Imagines @banghyunchanji - Tumblr Blog

❀ The Husband I Didn’t Expect ∘ PART 2 ❀ Arranged forced marriage

Pairings: Han Jisung × Reader (Female)

Total parts: 2

Part 1

Released: 2/2 (I AM SO SORRY FOR DELAYING THIS SO MUCH TT)

w/c: 9.7k words

Warnings: Slow-burn romance ∘ brief alcohol consumption ∘ emotional tension ∘ mild teasing ∘ public attention/fan obsession∘ angst angst ∘ NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

Genre: Romance ∘ Slice of Life ∘ Celebrity AU ∘ Light Drama ∘ ANGST

Trope: Fake PR Couple → Real Love ∘ Slow Burn ∘ Domestic Bliss ∘ Protective × Caring ∘ Soft Jealousy

Author’s Note: ❀ So sorry for making y'all wait so much TT the projects i have are never fucking ending. ❀

2k+ followers author event!

Morning light slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, brushing the hardwood floors in gentle strokes of gold. The room, half yours and half his, still carried the invisible walls that had grown between you over the past weeks--walls built of careful avoidance, unspoken grievances, and the tenuous truce that existed in shared space.

The city beyond the glass was waking in quiet hums, cars gliding along the streets, sunlight pooling in alleyways, and the penthouse held that rare, fragile calm that came only before a storm…or, perhaps, before change.

Han Jisung your husband was sprawled across the couch, one leg bent over the armrest, his phone balanced precariously in his hand. He yawned, a long, slow stretch, the kind which revealed the ease of a man alone in his apartment, waiting patiently for his food delivery.

There was a kind of casualness to him that always made you wonder if he existed in a different dimension than the one you shared with him the one where civility and icy silences had a upper power.

The knock on the wooden door came before the doorbell could ring again. Short, sudden, and carrying a cheer that was almost annoying in contrast to the quiet of the morning.

“Delivery for Mrs. Han Y/N!” the dilivery guy announced, displaying three massive parcels as if he had just discoverd a treasure.

Jisung’s brows frrowned, the corners of his mouth twitching in irritation and curiosity as he signed the slip. “Mrs. Han?” he muttered, glancing at the labels as if hoping a miracle would correct the error.

He dragged the boxes inside and then signing the delivery… muttering under his breath, the kind of low commentary that made it impossible to tell if he was annoyed or just curious. “What the hell did she order? A bookshelf….? considering she writes… a bookshelf is understandable”

Curiosity eventually won over his head, and he grabbed a kitchen knife, slicing through the tape. The first box revealed itself to be a collection of Stray Kids albums…..every version, meticulously arranged and proper. His eyebrows shot up, a quiet whistle of disbelief escaping him….. no way.

The second box fell open with a soft thud, revealing all SKZOO plushies, each one carefully boxed and so damn soft. His lips curved into the beginnings of a grin.

The final box held all the reamaining things the lightsticks… posters…and…his eyes paused here--a hoodie embroidered with his name in sharp lettering. He couldn’t help the slow, mischievous curve of his lips, the way a spark of amusement flickered in his eyes.

“Oh, muffin… you’re so doomed,” he murmured, shaking his head fondly, a soft chuckle escaping him before he could stop it…. gosh this is cute

He began arranging the items neatly across the couch, almost ceremoniously, like an evidence display he was eager to confront. Each album, each plushie, each hoodie became a silent accusation, and yet the warmth in his chest grew with each careful placement. “This’ll be fun,” he hummed, already plotting the teasing he would unleash.

Hours later, the front door clicked open, and you stepped in, radiant despite the exhaustion of a full-day shoot. Your heels clicked softly against the polished floor, your bag slipping from your shoulder as you exhaled, a long, quiet sigh of relief. The penthouse smelled faintly of the leftover coffee from breakfast and the subtle perfume of lavender lingering in the sheets.

“What’s all this?” you blinked, eyes widening at the sight of the couch transformed into an altar of fandom. Albums, plushies, lightsticks….each one meticulously laid out.

Jisung leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, smirk sharp and a known one. “Didn’t know you were such a huge fan, Mrs. Han.”

You froze, cheeks heating as the color rose high up. “Y-you opened my package?”

“It said Han Jisung on the label. Legally, I have the right,” he smiled, eyes glinting with amusement.

“That’s illegal!” you protested, clutching your tote bag like a shield.

“Illegal? No. Adorable? Absolutely,” he replied, the grin widening, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“I was… just…..supporting your group,” you mumbled, voice soft, refusing to meet his gaze.

“By buying seven plushies of me?”

“They were on sale!” you shot back, flustered, redness rushing to your ears.

“We don’t do sales mostly, and not right now” he countered smoothly. “So what’s your favorite album, then?”

“The one where you talk less,” you said quickly, arms crossed in defiance.

“Ouch,” he mumbled, clutching his chest with mock horror. “Such CRUEL words from my own wife!”

Before you could recover your composure, your phone buzzed, ruining the delicate tension.

Caller ID: PR Team.

You groaned, already knowing that this wasn’t going to be good.

“Hello? …Yes, I’m home… oh, you want me to put it on speaker?”

Jisung raised a brow, curiosity piqued despite himself.

Reluctantly, you hit the speaker icon on the screen.

“Mr. and Mrs. Han, congratulations! The public loves seeing you together,” the voice chirped, full of fake ass enthusiasm.

Both of you responded at the same time, “No, they don’t.”

The PR rep laughed awkwardly. “Anyway, we’ve arranged your honeymoon!”

Your jaw dropped. “Our what?”

“It’s been seven months since the wedding -- we need to refresh public interest,” the voice continued, oblivious to your and his horror.

“No,” you said firmly.

“Absolutely not,” Jisung added, voice low, deadly serious.

“It’s already booked …. a weeklong stay during your tour in Japan!”

The words hung in the air like heavy backdrop curtains, suffocating in their own way. “You’re kidding me,” you whispered, disbelief sharpening as the reality hit you hard.

“You’ll share content for fans….romantic dinners, sightseeing-- ”

Click.

Jisung had already hung up mid-sentence, muttering something about incompetence and bureaucracy under his breath. You stared at him, stunned. “…This is a nightmare,” you muttered.

“At least you’ll get free food,” he said dryly, voice calm in the eye of your panic.

The next scene came too quickly as if in a blink of an eye, both of you standing in front of a luxury hotel suite in Japan… luggage scattered like evidence of your collective misfortune. Silence stretched between you, and him..

