Irene wakes up feeling surprisingly refreshed. It’s not like she’d ever been drunk before, vampires are immune to human alcohol, and the last time Irene had turned human, she’d been too young to be dealt such drinks. So maybe it was pure luck dropping down from the heavens above that Irene wasn’t as dead as a dog with the amount of soju and beer she’d forced into her system.

When her senses fully come to, one question pins itself straight into her mind like a tack to a bulletin board. Where am I? The bed she’s on is soft, and smells vaguely familiar. But it’s impossible; it has to be.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Irene slowly turns her head towards the source of the voice, dread beginning to force its way into the core of her thoughts. Seulgi’s standing in the doorway to what Irene can easily presume is for a bathroom because the girl’s only form of cover is a white towel. Seulgi’s hair is wet, and her face is bare of any source of makeup, and Irene can see her bare shoulders and long, smooth legs as bright as day.

“I can’t believe you actually fainted,” Seulgi says.

Irene struggles to speak, bits of egg flying out of like machine gun pellets, only to have Seulgi smack a napkin into her face to shut her up. After she swallows, she says, “Well, what do you expect? The love of my life - .”

“Wrong.”

“ - standing in front of me practically .”

“Shut it.”

“Your lucky I didn’t get a bloody nose,” Irene finishes. “You’re a really good cook, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

Irene looks around the room in mild curiosity, taking in the classy, wood-themed design and the white furniture that matches the color scheme perfectly. She’d gotten a glimpse outside the window earlier, and had been stunned to see that they’re at least forty floors high, practically in the clouds. A question that she knows should have come up a long time ago makes itself known and Irene turns back to Seulgi with questioning eyes.

“I thought . . . I thought you worked as a waitress.”

“I do.” Seulgi’s expression is mischievous, eyes dancing and mouth curled up at the corners. “Part-time.”

“Then what do you actually do?”

Seulgi leans back in her chair. “I’m a writer. I like writing, I managed to get my name out there, and now I write for a living. Being a waitress is so I can meet more people for inspiration. Plus, I’ve worked there since I was sixteen before I got my book published, so . . .”

Seulgi merely shrugs and Irene decides to let it go.

“How did you find me yesterday?” Irene ventures to say.

“You called me, super drunk, I managed to get you to tell me where you were, and I went to pick you up,” Seulgi says nonchalantly, staring down at her breakfast.

“Thank you,” Irene murmurs quietly.

She’s not sure where she would have ended up if it hadn’t been for Seulgi. She might have phoned Wendy, though she doubts it for a reason unknown. It’s not like Wendy is a completely heartless being void of any emotion. In fact, beneath the rough mask the girl puts on is a soft interior full of warmth and compassion that rarely makes its way out from behind its defenses. However, despite Wendy being her closest companion, there’s something that makes Irene doubt that her thumb would have pressed that number two on her keypad.

“Would it be too much to ask why you got drunk?” Seulgi asks, nonchalance obviously emphasized.

Irene swallows as if a golf ball had found its way stuck within , avoiding Seulgi’s dark chocolate eyes that say nothing but everything at the same time. She begins to intake the rest of her breakfast with fervor.

A minute into silence, she looks up, a question swimming its way up and into her consciousness. “Where did you sleep?”

This time it’s Seulgi who pulls her sharp gaze away. Irene can swear that she’s blushing.

“Let’s call it even.”

Irene watches as Seulgi slides a laptop into her bag and slips on her sneakers. She tugs on the hem of the off-shoulder sweater Seulgi had lent her (it’s a little big, but it’ll do) and Seulgi looks up at the movement, tilting her head towards the door as Irene looks at her in muddled confusion.

“Coming?”

“Where?”

Seulgi opens and Irene’s sure she’s going to get yelled at, but the young woman just takes a breath. “Just - are you coming or not?”

Irene nods, still-damp hair brushing against her bare shoulder as she follows Seulgi out the door. It’s cold out, as they exit the apartment lobby (it turns out Seulgi lives on the forty-third story) but Seulgi’s jacket is surprisingly warm despite it being a cool white that blends in with the fresh snow outside.

“I write in a cafe near here. It has good atmosphere,” Seulgi explains, breath steaming transparent white and streaming out into the open air to join the polluted air of Seoul.

“How famous are you?”

“I have a bestseller and a couple other books that are selling pretty well, too.”

“What do you write?”

They stop at a light, Seulgi looking straight forward as she says, “Fantasy, action, mystery, the whole lot of them. That’s probably why I have a large following. My bestseller is about a hunter and a clan of murderous vampires.”