Work Text:
(Milk's POV)
It wasn’t supposed to end up here.
When Love and I first stood before the executives at GMMTV, we were just two girls with a shared, quiet ambition. I remember the exact moment we looked at each other and agreed: we wanted to do a GL series together. We pushed for it, fought for it, and when we finally became an official couple, it felt like we had cracked open the sky.
But the sky has a habit of pouring down when you least expect it.
The early days were a battlefield. The moment the spotlight hit us, the bashing started. The internet can be a cruel place, dissection-heavy and unforgiving. They dug into Love’s personal life, pointing fingers at her relationship with Gun. They yelled fan service, called our chemistry manufactured, and threw a wall of hate at her just for trying to tell a story with me. It broke my heart to see her take the brunt of it. Back then, I swore to myself I would do everything in my power to protect her, to be her anchor. I stayed close, maybe too close, trying to shield her from the noise.
Then, as the years rolled on, the whispers changed.
The rumors shifted to speculations that Love and Gun had broken up. The noise quieted, and in that quiet space, we grew.
New fans still look at us today and casually write us off as a well-oiled marketing machine. They call it professional fan service. But the MuvMuvs —the ones who have been there since day one—they know. They see the way my eyes linger a second too long. They notice how we support each other without a script. Because nothing we did was ever just for the cameras. At least, not for me.
Somewhere between the long filming hours, the shared glances across crowded rooms, and the quiet drives home, I did the one thing I promised myself I wouldn’t do.
I fell entirely, irrevocably in love with Love Pattranite.
I always thought she didn't see me that way. How could she? She’s Love. She’s poised, beautiful, and flawless. I’m just Milk—clumsy, dorky, always tripping over my own feet or saying the wrong thing.
Yet, during our interviews, she always accepted me. I remember telling a reporter once that Love was almost everything to me. She was the one person I could say anything to, the one who anchored my chaotic world. I thought we had an unspoken understanding.
Especially after the Blush Blossom Fanfest 2026.
That night was supposed to be our crowning glory. The media called it the "wedding of the century with the fans." The performance trended everywhere. I was the one who chose our concept. I wanted it so badly—I wanted to see Love in a traditional wedding dress from my culture, even if it was just once, even if it was only for a stage performance. Standing there, looking at her under the stage lights, my heart ached with a profound, terrifying realism. It felt real. For a few hours, I let myself believe it was.
But reality is a sobering bucket of ice water.
The very next day was the GMMTV annual company outing. Love posted a beautiful photo of us from the concert. I liked it instantly, my heart still riding the high of the Blush Blossom stage.
And then, the high crashed.
It’s been a whole week now. One entire week, and I haven’t touched the 'like' button on a single one of her Instagram posts.
It sounds petty, childish even, but it was the only defense mechanism I had left. Because the internet, in its infinite ability to dissect, noticed something else. As soon as I stepped back, a familiar name reappeared in her likes. Gun.
The fan theories started flooding my timeline.
"Maybe they never actually broke up."
"They probably just went lowkey because Love’s career is skyrocketing right now."
"Milk was just the shield."
Reading those words felt like a physical blow. The worst part? I believed them. I let the theories consume me, convinced myself that I was just a temporary fixture in her professional life, a coworker she was comfortable with, but nothing more.
I know how I am. I’ve always been the type to retreat the moment I think I’m causing discomfort. If Gun is back, if they are still together, then my closeness—my lingering looks, my constant presence—must be suffocating for her. Maybe Gun hates how close we are. I can’t be the reason her real life gets complicated.
So, I did what I do best. I started to pull away. I chose distance.
(Love's POV)
I stared at my phone screen until the glare made my eyes burn.
Nothing.
It had been seven days. Seven days since the Blush Blossom Fanfest, seven days since the company outing, and Milk Pansa hadn’t liked a single one of my posts. It sounds stupid to care about a double-tap on a screen, but Milk always likes my posts.
Frustrated, I opened X (Twitter) to clear my head, but my timeline was a mess of speculations. Some fans were joking about it.
"Did Milk and Love have a lover's quarrel? Milk is totally sulking lol."
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I wished it was just a joke. Because in reality, the distance wasn't just digital. It was tangible. Cold.
Weeks bled into months, and the warmth that used to define us completely evaporated. We became nothing more than exemplary coworkers. We smiled on cue, delivered our lines, and gave the fans exactly what they wanted when the red light was on. But the second the director yelled "Cut," the shutter went down.
I began to hate every single schedule that required us to meet. Not because I didn't want to see her, but because the girl standing in front of me was a ghost of the Milk I knew.
