The First Kiss

The next morning passed like any other — on the surface.

We brushed our teeth side by side, half-asleep, trading yawns and toothpaste foam.

“Move,” she said, elbowing me lightly when I blocked the mirror.

“I live here too, you know,” I replied, mouth full of bubbles.

She smirked, spit, then reached for the towel just as I did.

Our hands bumped.

She raised an eyebrow. “Copycat.”

“Inspiration is a form of flattery,” I said.

“Mm. Or lack of originality.”

In the hallway, I stepped left. So did she. We stepped right. Again, the same. We laughed, and she gave me a look before brushing past with a half-shoved shoulder.

It was nothing. It was everything.

By now, the silences had changed. They weren’t empty. They breathed. They carried the weight of what hadn’t happened — of what we both knew nearly had.

Throughout the day, we orbited each other like magnets trying not to admit their pull. Elbows brushed in the kitchen. Fingers grazed across the same remote. Knees touched under the table, then stayed there just a second too long.

None of it was intentional.

None of it was innocent.

—

Dinner was simple. I cooked. She moved beside me like she always did — not asking what to do, just doing it. Cutting the garlic. Setting the table. Stirring the pot when I stepped away.

We didn’t speak much — just a few instructions, a few quiet thank-yous. But the way her fingers brushed mine when I passed her the salt, the way she paused when our arms grazed — the space between us felt dense, humming with everything we weren’t saying.

I dropped the pepper grinder.

She laughed — sudden, involuntary, and warm. A sound that cracked something open inside me.

“Smooth,” she said.

“Years of training,” I muttered, crouching to pick it up.

Her smile stayed even after the laugh faded. It hung between us like the scent of garlic and soy.

That was the thing about Seo Yoon. Even her silences had a temperature. Even her presence lingered after she left the room.

—

Later, we were in the kitchen, washing dishes. The light above the sink cast long, soft shadows across the countertop. The apartment had dimmed for the night, and the sound of water and porcelain filled the space like a quiet rhythm.

She passed me a bowl. Our fingers touched.

I paused.

She didn’t move. Didn’t pull back.

I looked up. She was already watching me.

Her eyes didn’t widen. They didn’t flinch. They just… held me there. Calm, open, unreadable.

The faucet hummed in the background. A droplet slid down the side of the glass I was holding.

I put it down slowly. My heart was already ahead of me.

I took a small step closer. Not a leap. Just enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. Enough to see the way her breath caught in the hollow of her throat.

I leaned in slowly, giving her time — time to stop me, time to turn away.

But she didn’t.

Her lips parted just slightly.

She tilted her head, the space between us now holding nothing but a held breath.

And then we kissed.

Not rushed. Not certain. Just a soft meeting of something that had been waiting too long to be named.

Her mouth was warm. Her hand brushed against mine. And for a moment, the world quieted.

Then she pulled back. Just slightly.

Her breath was still shallow. Her lips parted as if to say something, but no words came.

“I should go to bed,” she said, not meeting my eyes. The words were soft, but something about them felt rehearsed — like she had to put the distance back before it slipped away completely.

“Yeah,” I replied, barely above a murmur. “Me too.”

She lingered a second longer. Like she might change her mind. Like we both might.

But then she turned and walked away.

She didn’t look back.

I did.

I stayed there, motionless, as the water cooled in the sink and the quiet came back in full.

Her bedroom light went off a few minutes later. But something else stayed on — in me.

That wasn’t an almost.

That was real.

And now I didn’t know what to do with it.