She stumbles across Irene at the supermarket.

There’s a half empty basket balanced against Irene’s hip, a line creasing the space between her eyebrows. She seems to be debating between ice cream flavors: vanilla or cookies-and-cream. The condensation from the frozen containers swirls prettily around her.

Seulgi begins to turn her cart around, forgetting the faulty wheel which betrays her presence with a squeak against the supermarket linoleum. She glares at it for good measure, missing the startle that results in a tub of Baskin Robbins dropping noisily to the floor. Seulgi looks up, just in time to catch Irene schooling her surprise into a bland curiosity, left eyebrow arched like a question.

“Hi Joohyun,” Seulgi breathes out, raising a hand in a sheepish wave. She swallow past the rabbit-quick pulse closing up . “I’d go with cookies and cream, but I know you prefer vanilla.” She widens her smile until her cheeks hurt from the effort.

Irene must be out of practice, because she lets her face morph into bewilderment, then plain anger, mouth opening soundlessly. Seulgi braces herself for rage, but Irene demurs, turning to pick up the ice cream tub which has rolled quite a few feet away from them.

Seulgi shifts her weight on her feet, willing herself to not make a run for the nearest exit. She has always been mild-mannered, and breaking into a sprint in a supermarket seems a tad dramatic. Irene remains crouching, knuckles whitening around the lid of the container. Seulgi feels sick. She takes a hesitant step forward.

“Do you--do you need some help?”

“How dare you?” Irene hisses. She rises swiftly, the line of her back rigid, two spots of colour high on her cheeks. The plastic of the container gives under her fingertips. “You think you can just walk back into my life and start handing out advice on ice cream flavours?”

“Well, I tried to escape earlier,” Seulgi points out. “I...I can still leave.”

Irene scoffs. “Be my guest,” she says. Her face is carefully blank.

“Okay,” Seulgi says. She wonders if she should risk picking up the frozen pizza she'd come to this aisle for. The display of pepperoni and mozzarella near Irene's elbow is tempting, and god, hadn't Seulgi recently convinced herself that she had left behind the days of cowering like a child in front of every little thing that scared her?

(Irene has always been on that list, albeit much, much lower than more mundane fears: stage fright, snakes, failure, and house lizards.

Ironically, Irene only surpassed spiders on the list when Seulgi moved away five years ago. Her fear was like the tension in an invisible string binding her to her leader, and the further she got, the more it increased. Restful sleep was rare, nightmares she had never had before keeping her up till she switched from her regular morning mochas to the strongest espressos she could find.)

Decision made, she wipes her palms onto her jeans surreptitiously and wheels her cart slowly past Irene. As if as an afterthought instead of a deliberate move, she extends her arm and nonchalantly retrieves a large box of pizza, which almost slips from her still clammy hands.

She’s already moving past when she registers that Irene no longer resembles a pissed-off mannequin; instead, she is shaking like a leaf in a gale. It's not from the chill radiating from the freezing compartments. It's Seulgi's fault, and she knows that.

The realization makes her falter, and she turns back around to face Irene’s back, her trembling shoulders. Irene, who is still rooted to her spot, still cradling the ice cream close to her chest, eyes bright and blinking rapidly. Her back is slightly hunched like she has been hollowed out.

In the space of a breath, Seulgi's got an arm wrapped around Irene's shoulder, the other hand soothing the goose flesh on Irene's arms.

Seulgi keeps up a steady chant of “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” which Irene allows, as she allows Seulgi’s arms to draw her closer, stoic despite her unshed tears, staring past Seulgi's shoulder, unseeing.

It's enough for now. Seulgi will take what she gets.

The teapot whistles in the kitchen, rousing Seulgi from a useless staring match with the empty bookshelves of her new apartment. She glances once towards Irene, who is  contemplating the grain of wood patterning the coffee table, gaze both searching and absent, before leaving the living room.

Once she's back, Seulgi pours the tea noisily into a chipped blue mug, freshly unpacked from layers of bubble wrap. She sets it down on the table as loudly as she can without scuffing up the wood. Irene doesn't even blink, and Seulgi sighs.