“How did we end up agreeing?” you sighed, hands on your hips, eyes sweeping over the overly luxurious entrance.

“Public image,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “PR rules our lives.”

“Great. Seven days of fake love,” you muttered, voice dipped and covered with sarcasm.

“Wouldn’t be the first fake thing about us,” he added under his breath, smirking.

The bellboy (bellboy? they helpers who show you around- help-?) welcomed you in, opening the door to a room straight out of a sappy ass romance movie, rose petals scattered across the bed, champagne in chilled flutes, two towels folded into swan shapes their beaks pressed up together. You groaned, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at the nearest bouquet, then another at the stupid cute swans. “I’m destroying this romantic nightmare,” you declared with a sigh.

He stood aside, arms crossed, curosity written across his pretty face. “Be my guest,” he said casually.

“Feel better?” he asked, after you had bursted the last cute heart balloon.

“Slightly,” you admitted, shoulders shruging.

“Good. Because I’m locking myself in the bathroom until you calm down,” he said, retreating with a grin that was equal parts mischief and relief.

Later that night, you emerged in soft pajamas, the fabric brushing your skin like a promise of comfort. He was laid across the couch, blanket half over him, phone in hand. “That couch looks like hell to sleep on jisung,” you observed bluntly.

“I’ve survived worse on tour,” he said, voice muffled but unimpressed.

Two hours later, the couch’s creaks had reached to a level when both couldn't sleep, the tension unbearable. “Stop moving, you’re making noise!” you called, frustration laced with concern.

“Stop breathing, maybe I’ll stop moving!” he countered, voice teasing.

“Fine! Sleep in the damn bed!” you snapped.

Silence.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

He hesitated, then muttered, “Fine.”

You ended up lying on opposite sides, an invisible line of territory drawn between you. You faced the wall and he faced the ceiling. Tension hovered thick and almost tangible, yet there was a comfort in proximity, the shared air of a room that didn’t demand words.

Minutes stretched, and eventually, curiosity broke through. He turned slightly, eyes softening as he watched you scroll through your phone, completely unaware. Your profile, lightned by the dim light of the bedside lamp, made him pause. Something warm stirred in his chest.

“Hm?” you asked, sensing his gaze.

“Nothing,” he replied quickly.

“Then why’re you staring?”

“You got something on your face.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe,” he admitted.

You fidgeted, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “What’s your skincare routine?”

He laughed—a deep, genuine sound that made the room feel less heavy. “That’s what you panicked for?”

“You just… your skin looks… so good.”

“Moisturizer. Sleep. Stress. Crying helps too,” he said softly, almost shyly.

You scoffed, a small, unguarded sound.

He added gently, “You look fine the way you are. Your skin’s nice.”

Your heart skipped, and you whispered, body all warm, “Thanks.”

The next morning, chaos awaited. Fans crowded outside, screaming and waving lightsticks, the air vibrating with energy. You sat backstage, mask on, quietly sipping water, ignoring the hate-filled comments bursting down your phone screen. You were here for him, not them.

As the boys took the stage, your chest swelled with pride. Music vibrated through you, and you understood, truly, the fire in his eyes as he rapped with precision and passion. He glanced backstage once, catching your smile, and for the first time, it felt real.

Later, outside the venue, he found you. “You look like you could use food.”

“You look like you could use sleep,” you countered, soft and teasing.

“Hm. Let’s get dinner?”

You agreed, walking together to a quiet ramen shop, hoodies drawn over your heads, masks in place. The small space, fragrant with broth and comfort, felt intimate, a bubble of quiet amidst the chaos.

“So…” he said, mid-bite, “I don’t… hate you.”

You raised a brow. “Wow. High praises from someone like you.”

“No, seriously. I mean, I did. But now? Not sooooo much.”

“Same. Hate’s exhausting,” you admitted softly.

“We could try being friends you know jisung?”

“We could.”

Eyes met, quiet seconds stretching into something neither of you had expected.

He reached out without a thought, wiping the cream of your predinner dessert from your lip, then froze, surprised at his own boldness.

“Not a total asshole, at least,” you said, smirking.

“You hurt me, muffin,” he countered, voice low.

“Muffin?”

“You looked like one this morning,” he admitted.

“You’re ridiculous,” you breathed, hiding your smile behind your drink.

Back at the hotel, the elevator ride was silent but comfortable.

Glances were exchanged, unspoken laughter dancing behind eyes that refused to fully meet.

“Good night, muffin,” he said softly before leaving.

“Good night, Jisung,” you replied, smiling despite yourself.

He paused. “You can call me Hannie…or Ji.”

“I like Jisung better,” you replied.

He smirked. “Fair.”

You headed to your bed, heart racing, aware that something subtle, tender, and unspoken had shifted between you. The awkwardness was gone, replaced by curiosity, warmth, and the faintest hint of longing.

Lying awake, both of you silently acknowledged it.

Neither would admit it yet. But both knew—the walls were starting to crumble.

The time jump comes softly, like turning a page in a story you didn’t realize you’d lived through.

One moment it had been rehearsals and sleepless flights with the fact that he hair licked cream off his thumb, the next…..the end of the tour. The final city, the last night…. the last night of your so called honeymoon.

The world outside the hotel is restless; even past midnight, fans linger near the barricades with banners and flashlights, chanting the boys’ names in rhythmic devotion. From the window of your room, their voices sound distant but warm, a steady hum of gratitude that somehow settles the ache that’s been gnawing at your chest for weeks.

You lean your forehead against the glass, breathing in the silence of the suite, watching the neon lights blink over Tokyo’s skyline. The exhaustion feels different tonight ….softer. The last few days have been a blur of shows, interviews, airport runs, all strung together by caffeine and adrenaline. And yet, tonight, for the first time, there’s room to breathe.

Your phone vibrates on the nightstand. A new message.

CHAN 🐺: “No PR, no cameras, just all of us. 1206 — bring your appetite.”

You stare at it for a moment, hesitating. You’ve been included in so many of their routines lately — their rehearsals, press meets, flights -- but somehow, “off-duty” time still feels too personal, like a circle you haven’t quite earned your place in yet.

You type a reply, delete it, type again.

Before you can decide, your phone lights up again.

JEONGIN: “You’re coming. No excuses, no work. You’re part of us now.” FELIX: “If you don’t come, we’ll send Chan hyung to drag you here himself.”

You laugh quietly under your breath, shaking your head. They never let you stay on the sidelines.

