Chapter 18 Come Home Bae-by
Come Home Bae-by
Present day, days later
Wynter knew he had messed up. You could say lots about him but never that he ever allowed himself to ignore his own faults. That day in the park awakened something inside of him he’d worked so hard to keep dormant, something that if awakened—might just be the one thing that’d bury him under.
Don’t think it, don’t say it. He recalled the promise made, the words they all repeated on tumultuous times to ward the ghosts away. But seeing that poster, the anniversary of the worst day of his life being tapered all over the park was like a cruel reminder.
As if he could ever feign normalcy, as if he could ever forget—there was no moving on, never that. At least not entirely.
He’d felt awful for how he’d left Yesoh that day. And it wasn’t even like she’d comforted him about it; they’d continued their skating lessons as per usual, twice a week as she balanced her ballet.
To Wynter, Yesoh Yeo had always been grace personified.
He couldn’t fathom why he felt so strongly about her lately, it wasn’t just in a single aspect, it was overall.
It wasn’t that he felt so physically uncomfortable and ill over the fact that he’d left her that day in the park alone, it was that he felt sick about disappointing her.
She didn’t deserve that, and he knew it.
And what was worse, was that for the first time she didn’t fight back, she didn’t yell at him like she usually did when he was out of line or shove him or reach for him. She was staying still.
And that made him ache from the very depths of his being.
He knew he had every right to leave when he did, anyone would when confronted with what he was confronted with. It wasn’t like there was any magnet pulling him backwards, and yet…
She was his best friend’s little sister, she always was and always would be. He knew it wasn’t his place to feel this strongly towards her within any possible measure. And yet…
He knew he ought not to keep picturing the look on her face when he flung his hand away from her grasp like he’d shattered something on her highest shelf.
He recalled the feeling of being bathed in fault.
Her hurt gaze replayed like a film reel in his mind.
He knew he shouldn’t be seeing that, and yet…
And yet he did. And the reality of this hit him like a truck; he was concussed. Concussed by her being, concussed by the vehemence at which she existed so passionately, so ferociously, without guilt without shame. He was knocked out.
He wandered out that night towards the ballet faction of the school, a heart on fire in search of her, he sought to be a thief, shamelessly so.
The usually bustling practice room was eerily silent, lit only by the pale moonlight filtering in through the high windows. Wynter stood hidden in the shadows of the doorway, his gaze drawn to the lone figure moving gracefully across the polished floor. Yesoh.
He'd come with the intention of seeing her only once.
Yesoh moved with a fluid grace he'd only ever seen on ice.
Her body, clad in a simple black leotard and tights, was a symphony of strength and elegance.
He watched, mesmerised, as she stretched and swayed, her limbs flowing seamlessly from one pose to the next.
The harsh angles of the practice room seemed to soften around her, her movements transforming the space into something intimate, almost sacred.
He'd always admired Yesoh's dedication to ballet, her unwavering commitment to her art.
He understood that singular focus, the way it consumed you, demanded every ounce of your being.
He'd felt it on the ice, the complete immersion in movement, the way it transported you to another realm where nothing else mattered.
But watching her now, he saw something different in her movements.
It was no longer just the disciplined precision of a ballerina, but something more primal, something sensual, that sent a shiver down his spine.
He wasn’t supposed to be looking at her that way. And yet his gaze wandered to places he felt unworthy to behold.
She was practising a piece he vaguely recognised—The Rite of Spring, he recalled.
A ballet known for its raw energy and bold, almost provocative choreography.
He watched as she moved, her body interpreting the music with a fierce intensity that took his breath away.
There was a wildness in her movements, a rawness that both captivated and unsettled him.
Her usual sarcasm, her guarded exterior, seemed to melt away, revealing a vulnerability, a depth of emotion, that he'd never witnessed before.
A raw sense of want—a want to win, a want to come out on top, a want to succeed at all costs. A want he recognized in her because it burned within him too.
Her dark hair, usually pulled back in a neat bun, had come loose, cascading down her back in a tangled wave.
