Birthday present for good friend Puppy. Honestly, and I think you’ve heard me say this enough times, you played as inspiration for this baefany (and everything else really). You are the muse to this story and I’m happy to give you this as a present (sorry for the delay). So this is for you.

 

And for everyone else, hope you like it.

 

/

                                                  

She inhales the comforting aroma of fabric softener, feeling her heart swell at the scent, cozying up in her chest like tender silk and warm blankets. Her body motions are automatic as she filters the clothes out one by one into a basket, pulling in a new batch from the washer to place into the dryer again.

 

It was nice to finally be at home, away from the busy streets of Seoul and back to her familiar basement in her parent's house, doing laundry.

 

Streams of light spill across her lap from the windowsill as she folds the apparels, humming a tune to a song Irene knows but have forgotten the words to as she settles her father’s green t-shirt beside her.

 

She moves on to her mother’s favorite red sweater, neatly straightening out the creases as the fractured rays play as her light, providing a somber view of her basement that hasn’t changed since she’d first been recruited as a trainee.

 

She sighs, puffs of relief leaving her lips, blissfully content – doing laundry is so much fun, she thinks, whiffs of the detergent keeping her chest warm and comfortable.

 

Creeeak.

 

Irene jumps, startled at the sound of shrieking wood, her mother’s head popping in through the doorway with a smile written across her face.

 

"Hyun-ah,” her hair is tousled; loose strands falling over her expression, “I didn't know you had a pretty friend coming over,”

 

She nearly topples the new pile next to her, elbow bumping against its side that Irene reaches out clumsily to keep them from falling, surprise lining her limbs as she steadies the rocky mountain of clean clothes, peering over her shoulder at her mother’s amused look.

 

Irene was sure she didn't announce her arrival in Daegu (preferring to keep discreet and quiet over her break) – and she definitely didn’t arrange to meet any of her friends either.

 

Her brows crinkle; mind playing with the list of potential candidates she considers ‘friends’.

 

"What pretty friend, mom?" She asks in her native dialect, already crossing off a few of the people she knew couldn’t be the one in her head – can’t be Seulgi, Yerim, or Sooyoung since they’re staying with their parents; maybe Seungwan? Since her family’s in Canada?

 

Irene snaps out of her thoughts as her mother urges her to move, leaving the doorway so she could shove Irene through it,

 

"How about you go greet her and find out?”

 

Irene stumbles up the stairs, her mother's hands the only thing keeping her from falling backwards as she guides – practically pushes – her up the steps. She would’ve mistaken her mother’s odd urgency for excitement if it weren’t for the fact that her mother never got giddy over anything.

 

“Now,” her mother pats her back, tapping expert palms against the space between her shoulders, “I’ll be at the kitchen okay?”

 

Before Irene even gets to turn her head at her mother’s words, she’s already scurrying off, leaving her by the door; confusion crawling into her mind in wisps of smoke her mother left behind.

 

Her mother’s gotten weirder since she left. Irene’s not sure if it’s a good thing.

 

Returning her focus towards the door, Irene checks the side window, tentatively lifting a portion of the curtain to see who came by, but the visitor – a woman, has her back turned.

 

Almost timidly, Irene peers out from the door, making sure the squeaking wood is muffled by gentle fingers, scrutinizing the silent figure. Long ebony cascades down the woman’s back in waves, smooth like rhythmic water. Their heights aren’t that different – though Irene won’t acknowledge the few extra inches she’s envious of in the other woman.

 

Her grey hoodie looks oddly familiar though – same with the pink shoulder bag. 

 

Irene clears , "Um, excuse me?" she calls out quietly, settling back into her Seoul dialect simply because it was more universal.

 

Shock plasters her face, her fingers sliding from the doorknob to settle beside her limply when the woman turns her head at her voice, her eyes curving into those signature crescent moons she’s so well known for.

 

"... S-Sunbaenim?"

 

Tiffany smiles – deep red lipstick, her eyes disappearing and Irene still vaguely remembers needing to close .

 

"Hey," she says simply.

 

Irene's brain must be malfunctioning because why hasn't she moved past the fact that her sunbaenim was here? And why did her greeting sound so casual like this was a normal occurrence?

 

Irene blinks, forgetting that is still open until Tiffany's slim finger slides it up from beneath her chin, finally closing it shut. Irene blushes at her sunbae's amused grin and twinkling eyes.

 

"If you keep that up I'll end up counting the number of teeth you have again," She chuckles, pulling back and giving Irene space to breathe. Since when did she even hold her breath to begin with?

 

Irene blinks three times; the first to register the reality that Tiffany is really here, twice just for good measure, and the last to recall that she must be the pretty friend her mom was talking about.

 

"Hyun-ah, staring isn't very nice." Irene jumps again at her mother's appearance, holding a hand to her chest as Tiffany bows in greeting. "I told you she was pretty though, didn't I?"

 

"M-mom,"

 

Irene manages to stumble over the introductions, stuttering things like, ‘My sunbaenim', 'Girls’ Generation', and 'Takes good care of me', that her mom laughs and tugs Tiffany's wrist to usher her in, leaving Irene by the doorway to close it.

 

"She sounds great dear, so why haven't we invited her in yet?"

 

As soon as they disappear around the corridor, Irene slaps her forehead at her lack of mannerisms. She apologizes once she reaches Tiffany, remaining bemused by her mother's fussing.

 

She lowers her head a little as she sits beside her, mumbling, "Sorry for making you stand outside, sunbaenim..."

 

Tiffany hushes her with a hand on her head, patting it gently.

 

"Don't apologize okay? And no need to be so formal. We're on vacation, after all."

 

Irene lifts her head to look at her, a shy smile playing the corners of her lips. She merely nods as Tiffany brings her hand back.

 

"How about we start by calling me 'unnie'?"

 

Irene doesn't think she should. Tiffany is from Girls’ Generation. The girl group of Korea; and her sunbaenim. Why would she call her anything else but her respective title?

 

Irene waves a dismissive hand, shaking her head.

 

"That's okay. I'm used to calling you sunbaenim anyway,"

 

Tiffany sends her a pout and suddenly Irene isn’t sure why she's thinking it's cute. ...Not that her sunbaenim couldn't be cute of course, but that was beside the point.

 

Somewhere between talking about their senior-junior relationship to Tiffany sharing similar interests like the color pink with her mother, it has somehow been settled that Tiffany's staying for the three days that they're on vacation in her house. In her room. In her bed.