The cardigan you pull over your tank top smells faintly of hotel detergent, soft and familiar. You grab the small paper bag you’ve kept on the desk for days …. tiny thank-you gifts for each of them, matching keychains, fashion pins, even the hand-written notes you’d stayed up late finishing. It isn’t much, but it feels right.

By the time you knock on the suite door, the sound of laughter greets you before the door even opens.

Felix answers first, grinning, curls messy, voice already too loud. “You made it!”

“Barely,” you say, smiling as you step inside.

The warmth hits you immediately. Music hums low in the background, soft fairy lights drape over the curtains, and the coffee table is crowded with snacks and half-open drink cans. Jeongin’s sprawled across the couch, Minho’s mock-scolding Hyunjin for stealing chips, and Chan…. ever the quiet center of chaos … is perched near the floor, setting up a speaker with the patience of a saint.

When he looks up, he smiles, small, warm, genuine. “Knew you’d come,” he says.

You hand Felix the bag, and soon it’s chaos again.

Felix squeals when he pulls out socks embroidered with his name. “You made these?!”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” you tease, but the smile doesn’t leave your lips.

Hyunjin raises a brow at the set of keychains. “Did you just propose to all of us?”

Laughter ripples through the room. You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “Please, like any of you could handle me.”

The response is louder laughter and a few mock gasps.

And then there’s Jisung.

He’s sitting slightly apart from the rest, by the window, hoodie sleeves rolled up, a bottle in hand. He’s laughing along, you think….. but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His smile flickers like bad signal.

You catch his gaze briefly. He looks away first.

Something about that tug…. faint and sharp…makes your chest ache.

Hours drift easily. Conversations overlap, laughter spills like wine, and you find yourself squeezed between Chan and Jeongin, half-listening to a chaotic story about their debut days. Chan teases you for not knowing one of their oldest songs.

“You call yourself part of the team now?” he grins, voice warm, teasing.

“I didn’t say that!”

“You basically did.”

Jeongin cackles, clapping his hands. “Ooh, she’s fighting back!”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “You started it.”

Chan leans closer, voice dipping low. “And you’re finishing it?”

There’s a flicker of tension…. not romantic of course you considered em your husbands friends and now your friends too, that makes you laugh despite yourself. His laughter follows, quiet and unforced.

It’s easy. Too damn easy.

Jisung’s laughter has gone quiet again.

When you glance toward the window, you find him already watching. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense. There’s something unreadable in his stare…. not anger, not quite jealousy, but the space between the two.

You ignore it. Try to.

But when Chan offers you a bite of his snack and you lean over to take it, you swear you feel the air shift.

Across the room, Jisung sets his drink down a little too hard.

The others barely notice, too busy arguing about who gets the last bag of chips. But you see it… the flicker of heat in his eyes, the stiffness in his posture.

You look away quickly, pretending to check your phone.

Minutes pass. The noise fades into background chatter….. Felix trying to out-sing Hyunjin, Minho lecturing them both. But your focus keeps drifting back to him.

When he laughs now, it’s louder than usual. Sloppy. Like a noise meant to fill silence.

Chan says something funny, and you laugh…. genuinely, this time. And that’s when Jisung stands up.

It’s subtle… just him crossing the room to grab another drink….. but you feel the shift immediately. The air feels too heavy, heavy with unspoken things.

He doesn’t look at you, but he doesn’t have to. His energy pulls at you anyway.

Chan asks if you want another drink, and before you can answer, Jisung’s voice cuts through.

“I got it.”

Everyone pauses.

You blink, surprised. “It’s okay, I can-”

“I said I got it.”

His voice isn’t sharp, but it’s too quick, too tense. Chan glances between you two, eyes narrowing slightly, but he doesn’t push. He just gives a small nod and sits back.

The silence that follows feels longer than it should.

You take the glass he offers quietly, fingers brushing his just for a second. His hand is warm …too warm. His expression unreadable.

The night continues, but something’s shifted.

Every smile feels rehearsed now. Every laugh from him feels like it’s hiding something.

And when the others start leaving, one by one, it feels like an unspoken relief.

Jeongin’s the first to go, slurring out a half-coherent goodnight. Felix hugs you before stumbling after him. Minho throws you a knowing look, but doesn’t say anything.

Finally, it’s just you, Chan, and Jisung.

Chan stands, stretching lazily. “Alright, I’ll crash too. Don’t let him brood too long,” he jokes lightly, nodding toward Jisung. “He gets weird.”

You manage a soft laugh. “Noted.”

Chan smiles at you, the kind that feels reassuring. “You’re fun to have around, you know?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Thanks?”

“Text me if he bothers you too much.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Should I expect trouble?”

Chan just chuckles, stepping toward the door. “Always.”

The door clicks shut.

Silence again.

You turn, finding Jisung sitting all drunk on the couch, eyes fixed on nothing. The tension between you feels thick enough to slice.

“You okay?” you ask carefully.

He laughs once….. low, humorless. “You and Chan, huh?”

Your brows furrow in confussion. “What about me and Chan?”

He looks up, eyes darker now. “You laughed a lot tonight.”

You blink. “That’s… a problem?”

“You don’t laugh like that with me.”

The words hit harder than they should. You stare at him, caught between disbelief and confusion.

“You’re serious right now?”

He shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “Forget it.”

“No, Jisung. You started this… so, say what you mean.”

He looks at you finally….and the jealousy in his eyes isn’t sharp, it’s raw. “Do you like him?”

“No,” you say, quietly but firmly. “I don’t.”

“Then who?” His voice cracks.

You hesitate. The words come out before you can stop them. “Maybe you.”

His breath catches. He blinks….once, twice…. as if trying to process what he just heard. “You… might like me?”

You nod, a small, nervous smile playing on your lips. “I thought it was obvious.”

For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Just stares at you…. the weight of your confession sinking in, fighting with disbelief and longing and fear.

Then he’s up… crossing the space between you in two steps. His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your skin. His voice trembles. “You can’t just say that.”

“Why not?” you whisper.

“Because then I’ll want to do this.”

He doesn’t wait for permission. His lips find yours…. desperate, trembling, tasting faintly of beer and regret. The kiss isn’t clean or practiced; it’s messy, raw, and far too honest.

You gasp softly against his mouth, fingers curling into his hoodie. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath unsteady. “Mine,” he whispers. “All mine.”

It isn’t a demand… it’s a desperate plea. A confession.

You laugh softly, shaky but all real. “You’re drunk, Jisung.”

“Maybe,” he mumbles, thumb tracing your cheekbone. “But I know what I feel.”

