Your friend AJ glares at you like you just kicked his childhood dog.
“Did you seriously just say teaching isn’t hard?”
You raise a hand defensively. “I didn’t say it wasn’t hard—it’s easy if you have common sense. Especially when you don’t have to pass anyone.”
AJ narrows his eyes, a slow grin spreading. “Wanna bet?”
You grin back, cocky. “Sure. Fifteen hundred bucks says I can teach a college course for a full semester.”
AJ barks a laugh. “I’ll do you one better—I’ll pay for your entire graduate degree if you survive the whole thing. Lectures, grading, office hours—everything.”
And like an idiot, you say, “Deal.”
⸻
19 months later
You step into your new office, the smell of industrial carpet and overworked air conditioning greeting you like a punch to the gut. The department head had smiled politely when he handed you a mountain of “startup tasks” that read more like hazing:
• Build a syllabus
• Draft a lesson plan
• Coordinate with the lab instructor
• Figure out Moodle again
Somehow, you powered through it all.
Tomorrow, your first real lecture. Your official debut as a college professor. And the start of the most expensive bet of your life.
You’re adjusting the crooked nameplate on your door—Dr. Elijah Titanoth—when there’s a knock.
You open it to find a woman maybe a year or two older, athletic and striking with a wolf-cut that frames her sharp features. Her body has the kind of presence that makes rooms quieter, and her soft brown eyes hold just enough danger to make you forget what day it is.
She smirks. “You must be new. I’m Momo Hirai.”
Her voice is low and warm, with a faint accent that lingers like smoke. You fumble for words.
“Hi—I mean, yes. Elijah Titanoth.”
You extend your hand. She ignores it and pulls you into a hug—surprising, clumsy, but… genuine.
You manage to return it before she steps back, eyes glinting with amusement.
“I’ll see you around, Dr. Titan,” she says, then disappears down the hall as she owns it.
You close the door, still a little dazed, and mutter to yourself:
“I really hope so.”
The next few days pass in a blur of caffeine, deadlines, and mild existential panic. But slowly—miraculously—you manage to finish your prep for the semester.
You’re just putting the finishing touches on your syllabus when another knock hits your office door.
It’s Momo.
She glides in with that same confident sway, eyes scanning the small touches you’ve added to the once-sterile room.
“Oh, this is nice,” she purrs, running her fingers along the edge of your bookshelf. “Way less… clinical than the last guy.”
You chuckle as she perches on your desk, her skirt riding up just enough to toe the line between casual and calculated. Her blouse dips low—not provocatively, but enough to make it hard not to look. You catch yourself and redirect your eyes to her face.
“So, Mrs. Hirai… what do you teach?”
She tilts her head, amused. “It’s Miss Hirai. And I teach Art History. Mostly modern and postmodern theory, but I dabble in ancient aesthetics too.”
You nod, though your attention drifts despite your best efforts. There’s something in the way she talks—like every word has a hidden punchline.
She notices your eyes dart away she smirks as her eyes get caught by something gleaming in the corner of her vision. Turning, her gaze lands on the revolver mounted in the glass case on your shelf. It’s a beautiful, brutal thing—polished silver, intricate engravings, and a worn ivory grip.
She walks over, heels clicking softly against the floor.
“This is from the Old War,” she murmurs, reading the inscription engraved along the barrel. “‘A weapon is made when a tool’s user loses himself to fury.’”
She turns back to you, curiosity sharpening in her features. “You’re not ex-military. So… why do you have this?”
You look up from your papers and meet her gaze. She’s not being flippant. She’s listening.
“My grandfather fought in both Old Wars. And I had friends who didn’t make it back from the second. Some of them did, but… pieces of them didn’t. That revolver—and another I keep at home—aren’t about violence. They’re reminders. That I’m a human first. That no matter what happens to me… I can’t let rage make me forget that.”
Momo studies you for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she smiles—smaller, more genuine.
“That’s a lot deeper than I expected from a geology professor.”
You grin. “Well, I have a PhD in both geology and philosophy. I specialize in rocks and regret.”
She laughs, smooth and musical, and raises an eyebrow. “A double doctorate? Aren’t you just full of surprises, Dr. Titan?”
You lean back in your chair, letting the warmth of the moment settle between you.
“Stick around,” you say, half-joking. “I’ve got a few more.”
Your first lecture ends with a bell and a surprise—applause. Not thunderous, but enough to catch you off guard. A few students linger afterward, peppering you with thoughtful questions, animated and wide-eyed like you’ve just revealed the secrets of the cosmos instead of the molten core of the Earth.
By the time the last one shuffles out, you’re still a little stunned. You lean on the lectern, exhaling as your heart rate starts to return to baseline.
Then you hear the slow, deliberate clap.
You look up to see Momo leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips.
“Well, well,” she says. “That was… unexpected.”
You arch a brow. “What? The fact that I survived?”
She pushes off the frame and walks in, glancing around the room like she’s looking for ghosts.
“No. The fact that your students actually looked interested. I’ve seen this crowd before—usually they look like they’ve been sentenced to death by PowerPoint.”
You chuckle, shutting your laptop. “Maybe I just have a thing for igniting young minds.”
“Hmm.” She takes a seat on the edge of the front row, her skirt riding up just enough to be noticeable, as always walking the line between elegance and mischief. “Or maybe you’re the one doing the igniting. You must be very charming if you’ve got them excited about… magma.”
You smirk, rubbing the back of your neck. “I did do a dramatic voice when describing pyroclastic flows.”
Momo laughs. “Admit it—you love the stage.”
You shrug, but you can’t quite suppress the grin. “I guess I have a real knack for teaching.”
