I'm Nyx and I draw :] @abovenyx - Tumblr Blog

HURRICANE (pt. one)

*°࿐ cw: toxic family dynamics, emotional manipulation, toxic ex, emotional conflict, fake dating, fluff, slight angst.

when you're toxic family invites your ex for christmas, your roommate seungmin suggests he go with you as your fake boyfriend. what could go wrong?

*°࿐ notes: as part of A Very Merry K-Popmas. check out everyone's work!! i've divided this into two parts just because it couldn't all fit into one because i litr do not know when to stop. you can find part two here. i'll also have it linked at the end for easier access :))

You know it’s bad when the hallway feels longer than usual.

The fluorescent buzz outside your apartment has never bothered you before, but tonight it’s a mosquito whine burrowing under your skin. Your keys slip once against the lock—just enough to make you swear under your breath—and the sound that greets you when the door swings open is familiar, grounding, and absolutely at odds with the way your stomach has been twisting for the past two hours.

Seungmin’s voice first. Muffled through his headset, half a laugh and half an insult.

Then gunfire and explosions from the TV, the glow of the screen strobing over the hallway in flashes of blue and orange.

You toe your shoes off on autopilot, bag sliding off your shoulder with a heavy thud that echoes louder than it should in the entryway. The apartment smells like whatever he ate earlier—something savory and cheesy—and underneath it, the faint citrus of the cleaner he uses on Saturdays when he decides the place is “uninhabitable.”

“Left, left, left—holy shit, do you not have eyes?” he’s saying, voice raised over the noise. “You’re actually trolling. No, don’t res—don’t—”

You hover there for a second, fingers still curled around the strap of your bag, staring at the back of his head.

He’s exactly where you expected him: sunk into the corner of the couch, one knee propped up, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. The TV throws sharp light over his profile, catching on the curve of his mouth as it shapes around another sharp comment into the mic. Hair pushed back messily, headset slightly crooked. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his thighs, fully locked in.

Normal. Everything about this is normal.

It makes the way your throat tightens feel even more ridiculous.

You force yourself to move. Drop your bag by the shoe rack, hang your coat, fumble your scarf off. The metal hooks clack too loud; one of them scrapes the wall. His head twitches minutely in your direction, but his eyes don’t leave the screen.

“Finally,” Seungmin says. “My useless roommate returns.”

There’s a crackle in his mic; someone must be answering him in his ear. He snorts. “No, not you. The other useless one. The one who pays half the rent.”

Normally, you’d lob something back—I payed more than half last month, you freeloader—before raiding the fridge or leaning over the back of the couch to mess up his hair. Tonight, your mouth opens and nothing comes out. Your lips press together again. You swallow.

You walk past him toward the kitchen instead.

“Hey,” he calls out, still not looking away. “How was the—no, oh my God, Jisung, if you peek one more corner like that—”

You pull open the fridge and blink at the rows of containers without really seeing them. The cold air licks at your face, makes your eyes sting. There’s leftover pasta. Half a carton of eggs. Three different kinds of yogurt you bought during a health kick you abandoned after two days.

You close the fridge.

You end up standing there with both palms braced on the counter, eyes fixed on the tile backsplash while your heart beats too loud in your ears.

“—I asked you a question, you know,” Seungmin says. Closer now. The audio chaos is still going, but it sounds a little further away. “Don’t ignore me, that’s rude.”

You don’t realize he’s actually walked into the kitchen until his shadow cuts into your peripheral vision. You flinch a little, breath catching, and that’s what makes him really look at you.

He’s still wearing his headset, mic tipped up. The game continues yelling in his ear; his fingers tap restlessly at the controller he’s brought with him out of habit. He opens his mouth, some quip already lined up, and then his gaze finally settles properly on your face.

All the air goes out of his tone.

“Hey.” His brow furrows. “What’s with the funeral vibe?”

You try for a smile. It lands somewhere around “pained grimace.”

“Nothing. It’s—” You flick your eyes down to the counter, tracing a crack in the laminate. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.” It’s not an accusation, just a flat fact. “You look like someone kicked your puppy. Did your train catch fire again or something?”

A shout comes through his headset, tinny and frantic. “Hold on,” he mutters into the mic, pulling it down. “Yeah, yeah, play without me for a sec, you’ll live.”

He yanks the headset down around his neck entirely, hits something on the controller, and the living room finally, blessedly, goes quiet as the game pauses. The sudden absence of noise makes your chest feel even more exposed.

He sets the controller on the counter next to your hand.

“Talk,” he says simply.

You stare at his fingers. Long, deft, a smear of something orange—Cheeto dust, probably—staining his knuckle. You focus on that instead of the concern tightening his mouth, the way his eyes keep searching your face like he’s trying to line you up with a version of you that exists in his head.

“It’s stupid,” you say.

“Doubt it.” He nudges your elbow with his. “You don’t look like this for stupid stuff. You look like this when your mom calls.”

The mention of her is like a quick jab to the ribs. Your breath hitches.

He notices. He always does. His voice softens a fraction.

“She called?”

“And texted. And… voice noted. And then my aunt chimed in. And my cousin. And…” You trail off, jaw tightening. If you keep listing names, you’re going to cry, and you refuse to start crying in front of the fridge.

“Okay.” He leans his hip against the counter, turning so he’s angled toward you. “What’s the damage this time? You secretly have three more siblings? They’re all moving in? Your mom wants your firstborn child as collateral for loaning you the car that one time?”

If you weren’t so wound up, you’d laugh. As it is, the corner of your mouth twitches once and falls again.

“It’s Christmas,” you say instead, like that explains anything. To him, it kind of does.

He pulls in a quiet breath. “Right. The Annual Festival of Emotional Blackmail.”

“That’s the one.”

He doesn’t rush you. Seungmin never rushes you. He just waits, eyes steady, like he’s got all night.

You pick at a hangnail, then drop your hand before you draw blood.

“They’re doing a big thing at the house this year,” you say. “Everyone’s coming. All the cousins, the aunts, everybody. Mom’s already in Pinterest-hell about the menu. Apparently there’s a color theme.” You huff a humorless laugh. “She sent me a moodboard.”

“That sounds… horrible,” he says. “But also standard. You’re acting like this is new.”

“It is.” Your throat is tight. You swallow hard. “They invited him.”

He doesn’t ask who. He doesn’t have to. His brows lower, eyes narrowing.

“Seriously?” he says, flat. “After everything?”

You nod, jaw clenching.

There’s a pause. The fridge hums. Somewhere in the building, a pipe knocks.

“Of course,” he says, voice dipped in that particular brand of dry disgust he usually reserves for lag and pineapple pizza. “Why not invite the human red flag to celebrate the birth of baby Jesus.”

You snort automatically, the sound half-choked. “Don’t blaspheme in my mother’s presence, she’ll feel it through the walls.”

“Good.” He folds his arms, shoulder bumping yours again, this time on purpose. “Maybe she’ll also feel how insane this is. Did you tell her no?”

“I tried.I said it would be weird. She said I was being dramatic and that I should ‘just be mature’ about it.” Your voice pitches slightly higher when you mimic her, the words tasting sour. “Apparently he was ‘so good for me’ and he ‘always brought out the best in me.’”

Seungmin makes a noise low in his throat, something between a scoff and a growl. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘brings out the best in you’ like—”

“Don’t,” you cut in quickly. “I really… I don’t want to replay it. I just—” You press your thumb and forefinger hard to the bridge of your nose. “It doesn’t matter. They love him. They love the version of him they saw, and they think I’m stupid for letting him go.”

“You’re not stupid,” he says immediately.

“That’s not the part they’re arguing.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. You can see him working through several options and discarding all of them because none of them will fix the fact that your family is who they are.

“So don’t go,” he says finally. “You didn’t go last year. Or the year before that.”

Your hands fall to your sides. You stare at the tile pattern until it blurs.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Well. This year’s different.”

“How?”

You swallow. The word tastes heavier than everything else.

“Grandma.”

His posture changes. The tension in him shifts, goes from irritated on your behalf to something more careful.

“Is she…” He trails off, searching your face.

“Mom says she’s not doing well. They’ve had to take her to the hospital a few times this year. She gets tired easily. She… she asked if I would come.” You blink hard.

The last part cracks something open. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop it from spilling out.

Seungmin watches you, jaw working.

“So you have to go,” he says quietly.

You nod.

“And they’re not uninviting him.”

You shake your head, a bitter little laugh hitching out. “Mom says it would be rude. He’s ‘family to them’ now.” You curl your fingers into the fabric of your shirt. “Isn’t that funny? He’s family. I’m apparently… the one who should get over it.”

His silence is sharp.

When he speaks again, his voice is low, careful. “Do you want to see him?”

You answer without thinking. “No.”

“Do you want to see your grandmother?”

Your throat tightens. “Yeah. Of course I do.”

“Okay.” He pushes off the counter, straightening. The movement makes you look up. His expression has settled into something focused, the same look he gets right before he clutches a match and turns an entire game around. “Then we make it happen.”

“Seungmin, it’s not that simple.” You rake a hand through your hair, frustration bubbling up hot. “They’re going to ask a thousand questions. They’re going to make comments. They’re already acting like I made this huge mistake and he’s God’s gift to our bloodline and—” You cut yourself off, breath coming too fast.

He steps closer. Not enough to crowd you, just enough that when he lowers his chin a little, you can’t avoid his eyes.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

You do. You always do.

His gaze is steady, dark and intent. For a second, the usual sarcasm drops away completely, and you see the bare, unvarnished worry underneath.

“You’re not going to skip seeing your grandmother because your family has the emotional intelligence of a potato,” he says. “I’m not letting that happen.”

“I don’t—” You swallow. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“You go.” He shrugs, like he’s saying something simple. “And I’ll go with you.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’ll go,” he repeats, like you’re the one being slow. “To Christmas. To your parents’ place. I’ll come.”

