Hopeless Romantic

The neon lights of the Seoul underground district flickered, casting long, jagged shadows against the damp brick walls. Mira wiped a smear of black demon ichor from her cheek, her sharp gaze scanning the perimeter. Her pink hair, usually a vibrant statement of rebellion, was matted with sweat and grime. She sheathed her curved blade with a metallic shink, her breath hitching slightly in the cold night air.

"Area clear," Abby announced, her voice steady and low. She stood a few feet away, her athletic frame poised even in relaxation. She was the muscle of the operation, a dancer whose every move was calculated for maximum impact, yet her expression remained blank, almost vacant.

Mira glanced at her, a familiar heat stirring in her gut. "Took you long enough, Abs. I thought you were staring at a moth again."

Abby blinked, her head tilting slightly. "It was a very large moth, Mira. It had spots like eyes. I thought it was a low-level scout."

Mira rolled her eyes, a sarcastic retort dying on her lips. Abby was a fortress—protective, strong, and undeniably gorgeous—but she had the intellectual depth of a puddle. Still, the physical pull was undeniable. For months, they had been operating in the shadows of their own team, finding solace in the silent, sweaty heat of back alleys and empty training rooms.

From the periphery of the alley, a flash of flamboyant pink caught Mira’s eye. Romance was leaning against a dumpster, his heart-shaped bangs perfectly styled despite the chaos of the hunt. He held a silk handkerchief, dabbing at an imaginary speck of dust on his velvet coat.

"Bravo, ladies! A performance for the ages," Romance chirped, his voice theatrical and dripping with his usual charm. He stepped forward, offering Mira a small, ornate box. "For the victor, a macaron from that French bakery you mentioned three months ago. I had it delivered by courier to the safehouse."

Mira didn't even look at the box. "I’m busy, Romance. Go flirt with a gargoyle."

Romance’s smile didn't waver, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of hurt. "A gargoyle would be less stony than you, my darling Mira. But I persist! For what is love without a little tragedy?"

He followed them back to the van, chattering incessantly about the latest fashion trends and the tactical brilliance of his own spell-casting. Mira ignored him, her hand surreptitiously brushing against Abby’s arm. Abby didn't react, her gaze fixed on the road ahead, her protective instincts focused on the physical environment rather than the emotional storm brewing in the backseat.

A week later, the storm broke.

It happened in the equipment room. The air was thick with the smell of ozone and leather. Mira had pinned Abby against a rack of silver arrows, her hands tangled in the other woman’s hair. The kiss was desperate, a release of the tension Mira felt every time she had to act like the cold, untouchable rebel.

She didn't hear the door creak. She didn't see Romance standing there, the bouquet of lilies in his hand dropping silently to the floor.

Romance watched them for a heartbeat that felt like an eternity. He saw the way Mira clung to Abby, the way Abby’s large hands rested firmly on Mira’s waist. His heart didn't just break; it felt like it withered. He had spent a year being the jester at her court, hoping for a single genuine smile, only to find that her heart—or at least her body—belonged to his best friend.

He backed away silently. He didn't scream. He didn't confront them. If Abby made her happy, if this was what the sharp-tongued girl with the pink hair needed, he would step aside. He was a romantic, after all. And true romantics knew when to exit the stage.

The shift was immediate, yet subtle. Romance stopped showing up at Mira’s training sessions with iced lattes. He stopped commenting on her social media posts with heart emojis. He was still there—still the smart, theatrical strategist of the Demon Hunters—but the heat of his gaze was gone. He was professional. He was polite. He was distant.

Mira noticed. At first, she felt a sense of relief. The annoying pest was finally gone. But as the days turned into weeks, the relief curdled into a strange, itchy agitation.

She was still seeing Abby, but the cracks were showing.

"So, what do you think about the new council decree?" Mira asked one night, lying across Abby’s bed after a particularly vigorous session.

Abby frowned, staring at the ceiling. "I think... I think the paper was very white. Very shiny."