She tilts her head, considering you. “Oh, you’ll go far.” Momo teased “You’re different than the last guy.”
You blink. “In a good way, I hope?”
“In a very good way,” she says, eyes lingering on you just a moment too long. “He was brilliant but cold. The kind of man who made rocks feel more dead than they already are. You, on the other hand…”
She trails off, then rises from her seat.
“You make magma sound like a love story.”
You blink at her, surprised. “Was that… a compliment?”
She starts backing toward the door, playful as always. “Maybe. Or maybe I just have a thing for volcanoes.”
You laugh, genuinely this time. “I’ll take it.”
She pauses in the doorway, her smile softening.
“Good job, Dr. Titan.”
Then she disappears down the hall, leaving only the scent of her perfume and the echo of her voice behind.
You look back at the empty lecture hall and smile to yourself.
Maybe this job won’t be so bad after all.
A few days later, you find a note on your office desk—folded neatly, written in elegant cursive:
“Tonight. 7:00. Main Auditorium. Wear something decent. – Momo”
There’s a faint trace of perfume on the paper—floral, with a subtle spice that feels hers unmistakably.
You show up early, dressed in the one blazer you trust not to make you look like a funeral director. The auditorium is softly lit, and a modest crowd fills in—faculty, students, a few locals. You take a seat near the front, wondering what kind of recital this is exactly. The program just says: “Solo Piece – Momo Hirai.”
Then the lights dim.
And she appears.
Momo glides onto the stage in a black leotard with sheer accents and thigh-high stockings, every movement deliberate. The music starts slow—low strings, deep pulsing bass—and she begins to move.
Not just dance.
Command.
Her routine isn’t vulgar. It never crosses into indecent. But it’s bold—intimate. Her body rolls with liquid control, legs cutting arcs through the air, hips drawing impossible shapes. There’s fire in her rhythm, but grace in how she controls it. She twists, drops, pivots, and teases. At one point, she locks eyes with you in the crowd and holds the gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Your breath catches.
By the end, the entire auditorium is silent, breathless.
Then the applause erupts.
You don’t remember standing up, but you’re on your feet with the rest of them, clapping until your palms sting.
⸻
Afterward, you wait in the wings, clutching a bouquet of tiger lilies you picked up at a florist on the way. You don’t even know if she likes flowers, but it felt… right.
Momo appears in a simple black wrap and a towel around her neck, skin still glistening faintly with sweat. She spots you and smiles like she’d been expecting you to be there all along.
“You clean up nice, Dr. Titan,” she says, her voice still low and smoky from the stage.
“And you… They were incredible,” you manage. “That was—”
“Hot?” she offers, one brow raised.
You chuckle, caught. “I was going to say artful. But, yes. That too.”
You hand her the flowers. She takes them with a soft, surprised smile, lifting them to her face before glancing at you over the petals.
“These are beautiful. Almost as much as your stunned expression during my floorwork.”
You cough. “You noticed that?”
“I noticed everything.”
Her voice lingers between playful and intimate. She steps closer, close enough that you smell the mix of roses and sweat on her skin, feel the warmth radiating off her body.
“I like it when you watch me, Elijah,” she says, letting the name settle on her tongue. “You have such… respectful eyes. But I wonder…”
You swallow. “Wonder what?”
She leans in, close enough to brush your ear.
“If you know how to misbehave.”
Before you can respond, she pulls away, her smile like a secret only she’s allowed to keep.
“Walk me out?”
You nod, heart hammering.
You’re not sure what exactly you’ve just stepped into—but whatever it is, you wantit.
Almost a month passed like this and Momo continues to always trapeze the line between being coy and pulling you in. It’s torture. You just want her to come to your office pin you down and say, “I’m yours,” before peppering you with kisses but there’s still this distance
After another successful week of lectures she came in said something flirty and invited herself to your dinner plans on Sunday.
It’s Friday night, and you’re seated at a crowded table in a familiar hole-in-the-wall Thai place with AJ and the rest of the crew. Laughter buzzes around you, beer bottles clink, chopsticks dance between plates—but you’re somewhere else entirely.
More specifically, you’re back in the front row of an auditorium, watching Momo twist through stage lighting and silk shadows. You’re back in your office, catching a whiff of her perfume before she ever knocks. You’re replaying every almost-flirt, every charged look, every conversation that somehow danced right up to the line but never crossed it.
“You spaced again, didn’t you?” AJ elbows you, snapping you back. “You’ve been zoning out all night.”
“I’m just tired,” you lie.
“No, you’re not.” AJ raises an eyebrow, lowering his voice. “You’re thinking about her again.”
You sigh, finally leaning back in your chair. “Do you think it’s a bad idea? Asking her out?”
AJ shrugs. “Only if you’re afraid of a ‘yes.’”
From across the table, Darin lets out a scoff. Sharp. Dismissive.
You glare at him. “Something to add?”
He doesn’t look up. “Just think it’s funny, is all. The guy who used to date dudes is suddenly straight now?”
The table goes quiet, the laughter gone like someone killed the music.
You blink. “What?”
Darin shrugs, shoveling food into his mouth. “Nothing. Just interesting.”
AJ leans forward, tension rising. “Dude, what’s your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem.” Darin’s voice is tight now. “I just think it’s convenient. Flip-flopping whenever it suits you. Oh, I like girls now, oh I like guys now. Oh, I like girls now.”
You stare at him, heart beating faster—but not from anger. From something else. Something is starting to click.
You speak slowly, measuring each word.
“Why do you care so much, Darin?”
He finally looks at you. There’s no answer in his eyes—just something defensive. Fragile. Dangerous.
“Seriously,” you say, leaning forward now. “You’ve been weird about this for months. So let’s drop the act: is this about me? Or is this about you?”
