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How To Lose Your Cool In 10 Stretches: B.C Bang Chrissy x fem!reader

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CWs: Gender-Swapped!SKZ, sexual jokes, sex toy mentions, body/muscle critique (not negative), bisexual menace chrissy bang, casual references to hookups

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· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

The living room of your three-bed apartment in Seoul looks less like a shared domestic space and more like a soft pink crime scene committed by someone with excellent core strength. Your yoga mat is rolled out between the coffee table and the sofa, your fitted white camisole clinging neatly over the bright pink bra-style top beneath it, the straps and neckline showing through. Your loose light-pink drawstring trousers pool softly around your legs as you slide deeper into the splits, humming under your breath like your pelvis isn't currently attempting to file for divorce from the rest of your body.

Minhee sits on the sofa with Dori draped across her lap like a boneless mackerel-patterned scarf, one hand buried in his fur, while Doongie is pressed into her side with the heavy entitlement of a landlord. Hyunjin sits cross-legged on the rug beside the coffee table, eating dried mango from the packet with the expression of someone watching a documentary about an animal that absolutely shouldn't be doing what it's doing. Soonie, enormous orange menace that he is, weaves around you with his white nose tilted proudly into the air, tail brushing your arm as he steps directly onto your thigh.

You glance down at him serenely. “Soonie-yah, your paw is on my hamstring.”

Soonie blinks at you and steps harder. Hyunjin makes a strangled noise. “That cat is ninety centimetres of pure audacity. Why is he standing on you like you're a fucking pedestrian crossing?”

“He likes pressure points,” you say, as you fold forward until your chest nearly touches the mat. “Or dominance. It can be both.”

Minhee winces so hard her whole face folds in on itself. “I love you so much, but every time you do that, my vagina crawls backwards into my body.”

“That sounds medically concerning,” you say.

“Everything in this flat is medically concerning,” Hyunjin mutters. “We live with three cats, one emotionally constipated bartender, one golden retriever with tits, and a pilates demon.”

You shift smoothly out of the splits, brace your forearms on the mat, and kick your legs up into the air. The movement is controlled and quiet, your body tipping upside down while your legs open into a clean split. Hyunjin stops chewing, Minhee grips Dori like he can protect her from the visual, and Soonie immediately circles faster, looping through the space between your arms like a tiny orange shark with no survival instinct.

Hyunjin exhales, reverent and distressed. “Whoever dates your beautiful pansexual ass will be the luckiest person alive. I could only be so lucky to fuck you and feel the gentle loving touch of your bendy body.”

“I thought you liked your coworker, unnie. The bouncer lady?”

Hyunjin’s face drops open. “You are upside down and still attacking me.”

Minhee points at you with her free hand. “She's got blood rushing to her brain. Her powers have doubled.”

You push from your forearms onto your hands, balancing in a handstand with your legs still split wide. Soonie, thrilled by this development, begins weaving faster, brushing against your wrists.

“Oh, please, Soonie,” Hyunjin says, suddenly panicked. “Do not knock her over. She may be bendy, but I don't want to explain to emergency services that a cheese tabby committed attempted murder because he wanted attention.”

“He wouldn't kill me,” you say calmly. “He'd only injure me emotionally by leaving during my recovery.”

Minhee groans. “God forbid anyone tries to break into this place. You'll snap their neck with your hidden strength or wrap your legs around their neck and twist like fucking Black Widow.”

You laugh softly as you lower yourself down, knees finding the mat with ridiculous grace. “I don't think that's part of standard self-defence.”

“It should be,” Minhee says. “I'd attend that class. ‘Murder Pilates.’ Twenty thousand won a session.”

Hyunjin wipes mango dust off her fingers. “And to answer your question, yes, I am still tragically pining over Chaebin, because apparently I enjoy suffering. Some people do yoga. I fantasise about a woman who could bench press me through a wall.”

“All because she can't hike up her tits and just confess,” Minhee says.

You put one leg behind you, arching your back as you pull your foot up until it touches the back of your head. Soonie nudges your side, then your ribs, then weaves around you faster, determined to interrupt whatever nonsense is keeping him from your hands.

“Hyunjin-unnie,” you say, voice airy and sweet, “you should tell your coworker. Life's too short not to.”

“Y/N-ah, my bendy baby, you know I love you, but your opinion is denied.”

“Okay,” you say peacefully. “Whatever makes you happy.”

Hyunjin nods, satisfied, until you add, “But you can't be surprised if someone else starts biting her biteable biceps, as you put it.”

Minhee nods solemnly. “She has a point, Jinnie.”

Hyunjin clutches her chest. “This is betrayal in a rented apartment.”

You finally return to a normal, socially acceptable seated position, and Soonie immediately climbs into your lap, shoving his head against your left tit repeatedly until you notice and start scratching behind his ears.

Minhee stares. “That's how I know Soonie has middle child syndrome. Not taking after his eomma at all. I'm an ass lady all the way, and he just wants titties.”

“Cats seek warmth,” you say, stroking Soonie’s head as he purrs like an engine. “Also, emotional security. And sometimes breasts.”

Hyunjin points at the cat. “He's just like me, for real.”

“Please don't compare yourself to my son while he’s motorboating our flatmate,” Minhee says.

You blink at the wall, as if remembering something you forgot to tell them three days ago. “Oh, the local gym offered me a full-time position. I'm no longer renting the studio once a week. They've hired me as their full-time pilates instructor.”

For half a second, the room goes silent. Even Soonie pauses with his face pressed into your chest, then Hyunjin and Minhee shoot upright so violently that Dori slides down Minhee’s thighs.

“What the fuck?” Hyunjin shrieks. “Why didn't you tell us?”

Minhee grabs Doongie before he can tumble off the sofa. “We'd have bought a cake. Or wine.”

“Cake and wine,” Hyunjin corrects, already looking emotional. “This is a cake and wine level event. This is crystals worked, bitch.”

Minhee whips her head towards her. “Crystals? I handed out flyers to half the people at Escape and told drunk women their posture was shit so they'd book Y/N's Tuesday class.”

“That was also spiritual labour,” Hyunjin argues.

You smile down at Soonie, who has resumed aggressively claiming your lap. “I was going to mention it after stretching.”

“After stretching?” Minhee repeats, standing up with Dori under one arm like a handbag. “You've been wearing yourself to the fucking bone since graduation, doing hair on the side and cramming six classes into one Tuesday like a tiny peaceful capitalist victim, and you were going to mention it after stretching?”

Hyunjin is already crawling towards you across the rug. “Come here. I'm hugging you before Minhee starts crying and pretends it's cat allergies.”

Minhee sniffles immediately. “I'm going to the store. This calls for celebration.”

“Buy the expensive cake,” Hyunjin says, wrapping her arms around you and Soonie together. “Our baby is employed.”

You pat her head gently. “I was already employed.”

“Not the point,” Minhee says, grabbing her keys. “Tonight, we celebrate your full-time bendy empire.”

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Chrissy Bang is halfway through a set of bicep curls, standing in front of the mirror with her cream headphones pushed behind one ear, black compression tank clinging to her shoulders and upper body, cream sports bra peeking through at the neckline, high-waisted black wide-leg sweatpants sitting low enough to make Chaebin accuse her of dressing like a bisexual fitness influencer with commitment issues. Her icy platinum hair is scraped back into a tiny knot at the back of her head, but a few long, feathery pieces have escaped around her face because apparently even her hair has authority problems.

Chaebin is beside her, doing hammer curls, her black waves cling lightly to her forehead with sweat, and her expression in the mirror is pure judgment. “Unnie, you’ve done six reps and then stared at the wall like a divorced dad. Are we training arms or are we emotionally processing the dumbbells?”

Chrissy lowers the weight slowly, eyes narrowing at the poster taped to the noticeboard near the studio corridor. “Shut the fuck up, I’m reading.”

“That’s always dangerous.”

“Pilates classes included with membership,” Chrissy reads, stepping closer. “Beginner, intermediate, advanced. Elderly tai chi every morning for sixty-plus. Yoga classes may be added if there’s interest.” She blinks at it, offended by the audacity of change happening without her permission. “Since when? I’ve been coming here since I was twenty. This place has had the same broken vending machine and the same ahjumma at reception telling us we’re too pretty to lift heavy for seven fucking years.”

Chaebin racks her dumbbells and leans in. “Maybe they finally hired someone with a spine.”

Chrissy glances at her. “Everyone here has a spine.”

“Not the men who scream during lat pulldowns, they don’t.”

Chrissy’s gaze drops to the studio number printed on the bottom of the poster. Her curiosity flares bright and nosy, which is unfortunate because Chrissy considers herself a woman of action, especially when the action involves finding out who has dared to add flexibility-based programming to her male-dominated gym ecosystem. She sets her dumbbells down and starts walking.

Chaebin looks up sharply. “Where the fuck are you going?”

“To investigate."

“Chrissy-unnie.”

Chrissy waves behind her without stopping. “I’ll be back.”

“You can’t just abandon me mid-set, you broad-shouldered goblin.”

“I can, and I am.”

The studio door is partly open when Chrissy reaches it, and she peeks through with all the subtlety of a raccoon inspecting an unlocked bin. She expects some man with a tight polo shirt and dead eyes. Instead, at the front of the studio, there is you. You stand in a matching sage-green activewear set, fitted long-sleeve top smoothing along your body, flared leggings soft around your ankles, matching headband keeping your hair away from your face, simple white trainers planted neatly on the studio floor. You look serene and somehow distant, like you’ve wandered down from a cloud to teach balance to the elderly and possibly ruin Chrissy’s entire life.

Chrissy’s mouth goes dry as her brain turns into a puddle with abs. You are guiding a group of elderly women through slow, careful stretches, your voice calm and warm enough that even the grumpiest halmeoni in the back row seems to be listening. “Shift your weight slowly. Don’t rush the movement. Your body doesn’t like being bullied before lunch,” you say gently, demonstrating with an easy turn of your shoulders. “If your knee complains, listen to it. Pain is information, not a personality trait.”

One of the older women snorts. “Tell that to my husband.”

You smile without missing a beat. “Bring him tomorrow. I’ll tell him directly.”

The women laugh, and Chrissy nearly walks into the doorframe. The primal, deeply embarrassing part of her brain begins ringing a temple bell. Pilates instructor. Advanced classes. Potential yoga. Flexibility. Endurance. Angel bending in ways that could require government regulation. Chrissy grips the doorframe like it personally owes her money.

“Be still, my pulsating vagina.”

Behind her, Chaebin’s voice arrives like a brick through a window. “Chrissy-unnie, what are you doing?”

Chrissy doesn’t look away from you. “Falling in love.”

Chaebin stops beside her and peers in. “What’s new? This happens every fucking week.”

“No, I mean it this time, Chaebin-ah. I have found the love of my life, and she does pilates.”

Chaebin studies you for about three seconds, then studies Chrissy with far less kindness. “You fall in love at least once a week with a new customer at the bar, and then you flirt, they fall, you fuck them, and move on.”

Chrissy finally turns, scandalised. “That’s slander.”

“Slander is lies. I just stated facts.”

Chrissy moves away from the door before she can be caught peeping, and she presses her back to the wall in the corridor and exhales like she’s just survived a near-death experience involving cheekbones and soft instructions about knee safety. “What do I do, Chaebin-ah?”

Chaebin crosses her thick arms, which is unfairly distracting in a different but still troubling way. “Well, this is our local gym, and she’s an employee, so you can’t Chrissy your way through this.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You know exactly what it means. You flirt, they melt, you act like a walking leather-jacket fantasy, then someone ends up crying into a cocktail at Escape while Seungmi calculates whether heartbreak affects bar spending.”

Chrissy points at her. “I’m sensing a lot of bitchiness from you right now, and it’s really not appreciated.”

“Be glad it’s me watching you fall in love like a loser and not Seungmi.”

Chrissy shudders. “She’d say something dry enough to dehydrate my organs.”

“She’d be right.” Chaebin grabs Chrissy by the elbow and starts steering her back towards the weights area. “So what we’re going to do now is retreat and use our frontal lobes before going in pussy first. You need to remember you’re a business owner, which I think you forget sometimes.”

Chrissy scoffs. “I don’t forget. I pay you all, don’t I?”

“I mean with your behaviour, like when you fingerbanged the DJ from Haven in our stockroom.”

Chrissy’s face goes thoughtful. “Oh. I did do that.”

“And don’t even get me started on your office.”

“What’s wrong with my office?”

Chaebin gives her a flat look. “You peg men in there.”

Chrissy lifts her chin. “I also strap women in there. I am an equal opportunity bisexual with a lot of love to share.”

Chaebin releases her elbow with visible disgust. “You’re a community hazard.”

Chrissy glances back towards the studio door, where your calm voice floats faintly into the corridor, telling someone to soften their shoulders and breathe like they’re not about to fight the government. Her heart gives a ridiculous little kick. “Maybe I should sign up for beginner pilates.”