You don’t say anything….you just let your hands find their way to his neck, to his hair. The air between you is charged up, charged with something that’s been waiting to happen.

He kisses you again…. slower this time, deeper. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your plush lips, the way you taste, the small sigh that escapes when he presses closer.

You let him. You let yourself.

When he finally breaks away, he doesn’t move far. Just lowers his head, resting it on your shoulder. “I don’t want to share your attention,” he murmurs, voice barely audible.

“You don’t have to,” you whisper back. “I only look at you.”

His breath catches. For a moment, he doesn’t move…. and then, quietly, he laughs. Not bitter. Not jealous. Just soft.

“Promise?”

“Promise sungie.”

He shifts, eyes half-lidded wobbly and dragging you to the bed, exhaustion taking over. He sinks down slowly until his head finds your lap.

You freeze….. just for a second…then your hand moves on its own, threading through his hair. His breathing evens out, slow and deep.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The room hums with the sound of the city outside, but inside, it’s peaceful.

You sit there, your heart thudding quietly under his weight, his hand curled near your thigh. There’s no pretending now…. you care for him. You want him. And he wants you too…

And somehow, that truth feels scarier than the lie you’d been living before.

When you finally drift asleep, your fingers are still tangled in his hair.

Morning creeps in slow. Pale sunlight spills over the floor, soft and golden.

You wake first, your neck aching slightly from the position. Jisung’s still asleep, cheek pressed against your lap, his hand now resting loosely around your knee now.

You don’t move. You just watch him, his lashes casting faint shadows, his lips parted slightly, his expression calm.

He looks so different like this. No bravado. No teasing grin. Just Jisung.

And for the first time, you let yourself wonder what it would be like…..to stay.

When he finally stirs, blinking awake, the moment cracks open again. His eyes widen as he realizes where he is.

“Oh, fuck--”

You laugh softly. “Good morning to you too.”

He groans, burying his face in his hands. “I… remember everything- fuck.”

“Good,” you tease. “So I don’t have to remind you that you practically confessed your undying love last night.”

His head snaps up, face red. “I did not-!”

“You kinda did.”

He groans again, but the tension breaks with the sound of your laughter.

When he stands, he offers you his hand, helping you up gently. “I should… make coffee.”

“Or freahwn up first,” you say, still smiling.

He gives a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Probably.”

He disappears into the bathroom, and you exhale slowly, pressing a hand to your chest.

It’s ridiculous, really…… how one night changed everything.

By the time he returns, the mood is lighter. You’re packing while he’s nursing coffee, both stealing glances when you think the other isn’t looking.

When Chan knocks to remind you about the shuttle, Jisung groans dramatically but moves to get ready.

Before you leave, you hand him a small croissant from the hotel tray. “For the hangover.”

He takes it….. then, pointedly, in front of Chan, says, “Thanks, muffin.”

Chan raises a brow, grinning. “She’s all yours, Ji. Calm down.”

You feel your cheeks heat, but Jisung just smirks….proud, unbothered.

Outside, as you both walk toward the car, your hands brush once.

Neither of you pulls away.

The city hums around you, but for a moment, it feels like everything has gone quiet.

You look at him, smiling faintly. “Maybe we’re not so bad together.”

He chuckles, voice low. “Not bad at all, muffin.”

And for once, there’s no irony in his tone, only truth.

The first week after the tour feels like waking from a dream.

You return to a home that’s the same, yet it feels… quieter. Maybe emptier. The laughter that used to echo through the penthouse now lingers only in memory…… faint, like the aftertaste of a song you can’t quite hum anymore.

Jisung throws himself into work the very next morning. At first, you think it’s normal…. that he just needs to catch up after being away. He’s always been dedicated, almost to a fault. But soon, it stops being admirable and starts feeling like avoidance.

He’s gone before you wake up. The side of the bed where he slept is still warm, the pillow slightly indented. By the time you make breakfast, the sound of the front door closing tells you he’s already left. You look up from the pan every time, hoping maybe he’ll come back to say goodbye, he never does.

At night, you try to wait up for him, laptop open on the dining table, your eyes flicking to the clock every few minutes. 10 p.m. becomes 11. Then midnight. Sometimes, you hear his keys at two in the morning, faint footsteps, the rustle of a jacket being dropped somewhere. By the time you turn off your screen and walk to the living room, the lights are already off again.

You leave food for him… warm rice, soup, a small dish you know he likes… but it’s always untouched by morning. You start storing leftovers automatically. It becomes a quiet ritual…wake up, work, wait, clean, sleep.

He still texts, though the warmth in his words has bled out slowly, like color fading from fabric. “Eat first.” “I’ll be late.” “Don’t wait up.”

You reread old messages sometimes…the playful ones from the tour, the ones filled with little hearts and teasing nicknames. They make you smile for a moment before guilt seeps in for even feeling that way. You wonder when the distance began…. if it was always there and you just didn’t notice.

The apartment grows heavier with silence.

You start keeping the TV on for background noise, even if you’re not watching. Sometimes you speak aloud, to no one in particular, just to hear a voice. The space echoes back emptily.

By the second week, his absence becomes part of your schedule. You stop asking what time he’ll be home. You stop leaving notes on the counter. You stop expecting footsteps behind you when you’re cooking or brushing your teeth.

But that doesn’t mean you stop caring.

You still fold his jackets when he leaves them on the couch. You still put his mug beside yours in the morning, even though it stays empty. His things are everywhere… his sneakers by the door, his notebooks scattered across the table, the cologne he uses still sitting on the sink. The scent makes you ache.

You try to rationalize it. He’s tired. The tour took a toll. He’s trying to find his balance again. But rationalizing doesn’t quiet the loneliness.

You lie awake some nights staring at the ceiling, replaying every recent conversation. Every pause, every sigh, every half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. You wonder if you did something wrong.

When you finally cry, it’s quiet. A single sob caught between your teeth, muffled by the sleeve of your hoodie. You don’t even know why it hurts so much, maybe because he’s there but not with you. And that feels worse than absence.

Three weeks in, your patience wears thin practically destroyed.

It’s a Tuesday night when you finally break. You’re on a call with Raya,, the only one who seems to notice how dim your voice has become. You tell her everything….the silence, the missed dinners, the empty goodnights.

“He’s just… gone,” you whisper. “Even when he’s home, he’s not really here.”

Raya hums softly on the other end, then asks, “Have you tried talking to him about it?”

You laugh weakly. “How do you talk to someone who doesn’t even look at you anymore?”

