Chapter 7

Meanwhile: Ahn Hyejin & Jung Wheein

Many moons ago, Ahn Hyejin and Jung Wheein met on Martyr Mountain, a cemetery famous for the most glorious sunsets in all of Jeonju. But they didn’t meet beneath the romantic orange glow of the evening sun, but rather deep in seclusion, far away from devout pilgrims and loving couples. They met in a hidden nook in the woods, where all the home-schooled children of supernatural birth came to play twice a month.

Hyejin’s mother was a proud gumiho. She taught her almost everything she knew, from her abilities down to her fierce, independent, self-preserving attitude. Most of all, she taught her to never hide your tails. The tails of a gumiho symbolized one’s worth—the more you had the wiser you were and the more respect you commanded. Hyejin’s mother was a fully-fledged nine-tailed gumiho, and she never let anyone forget it.

They lived in a grand stone mansion carved out of the mountain itself. It was often cold, when the wind whistled through the tunnels, but her mother had enough sense and wealth to turn their cave home into a veritable Versailles.

Her mother was seldom home, and Hyejin preferred it that way. Aside from her mother’s rigorous lessons, they rarely interacted. Her mother showered her with wealth, and she never asked where the money came from—it was a simple enough transaction. She was, after all, being groomed to take her place.

Hyejin lived a life of complete leisure. She had her own private fleet of fox servants—even a personal valet who followed her everywhere—in addition to the fox familiars who kept the house, and nothing was ever denied to her. She could have anything she want, and thus she spent most of her life not knowing how to want.

She took up hobbies as a cure for boredom, but mostly spent her days reading books and dreaming of places full of adventure and excitement. Even from a young age, she undeniably had her fixations. For weeks on end, she would study the things that interested her, be it chemistry, psychology, philosophy, botany, mechanical engineering, syntax, astronomy, technology, or anything else that caught her fancy. As short-lived as they were, it was enough for her to gain her tails far faster than most other gumiho. She might have even thrived in university at a young age.

If not for her mother’s plans.

Wheein was, in her own way, the opposite of Hyejin—she had spent her entire life loved, and never wanted anything more than that in spite of their poverty.

Wheein was a happy bundle of joy when a young couple found her abandoned in the mountains. Because they could not have children of their own, they raised her as their own, and if there were one thing Wheein never lacked, it was love. Her father worked at the cemetery on Martyr Mountain. He kept the place clean, and his family fed. Even if it wasn’t much, he always made sure his family never starved. Even if it wasn’t much, they tried as best they could to give her the world. In their own way, as Wheein had always understood it, they did just that. Truly, they were a family built on miracles.

It was obvious that Wheein was something special at a very young age, having woken up half-transformed on more than one occasion. The infant Wheein might have a nub of a tail on one day, and a body of grey fur on the next. Soon it was her whole head transformed, or left hand. For years, Wheein would have at least a pair of fluffy, rounded ears atop her head. It was alarming, but her foster parents loved her very much. Not wanting her to be ridiculed by the kids at the nearest school, they decided to home-school her.

They taught her everything that they knew, from what it meant to be human to the little they had researched about her abilities. Wheein’s father was an excellent storyteller, and transformed her world with fables and fairy tales. There was always a bit of magic and a lesson to learn.

When she was old enough to control the transformation—enough, at least, to hide under her clothes or a nice hat—she’d sometimes go down to the closest library. It was a two-hour trek from their secluded home in the mountains, but it was worth it. She continued to consume those stories, consume the worlds, and the contexts they were built upon—but still, she loved her father’s stories the best. Young Wheein had the dream of putting her father’s stories into a book. Perhaps a picture book, and thus developed an interest in illustration. She quickly found that she was a talented artist, enough to later earn her multiple scholarships.

But both Ms. Ahn and Mr. and Mrs. Jung wanted their child to meet other kids. To get out there and learn to socialize with their peers. And fortunately for them, an overeager family of haetae established a place in Martyr Mountain and called for all young and secluded supernatural children to come and learn the rules of socialization.

Ms. Ahn hated the self-righteous haetae and their boring politics, but she saw it as an opportunity for Hyejin to put her skills to practice, and—perhaps most of all—show the world that a perfectly groomed gumiho was not to be trifled with. And so, she sent Hyejin off with a stern look.

“Don’t disappoint me,” she said.

The Jungs didn’t really understand, but they saw it as an opportunity for Wheein to make friends. They fussed and they worried, but eventually, they hugged her close and sent her off with a teary smile.

“Go have fun,” they said. “We’ll be here.”

And so, on a foggy afternoon, the kids came together in a secluded nook in the woods. It was a small group in that first year when Hyejin and Wheein met, back when most supernatural beings stayed closeted in their own realms.

Fashionable seven-year-old Hyejin was the last to arrive. She cast her eyes at the ragtag group of supernatural children—two haetae, a lamia, a demi-dragon, and a girl with rounded ears and a dimpled grin. She settled on the girl with a grin.

It was love at first sight. Hyejin didn’t understand it then—she didn’t have a word for it yet. All she knew was that this girl was going to be hers, and she was going to tell her so. Young Hyejin, with her designer dress and cocky smile, strode up to the girl with the rounded ears, pointed at her, and declared: “You are mine.”

And though none of the other kids quite understood what had happened, they clamped their mouths shut, and shuffled further away to converse amongst themselves. Even the supervising adult, a shrivelled old haetae, did not comment. This left the bewildered girl alone with the gumiho.

“I’m Hyejin,” the gumiho said, extending a hand as if it would be the biggest honour of the girl’s life to take it. “We’re going to be best friends.”

The bear-eared girl stepped back a bit, tugged back in discomfort, just enough for her dimple to surface. “I’m not sure—”

Hyejin frowned. “Why aren’t you taking my hand?”