Darin opens his mouth. Closes it. His jaw flexes.
Then Nathan—sitting beside him—awkwardly shifts in his seat and places a hand on Darin’s arm. It’s subtle, almost nothing. But the way Darin flinches before forcing himself to stay still says everything.
Your gaze flicks between them, and suddenly the pieces rearrange themselves into something painfully clear. You remember the nights they left parties together. The late-night texts they used to pretend were about “gym splits.” The way they talk to each other is like something deeper is buried just beneath the sarcasm.
Oh.
You lean back in your chair, suddenly quieter.
“You’re not mad at me,” you say, almost to yourself. “You’re scared. Scared of what it might mean if something is there. Between you and Nathan.”
Darin’s face tightens, but he says nothing.
Nathan stares into his glass, shoulders tense. The silence between them isn’t empty—it’s packed with denial and proximity and things they’ve refused to name.
“I’m not judging,” you add. “But don’t take it out on me for being honest about who I am. Or what I want.”
At that point, Nathan stands up and says, “We’re not gay,”
You nod then say “dude I’m not judging but please just… You know what not my monkeys, not my circus,”
You get up, tossing some bills on the table. No one stops you. AJ gives you a small nod—quiet support, always in your corner.
As you walk out into the cool night, your mind spins—not just about Darin or Nathan, but about Momo. About the way you’ve been holding back. About what you’re still afraid to risk.
Maybe it’s time to stop spacing out.
Maybe it’s time to do something.
You knock on her door before you have time to second-guess what you’re about to do.
There’s a beat, then the door creaks open—and there she is. Momo.
Hair slightly tousled, no makeup, and blinking at you as you’ve appeared out of a dream she wasn’t ready to wake up from.
“Elijah?” she says, surprise flickering across her face. “What—?”
But you don’t let her finish.
You step forward and kiss her.
Her eyes go wide in shock, her body stiff for half a second. Then she melts—sinking into it like a sigh she’s been holding in for far too long. Her lips part as she leans up into you, fingers clutching at your shirt with unsteady urgency. There’s heat there—real, rising hunger—but it’s messy and honest and her.
When you finally break the kiss, she stays close, her breath mingling with yours.
And that’s when you notice it.
She’s not dressed like the usual Momo—no sleek silhouettes, no sultry eye shadow or teasing perfume. She’s in an oversized graphic tee that hangs off one shoulder. It features a cartoonishly fierce Tifa from Final Fantasy VII, her bare legs disappearing into the hem.
You blink. “Is that… Tifa?”
Momo looks down and gasps, cheeks instantly flushed. She lets out a panicked little squeak and hugs the shirt around herself like it’s see-through—even though she’s fully clothed.
“I—I wasn’t expecting company!” she stammers, trying to turn away and hide.
You laugh—hard. Genuine, belly-deep laughter fills her tiny hallway. You double over slightly, hand against the doorframe.
“Oh my god,” you manage between chuckles, “I think I like you even more now.”
Momo peeks at you from behind her hands, pouting. “Seriously?”
You nod, still grinning. “Absolutely.”
Her pout slowly shifts into a hopeful little smile, then—“Really?”
You nod again, gentler this time. “Really.”
Just then, her roommate strolls into view. Nayeon, in pajama shorts and a bowl of cereal, glances over at the two of you mid-stare-down.
“Hey, Titan,” she says casually. “Did Momo forget her phone again?”
You shake your head, lips quirking.
“Nope.”
Nayeon glances between the two of you—Momo blushing furiously, you looking dazed but happy. A knowing smile spreads across her face.
“Ohhh… got it.”
She starts backing out of the room, cereal bowl still in hand.
“Don’t forget to use protection!” she calls over her shoulder.
You and Momo groan in perfect sync—then burst into laughter.
When your eyes meet again, hers are soft, almost glowing.
“Hi,” she says, more shy than sultry this time.
You smile.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” Momo says again, softer this time, cheeks still pink from Nayeon’s not-so-subtle exit.
You grin, a little breathless. “Hi.”
She bites her bottom lip, then steps aside and opens the door wider. “You wanna come in?”
You nod and follow her in.
Her apartment is cozy—warm lighting, potted plants on the windowsill, a stack of worn dance shoes by the door, and a neatly folded blanket with little chocobos printed on it on the couch. It smells faintly of vanilla and something floral—probably her shampoo. It’s so her. You kind of love it already.
She walks ahead of you, still clutching the hem of her Tifa shirt with both hands. “Sorry for how I look. I wasn’t exactly planning on being kissed into next week tonight.”
You chuckle, kicking your shoes off. “If it helps, I wasn’t exactly planning on doing that either.”
She turns to you, arms now folded loosely across her chest, trying to compose herself—still flushed, still a little wide-eyed.
“Elijah…” she starts, then hesitates. “Okay. I know this is kind of a moment, but before this turns into, like… anything impulsive and amazing-slash-regrettable-slash-hot-slash-oh-my-God, I think we should—can we—just talk for a second?”
You blink. “Yeah. Of course.”
Momo exhales, shoulders relaxing. “Okay. Cool.” She motions to the couch. “Let’s sit. But not too close, or I will jump you and make dumb choices.”
You laugh and sit on the far side. “Fair warning. I’m not great at boundaries when someone’s in a Tifa shirt.”
“Oh my god,” she mutters, hiding her face for a second before flopping onto the opposite cushion. “This is not how I pictured our first serious conversation.”
You grin. “Then how did you picture it?”
She thinks. “Somewhere between a dramatic rooftop confession… and an emotionally tense museum date where we touch hands by accident near a marble statue.”