There’s a pause, then her voice turns gentle. “Then maybe talk to Chan.”

You blink. “Chan?”

“Yeah. He’s close to Jisung. Maybe he knows what’s going on.”

You hesitate. It feels wrong… intrusive, almost - to reach out to someone else about your marriage. But you’re exhausted.

After the call ends, you open your messages and type.

'Hey Chan, sorry if this is random… but has Jisung been okay? He’s been really distant lately, and I’m starting to worry.'

You read it over three times. It feels too emotional, so you delete it. Then you retype it again. Finally, you hit send and close your phone, heart thudding.

Chan replies within minutes.

'I’ll look into it. Don’t worry, Y/N.'

Something in you eases…. just a little. But guilt follows right after. You shouldn’t have gone behind Jisung’s back. Still, deep down, you know this might be the only way to reach him.

That night, you don’t sleep. You just stare at the faint glow of the ceiling light, listening to the wind against the windows, wondering if he’s out there somewhere feeling the same emptiness.

The next day, Jisung doesn’t come home and you weren't exactly surprised either.

You don’t know it, but Chan finds him at the studio that evening.

The confrontation wasn't gentle.

Jisung’s at his desk, headphones on, when Chan walks in. The track he’s working on is loud…. frantic, almost desperate in rhythm… like a reflection of his mind.

“You’ve been a ghost lately,” Chan says, leaning against the doorway.

Jisung doesn’t look up. “I’m just busy.”

“Busy, or just avoiding her?”

That makes him pause. He takes off his headphones off slowly. “Don’t start hyung.”

“She texted me last night, ji.”

Jisung’s hands stills on the headphone.

“She’s worried, Ji. And she has every damn right to be.”

“She shouldn’t be,” Jisung mumbles. “This… this is just better for her.”

“Better?” Chan scoffs annoyed. “You think ignoring her protects her from stays? or the hate?”

“It keeps her out of this chaos. Out of my mess.” jisung said at an instant

“No,” Chan says firmly. “You’re not protecting her. You’re punishing her for fucking loving you.”

Jisung’s jaw tightens. “You don’t understand-!”

“I understand perfectly, ji.” Chan interrupts. “You think you don’t deserve her, so you’re pushing her away before she realizes it herself.”

Silence.

Jisung looks down at his hands, fingers trembling slightly. “She deserves someone better. Someone who doesn’t come with panic attacks and baggage.”

Chan’s voice softens. “She didn’t marry someone better. She married you….. let it be forced or whatever, ji… i have seen the way she looks at you.. and i have seen and witnessed your jealousy when i got too close…”

That hits deeper than he had expected chan's words to hit.

“You’re hurting her, Ji,” Chan continues quietly. “You’re breaking her heart because you’re too scared to let yourself be loved.”

Jisung exhales shakily, eyes glassy but dry. “Do you think she’d even forgive me after all this?”

“She doesn’t want perfect,” Chan says simply. “She just wants you.”

The words linger long after Chan leaves.

It’s nearly midnight when Jisung finally drives home.

On the way, he stops at a flower shop… the small one tucked into a corner street, where the florist knows you by name. He buys a bouquet of red spider lilies, the ones you once wrote in a book of yours as “the color and flowers of passion and pain.”

Then he stops at your favorite patisserie, even though it’s closing. The owner recognizes him instantly and packs up two lemon cream and raspberry tarts, the ones you used to share during long nights of editing your novel.

Finally, he passes a boutique. In the window, a royal blue satin dress glimmers faintly under the soft light. He stops the car without thinking. The color reminds him of the night sky ….and of you.

He doesn’t question it. He just walks in, buys the dress, and leaves.

By the time he reaches the penthouse, the city is asleep. The air feels heavier, filled with something that’s not quite fear and not quite relief. He unlocks the door quietly, careful not to wake you.

You’re at the dining table, typing under the soft yellow light, headphones on.. You’re too focused to hear the door open.

Jisung stands there for a long time, just watching. You’re wearing one of his old hoodies, sleeves rolled up, hair tied loosely. Your brow furrows as you type, the glow of the screen reflecting in your eyes. There’s something heartbreakingly peaceful about the sight.

He places the gifts on the couch silently. Flowers. Pastries. The dress.

Then he approaches slowly, until he’s right behind you. His fingers hover above your chair, hesitating…. as if afraid to touch what he’s broken…

Finally, he pulls it back gently.

You startle, headphones slipping off. The sight of him: kneeling, eyes tired but soft…. stuns you.

“Jisung?”

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, voice quiet but cracked.

You blink, unsure if you heard right. “For what?”

“For everything.”

His thumb grazes your knee lightly, his touch trembling. “For disappearing after kissing you. For making you feel alone. I thought keeping my distance thinking i was protecting you.”

You swallow hard. “You don’t get to decide what hurts me.”

His gaze drops. “I know. I just… i didn’t think i deserved you.”

That makes your heart twist. The nickname slips out like muscle memory. “You idiot.”

He lets out a shaky laugh that sounds more like a sob. “Probably.”

He lifts your hand and presses his lips against your knuckles…. hesitant, reverent. “I missed you, muffin.”

The old nickname stings in the best way possible. You close your eyes, steadying your breath.

“I hate you,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “For thinking you don’t deserve love.”

He looks up, eyes glistening. You reach forward and cup his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. His skin feels warm beneath your palms…. real, fragile.

Your forehead touches his, and for a long, trembling moment, you just breathe together.

He exhales slowly, relief flooding through him, arms wrapping around your waist. You let him — not because everything is fixed, but because love, despite everything, is still there.

When he finally pulls back, his hands fumble for the gifts. “I, uh… got somethings-.”

You glance at them… flowers, pastries, a neatly folded boutique bag. “You’re lucky I don’t throw these at your face.” you add teasingly

He chuckles softly, though guilt lingers in his tone. “Honestly, I’d deserve it.”

You pick up the bouquet. Spider lilies, deep crimson, alive in the dim light. “You remembered what i wrote in a book…,” you mumbled

“How could I forget?”

You glance at the pastry box, then the bag. “What’s in there?”

He clears his throat awkwardly. “Something I thought would suit you.”

You pull out the dress, royal blue satin that catches every bit of light in the room. Your breath hitches. “It’s beautiful.”

He smiles faintly. “So are you.”

You look up sharply, but his gaze drops to the floor again, his ears pink.

“Eleven months,” he says quietly. “Since we got married. I thought… maybe we could celebrate properly.”

You trace the fabric between your fingers, the texture smooth and cool. Then, quietly: “I’ll try it on. For you.”