 

When it finally registers, Irene spits out water, choking out what's left and burns the brightest red that would put her family's tomato garden to shame.

 

Tiffany's patting her back and her mother is burning holes through her forehead.

 

"I can just stay at a hotel, so..."

 

"Oh no no no, dear, you're staying here and I'm not taking no for an answer."

 

Irene's rather surprised at her mother's persistence, but she can't question her (at least, not in front of sunbaenim) until she can pull her away from curious brown eyes.

 

Tiffany's looking at her, the curve of her lips managing to be a culmination of helpless, apologetic, and excited, all at once. Irene's not sure how to feel about that.

 

Taking her silence as a cue for 'go ahead I'm certainly not objecting', her mother claps her hands together and shrieks in delight.

 

"Okay Hyun-ah, go show her your room and I'll prepare the tastiest dinner tonight."

 

As if in a daze, Irene mutely nods her head, standing up slowly, ushering Tiffany to follow her into the hallway with a nervous smile. As soon as she faces forward, her expression hidden from the older woman's view, Irene bites her lip in worry.

 

It's not like she minds her sunbaenim sharing a room with her (it'd literally be equivalent to sharing a room with her members, considering she knew them just as long as she did her sunbaenim), it's just that she's in the presence of the sunbaenim. Girls' Generation. Now, that wouldn't have been a big deal either (she knew them well enough that they were practically family, and what with the occasional sleepovers at the sunbaenims’ dorm) but how was she going to get any sleep if a Girls’ Generation member was sleeping in her bed, right next to her?

 

The bed isn’t made to fit two people. What is her mother thinking?

 

Once she shows Tiffany her room, she makes up a lame excuse to talk to her mother. “Checking on mom because she's getting old,” and hurries out, strides so fast that she whizzes past her father who's busy reading a newspaper that it flies out of his hands and she has to pick it up and return it to him.

 

Once she makes it back into the kitchen, her mother humming to a song in her head, Girls’ Generation’s Party, Irene nudges her ribs as soon as she settles beside her.

 

"Really, mom?" Is all Irene says, frowning as her mother continues to chop carrots, seemingly unperturbed.

 

"Yes really. It'll be like all the sleepovers you said you had with them before,"

 

"But that's different," Irene's lips form tighter, crossing into a pout.

 

"Different how?"

 

"We're sleeping in the same bed, mom."

 

"So? You've always been quite the cuddling type, so I think it works out just fine."

 

Irene goes weak in the knees for a completely different reason.

 

"Wait – but mom,"

 

She hushes her with a look, the knife pausing briefly mid-air before cutting away at the carrot again.

 

"Hyun-ah, we're not going to make a Girls’ Generation member sleep on the couch.” She quips, pouring the mountain of diced carrots into a bowl, “And a hotel is a no-no, because she should be able to sleep in a home once in a while, right?" Her smile is small and all-knowing, even with the tousled strands covering half of her face.

 

Irene’s mouth clicks shut. She can't argue with that.

 

Her mother continues on, the wrinkles crinkling above her brows. Her lips curve wistfully as empathy spills between her teeth.

 

"Nothing is more like home than having family with you,"

 

Irene sees warmth in her eyes, motherly and sincere and affection rises up in her chest. Without words – suddenly anything coherent faded from her lips, Irene wraps her arms around her mother and squeezes, feeling her return the touch with a pat on her head.

 

"Now go make her feel at home, okay?"

 

She nods, cuddling closer, snuggling just a little longer. Irene can smell the signature lilac in her mother’s shampoo – and it opens the dam for tears to spill, as if finally realizing the gravity of being here, away from Seoul.

 

Right. Home.

 

Irene sniffles, rubbing the tears away against her mother’s neck. “… Okay,” and chokes on emotions of having missed home as her mother’s fingers streak her scalp, weak laughter erupting from at her mother’s cooing, “Oh Hyun-ah,”

 

She’s home.

 

/

 

It's so quiet.

 

Despite the gentle whirring of the washing machine murmuring in the background, it's still too silent for Irene. Normally she likes the silence. Revels in it. Sleeps in it even (she's not the type to fall into slumber with music playing), but this is a different type of quiet.

 

This is too quiet.

 

It's the overbearingly awkward quiet where you know you two are the only ones in the room and are capable of making small talk but you aren't because you're not sure if the other likes the silence, doesn't want to talk, or doesn't know what to talk about either.

 

So you're both just there taking up space, breathing the same air, hearing the same sounds, and not acknowledging each others presence despite knowing very well that they're there.

 

And it's killing her.

 

Irene's trying to distract herself with the silence, folding clothes as she waits for the next batch in the dryer to be done. She doesn't ask for assistance because she's a guest and she doesn't want her folding their lingerie (more for her sake than the rest of the family's though - what if Tiffany sees her purple bunny underwear?!)

 

Irene nearly drops the red shirt with a panda on it that her mother loves so much at the mere thought.

 

... Oh god she hopes it wasn't part of any of the newer batches being washed or dried.

 

She just doesn't understand though.

 

Why is Tiffany in the basement watching her do laundry?

 

Right. To make her feel more at home, Irene thinks but it falls flat in her mind. She's always been the type who doesn't know how to keep the conversation going (unless they happen to share the same interests, then it's a lifesaver), so Irene always left that up to her members.

 

She's on her own and it's frightening.

 

Irene normally finds solace in washing her clothes and the smell of laundry detergent. But it's hard to focus on the scent of clean clothes when Tiffany's eyes are following her every motion. Looks like she'll need to add extra fabric softener for a stronger scent to distract her from Tiffany's lingering gaze.

 

By the time she notices the second pile of clothes being placed beside her, and the purple bunny underwear she hoped wasn't anywhere in the room, being folded so calmly by Tiffany right next to her, Irene has enough practice not to squeak a single sound as Tiffany nonchalantly places it in the lingerie batch, before reaching for a blue shirt and folding again.

 

… Since when did Tiffany start helping her anyway?

 

Irene can feel her ears burn hotly at the purple bunny underwear as it stares back up at her with that huge grin on its face.

 

The bunny's lucky it's printed on purple underwear or else it wouldn't be a part of her wardrobe.

 

"Cute," Irene blinks at the sound of Tiffany's voice, the smile evident on her lips. "That yours?"

 

And she can't remember a time more embarrassing than admitting the underwear belongs to her. Her cheeks flush and the warmth sizzles on her face that Tiffany takes her silence as a loud resounding yes.