“I don’t want to,” Wheein said, matter-of-factly.

Hyejin blinked. “But you’re mine.”

“No, I’m not.”

They gawked at each other, brown eyes swimming in mirrored confusion. Neither seemed to understand what was going on. The girl’s reaction was so unexpected and new that Hyejin couldn’t even be angry. Her lip curled, her mind blank. Hyejin dropped her hand, and squeezed the empty air.

This girl—she was interesting. Very interesting.

The silence bore down until, finally, the girl with the rounded ears—admittedly afraid of the Hyejin’s stiff posture and intense expression—ran off to join the others.

When Wheein got home that day, she didn’t know how to tell her parents about this strange gumiho named Hyejin, especially when she herself didn’t know how to feel about the bold and exciting new stranger. Hyejin was so fearless—and admittedly a little cool when she declared Wheein to be hers, whatever that meant—but there was something else about her too.

When she had run away to the safety of the other children, Hyejin had hung back, awkwardly standing at the edge of the clearing throughout the session, not quite knowing what to do with herself. She looked...not angry, but genuinely puzzled as she watched the other kids play. Once in awhile, she turned to speak to an accompanying fox familiar perched slightly behind her on a damp log. It was like she had been assessing them; most of all, it was like she had been assessing her.

Wheein didn’t have any friends her age, and certainly it was her first time playing with kids like her, but it was like Hyejin had never even seen other kids.

One rainy afternoon, Wheein was drawing by the dim bulb above the kitchen table when her mother happened to pass by with a basket of laundry. “What’s this, Wheeinie? One of your new friends?” Her mother asked, glancing over at her work with a warm smile.

Wheein thought for a moment. Were they friends? Hyejin certainly seemed to think so. “I guess you can say that,” Wheein replied. She tapped her pencil against her chin, and thought about how best to capture Hyejin’s piercing eyes and her two pretty, silver-blue tails.

“Is she a gumiho?” Her mother asked, putting the laundry down to take a closer look.

“Yeah, I think so. Actually, I’m not sure how I feel about her yet?”

“What do you mean?”

Wheein hummed. She didn’t want to sound mean—after all, her parents taught her to be kind to everyone—but she wasn’t sure how else to explain it. “Um, she’s kind of weird,” Wheein said, shifting nervously as she glanced up at her mother’s patient smile.

“How so?”

“Umma, I don’t think she’s ever...met other kids before.”

Her mother tilted her head. “Do you mean she’s never met...special children before?”

Wheein shook her head. “I don’t think she’s met anybody in her life. But I think she wants to be my friend,” she paused for a moment, “what do I do if I don’t want to be her friend? I mean...she didn’t even ask for my name.”

“Hmm, that’s not an easy question,” her mother replied, running her hand over the edge of Wheein’s drawing. The portrait of the young fox-girl stared back at her with such a fire that not even lead and paper could fully disguise its effect on the artist. Wheein’s face—there was something else about the gumiho that caught her daughter’s attention. Ah, but they were young—she put the thought out of her head, and continued her next thought out loud “Maybe you should give her a chance first.”

“Okay.”

Despite her promise to her mother, Wheein was anxious about seeing Hyejin again. Two weeks later, they were to meet at the same place and the same time. After the awkwardness of their first encounter, a part of her hoped she wouldn’t come, but another part was hopelessly intrigued. Fortunately, it was the latter part that won out.

Hyejin was the first to arrive to their play date that day, and she came bearing gifts. By the time her beloved teddy bear—as she fell into the habit of secretly calling her—arrived, the other kids each held a lollipop, shaped like the head of a fox, in their mouths. And for the girl with the round ears, Hyejin produced, from behind her back, a whole bouquet of fox-shaped lollipops.

She pushed the bouquet into her hands, then took a step back. When the girl didn’t say anything, she fidgeted with the expensive, silver watch on her wrist, and began to explain. “Mr. Foxley says I should try to be nice by giving gifts. I don’t like listening to him because he speaks with a weird accent—he’s from England—but he says that I was not very nice last week, and I should be nice if I want to be your friend.”

“Thank you,” the girl mumbled. Awed by the colourful lollipops in her hands—for, much unlike little Hyejin who could have all the candy in the world if she asked for it, Wheein had never seen so much candy in one place, much less in her own hands—she didn’t know what else to say.

“So, um, will you...will you be my friend? I-I read once that it’s nice to ask,” Hyejin said with an uncharacteristic blush.

To her relief, her teddy bear nodded. Hyejin shifted a little now, at the sudden awareness that the other kids were watching her teddy bear enviously—she raised a fist, and prepared to fight anyone who dared to challenge her.

It was her teddy bear who spoke first: “I’ll be your friend, Hyejin, but”—the smile on Hyejin’s face fell as suddenly as it came— “this isn’t how you give presents.”

Hyejin tilted her head, her twin tails flickering curiously behind her. “I don’t understand.”

Unexpectedly, the girl knelt down and pulled the bouquet apart. Hyejin gasped—her first instinct was to march the short distance between them and shake her and yell, but a glance at the patient Mr. Foxley, who shook his head sombrely, calmed her enough for her to hold back. Still, she could not help the hurt and anger filling her up as she watched her teddy bear dismantle her precious gift. A gift she had spent all morning learning how to wrap.

She breathed, reminded herself to be nice, and clenched her fists at her side.

Before she knew it, the blue wrapping paper was spread across the sparse grass. The girl, at the edge of the wrapping paper, held the bundle of lollipops in a fist. Hyejin watched her—curiosity quickly washing away the edge off her initial anger—as she divided the lollipops into six equal piles, one at a time, until two remained. Then, the girl beckoned over the other kids, and gave them each a pile of colourful lollipops.