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

That night, Escape is doing what Escape always does best, which is somehow operating as both a functioning LGBTQ+ bar and a collective public breakdown with neon lighting. Tucked away in Hongdae, the place glows like a queer fever dream, packed with lesbians leaning over tables, gay men arguing passionately about choreography, enbies glittering under the lights, trans regulars holding court in the corner, and anyone else who needs somewhere to breathe.

Chrissy sits on the wrong side of her own bar, looking tragic in the kind of outfit that makes people wonder if she owns the building or has come to emotionally ruin someone rich. Her oversized structured blazer sharpens her already broad shoulders, the sheer black blouse beneath it gathered at the neck in a dramatic scarf-like collar that drapes loose over the bralette she is only wearing because Seungmi has feelings about public indecency. Which is rich, considering everyone knows Minhee and Jisu regularly use the staff booth dividers like a privacy screen for lesbian crimes, but apparently nipples are where civilisation draws the line. Chrissy’s tailored black trousers are cinched neatly at the waist, black pointed stilettos hooked over the footrest, her pale hair twisted into a low knot held by the black binyeo Chaebin bought her when Escape opened.

Behind the bar, Minhee glares at her while mixing drinks under neon signs that scream Live Fast, Scissor Hard and In This House We Scissor. The wall behind her is a beautiful mess of vinyl stickers and framed posters, Queer All Year wedged beside No Heteros After 9PM, while Sashay In, Sloppily Stumble Out hangs slightly crooked because Hyunjin keeps bumping it with crates and refusing accountability.

“Okay, unnie,” Minhee says, setting a cocktail down in front of Yujin, an enbie regular with silver eyeliner and a face made for gossip. “I’m sick of looking at that tragic face. What the fuck crawled up your ass and died?”

Chrissy sighs so dramatically, a nearby gay pauses mid-sip. “True love, Minhee-yah. Love at first sight, even.”

Minhee clicks her tongue and reaches for the soju. “Not again.”

“Why is that everyone’s response?”

“Because, Chrissy-unnie, you have sex with people like it’s your version of mandatory service.”

Chrissy gasps, pressing one hand to her chest. “How dare you say that to your boss?”

“With accuracy and unpaid emotional labour,” Minhee says. “Now, who is it? Man or woman?”

“Woman.”

“Okay, I’m with you. If you said man, you’d have to go talk to Chaebin or Seungmi. Real flesh dicks are not my forte. I only know silicone and commitment.”

Chrissy leans closer, suddenly glowing with terrible sincerity. “I haven’t spoken to her yet, so I don’t know if she’s into women. She’s a pilates instructor at my gym. She wore sage green, all floaty like a fairy. Calm voice, pretty hands, terrifyingly gentle aura.”

Minhee’s head turns towards her slowly, too slowly, like a haunted lesbian doll possessed by a petty ancestor, and Chrissy recoils. "If you ever do that again, you’re fired.”

“And what is this instructor’s name?” Minhee asks, voice suddenly delicate in a way that means violence is packing a bag.

Chrissy taps her cheek, thinking. “She’s new. It was on the poster. What was it?”

Minhee looks up at the ceiling. “Please God, if you are real and a merciful woman, let my unnie tell me any name but Y/N.”

Chrissy snaps her fingers. “That’s it.”

Minhee throws both hands up. “God, why? Why did you do this to me? I recycle. I tip well. I have never once knowingly flirted with a straight woman after the third warning sign. I’ve been a good lesbian. I’ve suffered through bad undercuts, fake doms, and women who say they’re ‘just exploring’ while crying on my tits at 3am. Why would you beseech me so?”

Chrissy blinks. “Do you want me to turn around while you speak to the Almighty Woman?”

“No. I want you to not fuck mine and Hyunjin’s flatmate.”

Chrissy freezes. “Huh?”

“The pilates instructor at your gym is mine and Hyunjin’s flatmate.”

“You and Hyunjin live with someone else?”

“Yes, you self-absorbed trouser demon. We purposely hid her from you, so you need to keep your prowler growler away from her.”

Yujin snorts into their drink. Chrissy slowly turns. “My fucking what?”

“You heard me. Your prowler growler. That flap monster between your legs.”

“My cunt has never been so insulted.”

“Maybe she needs to be disrespected once or twice.”

“You’re speaking about her like she’s a delinquent dog.”

“She is a delinquent dog. Humps everything in sight indiscriminately.”

Yujin lifts their glass. “Probably slobbers.”

Minhee slaps them a high five. “Free drink for you.”

Chrissy stares at both of them. “Honestly, the disrespect all my staff give me is outrageous.”

“You encouraged this kind of work environment by choosing friendship over professionalism,” Minhee says. “You can’t build a bar on gay chaos, dick jokes, nipple stickers, and staff emotional damage, then act shocked when one of your staff calls you a big bi slut in front of customers.”

“A bad decision on my part, clearly,” Chrissy says, though she does not sound sorry. “But seriously, Minhee-yah, how could you hide such a beauty from me?”

“Because you’re a horny heartbreaking monster, and I say that with love, unnie.”

“I am not.”

Yujin raises a finger. “You are. You’re legendary, actually. People who’ve slept with you either revere you or curse you.”

Chrissy perks up with an unwilling grin. “Really?”

“That is not something to be proud of,” Minhee snaps. “Where’s Hyunjin? I need support. She won’t let you anywhere near her bendy baby.”

Chrissy’s face changes. “Her what?”

Minhee ignores her and bellows, “Hyunjin-ah!”

Hyunjin appears from the stockroom with a clipboard in one hand. “You bellowed?”

“Tell Chrissy-unnie that under no circumstances is her prowler growler allowed near Y/N.”

Hyunjin gasps, horrified. “Keep your Venus flap trap away from my bendy baby.”

Chrissy grips the counter. “My pussy is going to need therapy after all this verbal abuse.”

Minhee reaches over and pats her head. “There, there.”

Chrissy sighs, wounded to the depths of her slutty bisexual soul, and her gaze drifts across the bar out of habit. Hyunjin immediately points at her. “Whoop, there it is.”

“What?”

“You looking for your next fuck. You wonder why we won’t let you near the human-sized woodland sprite we live with.”

“I wasn’t looking for my next fuck,” Chrissy says, deeply offended. “I was dissociating artistically.”

“You were scanning the crowd like a shark with cheekbones,” Minhee says.

Chrissy rises with theatrical suffering and rounds the counter to take her rightful place beside Minhee. She washes her hands, reaches for a shaker, and catches Minhee and Hyunjin exchanging a deeply suspicious look over her head. Neither of them believes her for a second, which is frankly insulting, because Chrissy has absolutely no intention of pursuing you carelessly. She is going to be thoughtful, restrained, respectful, and normal.

Then she remembers you in sage green, soft-voiced and bendy, and nearly crushes a lime in her bare hand.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Chrissy is pretending she is not reading the pilates poster for the seventh time in twelve minutes. She stands by the free weights in a fitted navy compression top that clings to her torso, oversized dark sweatpants hanging low on her hips with bold yellow lettering down one leg, grey trainers planted wide, black cap pulled low, her headphones resting uselessly around her neck.

Chaebin stands beside her with a towel over one shoulder and the expression of a woman who has already seen the future and found it deeply fucking annoying. “No.”

Chrissy doesn’t look at her. “I didn’t say anything.”

“No.”

“I’m merely looking at a public notice.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m thinking.”

“You’re thinking with your cunt, unnie. I don’t need telepathy for that.”

Chrissy turns, offended. “When’s the last time we focused on muscular health instead of strength?”

Chaebin stares at her. “You talk so much shit. You have never cared either.”

“But we’re getting old, Chaebin-ah. We should focus on flexibility and motor ability now so we don’t end up like those ahjummas in tai chi.”

“You’re twenty-seven.”

“That’s almost dust.”

“I’m only coming with you to make sure you don’t act like a cavewoman,” Chaebin says, already giving in with the tragic exhaustion of someone dragged into a crime by proximity.

Chrissy places a hand over her chest. “I do not act like a cavewoman.”

Chaebin lowers her voice into a ridiculous grunt. “Ooga booga, tits, pussy, dick.”

Chrissy’s mouth falls open. “What the everloving fuck was that?”

“My cavewoman Chrissy impression.”

“That sounded like a horny troll with a concussion.”

“Exactly.”

They wander towards the studio, Chrissy walking with the determined dignity of a woman about to make a calm, sensible health choice, and Chaebin walking like security escorting a dangerous animal back to its enclosure. Inside, you are alone at the front of the room, folded so deeply at the waist that your torso presses against your legs, arms wrapped around your lower calves, forehead resting against your shins. You are dressed in light olive, a fitted wrap-style top with a twisted bust, slim straps, bold midriff cutouts, and a side tie, paired with high-waisted wide-leg trousers that fall smoothly around your legs. A matching olive headband holds your loose natural waves back from your face, and your white trainers look offensively clean.

Chaebin stops dead. “There is no planet we can bend ourselves like that.”

Chrissy silently rubs the base of her spine.

You straighten with slow, fluid ease, blinking at them as if you haven’t just unfolded from a shape that should require paperwork. “Oh, hello. Are you here for the beginner's class?”

Both of them nod silently, hands still pressed to their lower backs.

Your gaze drops to their hands, and your smile turns faintly amused. “Don’t worry, you won’t be doing that.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Chaebin says instantly. “I’m Chaebin. This is my unnie, Chrissy.”

Chrissy waves like her brain has been replaced with warm tteok. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you say, soft and open. “Don’t worry too much. Beginner classes are breathing, warm-up, core basics, glutes and legs, then gentle stretching to wind down.” You point to the poster on the wall. “I put the lesson plan up there because people feel less frightened when the suffering is scheduled.”

Chaebin walks over and squints. “Arrival and centring sounds doable. Sitting, breathing, relaxing. I was born for that.”

“Practising breathing,” Chrissy says, leaning closer. “We’ve been doing that since birth. Elite level.”

“Pelvic tilts, marching, arm arcs,” Chaebin reads. “All doable.”

“Cat-cow stretch?” Chrissy says. “Looks simple enough.”

“You flex and extend your spine,” you explain.

Chrissy and Chaebin share an uncertain look before Chaebin clears her throat and continues. “Then more rest. I like that.”

“Bridges,” Chrissy reads. “Lifting the hips slowly off the mat to work glutes, hamstrings, and core. Modified curl-ups, small chest lifts to begin working the upper abs without straining the neck.”

“What the hell are dead bug variations?” Chaebin asks.

“They involve opposite arm and leg movements with control,” you say.

“That sounds like being humiliated on the floor,” Chaebin mutters.

Chrissy points further down. “Side-lying leg lifts sound like hell.”

“Clamshells,” Chaebin reads, looking offended. “Knees bent, opening the top knee to strengthen the glutes. Why is the shell clammy?”

“That’s not what it means,” you say, laughing lightly.

“Oh god,” Chrissy says. “Spine stretch forward. I’ll barely bend. I’m like an oak tree with tits.”

Your laugh is quiet and bright, and Chrissy looks so pleased with herself that Chaebin elbows her in the ribs.

Chaebin reads the final section with increasing horror. “Seated hamstring stretch? Supine twist? So the end is torture?”

You tilt your head, thoughtful. “Muscles are useless if all they do is lift heavy things. Eventually there’s no flexibility and mobility, and then you’ll be stiff as corpses.”

Chaebin looks at Chrissy. “She said that so sweetly.”

Chrissy nods. “Like an angel announcing death.”

Ten minutes later, people begin filtering in, chatting as they collect mats. An older man in a tracksuit tells Chaebin he recognises her from Escape, then immediately adds, “Don’t throw me out today, I’m fragile before lunch.” A university student with glitter nails asks if beginners means “for people whose bodies are fucked from sitting,” and you tell her kindly that the class welcomes the desk-damaged. Music starts low from the speaker, a playlist roaming shamelessly from BLACKPINK to Sabrina Carpenter, then Sam Fender slides in between Dua Lipa and RAYE like a pleasant little ambush.

Chrissy’s heart gives a stupid flutter. “Sam Fender?”

You glance over. “You know him?”

“My younger siblings in Australia played him when I visited. Hannah nearly fought Lucas over a playlist, then cried during the chorus.”

“Reasonable,” you say. “Some songs are emotionally rude.”

Chrissy stares at you like you’ve just proposed marriage with a resistance band.

“All right, everyone,” you say, clapping once gently. “If we have a sing-song, it makes everything feel less sucky when you’re making your body bend in ways it wouldn’t usually. If you don’t know the song but like it, whip out Shazam or Kakao and expand your horizons.”

The class starts well enough. Chrissy and Chaebin breeze through centring, breathing, pelvic tilts, marching, and arm arcs with the smugness of women who think they’ve beaten pilates. Then cat-cow arrives and immediately destroys them. Cow on inhale is fine enough, chest lifted, pelvis tipped back, belly softening towards the mat. Cat on exhale is war. Their spines seem to receive the instruction, hold a meeting, and vote no.

Chrissy watches your spine move like water as you demonstrate. “Her bones are liquid.”