The idea is so absurd you almost laugh in his face. “You? With my family? Do you have a secret death wish I don’t know about?”

“Apparently,” he says dryly. “Because I’m still offering.”

You stare at him, trying to picture it—Seungmin in your mother’s immaculate living room, enduring your aunt’s interrogation, navigating your cousins’ chaos. Him sitting at that table where everything between you and your ex fractured so neatly apart.

Your stomach swoops.

“You don’t have to do that,” you say quickly. “Seriously, I just— I needed to vent. I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

“You don’t always,” he says, and there’s no heat in it, just quiet truth. “Sometimes you avoid. Sometimes you stay here and pretend Christmas doesn’t exist and eat ramen with me instead.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” you mutter.

“Not this year.”

He holds your gaze, and something slots into place behind his eyes. Decision. Resolve.

“You said the problem is facing him alone,” he says. “And dealing with your family’s… collective delusion.” His nose wrinkles slightly. “So don’t be alone.”

You blink again. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” he says slowly, like he’s spelling it out for you, “I’ll be your boyfriend.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Excuse me?” you manage.

“Fake,” he adds. “Obviously. I’ll go as your boyfriend. They’ll be too busy asking me invasive questions and comparing me to your ex to pull their usual crap, and he…” His jaw tightens. “He’ll see you’re not still orbiting him like he’s the sun.”

The room tilts just a little. You grip the edge of the counter.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s insane,” you say, half-laughing, half-panicking. “Because my family is insane. Because you’d be trapped in a house with them for at least three days. Because my mother will show you baby pictures of me and ask how many grandchildren you want.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You think I’m scared of your mom?”

“You should be,” you say fervently.

He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. “I’m not. And even if I was, I’d still go.” He shrugs one shoulder, casual in a way that doesn’t quite match the intensity in his eyes. “You need backup. I’m here. It’s not that complicated.”

It feels complicated. It feels like your heart is trying to climb up your throat.

“Seungmin,” you say, softer now. “You don’t owe me that.”

His gaze flicks over your face, cataloguing every line of doubt, every crack. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet, almost matter-of-fact.

“I know,” he says. “I want to.”

That pulls the air right out of your lungs.

You look at him fully, really look—the stubborn line of his mouth, the way his shoulders are squared like he’s already bracing himself for your family’s version of war, the warm focus in his eyes that’s always, always been there when it comes to you. Suddenly, the idea isn’t insane. It’s dangerous in a different way.

“Are you sure?” you whisper.

He nods once. “Text your mom back. Tell her you’re bringing your boyfriend home for Christmas.”

He lets the word hang there between you, steady and unflinching, while your pulse stutters and races.

“And,” he adds, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth, “you might want to warn her I eat a lot. Wouldn’t want to be rude and demolish the whole Christmas dinner without notice.”

A startled laugh bursts out of you, sharp and wet. You swipe quickly under your eye; your fingers come away damp. He pretends not to see.

“Okay,” you say, voice shaking around the edges but stronger than before. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll tell her.”

“Good.” He reaches for the controller, then pauses. “And hey?”

“Yeah?”

He bumps your shoulder again, gentler this time. “We’re going to make them regret inviting him,” he says lightly. “They’ll be too busy falling in love with me.”

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels a little less tight, a little more like you can breathe.

“Cocky much?”

“Realistic,” he counters, already slipping the headset back on. “My charm is devastating. Ask literally anyone who isn’t you.”

You shake your head, the beginnings of a real smile pulling at your mouth as you reach for your phone.

Your screen lights up with the group chat, the last message still glowing:

Mom: we invited Daniel too!! it’s been so long since we saw him 🥰

Your thumbs hover.

Then, with Seungmin’s presence warm and solid at your side, the living room filling back up with the noise of resumed gunfire and shouted insults, you type:

Y/N: I’m coming. And I’m bringing my boyfriend.

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

The highway gives way to smaller roads without you really noticing.

One minute it’s gray lanes and salt-streaked barriers, the city shrinking in the rearview; the next you’re rolling past strips of dark trees and gas stations dressed up in half-hearted tinsel. The sky’s the kind of flat December white that promises snow and delivers only slush, and the car is just warm enough that your fingers have stopped hurting.

Your stomach, however, has not.

You twist your hands in your lap. The radio is low, some classic Christmas song murmuring about chestnuts and open fires. The heater hums. The world outside is all muted browns and the occasional flash of a plastic wreath on a front door.

“Stop it,” Seungmin says.

You blink. “Stop what?”

He flicks his eyes off the road just long enough to angle a look at your hands. “You’re going to untangle your cuticles. It’s disturbing.”

You glance down. Red crescent marks bloom at the base of your nails where you’ve been worrying them.

“Oh.” You drag your hands away from each other and press them flat against your thighs, sitting up straighter. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me.” He shifts a little, one hand steady on the wheel, the other reaching down. “Apologize to your fingers.”

He pries one of your hands up from your leg with practiced impatience, like he’s done this a hundred times before, and threads his fingers through yours. His palm is warm, grip firm. It makes your bones feel less like they’re rattling around inside you.

You stare at your joined hands for a second, then turn your gaze resolutely to the windshield.

“This is not going to fix my anxiety,” you mutter.

“Maybe not,” he says, thumb brushing absently along the back of your hand like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “But it’ll stop you from mauling yourself before we even get there.”

The GPS mounted on the dash chimes cheerfully.

In 1.5 miles, turn right onto Maple Lane.

Your chest tightens at the name. You know what comes after Maple Lane. You could drive this route in your sleep.

You wish you were asleep.

“How far?” you ask, even though you heard it.

“Ten minutes,” he says. “Maybe less.”

“Great.” You swallow. “Fantastic.”

He glances over again. His mouth pulls to the side. “You look like you’re going to throw up on my dashboard.”

“Thanks,” you say faintly. “That helps.”

“I’m just saying,” he goes on, turning onto a narrower road flanked by sleeping trees. “If you’re going to hurl, aim for your side. I like my shoes.”

You make a weak chirping noise that’s probably supposed to be a laugh.

Houses start appearing between the trees, spaced further apart than anything in the city, with wide driveways and mailboxes that all look like variations on a theme. Wreaths on some doors. Lights on others. A giant inflatable Santa listing to one side in someone’s yard like it’s given up on life.

Your childhood neighborhood, exactly as you remember it and somehow smaller.

You fall quiet. So does he.

The GPS chirps an instruction you don’t hear. Seungmin makes another turn, and there it is.

Your parents’ house appears around the curve like it’s been waiting for you: the same blue-gray siding, the white trim, the porch with the railing your dad always meant to fix and never did. Every inch of it is dressed for the season—fairy lights crisscrossing the porch, a lit-up reindeer on the lawn, garland wound around the pillars. There’s a glowing star plugged into the upstairs window of what used to be your room.

Your heart lurches.

Seungmin slows to a crawl, then eases the car up to the curb.

“Home sweet psychological war zone,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. Your tongue feels stuck to the roof of your mouth.

He puts the car in park and lets his hands rest on the wheel for a second. The engine ticks softly as it settles.

“Hey,” he says. “Look at me.”

You peel your eyes away from the house and force them sideways.

He’s not smiling now. Up close, in the thin winter light coming through the windshield, he looks unexpectedly grown—jaw set, eyes steady and dark, hair still a little mussed from the beanie he yanked off when you hit the outskirts of town.

“It’s just a house,” he says quietly. “It has no actual power. It’s wood and nails and an aggressive amount of fairy lights. The people inside are loud and wrong a lot of the time, but they can’t reach into your chest and rearrange you without permission. Got it?”

You huff a shaky breath. “You rehearsed that?”

“Came up with it just now. I’m a genius under pressure.” He clicks his seatbelt free. “We get out. You ring the bell. I carry the bags. That’s it. First quest.”

You fumble with your own seatbelt. The buckle sticks once, then pops free. Your fingers are clumsy on the door handle, but you get it open and the cold air slaps you in the face, sharp and clean and full of woodsmoke from some neighbor’s fireplace.

He rounds the car in a few strides, already shrugging into his coat. You step onto the curb, knees a little watery.

“I can grab—” you start, reaching for the trunk.

“Nope.” He holds up a palm like a traffic cop. “Pretty sure the terms of service state I have to show up looking useful.”

“You made those terms up.”

“And yet they’re legally binding.” He pops the trunk before you can argue and starts loading himself up with the practiced efficiency of someone who has hauled your overpacked suitcases up three flights of stairs more than once.

Your overnight duffel goes over his right shoulder. The tote bag of presents over the left. He hooks the grocery bag your mom insisted you bring (homemade cookies, double-wrapped) in his fingers for good measure, then closes the trunk with his elbow.

You hover uselessly at the end of the driveway.

“You look ridiculous,” you say. “Like a Christmas pack mule.”

“And you look like you’re about to bolt.” He jerks his chin toward the porch. “Ring the bell.”

You swallow, nod, and force your legs to move.

The porch boards creak under your boots. The doormat still says WELCOME in curling letters that have faded more with each year. The wreath on the front door is new, though—darker greenery, big red velvet bow. You stare at it for a second, then lift a hand that doesn’t feel entirely attached to you and press the doorbell.

The chiming echoes faintly inside. A second later, you hear muffled footsteps, a voice calling your name, the thump of someone hurrying down the hall.

You drag in a breath. Your heart is a drumline in your ears.

The lock clicks. The handle turns.

The door swings open.

And it’s not your mother standing there.

For a second, your brain rejects what it’s seeing. It’s been long enough that you’ve mentally filed him away as an abstract problem—text on a screen, a name in a group chat, a shadow in old memories.

But there he is, in the flesh, filling your parents’ doorway like it’s his.