Once the other kids had taken the pile they wanted, she placed one extra candy in the two remaining piles, and pointed at them. “That one is yours, and this one is mine,” she said with an adorable grin. “That way, everyone is happy!”

Hyejin blinked. “Why did you give away all of my candy?”

The girl stood, and dusted the dirt off her knees. “I’m sharing,” she said matter-of-factly.

“What?”

“I gave some to everyone so that it would be fair.”

“But,” Hyejin said slowly, “I already gave one to everyone.”

The girl shook her head. “It’s not fair if everyone has one lollipop and I have”—she looked at the bundles of lollipops in the other children’s happy hands; she hadn’t thought to count them before she gave them away—“a million! How would you feel if you were the other kids?”

Hyejin furrowed her brows, like she was staring down the most difficult puzzle of her life. “They’re my lollipops.”

“Well, yes, but what if I got everyone a gift, but I didn’t get you one?”

Hyejin was getting frustrated. “I gave everyone a lollipop,” she said, crossing her arms.

The girl unwrapped a yellow fox-shaped lollipop, and offered it to Hyejin. Hyejin didn’t understand, but she accepted the gift—her own gift—anyway. Then, her teddy bear unwrapped an orange lollipop for herself, gave it a tentative , and grinned.

Hyejin wanted to poke her dimple. Instead, she jammed the yellow lollipop into and averted her eyes.

“But what if I gave everyone a BIG gift,” the girl continued, “but you’re the only one who gets a little one? Maybe, um, maybe I give everyone a big hug, but I just ignore you.”

Hyejin nearly dropped her candy to the ground. “W-would you do that?” She asked nervously. Somehow the thought created an uncomfortable knot in her stomach. Maybe it was the candy.

“Of course not!” the girl said. “It would make you feel bad!”

“Oh...okay.” Hyejin smiled with an immense relief she could not explain. “I think I sort of get it now.”

Though she said this, Hyejin didn’t quite understand the concept of sharing, but she didn’t care because the smile on her teddy bear’s face was worth it. All she learned in that moment was that this girl was special, and suddenly more important than anything else. Later, when she learned the words and the depth of her feelings, Hyejin would say that she had a heart of pure gold, more valuable than anything she could ever own.

For the rest of her life, she would remember the way her teddy bear stood in front of her with her dusty shorts, grinning, the thin white plastic cylinder between her teeth. Hyejin would remember the way her palms sweat and her heart skipped at the sight of her dimple, as deep as the ocean. The way the trees rustled vaguely with the voices of the other children around them. The way the air was warm and still.

Though Hyejin did not know it then, this girl had not only taught her to share, but to love and want for the first time in her life. And this was a moment she would carry with her for the rest of her life, in memory’s infinite forms, for it was here that she made a secret vow to protect her teddy bear’s beautiful heart forever.

But, of course, it was not to be.

She would later spend years regretting the fact that she never learned her teddy bear’s name, and lamenting the fact that she would never get the chance to protect her teddy bear as she’d intended.

Hyejin’s mother, disgusted by what she had heard from Mr. Foxley’s account, did not want her child mingling with common folk who thought themselves proud enough to reject her child’s generosity. As a result, she decided to send Hyejin away.

This, Hyejin would later realize, would be the exact moment she saw her mother for who she was. The idolized image of her perfect mother shattered in a single decision, and it would be many, many years until Hyejin could bring herself to forgive her.

Saint Francis Academy (for the Supernatural Elite, as many would add on) was a boarding school hidden in the outskirts of Seoul. It was the best of the best among supernatural circles, and Hyejin was expected to become a star among stars.

For the most part, Hyejin liked her new school. Saint Francis had a familiar air about it, and the teachers were quick to recognize her gifts. Saint Francis gave her the agency and resources to satisfy every curiosity she ever had. And she was so intellectually occupied that she had no time to think about anything else. It was just the way she liked it.

Besides, she was, in her first year, often reminded of how much she hated her new peers. Stupidity aside, the rich brats were mean and felt themselves superior. And no one was superior to Hyejin. Hyejin did not understand where they got the audacity to for living in a cave. A cave with fifteen bedrooms and twenty conjoined houses (or, to be precise, fully furnished burrows) for their 86 fox-familiar servants, but a cave nonetheless according to those over-pompous five-bedroom mansion dwellers. Finally, toward the end of the year, she picked the toughest of her tormentors and beat them up. No one ever again, and, for Hyejin, that was more than worth any teacher’s wrath.

 Besides, her mother had been proud, and as much as she learned to loathe her mother, she never stopped looking for her approval.

Even so, Mr. Foxley, who had of course gone with her—it would be ridiculous to leave a child alone without at least one servant—encouraged her to try and make friends. But though Mr. Foxley had been right once in the past, Hyejin stubbornly refused.

Once in her second year, Hyejin almost befriended a half-vampire, but the boy had scoffed when she told him about a girl who made sure everyone had an equal number of lollipops. After that, Hyejin decided that her peers were simply not worth the time. Be they dragon, bird, or snake, they were just...boring children at the end of the day.

So, she threw herself into her studies, and soon found herself the subject of both admiration and fear. Her mother, when she finally took the time to ask, was proud.

Five years later, Hyejin was, in her own way, the queen of Saint Francis. She was the prodigal genius, the youngest five-tailed gumiho the school has ever seen. The other gumiho were split between envy and admiration; they either avoided her or scrambled over themselves to be her friend. And it was here that Hyejin found a new preoccupation that was wholly more fascinating than any of her previous, more academic, pursuits: relationships.

Twelve-year-old Hyejin had very few qualms about the feelings of other people, but for the sake of her new preoccupation, she experimented freely with being nice, which inevitably reminded her of a vague figure in the back of her memory. She tried not to think about it.