Chaebin, trembling on all fours, hisses, “This is discrimination against buff babes.”

You come over, kneeling beside them with calm focus. “Chaebin-ssi, soften between your shoulder blades. Chrissy-ssi, draw your lower abdomen in here.”

Your hand presses lightly to Chrissy’s abdomen to guide the movement, and Chrissy nearly sees every queer ancestor she’s ever had. Her eyes snap to the mat. Chaebin’s head turns slowly, warning burning through her stare.

Chrissy says nothing, and Chaebin whispers, “Holy shit. Growth.”

The rest of class swings between triumph and tragedy. They love the rest positions. They manage bridges and modified curl-ups with enough competence that Chrissy starts to look smug again. Dead bug variations humble them mildly. Side-lying leg lifts make Chaebin mutter, “This is arse terrorism,” Clamshells reduce Chrissy to whispering, “My glutes are filing a complaint,” while you tell the room, serene as ever, that shaking is normal and not a moral failure.

Then comes spine stretch forward. Most of the class reaches towards their toes with reasonable human difficulty. Chrissy and Chaebin barely reach past their knees, sitting tall with their legs extended, looking like two muscular statues abandoned by God.

You crouch between them. “Don’t force it. Reach from the crown of your head first, then soften forward.”

“I am softening,” Chrissy says.

“You’re negotiating,” you reply.

Chaebin snorts. “She does that in bed too, probably.”

Chrissy glares. “I’m being respectful today.”

“That’s what scares me.”

By the time the seated hamstring stretch and supine twist arrive, both of them are humbled beyond repair. Chrissy lies on her back as you gently guide her knees to one side, your hands careful and professional against her legs. Her entire body goes rigid for one horrifying second, then she forces herself to breathe and stare at the ceiling like a woman being tested by the universe, God, and Minhee’s threatening lesbian energy all at once.

Chaebin side-eyes her so hard it should count as cardio. She is visibly praying to every queer icon dead and alive that Chrissy won’t say something vulgar about stretching you out in return. Chrissy swallows, keeps her eyes fixed heroically upward, and says nothing at all. It is possibly the strongest thing she has ever done in this gym.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

By the time you get home at 8pm, your body feels like it has been professionally wrung out by every beginner, intermediate, advanced, and elderly balance-related concern in Seoul. You toe your trainers off by the door, slip your feet into your house slippers, and immediately hear the violent thud of Soonie launching himself down from his cat tree like he has been abandoned at sea for six years instead of waiting in the living room since breakfast.

Hyunjin is sprawled across the sofa in a dramatic heap, Doongie curled against one side of her and Dori tucked against the other, both cats looking like they’ve accepted her as temporary furniture. She glances up from her phone and says, “Our bendy baby has returned from war,” while Soonie winds through your ankles so tightly you nearly have to shuffle instead of walk.

From the kitchen, Minhee calls, “How was work?”

The apartment smells like heaven and processed meat, which means Minhee is making budae-jjigae. The stew bubbles on the hob with sausage, spam, kimchi, ramen, and cheese melting into the top in a way that would probably make a nutritionist sigh and then ask for a bowl. Beside it, Minhee has gamja bokkeum glossy in a pan, gyeran mari sliced neatly on a plate, and dubu buchim resting on kitchen paper with the crisp edges you always love.

“It was good,” you say, drifting into the kitchen with Soonie attached to your feet. “I met some interesting characters today.”

Minhee doesn’t look away from the pan. “If it’s men, don’t bring that energy into the house.”

“Y/N-ah is pansexual,” Hyunjin calls from the living room. “Don’t discriminate against her for liking every available option at the metaphorical buffet.”

Minhee clicks her tongue. “Fine, but don’t talk to me about anyone with a penis and a personality that should never have a microphone or podcast.”

“It was two women,” you say. “Chaebin and Chrissy.”

Minhee’s spatula freezes mid-air, and in that exact moment, Soonie takes advantage of the distraction and hops onto the counter with the smug confidence of a criminal in a very soft fur coat.

You reach out to scoop him up before Minhee can begin her hygiene sermon, and he immediately throws his full weight at you. You grunt, arms tightening around him as he lands against your chest like a sack of warm rice with whiskers.

“He’s not fat,” Minhee says automatically, even though nobody has said anything. “He’s structurally blessed.”

“He’s very large,” you say, adjusting him carefully.

“He’s big-boned.”

“He has a pouch that swings independently.”

“That’s his wisdom pouch,” Minhee snaps.

Hyunjin sits up on the sofa so fast that Doongie gives her a betrayed look. “Wait, back the fuck up. Did you say Chaebin and Chrissy?”

“They were in my beginner class,” you say. “They were buff. Really muscular, actually, but no flexibility at all.”

Minhee looks up at the ceiling, eyes suddenly wet with theatrical despair. “God, you cruel butch bitch. Why did you send my test in the form of Chrissy Bang? Have I not suffered enough? Did I not protect this home from fuckboys, finance bros, and women who think astrology is a substitute for therapy? Why, Almighty Dyke in the Sky, would you bring that platinum menace to my innocent baby’s workplace?”

You blink at her. “Are you praying or threatening God?”

“Both,” Hyunjin says, already moving towards the kitchen. “Y/N-ah, did she flirt with you?”

“Who?”

“Chrissy.”

“No.”

Minhee squints, suspicious. “Maybe it’s a different Chrissy.”

“It has to be,” Hyunjin says. “What did she look like?”

“Hot,” you say simply, scratching under Soonie’s chin as he purrs. “Platinum blonde hair in a little bun. Ass for days. Chaebin was shorter, black hair, built like a very hot wall.”

Hyunjin presses both hands to her mouth. “Omo.”

“I feel like I’m missing something,” you say.

Minhee points the spatula at you. “You met Hyunjin’s Chaebin.”

You look at Hyunjin. “I thought Hyunjin hadn’t confessed.”

Hyunjin’s expression crumples with immediate suffering.

“So she’s not Hyunjin’s anything,” you add gently, because to you it is just a factual correction.

Hyunjin groans and bends at the waist like you have stabbed her with honesty. “Why are you like this?”

“She’s right,” Minhee says, then winces when Hyunjin glares at her. “But emotionally, she’s wrong. And Chrissy is our boss. Chrissy Bang. The bisexual menace of Seoul. If humping, dumping, and breaking hearts was an Olympic sport, she’d have golds in every department.”

Hyunjin nods grimly. “She’d thank her strap-on collection and the inventor of lube for allowing her equal opportunity to fuck men and women.”

“She’d thank her abs, her tits, and every poor soul who ever thought she was serious,” Minhee adds.

“She’d get on the podium with glitter lube in one hand and someone’s ruined self-esteem in the other.”

“She’d cry during the anthem but only because she’d be eye-fucking the flag bearer and had dry eye from maintained eye contact.”

You stroke Soonie’s head, concerned. “That sounds very tiring for her.”

Hyunjin nearly drops her phone from laughing. Minhee slaps the counter, which makes Soonie flatten his ears and glare at her. Minhee points at you again. “And she didn’t flirt with you at all?”

“I don’t think she could once we got to cat-cow. It required all of her brain power. Poor woman. Works hard, but mostly has vanity muscles.”

For three full seconds, silence sits in the kitchen before Minhee makes a sound like a kettle being attacked. Hyunjin whips her phone out so fast you flinch, camera already pointed at you.

“Say that again,” Hyunjin wheezes. “Please, for justice.”

“It wasn’t an insult,” you say, immediately alarmed by their laughter. “It’s from a sports science viewpoint. It’s clear she works hard in the gym, but she works on the aesthetic muscles more, like biceps, shoulders, abs, and quads. Vanity muscles with no stabilisation focus. She does have some go muscles, like her lats and back, that’s obvious, but not enough in balance. Her hamstrings and glutes were aesthetic but functionally useless.”

Minhee folds halfway over the hob, laughing into her own shoulder. “Vanity muscles? Oh, I can’t. I’m going to piss myself into the budae-jjigae.”

“Please don’t,” you say. “Also, it wasn’t an insult.”

Hyunjin crouches to the floor, phone still filming, because apparently her legs have abandoned her. “Chrissy Bang, destroyed by a fairy with a degree.”

“If she’s offended,” you say, frowning slightly, “it means she’s focused on mirror muscles rather than true balanced fitness, which combines vanity muscles and go muscles. That isn’t a moral flaw. It’s just inefficient training.”

Minhee makes a horrible choking noise. “Inefficient training. Fucking hell, I’m dead.”

Hyunjin gasps for air. “I’m showing her this. I need to see her live reaction.”

“No,” you say, suddenly worried. “Don’t show her if it will hurt her feelings. I didn’t mean it cruelly. She’s clearly strong and disciplined. Her muscle development is just not functionally harmonious.”

Minhee slides down against the counter, laughing silently now, one hand clamped over her mouth. Hyunjin turns the camera towards her, then back to you, delighted beyond reason.

“I don’t think I said anything funny,” you say, looking between them.

“That’s why it’s fucking hysterical,” Hyunjin says.

You sigh, lowering your face to Soonie’s head. “I think they’re being bad people, Soonie-yah.”

Soonie meows into your chin, which you choose to take as agreement, while Minhee wheezes, “My baby just called my boss functionally useless,” and Hyunjin whispers to her phone like a documentarian, “History is happening in our kitchen.”

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Chrissy sits on the customer side of her own bar, one ankle crossed over the other, watching the monthly Escape talent show begin like a queen surveying a kingdom made of glitter, poor decisions, and cheap stage lights. A temporary stage has been built near the back wall, and two drag queens open the night with a comedy act. Chrissy laughs with the rest of the crowd, but her eyes keep moving, sharp and watchful behind slim rectangular black blue-light glasses, because talent show nights are fun until some stupid cunt thinks the microphone is a free invitation to be homophobic in public.

She looks devastating, which is annoying because she knows it. Her oversized white button-down is open wide at the collar, sleeves pushed up, the fitted black corset-style bustier over it defining her waist and chest with delicate trim and long cord details down the centre. Her black trousers are pooled in sculptural folds over black open-toe stilettos, with cords and beads at the waist. A short necklace sits at the base of her throat, a longer beaded strand falls down the front, her wrist is stacked with a chunky metallic cuff and smaller bracelets, and an oversized ring sits on her finger.

Chaebin stands near the entrance, arms folded, looking calm enough to be mistaken for reasonable until you remember she can remove a person from the building like she is taking out food waste. Chrissy is worse, though everyone knows it. Chaebin tries diplomacy first. Chrissy only gets involved when someone has achieved cunt status of the highest order, and if she reaches you before Chaebin does, you’re not leaving on your feet. Regulars have entire videos saved of the infamous Double C removals, Chaebin and Chrissy muscling bigots and messy dickheads out together while the crowd cheers like they’re watching a national sport. #bisexualbuffbabes and #wecallthemthedoubleC have done more marketing for Escape than any paid advert ever could.

Seungmi is posted next to the stage with a clipboard, because while people sign up in advance, the clipboard always fills on the night because makgeolli, tequila, and misplaced courage are a dangerous fucking trio.

Jisu is perched beside Chrissy at the bar, dressed like a punk rock androgynous dream, which has already dropped Minhee’s productivity by at least twenty percent and her IQ by fifty points. Minhee keeps making drinks while glancing over, nearly pouring tonic into a beer, and then blaming the bottle. Jisu, oblivious and glowing, chats with Chrissy with the unstoppable energy of someone who has spent the day in the ER and decided the only way to process trauma is to turn it into dinner-table comedy.

“I’m telling you, unnie, he looked me straight in the eyes and said he slipped,” Jisu says, stirring her makgeolli mojito with a straw. “Slipped. Onto a cucumber. Fully naked.”

Chrissy nods, solemn. “Dangerous vegetable.”

“Exactly. I said, sir, was the cucumber standing upright on the floor like a tiny green soldier? Because otherwise we both know you’re lying and wasting my youth.”

Chrissy snorts. “Did he confess?”

“No, his wife did. She said, ‘He does this every few months, but usually with courgettes.’ I nearly fucking died.”

Before Chrissy can answer, a drunk baby gay on stage announces his talent is a cartwheel and begins preparing with far too much seriousness. Jisu is instantly half out of her seat, medical instincts lighting up like an ambulance.

Chrissy presses a hand to her shoulder and pushes her back down. “Sit.”

“He’s going to crack his skull.”

“Every member of staff here has first aid certification. It’s your night off. Sit, get drunk, drool over your girlfriend.”

Jisu smirks into her glass. “Drool from where?”

“Wherever you want to drool from, just relax.”

Jisu cackles and sits properly, sipping her drink as the baby gay somehow completes half a cartwheel, falls onto his side, and stands up to thunderous applause like he has won Eurovision. Behind the bar, Minhee and Hyunjin are giggling over Hyunjin’s phone between serving drinks, their heads bent together like evil schoolgirls with blackmail material.

Jisu clicks her tongue. “Either show Chrissy-unnie or stop being dicks about it.”

Minhee gasps. “You cannot call me a dick. I’m a lesbian.”