 

Tiffany chuckling gets Irene hiding behind her hair, her hands making up as extra shields as she covers the red on her face.

 

"It's okay, Joohyun." And Irene doesn’t know why hearing Tiffany say 'it's okay' makes her hide further into her hair, pulling more strands so it even covers her nose. "I said it's cute, didn't I?"

 

Irene lets slip a whine and reddens further at her own childish sound. Thank goodness for long hair, Irene thinks as Tiffany's laugh filters through her ears again, a gentle husky sound that manages to carry both amusement and empathy.

 

When she feels something warm press down tenderly on her head – patting her scalp, Irene peeks out from behind her hair and between slender fingers to see Tiffany smile at her, her eyes shut into a pair of crescent moons.

 

"Cute,"

 

It's not the first time Irene's heard someone call her that. Or pretty. Or beautiful. Or gorgeous.

 

But it's certainly the first time she holds her breath and hears her heart drumming in her ears at the sight of smiling eyes even when she's heard the compliment a thousand times.

 

... Yeah, she definitely needs to buy extra fabric softener.

 

/

 

It’s nighttime.

 

Irene didn’t think she’d dread going to bed as much as she currently was now.

 

Dinner had been great, for the most part. Tiffany blended well with the rest of her family, laughing along to jokes her father said, giving life-long advice to her younger sibling, and talking about the latest trends with her mother. Tiffany practically became family.

 

She didn’t talk much at the table, because Tiffany was far more interesting to listen to, and when she finally did, it was to try to keep her mother quiet about her ‘cuddling’ nature – to no avail.

 

“She’s the cuddle type, that one.” Her mother had smiled at her, beaming white teeth and all, eyes crinkled in mischief at her daughter’s mouth dropping the instant it was out. “All cuddling up like that cute animal… what was it called again?”

 

Irene had muttered under her breath once she got to close from the shock. “…A koala, mom.” She had said shyly, covering her face with her hair again, inwardly groaning at her predicament.

 

Tiffany had laughed beside her, those eyes curving into crescents again that Irene had to put in the effort to look away.

 

Now she’s in the washroom, taking her precious time to think over the lines in her head, making up a script of how things may go once she enters her room. Tiffany’s currently changing into her PJ’s and Irene can’t bring herself to be in the room when she’s doing so.

 

Irene combs back her hair with a hand, a sigh escaping her lips. Her mind’s in a frizz and nothing’s quite working out in her head. Should she be formal? Or more comfortable? She’s supposed to be making her feel at home, right?

 

Irene claws at her scalp. She can’t predict what will happen because she doesn’t actually know her sunbaenim that well.

 

Taeyeon is easier because they share plenty of similar interests. They could talk about laundry, even. Irene knows she can go hours on end about the different types of laundry detergent. But Tiffany sunbaenim? Irene doesn’t actually know much about the girl at all – aside from her love for pink, of course.

 

And her smiling eyes.

 

She feels the blush rising up again.

 

Irene settles for splashing water across her face, repeating it three more times just so she can cool the heat off her skin. When she looks up and sees the reflection of her ears still red, Irene flits her fingers through the strands so it covers it, hiding away from curious eyes and crescent moons.

 

/

 

It’s quiet again.

 

Irene twiddles with her fingers beneath her sleeves; purple and mix of cotton and polyester. They’re in bed together, the mattress barely big enough for the both of them that their arms keep touching from the tiniest movement one would make.

 

She shouldn’t have chosen to wear shorts – seriously. Whenever she tries to get comfortable (her legs like moving), their skin would brush (Tiffany’s wearing shorts too, and that’s something Irene has mixed feelings about) and the heat would rise from her neck to her cheeks.

 

Their legs bump again when she tries to move farther away, give sunbaenim some more space (and her chest too – why is her heart so loud in her ears?), and Irene squeaks her apology for the 14^th time.

 

“…S-sorry sunbaenim,”

 

The air in her room reflects the tension in her stomach, tight and twisting. Irene can practically see the thickness – see the way the awkwardness fogs over them that she can hardly breathe.

 

Tiffany’s low chuckle is rasp and refreshing, cutting away the cloud over them like smooth silk.

 

“You really don’t have to be formal with me,” Tiffany says, the two of them staring aimlessly at the ceiling. Irene tries not to show she’s embarrassed by her glow-in-the-dark-sticker stars that are still plastered on it, fiddling with her fingers beneath her sleeves above her stomach to hide the jitters in her fingers. “And if you keep apologizing like that, the awkwardness might just get bigger if it hasn’t already.”

 

Irene feels inclined to say that it certainly did after silence protrudes the air again following Tiffany’s soft voice – she could even hear the clock on her desk a few feet away ticking by. It’s so loud.

 

Tiffany’s husky chuckles flutter in the silence, “… It got bigger didn’t it?” she says with a lilt in her tone, amused, an apology dancing between each breath.

 

It takes a moment for Tiffany’s words to sink in, the quiet trailing after like wisps of smoke caressing her ears before cradling Irene’s mind and turning the gears in her head.

 

Once it clicks, laughter leaves Irene’s lips faster than her hand could reach to hush it and Irene’s about to apologize too for her behavior, until Tiffany’s voice joins hers and they’re a giggling mess in the tiny dimly lit bedroom.

 

Irene finds it sort of nice – how they’re naturally facing each other now, hushed laughs leaving their throats, strands of hair – brown and black in disarray; molding together like waves crashing between the small distance that keeps them apart.

 

Irene can see despite the weak light of her lamp the crescent curves of Tiffany’s eyes; smiling with a warmth she should be accustomed to already but it somehow still leaves her a little breathless every time.

 

She’s seen it more than she could count – on TV, at music shows, in practice rooms – Irene has seen it enough times that she could picture it in her mind even, and it would still be capable of wringing her lungs of oxygen and squeezing the air out of her lips.

 

When their laughter dwindles to soft giggles and husky chuckles, Irene’s worried they’ll go back to being awkward again – have the air thick and suffocating.

 

Tiffany seems to have caught onto her fear, expertly bringing up another topic. “Do you like stars?”

 

It takes Irene three dazed blinks to register the fact that Tiffany’s trying to keep the atmosphere light and away from heavy silence. Irene nods quickly, hands curling over her fingers so she could steady the nervous jitters ringing across them.

 

She’s not used to taking on conversations alone, but Tiffany’s small smile helps quell the nerves in her limbs.

 

Irene’s voice is small, “… Yes, I – well, they help me fall asleep.”