She would be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy the newfound attention. She had a way with her peers that she never realized: a bat of an eye here, and a gentle smile there was enough to earn the devotion of almost anybody. It was just a matter of how long it took. Her admirers carried her books, gave her gifts, hung onto her every word—the power was almost addicting.

She did her research. Began experimenting with makeup. She learned that helping others sometimes resulted in returns of time, money, or favours, and was fascinated by the intricate transactions between relationships. Had she not been so clinical about her relationships, she might even have noticed how close she was to having friends. Sadly, Mr. Foxley, who had passed away a year ago, was not around to remind her.

A year later, her mother announced that she would have a new stepfather. A human. Hyejin wanted to throw up.

School became her only escape.

She continued discovering the nuances of relationships. It was, perhaps, one of the most complicated and fascinating and frustrating things she had ever studied. But still, she loved the power. Eventually, she even learned that if she gave away inconsequential things—like kiss on the cheek, a touch of a hand—she could have almost anything in return. If her mother had time, she would’ve been proud of her.

The only problem was that there was nothing she wanted.

Until her second year of middle school.

Enter Jung Wheein: a scholarship student. Beautiful, talented, and kind. Except for her ability to transform into an adorable little dog, she even had the privilege of looking completely human—a very rare and enviable phenomenon at that age. But unlike humans, Wheein never discriminated. It was easy to feel safe with Wheein. Everyone wanted to be her friend. When she came along, the other students flocked toward her, leaving Hyejin alone once again. Hyejin didn’t mind. If anything, she was just confused.

There were many things she did not understand about Jung Wheein. She’d seen her give away her lunch and turn down any form of compensation on several occasions. Hyejin didn’t understand why someone as poor as Wheein would make herself poorer just to benefit a rich person. Historically, that never bode well for the poor people, as far as Hyejin could recall. And of course, she didn’t want to be mean by calling Wheein poor—in truth, she wasn’t close enough to ask such personal questions—but it was a well known fact that scholarship students are just, well, different.

Sometimes, Wheein reminded Hyejin of her teddy bear all those years ago. But Hyejin would always shake her head—she would know her teddy bear if she ever met her again. Having spent over half a decade replaying the memory of her teddy bear offering her a yellow lollipop, she was never more certain about anything else. Besides, her teddy bear was fearless when she stood up to her and told her she didn’t want to be her friend. No one stood up to her the same way since.

Jung Wheein was everyone’s saviour. She never said no. Hyejin suspected she didn’t know how. No matter how inconvenient, no matter how arduous, Wheein would go above and beyond. For free.

Hyejin didn’t understand Wheein at all.

But she did know one thing: she wanted Wheein. It was a feeling she hadn’t felt since the clearing all those years ago—at least, it was similar in memory. But she was older now. Smarter. Lived a little. She’d read more books since. She knew exactly what this was. The bubbles in the tummy, the thumping heart, the air squeezing out of her chest—it was just as those sappy writers had described it.

Love.

And Wheein, for her part, didn’t seem oblivious to Hyejin’s feelings. In fact, she seemed to catch her eye far more often than not. So, Hyejin smiled her most charming smile, and batted her long made-up lashes. She sidled up to Wheein, offered her snacks, gifts, and guidance. She was determined to claim what was hers.

But Wheein wasn’t taking the bait. In fact, in spite of the eyes she made at Hyejin when she thought she wasn’t looking, Wheein treated Hyejin no differently than she did other students; always warm and polite, but nothing more. It was ridiculous—Hyejin was special; she was a five-tailed gumiho after all. Surely, Wheein could see that. Besides, she treated Wheein like no one else, poured her affection on her like she was the queen of her world, but Wheein—why didn’t she do the same?

No, this was ridiculous. Wheein needed to know that she was hers.

Little did Hyejin know, however, Wheein had always known this. She had known she belonged to Hyejin since she was seven-years-old.

There was not a day that went by where she did not think about the indomitable fox-girl with the piercing gaze, or the way she had disappeared so suddenly. For years, Wheein wondered if it was her fault for insulting the girl. She hadn’t meant to be insulting. It was just that her parents had always taught her to be a good person. That was, to her seven-year-old self, what it meant to be good.

She often wondered where she went, and whether she managed to make new friends. Did she still have that lonely air about her? Though Wheein spent her happy childhood on the mountain surrounded by love, she could not help but wonder what would happen if Hyejin had stayed, what would happen if they met again.

But as much as it secretly affected her every time she went to the clearing, she tried her best to put Hyejin out of her mind. She visited the library more often, and, once she taught herself to tuck her ears away, socialized more with the local village folk.

Every night, Wheein taught herself how to control her shapeshifting. Every day, she learned her lessons from the life flourishing around her—an old lady at the fish market, a boy helping his parents sell goods, the man at the library, even the birds in the mountain scenes. They taught her to live, and inspired her to draw. She held her own little gallery for the village folk the day she turned nine, and she was so well-loved that the librarian sent her art to Jeonju. By the age of ten, she published her first collection, and by ten and a half, her first picture book.

But as the kids in the village got a little older, they began going off to new schools. Some even chanced a new life in Jeonju. The world is competitive now, she overheard a few parents saying. They’ll need a job, a marriage, a happy life, and the only way is through a good education. Wheein’s parents nodded along, knowing full well, from the very beginning, how true this was, and how much it would all cost.

So, with the help of her favourite librarian, Wheein secretly applied to the best middle schools in the country. And to ease her parents’ fears of their little girl being bullied if ever she exposed her abilities, Wheein gathered a list of supernatural schools from her childhood friends, and applied to those too.

“Hah! Don’t bother applying to Saint Francis. You’ll never get in without a family name and a family fortune, they laughed.” Just to prove them wrong, Wheein made Saint Francis her first choice.