Jisu shrugs. “You’re being spiritually phallic.”

Chrissy turns, suspicious. “Show me what?”

Jisu points her straw at Hyunjin’s phone. “After you did the pilates class, Y/N-ah was talking about your muscles in her unique way.”

Chrissy’s eyes narrow. “Unique how?”

“Look, Y/N-ah is an angel,” Jisu says carefully, “but she has this little trait where she speaks, and some people may think it’s an insult, but it isn’t. Hyunjin recorded some of it because Minhee-unnie and Hyunjin want to see your live reaction, because they are evil lesbians.”

Hyunjin places a hand over her heart. “I’m preserving history.”

Minhee nods. “For queer science.”

Chrissy holds out her hand. “Give it here.”

Hyunjin hands the phone over, then immediately ducks behind the bar with Minhee. Only their eyes remain visible above the counter, both pairs shining with disgusting anticipation. Chrissy clicks play and turns the volume up as the video begins in the kitchen of Minhee and Hyunjin’s flat, where you are holding one of Minhee’s obese orange fur sons against your chest while looking genuinely bewildered.

On the screen, your voice says, “It wasn’t an insult. It’s from a sports science viewpoint. It’s clear she works hard in the gym, but she works on the aesthetic muscles more, like biceps, shoulders, abs, and quads. Vanity muscles with no stabilisation focus. She does have some go muscles, like her lats and back, that’s obvious, but not enough in balance. Her hamstrings and glutes were aesthetic but functionally useless.”

The video shakes violently because Hyunjin is laughing. Minhee’s voice in the background wheezes, “Vanity muscles? Oh, I can’t. I’m going to piss myself into the budae-jjigae.”

On screen, you look increasingly concerned, stroking the cat as if he might help you communicate with the insane people around you. “Please don’t. Also, it wasn’t an insult.”

Hyunjin’s recorded voice gasps, “Chrissy Bang, destroyed by a fairy with a degree.”

You frown at the camera, still calm but visibly worried. “If she’s offended, it means she’s focused on mirror muscles rather than true balanced fitness, which combines vanity muscles and go muscles. That isn’t a moral flaw. It’s just inefficient training.”

The real Hyunjin behind the bar makes a high, strangled noise, and Minhee slaps both hands over her mouth. In the video, you glance between them and say, “I don’t think I said anything funny.”

“That’s why it’s fucking hysterical,” Hyunjin says from the phone.

Then the camera dips to Minhee sliding down the kitchen counter, laughing so hard she looks genuinely medically unwell, while your voice says softly, “I think they’re being bad people, Soonie-yah.”

Chrissy lowers the phone very slowly. Jisu watches her face with open interest. Minhee and Hyunjin are shaking behind the bar, absolutely pissing themselves in real time, while Seungmi glances over from the stage with the tired expression of someone wondering if this counts as workplace misconduct.

Chrissy places the phone flat on the counter, folds her hands over it, and takes a measured breath. “So,” she says. “My ass is aesthetically pleasing?”

Minhee explodes. “This unbelievable fucking narcissistic bisexual.”

Hyunjin collapses against the back counter, laughing so hard she nearly knocks over the garnish tray. Jisu points at Chrissy with her drink and says, “Honestly, that is exactly the wrong lesson to take from that.”

Chrissy lifts one shoulder, mouth curving despite herself. “She said my glutes were aesthetic.”

“She said they were functionally useless,” Minhee snaps.

“But aesthetic.”

“Unnie, I swear to God.”

Chrissy leans back on the stool, looking far too pleased for a woman who has just been academically roasted by a serene pilates instructor holding a cat. “I like her.”

Hyunjin stops laughing just long enough to glare. “No.”

Minhee points at Chrissy with a cocktail spoon. “Absolutely the fuck not.”

Chrissy smiles towards the stage, where the next performer is drunkenly singing BLACKPINK with the confidence of someone who has never once met pitch. “Don’t worry. I’m only appreciating balanced fitness.”

Minhee stares at her. “You don’t even know what that means.”

“No,” Chrissy admits, eyes gleaming. “But I’d love for her to explain it to me again.”

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Western night at Escape is already a disaster in the best possible way. It happens a week after the talent show to keep the buzz alive, and since the customer ballot box produced Western as the winning theme, every regular with Wi-Fi and too much confidence has spent seven days spreading the word like gay missionaries in cowboy boots. The bar is now full of leather chaps, rhinestone hats, denim skirts, fringe jackets, fake moustaches, and one trans guy dressed as a sheriff who keeps pretending to arrest people for “looking criminally breedable.”

Chrissy is behind the bar in a long cow-print faux fur coat, warm tan patched with dark brown and black, structured through the shoulders and dramatic enough to sweep behind her when she turns. Under it, she wears a matching cow-print bra-style top with tiny structured cups and thin black edging, paired with washed grey-brown oversized low-rise cargo trousers that sit loose on her hips and pool slightly over pointed black cowboy boots. A black cowboy hat sits low over her slicked-back platinum hair, silver earrings swing from her ears, a bolo necklace hangs against her chest, and chunky rings glint every time she reaches for a bottle. Her eyeliner is sharp enough to commit a felony, her cheekbones are bronzed, her lips are glossy nude-rose, and Minhee has already told her she looks like she’d rob a bank then flirt with the horse.

Minhee stands beside her, dressed like a dominatrix cowgirl, all black leather, sharp waist, and a whip hanging at her side that Chrissy has decided not to ask too many questions about. “Is that thing a toy?” Chrissy asks eventually, unable to resist as Minhee pours tequila into a shaker.

Minhee doesn’t look up. “Depends who’s asking.”

“Your boss.”

“Then it’s decorative.”

“That wasn’t reassuring.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Before Chrissy can answer, the door opens, and Hyunjin sweeps in dressed in the hot pink cowgirl costume from the Barbie movie, all flared confidence and fuck-me cowgirl sparkle. Chrissy’s eyebrows lift, ready to insult her lovingly, but then you walk in behind her, and every thought in Chrissy’s head trips over itself and dies.

You look like a sparkly western daydream. Your cropped yellow-and-white gingham shirt is tied at the waist, the embellished fabric catching the coloured lights. Your navy-blue high-waisted shorts are fitted, cheeky, and covered in tiny rhinestone-like sparkles that flash when you move, hugging your hips with small side slits that immediately make Chrissy forget how to pour liquids. White mid-calf cowboy boots with gold embroidery carry you through the bar with easy calm, and a matching gingham headscarf sits over your full retro curls. Your makeup glows warm and bronzed, gold shimmer on your lids, fluttery lashes soft at the outer corners, peachy-bronze blush and glossy, rosy nude lips, making you look unreal beneath the neon.

Minhee leans over without looking sorry. “Oh, did I forget to mention Y/N-ah was coming?”

Chrissy grips the shaker in her hand. “Yes. Yes, you fucking did.”

“She’s here to see you.”

The shaker slips out of Chrissy’s fingers and clatters into the ice well. “You couldn’t warn me, so I didn’t soak my panties without warning?”

Minhee’s mouth twitches. “Hyunjin-ah was teasing Y/N-ah about how we showed you the video, and she got really worried she’d hurt your feelings because you never came back to beginners' pilates.”

Chrissy’s expression changes at once, the heat still there but softening under something more careful. “She didn’t hurt my feelings. Pilates just really hurts my body.”

“Y/N-ah knows she says things bluntly,” Minhee says, eyes flicking towards you as Hyunjin guides you through the crowd. “She’s serene and doesn’t care what people think of her, but she worries about hurting people’s feelings.”

“You two are bitches for taking that video and showing me if you knew she’d get upset.”

“Hey now,” Minhee says, raising both hands. “It was Hyunjin who took the video, not me. I only laughed until my soul loosened.”

A lot of eyes turn as you cross the bar, partly because everyone knows Hyunjin and partly because nobody knows the pretty woman walking beside her like she’s wandered into a queer saloon from someone’s very specific dream. Yujin lifts their glass from a booth and calls, “Hyunjin-ah, is that your girlfriend?”

Hyunjin places a dramatic hand to her chest. “I could only dream.”

You glance up at her. “You dream very loudly.”

“Because I have passion.”

“You have unresolved Chaebin feelings.”

Hyunjin chokes as Minhee makes a pleased sound behind the bar. Chrissy bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself laughing as your gaze lands on her with calm sincerity.

“Hello, Chrissy-ssi.”

Chrissy leans forward slightly, trying very hard not to look at the way your shorts sparkle under the bar lights. “Hey, Y/N-ah. What can I get for you?”

You hum, eyes scanning the board behind the bar. Hyunjin taps your arm. “Wait, look at the LGBTQ+ menu. We have cocktails for every letter.”

Chrissy pretends to rearrange bottles while secretly paying attention so hard her ears might combust. Minhee and Hyunjin have guarded the subject of your sexuality like it’s a government file, and Chrissy is absolutely not above using a cocktail order as evidence.

“I’ll have a U-Haul on the Rocks,” Hyunjin says. “From the lesbian menu, of course.”

“You don’t need to clarify,” Minhee says, already grabbing a glass. “Chrissy-unnie, me, and Y/N-ah all know you’re a big, lanky lesbian.”

You study the board for another moment. “I’ll have the Everyone’s Hot, Send Help.”

Celebratory fireworks immediately explode in Chrissy’s brain and somewhere significantly lower, because Everyone’s Hot, Send Help sits on the pansexual menu. She reaches for the bottle with a level of self-control that deserves public funding.

Minhee points at you. “Isn’t that your motto, Y/N-ah?”

You nod seriously. “That’s why I ordered it. Pansexual panic is a real condition.”

From across the bar, Yujin raises their drink. “A-woman.”

Chrissy makes your drink while Minhee makes Hyunjin’s, the latter glaring because Hyunjin has managed to get theme night off while Minhee is trapped behind the bar, dressed like she could discipline half the room and still have to clean the glasses afterwards. Chrissy slides your cocktail across, careful, polished, and definitely not imagining your mouth on the straw.

You wrap both hands lightly around the glass. “Chrissy-ssi, about the video Hyunjin-unnie and Minhee-unnie showed you.”

“It’s nothing,” Chrissy says quickly. “Honestly. You were talking as a professional, right?”

Your shoulders relax at once, and your nod is earnest enough to make Chrissy’s chest tighten. “Yes. I didn’t want to make you feel bad. You’re very strong.”

“I know,” Chrissy says, then winces when Minhee kicks her ankle under the bar. “I mean, thank you.”

You smile faintly. “Your training is just incomplete.”

Hyunjin makes a strangled noise into her cocktail while Chrissy just props her chin on one hand. “I have my break in ten minutes. Maybe you can help me devise a workout routine from a sports science viewpoint.”

Behind you, Minhee and Hyunjin start shaking their heads so subtly they look possessed by the same warning ghost. You don’t notice because you are watching Chrissy with calm consideration. “Okay.”

Chrissy’s grin spreads before she can stop it. “Perfect.”

Hyunjin grips your arm and starts steering you away before Chrissy can say anything else with her eyes. “Come on, I’m introducing you to the queens before our boss starts ovulating onto the bar.”

“I heard that,” Chrissy says.

“You were meant to.”

Chrissy watches as Hyunjin guides you towards a glamorous cluster near the booths, where the drag queens have already noticed you and are arranging themselves like predators in sequins.

“Everyone, this is Y/N,” Hyunjin announces. “Y/N-ah, this is Miso Divine, Anita Bbang, Nari Noir, Jenna Talia, Seoulstice, Joseon Jezebel, and Yuri Gasm.”

Miso Divine gasps and takes both your hands. “Oh my God, Hyunjin-ah, you’ve been hiding a doll from us.”

Anita Bbang leans in, eyes wide. “The gingham. The boots. The little sparkle shorts. I’m furious and aroused.”

“I’m not sure what to say to that,” you admit.

“Say thank you,” Nari Noir says, fanning herself with a napkin. “We’re drag queens, darling. Confusion is our native language.”

Seoulstice circles one finger in the air, making you turn gently. “Look at you. It's giving Dorothy fell into a lesbian saloon and got adopted by rich aunties.”

Joseon Jezebel presses a hand to her chest. “Hyunjin-ah’s pretty friend has cheekbones and emotional stillness. I feel judged and healed.”

“I’m not judging you,” you say.

Yuri Gasm sighs dreamily. “That makes it worse.”

Hyunjin beams as they pull you into their glittering throng, cooing over your headscarf, your makeup, your boots, your calm voice, your entire existence. You accept it all with soft bewilderment, while across the bar Chrissy watches with her mouth curved and her heart doing something stupid, and entirely inconvenient.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Ten minutes later, Chrissy manages to extract you from the drag queens with the careful diplomacy of someone negotiating the return of a priceless artefact. Miso Divine clutches your hand and declares, “No, absolutely not, we’ve only just found her,” while Anita Bbang throws a napkin over her own shoulder like she is in mourning.

