The house just got quieter as the night went on.
It was not that awkward silence or anything. More like it came in easy, everyone sort of okay with it not being broken.
Minjae was the one who picked up on it when he got up to rinse his glass in the sink. Nobody said a word. Nobody jumped in to talk over it. Outside the sea made this low steady sound coming through the windows that were half open, mixing with the clink from his glass and the heater humming under the kotatsu.
That reminded him of the luggage over by the wall, half packed already. Shoes lined up neat near the door, pairs matched like they were ready to go. Tomorrow they would all be traveling. No one had come out and said it but it hung there anyway.
The week felt like it was wrapping up.
He came back to his place and sat down again, letting out this sigh he did not even notice. The kotatsu warmth was hitting him, maybe too much. Or it could be the plum wine still working through him. His second glass was empty right by his knee, just sitting there.
Across from him, Yura stared into her drink like it had personally offended her.
"Still can't believe it's already over," she muttered.
Yuri scoffed immediately. "Please. You say that every time you don't want to go back to work."
"This is different."
"How?"
Yura gestured vaguely around the room. "Because this place doesn't have deadlines. Or Slack messages. Or your face popping up every time HR wants to 'circle back.'"
"Hey," Yuri said, offended. "I circle back gently."
Seori, who had been quietly wiping condensation from her glass, glanced up. "You were practically adopted on day one. You don't get to complain."
Yuri blinked. "Adopted?"
"You called Minjae's mother 'eomma' before lunch."
"That was—" Yuri paused, searching for justification. "That was situational."
"You were stealing her side dishes," Seori added flatly.
"They were offered."
"They were on her plate."
Yura snorted, leaning back against the table. "You even asked for the recipe."
"That's called bonding."
Minjae lifted his glass just enough to hide his mouth. The smile slipped out anyway.
Yuri noticed. "Oh, don't pretend you didn't enjoy it."
He lowered the glass. "I didn't say that."
"You looked relieved," Yura said lightly.
Relieved.
He didn't deny it.
The week had changed things. Not dramatically—not in ways that demanded names or decisions. But in small, irreversible ways.
They'd stopped asking permission to sit close. Towels were shared without comment. Someone always ended up using someone else's shampoo. Conversations bled into late nights without checking the time.
Minjae had let it happen the way someone lets waves lap at their ankles—aware that stepping deeper meant losing footing, but unable to walk away without noticing the pull.
He sat there now, arms loosely crossed, shoulders relaxed in a way they rarely were at work. The wine had warmed him from the inside out, dulling the constant calculations in his head.
Still, something felt different tonight.
The air was heavier. Not tense—expectant.
Yura shifted first.
She didn't say anything at first. Just turned slightly toward him, studying his face like she was committing it to memory.
"Hey," she said.
Minjae glanced sideways. "Hm?"
She hesitated. Just a beat too long for it to be casual. Then she leaned in, resting her head against his shoulder.
He froze.
Not dramatically. No sharp intake of breath. Just… still.
Her hair brushed his collarbone. She adjusted slightly, testing the angle, the weight.
"Comfy," she murmured.
His mind stalled.
Yura had always been physical—easy with touches, casual with closeness. But this was different. This wasn't a passing lean or a playful shove.
This was deliberate.
"Y-Yura," he said, keeping his voice steady through sheer force of will. "You should—"
She didn't move.
Before he could finish, Yuri shifted too.
"Well," she said, voice lazy, amused, "if we're doing this…"
She scooted closer on his other side, her knee brushing his, her hand settling lightly on his thigh. Not gripping. Not claiming.
Just there.
Minjae turned sharply. "Yuri."
She raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"You're—"
"Warm?" she offered. "Yes. That is the point."
Then, with a glance toward Seori, she added, "You're missing out."
Seori looked up slowly.
For a moment, Minjae thought she would refuse. She was always the careful one—the observer. The one who weighed moments before stepping into them.
Instead, she exhaled softly, set her glass aside, and leaned forward.
Her arms rested across Minjae's knees, her chin hovering just above them.
"I'm not losing to you two," she muttered. "This is tactical."
Minjae stopped breathing.
They surrounded him without touching too much. Shoulder. Thigh. Knees.
Close enough that he could feel their warmth through fabric. Close enough that the space he normally kept intact was gone.
"You're all drunk," he said flatly.
Yuri laughed quietly. "No."
Yura hummed. "Not really."
Seori didn't smile. "We're just… done pretending."
That did it.
Minjae looked at them—really looked this time.
No glazed eyes. No unsteady movements. No slurred words.
They were sober enough to mean this.
And that scared him more than anything else.
"…This isn't something you throw out in a vacation house," he said quietly.
Yura lifted her head just enough to look at him. "You think this is new?"
Yuri's fingers flexed slightly against his leg. "We didn't suddenly decide tonight."
Seori met his gaze, unflinching. "We're just finally not hiding it."
His chest tightened.
He wanted to say something sensible. Something careful. Something that would put everything back where it belonged.
Instead, his thoughts tangled.
If he stayed, it would mean acknowledging this. If he spoke, he'd have to choose his words knowing they'd linger long after tonight.
And choosing—any choosing—felt like stepping onto unstable ground.
He stood up too fast.
"I—" He took a step back from the kotatsu. "I can't."
The word came out sharper than he intended.
They didn't move.
"I respect all of you too much," he continued, voice strained, "to let this happen when emotions are running high. Even if you say you're sober—even if you are—I can't pretend this is simple."
His hands clenched at his sides.
"I don't want this to be something we regret. Or misunderstand. Or joke about later."
Silence stretched.
He waited for disappointment. For frustration. For someone to call him a coward.
Instead—
Seori stood, smoothing her skirt. "You're ridiculous."
Yura smiled, soft and unguarded. "And kind."
Yuri crossed her arms, amused but warm. "And very, very stupid."
She tilted her head. "But in a good way."
Minjae tried to answer.
But the tension he'd been holding all week—every restrained glance, every calculated silence—hit him all at once.
The room tilted.
"Oh," he muttered.
Then the floor came up to meet him.
---
"He passed out."
Yuri's whisper sounded closer than expected.
Seori was already crouched beside him, fingers at his neck. "Pulse is fine."
Yura returned with a blanket, shaking her head. "Of course this is how he handles emotional honesty."
They settled him carefully, tucking the blanket around his shoulders.
Each of them lingered longer than necessary.
A brush of fingers through his hair. A thumb against his cheek. A quiet, stolen moment when the others weren't looking.
Then they sat together beside him, backs against the couch, listening to the sea outside.
No one spoke.
They didn't need to.
The week was ending.
But something else had already begun.