She hadn’t expected to actually get in. It didn’t feel real, even when her parents held her and cried with worry and joy, and her friends were clapping her on the back saying “Now you can do anything!” Everyone was damn proud of their little hometown hero, but still Wheein herself could hardly believe it. She must’ve read the letter a hundred times, flipped the piece of paper over and over, ran her finger over the wax seal again and again—it must’ve been a joke, she thought.

Even when she had donned the uniform and marched through the halls, she couldn’t quite believe it. How was she ever going to survive a school with so much prestige?

“Just be kind,” her father told her just before she left. “You have such a warm and beautiful soul—let that be your guide. And when you feel bad, or lonely, or angry, well, we will always be here, waiting for our sweet Wheein to come home. Until then, do your best to make people smile like you always do.”

So she did.

But then there was Hyejin.

On her first day of class, she had stood at the board, anxiously scanning the room to see every pair of eyes on her. But it was one particularly intense stare that caught her attention, a stare that had only haunted her for the last six years of her life.

On the first day of school, everyone flocked to the curious new girl with the cute smile at every chance they could. Even the snobby spider demons couldn’t resist introducing themselves—there was just something about Wheein. Many students tried to get her phone number, and she had to politely explain that she did not have a phone; when news got out that she was poor, the other students were even more fascinated.

They bombarded her with questions, and Wheein, finding them very amusing at times, answered them all as patiently as they could.

“If you don’t have a phone, do you at least have a messenger or a delivery gryphon or something?” A half-phoenix with red wings asked. And the other kids would murmur. Of course, everyone had to have a private gryphon, or at least a valet of some sort. Magic was an option too.

But Wheein just shrugged. “No. I will send a letter once in a while. My parents are okay with that.” A letter! How quaint! They all thought.

“Do you live in the dorms? How come I didn’t see you move in?” asked a rather nosy poltergeist.

“Shut up, you don’t even live there!” another poltergeist cried.

“Ah, it’s okay,” Wheein replied with a polite smile. “I, um, actually don’t live in the dorms.” The other students clamoured closer. “The scholarship didn’t cover it. I live in town.” Specifically, she stayed above a bookstore owned by the village librarian’s sister, and secretly worked after school to pay for some of her living expenses.

“Isn’t the town, like, a million hours away?” asked the shaggy-haired boy with a massive pair of folded eagle wings. He was, if Wheein could recall correctly, a half-thunderbird and an American exchange student.

“It’s only two hours when I walk,” Wheein laughed. “The delivery truck drops me off every morning, so really, it’s only half an hour!”

And to Wheein, these were simply truths of her existence. It didn’t seem unusual to have to work in exchange for the little kindnesses. In her innocence, she hadn’t learned to be ashamed of who she was and where she came from—why would she when she was so grateful? But even though people clamoured to learn more about her world, she wasn’t oblivious to the way people spoke about her behind her back. It was a surprise at first—they’d seemed so nice—but it was quickly apparent that not everyone was nice.

Still, she didn’t let it bother her. Her father told her to do her best to be the best person she could be, and she was going to do exactly that.

There was, however, one thing that bothered her more than anything else.

Hyejin.

Even though Hyejin was exactly the same awe-inspiring, confident gumiho in her memory, it would be three weeks before exchanging a single word.

Wheein was in the library with a tower of books in her arms, when someone suddenly turned a corner and sent the spines scattering to her feet.

“Watch it!”

Wheein mumbled her apology and scrambled to pick up her books, her heart beating at the edge of hostility in the stranger’s voice.

“Wait, it’s you.”

With one knee on the carpet, Wheein looked up just in time to meet a pair of familiar brown eyes. Her heart shot right through .

Hyejin! Kneeling down to meet her eyes, but making no effort to help her pick up her books. If it were anyone else, Wheein might’ve been annoyed, but those eyes were far too distracting.

The gumiho tilted her head. She was so close that Wheein didn’t know where to look—she settled for the mole by .

“You’re cute,” Hyejin said.

“W-what?”

Hyejin leaned in slightly. “Much cuter up close.”

Wheein said nothing, and awkwardly reached forward to grab a book by Hyejin’s knee. But Hyejin’s hand shot forward and grabbed her wrist. In her shock, Wheein‘s jaw silently unhinged.

“You remind me of someone I know,” Hyejin said. She remembered her! Wheein rejoiced internally. “But she’s a lot cuter than you.”

She...didn’t remember her.

Wheein tried to pull her hand back, but Hyejin only tightened her grip.

“We should be friends.”

Hyejin’s voice was so close, and the way she smiled now—maybe Wheein was wrong. This wasn’t the same confident, young gumiho. She was, if it was possible, even more. And these feelings that blossomed now—this was new. She couldn’t remember her childhood fascination being quite so intense, but, then again, memories are often only clear until confronted by reality.

“O-okay,” Wheein replied.

“Good.”

Then she stood and left, leaving Wheein alone with a pile of books scattered around her and the realization that this girl was dangerous. Hyejin was very dangerous.

And if she didn’t remember her, it was all the better. After all, it was her fault Hyejin left in the first place. She knew that much.

But keeping Hyejin at a distance was easier said than done.

Hyejin was an absolute hurricane when she had her sights set on something. Worse, nobody seemed to mind that Hyejin was doing whatever she wanted. Even the teachers seemed to be scared of her. So Wheein couldn’t say anything when she found Hyejin’s desk right beside hers one morning, since no one else seemed to think it was unusual. Nobody aside from Wheein seemed to be alarmed by the fact that Hyejin’s desk had been across the room from Wheein’s less than twenty-four hours prior. The other students simply pushed their desks together, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

They worshipped Hyejin.

And all the gifts Hyejin left? It was obvious from the beginning that young Hyejin hadn’t learned a thing from her lollipop bouquet lesson all those years ago.