Daniel.

He looks almost exactly the same. A little shorter than Seungmin, hair styled carefully, the same easy smile that used to make your stomach flip for very different reasons. He’s wearing a sweater you’ve seen before—navy, soft-looking, something you helped him pick out once in a mall two towns over.

“Hey,” he says, like you just bumped into each other at the grocery store. His eyes skim over your face, warm, familiar. Like nothing ever went wrong.

Your breath stalls.

Your grip tightens on the strap of your bag until your knuckles hurt.

“Wow,” he adds, letting out a low whistle. “Look who finally decided to come home.”

His gaze flicks over your shoulder, scanning the driveway. The practiced ease in his posture falters just a fraction when he realizes you didn’t arrive alone.

Seungmin is halfway up the walk, weighed down with bags but still moving with that unhurried, controlled stride he has. He looks… annoyingly good, actually. The coat fits him, the scarf you bullied him into wearing makes his skin look warmer, and the wind has flushed his cheeks faintly pink.

Daniel’s eyes narrow, just a hair.

You feel like you’re watching all of this from behind glass.

“Hi,” you manage, throat dry. “Um. Hey. I didn’t… know you were going to be the one answering the door.”

He shrugs, leaning one shoulder casually against the frame like he belongs in it. “Your mom’s drowning in kitchen stuff. Your dad’s yelling at your uncle about football. I pulled the short straw.” His mouth quirks. “You look good.”

The compliment hits like a small, dull stone. Once, it would’ve made you glow. Now it just makes something in you bristle.

“Thanks,” you say, because muscle memory is a powerful thing. “You, uh… you’re—here.”

“Yup.” His smile brightens, like you’ve said something charming. “Wouldn’t miss it. Your mom practically begged.” He laughs, light, like it’s all a joke. “Besides, wouldn’t be Christmas without you starting some fight at the table, right?”

There’s an edge beneath the words that only you hear. The implication. The rewriting.

Heat crawls up the back of your neck. You open your mouth—god knows what was about to come out—when Seungmin’s shoulder bumps gently into your arm.

“Hey,” he says, breath puffing white in the cold. “Did you ring an alternate dimension or something? It take this long to say hi?”

His tone is light, but his eyes flick over your face quickly, cataloguing the pale set of your mouth, the tension in your shoulders. They sharpen when they slide to the man in the doorway.

You feel something in you unclench, just a little, at the sight of him there beside you. Solid. Familiar. Yours—for now, at least.

Daniel straightens off the doorframe, easy charm snapping back into place like a mask.

“You must be Seungmin,” he says, sticking his hand out. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

There’s an assumption tucked neatly inside the phrase, like he’s offering Seungmin a script: we are men who know where we stand in this story. I am the Ex. You are the New Guy. You’ve heard of me, of course you have. I matter here.

For a heartbeat, you freeze.

Because of course Seungmin has heard about him. He was there for the whole messy end, the nights you came home hollow-eyed, the way your hands shook when your phone lit up with certain notifications. He’s heard plenty.

But he doesn’t take the script.

Instead, he shifts the bags on his shoulder, freeing one hand carefully, and looks at Daniel’s outstretched hand with polite puzzlement, like he’s not entirely sure if he’s supposed to recognize him from somewhere.

Then he smiles.

It’s his nice smile. The one he uses on baristas and professors and neighbors’ kids. Soft at the edges, just enough teeth, completely void of the contempt you know he’s capable of.

“Hi,” he says. “And you are…?”

The silence that falls is microscopic and enormous at the same time.

Daniel’s hand hangs there midair for a fraction of a second too long.

“Oh,” he says, a flicker of something crossing his face before he catches it. “Uh. Daniel.” He recovers into a laugh that’s just a little too loud. “I’m—sorry, I thought she would’ve mentioned me.”

He glances at you as he says it, like he’s tossing a ball into your court. Like he expects you to jump in and fill the space, to reassure him, to patch his ego.

You feel Seungmin’s gaze slide to you then back to Daniel.

“Daniel,” he repeats thoughtfully, as if tasting the name for the first time. “Nice to meet you.” He shifts the bags again so he can give the other man’s hand a brief, firm shake. “She hasn’t, actually.”

Your pulse ricochets.

Daniel’s smile falters, just a fraction. “Oh,” he says again. “Huh.”

He looks at you, waiting for you to fix it, to jump in with oh my god, I talk about you all the time, of course I do, you’re unforgettable.

You let the beat stretch.

“Yeah,” you say, voice even. “Didn’t really… come up.”

Something flickers in his eyes—confusion, then a quick bruise of offense he tries to smother with a shrug.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat. “Guess I’m not as memorable as I thought.”

“There’s still time to impress,” Seungmin says pleasantly. “Door’s only been open for a minute.”

Daniel huffs a little laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Before the moment can stretch into something uglier, your mother’s voice blasts down the hallway.

“Who is it? Is that her? Is she here?”

You flinch. The sound yanks you straight back to sixteen: late for curfew, shoes already off in your hand to keep from making noise.

“Yeah, Mom, it’s—” you start.

She appears before you can finish.

Your mom barrels around the corner in a flurry of apron strings and holiday earrings, cheeks flushed from whatever chaos she’s been orchestrating in the kitchen. She’s got a dish towel in one hand and the unmistakable look of a woman who has been waiting all day to perform motherhood at maximum volume.

“There she is!” she squeals, wiping her hands hastily on the towel as she closes the distance. “My runaway child finally decides to come home!”

You barely have time to brace before she wraps you up, arms banding tight around your shoulders, the dish towel still faintly damp against your neck. She smells like rosemary and sugar and the sharp floral of the perfume you always thought was too much.

Your own arms come up on instinct. Hug back, don’t twitch, don’t pull away. Old programming kicks in like muscle memory.

“Hi, Mom,” you manage around the squeeze.

She pulls back just enough to cup your face between both palms, scanning you with a critical, affectionate eye like she’s judging wear and tear.

“You’re too thin,” she declares immediately. “Do you not eat in that city? You look pale. Look at those dark circles—oh, we’ll fix that this week. I have this new eye cream, reminds me, I have to show you—”

Her words tumble over each other. Your head starts to buzz.

“And you cut your hair.” She flicks at the ends like they’ve personally offended her. “I liked it long. You never ask my opinion.”

“Hello Ma’am,” Seungmin says from behind you.

For a second, she doesn’t even register him. Her gaze slides past your shoulder—locks on something over your other one—and her face lights up in a different way.

“Danny!” she crows. “You got the door, thank you.” Her hand drops from your cheek as she reaches to squeeze his forearm. “You’re such a help. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

There it is. The pivot. The familiar little sting of being temporarily displaced in your own entrance.

Daniel smiles, sliding easily back into the role. “It’s nothing. You know I like feeling useful.”

“You always were,” she says, voice going soft. “Such a good boy.”

It’s like watching a play you’ve already seen. Daniel in his mark, your mother feeding him his lines.

You stand there with your half-finished hug and try not to fidget.

Then, finally, her gaze boomerangs back to you—and catches on the figure standing just behind your shoulder.

“Oh!” she says, blinking like she’s only just noticed the man loaded down with half the contents of your life. “And this must be…”

She lets it trail, brows lifting in anticipation. She wants you to say it. Wants you to present him like a project you’ve brought home for grading.

You inhale.

“Mom,” you say, stepping slightly to the side so Seungmin is fully in her line of sight. “This is Seungmin. My boyfriend.”

The word feels heavy on your tongue, but once it’s out, it sits there solidly, undeniably real.

Seungmin shifts the bag to his fingertips and offers a lopsided, polite smile.

“It’s really nice to finally meet you,” he says. “Thank you for having me.”

He’s annoyingly good at this. His voice is pitched just right—respectful, warm, not too eager. If you didn’t know him, you’d believe it without question.

Your mother looks him up and down in a quick, assessing sweep.

He’s not what she expected, you can tell. There’s a fractional pause where she recalibrates, where you can see the lists forming in her head: clothes, posture, tone, whether he’s an upgrade or a downgrade on paper.

Then she plasters on a hostess smile.

“Oh my goodness,” she says, feigning breathlessness. “Well, aren’t you handsome.”

You feel Seungmin go very still for a millisecond at your side, then he executes a tiny bow of his head.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says. “I’ll try to live up to the hype.”

Your mom laughs, charmed despite herself. “Listen to him,” she says to Daniel, like you’re not even there. “Isn’t he funny?”

Daniel’s mouth twists. “Seems like it,” he says.

Your mother turns back to you, the appraisal starting all over again, this time with more pointed edges.

“So,” she says, that particular tone creeping in—the one that always means you’re about to be under a microscope. “This is the famous roommate we’ve heard so much about?”

You blink. “You’ve… heard about him?”

“Of course,” she says briskly. “Every time we talk it’s ‘Seungmin this, Seungmin that, my roommate does this, my roommate doesn’t know how to use a dishwasher’—” She clucks her tongue, aiming the last bit at him like a joke. “I just assumed you were staying in that little phase. Didn’t realize it had turned into…” Her eyebrows rise meaningfully. “This.”

Her eyes flick between the two of you, like she’s checking for visual proof. Hand-holding. Rings. Some sign that this isn’t just a test run.

Your stomach flips.

“Well,” you say, before she can fill in the silence, “it has.”

Seungmin’s elbow brushes yours. When you glance up, he meets your eyes for a heartbeat and there’s something like quiet praise there, like you just got an answer right in class.

He shifts the bags as if reminded and offers them shyly.

“Where can I put these?” he asks. “I’d hate to drop your cookies. She was very… insistent about them making it intact.”

Your mother softens automatically at the mention of food. “Oh, did she finally bring my sugar cookies? Good.” She reaches for the grocery bag, and Seungmin smoothly prevents her from taking it, stepping forward instead.

