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The first time Jin Nasol sees Eun Haje after—after what, exactly, she doesn't have a word for it, doesn't want to name it because naming it makes it real and she's spent her entire career being the kind of person who deals in facts, not feelings—she's in the break room on the third floor, the one nobody uses because the coffee machine has been broken for two months and facilities hasn't bothered to fix it. Eun Haje is leaning against the counter with a cigarette dangling from her lips even though smoking indoors is technically prohibited, not that anyone would dare tell her that, not when she works directly under Director Ho; she's scrolling through her phone with that infuriatingly casual expression she always wears, like nothing in the world could possibly touch her, like she's made of something harder than the rest of them, and when she glances up and their eyes meet, Jin Nasol feels something hot and ugly twist in her chest. Eun Haje's expression doesn't change—not even a flicker of recognition beyond a slight upturn of her lips that could mean anything or nothing—and Jin Nasol forces herself to walk to the water cooler, to fill her cup with hands that are perfectly steady, to drink it in three long swallows while Eun Haje's gaze burns into the side of her face.
"Jin Nasol-ssi," Eun Haje says, and her voice has that raspy quality that used to make Jin Nasol's stomach flip when she heard it in the dark, when they were tangled together in sheets that smelled like cigarette smoke and sweat and something desperately temporary. "Working hard as always, I see."
Jin Nasol doesn't answer; she crushes the paper cup in her fist and tosses it in the recycling bin, walks out without looking back, even though every nerve in her body is screaming at her to turn around, to say something cutting, to make Eun Haje feel even a fraction of what she's feeling. But that would be admitting there's something to feel, and Jin Nasol has never been the type to lose control, to let emotions dictate her actions; she's cold, rational, elite, the kind of person who earned her position through pure competency, not through connections or politics or whatever dirty work Eun Haje does for that snake Director Ho.
It was supposed to be simple—they'd meet up after particularly brutal explorations, in one of their dorms depending on whose schedule was clearer, and they'd burn off the adrenaline and the fear and the bone-deep exhaustion that came from staring into the darkness and knowing it was staring back. No strings, no expectations, no complicated feelings to navigate; just bodies and pleasure and the unspoken understanding that come morning, they'd go back to being strangers who happened to work for the same soul-crushing company.
Except somewhere along the line, Jin Nasol had broken the rules—her rules, the ones she'd set for herself because she knew better than to want more than what was offered—and now she's paying for it.
The thing is, Jin Nasol can pinpoint the exact moment it started to fall apart, can trace the erosion back to its source like she's documenting a ghost story for the research team. It was three months ago, after a particularly nasty C-class darkness that had left her with cracked ribs and Eun Haje with a concussion that medical said would sideline her for a week; Jin Nasol had shown up at Eun Haje's dorm anyway because the ache in her chest had nothing to do with broken bones and everything to do with the fact that she'd spent six hours thinking Eun Haje might actually die this time, that Director Ho would send her into something she couldn't walk away from. Eun Haje had opened the door in an oversized shirt and shorts, her short hair still damp from the shower, and instead of the usual immediate escalation—hands in hair, mouths on skin, clothes discarded in a trail to the bedroom—Jin Nasol had just stood there in the doorway like an idiot.
"You look like shit," Eun Haje had said, which was probably true; Jin Nasol hadn't slept in thirty-six hours and her ribs were screaming every time she breathed, but she'd needed to see with her own eyes that Eun Haje was alive, was whole, was here.
"You're one to talk," Jin Nasol had replied, and then Eun Haje had pulled her inside and kissed her, slow and careful in a way that felt nothing like their usual desperate urgency, and Jin Nasol had felt something crack open in her chest that had nothing to do with the broken ribs. They'd ended up on the couch instead of the bed, Eun Haje's fingers gentle as they'd mapped the bruises blooming across Jin Nasol's torso, and when Eun Haje had whispered "you scared me" against her collarbone, Jin Nasol had known she was completely, irrevocably fucked. Because Eun Haje wasn't supposed to get scared, wasn't supposed to care enough to be scared, and Jin Nasol wasn't supposed to feel this warmth spreading through her veins at the knowledge that maybe, possibly, she mattered to someone beyond her point total and her success rate.