 

“Help?” Tiffany parrots, shifting slightly closer – like it helps her hear her better.

 

Irene tries not to think about the way their legs are touching, how warm her skin is getting because of the blush that’s painting across every streak of Tiffany’s colder skin; how every little bump of the knees and shuffling ankles makes her warmer faster than her cotton blankets.

 

She tries not to take note of the minute details on Tiffany’s face, being so close that Irene could see the specks of little imperfections normally hidden under makeup and tinges of dark circles beneath brown eyes.

 

Irene nods again, attempting to hide behind curtains of her auburn hair because Tiffany being this close to her is both intimidating and tantalizing.

 

“I, um – I count them,” her legs move out of habit so her feet wouldn’t slip out of the covers, rising up and sliding against Tiffany’s that Irene squashes the squeak squirming its way out of – be calm, be calm – “And when I get tired of counting, I fall asleep…”

 

Be calm, Tiffany sunbaenim isn’t bothered so you shouldn’t be either.

 

“Wendy certainly wasn’t kidding,” Tiffany says, affection spilling out of her voice like a faucet, cascading over Irene’s ears at the way her tongue rolls her member’s name. It bothers her, how smooth it sounds. “You’re like a kid. It’s cute,”

 

Wings begin to flutter in her stomach and Irene wonders if it’s a good thing.

 

“I count sheep in my head to fall asleep,” Tiffany starts, husky caresses brushing over her eardrums in soft tendrils, “And imagine them pink because they’re better to look at.”

 

“But…” Irene fiddles with the sleeves of her purple sweater – ignoring the way Tiffany’s gaze feel like it’s burning holes through her forehead. “… Wouldn’t it be better for the sheep to be boring so you would fall asleep faster?”

 

Tiffany’s soft laughter somehow worms its way into her chest, nestling there, gentle and warm. It loosens the nervous constrictions still roped around her heart, pulling at the strings; untying knots, her voice as tender hands.

 

“Counting until there’s a lot of pink sheep does wonders,” Tiffany’s lips curve upwards as she curls strands of black behind her ear. “I would end up following them and before I knew it, it’d be morning.”

 

Irene’s mouth tilts at the corners, laughter lines drawing circles around her lips; her sunbaenim’s rather adorable.

 

The thought doesn’t slip past her, but before Irene could dwell on it any further, Tiffany’s mouth is already moving,

 

“How do you like it so far?” Irene brushes away a few of the strands covering her face so she could see Tiffany better; see the way curiosity dances in swirls of clouds across her eyes. “Being an idol,”

 

Irene hums, a thoughtful sound escaping her lips, thrumming . She doesn’t mind the question – in fact, she’s rather positive Tiffany’s trying to keep the conversation going; to avoid the awkward tension that could manifest itself again and leave them in blaring silence. She’s grateful for it.

 

Her eyes meet Tiffany’s briefly before trailing down to the circles underneath.

 

“… I like it,” Irene can feel her fingers itch to reach for them, smooth over the darkness and wipe away the exhaustion painted on it like they’re ingrained. “I like performing, and seeing the fans happy, jumping around, screaming even – it makes me happy too.” She keeps her hands from moving, interlocking her fingers together so they’ll stay right in front of her.

 

Tiffany’s hands bump into hers when she moves an arm so it’ll settle under her head. Heat grazes a mark where their skins touch, and Irene could still feel the warmth oozing even when the moment has long passed.

 

“That’s good,” Tiffany looks like she wants to reach out, hold her hand from the way she shifts forward, almost like she’s unsure of herself – Sunbaenim nervous? No way, Irene’s about to unlace her fingers so she can, but she’s a second too long. “… Just – this line of work changes people. Sometimes.” Tiffany’s already pulling away and Irene has the urge to grasp it back. “For good or for worse, and – well, don’t let it change you too much, okay?”

 

Irene doesn’t have to see the worry fogging Tiffany’s eyes and the slight frown curling over her lips.

 

It’s moments like these that remind Irene that she’s the younger one for now. Not the leader of Red Velvet – of four other members, and not the oldest child in her family, but the little one – and Tiffany’s instincts are protective (perhaps it helps that another Joohyun is part of Girls’ Generation) but it warms Irene regardless, the older woman’s care leaving her lips in husky melodies.

 

Perhaps the affection underlying Tiffany’s words raises a courage Irene’s not used to having, but she’s grateful for it.

 

Irene closes the meager gap between their fingers, laces them together to let Tiffany know she’s heard her – that she’s listening.

 

“… Okay,” she says, her whisper like silk, quiet and gentle so she could ease the trembling fear cornering Tiffany’s eyes.

 

Tiffany’s fingers tangling with hers unties the knots around her chest, unlatches the nervous tension she had before completely. Irene can feel the relief wash over her skin, soaking her whole in waves across her heart like warm tides.

 

They stay like that for a while, hands laced like they’re sewn together; topics exchanged about current fashion trends to the types of music they prefer. Irene’s not sure how late it is – 1 AM, or was it 2? – but she doesn’t feel that sleepy at all; not with how comfortable it is to talk to her, share hushed whispers and quiet giggles in the dim room.

 

Irene’s smile draws itself on her lips when Tiffany yawns, a hand over before revealing a shy smile of her own, an apology already spilling between her teeth, cushioning the momentary pause like cotton.

 

“Sorry – what were you saying?” Tiffany says, tugging at Irene’s hand, ushering her to continue.

 

She can already tell the tired lines between the crinkles of Tiffany’s eyes, the creases above her brows. If the dark circles beneath brown pools weren’t already strong indicators of exhaustion finally catching up with her, then it’d be in the way Tiffany’s fingers are falling limp in her grasp, squeezing her hand in intervals to let Irene know she’s still awake.

 

Irene tries not to think about how great Tiffany looks even with droopy eyes and lopsided smiles – how sweet she is for trying to keep her company, ridding slumber away for as long as she could.

 

She lets her fingers draw circles on the back of Tiffany’s hand, to soothe the exhaustion in her brown eyes, urging her to let the curtains fall over them.

 

“We’ll talk more tomorrow, so go to sleep okay?” Irene’s words come out in murmurs, tone hushed as Tiffany’s eyes gradually disappear, like her voice is lulling her to sleep. “Go follow your pink sheep, sunbaenim.”

 

Tiffany’s sleepy laughter sparks a fire in her chest, burning the strings tied around the beating organ and lets her breathe in the comfort Tiffany’s fingers bring, even when it falls limp completely and Tiffany’s no longer holding her hand.

