Wild West

“Sooyoung, you can’t flirt with me. I’m too old for you.”

You say it the same way you’d tell someone they left their phone on the table — plain, like it should end things. It doesn’t.

Yel shrugs with the full theatrical confidence of someone who has never once lost an argument she decided to have. “But Aki,” she says, drawing your name out a little, “you’re one of the only people who actually treats me like an adult.” She tilts her head. “You’re nice to me. You buy me food.”

“I buy everyone food.”

“You remember my order.”

You open your mouth. You close it.

“I’m also way older than you,” you try again.

“We were both adults when we met,” she says, “so it’s fine.”

She’s not wrong, technically. You know she’s not wrong. That’s the part that bothers you. You stare at her, the way you’ve learned to stare at her — steady, patient, waiting for her to fold. Most people fold. Yel just looks back at you with that relentlessly bright expression, all warmth and good humor, like she genuinely cannot conceive of a version of this conversation where she doesn’t get what she wants.

You’ve been treating her like a little sister since the day you met. That’s probably your fault. You made it too comfortable.

Since you don’t have a real rebuttal left, you do what any reasonable person does when cornered — you reach for something impossible.

“Fine,” you say, voice easy, already pleased with yourself. “Do Waterbomb and I’ll date you.”

H1-KEY at Waterbomb. Outdoors, summer festival, all that. They’d never. You’ve basically just said win the lottery and I’ll date you.

Yel’s smile doesn’t waver. It brightens.

“Okay,” she says. “But I also want a kiss.”

You blink. “A kiss.”

“Yeah. A kiss.” She says it like she’s asking you to pass the remote. “I’m doing all the work here. I should get an extra perk.”

You stare at her for a long moment. “…Sooyoung.”

She holds eye contact. Completely unbothered.

“Fine,” you say, and you hear yourself saying it, which is honestly the worst part. “I’ll date you and give you a kiss. On the cheek. I’m not letting you run around thinking I’m easy.”

She pouts — the real pout, the one that works on everyone but you, mostly. “Fine. You’re paying, though.”

“Obviously.”

“And I want the pizza place.”

“That was already the plan.”

Yel laughs, sudden and bright, and leans back against the wall. “See? You treat me so well. And you wonder why I want to date you.”

“You’re five years younger than me,” you say. “That’s why I don’t.”

She gives you a look — half-smirk, half-challenge — and then, with the complete shamelessness of someone who has absolutely rehearsed this, rolls her body slow and deliberate, eyes locked on yours the whole time. “What, don’t tell me you don’t want any of this.”