Chrissy smiles with every ounce of professional charm she owns and says, “I’m borrowing her for one break, not shipping her overseas,” which only makes Yuri Gasm gasp, “That’s what they all say before stealing the pretty ones.”

You look faintly amused, one hand wrapped around the fresh cocktail Chrissy made you for free because apparently she is now bribing her way into your attention with raspberry, peach, prosecco, and pansexual affirmation. Hyunjin stays with the queens, though her gaze drifts towards the entrance where Chaebin is talking to a cluster of women in denim shorts and cowboy hats.

Joseon Jezebel hooks an arm through Hyunjin’s and says, “Oh, honey, you’re doing that lesbian yearning thing with your eyes again,” while Seoulstice pats her cheek and adds, “Don’t worry. We’ll fix you or make you worse. Either is community service.”

Chrissy leads you to the staff booth at the back of the bar floor, lifting the divider just enough to make the space feel quieter without fully shutting out the chaos. The little sign on the table, Reserved for Staff - Be Gay Elsewhere, makes you pause. “That’s quite direct.”

“It saves time,” Chrissy says, sliding into the booth opposite you with her own drink.

You settle in, boots tucked neatly beneath the table, glittering shorts catching little flashes of light every time you shift. Chrissy takes a sip of her Choose Both cocktail from the bisexual menu, tequila-soju mix with citrus, agave, and salted plum, then places the glass down with exaggerated courage. “Okay, tell it to me true. I’m ready.”

You blink at her. “You’re ready for what?”

“My dismantling.”

“I’m not dismantling you,” you say, confused. “I’m helping you, aren’t I?”

Chrissy’s smile softens before she can make it wicked. “Yeah. You are.”

You nod as if that settles the moral issue. “Okay. Your issue is that your body is strong, but it’s not efficient.”

“That sounds insulting.”

“It’s not. Strength without balance leads to inefficiency and eventually injury. You prioritise visible muscle groups, which is extremely common in people who go to the gym to sort of bodybuild. They’re easier to track visually, so people feel more rewarded when they grow.”

Chrissy leans back, tipping her cowboy hat up slightly. “You mean I like looking good.”

“Yep.”

“That’s fair. Nothing beats looking in the mirror after a workout and my muscles are all buffed.”

“However,” you say.

“Oh no.”

“Your stabilisers are underdeveloped, which means your body compensates. That’s why you struggled with spinal articulation.”

Chrissy grimaces into her drink. “Yeah, that cat-cow was humbling. I thought my spine and I were friends.”

“You weren’t engaging your core correctly.”

“I tried.”

“I know,” you say, gently, which somehow makes it worse. “But you rely on surface strength. Pilates is functional movement, and that requires deeper engagement, especially in the glutes and hamstrings.”

Chrissy rests her chin on her knuckles. “So what’s your recommendation?”

You hum, thoughtful, eyes drifting for a moment as if you’re organising a whole syllabus in your head. “Train intentionally.”

“Easier said than done. I have to unlearn old tricks.”

“Start coming to my beginner classes twice a week. You’ll feel like you’re dying at first, but I’m sure you’ll find it fun.”

Chrissy’s smile turns slow. “I’m sure I will.”

The tone is blatant enough to bend steel, but it seems to float right past you without landing. You simply nod, pleased that she is considering a healthier training structure. Chrissy has never in her life flirted this hard and received a professional development response.

You keep explaining, voice soft and airy beneath the muffled music and laughter outside the booth, and Chrissy is hooked so completely it is embarrassing. A deep, horny, deeply unhelpful part of her knows she could get off to an audiobook of you reciting Seoul business regulations if you sounded this calm while doing it.

“You should add single-leg work,” you say. “Not just for appearance. For stability. Controlled range, slower tempo, less ego.”

Chrissy lifts a brow. “Less ego? That’s a large ask.”

“I know,” you say serenely. “You have a lot of it.”

Chrissy laughs. “You say the wildest shit so calmly.”

“I don’t think ego is always bad. Yours probably helps you run this place.”

“It also helps me wear cow print with confidence.”

“That too.”

The muscle talk somehow dissolves quickly, replaced by university, work, and the way people end up choosing lives that don’t look anything like their original plans. Chrissy circles her thumb around the rim of her glass. “I moved to Seoul when I was twelve. I was an idol trainee for a long time, but I wanted my own sound, and the companies didn’t like that. Eventually, I focused more on school so I could go to university. I majored in Hospitality Management and minored in Marketing. Did mixology courses whenever I had time, got certified, got first aid certified too.”

You listen with your full attention, chin resting lightly on your hand. “So why a queer bar?”

Chrissy grins, but it lands sincerely. “Because there are never too many safe spaces in the world.” Your smile blooms slowly, and Chrissy feels it hit somewhere below her ribs. “What did you do?”

“I majored in Sports Science and minored in Hair and Makeup Design.”

Chrissy pauses. “Those do not interlink at all.”

“Exactly. I might decide I’m bored of teaching pilates one day and become a hairdresser or open a salon.”

“So I now know who to call when my hair turns brassy.”

You tilt your head, teasing so lightly she nearly misses it. “I don’t do it for free, you know.”

“I’ll tip generously.”

“How generously?”

Chrissy’s eyes gleam. “Dangerously.”

You sip your drink and seem to consider that with grave seriousness. “Acceptable.”

The conversation drifts again, turning loose and easy. You talk music, and your face lights up when you tell her about flying to Paris with Minhee in 2025 to see Sabrina Carpenter during the Short n’ Sweet tour. “Minhee pretended she was only there because I wanted to go, but she screamed louder than me during Espresso,” you say, eyes bright. “She lost her voice and blamed the hotel air conditioning.”

Chrissy laughs. “That sounds exactly like her.”

“And I went to Lisbon with Hyunjin in 2024 to see Olivia Rodrigo. Hyunjin cried during Vampire and then told a stranger in the queue that heartbreak should qualify you for government compensation.”

“It should,” Chrissy says. “Especially sapphic heartbreak. The economy would collapse if they paid us what we’re owed.”

You smile into your glass. “What concerts have you travelled for?”

Chrissy leans back, thinking. “I opened Escape when I was twenty-one, so that was 2019. My parents loaned me a big chunk of money, and Chaebin helped financially too because she’s from a well-off family. That year, I saw Shawn Mendes at KSPO Dome with Chaebin. In 2021, Harry Styles in Rio de Janeiro with Chaebin and Minhee. In 2022, Billie Eilish at Gocheok Sky Dome with Seungmi and Minhee. In 2023, Elton John on his final tour with my younger sister Hannah in Sydney. TWICE in 2024 with Chaebin and Hyunjin at KSPO Dome, and last year Beyoncé at Stade de France with Chaebin and Hyunjin.”

You stare at her. “You’ve been global for that many concerts?”

“I made profit from Escape quite quickly. A queer bar in Hongdae draws locals, people from all over Seoul, and tourists. Add attractive staff and the events we do, and it guaranteed success. We even survived the pandemic when some businesses didn’t.”

You glance out towards the bar. “It makes sense. This place feels alive.”

Chrissy looks at you instead of the bar. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Like people come here because they’re tired of pretending.”

For once, Chrissy doesn’t have a joke ready. She just watches you, warm cocktail light on your face, and thinks she might be in serious fucking trouble.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Chrissy doesn’t know if she’s ever been this dedicated to one pussy in her life without the woman attached to it actually acknowledging that she is being pursued. She has suspicions, strong ones, that you are not oblivious at all, just politely stepping around every flirtation she throws at you like it’s a puddle on the pavement. It has been three long weeks of beginner pilates, three long weeks of Chaebin being dragged into Studio Three like a hostage, three long weeks of Chrissy discovering muscles she didn’t know existed and wishing several of them would fuck off and die.

What makes it worse is that Chrissy hasn’t had sex since the first time she saw you, just over a month ago. Her vibrator and rabbit have seen more action than they did during university, back when she was too busy studying, working, and trying to build a future to entertain other human beings. Now she’s worried her neighbours think she’s doing illegal construction at 2am, either that, or assembling furniture with the determination of a woman at war.

Currently, she is in Studio Three, lying flat on a mat and regretting every vain decision she has ever made. Her white fitted long-sleeve zip top is half unzipped over a grey sports bra, oversized grey low-rise sweatpants puddled around her legs, chunky white trainers abandoned near the wall because you insisted shoes weren’t needed for this part. Chaebin has been abandoned at the free weights, because Chrissy has cottoned on quickly to the fact that you are at the gym all day, and she has shamelessly arranged extra sessions under the noble guise of improving her functional movement in exchange for free cocktails for life at Escape.

You, infuriatingly serene in a cream long-sleeve wrap top tied at the waist over a simple white tank, light blue fitted shorts, white scrunched leg warmers, and chunky silver-white trainers, kneel beside her with both hands on her knees. Her legs are in a ninety-degree tabletop position, and you are slowly guiding them from one side to the other while she tries not to disgrace herself as Sabrina Carpenter plays softly from your fantastic, cursed, spiritually dangerous playlist.

“Keep your shoulders anchored,” you say gently.

“They are anchored,” Chrissy grits out.

“They’re hovering.”

“They’re emotionally anchored.”

“Chrissy-ssi.”

“Fuck, shit, bastard, absolute motherfucking Pilates demonry,” Chrissy hisses as the stretch pulls through her spine, abs, hips, and thighs in a way that feels personally vindictive. “Who designed this? A medieval torturer with a core kink?”

You hum along to the music like the world’s dreamiest executioner, calm as a water sprite while you slowly move her knees back through centre. “Try not to fight the movement.”

“I am not fighting. I am surviving.”

“You’re twisting your torso again.”

“My torso has opinions.”

“It needs fewer.”

Chrissy lets out a laugh that turns into a groan as you guide her legs to the other side. “Y/N-ah, I swear to every god, queer icon, and expensive sex toy I own, this is unacceptable.”

“You’re doing better than last week.”

“Last week I nearly saw my dead grandparents.”

“You kept lifting your shoulder then, too.”

Her shoulder lifts again. You pause and Chrissy closes her eyes. “Don’t say it.”

“Your shoulder lifted.”

“I said don’t say it.”

“It lifted quite a lot.”

“Y/N-ah, I am suffering. This is a hate crime against my pelvis.”

“It’s not a hate crime, Chrissy-ssi. It’s your obliques discovering all the ways they can move.”

“My obliques were just happy being pretty. Vanity muscles.”

You consider this, still holding her knees. “They still are.”

Chrissy opens one eye. “Are they?”

“Yes.”

Her eye closes again. “That helped more than it should have. Also, you need to stop with the ssi stuff. Call me unnie.”

“Okay, Chrissy-unnie.”

Chrissy’s mouth curls before she can stop it. “Ooh, I like that.”

You use the tiny relaxation in her body to push her knees a fraction further to the side, and Chrissy makes a wounded, scandalised noise. “You weaponised affection.”

“It worked.”

“That’s manipulative.”

“It’s efficient.”

Chrissy is fighting with every atom that makes up her body not to make a lewd comment. It's right there, about stretching you out in return, about what she could do if you were in her apartment, in her bed, letting that soft voice break apart. The restraint she has found over the last month is frankly award-worthy. With any other pursuit, she would have been deep in innuendo-laden waters by now, flirting until someone either blushed or climbed her like a tree. But you are too sweet, too sincere, too strangely calm, and the usual horny antics feel like throwing fireworks at a butterfly.

Then you lean over her to press her shoulders down with both hands, encouraging her to keep them flat while attempting the leg movement alone. Your upper body hovers partially over her face, close enough that your cleavage is directly in Chrissy’s line of sight. It is not looking at her, obviously, because cleavage doesn’t have eyes, but Chrissy’s brain insists there is eye contact happening. She is conditioned, spiritually and sexually, to salivate at a woman hovering over her face, and now she is expected to practise spinal mobility like a civilised citizen.

You look down at her face. “I think this isn’t helping.”

“It’s not,” Chrissy says immediately.

“I’ll do my own stuff on the mat next to you, and you focus on keeping your shoulders down.”

Chrissy nods, relieved and devastated. “Good plan.”

You move to the mat beside her and begin stretching, and Chrissy tries very hard to focus on her own body, which is difficult because your body seems to be preparing for something medically impossible. You brace your forearms on the mat and lean forward, lifting your hips before kicking one leg up, then the other, until you tip smoothly into an inversion. Chrissy’s eyes widen, already impressed, but you are clearly not done.

Once balanced, you bend your knees and let your back arch, chest reaching forward as your feet sweep slowly overhead. The deeper you move, the more your spine coils, legs folding towards your head until you are suspended in a striking, impossible shape, breathing steadily like gravity is merely a suggestion you never agreed to follow.

Chrissy whispers, “What the fuck is that?”

“Vrschikasana,” you say, voice calm despite being upside down. “It’s a yoga pose. I was thinking of introducing yoga classes.”

Chrissy nods, eyes wide, throat dry, mind an absolute horny wasteland. “I can see the educational value.”

“The gym offered more money if I do yoga too. It makes me a multifaceted teacher, and yoga presents its own challenges.”