“Strong options,” you nod. “We can still do both.”
Momo laughs, then sighs. “Okay, so… here’s what I want to say. I like you. I’ve liked you for a while. You’re smart, you’re weirdly good at geology metaphors, and you didn’t run away the first time I threw myself at you on your desk.”
You raise a hand. “For the record, I did not mind that.”
“Obviously,” she says with a grin, then it softens. “But real talk: I don’t do casual very well. I flirt as I breathe, but I’ve been burned before. So if this is just a fling, that’s okay, I just… I need to know.”
Your smile fades into something softer. “It’s not a fling. Unless you want it to be. I don’t want to impose,”
She looks at you, really looks, like she’s scanning your face for cracks—and when she doesn’t find any, her shoulders drop in relief.
“Okay. Good. Because I really don’t want to pretend to be cool around you anymore.”
You smirk. “You seem cool right now. If not cooler”
She gasps dramatically and grabs a pillow to throw at you. “Rude!”
You catch it and toss it back. “No, I mean it. You’re kind of a dork. But it’s… honestly really cute.”
“Wait until I show you my Legend of Zelda apron,” she mutters, half-threatening, half-embarrassed.
“Please do,” you say. “I’ll bring my Monster Hunter socks. We can be nerds together.”
She laughs, full-bodied now. Then she scoots a little closer—not too close, just enough that your knees touch.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “So no rushing. No assumptions. We go slow and figure this out.”
“Deal,” you say.
Momo pauses again, then adds, “…But I’m still probably going to kiss you again in, like, three minutes.”
You grin. “Just let me take my jacket off first.”
She laughs, leaning in—and this time when your lips meet, it’s no less electric, but it’s deeper now. Calmer. Earned.
And somehow, that makes it even better.
As you sit with Momo time passes like water.
The night’s grown quieter now.
You and Momo are curled up on her couch, legs tangled beneath the chocobo blanket, a half-empty mug of tea forgotten on the coffee table. The glow from her floor lamp casts a soft halo over her Tifa shirt, and her damp hair smells faintly of jasmine from her post-recital shower.
She’s nestled beside you, cheek against your shoulder, when she asks—gently:
“So… why now?”
You glance down at her. “Hmm?”
She tilts her head, her eyes searching yours. “Why did you finally kiss me tonight? After all this time? You’ve had… so many chances.”
You smile, sheepishly. “Hindsight being what it is…Yeah. I guess I did.”
She doesn’t press, but you can feel she’s holding her breath—waiting.
You take a moment, letting the silence stretch. Then you speak, voice quiet but sure.
“I was having dinner with some friends. AJ, Jojo, Darin, Nathan… the usual group. And I realized something was off. Darin’s been weird with me lately, and I finally figured out why.”
Momo lifts her head slightly, listening.
“He’s in love with Nathan,” you say. “Or something like it. And Nathan feels the same. But neither of them will admit it. They’re just orbiting each other, terrified to say it out loud. Hiding behind jokes, denial, that whole… scared-to-be-seen thing.”
Momo’s expression softens.
“I watched them,” you continue, “and I thought… that can’t be me. I don’t want to live like that—tiptoeing around something real because it’s scary. I’ve done that before. With people. With myself. But with you? I didn’t want to miss it.”
Momo stares at you, wide-eyed. She blinks once. Twice.
Then she exhales and melts back into you, a tiny, sheepish smile tugging at her lips. “Wow,” she murmurs. “I was kind of hoping you’d say something cool like that.”
You grin. “Oh, don’t worry. I practiced the whole speech in the mirror.”
She giggles, then adds, “It’s just… nice. Because I was starting to get tired.”
“Tired?”
She nods slowly. “Of pretending to be this hyper-confident, impossibly sexy office siren all the time. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am sexy,” she says, striking a very unconvincing sultry pose while still half-curled under a blanket.
You laugh. “Undeniably.”
“But I also have a Zelda apron. And I cry during Studio Ghibli movies. And I do this dumb little foot dance whenever I microwave leftovers.”
“Can confirm you do that,” you say, grinning. “I’ve seen it.”
She fake gasps. “I thought I was alone!”
“Nah,” you say, and then your smile softens.
You pull her into a warm hug, your arms wrapping around her like instinct.
“Honestly, as much as I like Office Siren Momo…”
You pull back just enough to look her in the eye.
“I think I like adorkable Momo just as much if not more.”
Her eyes shine—bright, watery, a little stunned.
“Really?”
“Really,” you say, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Especially when she wears Tifa shirts and throws pillows at me.”
She giggles, leaning her forehead against yours. “You’re a menace.”
“Guilty.”
Then she kisses you again—not a hungry kiss this time, but one filled with relief. With truth. With something real.
And just like that, for the first time in a long while, you both stop pretending.
Your phone buzzes violently on the nightstand, dragging you out of a very cozy, very Momo-scented sleep.
You fumble for it, groaning as you squint at the screen.
AJ (7:23 AM): Incoming Call.
You answer, voice half-asleep. “Hey…”
“Bro, you alive?” AJ asks, voice hushed like he’s hiding in a supply closet.
“Barely. What’s up?”
From beside you, Momo stirs, her hair a glorious mess as she rolls over and drapes an arm across your chest. She murmurs something about pancakes in her sleep.
AJ sighs. “Okay, so… there was a situation last night.”
That gets your attention. “What kind of situation?”
“Darin and Nathan had a massive blow-up. Like, screaming match in the quad, emotional chaos, years of denial unraveling in thirty seconds type of fight.”
You wince. “Oh no…”
“And,” AJ continues, “they’re both blaming you.”
You groan. “Of course they are.”
