Cercis

Jerry wasn’t kidding when he said I’ll be busy. My first week in his agency feels like a punishment disguised as a paycheck. Meetings, drafts, revisions, endless briefings, every time I think I can breathe, someone’s already calling my name.

I don’t even know if I should be grateful that I still have a job, or ungrateful that I’m being worked like a mule.

By the end of the week, my patience is gone. I storm straight into Jerry’s office without knocking.

He’s there, as usual, looking too comfortable for someone who’s been making my life miserable. Legs crossed, jacket draped over his chair, sipping coffee like he owns the world, well, technically, he owns this part of it.

“I want an increase,” I say flatly.

Jerry raises a brow, like he expected that. “Sure,” he says, leaning back. “But in one condition.”

I narrow my eyes. “And that is?”

“Work even harder.”

I let out a dry laugh. “Cute. You think you’re funny.”

He just shrugs, that same smug smirk on his face. “I’m serious.”

That does it. “You know what, Jerry? You’ve got some nerve acting like I owe you anything. If anything, you should be apologizing to me.”

The smirk fades. His posture stiffens. “Cercis—”

“No, don’t ‘Cercis’ me.” I cross my arms. “Do you even remember what you did back then? Or do you just conveniently erase people when they stop being useful to you?”

His eyes flicker, the easy confidence faltering for a split second.

“You used me,” I continue, my tone sharper now. “You used me as a stand-in for Iris. You knew how I felt about you, and you still—”

“Stop.” His voice cuts through the air, quiet but heavy.

I pause. He’s looking away, his jaw tight. I can tell he doesn’t want to go there. Typical Jerry, dodging the parts of the past that actually matter.

He exhales and switches gears. “Fine,” he says, tone clipped. “I’ll increase your salary.”

I blink. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” His eyes lift to meet mine again, calm, businesslike. “But I want something in return.”

Here we go again. “What now?”

“There’s a joint party with other agencies in a few weeks,” he says. “Formal event. I need someone to accompany me.”

I arch a brow. “And you chose me? Wow. Must be desperate.”

He smirks faintly. “You’ll look good in the photos. And it’ll be good for networking.”

“Networking,” I repeat, rolling my eyes. “Right. Sure.”

He adds, “It’s a formal party, so you’ll need a gown.”

I frown. “Bold of you to assume I own a gown.”

He opens his mouth, probably to offer buying me one, but I cut him off, turning on my heel.

“I’ll find one myself,” I say over my shoulder. “And Jerry? You better keep your promise. Because if you don’t—”

He chuckles softly, but I keep talking.

“—I’m reporting this agency for employee abuse. And trust me, I write better reports than I do novels.”

With that, I walk out of his office, head high, ignoring the way his amused eyes follow me until the door shuts.

Let him laugh.

Because the moment he breaks that promise, I’ll make sure he regrets ever hiring me back.

The fluorescent hum of the convenience store feels almost comforting after the chaos of Jerry’s agency. I grab cold bottles of beer from the fridge, the glass slick with condensation, and make my way to the counter. The cashier doesn’t even look at me... perfect. I don’t feel like being seen tonight.

Outside, the air is heavy with city smoke and the faint buzz of neon signs. I plop down on a nearby bench, the kind that creaks a little too much under you, twist the cap off, and take a long drink.

God. Jerry has given me more headaches this week than all my hangovers combined.

The beer burns on its way down, sharp and grounding. I stare blankly at the streetlights flickering in the distance, my mind replaying the week, his smug grin, his voice, his constant “just one more revision.” If there’s a hell for overworked employees, I’ve already earned a penthouse there.

Then my phone buzzes.

I glance at the screen.

Jerry: Don’t forget the gown.

I sigh, long and hard. Of course. Because I didn’t have enough things to worry about.

A gown. Right. I don’t own one. I’m not that kind of woman. I don’t buy dresses I’ll wear once and bury forever in a closet I barely open. Maybe I can rent one. Or—

My mind drifts. Uninvited. To him.

Shun.

What does he have to do with gowns? Nothing. And somehow, everything. He’s a model. He’s got model friends. Model friends with closets full of gowns, probably. It makes sense... on paper.

I finish my first bottle and laugh under my breath.

“Yeah, sure, Cercis,” I mutter to myself. “This is totally about the gown.”

I twist open another bottle. The fizz crackles softly in the quiet.

If I’m being honest with myself, which, let’s face it, I rarely am, I just want to see him again.

To be fair, I haven’t seen him in days. We’ve texted, sure. A few messages here and there. Enough to keep a connection, not enough to make it real. And now that the weekend’s here, I have no excuse not to drop by.