“Let me,” he says. “You look busy. Tell me where and I’ll get out of your way.”

Her eyes linger on him for a second—on the way he moves, the way he speaks. Calculating, recalculating.

“Such manners,” she says, almost grudgingly impressed. “Now I see why she was so keen to skip Christmas to sulk in that apartment with you.”

“Mom,” you mutter.

“What? It’s true.” She waves the dish towel dismissively. “If you’d just come back and live at home like I've been telling you—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence.

She doesn’t have to.

Maybe we wouldn’t have lost Daniel. Maybe you wouldn’t have broken up. Maybe you wouldn’t have ruined a perfectly good thing. Maybe—

“—maybe things would’ve gone differently,” she finishes lightly, with a little shrug, like she hasn’t just lobbed a grenade between all three of you. “But what’s done is done.”

She gives you a bright, brittle smile, the kind she wears at work events.

“You always did have to learn things the hard way,” she adds. “Didn’t you, sweetheart?”

It takes effort not to flinch. You make your face do something approximating neutral instead.

“Guess so,” you say.

Seungmin’s fingers flex minutely on the strap of your bag. You can feel the shift of his weight at your side, like he’s readying himself.

“Well,” your mother says briskly, tilting her head, “at least this one knows how to carry a bag without complaining.”

She aims the line at Daniel, teasing, but it hits sideways. Daniel tips his head, accepting the jab with the kind of easy grin that always convinced people he didn’t mean anything by it.

“Hey, I complained plenty,” he says. “But I still did it.”

Your chest tightens. And reminded me afterward how much I owed you for it, your memory supplies, unhelpfully.

“Well,” she says again, turning the full wattage of her hostess-smile on Seungmin, “however much she packs, it’s very kind of you to put up with her. She can be… a lot, sometimes.”

The way she says it—light, amused, confiding—makes your stomach twist. It sounds like a joke. It lands like a verdict.

Seungmin’s head tilts, just a fraction.

“She’s never too much for me,” he says, offhand and smooth enough that it takes you a second to process it. “I like having her around.”

It’s such a simple sentence. It feels like someone’s reached into your chest and quietly rearranged all the furniture.

Your mother’s eyebrows lift.

“Do you,” she says. It’s not quite skepticism, not quite disbelief. Something in the middle. “Well. That’s… sweet.”

She swipes her towel at an imaginary speck on the doorframe, lips curving.

“Daniel always said you kept him on his toes,” she adds to you, in that faux-conspiratorial tone that pretends to invite you in while placing you on display. “Remember, Danny? You said she was like a hurricane.”

Your throat closes around air.

Daniel laughs on cue, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he says. “She’s… intense.”

He doesn’t say you were exhausting when you didn’t agree with me, or you always made everything a big deal, but you hear it anyway.

“Passionate,” Seungmin corrects, like he’s adjusting a mispronounced word. His tone is still gentle, but there’s a new thread running through it—something firmer. “That’s one of the first things I liked about her.”

Liked. Your heart stutters. It still makes something warm flicker low in your ribs.

Your mom blinks at him, as if she hadn’t expected an opinion from that direction.

“Mm,” she says after a beat, noncommittal, and then snaps back into motion before the moment can settle. “Anyway. We’re in the doorway like fugitives, this is ridiculous. Come in, both of you. Shoes off. You know I just mopped.”

She steps back, ushering with her free hand, herding you like a stray cat.

You toe your boots off on autopilot, bracing a hand on the wall when your foot almost slips. The familiar entryway rushes at you—the same console table with the chipped corner, the same mirror reflecting all of you back, the same family photos lining the wall. Most of them still include Daniel.

You try to take up as little space as possible as you tuck your boots onto the mat. Daniel is already moving with well-practiced ease, toeing his own shoes neatly to the side.

Daniel bends to scoop up one of the bags before Seungmin can move.

“I’ll take that,” he says easily, fingers already closing around the strap of your duffel. “I can show him where everything goes. I know the layout.”

Of course he does. He used to breeze through this house like it was an extension of his own, opening cabinets without asking, changing the thermostat without checking.

You watch his hand on the strap of your bag and feel your jaw tighten.

Seungmin shifts his weight, the easy line of his shoulders hardly changing—but the grip on the duffel doesn’t loosen.

“Thanks,” he says, pleasant as anything, “but I’ve got it.”

Daniel’s smile sticks for a beat. “It’s really no problem.”

“I know.” Seungmin’s voice stays soft, almost apologetic. “Still. She’ll never let me live it down if I show up as the boyfriend who can’t even carry luggage up a flight of stairs.”

Your mom makes a little approving noise. “That’s true,” she says. “She’d complain about that for years.”

You don’t correct her. You’re too busy watching the way Daniel’s fingers reluctantly unhook from the strap, leaving Seungmin’s hand exactly where it was.

“Besides,” Seungmin adds, like it’s an afterthought, “you’ve already been helping in the kitchen, right?”

The implication is mild, almost invisible: you already have your place here; let me have mine.

Daniel’s mouth twitches. The polite thing to do is back off. He does, but you can see the dent in his pride.

“Sure,” he says, stepping back half a pace. “Whatever you want, man.”

Your mom claps her hands once, done with the posturing even if you’re not.

“Alright,” she declares. “Bags to your room, then you can both come help me. We’re behind on the potatoes.” She tosses you a bright glance. “You and your boyfriend will be in your old room, sweetheart. I put fresh sheets on the bed.”

Heat floods your face. “We—what?”

“It’s not complicated,” she says breezily, already turning toward the hallway. “One room, one bed, two young people in love. I’m modern.”

You almost choke.

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She’s halfway to the kitchen, calling, “Danny, honey, can you check the timer?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it!” he calls back, already moving toward her voice.

You stand there, momentarily shell-shocked, Seungmin at your side with both bags still in his hands.

Your old room. With him. In the same bed.

Later problem. Deal with it later.

You suck in a breath. “I should—”

“Go see your grandma,” Seungmin finishes quietly, like he’s been reading your mind. “Before she gets tired.”

Your attention snaps to him. “But the bags—”

He shrugs, adjusting the straps on his shoulder like they weigh nothing.

“I’m not eighty-two,” he says. “She is. Priorities.”

Your throat stings.

“I can come with you,” you offer weakly. “Drop these off first, then—”

He shakes his head, tipping his chin toward the hallway branching right. “Sitting room’s that way, yeah? By the big window?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Second door on the left.”

“Then go.” His eyes hold yours for a beat, steady and warm. “Let her have you to herself before the circus starts. I’ll find the room.”

You hesitate. The idea of leaving him alone in this house with these people for even five minutes makes your stomach do weird, protective flips.

“You sure?” you murmur.

He huffs a soft laugh. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, deadpan.

“Seriously,” he insists. “I’ll be fine.”

He watches your face and softens, just slightly.

“Go,” he repeats, gentler. “I’ll drop this stuff and meet you there. You can introduce me as the guy your grandma’s going to like more than everyone else in this house combined.”

You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t have its usual bite.

“Big talk,” you say.

“Big truth,” he counters.

You squeeze his forearm—quick, impulsive—then let go before you can overthink it.

“Okay,” you say again, more for yourself than for him. “Second door on the left.”

“I’ll find you,” he promises.

As you turn down the hallway toward the sitting room, you glance back once.

Daniel has reappeared briefly in the archway to the kitchen, watching Seungmin with an unreadable expression as your boyfriend—fake boyfriend, fake—shifts both bags onto his shoulders and starts up the stairs without so much as a wobble.

Your mother is saying something to Daniel, her hand light on his arm, her attention already torn away from you.

Seungmin doesn’t look at either of them. He just glances down the hall, catches your eye, and gives you the smallest nod.

You hold onto that as you head toward the one room in this house that’s ever felt like a refuge.

Your grandmother first. Everything else—the ex in your doorway, your mother’s digs, the strange comfort of Seungmin’s hand in yours, the knowledge that your old bed now has his name on it too—you can untangle later.

The hallway to the sitting room is narrower than you remember.

Same runner rug, same framed cross-stitch of some Bible verse your grandmother liked, same faint smell of dust and floral fabric softener. Your hand skims the wall as you walk, fingertips tracing the familiar bumps in the paint.

Second door on the left.

You pause with your fingers on the knob, heart stuttering, then ease it open.

The sitting room is dim, lit only by the weak gray outside and the blue glow of a muted TV playing an old movie. The recliner is angled toward the window, and in it—smaller than your memory, wrapped in a knitted throw—is your grandmother.

Her eyes are closed, mouth slightly open in the soft, unbothered way of real sleep. The blanket you recognize from a dozen winters is tucked under her chin. Her hair is thinner, more silver than white now. Her chest rises and falls in shallow, even breaths.

You’d braced yourself for this, and somehow it still knocks the air out of you.

“Hey, Grandma,” you whisper, even though she can’t hear you.

You step in, letting the door click shut behind you. The room smells like her—powder and peppermint, a faint trace of whatever lotion she’s always used. There’s a walker folded against the wall. A pill organizer on the side table, days neatly labeled.

You move to her side, knees bumping the recliner. Her hand is resting on the armrest, skin papery, veins like blue thread. There’s a hospital bracelet loose around her wrist.

You touch her fingers lightly. They’re warm.

Guilt hits you harder than you want it to. All the excuses from the past couple years—work, school, money, “I’ll make it next time”—sound flimsy in here, in the hush of this little room where everything is slower, quieter.

“I’m here,” you murmur, thumb brushing gently over her knuckles. “I made it.”

She doesn’t stir. Of course she doesn’t. She’s probably exhausted from the drive, from the noise, from your mother fussing. Rationally, you know it’s better for her to rest. Irrationally, a horrible part of you is convinced that if she doesn’t open her eyes right now, you’ve already missed something you can’t get back.