“I can see that,” Chrissy says, which is true, because she is looking directly at you and imagining positions that would get her smacked by Minhee if said aloud within five kilometres of your flat.

You hold the pose for another few breaths, then lower yourself with control that makes Chrissy feel like applause is required. “Did you do gymnastics?” she asks, because apparently her survival instincts are still trying to gather dangerous information.

You nod as you shift easily into the splits. “Yeah, from a young age. I kept doing it through university, so I maintained my flexibility.”

“Uh huh,” Chrissy says, watching you reach over to touch your toe. “So you’re really flexible?”

“I suppose.”

“Can you get your foot to touch your head and stuff?”

“Yeah.”

Chrissy bites her knuckle the second your eyes close, because otherwise the words in her mouth are going to become career-ending. Her brain is a carousel of unspeakable images, all involving you, her bed, and exactly how far your flexibility could go before her sanity left the building. She wants to dom your brains out so badly she thinks her soul might start filing complaints. She wants to be good, respectful, patient, normal. Unfortunately, she is still Chrissy Bang, lusty heathen, sexless for a month, and currently watching a serene sex angel fold herself in half on a gym mat.

“Chrissy-unnie,” you say softly.

She hums, still staring at the ceiling. “Hmm?”

“Your shoulder’s lifting again.”

Chrissy drops her hand from her mouth and exhales in pure defeat. “Fuck my entire life.”

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

The regulars of Escape have never been so stunned in their lives, which is impressive because this is a bar where a drag queen once sang trot in a wedding dress while Chaebin carried a drunk homophobe out. Still, nothing has prepared them for the sight of Chrissy Bang, notorious bisexual menace, sitting in the staff booth with a guest and behaving like a person with manners. Usually, if Chrissy disappears with someone, the bar later gets to witness a rumpled man or woman stumbling out of the toilets or her office looking spiritually altered, followed by Chrissy emerging with a cocky grin.

Tonight is different. Tonight, Chrissy is in the staff booth with you, and there is no kissing, no touching, no suspicious hair fixing. There is just laughter. You are both dressed in black with red details like you’ve coordinated by accident or by divine queer intervention, and Minhee has already sworn so spectacularly at three different customers for asking if you are Chrissy’s girlfriend that Seungmi has threatened to start logging verbal incidents in a spreadsheet.

Chrissy looks devastating in a sharply tailored blazer with strong padded shoulders, a deep plunging neckline, narrow lapels, and a glossy black corset-style waist panel that emphasises every inch of her upper body. Her high-waisted tailored trousers fall into a wide-leg silhouette, and her black Louboutins flash red at the soles whenever she shifts. Her hair is slicked back, extending past the nape, one loose strand falling forward over smoky eyes and deep red lips. You sit opposite her in a fitted black off-the-shoulder jumpsuit with a sweetheart bodice, tuxedo-lapel neckline, and sleek belt with a small gold clasp at the waist. The trousers hug your hips and thighs before narrowing down, your red heels making your legs look endless, and your oversized black leather moto jacket hangs around your shoulders with vivid red satin lining flashing whenever you move.

At the table beside the staff booth, Jisu, Felicity, and Innie have abandoned dignity entirely. “I can’t hear shit,” Jisu whispers, affronted.

Felicity squints. “They’re laughing. That’s worse than kissing.”

Innie nods gravely. “Laughter is foreplay for people with emotional availability.”

Jisu points at her. “That was disgusting. Say more.”

Behind the bar, Minhee and Hyunjin are pretending to work from the only angle where they can crane their necks and see into the booth. Minhee fills a glass with ice without looking and nearly misses entirely. Hyunjin is polishing the same glass for the fifth minute in a row, gaze fixed on the booth like a wildlife photographer watching a rare mating ritual.

Inside the booth, Chrissy turns her phone towards you. “There. That’s me in the back left.”

You lean closer, cocktail in hand, eyes narrowing at the idol group music video playing on the screen. “Where?”

“Back left. Blue jacket. Two seconds after the second chorus.”

You point suddenly. “There. I found you.”

Chrissy grins. “You sound like you’re playing Wollireul Chajara.”

“I am,” you say seriously. “Except Wally has better lighting.”

Chrissy laughs hard enough to tip her head back. “You just called baby trainee me badly lit.”

“You were very committed despite the lighting.”

At the next table, Felicity grips Jisu’s sleeve. “She made Chrissy laugh like that.”

Jisu whispers, “Minhee is going to chew through a bottle cap.”

Innie glances towards the bar. “Hyunjin looks constipated with concern.”

Chrissy swipes to another video and lets you find her again, this time in a group performance clip where she appears for approximately one and a half seconds behind a main dancer’s shoulder. You tap the screen triumphantly. “There. Your jawline is distinctive.”

Chrissy’s expression warms with dangerous delight. “You recognise my jawline now?”

“I’ve seen your face before, yes.”

“That was almost romantic.”

“It was factual.”

“Even better,” Chrissy says, because apparently she is now attracted to blunt accuracy like it’s lingerie.

She lowers the phone and tilts her head. “Is there nothing online of you in gymnastics competitions?”

“Of course there is.”

Chrissy immediately opens Naver, types your name, and taps videos with the speed of a woman hunting treasure. “Seokyeong University Gymnastics Team. 2023 National Finals?”

“I was very good,” you say, calm and without false modesty.

“I love when you say things like that.” Chrissy clicks the video.

A younger version of you appears on the screen, announced at twenty-one before stepping onto the floor with a stillness that makes the crowd noise seem to shrink around you. The routine begins, and Chrissy watches your body bend, turn, and flow with alarming grace. Multiple walkovers in a row make her physically wince, one hand flying to her own spine as if it might file a complaint in solidarity.

“What the fuck,” she mutters. “Your body folds like premium laundry.”

You sip your cocktail. “That’s quite a nice description.”

“Did you win?” Chrissy winds the video to the end and sees you being given a trophy, smiling with polite brightness while the crowd claps.

You nod. “I did.”

“Impressive.”

“Thank you.”

She scrolls before you can stop her, and her eyebrows lift. “There’s a video of you from 2008.”

“Ah, yes. My eomma entered me in the 2007 Super Kids Model Contest, and the award ceremony was in 2008, January, I think. I placed second.”

Chrissy looks at you over the phone. “Do you just do everything? Side quest after side quest?”

You shrug. “I was a child. My eomma picked the quests.”

Jisu makes a strangled noise outside the booth. “Second in a kids’ model contest? Pilates fairy has lore.”

Felicity whispers, “She has side quests. Chrissy loves a side quest.”

Innie nods. “Chrissy is a side quest with abs.”

Chrissy sets the phone down, the noise of the bar blurring into something warm and distant around the booth. “You’re such an interesting person.”

You look at her for a moment, red lips curved into a small smile. “Interesting people draw interesting people, no?”

Chrissy grins slowly. “That is true. Maybe we should go on a date.”

At the bar, Minhee’s whole body jolts, and Hyunjin drops the glass she has been polishing into the sink with a clatter. At the neighbouring table, Jisu clamps both hands over her mouth while Felicity and Innie lean so hard their shoulders touch the divider.

You study Chrissy with that soft, perceptive gaze that always makes her feel like you’ve noticed six things she hasn’t confessed yet. “But aren’t you the bisexual menace of Seoul? Humping and dumping?”

Chrissy blinks, smile freezing, then her head turns slowly towards the end of the bar, where Minhee is leaning forward so far she looks like she might crawl over the counter. Chrissy’s glare could curdle milk.

Minhee immediately points at Hyunjin. “She said it first.”

Hyunjin points back. “You made it catchy.”

Chrissy turns back to you, mouth opening, but you speak before she can defend herself. “I’m not a person to judge by someone’s past,” you say. “People can be careless and then decide to be careful. So I think a date sounds nice.”

For one brief, shining second, Chrissy looks like every neon sign in Escape has switched on behind her ribs. Her grin lights up her face, all menace softened into genuine delight. “You do?”

“Yes.”

Jisu silently slams both hands on the table while Felicity whispers, “Holy shit, she said yes,” and Innie murmurs, “Witnessing history is stressful.”

Chrissy leans in, still grinning. “Well, I have an invitation to a casino-themed charity event, and I don’t have a plus one.”

You tilt your head. “Casino-themed?”

“Fancy outfits, fake gambling, real donations, rich people pretending they understand queer community work, probably terrible canapés.”

“That sounds educational.”

“It’ll be more fun with you.”

You smile, small and sweet, and Chrissy looks like she might combust on the spot.

At the bar, Minhee mutters, “We’ve failed.”

Hyunjin, still staring at the booth, whispers, “Or we’ve created a monster with stabilised glutes.”

Minhee looks horrified. “Don’t say that. She’ll hear you and make it sexual.”

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You sit at your vanity table in your underwear and a pair of nipple stickers, serene as a temple pond, while Minhee and Hyunjin descend on you like a two-woman glam squad. You let them fuss because they seem happy, and because every time you try to help, Minhee gently smacks your hand away like you are a kitten reaching for a hot pan.

Hyunjin stands in front of your wardrobe, hands on her hips, inspecting your clothes like a commander reviewing weak soldiers. “What dress are you going to wear?”

“Black dress,” Minhee says immediately. “I’m doing makeup to go with a black dress.”

“You say that like there’s only one black dress in here,” Hyunjin mutters, sliding hangers along the rail. “This wardrobe is fifty percent pilates, thirty percent black dresses, twenty percent fairy nonsense.”

“Fairy nonsense is a valid genre,” you say.

“It is when you wear it,” Hyunjin says. “When I wear it, I look like I’m trying to seduce a haunted forest.”

Minhee cups your chin and tilts your face gently towards the mirror. “Stop talking, baby. Your mouth is being stained.”

“I can talk with my lips still.”

“You absolutely fucking cannot.”

Minhee works with terrifying focus, blending soft brown shadow through your crease, then sharpening a precise black wing into place with a hand so steady it looks almost surgical. Champagne highlight catches in the inner corners of your eyes, false wispy lashes flutter into place, and a deep berry stain settles over your lips before she slicks gloss over the top. She taps highlighter across your cheekbones and collarbones, then leans back with a satisfied hum.

“You look expensive,” she says.

“I’m wearing underwear.”

“Exactly. Expensive people are always half naked and moisturised.”

Hyunjin pulls out a black mini dress and holds it up with hope in her eyes. Minhee turns her head slowly. “Do you want to send our baby out looking like a basic bitch?”

Hyunjin shoves it back into the wardrobe like it has personally embarrassed her, then pulls out a simple maxi dress.

“No,” Minhee says before Hyunjin can even turn around.

“You didn’t look properly.”

“I felt it spiritually and rejected it.”

Hyunjin huffs and digs deeper until her hand lands on a dress bag pushed carefully to the side. “Oh. Oh, this one.”

You turn your head. “No.”

Minhee’s eyes gleam. “Yes.”

“It’s way too booby.”

“It’s the right amount of booby.”

“It shows the inner curve.”

“That’s called romance.”

“It cost too much, and I still haven’t finished paying it off.”

“Even better,” Hyunjin says, unzipping the bag like she is unveiling a royal treasure. “Chrissy-unnie should witness the consequences of credit card debt.”

You sigh softly, but you take the dress bag when Minhee hands it to you. “If I fall out of it, I’m blaming both of you.”

“If you fall out of it,” Minhee says, helping you step carefully into the gown, “Chrissy Bang will ascend to a higher plane, and Escape will need a new owner.”

Hyunjin pulls the back into place while Minhee adjusts the halter panels over your chest with brisk professionalism, the inner curve of your breasts visible in a way that makes Hyunjin mutter, “Jesus Christ, lesbianism is a blessing.” When Hyunjin zips the dress, the open back settles low, thin straps crossing cleanly across your upper back, the fabric dipping just above the top of your ass before the skirt falls in a smooth, fluid column to the floor.

Minhee and Hyunjin burst into applause.

You blink at them in the mirror. “That feels excessive.”

Minhee points at the ceiling. “God, you greedy bitch, you really put your whole pussy into making this one.”

Hyunjin presses a hand to her heart. “I’m not even dating you, and I feel like I should send flowers.”

“You’re both being strange.”

“We’re being correct,” Minhee says, kneeling to help you into black strappy stilettos. “Give me your foot, Cinderella, but make it Seoul and slightly slutty.”

Hyunjin clips a faux diamond necklace around your throat, then carefully fastens waterfall earrings that brush delicately against your neck. Minhee adds the matching bracelet, then hands you the silver rhinestone clutch with all the solemnity of passing over a sacred weapon.

“You look like you’re about to bankrupt a casino and make a woman rethink her entire attachment style,” Hyunjin says.

“I’m only going to a charity event.”

“Same thing with richer people,” Minhee says.

You study yourself in the mirror, fingers grazing the side cutout. “Is it too much?”

Hyunjin’s expression softens immediately. “It’s a lot because you’re allowed to be a lot.”

Minhee nods, still adjusting the fall of the skirt. “You look gorgeous. Also, if Chrissy acts like a dog, I’m muzzling her with my own hands.”