 

Irene doesn’t let it slip from her grasp, reaching out to cradle the older woman’s hand between hers, her finger still drawing circles even when Tiffany has already fallen into slumber. “Good night, sunbaenim.”

 

She curls a stray strand of black behind Tiffany’s ear, instinctively brushing away the loose ones beside it, tucking them back so her face isn’t shadowed over in curtains of hair.

 

The creases between her brows are gone, but even when there are no more crinkles wrinkling Tiffany’s expression, Irene still can’t help but smooth out invisible lines, running her thumb across soft skin.

 

Irene gets it – how Tiffany’s such a social butterfly.

 

It’s not just the smiling eyes – though she has to admit that it certainly draws people in and keeps them trapped under her gaze; even when she’s ironically not looking, or the sweet curve of her lips – or so she attempts to convince herself, her thumb lingering at the corner of Tiffany’s mouth.

 

Tiffany’s just endearing; she has a way of talking to others without coming off overbearing or nosy – she makes Irene want to talk.

 

Irene rubs at the small patches of red still stuck on the flesh, remnants of her lipstick still latching on. Tiffany must’ve been more worn out than she thought if the older woman couldn’t clean it off entirely.

 

Once she’s sure there’s nothing left but the natural hue of Tiffany’s lips, Irene turns around so she could flick the switch, shutting off the lamp, taking note of the clock on her desk. 3:23 AM.

 

No wonder Tiffany went out like a light – it’s late.

 

But as Irene shuffles back so she could look at Tiffany again, trying to map out her face in the dark, Irene lets her mind wander for a bit, taking Tiffany’s hand into hers and cradling it close to her chest.

 

Her eyes adjust to the darkness, sees the outline of Tiffany’s lips, the contours of her nose and jawline. Irene raises the blanket so it covers them both, a smile crawling up her face when Tiffany instinctively snuggles into the material.

 

Tiffany’s a nice sunbaenim. Sweet, even.

 

Irene hadn’t known her as well when she first came knocking at her door – only the stories she’s heard from her other members and label mates, “She’s kind,” “She’s really smiley,” “Fany’s loud, but she’s tolerable. And cute,” “Talkative, but she means well,” and everything else in between.

 

But now that she’s gotten to talk with her a bit more, Irene sees it’s all true – kind, smiley, loud, tolerable, cute –

 

Tiffany shuffles closer, as if she could sense the heat from her fingers and shifts for the source. Irene attempts to back away, keep some distance between herself and the sunbae, but she feels the edge of her bed and knows she can’t go any farther.

 

Irene’s not sure why the fire in her chest rises up her neck, colors her ears and cheeks red (she knows they’re bright like neon signs even in the dark) with the way Tiffany’s nose brushes her own and fizzles the thoughts in her mind – makes the gears stop turning and limbs malfunction at their proximity.

 

Irene could feel her face burn brighter at the way Tiffany’s nuzzling against her like she’s a pillow, motioning closer for the warmth Irene knows her body’s naturally giving off.

 

The science doesn’t make the red stop from painting her skin – Irene knows it’s certainly not helping that she’s heating up and getting warmer when Tiffany’s literally feeling for the warmth in the first place.

 

Tiffany’s brow bumps against hers, and the little hairs makes the ones on her neck stand at attention. Irene’s straining her eyes in the dark (since when did she start struggling to see?) – she could only feel Tiffany’s breathing, how her breaths of life touch her lips in wisps of invisible fog, paralyzing her limbs and rendering her motionless to Tiffany’s unconscious movements.

 

Irene’s throat clogs up at the feel of plump flesh bumping against the space between her brows; Tiffany’s lips lingering there, barely grazing the skin warming up at the touch.

 

The lack of movement tells Irene that the older woman has settled in her spot, breaths crashing in soft waves against her forehead, lighting the skin there like an inferno.

 

Irene lets her mind register everything, from the way her back is right at the edge of her bed, to her hands still cradling Tiffany’s like it anchors her in place. The blush across her face mirrors the heat emitting from her legs and arms – Irene realizes their limbs are tangled together beneath the sheets, their warmth molding together like sizzling ember.

 

She tries to swallow the ball of nerves suddenly scratching against her, tries to make it disappear because she shouldn’t be feeling so nervous – so bothered and so hot.

 

Irene wants to count the glow-in-the-dark stars plastered on her ceiling and sleep; but she can’t when she could feel Tiffany breathe and each ghost touch makes her heart sprint like it’s trying to run away.

 

So she settles for hushing the thrumming in her chest, calming the jitters in her heart as she breathes in, and then out. Irene makes do with her predicament, ignoring the way her fingers tingle like sparklers of fireworks, letting one of her hands go so she could reach out and grasp the front of Tiffany’s pink sweater.

 

Irene lets false bravado control her limbs, convinces herself that she’s already stuck (she doesn’t bother with the choice of pushing Tiffany away – it’s not an option), motioning closer so she could nestle in the crook of Tiffany’s neck, her nose brushing the skin where Tiffany’s heart beats the loudest.

 

Almost as if entranced by the calm rhythmic thrum, Irene tilts a little so her lips press against the skin, lingering there so each beat pulses against , memorizing the pattern and sketching it across her own chest. Irene lets the melody match together – lets the beats connect like puzzle pieces, before pulling away, ignoring the way her ears are drowning in lava.

 

What was she even thinking?

 

I… I just –

 

Irene buries her face against warm skin, trying to hide away the flushing red sizzling out in smokes of heat. She feels equal parts embarrassed, confused, curious, and terrified, all at once.

 

Did I just kiss –

 

She won’t let her mind finish it. She can’t.

 

But even when Irene attempts to end it there, pressing close, gripping onto Tiffany like it’ll help ease the flutters of wings in her stomach and let her sleep, the fleeting trail of scorching heat still lingers on her lips, pulse pounding as if Tiffany’s heart is still beating against it.

 

As if igniting the rest of her senses (or maybe she’s just close enough to tell), Irene smells whiffs of strawberries and peach, soft and tender like Tiffany – and it’s dizzying.

 

Irene could almost taste them; from the way its scent is so vivid it blindsides her vision. Her eyes flutter shut, lashes skimming across Tiffany’s skin like brush streaks so she could steady herself – so she could stop the images (since when did pictures of glow-in-the-dark stars become Tiffany sunbaenim?) from spinning in her head.

 

But even in the dark, Irene still sees Tiffany.

 

I kissed –

 

The action still plagues her, etching at her memory like a tattoo.