Mira sighed, closing her eyes. "I meant the political implications, Abby. The way they’re restricting our movement in the southern sectors."

"Oh," Abby said, turning to her. "I like the south. They have those little fish cakes on the street corners. Do you want fish cakes, Mira? I can go get some."

"No, Abby. I don't want fish cakes."

Mira realized then that she was lonely. She was having the best sex of her life with a woman who couldn't hold a conversation about anything more complex than a snack. She had thought they were dating, building something, but to Abby, it was just a physical routine—like dancing or cleaning a blade.

She broke it off two weeks later. Abby had simply nodded, said, "Okay, Mira. We should still practice our dual-takedowns tomorrow," and walked out to get a protein shake.

The loneliness sharpened. And with it, her observation of Romance intensified.

Without his constant hovering, Mira actually saw him. She noticed the way his velvet jackets hugged his shoulders. She noticed the intelligence in his eyes when he deciphered ancient demonic runes, a sharp contrast to Abby’s vacant stares. She noticed the way his flamboyant hair caught the light during their live televised interviews after a successful hunt.

He was beautiful. And he was no longer looking at her.

The breaking point came after a massive showcase performance in Myeong-dong. The team had just finished a high-profile demonstration of their skills to keep public morale up. Backstage was a hive of activity.

Mira stood by the water cooler, her heart hammering as she spotted Romance near the costume racks. He was laughing—a genuine, warm sound—with a female staff member. The woman was leaning in close, adjusting his lapel, and Romance was looking at her with that intense, passionate focus he used to reserve for Mira.

Jealously, hot and acidic, flared in Mira’s chest. She had been celibate for three weeks, her nerves frayed, her body aching for a touch that actually meant something. Seeing him move on so effortlessly felt like a slap to the face.

As the staff member walked away, Mira moved. She didn't think; she just reacted. She lunged forward, grabbing Romance’s arm with a grip honed by years of sword fighting.

"Hey!" Romance yelped, nearly tripping over a cable. "Mira? What in the heavens—"

She didn't say a word. She dragged him down the hall, ignoring the confused glances of stagehands, and shoved him into a cramped janitor’s closet. She slammed the door and locked it, the darkness only broken by the sliver of light beneath the door.

"What is the meaning of this?" Romance asked, his voice regaining its theatrical flair despite his confusion. "If you need a fashion consultation, my rates have gone up, darling."

"Shut up," Mira hissed. She stepped into his space, her chest heaving. "Why did you stop?"

Romance blinked, his heart-shaped bangs falling over one eye. "Stop what? My skincare routine? I assure you, I haven't."

"Stop pursuing me!" Mira yelled, her voice cracking. She poked him hard in the chest. "Am I not pretty anymore? Am I not sharp enough? You used to follow me like a lost puppy, and now you’re acting like I’m just... some teammate. You’re flirting with every staff member with a pulse!"

Romance’s expression shifted. The theatrical mask dropped, replaced by a weary, somber look she had never seen on him. "Mira, please. Don't do this. I saw you."

Mira froze. "What?"

"In the equipment room. With Abby," Romance said quietly. "Months ago. I saw you two. I realized that my... attentions... were not only unwanted but perhaps an obstacle to your happiness. I love Abby, she’s my best friend. And I loved you. So I left the picture. I thought you were happy."

"I wasn't happy!" Mira shouted. "Abby is... she’s great, but she’s a brick wall! I thought we were dating, and she thought we were just... I don't know, stretching! It was just physical, Romance. It’s been over for weeks."

Romance looked stunned. "But you were so cruel to me. You dismissed everything I did. The flowers, the gifts, the poems—"

"Because I’m an idiot!" Mira stepped closer, her hands trembling. "Because I’m scared of people who actually see me. Abby didn't see me, she just saw a partner. You... you looked at me like I was the sun, and it terrified me."

Romance started to say something, his mouth opening to likely deliver a long-winded monologue about the nature of fear and affection, but Mira couldn't take it anymore. She reached up, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and pulled him down into a kiss.