You sink down onto the little footstool at the base of the recliner, knees pulled close. For a while you just sit there, listening to her breathe, watching the rise and fall of her chest under the blanket. The TV flickers nonsense in the corner.

“I’m sorry,” you tell the blanket. “For not coming before. For leaving you alone with them. For making you ask for me.”

Your eyes sting. You blink up at the ceiling until the water blurs the crown molding.

“You’d like him, you know,” you add, voice barely above a breath. “The guy I brought. He’s… decent. He thinks I’m not a total disaster. That’s gotta count for something.”

A quick, ridiculous urge rises—to shake her gently, to wake her up like you’re a kid again, begging for one more story. You swallow it down. Her hand is heavy in yours, her face so peaceful it hurts.

“Okay,” you whisper, more to yourself than to her. “You rest. I’ll come back when you’re awake.”

You press a quick, clumsy kiss to the back of her hand, the way she used to do to yours when you scratched your knees on the pavement. The familiar texture of her skin against your mouth undoes you more than you expect.

By the time you stand, your throat is tight and your nose burns. You scrub at your eyes with the heel of your palm, determined not to look wrecked before you even make it to the hallway.

You crack the door open as quietly as you can and slip back out.

When you turn, he’s already there.

Seungmin is leaned against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets, head tipped back like he’s been studying the ceiling while he waits. At the sound of the door, his gaze drops to your face.

Whatever he was going to say dies before it reaches his mouth.

You drag your sleeve over your cheek, pointless—the skin is already hot and tight. His eyes track the movement, then come back to yours, dark and steady.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

He pushes off the wall, closing the space between you in three easy steps. He doesn’t reach for you immediately, just stops close enough that you have to tilt your head a little to keep looking at him.

“How is she?” he asks quietly.

You manage a thin shrug. “Sleeping.”

Your voice is rough. It makes you wince.

He studies you for another heartbeat, then lifts one hand. The backs of his fingers brush under your eye, catching a tear you missed. The touch is light, careful.

You go very still.

His thumb follows, smoothing the dampness away. He doesn’t make a joke. He doesn’t tell you you’re being dramatic. He just… looks at you, like he’s trying to hold your face steady by will alone.

The knot in your throat tightens. You swallow against it.

“Sorry,” you murmur, out of habit more than anything.

His brow creases. The pad of his thumb presses, barely, at the corner of your mouth, a wordless don’t.

You exhale shakily.

“Can you…” You trail off, fingers twisting in the hem of your sweater. You don’t know what you’re asking for exactly. A distraction. A shield. Something solid to lean on.

He seems to understand anyway.

His hand drops from your face only so he can step that last half-step closer. Then his arms come up, slow enough to give you a chance to move away.

You don’t.

You step into him instead.

Your forehead finds his collarbone, your hands curling into the front of his sweater like they’ve been waiting for an excuse. The fabric is soft under your fingers, warm from his body.

He hesitates for a breath—just one—and then his arms fold around you, firm and sure. One wraps around your shoulders; the other settles low on your back, palm broad and steady between your shoulder blades.

The contact knocks the last bit of composure loose.

You don’t sob, exactly. It’s quieter than that—a series of tight, hitching breaths against his chest, the kind that make your ribs ache. Your fingers scrunch tighter in his sweater, knuckles white.

He doesn’t shush you. He doesn’t tell you it’s okay when it clearly isn’t. He just holds you, his chin resting lightly on top of your head, his breath moving slow and even like he’s offering you a rhythm to sync up to.

His hand moves in small, absent circles at your back. Up, down. Up, down. Every pass reminds you: here. Here. Here.

You don’t know how long you stand there in the dim hallway, tucked between a closed door and his chest, the muffled sounds of the house a world away—distant clatter in the kitchen, a burst of laughter from somewhere else, the low murmur of the TV leaking under the sitting room door.

Eventually, the sharp edge of it dulls. Your breathing evens out. The tight band around your lungs loosens enough that air can come and go without scraping.

You pull back a little, just enough to tilt your head up.

He looks down at you, eyes searching, expression open in a way he keeps for moments when he thinks you’re not really looking.

“Better?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You nod. Your cheeks are still damp, but the urge to unravel has passed.

“Stay close?” you hear yourself say, before your brain can censor it.

Something flickers in his face—surprise, then something softer that he reins in fast.

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. His hands don’t drop from your waist. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You hold his gaze for a second too long, aware all at once of how little space there is between you, how his fingers span the curve of your hip, how your name might sound if he said it like that for a different reason.

The thought makes your pulse jump. You step back another half-inch, enough to breathe but not enough to break whatever this is.

“Your room’s upstairs,” he says, voice clearing a little as he shifts back into motion. “I dropped the bags already. Whenever you want to escape to… that.”

You huff out a faint laugh. “You saw my posters.”

One corner of his mouth tips up. “Hard to miss the life-size boyband shrine,” he murmurs.

You groan, scrubbing at your face with your sleeve. “I’m never bringing you here again.”

“Sure you will.” His fingers brush a strand of hair away from your damp cheek, knuckles barely grazing your skin. “You’re stuck with me, remember?”

The word stuck shouldn’t feel like comfort. It does.

You sniff, take a breath that doesn’t scrape on the way in. The sounds of the house creep back in around you—pots clanging in the kitchen, your aunt’s laugh from down the hall, someone calling for more foil.

“I should clean up,” you say. “Before my mom decides crying is a character flaw.”

He nods toward the bathroom a few steps away. “I’ll wait.”

You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His hand slides down, finds yours, gives it a quick squeeze before letting go. “I’ll still be here.”

You duck into the bathroom, splash cold water over your face, pat your skin dry with a hand towel that smells faintly of your mother’s detergent. When you glance in the mirror, your eyes are a little red, but you look like a person again, not a live wire.

The door squeaks when you open it. He’s exactly where you left him, shoulder to the wall, gaze flicking up the second you appear.

“Better,” he says, like a quiet verdict.

“Define better,” you mutter, but your mouth curves.

He steps in beside you, close enough that your arms brush. For a second you just stand there, side by side in the narrow hall, facing the direction of the noise.

“Ready?” he asks.

“No,” you admit.

His hand settles low at your back, warm through the fabric. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go anyway.”

You nod, draw in one more breath, and let him steer you toward the light and the voices and the rest of the evening, his touch a steady point as the hallway opens back up around you.

Seungmin sits on the edge of your childhood bed and tries not to think about the fact that he’s on your childhood bed.

The mattress dips under his weight, springs giving a tired little groan. The comforter is different from the one in the photos downstairs—updated sometime after the era of cartoon princesses and neon—but the headboard’s the same white-painted wood with a nick in the left post. He remembers you pointing at it once in a picture, explaining some elaborate war you’d waged against a bunk bed ladder when you were eight.

Now he’s in the room instead of looking at it through a phone screen.

The shower runs down the hall, pipes humming through the walls. It’s the only sound up here, aside from the faint clink of dishes still happening downstairs. Everyone else is busy packing leftovers, arguing about containers, pretending they’re not watching Daniel help your mom in the kitchen like some kind of golden retriever in an apron.

Seungmin had offered.

Your mom had told him, very sweetly, that he was a guest.

Then she’d handed Daniel the carving knife.

He blows out a slow breath and digs his thumbs into his knees.

Dinner could’ve been worse. That’s the generous read.

He’d survived:

– The barrage of questions from your aunts. How did you meet? How long have you been together? What are your intentions? He’d smiled, lied smoothly, felt your knee press against his under the table every time you needed grounding.

– Your father’s polite interrogation about careers and “stability,” the emphasis landing just a bit too hard on every word Daniel ticked all the boxes for.

– The not-so-subtle stories about remember when you and Danny did this and you two were so good together.

The words slid around the table like side dishes: help yourself to emotional sabotage.

He’d watched you shrink, just a little, every time your mother said Daniel like it was synonymous with ideal. Watched your fingers tighten around your fork, your smile go thinner, your shoulders creep up by degrees.

So he’d kept talking. Joked when he could, redirected when he had to. Answered questions before you could be cornered by them. Slid his hand over your thigh under the table when your mom said, “I just worry she’ll never find someone who really understands her the way he did.”

Your leg had jumped under his touch. You hadn’t pulled away.

And then there’d been your grandmother.

She’d finally woken up an hour after dinner—blinking blearily, calling your name like she’d just had you here yesterday. You’d flown to her side; he’d hung back in the doorway, suddenly unsure, feeling like he was intruding on something sacred.

Until she’d waved him closer with a surprisingly impatient flap of her hand.

“Come here, boy,” she’d said, peering up at him like she was looking over the top of glasses she wasn’t wearing. “Let me see you.”

He’d taken the seat by her knee, folded himself down small. She’d wrapped her cool fingers around his wrist and patted his hand like she was testing the grain of something.

“You look kind,” she’d pronounced. “And stubborn. She needs someone who won’t blow away when she gets loud.”

You’d groaned. “Grandma.”

“Don’t ‘Grandma’ me,” she’d sniffed. “You’re a storm. You need a tree. Otherwise you’ll knock everything down and then cry about it.”

Her thumb had brushed over the back of his knuckles, softer.

“Take care of my girl,” she’d added, like it was a simple errand. “She doesn’t know how to do it herself yet.”

He’d swallowed, throat suddenly tight in a way that had nothing to do with the dry turkey.

“Yeah,” he’d said. “I can do that.”

He meant it so hard it scared him.

Now, in your room, he stares at the chipped paint on the closet door and tries not to replay that sentence on a loop.

Take care of my girl.

The shower shuts off.

The silence that follows is a different kind. Thicker. Closer.

He can hear you moving around in the little bathroom—cabinet door, the soft thud of your toiletry bag, the whisper of fabric as you change. He pictures you in there, hair damp, cheeks still a little pink from the hot water, folding yourself into clean pajamas while trying not to think about the bed situation.