He freezes. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

You disappear into the bedroom, and for a few minutes, the only sound is the rustle of fabric. Jisung stands by the couch, rubbing the back of his neck, heart pounding harder than it should.

When you step out, time seems to stop.

The dress fits perfectly, clinging in all the right places, the blue reflecting the soft lamplight like rippling water. Your hair falls loosely around your shoulders, and for a moment, you look like every word he never found the courage to say.

He covers his face instantly, muttering under his breath. “She’s going to be the end of me.”

You laugh… a small, fragile sound that fills the room. “You’re dramatic.”

He peeks through his fingers, smiling faintly. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

You twirl once, the hem of the dress brushing against your legs. The movement is light, easy… a reminder of what peace used to feel like.

For the first time in weeks, both of you laugh. Not perfectly, not loudly… but enough. Enough to remember that love, despite its fractures, can still find its way back in silence.

The penthouse felt different now, though nothing much had changed. The furniture sat in the same place, the windows still framed the same cityscape, and the sunlight poured through the sheer curtains just as it always had. Yet, somehow, the air had shifted. It was lighter, softer, warmer…like the space had exhaled a breath it had been holding for months.

You woke most mornings tangled with him, chest pressed against chest, arms wrapped around each other without thought or protest. His arm usually slung loosely across your waist, his fingers brushing your side as you adjusted in your sleep. Sometimes your cheek rested against the steady rhythm of his chest, and the weight of him there was both grounding and intoxicating.

Neither of you complained. There was no need to… there was a quiet understanding that these few minutes of shared stillness were precious, almost sacred, before the day demanded movement and attention.

Breakfast became a ritual in its own way, a chaotic harmony of burnt toast, coffee that was somehow always too sweet, and endless teasing. He had perfected the art of rolling his eyes dramatically whenever you poured sugar into your cup, and you, in turn, pretended not to notice when he nearly set his own toast on fire.

Conversation shuffled from playful jabs to more serious terrain….childhood stories, little insecurities, dreams that had been tucked away for years, waiting for the right person to listen. You learned that he hummed softly in his sleep, almost without realizing it, the tune a quiet melody of comfort. He learned that you muttered dialogue from the stories you read aloud in your head, soft lines that might have gone unheard by anyone else.

It was in these small moments, the quiet exchanges and soft revelations, that you realized the depth of familiarity growing between you both. The walls you had once built around each other, the distance painstakingly maintained, had started to crumble without either of you noticing. You were learning to exist together, differently this time, with patience and curiosity rather than irritation and defiance.

One lazy afternoon, you found him sitting shirtless on the couch, the sunlight cutting across the edges of his tattoos as he scribbled lyrics on his iPad. The lines etched into his skin were almost magical curling on his upper chest, tracing the plane of his chest and another vertical one besides his abs, a map of stories and memories he carried silently. Your eyes traced the shapes unconsciously, fingertips brushing against the fabric of your book as if you could somehow absorb the meaning of the ink through sight alone.

“Can I…?” you asked softly, hesitant yet emboldened by the intimacy of the quiet moment.

He turned his head slightly, offering a small, amused smile. “Go ahead.”

Your fingertips grazed the ink, tracing the curves of symbols and letters, each line a secret, a memory, a fragment of him he had allowed only a select few to see. His skin warmed under your touch, the subtle pressure of your fingers sending shivers up his spine.

“They’re beautiful,” you murmured, voice almost reverent.

“They hurt like hell,” he chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “But worth it.”

A thoughtful hum escaped your lips. “We should get one together.”

He looked up from his iPad, surprised, curiosity alight in his gaze. “A tattoo?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “A small one. Something only we know.”

“You choose it then,” he said after a moment, and you smiled, a blush climbing up your cheeks.

Days later, you found yourselves side by side at a tattoo studio, nerves tangled with excitement and adrenaline. Your hands were intertwined, a silent reassurance for each other as the needle buzzed to life.

The design was simple yet pretty…a delicate infinity line merging into your initials, discreetly placed on your backs. When the buzzing stopped and the ink settled, you glanced at him, grin wide.

“Now we’re permanently stuck,” you said softly, pride in your chest.

He returned the smile, eyes glinting with mischief. “Was already planning to be.”

Domestic life, once a distant fantasy, became a tangible rhythm. Grocery shopping transformed into chaotic expeditions, with you carefully selecting snacks while he shoved handfuls of ramen and instant noodles into the cart with a grin.

Cooking turned into a nightly ritual, an improvisational dance where he chopped vegetables while you twirled between counters, music blaring and laughter spilling over the walls.

You filmed snippets for your vlog….small, candid moments of your life together. Fans adored the dynamic: the way he would sneak up behind you, arms circling your waist as you stirred soup, the soft murmur of his voice against your ear. “Han Jisung, let me cook,” you would protest, though the warmth of his embrace made your resistance laughable.

“But you’re too cute to not hug,” he countered, and you always ended up melting against him anyway, surrendering to the comfort of his presence. He peppered your neck with tiny, playful kisses until your giggles became helpless, the room filling with sound that was uniquely yours.

Dinner often ended with him washing the dishes while you perched on the counter, watching him work, fingers drumming along to the music playing softly. “You’re whipped,” you teased one evening, smirking.

“And very damn proud,” he replied easily, not even glancing up, eyes focused on the suds and reflections in the sink.

Nights settled over the penthouse in a slow, contented rhythm. Movie marathons became a thing, limbs tangled beneath blankets, the television flickering softly in the background while you and he shared quiet conversations, gentle touches, and occasional teasing. Faint marks on your skin were reminders of a playful possessiveness he wore like a second skin. Nothing had crossed lines; the intimacy was a comfort, a familiarity, a warmth that felt like coming home.

Workouts became another extension of your domestic rhythm. You pushed each other through routines with laughter, stolen kisses, and playful complaints. Wearing his hoodie to the gym became a ritual in itself. “You’re distracting me,” he would complain mid-set, eyes dark with false annoyance.

“Good. Maybe you’ll stop flexing,” you retorted, earning a burst of laughter, his eyes crinkling in amusement, sweat running down his neck in a haze of effort and delight. Later, you would collapse onto the couch, flushed and breathless, shoulders brushing, foreheads resting together in the silence of shared exertion.

“We should probably shower,” you murmured once, wiping damp strands from your forehead.

“Or stay like this,” he murmured back, pulling you gently into his lap, the cadence of his heartbeat a quiet reassurance against your cheek.