It wasn't the practiced, athletic kiss she shared with Abby. it was desperate, clumsy, and tasted of salt and longing.

Romance stiffened. His hands stayed at his sides, his breath hitching in his throat. Mira pulled back, her eyes shimmering with rare vulnerability.

"I missed you," she whispered, her bluntness returning but softened by honesty. "I missed the way you talk. I missed the way you look at me. Abby was just... skin. I want more than skin."

She didn't give him a chance to respond. She leaned back in, her kiss more demanding this time, her tongue tracing the seam of his lips. This time, Romance broke. A low groan escaped his throat as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

The closet was cramped, smelling of lemon floor wax and old mops, but to Mira, it felt like the center of the universe. She began fumbling with the buttons of his flamboyant vest, her fingers eager. Romance’s hands, usually so delicate, were suddenly firm, roaming over her curves with a possessive heat.

He broke the kiss, gasping for air. "Mira... wait. We can't... not here. Not among the buckets."

"I don't care," she muttered, tugging his shirt from his trousers.

Romance caught her wrists. His eyes were dark, the flirtatious spark replaced by something much more predatory and focused. "I do. You’ve spent a year keeping me at arm's length. If I’m finally getting you, I want to do it right. I want to see every inch of you without worrying about a janitor walking in."

Mira felt a shiver run down her spine. She liked this side of him—the smart, commanding man hidden beneath the glitter.

She pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen as she sent a mass text to the Huntrix group chat: DO NOT come to the apartment tonight. I’m staying in the suite and I’m getting laid by Romance. If anyone interrupts, I’ll use my blade on you. See you in the morning.

Romance let out a startled laugh. "Very subtle, darling."

"I don't do subtle," Mira said, grabbing his hand and leading him out of the closet.

They practically ran to the Huntrix apartment complex, ignoring the confused looks of the security guards. Once inside Mira’s suite, the door had barely clicked shut before they were on each other.

The bedroom was bathed in the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the window. Mira was a whirlwind of motion, pushing Romance onto the bed, her sharp edges softening as she felt his skin against hers. But Romance wasn't content to just be a passenger.

He flipped her over, his movements graceful and calculated. "My turn to lead, I think," he whispered against her ear, his voice sending jolts of electricity through her.

He was attentive in a way Abby never was. He knew exactly where to touch, how to linger, his intelligence translating into a devastating understanding of her body’s responses. He praised her—not just her beauty, but her strength, her wit, her fire.

"You talk too much," Mira gasped, arching her back as his lips found a sensitive spot on her neck.

"And you don't talk enough," Romance countered, his eyes locking onto hers. "Tell me you want me, Mira. Not just anyone. Me."

Mira looked at him, really looked at him. The pink hair, the heart-shaped bangs, the brilliant mind, and the heart that had stayed true even when she was at her worst.

"I want you, Romance," she said, her voice clear and devoid of sarcasm. "Only you."

The night became a blur of shared control. Mira would reclaim the lead with her characteristic aggression, only for Romance to charm her back into submission with his passion. It was a conversation they had been trying to have for a year, finally spoken in the language of touch.

As the sun began to peek over the Seoul skyline, painting the room in shades of gold and violet, Mira lay tangled in the sheets, her head resting on Romance’s chest. For the first time in a long time, the insecurities that drove her rebellion felt quiet.

Romance traced patterns on her shoulder, his breathing rhythmic and calm. "So," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. "Does this mean I should cancel the flower delivery for tomorrow?"

Mira shifted, biting his shoulder playfully. "If you stop bringing me flowers, I’ll kill you."

Romance chuckled, pulling her closer. "Message received, my sharp-edged queen. Loud and clear."

In the quiet of the morning, Mira realized that while Abby was a great dancer, it took a truly smart man to learn the steps to her heart. And Romance, theatrical and flamboyant as he was, hadn't missed a single beat.