"Hey, Milk," I muttered today after our photo shoot, packing my bag with trembling hands. "Are you free? Let’s go get that premium shabu-shabu you like. My treat."
Before, Milk would have jumped at the chance. She used to be the one begging me to try new restaurants, dragging me to the ends of the city just to spend an extra hour together.
Now?
Milk didn't even look me in the eye as she adjusted her jacket. "Ah, sorry, Love. I actually have some errands to run for my mom today. Maybe next time."
Next time. It was always next time.
She offered a polite, practiced smile—the kind of smile she gives to staff members she barely knows—and walked out of the dressing room, leaving me alone in the sudden, deafening silence.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to run after her, grab her by the jacket, and demand to know what went wrong. Why was she locking me out? Why was she treating me like a stranger? But the suffocating weight of miscommunication held me hostage. I didn't know how to ask without sounding desperate, and she didn't know how to stay without feeling like a burden.
We were running in opposite directions, entirely blind to the fact that we were crying out for the exact same thing.
The studio lights were blinding, but the atmosphere inside the room was entirely freezing.
We were sitting side-by-side on a couch for a promotional live stream. To the thousands of fans watching the screen, we were MilkLove—the iconic GL couple, smiling and responding to the live chat. But every time the camera panned away, the silence between us felt like concrete.
Then, a staff member read out a highly requested question from the chat: "What was your favorite memory from the Blush Blossom Fanfest, and what did that performance mean to you both?"
I froze. My breath caught in my throat. I braced myself for Milk’s usual, practiced corporate answer. I expected her to say something safe, like 'It was a great experience to perform for the fans.'
But Milk didn’t do that.
She quieted down, her fingers tightening around her mic. When she turned her head to look at me, my heart stopped. For a fleeting, breathless second, the professional mask she had worn for months completely shattered. The way she looked at me right then—it was the old Milk. It was the raw, heavy, devastatingly soft gaze that used to make my heart race during late-night rehearsals. It was a look full of an unspoken, aching devotion.
"For me," Milk said, her voice dropping to a quiet, soft register that wasn't meant for a commercial live stream, "that performance was everything. I always wanted to see Love in that dress. I wanted to see her in my culture's traditional wedding attire... even if it was just for a stage. Even if it was just a fantasy. It’s a memory I’ll hold onto for a very long time."
The live chat went absolutely wild. The staff members behind the camera gasped.
But the moment the director gave the signal that the live stream had officially ended, the illusion vanished. Milk blinked. And just like that, the profound warmth in her eyes died out, replaced instantly by that cold, detached professional wall.
A wave of absolute terror washed over me. Seeing that love live in her eyes for a split second, only to watch it vanish right after, terrified me. She wasn't just distancing herself anymore. She was actively erasing me.
"Milk! Wait!"
I practically threw my bag into my manager's arms and ran out to the parking lot, my heels clicking loudly against the concrete. I caught up to her just as she unlocked her car.
"Love?" Milk turned, her expression carefully blank, though her hand trembled slightly on the door handle. "Is something wrong?"
"Yes, something is wrong!" I cried, stepping into her space, refusing to let her slide away this time. I grabbed the edge of her car door. "What was that inside? Why did you say those things on the live stream if you're just going to treat me like a stranger the second the cameras turn off? Talk to me, Milk. Please. Say something!"
Milk didn't answer. She just looked at my hand on her door, her jaw tight.
"Are you angry at me? Did I do something?" My voice cracked, tears burning the backs of my eyes. "Just tell me. Don't do this. Don't do this silent treatment."
Milk finally met my eyes, but there was no anger there. There was only a profound, exhausting sadness. "I’m not angry, Love. I promise. I’m just... tired. You should go back inside. The others are waiting for you."
"Milk—"
"I have to go," she whispered, gently but firmly removing my hand from her car door. She got in, started the engine, and drove away, leaving me standing alone in the exhaust fumes, crying from the sheer frustration of a wall I couldn't break down.
(Milk's POV)
By the time evening rolled around, the emotional exhaustion had completely hollowed me out. I didn't want to go to the late-night celebration party. The GMMTV girls had organized a private room at a lounge to celebrate the success of the fanfest, and since it was for us, I couldn't skip it.
The moment I arrived, I went straight for the alcohol.
I’m clumsy and dorky, but usually, I know my limits. Tonight, I didn't care. I wanted to drown out the fan theories. I wanted to drown out the image of Gun’s name on her profile. Most of all, I wanted to drown out the look of utter heartbreak Love had given me in the parking lot earlier. I was doing this to protect her, so why did it feel like I was killing us both?
"Milk, hey, slow down," View said, reaching out to catch my wrist as I poured another glass of heavy liquor. "You're drinking way too fast. Eat something first."