Time passed, seasons shifting imperceptibly. One year slipped by quietly, a milestone marked not by grand gestures or public declarations but by the simple intimacy of a shared dinner, laughter, and knowing glances that said everything words never could.

“We made it,” you whispered one evening, disbelief threading your voice.

“Of course we did. You’re stuck with me, muffin,” he replied, grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

You rolled your eyes, though the warmth in your chest made the gesture half-hearted. Unbeknownst to you, he had been quietly orchestrating things behind the scenes—making calls, smoothing over conflicts, protecting you from the whispers and toxic energy that sometimes lingered in the industry. Soon, offers returned to your inbox, opportunities flowing once more, though you assumed it was luck rather than his intervention.

“You deserve the world,” he muttered softly one night while you slept, his thumb tracing small circles on your arm. You stirred, a small smile curving your lips, murmuring in your sleep, “You’re my world, Sungie.”

The words struck him like a physical punch, warmth blooming in his chest, heart tightening with a mixture of pride and helpless love.

Your shared presence spilled online as well, the world watching and melting at your domestic bliss. Fans adored the candid videos: you curled against his chest, laughing as he fussed over minor inconveniences, him sneaking gentle kisses on your cheek during your vlogs, playful interventions that felt unguarded and natural.

“You can’t post that!” you protested one afternoon, pulling at your laptop.

“Why not?” he asked, grinning, arms wrapped around your waist from behind. “I look adorable.”

“You look whipped,” you retorted, smirking over your shoulder.

“Because I am,” he said proudly, ignoring your mock glare.

Comments flooded in, praise and playful commentary that only served to amuse him. “He’s so gone for her,” “Domestic Jisung supremacy,” “This is real love.” He simply smiled, brushing your hair back with a thumb, as though each word was a gentle affirmation rather than a judgment.

Evenings became your comfort time. One night, curled on the couch under a shared blanket, limbs entwined, the television playing a cheesy rom-com neither of you particularly cared about, you leaned back against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your spine grounding you.

“You’re tickling me,” you murmured softly.

“Good,” he replied, voice low and sleep-heavy, pressing lazy, feather-light kisses along your skin.

“You smell like strawberries,” he mumbled, half-asleep, warm breath ghosting your neck.

“That’s your shampoo, idiot,” you replied, laughter soft in your throat.

He chuckled quietly, the sound low, affectionate, a vibration that seeped into your bones. The television flickered on, but neither of you paid it any mind, lost entirely in the safety and warmth of the shared silence.

His thumb drew lazy circles along your arm, and he leaned slightly closer, lips brushing your shoulder with careful deliberation. “You happy?” he asked, voice quiet against your neck.

“More than I thought I could be,” you admitted honestly, leaning further into him, allowing your words to settle comfortably between you.

He hummed, pressing another soft kiss to your shoulder. “Good. I plan to keep it that way.”

Turning slightly, eyes meeting his, you caught the reflection of your love in equal measure. “You’re getting sappy, ji,” you teased lightly.

“Must be the movie,” he countered, smirk teasing the corners of his lips.

“Liar,” you murmured, nudging him playfully.

He smiled, pressing one last kiss to your neck, the weight of months of tension, fear, and uncertainty dissolving into the quiet affirmation of soft love.

You snuggled closer, hand finding his naturally, the comfort of shared warmth settling like a gentle tide around your hearts. Outside, the city hummed softly, lights glowing in the distance. Inside, two souls rested easy, cocooned in love that no longer felt like pretense but like home….like everything they had fought for had been worth the wait, and everything yet to come would be met together, hearts unguarded and willing.

The quiet stretched comfortably, full and endless, a soft, unwavering testament to love that had survived distance, fear, and doubt. And in the stillness, in the warmth of each other’s presence, you both knew….this was exactly where you were meant to be.

The night air buzzed with electric energy, each flash of the cameras and each click of shutters adding a pulse to the city’s rhythm. The pink velvet lights washed over the entrance of the Victoria’s Secret gala, gilding the steps with a surreal glow, turning them into a runway of starlight. You felt it as soon as you stepped out of the limousine: a thousand eyes, a hundred lenses, and countless hearts collectively holding their breath. The giant logo behind the stage gleamed like a promise, the glitter dust in the air catching the light in a way that made it look like the universe itself had descended to witness the night.

He was already there, stepping from his black car with measured elegance, the suit tailored perfectly to his lean frame. Black on black, sleek and unassuming, yet somehow deadly charming. His hair was swept back casually, exposing the subtle lines of his jaw, and when the cameras screamed his name, he smiled nervously, waving but scanning the crowd with a single, desperate question in his eyes: where were you?

And then you arrived.

The white limousine doors swung open, and you stepped out, silk pink robe cascading over your frame, minimal makeup enhancing every subtle contour of your face, and that confident smirk you wore like armor. The crowd erupted, cameras firing like starlight, a halo of flashes surrounding your every move. You paused for a fraction of a second, just long enough for him to catch your eye across the throng.

Time stilled.

The photographers yelled, “Couple photo! Couple photo!” (i laughed so hard writing this line cause do they yell that way-?)

You chuckled softly, looping your arm through his, and he nearly melted in your grasp. The world seemed suddenly too bright, too loud, yet it centered perfectly on you two.

The photos were breathtaking. You could see it in his expression, the pride coiled beneath the surface, the mixture of awe and adoration he couldn’t hide even if he tried. You whispered a joke to him between flashes, the corners of your mouth lifting as you watched his reaction.

“You look like sin and heaven mixed,” he murmured near your ear, voice low, a shiver crawling down your spine.

You only smirked. “Don’t drool, Sungie. Cameras are watching.”

Crimson red flooded his face, and you winked, savoring the rare, flustered look that had become your private amusement. Social media erupted within seconds…clips of the two of you went viral, captions exploding with jealousy, awe, and relentless adoration.

Backstage was chaos. Wings fluttered, glitter dusted every surface, and the air was thick with anticipation. Models hurried past you, adjusting feathers, smoothing dresses, checking makeup, and rehearsing poses with an intensity that made your heart pound. You slipped into your own mental space, headphones insulating you from the frenzy, centering yourself before your cue.

On the front row, he sat with Chan and Felix, leg bouncing in barely-contained anticipation. His hands were fidgeting slightly on his lap, eyes darting to the stage every few seconds, and you could tell he was holding himself together by a thread. The lights dimmed, the music swelled, and you felt it: the moment had arrived.

