Joohyun has always been a planner. Journals full of bullet points and highlighted dates on those calendars are simply a result of that trait. Even her next ten years have already been carefully thought out. She would do two years of club activities in high school, and in her final year, she would apply to three different programs at the five universities on her list that she’d finished curating when she was fourteen. And then she’d begin her career in fields relevant to her degree, all of which are known to have great job security and guaranteed pensions.

Joohyun feels safe to have her days prepared beforehand. So, when the coach told her about the summer camp, two full weeks of training for the team so they are all ready for the provincial championship, she prepared a thorough schedule to ensure there was no time wasted.

But now, somehow, there they are. Joohyun is sitting on an open grass field, the back of the gymnasium walls barely visible from where she’s at. While Son Seungwan is fast asleep, her shoulders raise up and down in a rhythmic pattern while looking blissfully peaceful on Joohyun’s lap. Joohyun can feel a small wet spot on her track pants, right below Seungwan’s slightly agape mouth.

Seungwan must be exhausted to be drooling in such a short time of sleeping.

Joohyun can easily see why. The team has just finished two full back-to-back games against other schools, and Joohyun watched how Seungwan gave her all on receiving all those spikes from opponents twice her height.

(And, as if it wasn’t enough, Seungwan then immediately went on her ‘afternoon jog’ as soon as the practice matches ended.)

Considering all, Joohyun is actually more impressed that Seungwan didn’t pass out earlier.

This sight of Seungwan is a contrast to how the usual chirpy mood maker of the team usually looks. There are details that she only notices now when she is this close to Seungwan, like her long eyelashes. Usually, Seungwan’s eyes take most of her attention. They are always straightforward as if the two are windows for Joohyun to check on Seungwan’s emotions.

(She remembers how dim they looked after the team lost their qualification match, filled with tears that never fell. Never again.)

The sky fades to another shade of red. The light shines on Seungwan’s face, and although Seungwan’s face looks beautiful basking in the sun, Joohyun quickly raises her hand to give cover for her hoobae.

Joohyun knows that she should wake Seungwan up. The poor girl barely has enough time to wash up and eat dinner before their evening training. And it’s not like Joohyun has nothing on her plate. She hasn’t moved the recording files of their recent match from the camera’s memory card, and she still needs to meet other teams’ managers to confirm tomorrow’s schedule.

There is no argument as to why she does what she’s doing right now, Joohyun is perfectly aware of it. But how does her head win against her greed when she has Seungwan like this?

Because she sees the red tint on Seungwan’s cheeks as the warm wind blows around them. Because she feels Seungwan’s skin on her lap. Because she hears the little noises as Seungwan breathes in and out through the little gap between her lips (she wonders if hers would slot as perfectly between—

Joohyun’s mind pauses while her heart runs.

She a deep breath in and quietly exhales as she calms the manic thumps on her chest. The back of the palm of her right hand feels cold against her cheek. So she shuts her eyes and shakes her head, all a futile attempt to make that dream scatter.

And when Joohyun looks down, Seungwan is still deep in her sleep, not knowing the mess she has caused to her manager’s poor heart.

Three more minutes, Joohyun promises herself. She carefully combs out strands of hair that touch the girl’s cheek. She will let Seungwan sleep for three more minutes.

(And after that, she will go back to watch Seungwan from the side of the court.)

[•••••]

(Seungwan later wakes up, and Joohyun gets a bright, drool-stained grin as a thank you.)

[•••••]

They lost.

It was the final set. The scores were so close. They managed to catch up to the opponent’s early lead and made the game into overtime. They only needed to win one more time before qualifying for the national championship they dreamt about.

And yet, they lost.

Joohyun watches from the sidelines as her last official game as the team manager has come to an end. Her eyes immediately follow Seungwan who smiles and comforts her heartbroken teammates. She even congratulates her opponent's captain for their victory.

When Seungwan’s name is called to the podium as the tournament’s best libero, she takes the trophy and beams towards her teammates, wide and cheery, but it strikes Joohyun then. That smile looks nothing like the one Seungwan showed her on that grassy field.

Only later that evening does Joohyun get to see how Seungwan breaks down.

She is carrying a box full of cheering props, meaning to return them after the match. And when she passes the gymnasium, she hears the sound of balls hitting the floor over and over again. The door is closed, but not entirely, and through the gap, she sees Seungwan spike the yellow ball with much force.

(Seungwan’s position never requires her to do a spike.)

So Joohyun leans against the door, listening through each slam that sounds nothing like Seungwan. Because Seungwan has never been angry. And all the noises behind the door scream pain.

Then it stops.

And Joohyun waits. But the longer it goes, the louder that silence rings, so she rummages through the box and does the first thing that comes to her mind.

(Joohyun can never not do anything for Seungwan anyway.)

She opens the gymnasium door and barges in, and she watches Seungwan jolt in surprise, first at her uninvited entrance, second at her appearance. However, when she finally gets closer to Seungwan, when the dark room can no longer hide the red eyes and flowing tears on Seungwan’s cheeks, her steps stop and Joohyun’s entire bravery falls apart.

“...Joohyun unnie?”

Seungwan mutters carefully, her voice rougher than usual but they are still coloured with Seungwan’s warmth.

Joohyun doesn’t take long to know how Seungwan recognizes her behind the cover, as she notices the matching team jacket they are wearing, the only difference being that Seungwan’s has the name Son Seungwan written on top of the right chest.

Seungwan takes another step closer to her.

“Why are you wearing our school mascot’s head?”

“I-uh, I was going to bring them to the teacher’s office…” Joohyun stutters as her head tries to come up with an answer that isn’t what her heart has. It’s no surprise that she comes up with nothing. She has never been good at going in without a plan.

Seungwan waits for her to finish her words, and when it becomes apparent that nothing would follow suit, Seungwan only nods dumbly before she snorts, and then breaks into a cackle of laughter.

Relief immediately washes over Joohyun, and she ignores how her heart shouts in celebration.

“This is why you are wearing the stupid head!” it cheers, belaboring the obvious.

When the laughter ceases, Seungwan, still smiling at her, takes another step closer.

“It must be uncomfortable, unnie…”

“No, wait–”

Joohyun’s hands immediately hold Seungwan’s wrists, stopping her from taking off the tiger’s head.

“It reeks of sweat, and I… I might…”

Seungwan looks at her with gentle eyes, lips curving into a smile full of promises. So the strength in her wrists goes, and Seungwan wins her again.

“See?” Seungwan says, one hand holding the costume prop, the other smooths her tangled locks. “Beautiful as always.”

While Joohyun’s cheeks flush, Seungwan’s dimples, and her whole face brightens as her lips turn upwards, showing Joohyun her familiar, dreamlike grin.

This is why.

And when Seungwan squeezes her hand, as they walk together to the teacher’s office, Joohyun knows that they are Seungwan's two unsaid words. So Joohyun squeezes back, whispering her own three-syllable truth.