He’s been trying not to think about the bed situation either.

The mattress isn’t big. Full-size, maybe. Two people could fit if they didn’t mind… sharing oxygen.

He scrubs a hand over his face.

This was easier before today. When you were just his roommate who took his hoodies and fell asleep on his shoulder during movie nights and left your socks all over the couch. When liking you was something he could pretend lived in the same category as liking coffee or his favorite pair of headphones—annoying to be without, but survivable.

Now he’s replaying every little moment from the last twelve hours like an idiot.

The way your hand had found his in the car and stayed there. The way your voice shook when you said boyfriend at the door and then steadied when you felt him behind you. The way you’d breathed into his chest in the hallway outside your grandmother’s room, trying not to come apart.

“Stay close,” you’d said.

Like you didn’t even realize you were asking him for something he’d already decided to give.

He leans back on his hands, stares up at the ceiling where you used to tape glow-in-the-dark stars. A few ghost outlines remain, little circles of less-yellow paint.

Objectively, he knows he was calm today. He did his job. He played the part. He kept his voice level and his eyes steady and his touch casual enough that no one, especially you, could accuse him of going off-script.

Inside, he feels like someone took his already-stupid crush and ran it through whatever machine your mom uses to whip cream: volume doubled, structure completely ruined.

He watched your ex watch you all evening—watched the way Daniel’s eyes narrowed when you laughed at something Seungmin said, watched his jaw clench when your grandmother reached for Seungmin’s hand instead of his. Watched that petty flicker of ownership that shouldn’t exist anymore.

And under all the irritation and protectiveness and mean little sparks of satisfaction when he pretended not to know the guy, there’d been this other thing.

Older. Quieter. Sitting in his chest like a weight.

Not just I like her.

I love her.

He doesn’t know when it tipped over. Maybe the night you fell asleep on the couch with your cheek pressed to his thigh and his foot going numb, but he didn’t move because you’d had a bad day. Maybe the first time he heard you rant about your family at three a.m. with your hair in a lopsided bun and your eyes on fire. Maybe when you told him about the way this house made you feel small and he could hear the little crack underneath the joke.

He just knows that today, listening to you apologize to your sleeping grandmother, feeling your voice break in the doorway, something inside him stopped pretending it was anything else.

He loves you.

It sits there in his chest, stupid and obvious and absolutely useless, because none of this is real. Not to you.

To you, he’s a shield. A safe person to stand behind while your family replays their favorite narratives. He agreed to be your boyfriend for the weekend, and you thanked him like he was taking out the trash.

He’d do it again. He’d do worse for you. That’s the problem.

The bathroom door clicks.

He jerks upright a little too fast, scraping his heel on the hardwood. The knob turns. Light spills into the dim hallway, then into the room as you step in.

Your hair is damp, curling at the ends, a few strands sticking to your cheek. Your pajama bottoms are patterned with tiny stars. It’s stupidly on-brand.

You stop just inside the room, hand on the knob, eyes flicking from the bed to him and back.

For half a second, the two of you just look at each other.

“You survived,” you say at the same time he blurts, “Nice pants.”

You look down at the star print. “Shut up.”

“They’re very mature,” he says. “Very ‘I pay taxes.’”

“You literally wear cartoon dog socks to class.”

“Those dogs are iconic,” he says. “This is slander.”

Your mouth twitches. Good. The tight, brittle look you had when you disappeared down the hall after dinner has loosened a little. Your shoulders have dropped half an inch.

You let go of the doorknob and come in properly, padding across the room. Your hair leaves little damp marks on the shoulders of your shirt. His shirt, he realizes belatedly—one of his old tees, collar a little stretched where you’ve tugged at it a hundred times.

He swallows.

“You okay?” you ask, stopping by the desk to drop your toiletry bag. “After all that?”

“All that,” he echoes. “You mean the three-hour live podcast on Why Daniel Is God’s Gift To Our Bloodline?”

Your mouth pulls sideways. “Yeah. That.”

He snorts, looking away just long enough to let the irritation flicker across his face. “I’ve had worse.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Name one.”

“Middle school talent show.”

“That can’t be the same.”

“I had a bowl cut and sang a Bruno Mars song,” he says. “In public. Trust me, your family has nothing on that.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t stick. Your fingers start worrying the edge of his t-shirt where it hangs over your forearm.

“Still,” you say. “They were… a lot.”

“They’re always a lot, right?” he says. “That’s what you said.”

“Yeah, but it’s different when it’s not just me,” you mutter. “I dragged you into the circus.”

His shoulders lift in a half-shrug. “I bought my own ticket. VIP pass.”

“That’s not helping,” you say, but your voice is softer now.

You turn away, fussing with a stray bottle on the desk, and the apology comes out on a low rush.

“I’m sorry about dinner.”

He blinks. “Why?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “Did you not hear them? My mom asking when we’re getting married, my aunt quizzing you about kids, my dad doing the ‘so how exactly do you plan on supporting a family on that’ thing—”

“That was fun,” he says dryly.

“And the Daniel stuff,” you go on, like you didn’t hear him. “All the ‘remember when you two’ and ‘he’s practically one of us.’ Like you weren’t right there. It was—” Your mouth twists. “It was rude.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m not,” you snap, then immediately wince. “Sorry. I just… hate that you had to sit through all of that. They don’t even know you. They barely tried.”

His chest does something messy and warm.

“I mean,” you add quickly, “Grandma did. Obviously. But the rest of them…”

He watches the way your shoulders curl in as you trail off, like you’re trying to take up less space even in your own room.

“You know I didn’t come here for them, right?” he says.

You look at him properly this time. “Then why did you come?”

He could say the easy thing—for you—but it feels too naked in the air, too close to the stuff he’s been trying not to name all evening.

Instead, he lets his mouth do what it always does and detours.

“For the food,” he says. “Obviously.”

Your face does that offended little scrunch he likes too much.

“Wow,” you say. “Okay. Go date the mashed potatoes, then.”

“They don’t talk back,” he says. “Kind of a selling point.”

You grab the nearest object—a scrunchie—and throw it at him. It bounces off his shoulder and lands on the bed.

“Jerk,” you mutter.

“Accurate,” he says. “Still not mad at your family, though. That would require caring what they think.”

You hesitate, chewing that over.

“Not even a little?” you press.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Your mom’s whole ‘proper job’ thing was annoying.”

You roll your eyes. “Tell me about it.”

“And your dad thinks stability only exists in Excel sheets.”

“You noticed that too, huh.”

“And your cousin kept kicking me under the table.”

You blink. “Wait, seriously?”

“I kicked back,” he says. “Gently. I’m not a monster.”

That pulls a real laugh out of you, the sound loosening something in his chest.

“But,” he adds, quieter, “the rest of it? The Daniel storytime hour? I knew what I was signing up for.”

“Doesn’t mean you deserved it,” you say.

He looks at you for a beat, the way you’re standing there in star pajamas and borrowed cotton, genuinely offended on his behalf like you haven’t spent the entire day being slowly dismantled at that very table.

“It bothered you more than me,” he says.

“Yes,” you answer, like it’s obvious. “Because it was about you.”

His mouth goes a little dry.

“Anyway.” You sigh, cutting yourself off before you spiral. “I just… wanted to say sorry.”

“Apology rejected,” he says.

You frown. “That’s not how that works.”

“It is tonight,” he says. “I’m not taking it. They sucked. You didn’t. End of.”

You stare at him for a second, then shake your head, almost smiling despite yourself.

“Why are you so sure about everything?” you grumble.

“Somebody has to be,” he says. “You’re busy running worst-case scenarios.”

“Rude. Accurate. Whatever.” You scrub a hand over your face. “Okay. Bed.”

Instant static in his brain.

“Right,” he says. “That.”

Your gaze flicks to the mattress, then back to him, then to the floor, where the rug is doing its best but very clearly not designed for human spines.

“I can take the floor,” he hears himself say, too fast. “If you want. It’s fine.”

You stare at him like he’s just suggested sleeping in the driveway.

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he says. “I’ll just grab some—”

“There are no extra blankets,” you cut in. “Mom raided every closet for my aunts and uncles and all their gremlin children. You’ll freeze. The floor is hardwood. Have you met your back?”

“My back is young and resilient,” he lies.

“You literally complained about it last month because you fell asleep on the couch wrong,” you say. “You made me bring you a heating pad, remember?”

“That was different,” he says, because he refuses to be slandered in his hour of sacrifice. “There was a spring in the—why am I defending myself? Point is, I don’t mind.”

“Well, I do,” you say firmly. “You’re not sleeping on the floor like some stray cat I snuck in.”

He opens his mouth. You steamroll right over him.

“And before you say anything,” you add, “we’ve already fallen asleep together, like, a bunch of times. Movie nights? Remember those? Couch naps? You drooled on my shoulder last week.”

“I did not—”

“You absolutely did,” you say. “So we can share a bed without you nobly martyring your spine, okay?”

He should argue. It would be the gentlemanly thing or whatever. It would also give him more time to get used to the idea of you lying within arm’s reach all night.

Instead, he hears himself say, “Fine.”

You nod once, decisive, like you’ve just won a court case.

“Good,” you say. “Glad that’s settled.”

He shifts over automatically, making space against the wall, pretending his heart isn’t beating too fast for someone who’s just… sitting.

You cross to the bed, the mattress dipping again as you climb in on the other side. For a second, everything is rustle and fabric and not looking directly at each other.

You flick the lamp off. The room falls into soft shadow, the ceiling ghosts of your old star stickers barely visible in the dark.

Under the covers, your shoulder brushes his. You both go still.

“Too close?” you ask quietly, not moving.

“No,” he says. His voice comes out lower than usual. “It’s fine.”