“Yeah, so maybe… lay low for a bit. At least until they stop projecting their romantic train wreck on you.”
Just then, another buzz hits your phone. A text from Jojo:
Jojo:
Dude, thank you for calling them out. I couldn’t take another week of closet-angst brooding. I owe you food or something.
You snort. “AJ, tell Jojo he’s buying me lunch.”
AJ laughs. “Already told him. You good though?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“We’ll hang later. I’ll bring snacks.”
“Perfect.”
You hang up and toss the phone aside just as Momo stretches, blinking sleepily. “Who was that?”
“AJ,” you say, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “Darin and Nathan had a meltdown. Apparently, I’m the villain in their love story now.”
Momo chuckles, voice still scratchy with sleep. “Well, at least you’re a catalyst.”
You nod, then grin. “Jojo thanked me. Said he couldn’t take their repressed mutual thirst anymore.”
Momo snorts, then rolls onto her back. “God, that tracks.”
After a few more lazy minutes, the two of you drag yourselves out of bed and start getting dressed—trading sleepy smiles and half-mumbled jokes. Momo pulls on a cropped hoodie and leggings, tying her hair up as she moves with muscle memory grace.
“You meeting someone today?” you ask, brushing your teeth.
“Mina,” she says around a mouthful of lip gloss. “She’s in town for a bit, wanted to catch up.”
“Mina from your old troupe?”
Momo nods. “Yeah. You’d like her. She’s hot, effortlessly cool, and could do a backflip in six-inch heels.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Trying to replace yourself already?”
Momo smirks. “Just warning you. She’s magnetic.”
You cross the room, lean in, and whisper near her ear, “Doesn’t matter. You’re superior to every other woman on Earth.”
She pauses, eyes flicking up at you—genuine affection blooming in her face.
“God, you’re so unfair,” she murmurs, tugging you in for a quick, lingering kiss. “Go before I cancel.”
A knock at the door breaks the mood.
“That’s Mina,” Momo says, grabbing her bag. “She’s early as usual.”
You grab your jacket and head toward the door. As you step out, you almost bump into Nayeon, who’s nursing a mug of coffee and wearing a suspiciously serious expression.
“Titan,” she says. “Can I talk to you?”
You blink. “Um… sure?”
Momo peeks around the corner and mouths good luck at you before disappearing down the hallway with Mina.
You’re left standing with Nayeon in the quiet apartment.
And for the first time this morning, you’re not entirely sure what’s about to happen.
Momo and Mina head out the door, giggling like schoolgirls. Momo glances back at you with a smile so pure, so adorably dorky, she looks like a kid on her first field trip. You can’t help but smile back.
But as the door closes behind them, you turn to find Nayeon watching you.
Not angry. Not exactly.
More like… dissecting you with her eyes. Clinical. Calculating. Concern wrapped in caffeine and contempt.
She sips her coffee, then, as if waiting for Momo to get far enough away, says flatly:
“Momo’s a werewolf.”
You blink. “What?”
“A werewolf,” she repeats. “Not literally. Emotionally. Spiritually. Personality-wise.”
You stare.
Nayeon sighs. “You’ve met one Momo—the vixen. All curves and smirks and magnetic chaos. But there’s another one. A gremlin. The kind of girl who trips over her own socks, eats cereal out of a measuring cup, and sends voice notes instead of texts because she gets distracted while typing.”
You can’t help but grin a little. That actually tracks.
“She’s clingy, giggly, sometimes a little slow to catch on. But she’s got a heart that’s all cotton candy and stupidly pure intentions,” Nayeon continues. “And I care about her. Deeply. So while I can’t threaten you with physical violence—I’d probably break a nail—I will say this: if you hurt her? I’ll shoot you. Emotionally. With my words. And probably also literally if I get desperate enough.”
You nod slowly, letting her words settle before replying, “I won’t sit here and promise I’ll never hurt her. That’s unrealistic. We’re human. Even love gets messy sometimes. But I can promise this—if she’s ever in pain because of me, it won’t be out of cruelty or neglect. It won’t be deliberate. Ever.”
Nayeon raises an eyebrow, skeptical but intrigued. You continue.
“She’s already changing me. The last thing I want is to be another wound she hides behind a smile.”
Nayeon sips her coffee again, then mutters, “God, I hate people who speak in disclaimers.”
You chuckle. “Legal safety nets are kind of my thing.”
“Letter of the law types,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Always so good at sounding thoughtful while also being impossible to read.”
Then she shrugs. “Still… good answer.”
She steps aside, making a path for you toward the door.
“Now go,” she says. “Before I hit you on principle.”
Two days later…
You’re halfway through chopping vegetables when there’s a frantic knock at your door—too fast and uneven to be anything but Momo.
You smirk. “It’s open.”
The door creaks open and Momo stumbles in, arms full: an oversized tote bag, a squished-looking stuffed chocobo, and what appears to be… a half-finished bubble tea wedged in her elbow. Her hoodie is two sizes too big and sliding off one shoulder, and her hair is in a messy bun that clearly lost the will to live sometime earlier in the day.
She looks like a raccoon that wandered into an anime convention.
“Hi,” she mumbles, kicking off her sneakers—one lands neatly by the door, the other ricochets off the wall and disappears behind your couch. “I come bearing chaos and the emotional energy of a sleep-deprived golden retriever.”
You try not to laugh. You fail.
“Welcome, oh goblin princess,” you say, returning to the cutting board. “You hungry?”
“I’m starving. I forgot to eat lunch. Again. I ate like, three Pocky sticks and a vitamin gummy.”
“You’re an adult,” you reply, deadpan.
“I’m doing my best,” she says dramatically, flopping onto your couch like she’s just returned from war. “Also, your couch smells like you. It’s nice.”