“Come on, now. Have some tea,” she prods after letting the silence sit for too long, the steaming mug failing to attract the attention of the potential drinker.

Irene makes a show of unwillingly disembarking her train of thought, eyebrows drawing together in exaggerated displeasure. She fusses for a few drawn beats before narrowing her eyes at Seulgi. Seulgi scrunches her face up into a smile in response, one she knows is effective from years of studying herself on camera and from testimonies of fans and friends alike.

Irene rolls her eyes, picking up the cup gingerly. She takes a delicate sip, fingers wrapping greedily around the warmth, her features contorted with studied annoyance.

Seulgi nods, satisfied.

“None for you? What, are you too good for tea, now?” Irene attacks, without preamble.

“You know that makes no sense.”

Irene says nothing, takes another sip as she looks around the living room for the first time since she's walked in. “Seungwan knows.” It's not a question.

“Yeah, she does,” Seulgi confirms.

“And you didn't think to inform me,” Irene says evenly. “I would love to hear the excuses you were busy concocting instead of paying attention to road on the way here.”

Seulgi notes the tightening of Irene's fingers around the mug with rising terror. That mug is heavy and would leave a pretty bruise.

“I...wanted to surprise you?” Seulgi tries, words laced with right amount of contrition. “It was going to involve a lot of groveling, and a generous amount of lunches and dinners. A year’s worth. Also, I have gifts? I’ve collected a decent wardrobe during my…travels and I haven’t even made a dent in it.”

Irene laughs without mirth. “Oh, you meant to bribe me with the newest Louboutins?” The tea almost sloshes over the edge of the mug with the jerks accompanying her forced laughter. “So clever. I guess traveling really added to what you were lacking in intelligence,” she adds in a biting tone, face wiped of humour.

It stings because it’s meant to, but not much. Seulgi knows Irene doesn’t mean it,  that the anger and the insults are warranted. Perhaps the offer of clothes was made too soon, their shared interest in fashion notwithstanding. There were bridges to mend before Seulgi could tease, before they could joke around like they used to.

“Okay, I was scared. Afraid. Paralyzed with fear and guilt.” Seulgi rests her elbows on her knees before framing her face with her hands, eyes trained on Irene. “I didn’t know how to face you again. I still don’t think I know.” If there’s a waver in her voice, Irene doesn’t comment on it.

“You don’t look scared,” Irene says mockingly, voice pitched high in disbelief. “You’re making me tea, you’re offering me your designer hand-me-downs, you don’t seem...paralyzed with fear.”

Seulgi quirks an eyebrow, puzzled. “You don’t want the truth, do you? You just want to hear me say that I’d forgotten about you. That I didn’t tell you about coming back because I don’t care about you. Is that it?”

A sharp inhale confirms it. Irene looks away, appearing unsure, timid for the first time since their reunion. She sets the mug back on the table, then picks it back up when she doesn’t know what to do with her hands. Seulgi’s never seen her so agitated, but then again, she’d never imagined they’d be in such a situation: meeting as strangers when once they’d shared a house, rooms, clothes, and a best friend.

“Didn’t Seungwan warn you? She knows that my apartment is just a block away from this one,” Irene says, ignoring Seulgi’s question. “It’s hardly prudent to share a supermarket with someone you don’t wanna run into.”

“She hasn’t been here yet. I signed the lease in a hurry.”

At a pointed look, Seulgi elaborates, “I wanted to get settled before...uh, well. Did the management have a chance to talk to you yet?”

Irene’s eyebrows raise and her eyes widen in horror. “No. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

It’s unfair to blindside her like this, but Seulgi has no choice, does she? “A spring comeback. We start recording in two months. I think they have a couple demos already.”

“What about your tour in Australia?”

Seulgi’s surprised that Irene’s information is so detailed but Wendy’s never been one to keep much from their leader. Except the news of Seulgi’s return.

When Seulgi doesn’t respond, Irene asks, “Are you going on a hiatus from your solo activities? What about your fans?”