“Please don’t threaten my date before I leave.”

“She’s my boss, I’m allowed.”

Hyunjin taps your shoulder. “Hair now.”

She sits you back in front of the vanity, grabs a big round brush and a hair dryer, and begins sectioning your hair with the concentration of someone trying to build architecture out of strands. The dryer hums to life, warm air moving through the room as she works the brush through your hair, lifting at the roots and rolling the ends into a soft, glossy blowout. Minhee hovers beside you, touching up your gloss, sharpening the highlight on your collarbones, and muttering about symmetry like she is preparing you for a royal portrait.

You sit still through it all, calm and dreamy, hands folded in your lap, while your two flatmates orbit around you with pins, brushes, spray, and affection disguised as bullying. From the doorway, Soonie appears and stares at you like he has concerns about your exposed shoulders.

Minhee points at him. “Don’t even think about shedding on the dress.”

Soonie meows, and you smile faintly. “He says I look nice.”

Hyunjin aims the hair dryer away from your face. “He says Chrissy-unnie better behave or he’ll piss in her shoes.”

Minhee nods. “A feminist ally.”

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Chrissy is outside your apartment building, leaning against her Aston Martin DB12 Volante like she has been staged there by a luxury car advert aimed specifically at women with taste and weak knees. The convertible roof is down, because apparently subtlety died before Chrissy got dressed, and she keeps checking her phone every two seconds because Minhee and Hyunjin have decided psychological warfare is the correct pre-date ritual. Her strapless black lace corset top is doing heroic work, structured cups and sheer floral lace making her breasts look like they’re threatening to spill out if she breathes too confidently. High-waisted black wide-leg trousers sharpen her waist, leopard-print pointed heels clash perfectly with the leopard clutch in her hand, gold hoops glow against her jaw, and her slicked-back platinum hair looks criminal under the streetlights. Her makeup is all smoky brown eyes, dark liner, and deep glossy brown lips, which should make her feel powerful, except right now she is being bullied by text message.

Yuri Yearner: She looks unreal. Fake Nonchalanter: Like actually unreal. Chrissy: Describe the dress or stop texting me. Yuri Yearner: Black. Chrissy: Hyunjin-ah, I swear to God. Fake Nonchalanter: Expensive black. Chrissy: Minhee-yah, I hope Jisu forgets how to use her hands and tongue. Fake Nonchalanter: That was lesbiphobia. Yuri Yearner: Her back is out. Chrissy: How out? Yuri Yearner: Emotionally damagingly out. Fake Nonchalanter: Don’t be a slut when you see her. Chrissy: Too late. I was born one. Fake Nonchalanter: We know. That’s the problem.

There is a soft beep from the apartment building entrance, and Chrissy looks up as she slips her phone into her pocket. Then you step outside, and Chrissy is entirely certain she dies, meets every queer ancestor in heaven, gets judged for her search history, and is sent back down because her date has only just started.

You emerge in a black floor-length gown that wraps high around your neck like a sleek scarf before dropping into two wide panels framing a deep plunge, the cutout long and narrow enough to show the inner curve of your breasts with an elegance that still feels absolutely dangerous. The fabric crosses and ruches through your midsection, side cutouts exposing your ribs and waist, while the skirt skims down your body in a smooth column that pools slightly behind you.

When you turn to check the door has shut, Chrissy sees exactly what Hyunjin meant by emotionally damaging. The back is low, open, and held by thin straps across your upper back, stopping just above the top of your ass in a way that makes Chrissy’s soul leave her body for a second time.

You walk towards her in strappy black stilettos, silver rhinestone clutch in hand, faux diamonds glittering at your ears, throat, and wrist. Your makeup is soft and luminous, brown shadow, black winged liner, champagne highlight, fluttery lashes, deep berry glossy lips, and highlighter catching along your cheekbones and collarbones. You look calm. You look dreamy. You look like you have absolutely no idea that Chrissy is fighting for her fucking life.

“Hello, Chrissy-unnie,” you say.

Chrissy opens her mouth, determined to be smooth. “Hello.”

“You look very attractive.”

“You look very fuckable,” Chrissy blurts.

For one horrifying moment, her entire bloodstream freezes. Then you beam at her, warm and pleased. “Thank you.”

Chrissy internally kicks herself so hard she imagines her own spirit bouncing off the bonnet. “I meant beautiful.”

“I know,” you say, serene as ever. “Fuckable is also a compliment.”

Chrissy stares at you for half a second before deciding that if she survives tonight, she deserves a medal. She opens the passenger door for you, offering her hand as you gather the skirt and lower yourself into the seat. She gently tucks the end of the dress into the footwell so it doesn’t catch in the door, closes it with careful hands, then walks around to the driver’s side and settles in, trying to look like a woman who has not just considered proposing outside a residential building.

You glance around the car as Chrissy starts it. “This is an expensive car, right?”

Chrissy nods, pulling smoothly away from the kerb. “It’s my way of asserting that I’m a rich, successful woman in a patriarchal society.”

You giggle, soft and bright, and Chrissy tightens her hand on the wheel because that noise is more dangerous than traffic. By the time you arrive at the posh hotel hosting the casino night fundraiser, Chrissy is proud of herself for not crashing an Aston Martin in the name of sapphic distraction.

She climbs out first, hands her keys to the valet, then comes around as you carefully step out. When she offers her arm, you take it, fingers resting in the crook of her elbow, and the two of you ascend the steps together. Your shoulder brushes hers, your jewellery catching the light, and Chrissy can already see a few older business types inside turning their heads with expressions like they’ve seen a scandal walk in on stilettos.

You lean closer and whisper, “Won’t the older business people be offended?”

Chrissy lowers her voice. “They can be offended by two queer women on a date all they like, and we’ll ignore them.”

You nod, reassured by the simplicity of this philosophy, as the two of you enter a ballroom that looks like Las Vegas has possessed central Seoul. There are roulette wheels, poker tables, black and gold draping, glittering chandeliers, waiters carrying champagne, and enough dramatic decoration to make the charity element feel almost shy.

“Omo,” you whisper. “How much did they spend to decorate this?”

“An obscene amount they could have donated to charity themselves, but rich people can’t do charitable work without press and big names involved.”

“Doesn’t that make the good deed redundant?” you ask, eyes moving over the room. “They’re raising money for charity, but only because it gets good press, so they’re really doing it for themselves. They’re not donating directly. They’re using other people’s money.”

“Ironic, isn’t it? The true philanthropists of the modern age are ignored because rich people bring in big names.” Chrissy writes her name and donation amount on a clipboard near the entrance.

You cough when you see the number. “Chrissy-unnie.”

“What?”

“That is many zeros.”

“That’s how donation amounts work.”

The woman at the table hands Chrissy two bags of chips, and Chrissy tucks them into her clutch, leaving it bulging in a deeply inelegant way. You stare at the clutch, then at her. “Your leopard bag looks pregnant.”

“She’s carrying wealth.”

“That sounds like something a villain would say.”

“I’m a hot villain, though.”

“Yes.” You look around the ballroom. “Where do we even start?”

“Hm. There’s blackjack, roulette, high-roller poker, baccarat, a silent auction, and a luxury raffle. Oh, and they also do a jewellery draw. You donate, draw a random box or bag, and it’s some big designer brand.”

“I see a bar.”

“Perfect. Drinks first.”

Chrissy guides you to the bar and picks up a black and gold menu, holding it between you so your shoulders brush. You scan the cocktails, then look personally wounded. “There’s no Everyone’s Hot, Send Help.”

“Tragic, I know. I think I’ll have an omija gin fizz.”

You hum. “I’ll have a bokbunja royale.”

Chrissy grimaces. “Wine?”

“Black raspberry wine and champagne. I bet it’s really fancy champagne, not the 25,000 won knock-offs me, Minhee-unnie, and Hyunjin-unnie drink.”

Chrissy snorts and waves the bartender down. Once the drinks are made, you both turn to survey the room with glasses in hand. Chrissy’s free hand settles on your waist, warm and casual, and almost immediately, she spots an elderly man staring like she has personally insulted his lineage.

“Oh, disgusted ahjussi number one already spotted.”

You giggle and wiggle your fingers at him and he looks away so fast Chrissy nearly cheers. You head to the poker table together, and Chrissy stacks some chips from her clutch. “You want in?”

“No, I don’t really know how to play. I’ll watch like a Bond girl.”

“Oh, so I’m Bond?”

You shrug. “A much sexier Bond.”

Chrissy preens so visibly that one of the men at the table looks annoyed. She sits as her two hole cards are dealt face down, then pats her lap. You glance at her, then settle there with careful grace, crossing your legs as if sitting on a woman’s lap at a charity poker table is a perfectly normal educational choice.

“I thought you needed five cards in poker,” you say.

“These are the starting cards. I look, see if I want to match the current pool, raise, or fold. Unless the two cards are horrendous, most people match or raise in the first bet. The key is keeping a poker face.”

You whisper, “Like Lady Gaga?”

“Exactly.”

Chrissy places one palm against your back while picking up her cards with the other. She looks, reveals nothing, and matches the pool. The dealer places three community cards face up, leading to another round of betting, and Chrissy watches the table with a blank, almost bored expression before matching again.

“This game is luck and bluffing,” Chrissy says quietly.

You hum. “I’m not allowed to play Go Fish anymore.”

Chrissy glances up. “Why?”

You lean closer and whisper, “I can count the cards,” then tap your temple.

Chrissy looks at you with open delight. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Lick my elbow.”

Chrissy laughs, startling the man beside her as the fourth card is placed, and one man doubles the pool with a sweaty bravado that immediately makes Chrissy’s mouth twitch. She matches him. You glance at the chips, eyes widening slightly. “That’s a lot of money.”

“He’s got jackshit. He’s hoping to bluff people.”

“How do you know?”

“I own a business. You have to read body language.”

“He is sweating a lot.”

“He’s also touching his collar every three seconds and avoiding eye contact with the cards. Amateur hour.”

The fifth and final community card is placed. Chrissy doubles the pot, three people fold, and a few match her, including the sweaty man who now looks like his soul is leaving through his pores. Cards go down around the table, groans and murmurs following, and then Chrissy reveals her hand with elegant cruelty.

You stare at the cards. “Did you win?”

“Yeah. Hands are ranked. Royal flush is the best hand you can have in poker.”

“So what happens now?”

“All those chips are mine.”

You offer your silver clutch wordlessly, and Chrissy drops a load in, both of you laughing as the rhinestone bag immediately becomes significantly less delicate and more like a glamorous brick.

“The chips are also currency here,” Chrissy says as you stand. “If you want to enter the jewellery draw, raffle, or silent auction, you can use them.”

“Ah.”

“Feeling like some pretty jewellery?”

“What? No, I’m not-”

Chrissy leads you to the jewellery draw before you can finish and hands the woman some chips. Then she gestures to the displayed boxes and bags. “Go on. Pick a bag.”

You blink at her, then select a pretty blue bag from the table. Chrissy nods towards it, and you pull out a Bulgari jewellery box. When you open it, the necklace inside gleams under the ballroom lights, white gold and pavé diamonds arranged like a coiled serpent, geometric segments resembling scales, the front gathering into a serpent’s head that appears to bite the connecting point, with a tapered diamond drop hanging beneath like a tail.

Your eyes go wide. “Oh.”

Then you find the receipt in the bag, and your expression becomes alarmingly blank as you read the price. “162,231,834 won.”

Chrissy plucks the receipt from your fingers. “It’s donated by rich people who don’t need it. The receipt is just in case of damage or resizing needs.”

“That’s a house deposit in jewellery form.”

“In some areas, maybe half a house deposit.”

“Chrissy-unnie.”

“What?”

“Hyunjin’s going to jump me to get a turn wearing it.”

Chrissy removes your current necklace carefully, then drapes the new one around your neck and attaches it at the front. Her fingers brush your skin, and your breath catches just enough for her to notice. The Serpenti necklace sits against you like it belongs there, diamonds glinting between the black halter panels of your gown.

“Hyunjin will do no such thing. If I hear her grubby fingers pinched this, I’ll tell Chaebin about her yearning.”

“This is too much.”

“You’re a woman who suits diamonds. Besides, I didn’t donate that much in chips.”

“How much?”

“Nope. You’ll never know. Accept the gift as a thank you for mending my vanity muscle focus.”

You giggle, touching the necklace lightly. “That sounds like a medical condition.”

“It was. You cured me.”

“I did not. You still lift your shoulder during supine twists.”

Chrissy sighs. “Romance is dead.”

The back room has quieter booths, dimmer lighting, and fewer scandalised rich people, so Chrissy suggests moving there. You take her arm and let her guide you through, your dress whispering against the floor, the necklace glittering at your throat. Once you settle into a booth together, a waiter comes over to take your drinks order, and you both choose the same as before.

Chrissy leans back once he leaves. “So, how’s the date going so far?”

“It’s amazing,” you say, and then you lean in and press a kiss to Chrissy’s cheek.