On Monday, it was a piece of candy.

On Tuesday, it was a bag of candy.

Wednesday brought a gourmet lunch set of cheeseburger and fries.

On Thursday, lunch was upgraded to lobster tail and caviar.

When food didn’t seem to impress Wheein enough, Hyejin left a brand-new pair of sneakers on Wheein’s desk on Friday with her name scrawled across the top of the box, punctuated by a large red heart.

“Hyejin-ah, I can’t take this!” Wheein cried when she opened the box. “This is too expensive!”

But Hyejin just shrugged, and leaned back in her seat with that big, self-satisfied grin. “It makes you smile,” she said simply. “And I like your smile.”

Wheein blushed fiercely. No matter how many times Hyejin threw these kinds of lines her way, she was never going to get used to it, even if she’d heard Hyejin say the same things to other girls hundreds of times before. Keep it together, Wheein—she told herself—Hyejin is just a very nice person in a very weird way. Very straightforward.

Of course, she chose not to overthink the fact that no one else received Hyejin’s attention quite the same way, nor did anyone ever find their desks laden with gifts. Increasingly extravagant gifts at that. And really, Wheein had no idea why Hyejin seemed so dissatisfied. She was always polite. Always expressed her gratitude. What else did she want?

Wheein didn’t understand Hyejin.

Needless to say, it was quite the shock for Wheein when Hyejin suddenly shot out of her desk one afternoon, climbed on top of her desk, and declared her love for Wheein. Right in the middle of a lesson.

As for Hyejin, it was quite the shock when all she got from her confession was a wide-eyed stare, dead silence, and an angry teacher. It didn’t make sense—she had done her research and had picked the most straightforward and romantic method she could think of. Perhaps she needed music. Flowers? Perhaps she wasn’t clear enough. No, “I love you, Jung Wheein. You’re mine from now on,” is pretty clear.

Perhaps she could’ve specified what kind of love? As far as Hyejin knew, it was just the kind of love where they could hold hands and kiss and get married. It wasn’t too much to ask, right? They could think about children when they grew up.

Then there was detention! This was a first, and a rather difficult situation to explain to her mother. Fortunately, her mother was in Dubai with her stepfather—ew—so she didn’t have to know. Sure, Hyejin was disappointed, but the tea and cookies they served in detention was tasty, and the time alone—or practically alone since there was only a sleepy delinquent keeping her company—with in the classroom gave her time to think.

Hyejin couldn’t give up yet.

She’d taken out a sheet of paper and had begun drafting a web of ideas for her next plan, but she didn’t get very far when the classroom door slid open.

“Hyejin.”

Wheein.

Hyejin’s head snapped up to meet the shy gaze of the normally charismatic girl of her daydreams. Her flushed pink cheeks were adorable, and if not for the heavy atmosphere in the room, she would’ve told her so. She stood instead and pushed past the dessert cart to the door, where Wheein hung about, uncomfortably playing with the hem of her sweater vest.

“Hello,” Hyejin said with a grin. “Did you miss me?”

“I...I came because...I...there’s something I want to know,” Wheein said slowly.

Hyejin, resting a hand on the doorframe behind Wheein, leaned closer. She tapped a finger on Wheein’s chin. “Anything for you.”

Wheein shirked back almost imperceptibly, just enough to yield a flicker of hurt across Hyejin’s expression. “Don’t do that,” she whispered, turning her gaze to the sleeping boy across the room. “I’ll forget what I want to say.”

Hyejin stepped back and crossed her arms. “Fine.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just...I just...I want to know what you meant in the classroom today.”

Hyejin quirked a brow. “You want me to explain ‘I love you and you’re mine’?”

Wheein blushed furiously. “How do you say things like that so easily?”

“Because I love you?” she said, her confused wrinkle of the nose a reflection of her younger self. Wheein recalled the exact expression when she had refused to take her hand, and almost laughed. “How else am I supposed to say it?”

“Okay, but love comes in many different forms. There’s friendship—”

In a split second, Hyejin slammed her hand against the doorframe once more, and leaned in several breaths too close, and said, “Cut the crap—it’s the kind of love where we make out and touch each other’s butts and stuff. Obviously.”

Wheein touched her elbow, and looked her firmly in the eyes. “Okay,” she said. There was something in her tone, a secret perhaps—a truth only she seemed to know. But Hyejin barely had a moment to to be annoyed when she felt Wheein’s soft lips on her cheek, and her heart rattling inside her chest.

When Wheein stepped back, she wore the most beautiful smile and the most adorably shy expression. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “We can touch each other’s butts when we’re a little older. I’ll...be yours though. And you’ll be mine, okay?”

Hyejin grinned, her entire face scrunching with unparalleled joy. “I like the sound of that.”

The two of them were inseparable after that, and it was a union no one was surprised about. They still had their admirers—if the mountain of chocolates on Hyejin’s desk on Valentine’s Day were any indication—but it would be ridiculous to even think about coming between them. At least, it was in middle school.

Hyejin, on her part, never quite developed a capacity to share, even when they started touching butts earlier than either of them had planned. By the time high school came around and they had graduated to the high school wing of Saint Francis, everyone knew what they meant to each other. But as they grew more and more beautiful over the years, Hyejin grew more and more protective. After her confession, she’d quickly learned that the kisses and touches she’d given away freely in middle school had a heavy weight to them, and the more people coveted what she had, the more she needed to lock them up for herself.

It wasn’t that she ever doubted Wheein’s feelings—she was confident that no one loved Wheein more than she did. It simply became more obvious that more and more people began vying for Wheein’s attention in different ways. And Wheein, ever her cheerful, helpful self, never took a moment to doubt their less-than-pure intentions.