“Okay.” You exhale. “Good.”

Silence slips in, not entirely comfortable, not entirely not.

He stares up at the ceiling, counts the little pale circles he can see.

After a beat, you say, softer, “Thanks. For… today. All of it.”

He rolls his head on the pillow to look at you. Your face is turned toward the ceiling, but your eyes are half-lidded, lashes dark against the faint lamplight from the street.

“Don’t make it weird,” he says.

“You’re the one being weird,” you mutter, but there’s the tiniest smile at the corner of your mouth.

He watches it for a second, feels the familiar urge to poke at you just to see it widen.

“Go to sleep,” he says instead. “Big day tomorrow. More character assassination, more passive-aggressive hugs.”

“Can’t wait,” you sigh.

You shift, getting comfortable, and your foot brushes his under the blanket. Neither of you moves it away.

“Night, Seungmin,” you murmur.

He closes his eyes, the weight in his chest settling into something that feels, against all logic, a little like relief.

“Night,” he says. “Hurricane.”

You huff out a quiet breath that might be a laugh, and the house creaks around you, and in the small, borrowed dark of your old room, he lets himself lie there next to you and feel every inch of the distance you’re not putting between you.

Christmas Eve smells like onions and butter and guilt.

You’re at the counter with a knife in your hand, wrist moving on autopilot as you chop carrots into obedient little coins. Your mom is two feet away at the stove, conducting pots and pans like an orchestra—one hand on a wooden spoon, the other flicking burners higher and lower, muttering about timing under her breath. Behind you, at the small table, your grandmother sits like a tiny queen in her chair, apron tied over her cardigan, peeling potatoes with slow, practiced motions.

You should be paying attention to your knife, to the rhythm of your hands, to your mother’s barked instructions.

You are absolutely not.

Because in the doorway that opens into the living room, you can see Seungmin.

He’s on the floor with three of your younger cousins, knees bent, socked feet flat on the carpet. Someone has unearthed the big plastic bin of toys that lives in the hall closet, and it has swallowed him whole. There are blocks and mismatched action figures everywhere, a scattering of crayons, a coloring book open and abandoned.

From here, you can’t hear what he’s saying over the sizzle of onions and your mother’s running commentary, but you can see everything else.

The way he’s folded himself down to kid height like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The way his mouth moves—teasing, exasperated, amused—as your youngest cousin waves a plastic dinosaur in his face. The way he tips his head when he listens, all that attention focused on a five-year-old earnestly explaining the rules of a game that clearly has none.

You catch the echo of his laugh even through the closed kitchen door. It makes the hairs on your arms stand up.

“Stop daydreaming and pass me the salt,” your mother snaps.

You jolt, nicking the carrot instead of a finger by pure luck. “Sorry.”

She doesn’t look at you, hand outstretched, eyes on the pan. “Salt.”

You fumble for the little ceramic cellar and slap it into her palm. She throws a pinch into the pan, stirs, tastes, frowns.

Behind her shoulder, Seungmin does something ridiculous with one of the kids—pretends to fall over when she tags him, flopping backwards in exaggerated slow motion. All three cousins shriek with laughter, collapsing on top of him in a pile. He lets himself be buried, one arm flung out, the other covering his face like he’s truly defeated.

Your heart does a weird, traitorous twist.

You force your eyes back to the cutting board. Slice, slice, slice. Carrot coins. Focus.

You last five seconds.

“Don’t cut them so thick,” your mom says, glancing over. “They’ll never cook through. Honestly.”

“They’re fine,” you mutter, but you start making the slices thinner anyway.

She makes a disapproving noise and turns back to the stove.

You chance another look.

Now Seungmin is holding two action figures, facing them off in midair. One of your cousins—Isla, with the lopsided ponytail and the perpetually sticky hands—is leaning against his arm, watching with rapt attention. The other two are arguing over who gets to be “the dragon,” voices high and frantic.

Seungmin’s mouth shapes something that makes Isla giggle so hard she almost tips over. He catches her without even looking, hand coming up to steady her shoulder while his eyes stay on the other two kids. His hair falls into his eyes; he blows it away with a quick huff, lips pursed.

You realize you’ve stopped cutting again.

“Honestly,” your mom says, exasperated, “you’d think you’ve never seen a man around children before.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. “What?”

“You keep staring,” she says. “Like he’s reinventing the wheel.”

“I’m not—” You clamp your mouth shut. “I’m just making sure they’re not killing him.”

“He seems to be doing fine without your supervision,” she says dryly. “Unlike these carrots.”

“Grandma?” you say desperately, without turning. “Back me up.”

Behind you, your grandmother chuckles, the sound low and scratchy. “Leave the girl alone,” she tells your mother. “It’s Christmas Eve. Let her look at her boyfriend.”

The word lands like a pebble in a pond, ripples spreading out along your spine.

Boyfriend.

You swallow, fingers tightening around the knife handle.

Your mother snorts. “Please. She’ll have plenty of time to stare at him when they go back home.”

The oven timer goes off with a sharp beep. “Ugh. I swear, everything has to happen at once.” She slams the fridge door with her hip. “I need to go check the ham, and your aunt will get lost if I don’t tell her exactly which exit to take. Don’t let anything burn.”

She swipes her phone from the counter and marches out toward the dining room, already angrily texting, trailing the smell of rosemary and irritation behind her.

The kitchen feels quieter the second she’s gone, even with the fan whirring and something bubbling on the back burner.

You exhale. Your shoulders drop.

“Bring those here,” your grandmother says.

You turn. “The carrots?”

“No, the ceiling fan,” she says. “Yes, the carrots. My hands are faster than yours.”

You huff a laugh and gather the cutting board, bringing it and the knife over to the little table. She pushes aside her peeled potatoes to make space. Her fingers are gnarled and spotted, but the way she handles the knife is still sure, efficient. You feel twelve again watching her, perched at this same table, trying not to cut yourself while she made neat, perfect slices.

You sink into the chair opposite her. The edge of the table bites into your thighs. From this angle, you can still see through the doorway—Seungmin now sitting cross-legged as one cousin styles his hair with tiny plastic clips, another drawing on his arm with washable markers. He holds his forearm steady, expression solemn as if this is Very Serious Work.

Your mouth goes dry.

You snap your gaze back to the table so fast your neck twinges.

“Careful,” Grandma says, not looking up. “You’ll sprain something staring like that.”

“I’m not staring,” you say automatically.

She makes a small, knowing noise in her throat. “Mm. And I’m not old.”

You peel a potato with unnecessary focus, curls of skin dropping into the bowl between you. The fan hums overhead. Something pops in the oven. You can feel his presence more than see it now, a little pressure at the edge of your awareness—the way you always know where he is in a room.

“He’s good with them,” Grandma says after a moment, like she’s commenting on the weather. “Those little monsters. They like him.”

“He’s got nieces and nephews,” you mumble. “He’s used to chaos.”

“Still,” she says. “There’s used to it, and there’s good at it.”

You don’t answer. Your throat feels too tight.

Her knife keeps moving, steady little arcs against the cutting board. “He looks at you nice, too,” she adds, almost offhand.

Heat rushes up your neck. “Grandma…”

“What?” Her eyes flick up, sharp and amused. “You think I didn’t see him disappear after you when you went down the hallway? I’ve had that house longer than you’ve been alive. I know where the echoes go.”

You swallow. Guilt prickles under your skin, hot and sour.

“Don’t start,” you say quietly. “Please.”

She studies you for a beat, then lets it go with a soft exhale. “Fine,” she says. “Stand in front of the stove and pretend I can’t see through you. I’ll be generous.”

You let out a shaky breath and focus on the potato in your hand. You don’t tell her that every time she calls him your boyfriend, something in your chest lurches like it’s trying to line up with the word. You don’t tell her it feels like lying and like the closest thing to the truth you’ve ever said in this house.

You don’t tell her anything.

Because her eyes are already rimmed red from the cold and the meds and the effort of being upright. Because she’s wearing the apron you made her in third grade with your handprints on it. Because she asked you to come, and you did, and you can’t bear to put another crack in the fragile, glittering thing she’s trying to build out of these days.

So you sit there and peel and let her think what she wants, and hope to god it’s not obvious how badly you wish you deserved it.

By the time the sun goes down, the house has tipped from busy into chaotic.

The kitchen is a war zone of dirty pans and covered dishes. Your aunts are arguing about whether the yams need more marshmallows. Your mom is shouting into the phone about traffic. Children are everywhere, sugared up and barefoot, darting between adults like they’re running drills.

And then the front door bangs open and a blast of cold air rolls through the hallway.

“Timber!” your dad yells, which is what he says every single year, even though the tree is nowhere near falling.

You’re standing at the doorway between the hall and the living room when they appear: your father at the back end of the tree, Daniel at the front, the two of them wrestling the enormous, slightly crooked fir through the too-narrow door.

Pine needles shake loose with every bump. Your mom appears out of nowhere to clap her hands and tell them not to scratch the floors. Your younger cousins shriek and bounce, trailing in their wake.

“They always do this last minute,” you mutter.

Seungmin materializes at your elbow like he’s been summoned by your eye roll. “What, chaos?” he says. “Feels on brand.”

You jump a little; you hadn’t seen him slip away from the kids. When you look at him, you have to bite back a smile. There are still three plastic butterfly clips in his hair, and a faint purple comet drawn on his arm in washable marker.

“Hold still,” you say, reaching up before you can think about it.

His brows lift. “What are you—”

You pluck one of the clips free, then another, combing your fingers through his hair to smooth it back into place. It’s softer than it looks. Your knuckles graze his temple; his breath catches just enough that you feel it.

The third clip is stuck closer to his ear. You step in, squinting, fingertips brushing his skin as you pry it loose. He goes very still under your hands.

“Your head is a crime scene,” you murmur.

