connections stretching not just through Bangkok, but across the country, beyond even the city’s borders. May can’t help but feel a sense of relief when Ai-oon’s names start rolling in—artists secured, schedules locked down, and the sensory exhibit finally taking shape. The weight of it, the quiet gratitude May feels every time Ai-oon takes a burden off her shoulders, it’s all there in the little looks they share, a momentary glance as Ai-oon walks past her, or a quiet smile when they meet in the break room.

It’s subtle—no one says anything—but everyone notices. Ploy, always the observant one, catches the shift first. She doesn’t mention it, but there’s something knowing in the way she looks at them, a quiet smile on her lips when Ai-oon helps May with the logistics of the launch, or when they take a break to sit side by side, their hands brushing ever so slightly. She knows what’s happening, but she’s not going to interfere.

Pim notices too, but she’s the type to keep her observations to herself. She sees how Ai-oon and May have started exchanging more than just glances—there’s a softness in the way Ai-oon’s voice changes when she talks to May, a quiet warmth in the way May responds to her. She doesn’t say anything, but there’s a look between her and Ploy at lunch one day that says everything. They both smile knowingly, the rest of the team none the wiser.

Ai-oon and May, though, are the only ones who know what this is. They’ve found a way to keep it tethered to the ground, keep it quiet, let it breathe only when the workday ends and the city fades behind them. Dinner dates are stolen moments, the two of them laughing over greasy noodles, or sharing a quiet bottle of wine in a convenience store parking lot after the office empties out. There’s a comfort in the way things are now. No pressure, no expectations. Just time. Just them, moving through the chaos together, waiting for the relaunch to be over so they can finally breathe without anyone watching.

On the night before the event, after the final touch-ups are done, the team has gone home, and the place is quiet except for the hum of the lights overhead. Ai-oon and May are standing side by side in front of a massive canvas, checking for any last-minute adjustments before the event.

“Everything’s in place,” May says, but she doesn’t move away, her shoulder brushing against Ai-oon’s.

“It’s perfect,” Ai-oon comments and chuckles softly, “You did it, May. You’re a fucking genius.”

“Come on, it’s a team effort.”

Ai-oon grins, her voice playful, a teasing edge to it. “Ever so humble, aren’t you?” She reaches for May’s hand, squeezing it, a small gesture she’s come to love, something quiet that feels just right between them. “Tomorrow will go well, May.”

May hadn’t asked for that reassurance, but it hits her in a way she didn’t expect. A warmth spreads in her chest, a sense of comfort she didn’t know she needed. She doesn’t say anything right away, but her grip tightens, just a little, on Ai-oon’s hand. It’s enough. More than enough.

-----

It’s the night of the relaunch, and the room hums with that electric buzz of anticipation, a kind of current that zips through the air and settles in your chest. But Ai-oon? She’s caught in her own private storm, eyes fixed on May, standing there like something out of a dream she never even dared to dream. That midnight blue dress May’s wearing—it hugs her like it was born for her and her alone, pooling like liquid shadow at her feet, the kind of thing that rewrites the rules of gravity. Ai-oon blinks, her breath catching for just a moment too long.

“Damn,” she mutters, not quiet enough, because Pim snickers beside her, and May looks over, brow raised, curious. Ai-oon clears her throat, shameless but grinning. “Jesus, May, you look... incredible.”

May’s cheeks bloom with color, but she swallows it down, tilting her head, her eyes running over Ai-oon like they’re taking stock. Ai-oon’s in a cobalt blue suit, sharp lines softened by her undone collar, the top buttons loose like she didn’t quite care to finish the job. It’s casual in a way that makes it bold, and May’s gaze lingers a second too long. Ai-oon notices, of course she does, and the smirk that follows is equal parts amused and cocky.

“You like what you see?” Ai-oon teases, low and warm.

May rolls her eyes but steps closer, her fingers cool against Ai-oon’s neck as she adjusts the collar, pulling it back into place. “You’re not too bad yourself,” she says simply, and there’s something in her voice that makes Ai-oon’s grin tip into something softer.

The room fills fast, chatter rising as artists and patrons flood in. May excuses herself to huddle with Ploy over last-minute details, her speech looming just minutes away. Ai-oon drifts to the far corner, falling into easy conversation with Pim and a few familiar faces from the art world. But her focus keeps wandering. She catches May across the room, the way her brows pinch slightly, the subtle tug of her lip when she thinks no one’s watching. Ai-oon can’t help it; she watches.

“If you think some pep talk would help your girlfriend, go ahead,” Pim says suddenly, her voice pulling Ai-oon out of her thoughts.

Ai-oon startles, whipping her head around. “Oh, come on.”

“You two are not exactly subtle,” Pim whispers, glancing over at May like she’s presenting Exhibit A. “We’ve all noticed. One second you’re at each other’s throats, and now you’re all...” She waves a hand vaguely, smirking. “Whatever you call this.”

“Not my girlfriend,” Ai-oon mutters, though her tone betrays her. She shrugs, glancing back at May. “Yet.”

“So it’s casual?” Pim asks, lifting a brow.

