INTERLUDE: A Love-All Courtship

AEWOL BEACH RESORT TENNIS COURT, 9:27 AM
chaeryeong

The tennis court existed in a state of artificial perfection.

It occupied a precise rectangle of engineered space carved into the hillside of the Aewol Beach Resort - 78 feet long by 36 feet wide, regulation dimensions rendered in a shade of blue so saturated it appeared to have been mixed from crushed peacock feathers and gasoline. Not quite the tired municipal-court blue of faded paint and cracked asphalt, but more like the chromatic intensity that belonged on a 1982 album cover advertising cocktails and leisure and the fantasy of endless summer. The blue of a swimming pool photographed at golden hour; the blue of optimism commodified.

The court surface gleamed beneath the early morning sun, freshly resurfaced, chemical-smooth, reflecting light like still water. White boundary lines bisected the space in sharp geometric precision: baseline, service line, center mark, sidelines - each strip of paint exactly two inches wide, chalk-bright against the peacock blue, creating a grid so perfect it felt like standing inside graph paper.

The net hung at regulation height - three feet at center, supported by white metal posts that rose like exclamation points at either end. The mesh itself was pristine white nylon, each diamond-shaped opening identical to the next, creating a barrier that was more conceptual than physical.

Beyond the court's northern boundary: a wall painted in alternating bands of coral and mint. This was the palette of Japanese resort brochures circa 1983, faded just enough to suggest nostalgia without committing to decay. The coral was the shade of a sunset reflected in chrome. The mint was the color of 1970s kitchen appliances, of swimming pool tiles, of innocence commodified and sold back as aesthetic.

Beyond the southern boundary: a view.

The Pacific Ocean sprawled in the middle distance, a flat expanse of water rendered in gradient layers: turquoise near the shore, deepening to cobalt at the horizon line, meeting a sky that was the blue of computer screens and processed film stock. The horizon itself was a knife-edge - perfectly straight, mathematically horizontal, dividing the world sharply into two blocks of saturated color.

Four palm trees rose at the court's perimeter, spaced at exact intervals - each trunk identically straight, each frond crown identically lush, swaying in a breeze that moved with the rhythm of programmed choreography. They cast shadows across the coral-and-mint wall in patterns that looked hand-drawn, stylized, more illustration than photograph.

In the corner: a white wooden bench (vintage, slatted, recently repainted). Beside it: a white cooler (Coleman, marine-grade plastic, containing six bottles of Pocari Sweat in their iconic blue-and-white packaging). Next to that: a yellow ball hopper (Wilson, mesh construction, containing seventeen regulation tennis balls - Penn Championship Extra Duty, felt slightly compressed from morning humidity).

The air smelled of: salt from the ocean, cut grass from the resort's manicured lawns, sunscreen (SPF 50, coconut-scented), like any early morning in a place designed for leisure should. The temperature was 25 degrees Celsius and rising. Humidity: 62 percent. The conditions were, objectively, perfect.

The world held its breath.

Then -

Thwack.

The sound arrived sharp and singular - a tennis ball striking racket strings, the impact carrying across the still morning air with the clarity of a gunshot. The noise echoed once off the coral-and-mint wall and died.

Silence.

Then: thwack again. Followed by the hollow bounce of a ball striking court surface - pock - rubber meeting engineered blue with satisfying resonance.

Thwack. Pock. Thwack. Pock.

A hypnotic rhythm established itself. The call-and-response of tennis - a conversation of motion translated into sound.

Geometric perfection gave way to specific detail, to two figures in green and white, moving in perfect synchronization across the peacock-blue canvas.

Lee Chaeryeong stood at the baseline, racket raised, weight balanced on the balls of her feet.

The visual composition was striking in its chromatic precision: her skin possessed the pale luminosity of unglazed porcelain, creating sharp contrast against the emerald green and white of her outfit and the peacock-blue court surface beneath her feet. The morning sun caught her at an angle that emphasized her dancer's architecture - the elongated neck rising from slim shoulders, the lean frame that suggested wiry strength rather than delicate fragility, the narrow waist flaring to hips that were wider than her compact torso suggested.

She wore:

• Picnic gingham vest (Creve Nine, sleeveless button-front design, emerald green and white checkerboard pattern in precise half-inch squares, six white buttons aligned in perfect vertical succession down the center front, green ribbed trim bordering the neckline and armholes, brand name embroidered in white thread along the bottom hem, the fabric draping with calculated looseness over her torso while maintaining structured shoulders that accentuated her modest chest)

• Asymmetrical pleated skirt (left panel in crisp white with vertical knife pleats, right panel in emerald green with matching pleats, the two halves meeting at an exact meridian down the center front, hem falling precisely mid-thigh, revealing the deliberate gap between her thighs - a narrow corridor of negative space that framed her stance in geometric precision - the pleats creating parallel lines of shadow and light that moved with geometric predictability)

• White knee-high athletic socks (cotton blend, ribbed construction, three horizontal emerald green stripes circling the calf at mathematically even intervals, pulled taut to exactly two inches below the knee, the compression creating a subtle indentation in the skin just visible above the topmost stripe)

• White sneakers (Adidas Stella McCartney, recently cleaned, laces double-knotted, soles unmarked)

Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail - sleek, practical, swaying slightly with each movement, the black elastic band wound twice around the gathered strands. Her skin was already beginning to flush from exertion: a pale pink bloom spreading across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, the color reminiscent of cherry blossoms against snow, of sunrise bleeding into white clouds. She held her racket (Wilson Pro Staff, grip size 2, tension 55 pounds) with both hands, elbows bent, ready position.