Chrissy’s grin spreads slowly, helplessly. “Yeah?”

“Yes. You’re very nice.”

“Nice?”

“And attractive. And you bought me a snake necklace worth an insane amount of won, which is alarming, but thoughtful.”

Chrissy points past you. “Ooh, look. Scandalised old person number two.”

You turn, then point to a woman near the doorway. “And there’s number three.”

Chrissy waves cheerfully at both offended older people, then turns back to you. “I think I need to rebleach and tone my hair.”

You hum, immediately examining her hair with professional attention. You reach up and touch one of the loose pale strands near her face. “Aish. How many times have you bleached your hair?”

“Uh, consistently since I was seventeen and realised I am sexy with colours that aren’t my natural colour.” You tut, and Chrissy straightens. “That sounded ominous.”

“Any more bleach and your hair will resemble beautifully blonde straw.”

“A crisis.”

You nod solemnly. “But if you still want a dye fix, a healthy dye without bleach or ammonia would be fine.”

“I’ve been blue, red, silver, pink. I’ve had multishade hair.”

“What about purple?”

Chrissy pauses. “You think?”

“You’re bisexual. You’ve done blue and pink. All that’s left to complete the flag is purple.”

Chrissy grins. “Will you dye my hair for me?”

“Sure. I can give you some more layers for volume too. Especially because you have a mullet look going on. I think it needs more layering.”

“You think I’ll look good purple?”

“You’re very attractive. I think you’d be hard pressed to find a colour you couldn’t pull off.”

“Neon green?”

You grimace. “You’d look like one of the aliens from Toy Story.”

Chrissy snorts, then wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you a little closer in the booth. You lean into her touch easily, taking a sip of your drink like you are not detonating her entire future with one small movement. Chrissy looks at you, at the diamonds around your throat, at the soft curve of your smile, at the way you fit against her without hesitation, and she knows without a doubt that she is going to marry you.

The thought arrives with terrifying clarity, utterly ridiculous and completely certain. She sees Australia, sunlight, a beach wedding, because same-sex marriage still is not legally recognised in South Korea, her Australian-Korean citizenship suddenly feeling like a romantic plot device instead of paperwork. She imagines you barefoot in white, laughing softly while Minhee sobs into Jisu’s shoulder and Hyunjin threatens to throw herself into the ocean because Chaebin looks good in formalwear. She imagines rings, vows, all that gay stuff she used to pretend was too sentimental for her.

You glance up. “Why are you smiling like that?”

Chrissy looks down at you, arm warm around your shoulders, and decides not to say any of that yet because it is a first date and she does still possess some survival instinct. “I was thinking purple hair might make me hotter.”

You nod, serious as anything. “It might.”

Chrissy laughs, presses her cheek lightly against the side of your head, and thinks, fuck, I’m absolutely ruined.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Thirteen months later, Escape feels less like a bar you visit and more like a strange, neon-lit second home that happens to serve cocktails with names that would make most grandmothers faint. You sit in the staff booth with Han Jisu, dividers down so the two of you can watch the monthly talent show while drinking and heckling with your eyes.

You are closer to Jisu now, mostly because you spend so much time here, but also because your original opportunities for friendship had been limited by the fact that whenever Jisu came over to your apartment, you and Hyunjin usually pulled on shoes and fled the apartment before Minhee and Jisu could start their volume-uncontrolled kinky sex terrorism. Chrissy had given you a key two months into dating, which means your escape plan has become much more comfortable than the old one, when you and Hyunjin used to drive aimlessly around Seoul until Minhee texted an all-clear.

You are wearing the mesh mini dress Chrissy bought you because she said it looked like fairy wings if fairies had excellent taste and a dangerous boyfriend budget, though you reminded her she is not a boyfriend, and she replied that girlfriend didn’t have the same comedic weight in that sentence. The dress is fitted, semi-sheer, and covered in soft abstract butterfly-wing colours, blue, sage, rust, orange, yellow, and charcoal, the front tied with thin closures that create cutouts over your chest, waist, and stomach. Clear chunky platform heels lift you slightly, your hair is swept into a fluffy tousled bun with curled pieces framing your face, and muted olive, warm brown, and rust shadows soften your eyes. Around your neck sits the Bulgari Serpenti Viper necklace from your first date, white gold and pavé diamonds coiling like a snake, matched now by the Serpenti Viper hoop earrings Chrissy gave you for your one-year anniversary.

Jisu eyes the jewellery, then looks back at the stage where someone is juggling three limes with the haunted confidence of a person who has never once feared consequences. “You’re lucky Chrissy-unnie is built, because you’re walking around in almost three hundred million won worth of Bulgari diamonds.”

You hum in agreement. “I know. Hyunjin still asks to wear them while pretending she’s asking as a joke.”

“She’d sell Minhee’s cats for a turn.”

“Minhee would kill her.”

“Soonie would survive. He’s too heavy to move quickly.”

Chrissy appears a moment later, sliding into the booth beside you while adjusting herself so she can still see the bar, the stage, the door, and Chaebin’s position in one glance. Innie and Felicity had been in the booth ten minutes ago but disappeared for a “smoke break”, despite the fact that neither of them smokes and Felicity only vapes when she’s drunk enough to call it “mist”.

Chrissy looks ridiculous in the best way, oversized black leather blazer over a crisp white button-up and slim black tie, black leather trousers fitted through the hips before flaring at the bottom, chunky black platforms planted beneath the table. Her hair is vivid cool-toned purple with lavender highlights now, shaggy layered mullet maintained by your hands. The tiny gold butterfly bracelet you gave her glints at her wrist when she wraps one arm around your waist.

You drape your legs over her lap, settling into her like it is instinct, and she strokes your side with a slow thumb. Jisu watches the two of you with theatrical disgust. “I can’t believe pilates is what finally tamed Chrissy Bang.”

You smile, then look towards the stage as the lime juggler is replaced by someone attempting a backbend with frightening ambition. “Omo, they’re going to pull a muscle.”

Chrissy raises one eyebrow, watching the person wobble with about the same amount of flexibility she had before three months of pilates humbled her into a new woman. “That spine has not signed the consent form for what they’re trying to do.”

You and Jisu both cover your eyes, peeking through your fingers, but fortunately Seungmi steps onto the stage with her clipboard and politely prevents a public neck-breaking. The audience claps anyway, because Escape supports queer delusion until it becomes a medical emergency.

“You should get up there, Y/N-ah,” Jisu says.

You hum. “It would be unfair. I’ve trained my whole life to do a talent.”

“Everyone would be impressed.”

“I’m not wearing safety shorts.”

Chrissy grins against your shoulder. “Or panties.”

Jisu makes a face. “Disgusting.”

You look at her calmly. “I don’t think you have a place to complain when I’ve caught you and Minhee fingerbanging each other in this booth, and I don’t feel like I even need to bring up the loud sex you and Minhee have in the apartment.”

“You just brought it up.”

You lightly tap your mouth with one finger, smiling slyly. “Oops.”

Minhee slides into the booth with the energy of a woman who has been personally victimised by employment. “I have my break now. Seungmi’s covering me on the bar because the person who was supposed to cover my break needed to be with her girlfriend.” She shoots a pointed look at Chrissy.

Chrissy shrugs shamelessly. “I’m emotionally attached.”

Jisu immediately climbs into Minhee’s lap, and Minhee’s grumpy face softens so fast it’s embarrassing for everyone watching. The four of you turn back to the stage as two girlfriends start butchering IU with loving sincerity and absolutely no pitch stability. Minhee winces. “Aish, we need to vet some people first.”

You and Jisu clap along supportively while Chrissy touches her ears. “Jagiya, are my ears bleeding?”

You whack her arm lightly with the back of your hand. “Be nice, yeobo. Not everyone had idol-level training like you.”

“There’s training, there’s talent, and then there’s strangled cats.”

You give her an unimpressed look, so she immediately starts clapping along, though she winces at every destroyed high note like each one removes a year from her life.

Minhee suddenly makes a noise of disgust. “Eugh.”

Everyone follows her line of sight to where Hyunjin and Chaebin are near the door, flirting in the most excruciating way possible. Hyunjin is laughing too hard at something Chaebin says, and Chaebin is pretending not to look pleased while leaning one arm against the wall.

“This is ridiculous,” Chrissy says. “We’ll all be old age pensioners before those two finally get together.”

Minhee cups one hand around her mouth. “Fucking kiss already!”

Hyunjin and Chaebin both look over instantly. Everyone in the booth looks around with exaggerated innocence, including Minhee, who is literally still facing them.

Jisu pats Minhee’s thigh. “Subtle, jagi.”

“I’m helping.”

“You’re heckling,”

Minhee sips her water as if she has done nothing wrong, while Jisu starts telling her about two wannabe influencers who came into the ER the day before, after trying to film a viral challenge. “One of them kept asking if the lighting in the treatment room was good for a story,” Jisu says. “I told her the only story she needed to post was an apology to her coccyx.”

While they talk, Chrissy leans closer and whispers filthy things in your ear, low enough that only you can hear. “When we get home, I’m peeling this dress off you carefully because I bought it and I respect craftsmanship, but after that, jagiya, I’m putting you on the kitchen counter and finding out how many times I can make those pretty legs shake before you ask me nicely to carry you to bed.”

You giggle into your cocktail before Chrissy’s mouth brushes your ear again. “And if you call me yeobo in that soft little voice while I’m between your thighs, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

Jisu snaps her gaze to you both. “Stop foreplaying verbally at the table.”

Chrissy leans back as if innocent. “Oh right. Minhee-yah, we have something to talk to you and Hyunjin-ah about.”

Your eyes widen, and you subtly shake your head, but Minhee clocks it immediately. Her expression hardens with protective suspicion. “What is it?”

Chrissy clears her throat. “Y/N-ah and I were talking, and also talked with Chaebin.”

“No,” Minhee says instantly. “I know what you’re going to say. Absolutely not.”

“But then there’s space in your apartment for Jisu-yah.”

“And you want to take my baby away?”

“We’ll still see each other nearly every day,” you say gently.

“Only nearly every day?”

Jisu strokes Minhee’s hair. “Jagi, deep breaths.”

Minhee points at Chrissy. “You are stealing my bendy baby.”

Chrissy raises both hands. “It also means me and Y/N-ah can have sex without you trying to strap-block me.”

You nod. “That is a practical benefit.”

Minhee looks betrayed by your agreement, before she sighs, dramatic and wounded. “If you ever upset my Y/N-ah, even over redecoration choices, I will skin you alive and feed you to my cats.”

“They’re definitely fat enough to devour a whole human.”

“They’re big-boned!”

“Yeah, my bad. Big-boned.”

Minhee narrows her eyes. “We’ll keep your room as a guest room, because Jisu will move in with me. I mandate four sleepovers a month or else I won’t approve this.”

“Okay, unnie.”

“And you visit Soonie frequently. I don’t want him getting depressed.”

“That furry land seal will cope just fine,” Chrissy says.

“He is not fat. He is big-boned and well-loved.”

“He jumped on my chest in the night when I stayed over in Y/N-ah’s bed, and I thought I was going to see the pearly gay gates.”

Minhee clicks her tongue, nudges Jisu off gently, then shoves Chrissy just enough to clamber over her and hug you like you are moving continents instead of ten minutes away. “Four sleepovers a month, and you come over for dinner at least twice a week every week.”

You let her cling to you, stroking her back with one hand while sipping your drink with the other. “Yes, unnie.”

Felicity and Innie return then, Felicity glowing suspiciously and Innie looking far too proud of herself. Jisu takes one look at them. “The back alley? Really?”

Felicity smirks, entirely shameless, and Innie shrugs. “She looked too good.”

“One day you’re going to kneel on a shard of glass or something in the name of cunnilingus,” Chrissy says.

“And I’ll eat pussy through the pain,” Innie replies.

Felicity glances at Minhee, who is still latched around you. “Why is Minhee-unnie attached to Y/N-ah?”

“She’s leaving,” Minhee whispers forlornly.

“Don’t say it in the terminally ill tone,” Chrissy says. “Jesus, Minhee-yah.”

“A part of me is dying.”

You only smile, cheek pressed lightly against Minhee’s hair, because this is what your life has become. Escape is noisy, filthy, chaotic, full of terrible singing and worse flirting. Hyunjin is still pretending not to pine. Chaebin is still pretending not to enjoy it. Minhee is mourning a move that has not happened yet while Jisu prepares to take your room. Felicity and Innie are glowing from alley-based crimes, Seungmi is judging everyone with a clipboard, and Chrissy is beside you, purple-haired, ridiculous, beautiful, and yours.

Chrissy catches your gaze over Minhee’s shoulder and mouths, “My place later?”

You mouth back, “Our place.”

Her face softens first, then breaks into a grin so bright it could power the neon signs above the bar. Minhee squeezes you tighter and mutters something about betrayal, Jisu laughs, someone on stage starts singing off-key again, and you sit there in the middle of all of it, calm and happy, knowing you have found your loud, strange, glittering place to land.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

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