“You say that like I’m a scented candle.”
“You could be,” she muses, face half-buried in a throw pillow. “Crisp linen and sarcasm. With subtle notes of ‘mmm he makes good soup.’”
You laugh and slide a pan onto the stove.
As the food sizzles, Momo finally peels herself off the couch and wanders into the kitchen, drawn by the smell like a moth to flame. She stands beside you and watches—eyes wide, lips parted in pure awe.
“You cook like… like someone who owns sharp knives for the right reasons.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Is there a wrong reason?”
Momo leans against the counter and shrugs, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips. “Dunno. I just… this is nice. Being here. Watching you not burn things. Feels safe.”
You glance at her, heart tugging a little. She’s standing there in socks with a cartoon cat on them, a little dazed from the day, makeup long gone, hoodie collar askew—and she’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
“You’re dangerous when you’re like this,” you murmur.
She blinks. “What do you mean?”
“This is full-power gremlin mode. I might imprint on you like a baby duck.”
Momo flushes, then groans into her hands. “I knew I shouldn’t have worn the Totoro socks. This is why I’m single.”
You hand her a wooden spoon. “Here. Stir this before I kiss you.”
She takes it clumsily, cheeks still pink. “Threat or promise?”
“Both.”
She smiles—goofy and crooked and real. And as she stirs the pan, bumping into your side every few seconds just to be close, you realize something:
This right here? This might be the beginning of home.
Later that night…
Dinner is over. Plates are cleared. The lights are dimmed.
You’re both tucked into your couch, a blanket thrown haphazardly over your legs. Momo’s nestled into your side, her head resting on your shoulder, her legs curled up beneath her. One of your arms is draped around her loosely, fingertips tracing slow, mindless circles over her sleeve.
The TV’s on, but you’re both only half-watching. Something light and animated. Comfort noise.
Momo hums, soft and sleepy. “That was… maybe the best meal I’ve had in weeks.”
“Don’t tell your stove that,” you tease.
She smiles into your chest. “What stove? I’ve been using my air fryer like a religion.”
You chuckle and tilt your head toward her. “Do you always crash this hard after a long day?”
She shrugs against you. “Only when I feel safe.” Her voice is quieter now. Less performative. Less guarded.
It makes something stir in your chest.
A long pause settles over the room like a warm blanket. Momo fidgets slightly, her fingers brushing yours under the blanket, looping them together shyly.
“…You know, I used to be scared to show this side of me,” she murmurs.
You glance down, curious. “This side?”
She nods. “The messy side. The tired side. The… clingy, weird, ‘I put soy sauce in my tea because I thought it was maple syrup’ side.”
You laugh despite yourself. “You what?”
“Don’t ask. I blacked out.”
You nudge her gently with your shoulder. “I think that side’s adorable.”
She looks up at you, not with flirtation this time, but with something softer. More naked. “Yeah but… It’s not the Momo most people fall for.”
You hesitate, then reach up and gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“I didn’t fall for most people’s Momo,” you say. “I fell for the one who makes sex jokes in faculty meetings and wears Totoro socks. The one who knows art history and also does squats in the hallway. You’re not one or the other, Momo. You’re the whole paradox.”
She smiles, slow and wide, eyes glassy but glowing.
“You make me feel… not like I have to perform. I can just be.”
You squeeze her hand. “Good. Because I like every version of you. Even Soy Sauce Momo.”
She groans. “I will never live that down.”
“I’ll put it in your vows.”
She blinks. “Wait, vows?”
You smirk. “Hey, if I’m making risotto and letting you wear my sweatpants, we’re halfway there.”
She laughs—an open, belly-deep laugh. And then she shifts, crawls up into your lap like a cat curling up for the night, and presses a long, gentle kiss to your cheek before resting her forehead against yours.
“You’re trouble, Titan,” she murmurs.
You wrap your arms around her and pull her closer. “Only for you.”
And with that, the two of you fall into a silence that doesn’t need to be filled — the kind that only happens when two people are finally, completely comfortable being seen.
A few days later after a lecture you’re at home cleaning up after dinner.
You were halfway through washing the dishes when you heard her heels click across the hardwood. That was the first clue. Momo never wore heels to your place — she usually preferred fuzzy socks or bare feet.
“I got bored with being cute,” she said from behind you.
You turned off the tap and dried your hands slowly. “Oh?”
She was standing in the doorway now, framed by the glow of the hallway. Her makeup was precise, her black slip dress hugging every dip and curve like it was made for her — which, knowing Momo, it probably was. Her hair cascaded in loose waves, and her lips curled into that unmistakable smirk that had undone many men before you.
You raised an eyebrow. “And now you’re feeling… what? Dangerous?”
She stepped forward, closing the distance slowly, almost lazily. “No,” she purred. “Now I’m feeling generous.”
You swallowed thickly. “Should I be scared?”
Momo stopped just inches away from you, dragging a single fingertip down your chest, then smoothing out your shirt like she was dusting off a prize. “That depends. Are you still pretending you don’t want me like this?”
You were quiet — but only because words were hard to find when she looked at you like that. Like she knew everything you tried to bury. Every flicker of restraint. Every secret ache.
“I’m not pretending,” you said finally, voice low. “But I am trying to be respectful.”
She leaned in, her breath hot against your ear. “Respect’s overrated when it keeps two people this hot from combusting.”
You turned your head just slightly, and now your lips were close — barely an inch from hers.
“Momo…”
She didn’t kiss you.
Not yet.
She brushed past you, walking to the couch with slow, deliberate steps. “I came over because I missed you,” she said, settling onto the cushions like a cat in her favorite sunspot. “But then I remembered I’ve been holding back.”