The next morning, Eun Haje had been back to normal—sarcastic and distant and already dressed by the time Jin Nasol woke up, coffee brewing in the kitchen and that impenetrable wall back in place—and Jin Nasol had realized with horrifying clarity that whatever she'd felt the night before was entirely one-sided.
She'd ended it two weeks later, told Eun Haje in the most clinical terms possible that their arrangement was no longer convenient, that her schedule was too packed with her new team leader responsibilities to maintain any extracurricular activities; Eun Haje had just shrugged and said "sure, whatever works for you" like Jin Nasol had suggested they switch their regular meeting time instead of severing the only connection between them. It should have been a relief, should have felt like taking back control, but instead Jin Nasol just felt hollow, scraped out, like she'd amputated something vital and was still waiting for the phantom pain to fade.
It's been two months and the phantom pain hasn't faded; if anything, it's gotten worse, has metastasized into something that lives under her skin and makes her hyperaware of every time she's in the same room as Eun Haje, every time they pass each other in the hallway or end up in the same meeting or cross paths in the parking garage. Eun Haje never acknowledges it, never treats her any differently than she treats any other Daydream employee she has no reason to interact with, and it makes Jin Nasol want to scream, want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her and demand to know if any of it meant anything or if Jin Nasol was really just that forgettable. But she doesn't, because she's Jin Nasol, ice queen of Team A, the woman who completed three explorations in a single week and didn't even blink, and she's not going to let something as stupid and irrational as feelings compromise her carefully constructed reputation.
Except her control is starting to slip in ways she can't quite manage, small fissures appearing in the facade she's worked so hard to maintain. Last week, she'd been walking to a briefing when someone called out "Eun Haje-ssi!" behind her and she'd turned automatically, her body responding to the sound of that name before her brain could catch up; the person had been talking to someone else entirely, and Jin Nasol had stood there in the middle of the hallway feeling like an idiot while her heart hammered against her ribs. Yesterday, she'd been reviewing footage from a completed exploration and had caught a glimpse of short dark hair in the background, and for three seconds she'd forgotten how to breathe before realizing it was just one of the new recruits who didn't look anything like Eun Haje beyond the haircut. And this morning—this morning had been the worst, because she'd been making coffee in the Team A break room when Eun Haje had walked in, and their hands had brushed as they both reached for the sugar, and Jin Nasol had felt that touch like an electric shock, had jerked back so fast she'd nearly knocked over her mug.
Eun Haje had raised an eyebrow, that insufferable smirk playing at the corners of her mouth, and said "jumpy today, Jin Nasol-ssi," and Jin Nasol had wanted to kiss that smirk right off her face, wanted to crowd her against the counter and make her admit that she felt it too, this unbearable tension that was building between them every day they pretended nothing had ever happened.
Instead, she'd grabbed her coffee and left without a word, and now she's hiding in her office like a coward, staring at reports she can't focus on while her mind keeps replaying the warmth of Eun Haje's skin against hers, the way she'd gasped when Jin Nasol's teeth had found that spot just below her ear, the lazy satisfaction in her eyes when she'd watched Jin Nasol come undone beneath her hands.
The breaking point comes on a Tuesday, which feels anticlimactic; Jin Nasol has always imagined that if she was going to lose control, it would be during something dramatic—a near-death experience, a crisis, something that would at least justify the complete dissolution of her usual restraint—but instead it happens in the records room on the seventh floor, the one that still uses physical files because half of Daydream's infrastructure is held together with duct tape and bureaucratic incompetence. She's looking for documentation on a ghost story that shares similarities with one her team is about to tackle when she hears footsteps behind her, and she knows without turning around who it is; she's developed a sixth sense for Eun Haje's presence, can feel it like a change in air pressure, like the moment before a darkness pulls you in.
"Jin Nasol," Eun Haje says, and there's something different in her voice, something that makes Jin Nasol's hands still on the file drawer. Not Jin Nasol-ssi, not the careful formal distance they've been maintaining, just her name, rough and low and almost pleading, and when Jin Nasol finally turns around, Eun Haje is closer than she expected, close enough that Jin Nasol can smell the cigarette smoke that clings to her jacket, can see the shadows under her eyes that suggest she hasn't been sleeping any better than Jin Nasol has.
"What do you want?" Jin Nasol asks, and she means for it to come out cold, dismissive, but instead it sounds desperate, aching, like she's asking a completely different question.