“You’re the one who let them at me,” he says, but his voice has gone a shade lower. His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

He’s close enough that you can smell his soap, the faint citrus of dish detergent from helping in the kitchen earlier. The noise of your family swells around you—the scrape of the tree stand on hardwood, your dad’s running commentary, your aunt yelling at her kids to stop sword-fighting with wrapping paper tubes—but for a second it’s just the two of you in the doorway, your fingers in his hair and that look on his face.

You pull your hand back like you’ve touched a hot pan.

“Fixed,” you say, a little too briskly.

He arches a brow, something unreadable flickering in his eyes, but doesn’t push it.

“Tree incoming!” your dad bellows, as if the massive green object isn’t already in the room.

Everyone converges on the living room like a tide. The tree is wrestled into its stand in the corner by the window, tilted, adjusted, debated over, pronounced Acceptable. Someone plugs in the lights to test them; half the string flickers and dies. Your uncle swears under his breath. The kids cheer anyway.

“Alright,” your mom says once the worst of the chaos settles. She claps her hands for attention, the way she always does. “You all know the drill.”

The kids immediately start whining.

“We want to decorate it now,” Isla says, tugging at the hem of your sweater. “Pleaseee.”

“Yeah!” another cousin chimes in. “We can help!”

Your mother puts a hand to her chest in mock horror. “And ruin the magic?” she says. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s tradition,” your father adds, as if anyone has forgotten. “Tree goes up Christmas Eve, gets decorated after you monsters go to sleep. That way when you wake up…” He spreads his hands, miming sparkles. “Boom. Christmas miracle.”

The kids groan but they’ve done this enough years to know they’re not winning. There’s some half-hearted arguing, some bargaining for one ornament, just one, please. Your mom holds firm. Eventually the herd is wrangled into pajamas and teeth-brushing and goodnights, with promises of Santa and cookies and “if you get out of bed, he skips this house” threats.

You end up on the couch next to Seungmin while the bedtime exodus happens, your knee pressed against his. He sits close enough that you can feel the warmth of his arm through your sweater, his attention split between the circus and the unlit tree.

When the last child has been kissed and shooed and threatened into staying in bed, the adults reconvene in the living room with the air of people about to draw straws for jury duty.

“Okay,” your mom says, rubbing her hands together. “Who’s on tree duty this year?”

Silence.

Your uncle suddenly finds his phone very interesting. One aunt starts stacking plates that don’t need stacking. Your father adjusts the TV volume despite no one watching it. Daniel leans back in the armchair with the posture of a man waiting for a role he knows is coming.

Your mom sighs elaborately. “You’d think I was asking for a kidney.” She turns to the sideboard and picks up a ceramic bowl. “Fine. We’re doing it the old-fashioned way.”

She holds up a handful of folded slips of paper. “Names in. Whoever I draw has the honor of making Christmas morning magical while the rest of us get our beauty sleep.”

“You mean you’re too tired,” your father says under his breath.

“Beauty sleep,” she repeats pointedly.

The bowl goes around. You write your name on the slip, fingers slightly clammy. Seungmin’s thigh is warm against yours as he reaches after you. His shoulder brushes your arm.

“You look nervous,” he murmurs.

“I always lose this game,” you mutter back. “Every year since I was nineteen.”

“Maybe this year you’ll get a break.”

You snort. “You clearly haven’t met my luck.”

He gives you a sidelong look, something wry and a little soft at the edges. “I met you,” he says. “Can’t be that bad.”

Before you can figure out how to process that, your mom returns to center stage, bowl in hand.

“Drumroll?” she says.

No one obliges. She rolls her eyes and digs in anyway.

“First elf,” she announces, unfolding the slip with theatrical flair. “Daniel!”

Of course.

There’s a ripple of polite laughter, a couple of whoops. Your dad claps him on the shoulder.

Daniel grins, unbothered. “Hey, I don’t mind,” he says. “You know I’ve got this down to a science.”

“That’s our boy,” your mom says warmly. “Always reliable.”

The words land like a stone in your stomach.

Seungmin goes very still beside you.

“Second elf,” your mom says, fishing again.

She unfolds the second slip.

Your name looks too big in her hand.

“Oh!” she says, eyes lighting up. “Look at that. Just like old times.”

Your aunts make a collective, delighted noise. Your dad chuckles. Someone actually claps.

Your mouth goes dry. “Wait—”

“Come on, sweetheart,” your mom says. “You and Danny always did the best job. Remember that year you stayed up until three making the little paper snowflakes? The tree was beautiful.”

“Me and Seungmin can do it,” you blurt, before you can stop yourself.

All eyes shift to him.

He straightens, jaw tight, but his voice is even. “I don’t mind,” he says. “If she’s tired.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” your mother says, waving a dismissive hand. “You’ve had a long day already. You’re a guest. Let the people who know where everything is handle it.”

The people. Like you and Daniel are a matching set.

“It’s really not a big—” you start.

“It’ll be fun,” Daniel cuts in smoothly. “Right?” He flashes you that old, familiar grin, the one that used to mean fireworks and now makes your skin crawl. “For old times’ sake.”

You open your mouth to say no. To say anything but yes.

Your mother sees it coming.

“Unless your… boyfriend is uncomfortable,” she says, the word boyfriend suddenly sounding like a test instead of a label. Her gaze slides to Seungmin. “You’re not the jealous type, are you, Seungmin?”

The room tilts.

Everyone looks at him. You can feel the way his body has coiled beside you, the tension humming off him like a wire.

He could laugh it off. He could say it’s fine.

He doesn’t.

“I just think it’s weird,” he says, voice calm in a way that makes it worse. “Pairing her up with her ex to play house in the living room while I sit upstairs pretending not to notice.”

Your father shifts. Your aunts exchange looks. The air in the room sharpens.

“Seungmin,” you say under your breath.

Your mom’s smile goes thin. “No one’s playing house,” she says. “We’re talking about ornaments.”

“Ornaments,” he repeats. His eyes are on your mother, but you can see the muscle jumping in his jaw. “Right.”

Daniel leans back in his chair like this is a show he ordered. “It’s just tradition, man,” he says lightly. “We’ve done it every year. We know where everything is. Relax.”

The word lands like a slap.

Seungmin’s eyes flick to him, cool and flat. “I’m very relaxed,” he says. “This is my relaxed face.”

You can hear the edge beneath it. So can everyone else.

“Don’t be dramatic,” your mom says, the brittle brightness creeping into her voice. “She’s a grown woman. She can be in a room with someone she used to date without it being a scandal. Right, sweetheart?”

Every head swivels to you.

This is the part where you are supposed to laugh. To reassure everyone that nothing is wrong, that everyone’s overreacting, that your feelings are manageable and containable and won’t inconvenience anyone.

You feel Seungmin’s stare on the side of your face. You don’t look at him.

“It’s fine,” you say, because you can hear the alternative echoing in your mother’s future phone calls for the next decade. “We’ll just decorate and go to bed.”

Your mom exhales, triumphant. “See?” she says. “Everyone’s adults here.”

Seungmin makes a quiet sound that could be a laugh or a scoff.

“Yeah,” Daniel says, smiling lazily. “We’re all adults.”

You hate the way he says it. You hate that your family eats it up.

Something in Seungmin snaps taut. You can feel it.

Before he can open his mouth again, you reach over and curl your hand around his wrist. Just that—skin on skin, your fingers firm, a silent please.

He looks down at your hand, then up at your face.

For a second, it feels like the whole house is holding its breath. Your mom, your dad, your aunts—waiting to see if the boy you brought home is going to make a scene.

Seungmin swallows. His jaw works once. Then he clicks his tongue softly and slumps back against the couch, the picture of someone letting it go.

“Whatever you want,” he says.

It sounds nothing like whatever you want.

Your mom beams, already moving on, launching into a timeline for when the tree should be done by and how no one is allowed to use tinsel because it looks “cheap.”

Your hand stays on his wrist until you realize he’s not going to do anything else. When you let go, your palm feels cold.

Later, in your room, the house has gone muffled and hollow.

The kids are asleep. The aunts and uncles have either gone home or retreated to guest rooms. There’s a low murmur of the TV downstairs where your parents are doing their annual “we’re not tired” movie that they will not finish.

You’re in front of the tiny dresser mirror, pulling your hair into a loose ponytail. There’s a pile of ornament boxes by the door, waiting for you and Daniel like a chore chart you didn’t sign up for.

Behind you, Seungmin sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. He hasn’t said much since the living room. The silence hangs between you like a too-heavy coat.

“You don’t have to stay up,” you say, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “I know it’s late. You can crash. I’ll be quiet when I come back.”

He snorts. “Yeah. Because I’m going to sleep great knowing you’re downstairs on nostalgia duty with golden boy.”

You turn to face him. “It’s just a tree.”

“It’s not just a tree,” he says.

You rub your palms on your thighs. “What is it, then?”

His mouth twists. “An excuse,” he says. “For them to pretend nothing ever changed.”

“That’s not what this is,” you say, too fast.

He looks at you for a beat, eyes tired. “If you say so.”

Guilt spikes. You take a step closer, fingers catching lightly on his sleeve.

“I just want to get through tonight,” you say. “No fights. No scenes. Please.”

He huffs a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. Wouldn’t want to ruin the magic.”

“Seungmin.”

He finally meets your eyes. There’s a whole storm sitting there, pressed flat.

“Be careful,” he says. “That’s all.”

You nod, throat tight. “Okay.”

Your mom’s voice carries faintly up the stairs, calling your name.

You let go of his sleeve.

“I’ll be back soon,” you murmur.

“Sure,” he says, looking past you now. “I’ll be here.”

You hover in the doorway for half a second, wanting to fix something you don’t have words for, then force yourself down the hall, leaving the room—and him—behind.

PART TWO

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