“And now you’re done holding back?” you asked.
She smiled. “Not exactly. I just want to see how long you can.”
The challenge hung in the air like smoke. She curled a finger toward you, beckoning.
You crossed the room before your better judgment could stop you.
She pulled you down gently, straddling your lap in one smooth, practiced motion — but her eyes were different now. That same vixen fire, yes. But something else beneath it. Something sincere.
“You’re not scared of me, are you?” she whispered, hands sliding up your shoulders.
You rested your hands on her waist, steady but not possessive. “No,” you said. “I’m scared of how much I already want all of you.”
Her breath hitched.
That broke something.
She kissed you like she meant to melt the core out of you — and for a second, you let her. You let the heat between you rise, let the kiss deepen, let your hands explore the outlines of the moment without crossing the line you’d both quietly drawn in earlier nights.
But when she finally broke the kiss, her head resting on your shoulder, you were both breathless.
“I can’t believe I wore heels for this,” she teased, voice soft and frayed at the edges.
You laughed into her hair. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”
She lifted her head, her smirk returning. “And yet here you are.”
You cupped her cheek, stroking your thumb along her jaw. “I’ll always be here. Heels or no heels.”
She melted again — this time into you, no seduction, no performance. Just Momo.
And the rest of the night wasn’t about restraint or release.
It was about both of you finding the perfect balance. As you cuddled throughout the night you noticed Momo remained restless unsure of what to do you continued to let her be.
Momo was curled into your chest now, her legs folded up on the couch as your arm draped around her waist. The heat of the moment had ebbed just slightly — not gone, just contained. Tamed like a fire in a fireplace.
You could feel her watching you out of the corner of her eye. Studying. Waiting.
Then, softly:
“Elijah… can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
She pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, her expression somewhere between coy and curious — but her eyes were serious.
“Why haven’t you… I don’t know—pushed things further with me?”
You blinked. “What do you mean?”
Momo rolled her eyes playfully but her tone was earnest. “Come on. I’ve practically thrown myself at you. In heels. In bodycon dresses. In your lap. I’ve tried. And don’t get me wrong — the emotional intimacy thing is amazing and rare and I wouldn’t trade it — but sometimes it’s like you’re wearing armor.”
You looked at her, a little stunned. Not because she was wrong — but because you hadn’t realized how much she noticed.
She leaned in closer, her lips ghosting your jaw, voice low:
“So what would it take to get you to drop the ’good guy act’ for like… 45 minutes to an hour?”
You exhaled sharply, half a laugh, half a sigh. “God, Momo…”
She smiled wickedly. “Is that a maybe?”
But you didn’t answer right away.
Instead, you took her hand and held it — really held it. Let the silence sit for a beat.
“I’m not holding back because I don’t want you,” you finally said. “I’m holding back because I do want you. Badly. And not just for 45 minutes. Or an hour. Or a night. I don’t want to risk fumbling this into something shallow. You’re not a fling to me, Momo.”
Her smirk faltered — in a good way. Her eyes softened.
“Oh…” she said quietly.
You traced your thumb over her knuckles. “You deserve someone who doesn’t just want your body — but sees the whole picture. Who knows that under the vixen and the charm is someone kind of dorky and endlessly warm. And yeah — terrifying in heels,” you smirked. “But also someone I don’t want to ruin things with by moving too fast.”
Momo leaned her forehead against yours, breath shaky. “Elijah…”
You smiled, brushing your nose against hers. “So no. I’m not going to just drop the act. Because it’s not an act. It’s how I love. Fully. Cautiously. And when it’s right… completely.”
Her lips trembled into a smile. “You’re so frustrating.”
You laughed. “Takes one to know one.”
Momo took a deep breath, then kissed you again — slower this time. Not trying to start something, but to say thank you. To say me too.
And when she curled back into your chest, it was no longer to tempt or tease — but to stay.
About a week later, the four of you had picked a cozy little Korean fusion spot nestled in a quiet corner of the city. Brick walls, warm lighting, the faint hum of jazz in the background — intimate without trying too hard.
AJ was being his usual goofball self, cracking dad jokes while his wife rolled her eyes affectionately. Momo sat beside you, dressed down but radiant — a sundress, hair tied up messily, her laughter rising easily as you teased her over her inability to pronounce “gochujang” correctly.
It was easy. It was warm. It was everything the world rarely gave in one place.
Then the door swung open — hard.
Heads turned.
Nathan stood there, breathing heavily, hair tousled, eyes scanning until they landed on you.
Momo sat up straighter. You felt her hand grip your thigh instinctively.
“Nathan?” you asked, already rising slightly from your chair.
He marched straight to your table. “You think you’re so righteous, don’t you?”
AJ blinked. “Okay, whoa, slow down—”
Nathan didn’t even glance at him. His eyes were locked on you.
“You just had to meddle. Had to play therapist. You couldn’t just leave it alone.”
You took a breath, calm and slow. “Nathan—”
“Don’t ‘Nathan’ me!” he snapped, voice cracking somewhere between anger and desperation. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You have no idea what kind of pressure I’m under!”
People were watching now. A waiter stood awkwardly frozen with a tray in his hands.
“Nate,” you said gently, “I know this isn’t really about me.”
“Of course it’s about you!” he shouted. Then, quieter, almost trembling: “Ever since that night, Darin hasn’t spoken to me. He’s shut down. He’s angry. Confused. And now he won’t look at me like he used to.”
Your heart softened even as your jaw tightened. “That’s not because of me, Nathan. That’s because he’s scared. Just like you are.”
His expression flickered. Pain twisted with something like guilt.