"I'm fine," I mumbled, pulling my arm away and downing the glass in one go. The burning in my throat was a welcome distraction from the burning in my chest.
Across the room, I could feel Love’s eyes tracking my every move. She was sitting with Namtan and Film, but her attention was entirely locked on me. Every time I reached for another drink, her expression grew tighter, darker, and more miserable.
Two hours passed. The room was loud with music and laughter, but I was completely suffocated by the alcohol and my own thoughts. I stood up, swaying slightly, needing air. I slipped out the back door of the private lounge, stumbling onto the quiet, dimly lit balcony.
The night air hit me, making my head spin. I leaned heavily against the railing, burying my face in my hands.
"Are you trying to kill yourself?!"
The balcony door slammed shut. I pulled my hands away to see Love standing there. Her eyes were red, her chest heaving, entirely furious and completely heartbroken.
"Love..." I breathed, the alcohol slurring my words. "Go back inside."
"Stop telling me what to do!" she shouted, stepping right up to me, her hands gripping the lapels of my jacket. She shook me, her tears finally spilling over. "Why are you doing this to me? Why are you drinking like this? Why won't you look at me? Do I mean that little to you? Was everything we built—everything we said to each other—just a lie to you?!"
"It wasn't a lie!" I yelled back, the alcohol tearing down my defenses, making my voice raw. "It was never a lie! It was too real, Love! That's the problem!"
"Then why do I feel like you're throwing me away?!" she sobbed, her forehead pressing against my chest as she held onto my jacket like a lifeline. "You reject my dinners. You won't look at me. You treat me like a coworker. I hate it, Milk. I hate every single second of it."
"Because I don't want to get in your way!" I cried out, the pain ripping through me. I grabbed her wrists, trying to pull her off me, but she wouldn't budge. "I saw the posts, Love! I saw Gun liking your photos again. I know the fans are right. You guys never broke up, did you? You just went lowkey because of your career. Because of me. Because of our GL couple image."
Love froze. She snapped her head up, her eyes wide with utter shock. "What...?"
"I know how I am," I whispered, tears finally streaming down my own face, mixing with the flush of the alcohol. "I’m clumsy, I’m loud, I get too close to you. I fell in love with you, Love. Completely. And it terrified me because I realized I was becoming a burden. If you and Gun are back together, I can't be the person making things complicated for your real life. I can't have him hating me for being close to you. I chose the wedding dress at the concert because I knew... I knew it was the only time I’d ever get to see you like that. So I walked away. To give you your space."
(Love's POV)
I stared at her, completely dumbfounded, as the pieces of the agonizing puzzle finally fell into place. Gun.
All of this—the months of agonizing silence, the cold shoulders, the rejected dinners, the literal heartbreak—was because of a few double-taps on an Instagram post and a bunch of baseline fan theories.
"You idiot," I choked out, a fresh wave of tears hitting me, but this time, a breathless, disbelieving laugh escaped my lips. "Milk Pansa, you absolute dork."
"Love—"
"Gun and I broke up years ago, Milk!" I shouted, hitting her chest lightly with my fist. "We are just friends now. He likes my posts the same way he likes any other old friend's posts! There is no 'lowkey relationship.' There is no secret boyfriend. The only person I have been lowkey harboring feelings for... the only person I have been completely, miserably in love with for the past two years, is standing right in front of me!"
Milk completely stilled. The drunk, glazed look in her eyes instantly sharpened into pure shock. "What?"
"I don't care about the fan theories," I whispered, stepping even closer, closing the final inch of distance between us. I reached up, my hands cupping her warm, flushed cheeks. "I don't want space from you. I never wanted a shield. I wanted you. I was dying inside because I thought you only saw me as a coworker. I thought the wedding dress performance was just you putting on a good show for MuvMuvs."
"I meant every single second of it," Milk breathed, her voice shaking as her hands found their way to my waist, her grip tight, as if she was terrified I would disappear if she let go. "I want to see you in that dress for real, Love. With me."
"Then stop running away," I smiled through my tears, leaning up on my toes. "And next time I ask you out for shabu-shabu... you better say yes."
"I'll say yes every single time," she whispered.
And right there, under the dim lights of the balcony with the muffled sounds of our friends celebrating inside, Milk leaned down and closed the distance. The kiss was desperate, full of the months of unexpressed longing, tears, and relief. The heavy weight of miscommunication dissolved completely, leaving nothing but the undeniable, beautiful truth of us.
When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against mine, a genuine, dorky smile finally returning to her face.
"So... no errands for my mom tomorrow. Shabu-shabu?"
I laughed, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. "It's a date."