It was irrational, she knew. Wheein had always been far more intelligent than she knew how to give her credit for; she simply couldn’t shake the feeling that her kindness was a weakness. Someday, somewhere, someone was going to take advantage of her beautiful smile and glowing heart. It hadn’t happened yet, but she knew it will. Wheein was hers, and no one else’s.

And since she could not protect her teddy bear, she was going to protect this precious, precious girl.

Wheein knew Hyejin was irrationally protective. She knew that Hyejin’s love all those years ago, would come with the additional weight of having to teach her, to explore with her, how to love. Besides, how could she fault Hyejin for her irrationality, her way of loving, when she spent these years harbouring her own irrationality—all these years, and Wheein continued to hide the truth of their first meeting, for fear of dredging up a part of their relationship Hyejin didn’t need to know. It was ridiculous, she knew.

Sometimes it was easy to forget that love had to go both ways.

But by the time their full-ride scholarship to Archangel University came through, something began pressing onto their love, like a parasite clinging between them, ready to pull them apart at any moment. It was the little things, perhaps, building up to bigger and weightier pressures.

Hyejin needed Wheein.

Wheein needed room to breathe.

Hyejin didn’t need anyone else.

Wheein didn’t think Hyejin knew what she needed.

Hyejin needed Wheein to know how much she loved her.

Wheein needed Hyejin to know how much she loved her in spite of everything.

Hyejin didn’t want that stupid werewolf around. The stupid werewolf, the rabbit, the succubus, and even the siren who didn’t know how to smile. All of these new people—she wanted them to leave their love alone.

Wheein liked that stupid werewolf and her awkward ways. She liked the rabbit, the succubus, and even the siren who didn’t know how to smile. All of these new people—she wanted them to stay and help their love grow.

Perhaps it was a bit of miraculous coincidence when Seulgi invited Wheein to the library one day to talk to Byulyi, and nothing less of an intervention when Wheein volunteered/threatened Hyejin to go in her stead. She had known by then that Hyejin—who shared several classes with Byulyi—was on friendly enough terms to stand beside her in icy silence. It was a feat she didn’t even extend to Seungwan—who spent way too much time around Wheein and not dating an attractive siren who was clearly into her—so if anyone were to be Hyejin’s new friend, it was going to be this awkward werewolf.

When Hyejin got back to the dorm from the library that day, she was still thinking of what Byulyi had said.

“Wheeinssi really loves you.” That’s what Byulyi said. And it was true. It was obvious. She knew that. Right?

Wheein was cleaning the kitchen counter in the common room. Knowing how Hyejin was, she had kicked Seungwan out with half the batch of cookies they’d made together. A few students lingered—their chatter immediately quieting to a hushed whisper when Hyejin strode into the room.

She marched right to the counter, stretched both hands across it to clamp down Wheein’s, and stared her straight in the eye—the same unwavering stare Wheein never tired of seeing. Even now, her heart couldn’t help but jump.

“Wheein-ah,” Hyejin said, declaring her name like it was the only thing that mattered.

“W-what? You’re scaring me, Hyejinie.”

“I love you.”

Wheein blinked. “I know. I love you too.”

“More than anything.”

“Yes...more than you love touching my , I know,” Wheein said with a laugh. “Are you feeling alright?”

Hyejin glanced down at the flour-smattered countertop. “I just...wanted you to know.” She released Wheein’s hands, and sheepishly scratched the back of her neck.

Wheein quirked a brow. “Okay,” she said as she picked up a rag and wiped down the counter. Hyejin watched her work in silence, just watching and admiring her love under the dim yellow light.

When Wheein turned to the pile of dishes in the sink, Hyejin walked around, wrapped her arms around Wheein’s waist and hooked her chin on her shoulder, embracing her from behind while Wheein washed the dishes. Wheein smiled when Hyejin snuggled deeper. “So, did you have fun with Byulyi-unnie?” She asked gently.

“Yeah,” Hyejin mumbled.

“What did you talk about?”

“Mm not much. Just that she’s ridiculously bad with girls and that she’s in love with her vampire roommate like some bad romance novel. She’s so thirsty, it’s actually kind of funny.”

“Told you she wasn’t into me,” Wheein said with a little smirk.

“Yeah.”

Wheein, who had been expecting the usual defensive retort, was unprepared for the quiet resignation. So, she wiped her hands on her apron and turned around in Hyejin’s embrace. With her back against the sink, she had just enough space to reach up and cup her cheek. Hyejin’s ears perked up at the slight touch. “Listen,” Wheein said softly, “I know it’s not always easy. I’ve loved you for so long, and there are parts of our relationship that I wish…”

“Were easier,” Hyejin mumbled. She leaned into Wheein’s touch. “I know. I know I’m difficult.”

Wheein shook her head. “It’s not you, Hyejinie. You’ve always tried your best. It’s us. I wish there were parts of our relationship that I can just kiss and make better, but, ah, I love you so much, Hyejin. You know that, right?”

Hyejin sighed. Wheein kissed it away, and smiled. Seeing the unease still lingering on Hyejin’s expression, however, Wheein bit her lip. Something told her it was time; the moment she had been turning over and over in her head since the earliest days of their relationship. Now or never. “There’s something...I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time.”

“Do you want to go somewhere without an audience?” She said, pointing discreetly at the other students pretending to shuffle their papers and peer deeply into their textbooks.

Wheein rolled her eyes. “Why do you always attract admirers with your mysterious, y ways? People should know what a one-dimensional puppy you really are.”

“Hey!” Hyejin laughed. “Don’t ruin my rep just because you’re a little bit special.”

Wheein smiled, and wrapped her fingers around Hyejin’s. “Let’s go, you dork.”

Back in their room, Wheein quickly ushered Hyejin inside and sat her down on their shared bed—before she lost her courage.