 

It takes time – Irene doesn’t know how long, but she manages to fall asleep despite the chaos in her head and the discord in her limbs (Irene can’t believe the jitters have returned; her fingers won’t stop shaking).

 

The thrumming pattern still pulses the edges of , the warmth of Tiffany’s neck still lingering on her lips even when the room’s getting cold and Irene has to bring the blanket up further to stave off the chill.

 

As if sensing her distress, Tiffany’s arm reaches over her, wraps her in warmth faster than the sheets could and pulls her in, allowing Irene to snuggle deeper into the heat. Tiffany’s beating pulse never leaves her even when the curtains fall over her mind – hushing her thoughts, and Irene starts to dream.

 

Irene sleeps wearing Tiffany’s heart on her lips.

 

/

 

Irene scrunches her nose, something long and soft tickling her skin.

 

It smells like strawberries, with hints of peach and – why can she feel the warmth so close like she could taste the heat?

 

Irene rubs at her eyes, frowning at the sound of laughter, husky and cracked like someone’s trying to muffle it but it’s slipping between their fingers.

 

“Your mom wasn’t kidding,” the voice says, low and amused, “You really are like a koala.”

 

Mumbles only leave Irene’s lips in response, incoherent, her mind still stuck in a foggy haze of white smoke as the chuckles latch onto her earlobes – crawling in and drawing pictures amidst the clouds in her head of a woman with black hair and crescent moons for eyes.

 

But Irene’s too tired to process the image – it could wait, returning her hands back around the lump of warmth, preferring the heat to massage over her eyes than limp fingers. She doesn’t really want to wake up anyway. It’s cozy.

 

The laughter comes back, soft like cotton. “How long did you stay up to be sleepy like this?”

 

Irene only hums in reply, finding comfort in the way the voice has tender touches lining its tone. She presses closer, feeling the corners of her lips curl up at the fleeting caress over her brows, sweeping the strands of hair to comb it back over Irene’s ear.

 

Now this was how Irene would like to wake up every morning.

 

… Was it morning?

 

“Cute,”

 

Right. Being called cute in the morning; it feels like morning at least, is definitely a great way of –

 

Irene’s eyes flash open, popping out like they want to jump out of its sockets as the picture of Tiffany replaces the fog in her mind completely. She freezes up at the feel of her lips grazing smooth skin, warm beneath the flesh, oozing onto like hot glue.

 

Her eye lashes comb against the skin, blinking away the rest of the daze in her head and Tiffany laughs at the motion, “That tickles, Joohyun,” And Irene tries to stop moving – tries to stop breathing because –

 

“You’re actually really cuddly, Joohyun.” Tiffany says as if in afterthought, squeezing Irene just a little tighter, her arm already secured around her waist. Her waist.

 

– Because strawberries. And peach.

 

Oh god, Irene shrieks in her head, realizing the bump of Tiffany’s collarbone beneath her lips, the scent of sweet fruits wafting through her senses, disabling them entirely and rendering her limbs immobile.

 

“If I had known you liked hugging so much I would’ve hugged you every time I saw you,” Tiffany says, the movement of her jaw nudging gently against the crown of Irene’s head. “You’re like the shy plushy waiting to be cuddled –“ Irene winces at Tiffany’s shrill squeak, the older woman cooing as if the image in her head fits perfectly. “You’re so adorable Joohyun!”

 

Irene smiles despite the intimacy (despite the fact that Tiffany had conjured up her own version of her in a matter of seconds – it’s close enough), the way their hands are circled over each other, their legs tangled beneath the blankets.

 

Tiffany nuzzles the top of her head, various mutters of “Adorable,” “Cute,” “Cuddly,” leaving the older woman’s lips in succession, her words breathing through her scalp, past her mind, and into Irene’s heart, welling up mountains of affection for the older woman’s childish behavior.

 

Irene wouldn’t have considered Tiffany to be this… endearing. Tiffany has this way of making the moment feel special – feel like nothing’s wrong or out of place, without letting the underlying awkwardness (that they both know are there) rise up to protrude the air in tight ripples of choking tension.

 

Tiffany has a way of making people feel like they’ve known each other all along, and Irene has to admit, as she laughs along with Tiffany, nuzzling deeper into her neck, breathing her in and ignoring the way her mind is telling her that she’s the sunbaenim, what are you doing, it’s comforting.

 

They stay like that for the next hour or so, though Irene’s not entirely sure, under the warmth of rumpled sheets, molding heat between their skin, as Irene listens to Tiffany just breathe. Her hands tighten their grip on Tiffany’s pink sweater, fingers curling over the material on her back.

 

Irene doesn’t want to let this moment go.

 

They share the silence together, allowing peace to flit by in rays of jagged sunlight, puddles of shimmering sun pooling over them in the quiet normally not found in the busy streets of Seoul.

 

She doesn’t forget the way her lips are still tingling in memory of Tiffany’s heartbeats, can still feel it drumming against her flesh like phantom hands, caressing the edges and embedding the rhythm permanently – leaving no mark behind except its pattern.

 

Irene pretends it doesn’t bother her, pretends it doesn’t tug at her chest, scratching at the walls and peeling off the pillars of admiration and replacing it with something else – something raw and hot and scathing and wanting.

 

Tiffany hums against her head, the sound akin to relief and contentment – like she’s happy for just being here, snuggling with her. It twists something inside and Irene squeezes her eyes shut – as if to quell the feral emotion rising up .

 

Irene pretends she doesn’t recognize the desire to kiss Tiffany’s skin again, even when her lips are already painting her want across Tiffany’s collarbone in fleeting heat – it’s not on purpose.

 

She lets it repeat in her head, again and again, until she’s convinced it’s true.

 

… It’s not on purpose.

 

/

 

“If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve mistaken your face for that heart eyes emoji with the way you look at people.” Tiffany says casually, twirling the spoon in her cup of coffee.

 

Irene nearly topples her drink, choking on the liquid still lodged in . Tiffany leans over so she could pat her back in both embarrassment and as an apology, helping the younger girl settle her cup safely on the table.

 

The Red Velvet member coughs the remaining slithers of water out of , covering it with a hand and sending Tiffany a bewildered look – wide eyes and disbelieving.

 

Tiffany shrugs, settling back down in her seat across from her.

 

“It’s true; whenever we watch your group interviews or music shows, you’re the only member that… well, looks at people the way you do.”