“You don’t get it,” he muttered. “You’re lucky. You and she—” he gestured to Momo, “—you get to be open. You get to want each other out loud. Darin and I? We were just… figuring it out. And now it’s ruined.”
You wanted to walk over. To hug him, maybe. But he wouldn’t have let you.
Instead, you stayed seated and said, carefully, “It’s not ruined. It’s just out in the open. That’s where it belongs. Because pretending it wasn’t real wasn’t going to make it go away.”
He stood there for a long moment, breathing heavily, lips pressed in a hard line. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.
And then he turned and walked out — no dramatic words, no grand exit. Just gone.
Silence lingered at the table until Momo exhaled, a soft, shaken breath. “Well… that wasn’t on the appetizer menu.”
AJ’s wife gave a sympathetic smile. “I feel like I just watched a breakup and a confession in the same sentence.”
You rubbed your temple but smiled weakly. “Yeah. Nathan’s been dancing around that truth for years.”
Momo slipped her hand back into yours beneath the table. “So did you, for a while,” she whispered.
You glanced at her — eyes kind, knowing, and gentle.
“Yeah,” you said. “But I stopped dancing. And I’m not letting go now.”
She leaned in and kissed your shoulder, soft and slow.
AJ raised his glass. “To be brave… eventually.”
You all clinked your glasses, and for the rest of the night, you laughed a little louder — not to cover up the mess, but because you were finally learning how to live with it.
A few days later the midterm crunch is on. Aj, Momo, and you all scramble to make sure everything is ready. It’s stressful and lonely as your girlfriend is constantly busy working on a new recital piece and grading projects. So by the time it’s all over you miss your girl more than anything and when she comes to your little apartment uninvited you relish the opportunity.
The door hadn’t even clicked shut before Momo was in your arms.
She wrapped around you like a cat claiming her favorite sunspot, her lips brushing your neck, her grip firm, and her voice low and breathy.
“I missed you,” she mumbled, the words muffled into your shoulder as she inhaled deeply. “You smell like sanity and carbs.”
You laughed, slightly overwhelmed, your keys still in your hand.
“It’s only been—”
“Six days, fourteen hours, and—” she checked your oven clock, “—twenty-seven minutes since I saw you in person. Which is basically eternity in Momo years.”
You set your keys down, only to have her cling tighter.
“You’re going to have to let me go at some point.”
“No,” she said simply. “I demand Elijah's proximity for all activities tonight. You must remain within arm’s reach at all times. That includes: cooking, sitting, watching shows, and possibly brushing your teeth.”
“Momo—”
“Non-negotiable.”
She stepped back just enough to look at you. Her eyes sparkled, but there was something genuine behind the dramatics — a storm of affection, longing, and pent-up stress from the last week.
The baggy hoodie she wore — yours, actually — hung off one shoulder, and the way her thighs peeked out from beneath it made your brain short-circuit a little. She didn’t even have to try. And you weren’t sure if she was trying. That might’ve been the most dangerous part.
As you went into the kitchen, she trailed close behind, clinging to your arm like a vine. Every time you tried to move more than two feet away, she pouted. When you reached for a pan, she pressed against your back, murmuring:
“You sure I can’t sit on the counter and just stare at you while you stir stuff like a housewife from a thirst-trap Instagram reel?”
“I’m… fairly sure.”
“Ugh. That’s so boring of you. Well then being close it is,”
You were barely able to make it through dinner prep. She kept“accidentally” dropping things just to make you see her bend over, kissed the back of your neck when you were stirring, and at one point moaned dramatically into your shoulder as you opened a cabinet she was “blocking”. It was blissful torture.
“Okay, what’s really going on with you?” you finally asked, plating pasta.
Momo sighed and leaned heavily against you. “I just… needed this. I’ve been stressed out of my mind. Everything’s been deadlines and pressure and dancing with kids who have no rhythm. And the whole week I kept thinking, ‘If I could just be with Elijah for five minutes, I’d be okay again.’ And now I have you and I’m… overwhelmed.”
You turned and cupped her cheek. “Overwhelmed how?”
She smiled — softly this time. “In a good way. But also in a ‘please let me crawl inside your shirt and live there’ way.”
“I’d let you,” you whispered, kissing her forehead. “I missed you too.”
Dinner was a quiet, clingy affair — she ate half of your garlic bread and kept her foot pressed against your leg under the table like a heat-seeking missile. Afterward, you both crashed on the couch, she in your lap, wrapped around you like a living blanket.
The movie was playing, but neither of you was really watching.
Her lips brushed your jaw. Then your neck.
“Elijah…”
You tensed slightly. “Yeah?”
“I want you.”
That was the moment your phone rang.
You froze. Momo whimpered. “Noooo. Reject. Reject! Send it to voicemail!”
But the caller ID flashed: AJ.
You frowned. “It’s AJ. He never calls unless—”
She groaned, rolling off your lap like a grumpy cat. “Tell him he has 45 seconds before I claim you by force.”
You answered. “Hey, AJ?”
“Hey. I’m sorry — I know it’s late. But we’ve got a problem. Can we talk in person? Tonight?”
You glanced at Momo, who was now draped dramatically across the couch like a Renaissance painting of sorrow. She shot you a pleading look.
You sighed. “Yeah. I’ll be there soon.”
Momo sat up, instantly knowing.
“Is it serious?”
“I think so.”
She nodded, lips pressed together — trying not to look disappointed but failing. Still, she walked over and kissed your cheek, resting her forehead to yours.
“Go be the hero,” she murmured. “But when you’re done saving the day, you'd better bring that ass back here. I’m cashing in.”
You smiled. “It’s a deal.”
And with one last look, you left — the air still heavy with all the things that hadn’t happened yet.