Across the net, eight meters away, stood Sunwoo.

He wore:

• White tennis shorts (Nike, drawstring tied in a double knot, hem falling mid-thigh, revealing legs that were tan and muscular in ways that made Chaeryeong's brain malfunction)

• White v-neck t-shirt (Uniqlo, cotton-poly blend, fitted across shoulders, loose at waist, the fabric already beginning to cling slightly from sweat)

• White wristbands (both wrists, terrycloth)

• White sneakers (Nike Court, professional grade, laces also double-knotted)

• An expression of profound concentration mixed with barely contained joy

His racket matched hers - Wilson Pro Staff, same model, same tension. They'd bought them together three months ago at a sports equipment store in Seoul, standing in the aisle comparing string patterns while the salesperson watched with thinly veiled amusement.

They had not seen each other in forty-seven days.

Forty-seven days of conflicting schedules - her with ITZY's final world tour stops, him with his group's comeback preparations, both of them reduced to late-night video calls and text messages that said I miss you in increasingly creative variations. Forty-seven days of sexual frustration carefully managed through solo sessions with the pastel toy collection he'd gifted her, each use followed by flustered confession texts she sent at 3 AM with twenty blushing emojis.

And now: tennis.

They'd been at it for an hour already - warming up, then rallying, then keeping score. The kind of comfortable athletic rhythm that came from being with someone who matched your competitive energy exactly.

Because this is what they'd agreed on. Neutral territory. Athletic activity. A way to be together that didn't immediately devolve into her climbing him like a tree the moment they were alone. She'd suggested it in a video call two weeks ago, her voice bright and sensible, while internally her feral brain screamed just fuck me in the airport parking lot I don't CARE about optics.

He'd agreed with his usual golden-retriever enthusiasm, suggesting they meet early - before the resort's other guests woke up, before the sun got too hot, before anyone could see two idols sneaking around together.

So here they were. 9:27 AM. Playing tennis.

Except Chaeryeong was losing her entire mind.

Sunwoo served. The ball arced through the air in a perfect parabola - high, spinning, catching morning light as it descended. It landed just inside the service box with a satisfying thwack against the blue surface, bounced once (pock), and Chaeryeong moved.

Her body responded before her brain processed the trajectory - muscle memory from years of childhood tennis lessons taking over. She stepped into the return, racket coming around in a smooth forehand stroke, strings connecting with the ball at the optimal point of contact. Thwack. The ball sailed back across the net in a low, flat arc.

Sunwoo moved to meet it - three quick steps, weight transferring from back foot to front, his own forehand swing fluid and powerful. Thwack. The ball came back.

Thwack. Pock. Thwack. Pock.

They rallied. The rhythm built - steady, hypnotic, both of them falling into the familiar pattern of tennis as meditation. Left, right, forward, back. The ball moving between them like a conversation conducted in physics. Her breath came evenly. His face showed that specific expression of athletic focus - eyebrows slightly furrowed, jaw set, eyes tracking the ball with predatory intensity.

This was good, Chaeryeong thought. This was manageable. They could do this. They could be two athletes engaging in healthy physical activity, channeling their reunion energy into something wholesome and appropriate and definitely not leading toward her bent over this net within the next thirty minutes.

Thwack. She hit a backhand cross-court. The ball landed deep in his corner, kicking up slightly from the spin.

"Nice shot!" Sunwoo called, his voice carrying across the net with genuine appreciation. He scrambled to reach it, barely getting his racket on the ball, sending back a defensive lob that floated high and slow.

Chaeryeong moved forward - an approach shot opportunity. She positioned herself, watching the ball descend, timing her swing - and that's when Sunwoo reached up and pulled his shirt off.

The motion was casual. Practical. Completely innocent. He'd gotten hot from the sun and the exertion and he was removing an article of clothing to regulate his body temperature like a normal human person engaging in normal human thermoregulation.

But to Chaeryeong's nervous system, it played out in slow motion:

The hem of his white v-neck lifting. The fabric sliding up over his stomach - revealing abs with the lean definition of a professional dancer who enjoyed sports. The shirt clearing his chest - pectorals defined without bulk, the smooth plane of his sternum, the hollow of his collarbones catching shadow. His arms raising above his head - biceps flexing with the motion, shoulders rolling, the whole upper body architecture revealing itself in golden-hour lighting that was completely unfair and possibly illegal.

Sweat glistened on his skin - a thin sheen catching sunlight, making him look like he'd been photographed for a sports drink commercial. One drop rolled down his temple in a precise diagonal line. Chaeryeong watched its trajectory for 2.3 seconds. Her brain short-circuited.