 

“… The way I do?” Irene parrots, eyes immediately drawn to watching Tiffany drink her cup of coffee, watches the way moves to swallow, imagining the stream of liquid sweeping down past her neck.

 

Irene swallows instinctively as Tiffany sets her cup aside, keenly aware of the heat rising up her chest again, over her arms, and through her legs. Her heart is pounding hard against her eardrums.

 

She’s afraid to know why she’s suddenly hot and very, very bothered.

 

Irene pushes the thought away, ignores the itch to feel Tiffany’s skin beneath her touch and focuses on the task at hand.

 

She’s vaguely aware of what Tiffany’s referring to. Her members had mentioned it once before – how she seems to stare, “Are you trying to read my soul, unnie? I hope you find Satan in there,” but just like how Sooyoung – Joy, had so eloquently put it, Irene finds truth in it, even as a joke.

 

Irene just didn’t think it was worth noticing.

 

“Yeah,” Tiffany stares out through the window, the dim sky casting various hues of red and orange, streams of yellow fading into the edges of the landscape. “It’s not bad – just curious. You sometimes look so lost in it, like you’re far away.” Tiffany plays with the rim of her cup, running a finger over its edges. “What do you think about when you look at someone like that?”

 

Irene diverts her gaze when Tiffany looks back at her, staring at the tiny crack near the door of the kitchen. Suddenly it’s harder to look at her, when all the images in her head flash back to tingling lips and a beating heart.

 

Irene fiddles with the ends of her sleeves, hoping it’ll help anchor her and keep her from thinking of anything else.

 

“I… well, in the beginning, I really just stare.” Her eyes crawl up to the table top, following Tiffany’s finger circle the rim of her cup. “Then I’d think, ‘Will they be okay? Can they handle it? How can I help from here?’ and things like that, especially for interviews.” Irene mutters, hearing the rest of her family laugh at a drama in the living room and it makes the corners of curve upwards. “But now, when we’re getting used to everything – that I don’t have to worry so much anymore, I look at their stories.”

 

Tiffany tilts her head, ebony hair falling over her shoulder. “Stories?”

 

When Irene’s gaze flits up and meets those big brown eyes, the red seeps into her ears again, coloring heat across delicate skin. She’s thankful for long hair, drawing curtains over them to shield herself from Tiffany’s curious scrutiny.

 

Irene looks away, traveling to red lips. It’s the same deep hue of red the day Tiffany came by.

 

“When I look long enough, I see stories.” Irene doesn’t know why her eyes stay there, studying at the rose color like it keeps her chained in thorns without pain. “…And then I read them,” it comes out in murmurs, biting her lip like it quenches for the picture of red still tainting her mind.

 

Irene doesn’t even notice she’s staring until Tiffany motions closer, pressing a thumb against her bottom lip, easing her teeth from gnawing the flesh.

 

“Careful,” Tiffany says, rubbing gentle circles until Irene finally loosens her grip. “Wouldn’t want your fans to be worried now, would you?”

 

Irene nods dumbly, frozen at Tiffany’s deliberate touch, her skin scorching even when Tiffany finally lets go. Tiffany ushers her to continue with smiling eyes and Irene can feel her cheeks flare at the sight.

 

Pulling auburn strands so it covers a decent portion of her face, Irene mumbles behind them, quiet enough so Tiffany doesn’t hear the nerves in her voice, and loud enough so she won’t have to repeat herself. Hopefully.

 

“… When I look at Seulgi, I see tall bears eating tangerines. They’re happy, most of the time.” Irene knows it sounds weird as soon as it leaves , peering up to watch Tiffany smile. It encourages her. “Yellow and orange color her eyes, staying bright even when things get hard.”

 

Tiffany hums, and Irene continues on, picturing her members in her head.

 

“Sooyoung – Joy, she’s a rebel. I see fire, lava, horns, and tails.” Irene almost laughs at the way Tiffany looks surprised, brows raised at the imagery but Irene dismisses the concern with a wave of her hand. “But I also see green cotton balls and sweet cake. Sweet, giant, cake.” Tiffany’s laugh echoes in her ears, and it’s delightful.

 

“Seulgi and Sooyoung are pretty tall, aren’t they,” Tiffany says and Irene merely hums, her eyes flickering back to Tiffany’s lips once in awhile. So red,

 

“Yerim has purple clouds, usually, but at times they turn grey, and that’s when I know she needs me.” Irene snaps up at Tiffany’s movement, watches the older woman bring her drink to her lips again.

 

Irene stares at the box of cookies Tiffany had brought with her on the countertop by the sink, hoping the container of sweets keeps her eyes away from the liquid she knows is traveling down smooth skin.

 

“With Seungwan – I see snow; soft, sparkly, and cold. I know she’s lonely, especially when she doesn’t have any schedules.” Irene’s voice falls quieter, knowing the girl’s currently back at the dorm. The short break the company had given them was too short for Wendy to travel all the way back home to Canada. “Seungwan bakes so she won’t think about it. I make sure she doesn’t feel far from home,”

 

Tiffany’s smile reaches her eyes, the warmth spilling through her teeth like waterfalls, her grin wide and proud. Irene doesn’t realize she’s meeting her gaze until the older woman looms closer, leans in so their hands can touch and Irene feels Tiffany’s fingers curl over hers.

 

“You’re a good leader,” Tiffany says, and Irene can feel confidence rise in her chest. “Just like Tae-Tae. Quiet, careful – always behind the scenes.” Circles are being drawn on her skin, Tiffany’s finger as the brush for her blank canvas. “You’ll do great,”

 

Irene hides behind her brown hair, trying to suppress the blush clawing its way up her already burning face. She only nods, showing she’s grateful by the way she squeezes Tiffany’s hand, curling their fingers together.

 

“Thanks, sunbaenim.” She’s nice.

 

Irene misses the way Tiffany pouts, not when her eyes can’t seem to leave Tiffany’s all of a sudden. There are swirls of colors and fleeting pictures, hazy like fog, but bright like neon lights.

 

Tiffany motions closer, and Irene can feel her breath ghost over her lips.

 

“What about me?” Irene squints, Tiffany’s words falling slowly in her ears, fading away at the image piecing together. “What do you see when you look at me?”

 

The picture mars her mind. Irene lies through frozen lips.

 

“Lots and lots of pink sheep,” she breathes out like she’s breathless, choking on ropes of thorns squeezing and prodding at her chest.

 

Tiffany laughs – practically guffaws in her chair as her head tilts back, and Irene wants to join her. But clicks shut and the gears in her head goes on overdrive – whirring away even when her mother comes in and says they should help out with dinner.