Beads of sweat glistened on her skin, highlighting the delicate curve of her neck, the graceful line of her shoulders.
He found himself drawn to those details, his gaze lingering on the way her muscles flexed and shifted beneath her skin, the way her breath quickened with exertion.
A strange warmth spread through him, a sensation that had nothing to do with the stuffy air of the practice room.
He felt his cheeks flush involuntarily. He felt a pull toward her, a desire to reach out, to touch, that surprised and confused him.
He'd known Yesoh for years, had seen her as a friend, a confidante, his younger sister's companion.
But in this moment, bathed in the ethereal glow of the moonlight, she was something else entirely.
A woman who both intrigued and intimidated him, who awakened something within him that he couldn't quite name.
He realised, with a start, that he'd been holding his breath, his body tense with a mixture of longing and apprehension.
He took a step back, retreating into the shadows, as Yesoh finished her practice, her chest heaving as she came to a stop, her gaze fixed on some distant point, lost in the world she'd created with her movements.
He knew he should leave, to slip away unnoticed. But his feet remained rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on her. All he could see was Yesoh, a woman transformed, a woman who both captivated and challenged him in ways he was only just beginning to understand.
He thought he knew her before, but no, he had barely brushed the surface.
Wynter had spent the entire morning on the phone with his father who spoke to him about Bae’s visit. It’d completely slipped his mind, and he’d spent the afternoon cleaning the apartment with Cahya.
He had one singular mission, to clean and conceal.
Music blared through the small apartment, a familiar wave to earth track that usually had both Wynter and Cahya singing along with exaggerated dance moves.
That day, however, Wynter found himself scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the kitchen counter, his movements more functional than carefree.
Cahya, perched on a stool, idly flicked through a music sheet, humming along but his brow furrowed with concern.
“Bae’s arrival got you transforming into Mr. Clean, huh?” Cahya remarked, peering over the top of his sheet music. “Didn’t know a little sister’s visit warranted this level of domesticity.”
Wynter shrugged, not quite meeting his friend’s gaze. “Just trying to make a good impression,” he muttered, scrubbing a little harder than necessary. “She hasn’t seen the place since I moved in.”
Cahya closed his music sheet with a sigh, knowing that something else was afoot.
He and Wynter had a bond that went beyond friendship, a kind of unspoken understanding forged through years of shared experiences, both joyful and heartbreaking.
He could sense Wynter’s internal struggle, the way he held himself tight, his usual easygoing nature replaced by a quiet tension that radiated through the room.
“I’m not buying what you’re selling, friend,” Cahya warned him.
“Didn’t expect that you would,” Wynter responded nonchalantly.
“Wyn, come on," Cahya began, his voice softening. “Spill it. What’s really going on?”
Wynter paused, leaning back against the counter, a tired sigh escaping his lips. “It’s nothing, Cahya. Just…pre-sibling visit jitters, I guess.”
“Don’t give me that,” Cahya scoffed, hopping off the stool. “You’ve never been one for ‘jitters’. You practically run on ice, for God’s sake. This is something else.”
Wynter knew he couldn’t hide it from Cahya forever.
His friend had a way of seeing through his carefully constructed walls, of sensing his emotional state with an uncanny accuracy that both comforted and frustrated him.
He just wasn’t ready to share the truth, the tangled mess of emotions that Yesoh’s presence had stirred within him.
The memory of him watching her at the ballet studio, her fierce grace, the way her body moved with a sensuality that both captivated and unnerved him, flashed through his mind.
“Just... things have been complicated lately,” he admitted, hoping that would be enough to satisfy Cahya’s curiosity. “Do you ever feel like you know something for certain and then…everything changes?”
“That’s life isn’t it, we’re allowed to change our thoughts and opinions, that's kind of how we evolve as humans,” Cahya explained.
“This is different,” Wynter convinced himself.
“What is this, some life or death change? Are you part of the CIA?” Cahya chuckled, “You and my sister have that in common—you both have such a flair for the dramatics.”