“They’ve waited for me before. I won’t lose them easily. Besides, SM is planning a world tour this time, for all of us. Together.” It’s hard to keep some of the excitement out of her voice, but it’s tainted by the fact that Irene had been kept in the dark and Seulgi hadn’t. “It’s time for Red Velvet, now.”

“And they didn’t think to ask me? Or tell me?” Irene is understandably livid. “Why do you get to know first? Does Seungwan know? The others?”

Seulgi shakes her head. “They had to ask me before they could shelve the plans for the Australia tour. I think they were gonna break it to you guys at the meeting scheduled for us next week. Running into you wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Evidently,” Irene says, then busies herself pretending to drink her tea. Her mind seems to be far away, and Seulgi feels grateful to have distracted Irene from her ire. They still had a lot to discuss, and Seulgi would rather they postpone it indefinitely. She's never been good at confrontations, especially with Irene, and the constant interrogation had raised up quite a sweat, even in the chill of a late winter afternoon.

“I’m gonna go take a quick shower. Are you--,” Seulgi pauses, considering her words, “Do you wanna share the pizza I got for dinner? Or this whole thing would have been a waste.” She smiles to let Irene know that she's joking.

Irene glares at her for fifteen seconds (Seulgi counts them, heart hammering) before she gets to her feet.

It's only instinct that makes Seulgi back away to a safe distance.

“Okay,” Irene agrees loftily. “I'll eat your damn pizza.”

“Okay?” Seulgi is weak-kneed with relief.

“Yeah, only if we're having ice cream after this too,” Irene says, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “I’m not looking forward to going back on a diet.”

It's only when Seulgi's in the shower that she realizes, belatedly, that Irene had been amused at her panic.

Perhaps all is not lost yet.

In the middle of being smothered, courtesy of a Joy-Yeri-Wendy group hug slash dogpile, Seulgi wonders why she’d been so scared of death-by-Irene when she should have been worrying about her other bandmates instead.

“Guys, you’re suffocating me.”

“You deserve it for being gone for so long!” Joy fires back, knuckling her hair in retaliation. Apparently five years has been enough for Joy to throw formalities and age-gap to the wind, and Seulgi, freshly-returned from a long stay abroad, doesn’t do much but laugh in mock outrage.

“Yes, unnie, you can’t chokeslam people through Snapchat,” Yeri says from somewhere behind Seulgi’s back, arms around her neck as she tries to force a piggyback ride out of her.

Seulgi protests: “Aren’t you a bit too old for climbing onto people’s backs?”

Yeri ignores her, continuing her assault on Seulgi’s back. “Maybe you’re too old. Are your bones already aching, grandma? Should I get your walker?”

Wendy’s fetched her phone and appears to be filming Seulgi’s ordeal, her giggles spilling over the fist in front of . “You really do deserve this, Seulgi-yah. For not even visiting us once!”  She’s joking but Seulgi’s not dense enough to ignore the trace of hurt beneath her words. There’s a lot to unpack there, too. Seulgi definitely has her work cut out for her.

Which would have to wait, because the door to the conference room opens, and Irene walks in.

It’s a bit comical, the way the maknaes (if they can be called that, in their mid-twenties now) freeze. Joy had been squishing Seulgi’s cheeks with dramatic fondness, and Yeri had given up climbing in favour of tickling Seulgi. Their hands stop, hovering over Seulgi’s frame awkwardly before they drop to their sides.

The tension in the room is palpable.

“Glad to see you all in such great spirits,” Irene deadpans, and takes a seat.

“Good morning to you too, grumpy-face,” Wendy replies, cracking a hesitant smile as she puts away her phone, trying to break through the suddenly oppressive atmosphere.

Irene looks at Wendy warningly, obviously still displeased about being kept in the dark about Seulgi.

Everything is Seulgi’s fault, and she never meant it to be this way.

The rest of them shuffle around the room looking busy, before their managers, various producers, and assorted people file into the conference room.

Seulgi sits across from Irene, not of her own volition, and spends the entirety of the meeting trying to pretend like she can’t feel the heavy gaze pinning her down like a fly to a board.

She barely makes it through.