Stepping out, it was like the world had shifted. The crowd roared, the cameras followed your every step, but nothing mattered except the knowledge that he was watching. Every pose, every turn, every flick of your hair was for him as much as it was for the audience. He was speechless, mouth slightly open, eyes soft and shimmering with pride. When you reached the end of the runway, he clapped the loudest, voice rising above the cheers, “That’s my wife!” Chan facepalmed beside him, laughing uncontrollably. You bit back a grin mid-stride, catching his words despite the music, and your heart warmed knowing he was so utterly yours.

Backstage, chaos reigned once more—hugs, celebrations, exclamations of triumph—but your eyes scanned for him, knowing he’d be waiting. And he was. A bouquet of roses clutched in one hand, panic coloring his every move. He barreled toward you until security blocked him.

“You can’t go in there, sir-” a guard said, hands outstretched.

“I’m her husband!” he blurted, voice urgent, thick with desperation.

The guards exchanged skeptical glances. “Sir, everyone claims that.”

“I’ll show you the marriage certificate if you want!” he exclaimed, panic threading his tone.

You heard him before you saw him, recognition flashing in your chest as your brows furrowed. That flustered, desperate voice belonged only to him. Wrapping your robe tighter, you strode forward, authority and familiarity rolling off you in equal measure.

“He’s with me,” you told the guards flatly. They stepped aside, and he exhaled, relief washing over him in visible waves.

“Muffin--you look--holy hell,” he murmured, eyes wide, voice hoarse with disbelief and pride.

“Language, Mr. Han,” you teased, pulling him inside as he practically collided with you, bouquet nearly tumbling from his hand.

In the dressing room, the world fell away. You stood in front of the mirror, methodically wiping off makeup, your reflection soft under the overhead lights. He lingered behind you, eyes tracing your movements, gaze full of awe and something tender you weren’t used to seeing so unguarded.

“You were… god, Y/N, you were unreal out there,” he admitted, voice low, reverent.

“You’re just saying that because I’m your PR wife,” you muttered, smirk tugging at your lips.

“No. Not my PR wife anymore,” he said immediately, voice quiet but firm. “Actual wife. And also… because I’m your biggest fan.”

Your chest tightened, heart fluttering. He chuckled softly, a mixture of humility and pride, then, slowly, his arms snaked around your waist in a gentle back hug. His head rested on your shoulder, lips brushing your ear lightly.

“I was jealous,” he admitted, voice soft, almost a whisper. “Everyone got to see you like that. And I just… wanted you to myself.”

Heat rushed up your neck, your pulse accelerating. You froze in his hold, words failing you for once.

“That’s cutely-stupid,” you murmured, voice barely audible.

“I know. Still true,” he replied.

You turned in his embrace, noses brushing, breaths mingling, hearts racing in tandem. “You’re so cute,” you whispered.

“All yours,” he corrected, soft and sure.

Your lips met in a kiss that was both soft and needy, familiar and urgent, a culmination of months of longing, tension, and unspoken affection. His hands trembled slightly against your jaw as the kiss deepened, a shiver passing through both of you.

“You’re my endgame,” he murmured between kisses, voice raw, unguarded.

“Ji-”

“No. Listen. I’m nothing without you,” he interrupted, voice cracking slightly.

You cupped his face gently, grounding him, letting him lean into your certainty.

“I never thought I’d love like this. I never thought I’d deserve it.”

“Don’t say that-” you whispered.

“But I do now. Because of you,” he breathed, eyes shining with honesty, love spilling from every pore.

He smiled shyly, a quirk of lips that made your heart leap. “You make me want to be better. Softer. Yours.”

“You already are mine,” you replied, breathless, words heavy with truth.

“I belong to you,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against yours. “All of me does.”

His words were breathless, unfiltered, utterly real. You grinned, voice a teasing purr, “You look adorable when you’re flustered.”

He buried his face in your neck, groaning softly. “You’re cruel.”

“You love it,” you countered, ruffling his hair with playful fingers.

“You love me,” he whispered, voice almost lost beneath the intensity of the moment.

“Yeah,” you murmured, smile tugging at your lips. “So much it’s stupid.”

You pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head, murmuring half-tease, half-affection, “My babyboy.”

He looked up at you with glassy eyes, the happiest you’d ever seen him. “Say that again.”

“My babyboy,” you repeated softly, heart swelling at the sight of him.

“I love you, muffin,” he admitted, shy, glowing, unashamed.

“I love you more, Sungie,” you whispered in return.

The city lights outside flickered, but in your dressing room, there was only the warmth between the two of you. His fingers intertwined with yours naturally, your foreheads pressed together in a perfect alignment of hearts and breaths.

“We really made it, huh?” you murmured, voice soft, almost a reverent acknowledgment of the journey.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, eyes glinting. “From throwing tantrums to throwing hearts.”

“Ew,” you snorted, nudging him lightly.

“You love my cringe,” he teased, lips brushing yours.

“Unfortunately, yes,” you admitted, laughter low and content.

He kissed you softly, lingering, the kind of kiss that promised patience, devotion, and love without end.

“Let’s go home, Mrs. Han,” he murmured, hand still clasped around yours.

“Home sounds nice,” you replied, smirking lightly, leaning into him.

As you stepped out into the pink glow of the event lights, cameras flashing endlessly, hands still intertwined, you realized that nothing in the world mattered except the two of you. The reporters’ calls, the intrusive lenses, the frenzy of the fashion elite--all faded in the presence of your shared heartbeat, of the soft, undeniable love you had fought for, earned, and now could live openly.

One last click of the camera captured the two of you perfectly--radiant, unguarded, inseparable. Hours later, when the photo hit his social media, his caption was simple, real, and utterly him:

“My endgame. ❤️ #MyMuffinForever.”

And just like that, the world knew. Not just that you existed together, but that you were each other’s everything, finally, fully, endlessly.

THE END!

xoxo! SORRY MY BABIES I MADE Y'ALL WAIT FOR 3 WHOLE DAYS TT But i hope y'all enjoyed TT Atp… I was thinking… Do y'all want a permenant taglist? I also have a request (a stupid one) When sending an anon message, this time many send me requests with an emoji attached (so fucking cute!) i will refer to the anons with the emoji y'all attach!

Taglist: @feelikecinderella @dwaeek @dknbvdb @redyrosy @pineapple-burgah @prettypeachprincesz @exquisite-penar @sunfk88 @dolphin-scream-s @staytinyluv @scarlettuce-stay @suvujagi @iambangchanswife @feelikecinderella @stayzstars @delulumel @necroticsiegewolf

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