 

Tiffany sunbaenim’s just being nice, Irene thinks, attempting to ease the questions in her head.

 

But even when they’re rolling up dough and Tiffany warns them of her being a natural disaster in the kitchen, Irene can’t erase the story she saw in Tiffany’s eyes.

 

It only feeds the desire growing in her chest, piling up in mountains of want and Irene’s afraid of how she’s not terrified of it.

 

She’s just being nice,

 

Irene snaps out of her daze at Tiffany’s touch, feeling her thumb rub away at her cheek, puffs of clouds filling the lively air.

 

“Got some flour there, Joohyun.” Tiffany says, crescent moons returning her stare before going back to rolling the ball of white in her hands.

 

Irene sees it again – the picture in Tiffany’s eyes, and she knows she’s not just imagining things.

 

Her heart swells at the thought and Irene knows she should stop it.

 

/

 

“Sunbaenim?”

 

“Hm?”

 

They’re in her room again for the second and last night they’ll have together. It’s devoid of the awkward tension protruding the first evening, but Irene can feel her nerves acting up again for an entirely different reason.

 

The ringing in her ears are heavy, pounding as hard as the thrums in her chest, like it’ll break the bones keeping her together and Irene wonders why it doesn’t hurt. She’s thinking a lot of things – things like, why, how, when? – and feels things like confusion, curiosity, and something feral – animalistic.

 

Irene spots the lack of red lipstick across Tiffany’s mouth and suddenly she wants to paint it the same hue again.

 

“Can I try on your lipstick?” Irene asks. She doesn’t know what’s happening, what she’s doing – but all she knows is that instinct drives her limbs and her mind is focused on one thing.

 

Tiffany looks surprised at the request, but doesn’t question her as she flits through her bag before tossing the item to her.

 

“Like the shade?” The older woman asks and Irene nods mutely, expertly drawing over the flesh, “It’s actually brighter than I thought, but not too bad.” Tiffany hums, crossing her arms as Irene applies the final streak. “Color me impressed. I still need a mirror to do it,”

 

Irene barely registers what Tiffany is saying except, “Color me.” The motions are automatic, as if on autopilot as she chucks the lipstick back, her eyes never leaving Tiffany’s even when she shuts the door behind her.

 

Tiffany doesn’t seem bothered by her behavior, securing the item back in her bag. Irene wonders if Tiffany really hasn’t noticed the change – how her fingers no longer tremor in nerves, her lips no longer quivering of stuttered syllables, and how she’s no longer hiding behind strands of auburn.

 

Irene likes this false confidence for how it carries her – how desire turns the gears in her limbs like well oiled machinery, movements done with precision.

 

“When I look at you, sunbaenim…” Irene trails off, eyes never leaving Tiffany’s as the older woman glances back up.

 

The story is still the same.

 

A smile crinkles at the corners of her eyes, “You see pink sheep,” Tiffany chuckles, zipping up her bag before settling it down on the floor beside Irene’s nightstand.

 

The words stream out between the spaces of Irene’s teeth – trickling out of and scraping the innocent air into tension like scratching lottery tickets.

 

“I see me, sunbaenim.” Irene lets each syllable sink in the fog of swamp, lets it drown long enough in the silence so Tiffany can’t mishear it. “… Why do I see myself when I look at you?”

 

Tiffany stays still from where she stands, close enough so that Irene doesn’t need to yell but far enough so that Irene can see everything she does.

 

Irene’s not surprised when Tiffany attempts to dodge the question.

 

“Maybe you see me as someone similar to you?”

 

“That’s how Taeyeon sunbaenim looks at me,” Irene quips, watching Tiffany’s mouth click shut. “Yours is different,”

 

Tiffany quirks a brow, “Different how?”

 

Irene’s mind is telling her that she could back out now – back away from the entire situation because it’s all just a guess in the end; that she could just be misreading her eyes and taking Tiffany’s kindness for something else.

 

Her chest squeezes at the thought and it hurts – the pounding blaringly louder at the idea of it being anything but that something else.

 

It spills over her red lips like a faucet.

 

“You look at me like you want me,”

 

Tiffany’s sharp gaze snaps up at her, her eyes widening a fraction before curving in those signature crescents Irene is learning to like so much. For a moment she hates it for it shields the older woman’s thoughts and Irene can’t read her anymore.

 

“And what do you think?” The question tells Irene nothing, but if it weren’t for the surprise lining Tiffany’s eyes a second ago, Irene would’ve assumed Tiffany wasn’t fazed at all.

 

Irene furrows her brows, playing along with the impromptu script.

 

“You’re just being nice,” Irene says, knowing she’s backtracking, but if Tiffany doesn’t want to say anything – doesn’t want to acknowledge the way the air has electricity sparking through like scattered lightning, Irene won’t push it.

 

Maybe it’s because of what she said, or how she said it, maybe even lightning struck – Irene’s not really sure – but she finds herself stuck, Tiffany's gaze keeping her still against the bedroom door.

 

Before she knew it, the older girl's finger is lifting her chin and Tiffany's lips are grazing hers with every word she whispers.

 

"... Then tell me," Irene shivers from each fleeting touch of their lips, her eyes flitting down automatically to Tiffany's warm mouth. "... am I being 'just nice' right now, Hyun-ah?" 

 

Her knees grow weak at the way the nickname rolls off Tiffany’s supple tongue, hands gripping the front of Tiffany’s grey sweater so she won’t fall.

 

Spots of red lipstick latch onto Tiffany’s mouth, and Irene is reminded of the feral want clawing at her thrumming heart. It doesn’t help that Tiffany’s breath enters hers lungs, slipping past her teeth to her heart where it pounds even louder at the smoky caresses.

 

"... No?" Irene squeaks, her false bravado dissipating at every brief sweep of feather touches too short to be considered kisses, her simple reply grazing Tiffany's lips in return.

 

The scent of strawberries and peach invade her senses, knocks out whatever logic she has left and replaces it with a need so consuming it drives her whole.

 

She reaches up, cradling Tiffany’s cheeks in small hands and steadies her there, makes sure Tiffany won’t go anywhere.

 

No longer thinking, Irene moves on memory of Tiffany’s heart and soft skin against , pausing their game of fleeting touches for real kisses instead.

 

Irene is painting Tiffany’s lips in tender streaks of red.

 

/

 

Part 2 will come up sometime in the future. Thanks for reading through this crack pairing. Happy birthday again good friend!