“What is it, Wheeinie? You look a little pale.”

Wheein shook her head. “Just listen, okay?”

Hyejin nodded.

Wheein took a deep breath. “The truth is, I’ve...loved you longer than you think. And I’ve always known we would have these differences. You’ve tried so hard all these years, but there are some things that...haven’t changed, and I don’t know why I’ve kept it a secret from you. I just didn’t know how to say it because I’ve always felt like it was my fault, and I didn’t want you to think of me differently. And I don’t even know why I’m telling you now—the way you looked at me earlier—I just...you have the right to know.”

Hyejin rushed forward to take Wheein’s white-knuckled hand in her own. “Woah, slow down,” she said softly. “Breathe, Wheeinie. I’m not going anywhere.” She pulled her toward the bed, and sat at the edge beside her. Wheein, her mixed up feelings all threatening to bubble forward into tears, took another breath, her eyes glittering up at Hyejin gratefully. “Start from the beginning,” Hyejin urged.

“The beginning,” Wheein laughed. “I don’t think you remember, but we’ve met before. Way before middle school.” Hyejin quirked a brow, but patiently waited for Wheein to continue. “My parents live near Jeonju, on Martyr Mountain. That’s where I grew up, actually. I’m sorry...I don’t know why I found it so hard to tell you. I guess I didn’t really want you to know who I was.”

This time Hyejin couldn’t hold it in: “Wait, I know that name. My...mom and I...used to live there. When I was young.”

Wheein nodded. “You know when I said that there are some parts of you that has never changed? Mm, you might’ve forgotten, but the first thing you ever said to me was ‘you’re mine.’ Just like you did in middle school.” Wheein smiled at the memory, but Hyejin wasn’t laughing.

She knew that moment well. It was a still picture emblazoned onto the back of her mind—her teddy bear and her darling smile and earnest eyes. And the little round ears. It couldn’t be.

Could it?

“I thought you were really interesting,” Wheein continued. “I think even back then, I was already a little bit in love with you. Then you got me a bouquet of lollipops. You might not re—”

“I do. Wheein, I remember everything,” Hyejin said, covering Wheein’s hand on her knee with her own. “I...I’ve never forgotten. I wish I knew. I called you my teddy bear all these years, you know. I can’t believe you’re the same person. I guess it should’ve been obvious, but...wow.”

“Your teddy bear?”

“Yeah, you had those adorable ears. My god, I was so in love with you. And now that I know, I’m even more in love with you—is that even possible?”

“You...didn’t blame me for what happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“The lollipops. If I didn’t give them away...we...maybe we could’ve grown up together. That’s what everyone said. I mean I…I always thought about what it would’ve been like if I had just accepted your gift, you know? Like maybe we could’ve grown up together.”

Hyejin wrapped an arm around Wheein, and pulled her in for a kiss on the temple. “That was a hundred percent my crazy mother. I mean I’ve...thought about it before. Before I met you, especially, I often wished I could go back to my teddy bear. I don’t think it’d be the same though. We would’ve been different people, and I... god, I would’ve been incorrigible.”

Wheein laughed. “You were a lot of things, but never incorrigible. I really...I know how hard you try, Hyejinie. I just...wish you’d give yourself a chance too. Tonight with Byulyi, it wasn’t too bad right?”

Hyejin shook her head.

“Good. Tomorrow, Seungwan invited Byulyi and I to a seminar. It’s on transformation, so I know it’ll be kind of boring to you. I’d like to go with them...on my own.” Hyejin flinched; Wheein continued, “but only if you’re okay with it. Do you think you can give it a try?”

Hyejin frowned.

“It’s only for two hours. Seulgi will be free. Do you want to try hanging out with Seulgi?”

Hyejin sighed. “One thing at a time, my teddy bear.”

“I like that,” Wheein said with a wide grin.

“Good,” Hyejin said, planting a quick kiss on her lips. “I can’t even tell you how happy I am that the two greatest loves of my life are one person. Never doubt how much I loved you when we were seven. I remember everything. And...well, because I love you, I’m going to try even more, okay? You deserve much better.”

“Don’t say that, Hyejinie.”

“You do! You know I’m not good with this stuff. It frustrates me that there are so many things I don’t understand about…people, I guess. All these irrational thoughts drive me crazy, and I don’t know where it comes from, but…I’ll be okay.”

“Yes,” Wheein kissed her. “It’s okay. We all have our own irrational thoughts sometimes. And I get it. I do see how much you love me. Now it’s your turn to see how much I love you.”  

“I love you. Why are you so perfect, Wheeinie?” she cried, pulling her in by the waist, and squeezing their cheeks together. “I’ll try harder for you, okay? I promise. You should go tomorrow. I’ll stay home and catch up on some sleep.”

“Thank you, Hyejinie,” Wheein mumbled into Hyejin’s hair.  

Hyejin smiled and nestled her head in the crook of Wheein’s neck.

“Thank you for giving me so many chances.”

Notes: Thank you for your patience everyone. This chapter turned out way longer than I'd intended, but I just really, really love Wheesa okay?! The scene with the lollipop bouquet gave me so many feelings. 

The always lovely Fengxian drew a little picture for me for the lollipop scene. PROPS. 

Ah, despite the ridiculous length, it still feels a bit rushed. I think it's pretty different from the other chapters because it feels like a complete story as well. Hopefully, you enjoyed the backstory, and hopefully it will add more depth to the main story for you guys :) 

Also, I REALLY wanted to get this out for Valentine's Day, but I missed it by a day, ahhhh! It's the thought that matters right? Instead, HAPPY CHINESE NEW YEARS!

As usual, thank you very much for supporting. All of your subs, upvotes, and--most of all--comments! are very much appreciated :)