I fish out my phone again and type before I can talk myself out of it:

Where are you right now? I need to see you.

I stare at the message for a moment, thumb hovering. Then I hit send.

The screen glows against the dark.

“Why am I doing this?” I whisper to the night. “Excited to see him? Or just… observing him again, like some deranged stalker?”

The thought makes me snort. No. Not a creep. Not unhinged. There’s a reason I keep coming back to him. There has to be.

Because every time I see Shun, I see pieces of Iris.

My sister.

The one who vanished without a trace.

It’s the way he tilts his head when he listens. The quiet patience. The small, fleeting smiles that look too familiar. Like echoes from another life.

My phone buzzes again.

Shun: At the usual studio. Wrapping up a shoot. You can come by if you want.

I stare at the message for a second, pulse quickening. Then I finish the last of my beer, toss the empty bottle in the trash, and raise a hand to hail a taxi.

“Just for the gown,” I lie to myself, as the car pulls up to the curb.

But we both know that’s not the truth.

The studio smells faintly of hairspray, fabric starch, and exhaustion. By the time I arrive, I’m greeted by a girl with a clipboard and a sunshine smile, Shun’s assistant, apparently.

“Hi! You must be Cercis, right?” she chirps. “I’m Amara. Shun’s just wrapping up his last shoot. He said you can wait for him in his dressing room.”

“Sure,” I say, giving her a lazy salute before trudging off. My feet ache, my head’s light, and that beer I chugged earlier is definitely starting to hit.

Inside the dressing room, it’s neat, too neat. Racks of suits, crisp shirts, polished shoes lined up like obedient soldiers. No gowns, obviously. Figures.

I sink into the couch and stretch my legs, glancing around. Nothing feminine here, nothing soft. Just cologne, ties, and sterile perfection. My eyelids grow heavy, the buzz from the alcohol making the edges of the room blur.

I don’t even realize I’m half-asleep until the door clicks open.

“Sorry for making you wait,” Shun’s voice says, warm and smooth as always.

I blink up at him, squinting. “’S fine,” I mumble.

He sits beside me, his movements quiet but careful. “You’re flushed,” he observes, his aquamarine eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve been drinking?”

I wave a hand dismissively. “Don’t be dramatic. Just a beer. Or two.”

His lips twitch like he’s holding back a sigh.

Before he can start lecturing me, I lean closer, blurting out what I came here for. “Do you have any female model friends? I need a gown.”

Shun blinks. “A gown?”

“For a stupid party. Formal. My new boss thinks I’m Cinderella or something.”

He chuckles softly, the sound low and unguarded. “Unfortunately, I don’t have many friends in this industry. But I can ask Amara to help you find one. She has good connections.”

I can’t help it, my lips curl into a lazy smile. He’s too kind for his own good. Always has been.

I rest my chin on my palm and stare at him. His face... seriously, how is someone allowed to look like that? Every feature perfectly sculpted, like an artist got carried away with divine inspiration.

And that gentle concern in his eyes, it almost hurts to look at.

He tilts his head slightly. “What?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I giggle. “You know,” I slur, leaning closer, “I finally get it. Why Iris was obsessed with you.”

“I-Iris?”

“She was right,” I murmur, my hands finding their way to his cheeks before my brain can stop them. “You’re beautiful.”

And before I know it, I’m straddling him, my face inches from his, my breath warm against his skin. His eyes go wide, panic flickering there, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t push me off, doesn’t snap like he usually would when someone crosses the line.

That’s what makes me pause.

The Shun I know would’ve already shoved me halfway across the room by now. But he just… sits there. Frozen.

I want to kiss him. Just once. Just to know if he tastes as gentle as he looks.

But then—

Click.

The door swings open.

“Shun, we’re ready for—oh!” Amara’s voice cuts through the air.

I jolt, scrambling off him like I’ve been electrocuted, nearly tripping over the damn coffee table. “Right! Gown! Yeah! thanks for the help, superstar!” I blurt, my voice louder than necessary.

Amara blinks, completely oblivious. “Uh, everything okay?”

“All good!” I lie, already halfway out the door. “Tell your boss to hydrate! He’s glowing too much!”

And before Shun can even breathe, I’m gone, marching out of the studio, face burning and heart hammering in a way I refuse to analyze.

Outside, the cool air hits me like a slap. I stop, running a hand through my hair, laughing under my breath.

“Nice going, Cercis,” I mutter. “Real smooth.”

But deep down, I can still feel the warmth of his skin on my palms, and the weight of his silence when he didn’t push me away.