“What? No,” Ai-oon says quickly, the suggestion almost offensive. She sighs, dropping her voice. “This is important to her. The project, all of it. We’re keeping it slow, you know? Just... seeing where it takes us.”

Pim nods, a sly smile breaking through. “I’ll admit, I’m impressed. Now, go on. She needs you.”

Ai-oon doesn’t argue, flashing Pim a small, thankful grin before making her way to May. She catches Ploy’s glance as she approaches, and as if by unspoken agreement, Ploy steps aside, leaving them alone.

May’s twisting the hem of her dress between her fingers, her eyes darting through the crowd like she’s trying to map an escape route. Ai-oon steps close, just enough to reach out and let her hand find May’s shoulder.

“Nervous?” she asks, her tone light.

May gives her a deadpan look, but it’s softened by the smallest of smiles. “Do you really need to ask?”

Ai-oon chuckles, then tilts her head, catching May’s gaze. “Hey,” she says gently. “Look at me.”

May hesitates, but she does, and when Ai-oon takes her free hand in hers, it’s like the noise of the room dulls for a moment. It’s just them.

“You’re good,” Ai-oon says, steady, the kind of voice that settles in your bones. “You’ve done the work, May. We’ve all seen it. You’re scared because it matters. And that’s okay.” She squeezes May’s hand, tracing a small circle against her knuckle. “Do it scared. You’re about to make something happen here. Something big.”

May’s smile cracks through her nerves, faint but steady. She doesn’t say anything, just gives Ai-oon’s hand a soft, lingering squeeze.

Do it scared. She repeats Ai-oon’s words in her head, over and over, until the meaning is more rhythm than thought. Her pulse thrums with it as she hears Ploy call for everyone to gather.

Ai-oon moves with her to the edge of the mini stage, the one they all built together, piece by piece, through weeks of late nights and too many coffees. From this vantage point, she watches as Ploy takes center stage and begins her speech—laying out the museum’s story, why it went quiet when the pandemic swept through, and the fire that drove a team of creatives to relaunch it now.

The words hum in the background for May, her focus narrowing as her cue draws closer. She feels Ai-oon’s presence like a tether, grounding her. Another squeeze of her hand, and she lets go, walking toward the stage when Ploy calls her name.

“The mastermind behind tonight’s main exhibit—Ms. Metavee Mekasiri,” Ploy announces, and the room erupts in applause. Ai-oon watches May step onto the stage, her back straight, shoulders set, but there’s a vulnerability in her gait that only someone who knows her well could notice. Ai-oon feels her heart thud in her chest, a strange mix of pride and nervousness swelling all at once.

The room quiets, the air tightening with expectation. May adjusts the microphone, clears her throat. The words come slow at first, deliberate and careful. “Good evening, everyone,” she begins, her voice catching slightly but steadying with the next breath. “Tonight is about more than just art. It’s about the stories we don’t hear enough of, the voices we don’t listen to.”

Ai-oon watches her intently, feels every word May lets out ripple through the room. This isn’t rehearsed anymore. This is raw, unfiltered.

“We’ve all seen it—artists with disabilities reduced to their condition,” May continues, her voice firming with each sentence. “Their work dismissed because of what people think they can or can’t do. But the truth is, there’s so much more to see, so much more to feel, if we just let ourselves look closer, listen harder.”

Ai-oon feels her chest tighten. May isn’t just delivering a speech; she’s cutting through the surface, pulling everyone into her orbit. This isn’t about a museum or an event. This is about May’s truth. About the world as it could be, if people just paid attention.

May pauses, her eyes sweeping the crowd. “Pluto Creatives wants to be part of that change,” she says, and there’s a quiet power in her tone now. “We want to show that art isn’t about limits. It’s about breaking through them. Art isn’t just something you see—it’s something you feel. And tonight, we’re celebrating that. We’re giving everyone here the chance to see what creativity really means, through the eyes and hearts of artists who deserve to be seen, heard, and valued.”

The room hangs on her every word. There’s a weight in the silence, a collective realization that this is bigger than any one person, any single work of art.

May looks out over the crowd again, her shoulders squared now, her voice steady. “And so, without further ado, I’d like to introduce the artists—the very heart of this exhibit. Please give them the loudest applause they deserve.”

The room erupts into cheers and claps that roll over the crowd like a wave, loud and relentless. May steps aside, her face glowing with pride and relief as the artists make their way to the stage. They come from all walks of life, some guided carefully, others moving forward on their own, each carrying the weight of their stories.

Ai-oon watches the moment unfold, the culmination of everything they’ve worked for. But more than that, it’s the culmination of May’s vision—one that had been dismissed, second-guessed, and challenged, but never extinguished.

May’s eyes find Ai-oon’s, and there’s something raw and unguarded in them. Tears glisten at the edges, but she doesn’t let them fall. Instead, she smiles, the kind of smile that carries every ounce of gratitude, joy, and relief.

Ai-oon nods, a small, quiet gesture, but in it is everything May needs. There’s no need for words. They both know what this moment means—not just for May, not just for their team, but for everyone in that room. This is what change looks like. This is the art of seeing what’s always been there.