Eun Haje's jaw tightens and she takes another step forward, and Jin Nasol should back away, should maintain the distance, should do literally anything other than stand here letting Eun Haje crowd her against the filing cabinets, but she can't seem to make her body cooperate. "You've been avoiding me," Eun Haje says, and Jin Nasol lets out a laugh that sounds slightly unhinged even to her own ears because that's rich, coming from the woman who's perfected the art of emotional unavailability, who can fuck someone senseless and then act like they're complete strangers the next day.
"We're not anything to each other," Jin Nasol says, and the words taste like ash in her mouth. "There's nothing to avoid."
"Is that what you tell yourself?" Eun Haje asks, and there's something almost angry in her expression now, a crack in that carefully maintained nonchalance, and Jin Nasol feels her own control starting to fracture because how dare she, how dare Eun Haje act like she has any right to be upset when she's the one who didn't care, who made it clear this was just physical, just convenient, just temporary. "Because you seem pretty worked up for someone who doesn't care."
"I don't—" Jin Nasol starts, but the lie won't come, catches in her throat and dies there, and she sees the moment Eun Haje registers it, sees something shift in those sharp eyes that have always seen too much. "This was your rule," Jin Nasol says instead, and she hates how her voice shakes, hates that she's giving this much away, but the dam has broken and she can't stop the words from spilling out. "You're the one who wanted it to be nothing, who made it clear we were just—just blowing off steam, so don't you dare act like I'm the one making this complicated."
"You think I wanted it to be nothing?" Eun Haje asks, and she's even closer now, so close Jin Nasol can feel the heat radiating off her body, can see the pulse jumping in her throat. "You think I didn't—" She cuts herself off, runs a hand through her hair in a gesture that betrays her agitation, and Jin Nasol has never seen her like this, has never seen her anything other than composed and sardonic and maddeningly untouchable.
"Didn't what?" Jin Nasol demands, and she can feel her heart racing, can feel something huge and terrifying building in her chest, and she needs Eun Haje to say it, needs her to admit that Jin Nasol wasn't alone in this, that she wasn't the only one who broke the rules and caught feelings that were never supposed to exist.
Eun Haje doesn't answer with words; instead she closes the remaining distance between them and kisses Jin Nasol like she's drowning and Jin Nasol is air, one hand cupping her face and the other pressed against the small of her back, pulling her close, and Jin Nasol gasps into her mouth because this is nothing like their usual encounters, nothing like the detached physical release they used to seek in each other. This is desperate, almost angry, Eun Haje's teeth catching on Jin Nasol's bottom lip hard enough to sting, her fingers tangling in Jin Nasol's long hair and tugging just right, and Jin Nasol kisses back with all the pent-up frustration and longing and rage she's been carrying for two months, until Eun Haje spins them and pins her against the filing cabinet with her whole body, and Jin Nasol wraps her arms around Eun Haje's neck and arches into her because she's missed this, has missed Eun Haje's hands on her skin and the way she always knows exactly where to touch, how much pressure to apply.
"We can't—" Jin Nasol tries to say when Eun Haje's mouth moves to her throat, when teeth graze over her pulse point and make her knees go weak, but Eun Haje just laughs against her skin, breathless and a little bit unhinged.
"Can't what?" Eun Haje asks, pulling back just enough to look at Jin Nasol, and her pupils are blown wide, her lips already kiss-swollen, and she looks completely undone in a way that makes Jin Nasol feel powerful and terrified in equal measure. "Can't do this here? Can't go back to what we were? Can't keep pretending we don't want each other?" Her hand slides under Jin Nasol's shirt, fingers splaying across her ribs, and Jin Nasol can't breathe, can't think, can only feel. "Tell me which one and I'll stop."
Jin Nasol should tell her to stop, should remember that they're in a public space where anyone could walk in, should remember all the reasons she ended this in the first place, but instead she pulls Eun Haje back into a kiss and starts working at the buttons of her shirt with shaking fingers. They're both going to regret this tomorrow—they're going to wake up and remember all the ways this can't work, all the reasons they're fundamentally incompatible beyond the physical, all the complications that come from wanting someone who's made a career out of being unavailable—but right now, with Eun Haje's hands on her body and her own name falling from Eun Haje's lips like a prayer, Jin Nasol can't bring herself to care about tomorrow; all she can do is hold on and let herself burn.