The crowd begins to thin, dispersing across the museum’s different levels, but the energy lingers, alive in the air. The sensory exhibit—the evening’s crown jewel—draws waves of people. Critics mingle with families, young and old alike, losing themselves in the tactile and interactive displays. It's a world within a world, humming with discovery, and it feels like exactly what May had envisioned.

May and Ai-oon spend much of the evening apart, pulled in different directions. Conversations spark easily—artists sharing their gratitude, enthusiasts marveling at the curation, auctioneers nodding in approval at the blend of old and new faces in the art world. From time to time, their paths cross—just long enough for a quiet smile, a soft “Still okay?” exchanged in passing, or the lightest touch, a hand brushing a back, grounding each other without a word.

When the frenzy begins to settle and the rooms start to take on that quiet hum of contentment, May finds herself nursing a glass of champagne. She’s deep in conversation with a fundraising coordinator when Ploy approaches, her face lit with an unmistakable glow of pride. May catches her movement and excuses herself politely.

Ploy wastes no time, pulling her into a tight hug. “Well done,” she says, her voice full of warmth. “Gosh, I’m so proud of you, May.”

May chuckles, hugging her back just as tightly, the tension of the night dissolving into the embrace. “It’s a team effort, Ploy. I’m proud of us.”

When they pull away, they talk in low voices about the night’s triumphs—the key players to keep in mind, the possibility of making the sensory exhibit a permanent feature. They weave through the logistics, each point reinforcing the reality of what they’ve built together.

But even as May listens, she catches something in her peripheral vision. She turns, drawn instinctively, and finds Ai-oon across the room. Ai-oon meets her gaze, and for a moment, it’s just them. May smiles fondly, and Ai-oon, in that endearingly awkward way of hers, smiles back before giving a shy little wave—first to May, then to Ploy—before being whisked away by a group of juniors.

Ploy watches it all unfold, unimpressed and entirely amused. “My God, May,” she quips, breaking the moment. “Can the two of you stop eye-fucking each other for a minute?”

May snaps her head back to Ploy, her cheeks flaming as she sputters a laugh. “What—Ploy!”

Ploy’s smirk deepens. “Oh, come on, don’t tell me you thought I wouldn’t notice?”

May sighs, shaking her head with a rueful chuckle. “You and your all-seeing eyes.”

Ploy shrugs, ever so casual, but her gaze drifts to Ai-oon, who’s sneaking glances back at May even now. It’s subtle, but to Ploy, it’s insufferably sweet. Whatever this is between them, it doesn’t feel like a complication. It feels steady, like something good for them both.

“If you’re worried because Ai-oon and I are workmates—” May begins, her voice careful.

“Relax, May,” Ploy cuts her off, her tone gentle. “There’s no need to overexplain. For some reason, I never doubted that if anyone could straighten out Ai-oon—pun absolutely intended—it’d be you.”

May laughs despite herself, her tension easing into gratitude. “Thanks, Ploy.”

“And look,” Ploy adds, gesturing subtly toward Ai-oon, who’s now laughing with the team like she’s been doing it all her life. “Everyone’s good. The two of you included. That’s what matters.”

May’s smile softens, widening with something deep and quiet, an appreciation that doesn’t need to be said aloud.

“So,” Ploy says with a sly grin, “does this mean I should put you two on the same team for the next project?”

May lets out a carefree laugh, light as air. She glances at Ai-oon again—sees her laughing, sees her fitting, and feels something settle in her chest, warm and new.

“Yeah,” she says simply, her voice steady. “That works for me.”

------

The next morning, May walks into the office just as the clock strikes the hour, her handbag slung over one shoulder and a warm, freshly made bagel in her free hand. The scent of coffee and paper fills the room, the faint hum of computers and murmured conversations grounding her in the familiar rhythm of the day.

When she reaches her desk, though, there’s something waiting for her—a cup of coffee, steam curling up from the lid, with a note taped to the top.

The smile comes easily, a reflex as soon as her eyes skim over the words scrawled in Ai-oon’s unmistakable handwriting:

For the hotshot. Care to watch a movie with me later? xx

There’s no need to wonder who it’s from. She doesn’t even have to think about it. Instead, May turns, her gaze landing almost instinctively on the desk not far from hers. Ai-oon’s already watching her, her expression just shy of cocky, her eyebrows raised in a silent dare.

May feels her own smile tug wider. She shrugs in response, deliberately nonchalant, and watches as Ai-oon’s face shifts into that exaggerated sulk of hers—the kind that crinkles the corners of her eyes and makes her look like she’s plotting ten different ways to get even. It’s perfect. May bites her lip to keep from laughing.

Sliding into her chair, she picks up her phone and sends a quick message:

Deal. Your place.

The reply is almost immediate, just a simple smiley face. And somehow, it fits. She can picture Ai-oon sending it—probably leaning back in her chair, barely hiding her grin, that casual ease masking the excitement underneath.

May takes a sip of the coffee. It’s strong, bold, and just the right balance of bitter and sweet, warming her from the inside out. Something about it—about this—settles into her bones, and she knows without a doubt that it’s going to be a good day.

And maybe, just maybe, an even better night.

End.